Speak No Evil (25 page)

20

Abigail opened her eyes and for a few seconds was disorientated. A strange room. A strange view. Then she remembered. And smiled. Her dad's flat. And a good day out with a nice boy. Almost enough to make her forget why she came here in the first place.

She stretched, arms above her head, threw back the duvet and got off the sofa, stretching again once she was upright. She walked over to the window, pulled back the curtains. The weather wasn't great but the view was. She had never realized just how attractive the quayside of Newcastle could be. For a girl whose friends, socializing and attitude were avowedly North London, that, she considered, was quite an admission.

She smiled, closed her eyes, slowly rotated her head on her neck. She felt relaxed for the first time in days, weeks even. She was enjoying herself. And, surprisingly, her dad's company. She had heard the shower go, in fact that was what had woken her up. So she knew he was awake. Deciding to surprise him with some coffee, she walked into the kitchen.

And stopped dead.

‘Who are you?'

There was a woman, dressed in a suit which looked a day old, standing with her back to the sink, leaning on it, drinking a glass of water. She looked as surprised as Abigail.

‘Oh,' the woman said. ‘You must be Joe's daughter.'

‘Yes. And who are you?'

‘I'm … a friend of your father's.'

The woman looked as embarrassed as Abigail felt But she hadn't moved, her hand clasped round the glass, poised against the sink in an attempt to regain her composure. Abigail felt her cheeks reddening.

‘A friend.' She seemed uncomfortable in saying even that much.

She nodded, tried for a smile. ‘I'm Wendy. What's your name?'

‘Abigail.' She could feel her lip curling and with it, the sourness entering her expression. She couldn't help it. She felt that her good mood, the morning itself in fact, was curdling.

‘Abigail,' the woman repeated. ‘Nice name.' She smiled. ‘Well. This is a bit embarrassing, isn't it?'

Abigail said nothing.

Wendy put the glass down on the draining board. ‘I'll just finish up here and be off, I think. Sorry.'

She walked out of the kitchen, past Abigail, leaving a scent of perfume in her slipstream. Abigail looked round the kitchen. The woman's presence seemed to be everywhere.

She didn't want to make coffee any more. She didn't want to speak to her dad. She felt betrayed. She didn't know why because rationally it was none of her business, the fact that he hadn't mentioned he had a girlfriend. And so what? He was entitled to have one. Just like her mother …

She sighed. That was the problem.

‘Hey,' a voice said behind her, ‘didn't hear you get up.'

She turned. There was her father. Standing there in his regulation T-shirt, jeans and boots, hair still wet from the shower. He smiled at her, looked genuinely pleased to see her. She couldn't return the smile. He caught her mood, frowned.

‘You OK?'

She turned away. ‘Yeah. Fine.' She tried to busy herself with making coffee, a bowl of cereal, anything, but didn't know where anything was so just stood there looking helpless.

‘Erm … I'll be off, then.'

They both turned. Wendy was standing in the living room. Donovan looked between the two and guessed immediately at the cause of Abigail's mood.

‘You two have met, then?'

‘Just now,' said Wendy. She looked at Abigail, gave her a smile that tried to be dazzling but was hindered by embarrassment. ‘Nice to meet you.'

It didn't sound likit had been, thought Abigail.

Wendy then turned to Donovan. Gave him another smile. ‘Will I see you later?'

‘Where are you going?'

‘Back to the hotel.'

It was clear to Abigail that they wanted to have a conversation without her being there. She resolutely stayed where she was.

‘I'll call you,' said Donovan. Wendy made her way out.

Donovan looked at Abigail, his face that of a naughty schoolboy, caught out doing something he shouldn't have been doing. ‘Not the best way for you two to meet, I suppose.'

Abigail turned away again, looking for phantom kitchen implements. ‘Nothing to do with me,' she said, head down, addressing the sink.

Donovan said nothing. Waited.

‘Why the bad mood? Because Wendy spent the night?'

Abigail shrugged, didn't turn round.

