Speak No Evil (22 page)

‘Both. I see him as a little boy. As he was before I … before he … His face. But sometimes there are bits missing. Like I can't see his eyes. I can remember other bits, his hands, his hands are pumpin' open and closed, open and closed … but I can't see his eyes … I know they're starin' at me but I can't see them …'

She trails off. The darkness grows. He waits.

‘And then I see him now. He's … not alive but he's angry … he tells me he should have had a life, that I took his life … he's bad, a bad spirit, he's …'

Her voice wavers. He keeps pressing her.

‘Is he alone?'

She looks at him, shock and fear in her eyes. ‘What d'you mean?'

‘When you see him, is he alone? Or are there others with him?'

She looks like she wants to answer but can't find the words. He sits forward, willing her to speak. Her head drops to the table, then comes up again. She looks at him. There are tears in her eyes and her thick, tar-enriched voice is clogged when she speaks.

‘I want to go now. Please. I want to go home.'

18

The pub was called the Half Moon. It was situated far enough on the edge of the estate to attract locals, but not far enough on the main road in Byker to attract attention to itself. The kind of local pub that, through surliness and unfriendliness, actively discouraged outsiders from entering. The kind of pub that could keep its mouth shut and hold its secrets. The kind of pub that, Tess could see, Rob had quickly made himself at home in. And because of that, the task ahead of her was made even more difficult.

But not impossible.

The pub was old, high-ceilinged, with mostly original features. Something that would have been desirable to many developers but had been ignored in this pub. The regulars and owners liked it the way it was. It felt cavernous, old. Functional. Yet its walls held ancient ancestral race memories, like a meeting hall of legend and history where once-mighty tribal chieftains had gathered. Now their descendants gathered in their places, sat round playing pool or darts, or watching Sky Sports, drinking heavily, a clan of unacknowledged underachievers, their comradeship keeping the outside world at bay.

Tess felt as out of place and conspicuous as a BNP candidate trying to win Muslim votes at a mosque.

But she could take that, work with it. In fact, she had no choice. She had to hope that, even if they wouldn't speak to her they wouldn't hurt her. But it wasn't the kind of pub – or area – that could guarantee that.

In a way, working at the newspaper was exactly the same. She didn't fit in. There were a lot of posh boys working there, ambitious ones too, and posh birds. But the posh birds were expected to play a different kind of game to succeed. And it wasn't one she really liked. Not with those boys, anyway. She wanted to make it on her own terms. She hoped she could.

The man was leaning at the bar, pint before him, paper spread out. Studying form. The pathetic hope of the perpetual loser, Tess thought. Backing horses. It made doing the lottery look like sound financial planning. But, Tess thought, suppressing a smile, it meant he needed money. And he might be more inclined to open up to a woman than a man.

Tess was thankful that she was wearing her dress-down clothes. Leather jacket, jeans, boots. Casual clothes helped in her line of work, in places like this. All the same, she pulled the front of her T-shirt down, exposing a bit more cleavage. She didn't mind playing up to targets, just not co-workers and bosses.

She walked up to the bar.

‘Pint of …' She surveyed the pumps. Something matey but not too strong. After all she was working. But nothing that would make her look out of place. ‘Lager, please.'

The barmaid wore a white blouse and black leggings. She was middle-aged, careworn. A diet of bad food, housing and luck combined with a life spent doing more work for less money had left her looking lumpen and tired. She didn't smile at her. To Tess, she looked like Les Dawson in drag. She smiled at the thought, at her. The barmaid didn't return it.

She glanced along the bar, saw the newspaper the barmaid was reading. One of hers. She should have felt a glow of pride. She was with her people. But there was one thing she had in common with her fellow journalists – the punters were for exploiting, not for befriending.

She glanced along the bar in the other direction, saw her target leaning over his paper. He didn't look up. On the wall overhead, Sky Sports News was pumping out, its headlines scrolling across the screen. Most of the drinkers ignored it. Tess listened, tried to catch what was being discussed, hoped that something she saw might give her an in for conversation. She didn't understand a word of it. She would have to try another approach.

