Speak No Evil (19 page)

‘Quite. Then who did they think did it? The police. Who do they believe murdered him?'

He shrugged. ‘I have no idea. You'll have to ask them that one. I'm afraid they didn't take me into their confidence.'

‘They didn't say anything? Run any theories past you?'

He sat back as far as the booth allowed, appeared thoughtful.

‘Come on, they must have said something,' said Peta. ‘You were a social worker, you must have had a good relationship with the police or at least contacts.'

He thought again. ‘Well … yes, I suppose … They thought that maybe he was a rent boy, operating down by the old docks, that was one of them … killed by a client… that he was involved in drugs or gangs, or both.' He sat forward again. ‘Not very helpful, I'm afraid. I mean, anyone could come up with those ideas.'

‘Still, it's something,' said Peta. ‘Thank you.'

‘Did they say Adam had befriended anyone before his death?'

Flemyng frowned, leaned forward once again. ‘How d'you mean?'

‘Just that. Had someone come into his life … I don't know, taken him out to places, shown an interest in him, anything like that?'

‘Not that I know of.'

Amar kept going. ‘Anyone at all?'

Flemyng's cheeks became slightly flushed. ‘What are you suggesting?'

Amar shrugged, tried to appear as open as possible. ‘Nothing. Just asking. Male or female? No? Nothing?'

Flemyng's attitude changed slightly at that remark. Peta didn't know if he was relaxing or thinking. ‘As I said. Not that I know of.'

Amar leaned back, shrugged ‘OK.'

‘What about Beech House, Mr Flemyng?' said Peta. ‘Did you have any idea about the abuse going on there?'

The shutters were coming down again. ‘Did I have … What d'you mean?'

Peta's turn to look as open as possible. ‘Just that, really. The scale of it. The people involved. That sort of thing.'

‘Well …' He looked down at his coffee cup. ‘I suppose in hindsight it's easy to be wise. You know, you might have had suspicions but you wouldn't voice them because, well, because you know these people. They were friends, some of them. You don't expect that from friends. You think it must be outsiders.' He gave a shrug. ‘Although I don't know why I should think that. As a social worker there seemed to be no end of horrific ways for adults to inflict pain and suffering on children. And other adults, I suppose.'

‘I can imagine,' said Peta.

‘I hope you can't. For your sake.'

Peta looked down at the notes in front of her. ‘Can you think of anyone else we should talk to? Another social worker? Police? Perhaps one of the children from the home, grown up. Anyone like that?'

Flemyng frowned again, thinking. Or an approximation of it. ‘No, not off the top of my head … but if I think of anyone I'll be sure to let you know.'

‘Thank you.' Peta handed him a card. He looked at it.

‘Hold on, this is … Newcastle. You didn't mention Newcastle on the list of places.'

Peta was aware of Amar's eyes on her. ‘That's just where we're based,' she said. ‘There's been no murder there. Well, none we can connect to Adam Wainwright.'

He looked between the pair of them, eventually nodding, seemingly satisfied.

‘Well,' Flemyng said, standing up to leave, ‘if that's everything … thanks for the coffee.'

‘Oh,' said Amar, ‘there's just one more thing.'

Flemyng stood, waiting.

‘Have you ever met someone called Anne Marie Smeaton?'

Flemyng's face changed. It was like he had been hit by an electrical charge. He struggled hard, forced his features to recompose. ‘Anne Marie Smeaton?' Another pretence at thinking. ‘I don't think so.'

‘Not to worry,' said Peta smiling, ‘we just wondered.'

‘Who is she?'

‘No one,' said Amar. ‘Just a name that came up in the investigation at one time. If you don't know her that's fine.' He extended a hand. ‘Thanks for taking the time to meet us.'

Flemyng shook both their hands. ‘Glad I could help,' he said, and hurried out of the diner.

Amar and Peta sat back down again and looked at each other. Their blue-cheese and mushroom burgers arrived at that moment. They smelled and looked delicious, exactly as they would have expected from a top-end American diner with a bohemian wholefood ethic.

But suddenly neither of them felt hungry. Nor did they want to go shopping for designer clothes. They had they felt, been given some insight into Anne Marie's background.

