Speak No Evil (17 page)

So he said nothing.

Heptonstall, realizing he was going to get no further, sat down behind his desk. ‘You are to go home and stay there until the end of the week. Letters will be sent to your parents. Although, Renwick, with yours I doubt that will make the slightest bit of difference. Now.' He waved towards the door. ‘Out.'

Renny turned and walked out. Jack looked between the door and the head teacher. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. His anger was subsiding and he was beginning to realize just how serious this affair could be for him.

Heptonstall looked at him. ‘You too, Smeaton. Out.'

Jack closed his mouth again. Left the office.

Outside, Renny was standing there.

‘Thought you'd squeal your fuckin' head off in there,' he said.

Jack just looked at him, saying nothing. Letting him have the last vestiges of his disappearing anger.

Renny nodded. ‘Good lad. But I still fuckin' hate you.'

He turned and walked away. Rolling his shoulders as he walked, aiming for dignity with a sneer on his face, sporting the victory that only comes in defeat, the knowledge that comes when you've been branded as society's refuse. The unwanted. The unloved. The ultimate outsider.

Jack waited until he had left the building and, not wanting to be seen with him, walked out of the building and out of the school grounds.

No idea where he was headed, just as long as Renny wasn't there.

‘So after West London …'

She rolls her eyes at the memory of the place.

‘It was Bristol?'

She nods.

‘For the record.'

‘Bristol, yes.'

‘And were you happy there? Or happier?'

She thinks about the question. Hard. Like she is rehearsing which answer to give and can't decide how much of the truth should be in it. ‘Happier,' she decides on at last. I don't think you can ever be truly happy. I think you'd be some kind of gimp if you were.'

‘Anyone in particular, in general, or just you?'

‘Anyone. I think anyone who says they're happy is just lyin'. To themselves.'

‘So what do you believe in then, if not happiness?'

She thought again. ‘I think you can get pockets of happiness, of contentment, like. But you don't get many. And they don't last long.'

‘Is that what Bristol was for you? A pocket of contentment?'

She thinks again. At least, he notices, she doesn't go for the cigarettes or the coffee or any of her usual props. She just takes her time thinking, leading him to believe he'll get a truthful answer.

‘Up to a point,' she says.

‘What happened then?'

‘It stopped bein' happy.'

‘You'll have to give me more than that.'

She sighs. Looks at the cigarette packet. He can see she wants to take one out but she stops herself. She thinks again, makes a decision. ‘I was happy. With Jack. Really happy. Bristol was all right. St Paul's, it was. I mean, it wasn't the best of places and they looked at us strange because I talked funny. Well, to them. They talked funny to me. But we were, I suppose, happy there. We had a nice house, I had a part-time job in a shop, we had nice neighbours, I had friends. You know, I don't make friends easily. I'm sure you can understand that. But I had friends there that I really liked.'

‘Were you still having difficulty with your new identity? Or had you settled in by then?'

‘No, I was doin' all right. Once we'd escaped from London
—'

‘Escaped? Why d'you say escaped? From what? From who?'

She looks at him, then away, deciding whether to say more.

‘I just mean from London. From the Powell Estate, an' that.' Her voice was high, unconvincing. She was lying but he couldn't call her on it.

‘OK. Go on. Your new identity. Were you settled in it?'

‘Well, occasionally somethin' would happen and I'd be reminded of the past, but not often. I was all right. It probably doesn't sound like much to you, but when you'd been through what I'd been through, a normal life was the only thing I wanted.'

‘So what happened?'

She sighs. ‘Somethin' always comes along to spoil it.'

‘Something?'

She nods. ‘Or someone.'

14

‘You know,' said Peta, looking out in front of her, eyes squinting against the late autumn sun, ‘when people say they like Bristol I don't think they really mean that. I think they just mean here. Not that horrible, concrete city centre, just here. Clifton.'

