Bone Machine (5 page)

Donovan nodded.

‘And ensure that Mr Kovacs will have the full weight of English justice brought to bear on him.’

‘Who’s paying us for this?’ asked Peta.

Sharkey couldn’t resist a smile. ‘Let’s just say exclusive media rights have already been signed. Think of it as a prenuptial
agreement.’

Peta raised an eyebrow. Donovan caught it. ‘We’d better get started, then,’ he said.

‘Best of luck.’ Sharkey motioned for the lights to be turned on again; Jamal obliged. Sharkey then began moving papers around,
indicating the meeting was coming to an end. As he did so he talked of contracts, money, made appreciative comments concerning
the new offices.

Peta, Amar and Jamal filed out. Donovan waited behind. Sharkey looked up from his briefcase, saw him standing there. Donovan
stared.

‘Any other word?’

Sharkey slipped the CD from the laptop, put it in his briefcase. Avoided Donovan’s eyes. He looked suddenly uncomfortable.
‘Word on what?’

‘You know what. The job you’re supposed to be helping me with.’

Sharkey sighed, shook his head. ‘No, Joe, I’m afraid not.’

‘Are you looking? Properly looking?’

The room seemed too hot for Sharkey. ‘Yes, yes … of course I’m looking. I’ve got, got … lots of people out there.’ He swallowed
hard. ‘Looking.’

Donovan kept the stare up.

‘Joe, I’m keeping my end of the bargain. I’m honestly looking as hard as I can.’

‘Never trust a lawyer when he says he’s being honest.’

Sharkey sighed. ‘Do you think I would lie to you on this? Really?’

Donovan kept staring.

‘Really?’

Donovan sighed, broke the gaze. ‘No, Sharkey, I don’t. I think you’d be a fool if you did.’

Sharkey’s hand went involuntarily to his throat. ‘You’re right, I would be. I’m looking, Joe. I’ll keep looking.’

Coffee made, Donovan carried it into the front room, placed the tray on his coffee table.

While preparing the cafetière, he had studied her. She was of medium height and quite thin, as if undernourished. Her hair
was blonde, although her roots were beginning to show. She was young and would have been pretty had not her face been etched
with worry, her eyes only partially caging the ghosts that lay behind them.

‘Didn’t know what you wanted to eat, so there’s some biscuits. Chocolate Hobnobs.’

She looked confused but grateful. She thanked him.

He plunged the cafetière, poured the coffee, added milk and sugar in the proportions she had requested, handed it to her.
She sipped. Smiled. The ghosts retreated.

‘Thank you. It is good.’

‘All part of the service.’

She placed her mug down on the table, picked up a biscuit, started eating. As she did so, the ghosts returned to her eyes.

‘Am I … prisoner here?’ she said through a mouthful of crumbs.

‘Prisoner?’ Donovan shook his head. Perhaps too enthusiastically in his effort to convince. ‘No. No, definitely not. You can
come and go as you please.’ He smiled. ‘Not that there’s much around here to come and go to.’

She picked up another biscuit. ‘Where am I?’

‘Northumberland. Just north of Newcastle. You’re safe. They won’t find you here.’

She nodded, picked up her mug, took another mouthful. ‘And who are you?’

‘Joe Donovan. Like I said last night.’

‘And who is Joe Donovan?’

Donovan took a sip. ‘Good question. In a previous life I was an investigative journalist. Now I run a team called Albion.
You met the other team members last night. We’re information brokers. We work on assignment, from solicitors usually. We broker
information, set up deals. Do investigative work.’

‘You are … detectives?’

‘No, we’re not. Although one of us used to be with the police.’

Katya frowned. ‘Which one?’

‘Your partner in the house. Peta.’

Katya’s eyes widened. ‘Really? But she was … going with punters.’

Donovan gave a small laugh. ‘She may have let them into her room. But she certainly wouldn’t have done anything with them.’

Katya looked confused.

‘Let’s just say she can still act and sound like police when she wants to.’

A tiny smile appeared on Katya’s face. ‘I see.’ She picked up another biscuit.

‘You hungry?’

Katya paused, biscuit on the way to her lips. Her eyes took on a fearful aspect. She put the biscuit back on the plate.

‘No, it’s OK, keep eating. That’s what they’re there for. I’ll make something more substantial if you like.’

She looked at him warily. Donovan scratched his head.

‘Look, Katya, there’s absolutely no reason why you should trust me, I know, but I’m not going to hurt you or force you to
do anything against your will. Like I said, you’re not a prisoner here. If you’re hungry, eat. If you’re thirsty, drink. If
you want to go out, go out. You won’t be punished for it.’

She looked into his eyes, checking for lies, wanting to believe him. Donovan didn’t move while she did so. Eventually she
nodded.