However, she felt eyes on her. Her presence hadn't gone unnoticed. She didn't feel the attention was entirely positive, either. She had to think quickly. Come up with a strategy. She thought for a few seconds. Got it. She wiped all trace of a smile from her features, necked nearly half the pint and, trying to ignore the rush to her head, leaned on the bar next to him.

‘Been lucky?' she said, trying to be aware of her cleavage.

The target looked up. The man looked tired, thought Tess. Tired and worn down. With a hint of anger at the edges. Tread carefully.

His face was guarded, giving nothing away. He shrugged. But she noticed his eyes dart to her chest. Good. ‘Bit. Here an' there.'

‘Can't win all the time, eh?' Tess erased any note of cheer from her voice, said it like she meant it. She had sized the man up: loser. She would match him accordingly. That was the way to get him talking. That was the plan. ‘Although once might be nice.'

With a sigh, Tess heaved herself on to the stool next to the target.

‘Tell me about it,' he said, looking up.

‘Yeah,' said Tess, at a loss to follow it with anything else. But she had his attention. He thought she was coming on to him. Good, use it, work with it. This was it. Now or never. ‘Bad do the other night, wasn't it?'

He frowned.

‘That kid who got stabbed. Bad do.'

Angry recognition began to form in his eyes. And a certain disappointment. The poor sod really thought he was in with a chance, thought Tess. But now he had realized perhaps not who Tess was, but certainly what.

‘You're a journalist.'

Tess sighed. ‘Yeah. I'm a journalist.'

He went back to his paper. ‘Then go talk to someone else.'

Tess sighed again. Was she overdoing it? She didn't know. Best to play it down, though, just in case. ‘Thanks. I've heard that a lot. Hell of a lot. No one wants to talk round here.'

He turned away, studiously avoided her. ‘Then take a hint.'

Tess continued. ‘I can understand why. I mean, if I lived round here and some flash Londoner came round opening her cheque book …' Another sigh. ‘I don't want to be here either.'

Tess was sure his head had perked up slightly at the mention of the cheque book. Tess noticed his glass was empty. ‘Can I get you another?'

He stared at her, said nothing.

‘Please, I'm not trying to …' Another sigh. ‘I've been here three days now and no one's talked to me. Let me get you a drink. Have a conversation. Then I'll go. I don't care whether you knew that kid or not.'

He tried to maintain his stern expression but Tess noticed his eyes flicker towards his empty glass. She smiled inwardly.

‘Stella,' he said.

Tess drained her glass, ordered. When the drinks were bought and the first mouthfuls taken, Tess smiled. ‘Tess Preston.'

‘Rob. Rob Hutchinson.'

Tess stuck out her hand. Rob took it. And gave another appreciative look at her breasts.

Bingo, thought Tess. Got him.

Donovan looked at the menu and was suddenly very hungry. It happened every time. The Flatbread Cafe on High Bridge in Newcastle city centre was fast becoming one of his favourite places to eat. Far Eastern mixed with Middle Eastern mixed with Mediterranean food made it, he thought, something a bit special. He felt his usual over-order coming on.

The restaurant was richly coloured in purples and aubergines, the decor design Moroccan/Persian. Cushioned sofas lined one of the walls, which were inset with candles and lanterns, Moroccan lamps hung from the ceiling. It was a place to relax, kick back. Not discuss business.

He looked over the top of his menu across the table. Wendy Bennett was giving her menu close scrutiny. She looked as stunning as ever, wearing a simple dark-brown suit with a mauve raw-silk blouse underneath. The ensemble complemented both the colour of her eyes and the walk of the restaurant. Light from the lit candle on the table between them danced on her flawless skin. Donovan would have been lying if he had said she wasn't having an effect on him.

She looked up. ‘I've chosen.'

‘Me too.'

The waiter came. They ordered, Donovan having trouble with some of the pronunciations but he knew what his favourites were none the less. As long as he had khoresh and ceviche and plenty of it he didn't mind what else he had.

Wendy Bennett ordered wine, asking him first. ‘You fine with that?'

‘Absolutely. Whatever.'

The waiter left the table, returned with the wine and water. They poured.