Amar was standing next to her, the span of the Clifton Suspension Bridge over the River Avon and Downs in front of them. The weather had held out and the view was beautiful. The trees around them held falling brown and red leaves and behind them Georgian terraces and townhouses stretched and wound, continuing the picture postcard prettiness. It was the kind of view that made Peta forget what she did for a living, that even threatened to restore her long-lost faith in humanity.

‘I doubt Anne Marie lived round here.' Amar looked at the papers, the map, the scene in front of him. ‘Doubt she even came here. Or the boy who was murdered.'

Peta turned to him, his words breaking the spell. A cloud obscured the sun rendering the buildings a dull grey. The trees were just denuded brown stumps, the bridge iron and brick. ‘No,' she said, ‘you're right. Probably lived somewhere horrible and concrete. And the same for the boy.'

Bristol was the second place on the list of places Anne Marie had lived and also the site of the second boy to die.

‘What was his name?' asked Peta.

Amar checked the papers in his hands although he knew the name off by heart. ‘Adam Wainwright.'

Amar had printed off everything Donovan had sent them about the cases. He had read them aloud to Peta in the car as they had travelled, bringing her up to speed as she had attempted to do the same by flooring the accelerator. They had reached the city from West London in less than two hours.

Adam Wainwright's death differed from the first in that he hadn't lived at his family home but had been in care. A difficult, angry and inarticulate boy of nine. Hard to love and he found it harder even to find love. They had found a photo in an online news archive. It showed a boy with close-cropped hair and angry eyes too scared to show vulnerability. He had willed his features to be as hard, cold and impervious as concrete.

His mother had been a heroin addict, his father unknown. When she died of AIDS, and with no other relatives claiming responsibility, Adam had been moved to Beech House, a state-run children's home on the outskirts of the city – the horrible concrete side – that had eventually been investigated for allegations of abuse.

‘Apparently his murder was the catalyst for getting the home closed down,' said Amar. ‘The home was investigated as part of the murder inquiry and a few inconsistencies came to light.'

Peta frowned. ‘Inconsistencies?'

Amar shrugged. ‘That's what it said in the report. Inconsistencies. I remembered it because it seemed so … incongruous to everything else going on.'

‘Incongruous inconsistencies,' said Peta, an involuntary smile playing on her lips. ‘Get you.'

Amar didn't rise to it. ‘Let's walk while we talk.'

They turned away from the bridge that had now lost its allure to Peta. The sun had made a re-emergence as if to apologize for breaking Peta's feel-good spell but it was too late, she thought. The damage had been done.

‘So the home gets closed down and the abuse allegations investigated. Anything turn up? Any prosecutions?'

‘Don't know. Nothing involving the guy we're going to see; he came out of it clean. Although he may be able to tell us more.'

A name stood out from the reports: Martin Flemyng. He had been Adam Wainwright's social worker at the time of the boy's death. He was reported as being horrified by what had happened and left social services soon afterwards, apparently horrified that he hadn't been able to stop either Adam's death or the abuse. His name hadn't come up in connection with the Beech House investigations.

Amar had phoned him on the way. He had been wary at first but once Amar had explained that he and his colleague were looking into Adam Wainwright's death once again his tone changed and he said he would be delighted to meet them. He told them he still lived in Bristol, Clifton, to be precise, and arranged to meet them in a nearby café.

Amar and Peta walked down the main street through Clifton village. It seemed as if the word ‘boutique' had been coined for it. Designer clothes shops, bathroom shops, stores that sold nothing but chi-chi frou-frou and made Peta wonder how they made a living. Then she saw the price tags. Even the pubs and cafés were hip and designer, even the charity shops, come to that.

Adam Wainwright's body had been found on a patch of abandoned ground by the old docks that had been earmarked for redevelopment. New flats.

‘Same pattern as before,' Peta said. ‘Wasteground. Away from home, houses, anything. Cause of death?'

Amar consulted his papers once more. ‘Strangled.'

‘That's all? Nothing about stabbing?'

He scanned the paper, didn't find what he was looking for, leafed through to another. Sighed. ‘I don't see why I had to carry all this. Why couldn't you? I'm a man of action. I deal with computers, surveillance. Not …' He rifled the papers. ‘… this stuff.'

