Speak No Evil (26 page)

‘But when I picked those scissors up, I knew I'd found another friend. A third one. I had no control over my body, over anything. All I had was rage and hate. And the scissors. Now I had the scissors.'

‘And what did you do with them?'

She opens her eyes, blinks as if emerging into the light after being underground for a long spell. ‘Nothin' at first. But I knew they meant power. I knew they meant control. I knew they could give me somethin' I'd never had before.'

‘So what did you do with that control?'

She thinks, searches for what he believes is the honest answer. ‘I played with the kids. It was the little kids I mainly played with. The ones my own age were too … they didn't like me. I didn't like them. I couldn't relate to them. But the little ones …' She smiles and it looks almost like a happy memory. For a second. ‘I could boss them around. Order them. Have control'

‘Bully them?'

She is torn between the honest answer and the acceptable one. She goes for honesty. ‘Yes.'

‘Hurt them?'

She thinks again. ‘Yes.'

‘And it escalated until …'

She sighs. ‘I started hurtin' them more an' more. Bein' more aggressive. So if you wanted to talk like a psychiatrist or a therapist I suppose you could say what I did next was an escalation. A progression.'

‘We're talking Trevor Cunliffe.'

‘Yes.'

‘You killed him.'

‘Yes.' She gives another sigh, wipes at her eyes and cheeks. ‘Quite a progression, isn't it? Biggest one of all.' Her eyes mist over once again and what Donovan can only describe as a kind of sick fear moves into them. ‘It's awful. It's what people who have no power do. They hurt the powerless ones. To make themselves feel better, more important. They kill kids to make them feel big. They make …' She pauses, struggling with tears once again. ‘… helpless people do what they want. Just because they can.'

She struggles to hold back another wave of tears. Struggles to hold herself together.

Donovan watches her. No longer sure she's talking about the past.

21

The news of Pez's death broke that morning.

The body was discovered by a Polish immigrant on her way to do the early shift as a cleaner in a city centre office block. She was walking towards the bus stop to catch the first bus of the day when she came upon the body. She called 999 and went no further.

The police arrived and took a statement from her, quickly discounting her as the murderer. DI Diane Nattrass was informed as she was already looking into the murder of Calvin Bell on the same estate. The immediate assumption was that both deaths were connected.

Nattrass was soon put in charge of the investigation. The boy was quickly identified: John Pearson. A preliminary cause of death was given: strangulation and stabbing. A full post-mortem would reveal which came first, which provided the death stroke. But for now it didn't matter. The next of kin would be informed. The SOCO unit would start combing the area. Uniforms would go door to door. A mobile incident office was already on the estate; it would be moved to the scene of this new murder. Nattrass would coordinate, push.

The investigation into the murder of John Pearson, aka Pez, was now in full swing.

The press conference had been hastily convened. The school hall, where not so long ago Heptonstall the head teacher had informed the children about the death of Calvin Bell, was now given over totally to the police. On their orders, the children had all been given the day off.

On the stage were hastily erected Northumbrian Police fold-out screens and before them a table with microphones and water, chairs behind. Ready for the press conference.

The hall was crowded, buzzing even more than when the schoolchildren had been informed of Calvin Bell's death. Because this was big news. Bigger. This was when the professionals moved in.

Tess Preston sat near the back. She had tried to get a seat at the front but been beaten away in the scrum, mainly by photographers wielding lenses so large and heavy that if wielded incorrectly could rightly be classified as offensive weapons. So the back it was. But she didn't mind much. She felt like some old-time gold or oil prospector who knew they were sitting on a fortune, just biding their time to make the first strike.

Her face was starting to bruise up and she imagined she looked a sight. She would have been in a lot more pain too, if Collins hadn't given her some extra-strength ‘painkillers' he just happened to have lying around. Tess had gobbled them down. She didn't know what was in them but she felt she could go one on one with the Hulk now.

As soon as she had heard about the murder of the boy she had started making connections. She had seen Mae Blacklock walking round the estate late last night. Very late. Arguing with her partner. Looking like she was going somewhere, or coming back from somewhere weighed down by worry, looking anxious and agitated. Put two and two together …

She looked up. The press conference was starting. A detective walked on, sat down behind the desk, introduced as Detective Inspector Diane Nattrass. She introduced the person on her right. The mother of John Pearson.

Tess looked at her, decided that the boy hadn't had much to look forward to. Prematurely aged, with poor clothes, a bad haircut and a bad complexion, she looked worn away, shrivelled by life. She would have guessed her age to be late forties, early fifties. She was genuinely shocked to hear that she was in her mid-thirties.

John Pearson's mother spoke. Her face was red from crying, her voice small and wavering. ‘Someone took my little lad …' She had to stop, compose herself again. ‘Someone …'

She broke down.

I hope Collins is getting all this, thought Tess.

Nattrass spoke. As she did, copies of a photo of the dead boy were circulated round the room. Tess took one, glanced at it briefly. Did a double take. She knew him. Renny's silent partner. Pez.

Tess felt like she was actually levitating, so fast was her brain whirring, making connections. Pez. Dead. And Mae Blacklock walking round the estate at night … as was Pez. She had seen him stagger past the car, ducked down to avoid him. This was brilliant. Brilliant. It couldn't get much better.

Nattrass was talking. She knew she should have been writing all of this down, making notes to turn into a full article, but she couldn't concentrate. The story in her head was so much bigger.

Nattrass finished talking. She was allowing questions. Tess had one, stuck her arm eagerly in the air. She pointed to her, waited.

‘Tess Preston, the
Globe
,' she said proudly. ‘I just wondered if you could give us a specific time of death yet.'

‘Well, as I just said, the post-mortem hasn't been carried out yet so I wouldn't like to hazard a guess until we know more.'