‘So,' said Wendy, holding up her glass, ‘a toast? Here's to …'

‘Me apologizing for standing you up last night.'

She smiled, cast her eyes down. ‘No problem.' She looked at her glass. ‘Toast?'

‘Right. Erm …'

She locked her eyes on his. ‘To a successful partnership.'

‘We're a partnership now, are we?'

She smiled, shrugged. It was impossible not to return the smile.

They clinked glasses. Drank.

‘So,' Wendy said, leaning across the table and giving Donovan a generous glimpse of her cleavage, ‘was everything all right last night? Your family emergency?'

‘Everything's fine.'

‘Good,' she said, sitting back. ‘Shall we talk business now?'

He sat back, looked round. Trying not to be too taken with her. Or taken in. ‘Not the kind of place where you come to talk shop,' he said.

‘Then let's get the shop talk out of the way first and enjoy ourselves,' she said. ‘You can tell me what's happening, then we can relax.'

He had phoned her during the afternoon, setting up the meeting and apologizing for the night before. Donovan had then contacted Peta and Amar, got an update from them. He spoke to Peta. She told him of their two meetings with Tom Haig and Martin Flemyng and her suspicions concerning the latter. Nothing definite, she said, just a feeling that he wasn't telling the truth.

‘Or the whole truth,' she had said.

‘In what way?' Donovan had asked.

‘I don't know exactly,' she said. ‘Just a feeling. We're looking into him further. Amar's staying behind for a bit to do some more asking round, I'm off to Colchester tomorrow to look at the next one.'

‘Nice. Britain's oldest town.'

Peta didn't sound so impressed. ‘Been before. Chose the wrong time to try and leave. Got stuck in Britain's oldest traffic jam.'

Donovan laughed. ‘Never mind. Have a lovely night.'

‘What are you doing?'

‘Tonight? Wendy's still up here so I'll be taking her to dinner. Flatbread Cafe, probably.'

There was a pause on the line. ‘Oh, it's Wendy, is it? Not her full name or Ms Bennett? Wendy. Very cosy.'

‘Oh shut up.' He was glad she couldn't see him blush. ‘You jealous?'

‘Why would I be jealous? Of who exactly?'

Donovan found himself smiling again. ‘I don't know. You said it.'

‘No. I'm not jealous. You go out and enjoy yourself with
Wendy
, don't worry about me sitting in some Travelodge somewhere outside Brentwood with only chicken and chips, a glass of Coke and some drunken travelling salesman trying to get off with me for comfort.'

‘What a great night.'

‘Really? Want to swap?'

‘Nah. You're all right.'

Peta was silent for a moment then returned to business. ‘Anyway. Amar's doing a bit more digging. Let's see what he turns up.'

‘Right. Heard from Jamal?'

Peta laughed. ‘As I'm sure you have.'

So keen was he to prove himself, Jamal had reported in to the office every other hour. Peta's friend was there, supporting him when his shift was over. They felt fine about him. He could handle himself.

‘Well, I'll let you go,' said Peta. ‘Think of me when you're out enjoying yourself.'

‘I will.' And he was.

‘Penny for them?'

‘Sorry?'

Wendy Bennett was leaning over the table, looking at him expectantly.

‘Sorry. I was miles away.'

‘Then come back. I'm over here. Work then play, remember?'

‘Right.'

‘So after you dropped that bombshell last night, how's it going? Has Anne Marie said anything yet?'

‘About the dead boys? No.'

‘Right. So what kind of things has she talked about so far?'

Donovan thought for a moment. ‘Not sure. Not much so far.' He told her some of Anne Marie's stories regarding Fenton House and Jack.

‘Anything else?'

‘Well, she's made references to men in her past, how they've taken advantage of her. That kind of thing.'

Wendy Bennett sat forward. ‘Really? How?'

‘Don't know if I can say yet. I'm not sure she's told me anything about them yet.'

The food arrived. They ate.

‘I saw the news. They haven't found that boy's killer yet,' said Wendy through a mouthful of flatbread.

‘I know.'

‘Oh God. It's exciting doing this, isn't it?'

‘Sometimes.'

‘But it's … I don't know. These are people's lives you're playing with here.'