‘Thank you,’ said Donovan. ‘Now help yourself to biscuits and I’ll make a proper breakfast. How does bacon and eggs sound?’
He saw the expression on her face, stood up, smiled. ‘Bacon and eggs it is.’

Donovan went into the kitchen. Katya watched him go, a small smile playing on the corners of her lips.

They breakfasted at the dining table by the window with its view down past the dunes to the beach and beyond, the North Sea.
Jamal came down to join them, the smell of bacon cooking too much of a lure. He wore his hip-hop T-shirt and baggy jeans and
was on his best behaviour before Katya. She seemed to take to him, thought Donovan, smiling when the boy spoke.

Once the meal was under way, Katya had more questions for Donovan.

‘When can I see Dario? When can I see my brother?’

‘Soon,’ said Donovan, forking egg into his mouth. ‘Like it said in his letter I gave you last night, I think it might be best
if you stay here for a while. If Kovacs finds out about the whole thing it might get very nasty.’

Katya sighed. ‘Kovacs. Always Kovacs.’

‘Hopefully it won’t be too long, though.’

The meal over, Jamal surprised Donovan by volunteering to clear away.

‘You feeling all right?’ asked Donovan.

Jamal looked at him as if he had sprouted another head. ‘Whassamatter wit’ you, man? Makin’ out like I never do nothin’.’

He went into the kitchen, plates balanced on his hands.

‘He is a good boy,’ Katya said to Donovan. ‘Is he your son?’

Donovan laughed. ‘No,’ he said, feeling his cheeks beginning to redden. ‘Just another stray that I picked up.’

‘An’ you be glad you did,’ Jamal shouted from the kitchen. ‘Katya, you shoulda seen this place when I moved in. It was mingin’,
man. Like a buildin’ site. Not fit for human habitation.’ Jamal came to the kitchen entrance, stood in the doorway. He counted
his next words out on his fingers. ‘I had to plaster, paint, put proper floors down, choose furniture, get the heatin’ fixed,
plant the garden …’ He gave an elaborate sigh. ‘Tell you, man, if I hadn’ta moved in, old Joe here would still be livin’ in
the Stone Age.’

‘Yeah, right.’

Donovan made more coffee. Katya was beginning to relax.

‘So what happens now?’ she asked.

‘Well, I’ve got to go into Newcastle today, sort some stuff
out with the solicitors, let them know you’re safe and sound. I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Jamal.’

Jamal nodded, gave a small wave. ‘My mate Jake’s comin’ round later. We goin’ play some serious X Box. You can join in if
you like.’

‘There you go,’ said Donovan, smiling. ‘That’s your day mapped out for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Katya, attempting to return the smile. ‘And will I see … Peta? Is that her name?’

‘You might later,’ said Donovan. ‘But she’s out today. Reliving her youth.’

Katya looked confused.

‘Gone back to college,’ said Donovan. ‘Get another degree. She might be along later, though. In the meantime you’ll find some
clothes in the room you slept in. I hope they fit you. So until I get back, just, y’know, chill.’

Katya smiled, placed a hand on his arm.

‘Thank you, Joe Donovan. You are a good man.’

Donovan gave an involuntary but instinctive look on to the landing, his eyes resting on the locked door. He managed a smile.

‘I try,’ he said.

Slatted, weak sunlight streamed in through the white-plastic blinds, illuminating the dust motes against the blackberry-coloured
walls in slow, lazy, now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t swirls. The workdesks in the small room had all been arranged into a semicircle,
leaving a desk in the centre of the room plus space in front of it. Pacing space, Peta thought.

She entered the room, found a space at one of the semicircle of desks and sat down. She began taking out files, folders, books
and pens from her shoulder bag. She smiled to herself. A good night’s work previously, a session in the gym first thing. She
was doing a job she enjoyed that paid and left her able to fulfil ambitions, expand her horizons. She hadn’t felt this happy
in years.

Others were coming, doing the same. Some smiled, talked to her. Most just nodded or ignored her. She smiled back, made small
talk while setting up her place at the desk.

Jill sat down next to her. ‘Hiya.’

‘Hi,’ replied Peta.

‘Thought I was gonna be late,’ Jill said, taking out notepads and textbooks identical to Peta’s, her Lancashire accent rendering
most of her words pretension-free. ‘Just woke up half an hour ago at Ben’s. An’ he lives in Gosforth.’ She sighed. ‘Jesus.
An’ what a hangover.’

‘Good night?’ asked Peta.

Jill’s face split into a smile. ‘Crackin’. Went to see the Bravery over at Newcastle uni.’

‘Were they good?’

‘Brilliant.’ Jill stopped talking, regarded Peta with a frown. ‘Anyway, what happened to you? Thought you were comin’?’

‘Oh, yeah …’ Peta remembered she had said she might go. But that had been weeks ago. Before work got in the way. ‘Sorry. Something
came up at the last minute and I had to take care of it.’