‘Sorry, Abigail. Yes, I'm your dad, but I'm not with your mum. You know that. She's got someone else. He lives with you. You're good with that.'

Am I? Abigail thought but didn't trust herself to articulate it. Instead she said nothing. The things she wanted to say to him, discuss with him, seemed as distant as the planet Jupiter.

‘She your girlfriend?' was all Abigail could manage to mumble.

Behind her, Donovan shrugged, grimaced. ‘Well … it's kind of complicated.'

Abigail said nothing. She didn't trust herself to speak.

He sighed. ‘What's worse? If I tell you she is or I tell you she isn't?'

‘Nothing to do with me.' Mumbled at the sink again. ‘Your life.'

‘Look, Abigail. Wendy's somebody that I … she's a work colleague. That's the first time we've … that she's ever stayed over. She lives in London. I don't know if she's my, my girlfriend. She's … We'll have to talk about that. Her and I.'

Abigail said nothing. Emotions whirred through her, ricocheting round like an apple in a wind tunnel.

‘What?' said Donovan. ‘Why are you so upset? You wouldn't be upset if it was Mum and her boyfriend.'

Abigail turned to him, hot tears threatening in the corners of her eyes. ‘How would you know? Ey? How would you know what I think or what would make me upset? How would you know?'

‘Well …'

‘You don't know anything … anything …'

She couldn't look at him any more. She ran past him, grabbed her stuff from the living-room floor and made for the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Trying to ignore the tears that were now streaming down her face and the wracking great sobs issuing from her body, she turned the shower on as hard as she could, stripped off and stood underneath it.

She could hear the faint sounds of her father knocking on the door, muffled solicitous words. She ignored them. He would give up and go away at some point. She knew that. He had to go to work. So she wouldn't get out until he had gone. Just stand in the shower.

Stand in the shower all day if necessary.

Peta woke to the sound of ringing. At first she thought it was in her head, a flashback to her drinking years. She expected, as usually happened, to become aware of her kidneys throbbing then try to roll over only to discover her arms and hands were dead with pins and needles.

But it wasn't like that. Not any more. She blinked twice, allowing her memory to catch up with the rest of her body. A Travelodge in Essex. She was clean and sober. And the ringing was her phone.

She reached out, answered it.

‘Peta Knight?' a voice asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Tom Haig here. We met yesterday.'

She cleared the sleep from her mind, concentrated on the call. Tom Haig. Ex-probation officer. West London. Anne Marie's one stop shop. ‘Yes, Tom. What can I do for you?'

‘I hope you don't mind me calling you like this …'

‘Not at all.'

‘Only you got me thinking once you'd gone. About Anne Marie. And … well, I don't know. I'm just, I may be speaking out of turn here …'

‘No, you go right ahead. If you think it's important, let me know.'

‘Thanks. Well, it's probably none of my business, and I shouldn't even be telling you this, but she once told me about someone. Someone she was seeing. And how it all went wrong.'

‘Who?'

‘She didn't give a name. But he was a social worker.'

She was sitting upright now. He had her full attention. ‘A social worker.'

‘Yeah. This was after my time, though. After she moved. Bristol, I think.'

‘And this social worker, what was the matter with him?'

‘Well …' He seemed reluctant to commit himself.

‘In strictest confidence, Tom.'

‘Right.' He cleared his throat. It became a coughing fit.

‘You OK?'

‘Yeah, just … just a bit of a cold. Be … all right in a minute …' She waited while he regained his composure. He continued. ‘He was … she told me he seemed fine to start with. But then he turned on her. Became nasty.'

‘How d'you mean?'

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘That's all she told me. We lost touch soon after that. Wasn't really supposed to be talking to her. Home Office rules, and all that.'

‘So why were you?'

‘Well … you're not supposed to have favourites, but you know what it's like …'

He talked a little more but didn't offer any further information. Peta hung up on him, thinking that maybe he was just lonely and wanted someone to talk to. Wanted to feel useful again. She hoped she never ended up like that.

