Speak No Evil (14 page)

Donovan had bought him a scooter for his seventeenth birthday. Jamal had tried to pretend he didn't like it, that it was wussy and underpowered, but he was secretly thrilled with it. He had even insisted on bringing it down to Brighton in the back of Amar's battered old Volvo estate.

‘I think he might move faster than a scooter,' said Peta. ‘He might get on a train or move out of the city.'

‘Then I'll follow him. Whatever. Leave your car here, man. I been takin' lessons.'

‘My car?' said Amar.

‘Not like it's a good one.'

Peta had hidden a smile at Amar's shocked face. Unsuccessfully. His taste for designer gear didn't extend as far as his car. Once he had calmed down, the two of them exchanged a glance then looked back at Jamal.

‘Look, man,' Jamal said, his hands out, imploring. ‘Just trust me, yeah? I ain't no kid any more. I can handle a job like this. If he does anythin' or goes on the move, like, I'll be on the phone like lightnin', you get me?'

Peta studied him, making up her mind. What he said sounded reasonable but she sensed there was something else, something he was avoiding. His eyes gave it away. They were going on the trail of missing boys, lost boys. Boys from horror-film families and uncaring care homes. Boys with pasts like Jamal. He didn't want to be reminded of it, she thought, didn't want his past dredged up again.

Another glance at Amar. He knew what she was thinking. He nodded. That sealed it.

‘OK,' she said. ‘But on one condition. My friend who's on the force here. The one who spotted Milsom. I'm going to ask him to come down and check you're OK. Work with you.'

‘Ah, man, you don' have to do that.'

‘I do, Jamal. Or you're not staying. This is serious. He's a professional. Consider him one of us for the duration.'

Jamal wanted to argue. But it was clear he had no choice. ‘OK,' he grumbled.

‘Good. Amar and I'll get on with this other thing. You stay here. But be careful.'

‘You know me, man. Careful is my middle name.'

‘After Mouthy and Tosser,' said Amar smiling.

Jamal looked hurt. ‘No need to be rude, man. Just ‘cos I dissed your car. An' you know it's true.' He smiled to show no offence. ‘Look, peeps, I'll be good, yeah? I'm strong. I'll laser lock him like a heat-seekin' missile, man. Won't let him out of my sight.'

‘I know,' said Peta.

Peta had made her call, everything was agreed there. They had left almost immediately.

‘Here it is,' said Amar, trying to match the real coordinates with what his A to Z said.

‘You sure?' Peta said. ‘Your map-reading skills are worse than mine. Last time I asked you to find somewhere you confused Leamington Spa with Learning Bar. You'll be telling me the Dogger Bank is in Jarrow next.'

‘Dogger Bank? Isn't that outside Tynemouth? Didn't the police raid it last month? I think I've been there.'

She sighed. ‘You can tell you don't listen to Radio 4.' She looked at the building before them. It was part of a low-level estate, social housing built as a response, and an antidote, to tower blocks like Trellick. There were signs that it had been the target of a recent overhaul. Replacement windows, unvandalized streetlighting, new front doors. Clean roads. It wasn't utopia but it wasn't the sink estate they had been expecting.

‘This is the house here,' said Amar, consulting his paper once more. ‘This is where Guy Brewster used to live.'

Guy Brewster. The first boy to have gone missing. The first boy to turn up dead. Anne Marie had lived in the area, in the street Amar and Peta were now standing in, for four years. It was, by her own account, where her son, Jack, had been conceived and born.

‘Do we know who the father is?' asked Amar.

Peta shook her head. ‘Apparently she never said. Even the birth certificate doesn't say.'

Peta and Amar had read Donovan's research. Guy Brewster had been nine years old. Already a lost boy, he had only been seen sporadically in school and spent most of his time roaming the estate and nearby railway line, committing acts of petty vandalism – throwing stones at windows, that kind of thing. He had been disruptive and violent in school so his teachers hadn't been too bothered when he stopped turning up. Since his mother's departure shortly after his birth, he had lived with his father, an alcoholic who had been violent and abusive towards him.

‘Going nowhere, really,' Amar had said on reading the account.

‘Nowhere good,' Peta had replied.