Jill looked interested. ‘Oh, what, family or friends, like?’

No, actually. Going undercover, pulling an East European prostitute off the streets and taking her to a safe house so that
her brother can give evidence against a gangster, like
.

‘Yeah,’ said Peta. ‘I had to go out with friends.’

Jill nodded, satisfied with the explanation.

Peta sensed relief too. She knew Jill had only asked her to the gig out of politeness. Although Peta didn’t look that much
older than the rest, and was no stranger to jeans, trainers and combat jackets, she was, she knew, regarded as an anomaly
within her year group. A mature student. And whatever she said or did, however she tried to fit in, she knew she couldn’t
really. Because she had been out in the world, made a living, and decided to come back to university and get a degree. So
she carried with her something alien: the smell of work and mortgages, taxes and pensions. The smell of the outside world.

Jill busied herself with unloading books on the desk. Peta knew what she must have been picturing. Friends. Bottle of wine.
Chatting around the kitchen table. Like her mother would do. Knowing how far that was from the truth, Peta hid a smile.

Jill leaned across, almost conspiratorially, eyes wide. ‘They found her, you know. The body.’

‘I know. I heard.’

Jill shook her head. ‘Makes you think, doesn’t it? My God.’

Peta agreed. ‘And they haven’t found out who did it. They’re still out there,’ she said. ‘You take care of yourself.’

Jill smiled. ‘Yes, Mum.’

Peta smiled in return. Unpacked her books.

Working with Albion satisfied Peta. On one level. But something had always nagged within her. Something about unfinished business.
Her parents, both liberal, middle-class
Guardian
readers, had wanted their daughter to go to university. Study the arts. Perhaps become a lecturer like themselves. But Peta,
in a spirit of youthful rebellion, had taken what she saw as the most contentious route for herself, and the one that would
annoy her parents most: she had joined the police force.

Her parents were mortified. They felt they had let her down in some way. Peta, for her own part, hadn’t enjoyed the reaction
as much as she thought she would have. They were deeply hurt, far more so than she had imagined they would be. And that impacted
on her. She tried to back out but left it too late, was too far into her training by then. So she vowed instead to make them
proud of her. That didn’t work either.

When, five years later, she left the force, almost physically beaten down by being patronized, relegated to demeaning tasks,
seeing people she had initially had to help climbing the ranks ahead of her, the force’s institutionalized sexism, plus a
burgeoning problem with alcohol, her parents had insisted it wasn’t too late. They would regard those last few years as a
temporary blip, a gap-year project that had got out of hand. She could still find the right course, still go to university.
They would help her, pay for her. Although sorely tempted by this offer, she turned it down. She still had something to prove.
So, hoping to utilize skills and contacts she had made in the force, she set up her own private investigation and security
business. That, eventually, folded. And then, thankfully, came Albion.

But still that nag, that sense of unfinished business. And here she was. Thirty-one years old. Studying psychology at university.
Over ten years later and her liberal,
Guardian
-reading parents had been right all along.

Not that she would admit that. Nor how much she enjoyed it.

Her body got regular workouts in the dojo. Her mind very rarely. This was the perfect counterbalance. Plus the lecturer had
a lot to do with it. Peta had never met anyone like him.

The door opened. As if on cue, in he came. Medium height, slim build, he walked with a slight limp, as if the bones hadn’t
set right from an old injury. And his right hand was covered in scar tissue, gnarled and deformed. But that wasn’t the most
remarkable thing about him. He was dressed, as usual, like a walking antique. His suit hailed from any time during the 1940s
or 1950s and had clearly been originally intended for a much bigger man, the wide, grey, fireman’s braces and thick, black-leather
belt holding up his trousers bearing testament to that. On his feet were lace-up DMs, beneath his suit jacket a black T-shirt.
His dark overcoat was similarly old and flowing – Peta was sure she had glimpsed a Utility label inside when he had hung it
up once – with a bright red, paisley scarf thrown over the top, the swirls drawing attention like some kind of fantastical
space vortex. Topping it off was a grey-felt hat that may have been a homburg or a fedora. Peta wasn’t sure. He looked like
a child’s idea of a responsible adult.

His briefcase, an old doctor’s bag stuffed with books and other ephemera, was hefted on to the desk. He took his overcoat
off, draped it over the back of his chair, along with the scarf. Placed his hat on the desk. His dark hair was shot with grey
and cropped close. He wore a pair of old round glasses as modelled by John Lennon in the late 1960s. Peta
had tried to work out his age, given up. He was anywhere between thirty and fifty. Probably. It was hard to tell. He seemed
unaware of any eccentricity, perfectly at ease with himself. This was him as he was.

Professor Graham McAllister. Usually, as he had stressed in his first seminar four months previously, just called the Prof.