Now they just had to discover what that insight was. And how to use it to take the investigation forward.

‘So he's never bothered you again?'

She sighs before answering. ‘I've always managed to get away from him.'

‘Always? You've seen him again?'

She plays with the cigarette pack. Still doesn't take one but it can't be far away now. ‘No,' she says, her head still down, looking at the pack. ‘No.'

He waits. She doesn't look up.

‘I've got enough in my life without him,' she says. ‘Enough to worry about.'

He nods, wondering whether to pursue it or not. Decides not to.

‘So,' he says, ‘tell me about—'

There's a noise from downstairs.

‘Who's that?' she says, getting up from her chair. ‘We're supposed to be alone here. Who's that?'

He thinks he knows. When he speaks it's in his calmest, most reassuring voice. He doesn't want to spook her.

‘Don't worry,' he says. ‘It's only
—'

16

‘—my daughter.' He shouted down the stairs. ‘Just up here, be down in a minute. Put the kettle on.'

Anne Marie looked at him warily. Unsure whether to believe him or not, body tensed for fight or flight.

He sensed her unease, smiled. ‘Shall we have a coffee break? I can introduce you if you like.'

Anne Marie sat back down in her chair. Realizing there was no imminent emergency, she relaxed, reached for the cigarettes. ‘Fag break?' she said.

Donovan smiled. ‘Why not?'

He stood up, moved towards the door. As he crossed the room he thought, once again, how proud he was of the Albion offices. He knew in a sense that it wasn't much to be proud of, but the place was his and it worked. He was looking forward to showing Abigail round. He wanted his daughter to be proud of her dad for something.

He walked downstairs to the reception. More white space, an iMac on a desk, Abigail sat behind it. Swinging on the chair, hands between her legs. Donovan couldn't get over how she had grown. She wasn't the baby daughter he carried with him in his head. She was a teenager, tall and slim and from a distance looking much older. But, as she had already proved in the diner, capable of dealing with any unwanted attention. Dressed in teen uniform of skinny jeans, Cons, tight-fitting T-shirt and short jacket, with her brown hair stuck into some kind of elaborate knot that would have taken Donovan hours to master but which Abigail had probably done in seconds. He was proud of her but guiltily so – he had been absent for much of her upbringing.

He felt his emotions being torn, tried not to dwell on them. Let actions dictate the way forward. He smiled at her.

‘You need a receptionist,' she said.

‘I'll bear that in mind. Kettle on yet?' he said.

‘And the kitchen is where?'

‘I'll show you.'

He led her through the main office, once again with pride. Three desks, again sporting iMacs. Filing cabinets and more film posters. Michael Caine in
Get Carter
dominated the back wall. Donovan's idea of a joke.

‘This is the main office,' he said.

‘Bit quiet,' said Abigail.

‘As I said. They're all away working.'

One of the iMacs was on, the screen showing images. Abigail stopped to look. ‘What's that?' she said. The image was of a doorway. Big and closed, in daylight. Nothing seemed to be happening round it. Faint sounds of traffic, pedestrians talking, moving past.

Donovan stopped walking, crossed over to join her.

‘A live feed,' he said.

‘Where from?'

‘Brighton.'

Abigail watched the screen. Nothing happened. ‘Bit boring. If you were setting up a webcam you could have picked somewhere with a bit more action going on. I mean, Brighton's got more going for it than an old door.'

‘It's work. That's the house we're watching.'

She looked at him quickly then back to the screen. ‘Oh. Right.'

Donovan looked at it, not wanting to let her in on his thoughts, then straightened up, smiled at her. ‘Right. Coffee?'

He walked into the kitchen through a door at the back of the office. Abigail followed him. He filled the kettle from the tap, began to spoon coffee into the cafetiere.

‘There, see. Water, kettle. Coffee. Simple, really.'

Abigail gave him one of her patented teenage sarcastic smiles. Then she looked at what he was doing, frowned. ‘Why don't you just use instant? I thought that's what you were supposed to drink in offices. Drink instant coffee then spend all morning complaining about it.'