He had come to the attention of social workers but their reactive approach had ensured he wouldn't be looked after until something serious had happened to him.

‘And something serious did happen to him,' said Peta. ‘He was murdered.'

It was hard to pinpoint with any accuracy when he had actually gone missing since he spent most of his short life not being noticed. Even his death didn't invite much attention.

His body was found at the side of the main railway line in an old, disused, concrete tool store. Some children had been playing there and kicked down the semi-rotted door to find Guy's decomposing body. He had been strangled then slashed with a blade. There was very little forensic evidence since the playing children had contaminated the scene of crime, and it was an era before CCTV cameras.

The police had conducted door-to-door enquiries but nothing had come of it. It wasn't the kind of area to be forthcoming. Guy's father had been hauled in for questioning and, despite being as unpleasant as possible, was clearly not guilty.

Guy's killer was never found. Eventually the police were needed elsewhere and the investigation was wound down, an open verdict recorded. An unpopular child was dead. Everyone agreed that, with his background and disposition, it had not been a question of if but when. The fact that it had been sooner rather than later was a little shocking, but there you go. Hardly unexpected.

But then something strange happened. Voices began to speak up on the estate. People were tired of living the way they were. In an area where semi-feral children could grow up and be murdered and no one was the slightest bit interested. Pressure groups were formed. Community action organizations took shape. In the absence of any real police presence, citizens' committees took matters into their own hands. Drug dealers and other undesirables were made unwelcome. Councils were pressed into doing repairs that they had ignored for years. Collective responsibility was taken. A sense of community was engendered. And the estate became a better place to live.

‘Well, some good came of it,' Peta said.

‘Wonder what Anne Marie made of it,' said Amar.

Peta looked up the street. ‘I think we may be seeing someone who can provide the answer.'

Amar followed her gaze. A man was coming towards them, middle-aged, small, round. Grey hair bouncing with each step, stubbled, red cheeks. Wearing an anorak and jeans. He saw them, smiled.

He reached them. ‘You the two I'm supposed to meet?'

Peta smiled, stuck out her hand. ‘Tom Haig? I'm Peta Knight. This is Amar Miah. Thanks for arranging to see us at such short notice.'

‘No problem.' He shook hands with her, nodded at Amar. He looked small and cherubic, with a face that seemed always ready to smile. Unapologetic London accent. ‘So, what can I do for you?'

‘You were Anne Marie Smeaton's probation officer, is that right?' said Peta.

He gave a small shrug. ‘Probation officer, counsellor, therapist, call it what you like. I was her one-stop shop for keeping her on the straight and narrow.'

‘Is that usual?' asked Amar.

‘Pretty much. In cases like hers when they're given new identities, new lives. They have a guardian angel with them, or at least on call, pretty much twenty-four seven.'

‘So you knew her well?' Peta again.

Another cherubic smile. ‘I did. For a time.'

‘And this area?' asked Amar.

Tom Haig looked round. ‘Lived here all my life. Changed a bit in the last few years, I must say. Used to be really bad.' He nodded. ‘Really bad.'

‘You were around to see the change?'

‘I like to think I was part of it. Well, the probation service, not just me.'

‘What happened?' asked Peta.

‘There was a boy murdered. Everything changed after that.'

‘Would that be Guy Brewster?' asked Amar.

Tom Haig's eyebrows raised. ‘It would.' He smiled. Peta could imagine him propping up the bar in a local folk club, pint of real ale in one hand. ‘You've done your homework.' His brow furrowed. ‘What is it you wanted, exactly?'

‘Just a couple of things,' said Peta. ‘Like I said on the phone, we're working with Anne Marie's solicitors. Just a background check, that kind of thing. Here when she said she was, story checks out, blah blah, you know. And while we were doing that we found out about this unsolved murder. Just interested us.'

Another smile from Tom Haig. ‘So you're going to solve the crime, that it?'

Peta smiled. ‘Sadly not. But I'm ex-police. Old habits die hard.'

He laughed. ‘Know what you mean. I'm ex-probation. Same thing. You can't stop banging them up, I can't stop trying to keep them out.'

He laughed, Peta joined in. Amar smiled.