She played the conversation back in her head. There was something odd about it. Something he had said that didn't fit. But she couldn't think what it was …

Her phone rang again and when she answered it all thoughts of Tom Haig were knocked from her head.

‘Flemyng's gone.' Amar.

‘Gone where?'

‘Don't know. I phoned the university to speak to him, said I was following up on a few things and they told me he hadn't come in. Asked if he was sick, they got a bit cagey. Same as when I asked whether he was coming back.'

Peta got out of bed. Her mind was whirring in overtime. Could Flemyng have been to Newcastle, left that note, come back to Bristol, met them … could he have someone working with him, could he … ‘Has he been at work all week?'

‘They wouldn't say. They're not very forthcoming with information.'

‘Right. Have you been round to his house?'

‘I'm there now. Going to do a spot of and E.'

‘OK. I'll phone Joe, bring him up to speed. Let me know what happens.'

‘Consider yourself looped.' Amar hung up.

Peta speed-dialled Donovan straightaway. Told him what had happened along with her suspicions and suppositions. Told him what Haig had said. There was only one person he could have been alluding to. Donovan seemed initially distracted, as if he hadn't wanted to be disturbed but once she told him what had happened she got his full attention.

‘Think you'd better get back here right now. I don't think you need to bother with Hull or Colchester, it sounds like he's our man.'

‘Unless she's our woman,' said Peta.

‘I should know soon enough. Look, I've got to go. Just get back here soon as. If it's him, and it sounds like it is, we can consider him very dangerous.'

‘Right.'

‘By the way, how was last night?'

Taken aback by his sudden change of direction in his questions, she managed a smile. ‘Brilliant. Time of my life. You should have been here. Although on second thoughts, it's probably good you weren't.'

He gave a tight laugh. ‘No. I hate to see a grown woman cry'

She laughed. ‘Piss off.' Hung up.

The smile disappeared from her face as she tossed the phone into her bag. She was back to business.

‘Oh God …'

‘Eleven years old. Tell me what happened. Tell me everything.'

She sighs. She is without her props. No coffee, no cigarettes. Nothing to hide behind but an assumed name, which she has used for so long it has become more real than her birth one. She thinks, her mind reluctantly travelling back in time.

‘So was Trevor Cunliffe the first child you'd attacked? Or had you done something like that before?'

She thinks again, face twisted as if in pain. She closes her eyes. ‘No. There were these girls. In the street. Skipping. Clean, pressed frocks. Laughing, smiling. Enjoying themselves.' She sighs, eyes still closed, back there. ‘I hated that.'

‘What did you do?'

‘I went over to them. Grabbed one of them. Round the throat. Hard. I said, I could kill you, I could kill you …' Her hands grip hard on air at the memory. She lets go. Opens her eyes. ‘She ran home. I laughed.' She sighs. ‘But not because I was happy.'

‘And this was how long before? Weeks? Days? What?'

‘I don't know. I can't remember …'

‘Right.' His voice drops to just below a whisper. ‘D'you know why you did that? Why you grabbed her?'

‘Because I was angry. I was always angry. All I had was anger. Rage and hate. My two best friends … My mother, she … and, and my grandad …'

He has heard this before, knows this. ‘Your grandad? He hurt you as well?'

She nods. He doesn't ask her to articulate it for the benefit of the recorder.

‘He used to … like my mother's clients used to … They gave me to him when my mother was … when she couldn't look after me for a while. He was supposed to care for me. He didn't'

‘He abused you? Sexually?'

She nods. ‘I couldn't help it. Couldn't stop him … I had no control, no control … They all controlled me …' Her eyes are closed again. Tears run down her cheeks. ‘He called me filthy. A whore. His whore.'

‘So what did you do?'

Her voice a whisper. ‘I stabbed him.'

‘You stabbed him?'

Another nod.

He hasn't heard about this. ‘With what?'

‘Scissors.'

He nods. ‘Was it fatal?'

She shakes her head. ‘Barely made a mark. He just laughed. Said he liked it rough.'

He says nothing.