‘I think you've just answered your own question,' he said. ‘I never drink instant coffee. There isn't much I'm fussy about, but coffee's one thing. And it has to be the right coffee too. Java or Italian. Nothing else. And warm milk, preferably steamed.' He smiled. ‘If your grandma and grandad could hear me now …'

She gave a polite smile in return, nodded. Her grandparents had been dead for several years. Living down south they had got together as often as they could, but they had never truly connected, not on a close familial level. They had been proud of their son, he knew that, being the first in the family to go to university, taking up a career they could never have dreamed of, moving successfully to London, with beautiful wife and gorgeous children. His dream life. He was, in a way, quite relieved that they hadn't been there to see it all fall apart.

And now he was back in the north-east, in Newcastle, his hometown. As far away from that dream life as ever.

‘So how do you take it?'

‘White. Sugar.' She looked at the amount of coffee he was spooning in. ‘Not too strong.'

‘Comin' right up,' he said with a terrible American accent. He busied himself with the coffee. ‘So how was Seven Stories?'

She shrugged. ‘OK. Interesting, you know, but …'

‘You're a bit too old for it.'

She smiled. ‘May be. A bit.'

He had sent her to the children's literature museum while he was working with Anne Marie. It was just down the road and, although expensive to get in, he had enjoyed it. But he knew what she meant. And he knew that since he had given her the money for it she didn't want to seem ungrateful.

‘No problem.'

‘But I enjoyed it. Thanks.'

‘Good. Then it was all worthwhile.'

The kitchen door opened, hesitantly. They both turned. Anne Marie entered, stopped when she saw Abigail. Eyed her warily. Donovan knew that this was inevitable. Anne Marie was revealing her innermost feelings and unloading her most difficult memories in this space. It was understandable she felt territorial. He had better not exclude her or she might stop talking.

‘Anne Marie,' he said, again using his most open and unthreatening voice, ‘this is my daughter, Abigail.'

Anne Marie stepped into the room, shook hands with her. Smiling, but still unsure. ‘Hello,' she said, putting her cigarettes away. She turned to Donovan. ‘I just went for a smoke outside. Bit of fresh air.'

‘That's fine.' He smiled. ‘It's allowed. Coffee?'

She said she would. Donovan busied himself making it.

‘Abigail's just up for a few days from her mother's. Visiting.'

‘Ah.' Anne Marie looked between the two of them. ‘You're not together then. You and your …'

‘We're not, no.'

Anne Marie nodded. As she did that, Donovan realized that although he had been probing this woman's background and getting her to open up, she barely knew anything about him. He knew this was a professional arrangement and it shouldn't matter, in fact it was better that way, correct, but with Abigail standing in front of him and his own background being revealed, he felt slightly uncomfortable.

The coffee was ready. Donovan suggested they go upstairs to drink it. They did, Anne Marie still slightly wary of letting someone else into the space.

‘So,' she said to Abigail, sitting down on the sofa, ‘what are you goin' to do with the rest of the day?'

She shrugged. ‘Don't know. Go round town, maybe. See if—'

Anne Marie's phone rang.

Jack slid the key in the lock, cautiously opened the door. He didn't know whether he should do it fast or slow. He suspected Rob would still be around, sleeping off his hangover from last night. He wasn't pleasant to be around at the best of times but when he was hungover, Jack believed he was about as bad as humanity got.

He settled on edging the door open slowly, hoping that it wouldn't creak or squeak, or that no one would go past on the landing shouting something. He was lucky. Neither thing happened. He closed the door behind him as silently as he had opened it, stood in the hallway, listening.

No sound. He had expected snoring – Rob's usual daytime noise – but he heard nothing. Jack breathed a sigh of relief and walked into the living room.

Where Rob was sitting on the sofa.

He looked up. The cup of tea he had balanced on the arm of the sofa threatened to decorate the floor. His hair was sticking out at impossible angles, his face looked red and puffy, as if the previous night's alcohol had settled beneath his skin and was getting hot and sweaty trying to force its way out. A creased and folded tabloid lay on the arm of the chair, a pen in his hand. Studying form. His mood of initial shock at Jack's entrance was soon replaced by his default setting – anger.