‘Anyway, long time ago,' said Tom Haig. ‘Nothing to do with Anne Marie, either.'

‘She didn't know the dead boy or his father?'

Tom Haig shook his head. ‘Not that I know of, no.'

Peta looked at the house where Guy Brewster had lived. It had new windows, a well-tended patch of lawn in front. A shining front door. ‘I think we can assume Brewster Senior no longer lives here.'

Tom Haig followed her gaze. ‘He doesn't. When the clean-up operation took off, so did he. No one's heard of him since.'

‘And when did Anne Marie move?'

‘Let me think.' He closed his eyes.

‘Around about the same time?' asked Amar.

Tom Haig opened his eyes. ‘Might have been.' A wary look came over his features. ‘You're not suggesting she …'

‘No,' said Peta quickly. Perhaps too quickly. ‘Not at all. Like I said, just interested.'

‘Right.' The wary look hadn't disappeared from his face.

‘How was she at the time?' said Peta.

‘How d'you mean?'

Peta shrugged. ‘You know. Mentally, emotionally. That kind of thing. We're just trying to build up a picture of her.'

Tom Haig didn't look entirely happy, but he continued. ‘Fine, for the most part. As well as could be, you know.' He thought for a few seconds. ‘Mind you, thinking about it, when that boy died, it changed her.'

‘In what way?' asked Amar.

Tom Haig gave his words careful consideration, like he didn't know whether to trust them. Peta and Amar said nothing, waited.

‘She said she couldn't live here any more. It was giving her nightmares. Said the boy's death had triggered something.'

‘What?'

‘I don't know. She wouldn't say. But she felt she would do something awful if she wasn't moved. And she was pregnant by this time.'

‘So you moved her.'

Tom Haig nodded. ‘To Bristol. And that was when my involvement with her ended.'

‘There is something that puzzles me, though,' Amar said. ‘If there's a boy been murdered, and someone living nearby has just come out of prison for murdering a child, wouldn't the police look at her first?'

‘I believe they did at the time,' said Tom Haig. ‘Found nothing. Which is a good thing. For her. I mean, she's done her time. What's to be gained by persecuting her? She hadn't done anything wrong.'

Amar nodded, said nothing. Tom Haig looked between the pair of them then at his watch.

‘So has this been any help? Only I've got to dash. Might be ex-probation but I still do consultancy for them. Still sit on their committees.'

‘No problem,' said Peta. ‘Thanks for your time.'

They shook hands.

‘What's it for, by the way? All these questions? You writing a book, or something?'

Peta smiled, aimed for breezy with her answer. ‘You could say that. Anne Marie's collaborating on a book of her life. We just have to do the leg work, check out what she says is true.'

Tom Haig nodded, taking the information. ‘So how is she? Anne Marie.'

‘She's … well,' said Peta. ‘Doing well.'

‘And her boy? He must be … God, sixteen now?'

‘Nearly sixteen, yes.'

‘Jesus. Tempus fugit, ay?'

Peta agreed.

‘So where is she?' he asked.

‘Sorry. Can't say.'

‘No, course not.' He laughed. ‘Well, never mind.'

He turned and made his way back up the street.

Peta and Amar watched him go. ‘Well, that was pointless,' he said.

‘You never know,' said Peta. ‘You have to do these things.'

‘What he said,' said Amar. ‘About looking into the boy's death. We're not really doing that, are we?'

‘Not really. If we find out it's her that did it, though, we've got them all solved.'

‘True. But it's still a shame, isn't it?' He looked round. Some people live or die and no one cares.'

Peta nodded.

Amar seemed aware that his introspection was spreading so quickly snapped out of it. ‘Right. So where next?'

‘Where d'you think?' she said. ‘Bristol.'

‘Why did you move away from the Powell Estate?'

‘Have you been there?' She gives a weak smile.

He shakes his head. ‘You know I haven't.'

‘Well, you wouldn't ask if you had. Like I said, it was awful. No place to bring up a kid.'

‘No other reason?'

She shakes her head.

‘Anne Marie's shaking her head,' he says into the recorder. He leans back, wondering how to pose the next question. ‘What about Guy Brewster? Did his death have any influence on your leaving?'