Peta suppressed a smile. Badly. ‘Come on, man of action, less of the queeny fits and more facts, please.'

Amar shook his head, kept scanning. He almost collided with a student coming the other way. He sighed, found what he was looking for. ‘This should tell us. The coroner's report on the death.' He scanned it, stopping still to do so. ‘Here we are. Death by strangulation.'

‘Hands or an object?'

He scanned again. ‘Ligature marks … fibres … plastic … they've speculated on a length of clothes line. Something like that.'

‘Not hands. Right. Knife marks?'

‘Yep. Here we are. Slashes to the stomach and genitals.'

A woman gave him a look of terror as she passed. He gave a weak smile in return.

‘Come on,' said Peta, ‘keep walking.'

He did so. ‘The marks were thought to be done postmortem.' He stopped, looked at her. ‘Same as the last one.'

Peta nodded. ‘Or before that.'

He knew what she meant. Right back to Mae Blacklock s original crime. The same MO. Exactly.

‘Come on then,' said Peta. ‘Nearly there.'

They reached the end of the parade of shops, kept walking. Peta gave one last look behind her as the road took them downwards, a regretful look that said goodbye to the chocolate-box beauty of Clifton. Then she turned and, along with Amar, went to keep their appointment. Preparing to rejoin the real world.

Their real world.

*

‘Hello, boys. What have you got for me?'

Tess Preston sat in a moulded plastic chair attached to a Formica table in a local greasy spoon. In fact, she thought, it wasn't just the spoon that was greasy it was the whole place. She could even feel her skin becoming oleaginous. Long bath in the hotel tonight. In front of her she had a mug of tea that looked strong enough to go six rounds with Ricky Hatton. It was undrinkable. But she had persevered, taken a few mouthfuls. Because she felt it was the kind of thing a posh bird wouldn't have done. And because Ray Collins, as impassive as Iron Man in the seat next to her, had downed his already.

At the other side of the table were Renny and Pez. The bigger boy looked like he actually had gone six rounds with Ricky Hatton. His nose was swollen and red, the blood hastily wiped away, his eye blackened and enlarged, his cheeks nicked and cut.

‘So what's the other bloke look like?' said Tess, smiling.

Pez started to laugh in his usual snorting, braying way, but a look from Renny silenced him. Renny then stared at Tess, leaning forward threateningly, scowling. Tess involuntarily moved back, then checked herself. This was a boy. She shouldn't be scared of a boy. A twelve-year-old. But she was scared of this boy. And plenty more she had seen on the estate. Beside her, Tess felt Ray Collins move. There was no change in his face but there was a light in his eyes. Enjoyment at Tess's discomfort, perhaps? Boredom? She didn't know. She felt her cheeks reddening, looked back at Renny.

‘So,' she said, clearing her throat and trying to remain in charge, ‘what have you got for me?'

Renny and Pez looked at each other. Tess waited. She knew what their answer would be. And she didn't care. She had something else for them to do.

Pez looked expectantly at Renny, waiting for him to speak and tell him what to think. Renny said nothing, just appeared to be deep in thought. Renny eventually spoke.

‘Aye, those dealers … we've got names.'

‘Names? How many?'

Renny shrugged. ‘One or two.'

‘And what are these names? And what do they have to do with Calvin's death?'

Renny looked down to the right, scratched his neck, tells that telegraphed the fact that his next words would be lies. Tess struggled to keep her face straight, tried not to smile. But she couldn't deny it. It felt good to have control over the boy.

‘They're … they were there that night. Aye.' He nodded, as if confirming it to himself.

Tess waited.

Renny continued. ‘How much we gettin' for tellin' you this?'

‘Nothing,' said Tess.

Renny's eyes were lit by sudden, red angry jets. ‘Fuck d'you mean, nothin'?'

‘Nothing,' said Tess, ‘because I'm not interested in them any more.'

Renny looked anxious, like he was about to lose something big and would do anything not to let that happen. Pez leaned across to him.