‘Good morning, you fine-minded people.’ His voice was dark and rich, ruminative yet not without a Geordie accent. ‘Now, what
shall we discuss today?’

The same introduction as always. Getting any unfocused discussion out of the way before beginning properly. And it still hadn’t
worn thin, Peta thought. Although this was only the second term.

‘What about Ashley Malcolm?’ one of the students, a well-built, shaggy-haired boy, shouted.

The class almost froze. The whole university, Peta had thought on walking in, had a morning-after feel in the wake of the
discovery of Ashley Malcolm’s body. The students, and staff it seemed, had talked about nothing else all week. First her disappearance,
then this. Warnings had been issued, escorts encouraged for all girls. A definite atmosphere hung over the university: loss
and shock, certainly, but also a kind of sick electricity. A sense that amid all that horror and upset there was vicarious
thrill-seeking to be had. Peta put it down to the fact that the students’ personalities were incomplete and they hadn’t found
the appropriate reaction to tragedy yet.

The Prof stopped, stared. Not so much angry that he had been called on to deviate from his usual speech, more curious.

‘Why Ashley Malcolm?’ he asked.

The student shrugged. ‘Thought you could, y’know, give us some insights.’

The Prof perched on the edge of his desk, leaned forward, frowning. ‘Insights?’

‘Yeah, y’know. You being a psychologist an’ all.’

‘Something which I believe you aspire to, is that not the case, Mr Carson?’

The student shrugged.

The Prof gave a slight smile. ‘Then perhaps you could give us some—’ he paused, verbally placing the word in inverted commas
‘—insight of your own.’

The student, Jack Carson, shuffled uneasily in his seat. ‘Well … she was murdered.’

‘Yes,’ said the Prof. ‘That much is incontestable.’

‘Horribly. Although we don’t know the details. The police haven’t released those yet.’

The Prof nodded. ‘Horribly. I wouldn’t think there was an un-horrible way to be murdered. Go on.’

A few nervous titters went round the room. Jack Carson continued: ‘Well, don’t they always say they know their attacker?’

The Prof raised an eyebrow. ‘Do they?’

‘Unless it’s a …’ He tried to laugh while saying it. ‘I don’t know. Serial killer.’

The Prof didn’t laugh. Instead he nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Thank you for that, Mr Carson. You’re right. Most murder victims
do know their murderers. It’s usually someone close to them who has something to gain from their death. By that I mean financially.
But from what I’ve seen so far that doesn’t seem to be the case here.’

‘So what’s your take on it, then?’ asked Peta. ‘If you were advising the police, how would you tell them to proceed?’

The Prof gave Peta a look of scrutiny. He seemed to be making his mind up about her in some way. Conclusion reached, he leaned
back on the desk, adopted a thoughtful
pose. On anyone else it would look ridiculous, thought Peta, but he managed to bring it off somehow.

‘How would I tell the police to proceed …? Well … Now, bear in mind I know as much as anyone else. I’ve watched the news and
read the papers. Like I said, those who commit premeditated murder usually have something to gain. I’d say the same is true
in this case. Although I have no way of knowing what that would be. But I doubt very much it’s financial. I would advise the
police to look into Ashley’s background for a start, but I doubt they need me to tell them that.’

The Prof frowned, nodded to himself. ‘I’d also make a detailed examination of where she was taken. A street in Fenham. Likewise
where her body was found. An old, disused graveyard.’ He ruminatively enunciated the words. Closed his eyes. ‘Hmm. I’m just
speculating here, but I don’t think she was placed there by accident. No, not at all. I think there’s something special about
that place. Something that means a lot to the killer. It’s a clue or a set of clues. A puzzle. What we have to do is solve
the puzzle. It might not lead us to him, but it might make us think like him …’

Silence echoed around the class.

The Prof became aware of that silence and slowly opened his eyes again. He looked startled to be back, Peta thought.

‘Ah, yes.’ He stood up. ‘Well. That’s enough of that for now. Can’t have you hanging around campus repeating my half-baked
theories.’ He looked at Peta. ‘Then I would be, as you say, advising the police. Although not in the way you meant.’

A small ripple of relieved laughter went around the room.

‘Anyway, enough,’ the Prof said. ‘
Tempus fugit
, does it not? Let us move on. Take out your textbooks, turn to
page 192
. Internal conflicts and the compulsions that can
be derived from them. Rather apt, I think.’

Peta opened her book, flicked through to the correct page. She kept her eyes on the Prof, though. Scrutinized him. When he
had opened his eyes following his discourse, he had seen something disturbing, she thought. And the depth of it had unnerved
her.

Her police sixth sense was still functioning. It might be nothing, she thought. But then again it might very well be something.

Whatever, it might be wise to keep an eye on the Prof, she thought.