She moved her attention away from her.

Tess wasn't going to let it go. ‘Could you hazard a guess, please?'

She looked at Tess, clearly irritated by her persistence. She seemed to be deciding whether it would be better to ignore her in the hope she would go away or give her an answer. She decided on the latter.

She sighed as she answered, betraying the fact that she had probably been up all night and wouldn't have been so accommodating if she had had more sleep. ‘After midnight. Sometime in the early hours. Probably, and this isn't confirmed yet, probably between 1 and 2 a.m.'

Tess thanked her graciously. Nattrass turned away from her to answer another question.

Between 1 and 2 a.m. Just the time Mae Blacklock had been on her night-time wander.

Perfect. She was tingling with anticipation.

After what seemed like an interminable few hours but was actually nearer half of one, the press conference eventually broke up. Tess was first out of the door, out of the school.

As she walked through the gates the same old woman she had seen interviewed on the news was back again. Red-faced and angry, she was shouting to the camera about children who kill children. Tess managed to pick up snippets of her rant that no doubt would be on every news bulletin for the rest of the day. Knife crime. Lawless teenagers. The breakdown of society.

She had asked a local journalist who she was the day before and been told that her son had been murdered by Mae Blacklock. Since then she had never missed an opportunity to get on TV and work out her angry grief in front of a camera. They kept her on because she provided good content and a faint whiff of authenticity.

Tess smiled to herself. She opened her mobile while she walked, and phoned her editor.

‘Listen,' she said, once she had got past various people her editor had put in the way of taking calls directly, ‘the story I'm working on. The child killer, there've been developments. You want public interest? I'll give you public interest. Rock-solid, copper-bottomed public interest.'

She talked and fifteen minutes later had been given an unequivocal go-ahead.

She snapped the phone shut, felt like her heart was about to burst it was beating so fast. Although that could have been the painkillers. She had to find Collins. There was work to do. She looked around. The mad old woman was still shouting at the camera, railing by the railings, she thought, mentally noting that one down for future use.

And then an idea occurred to her. Instead of walking away she turned, went back to Sylvia Cunliffe. She was just finishing up, being thanked by the TV reporter. Tess waited until the TV crew had moved away before approaching her.

‘Mrs Cunliffe?'

She turned. Now that the cameras were off she looked, older, frailer. As if the only thing that kept her going was her hatred.

‘What happened to your face, pet?' Her voice betrayed a lifetime of nicotine addiction. She sounded like she could beat Tom Waits in a gargling contest.

Tess had almost forgotten about her face, her rearranged nose. She had patched it up as best she could – sticking plaster and even a bit of make-up – but she still looked as if she had been on the receiving end of a particularly vicious night out. Still, she gave her her best smile. The one that was supposed to charm little old ladies. Or old ladies of any size, she mentally amended, taking in Sylvia Cunliffe's bulk.

‘Was it a man?' said Sylvia Cunliffe.

‘Yeah,' said Tess, spotting an in when she heard one.

‘Boyfriend?'

She gave a small, calculated laugh. ‘Don't have time for a boyfriend, not in this job. And looking like this I doubt I'd get one.'

‘So who are you, then?'

‘I'm a journalist. Tess Preston, the
Globe.
I was wondering if you had time for a quick interview?'

She wheezed, it became a cough. Tess waited. ‘I've given all me interviews for the day, pet. These lot are waitin' to take me back home now.'

‘I could do that,' said Tess. ‘It would be no trouble. And we could have a little chat on the way. Does that sound OK?'

She sighed. ‘What d'you want to talk to me about? The little lad what was killed?'

‘Sort of,' said Tess. ‘But something else. Mae Blacklock. I'm sure you remember her.'

It was like she had been attached to a power supply. Sylvia Cunliffe drew herself up to her full height. Her eyes were lit by a dark, nasty sparkle. ‘What about her?'

Tess led her to the car. ‘Let's talk on the way,' she said.

‘Oh my days …'

Jamal stared at the screen on the laptop in his hotel room in Brighton. There was movement. Things were happening.

He watched. The front door, the one he had been keeping vigil on all week through the hidden webcam, was opening. Pulling up close to the monitor screen of the laptop he saw figures emerge. He could barely contain his excitement. There before him was the person they had been sent to find. Matt Milsom, instantly recognizable from the photos with his floppy black fringe and black-framed glasses, was the first to emerge. He was followed by a woman who looked nervously around as if expecting someone to jump out on them. And then came the third person. And that was when Jamal felt his legs begin to shake.

It was the boy. The one they claimed was an HIV-positive Romanian orphan. The one who Donovan believed was his son, David. He was still with them.

‘God …'

Jamal watched them go, checking in which direction they were going. His mind went into overdrive deciding what to do next. He knew what he should do. What he had promised to do. Phone Peta's mate, get him down here straightaway. But he was working.

‘Shit …'

‘Right. Phone Donovan and tell him what was happening. Or Peta. Or Amar. He looked around, then back at the screen again. If he stopped to do that, they might get away and be lost again. He couldn't take that risk.

Watching the figures on the screen, he made a decision.

He grabbed his crash helmet and made for the door. The flat was near to their quarry. Near enough for him to be able to run out, get onto his scooter and be after them before they had gone too far.

That was what he did. As he ran he thought: he could phone Donovan or Peta's mate on the way. Once he knew what was happening. Yeah, that's what he would do.

He ran out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.

Unaware he had left his mobile sitting on the table by the laptop.

‘So. Trevor Cunliffe.'

She sighs, closes her eyes. Just before she does, he gets a glimpse into them and sees – just for a second – the struggle, the everyday war for survival raging within her. And in that second he is glad – even with everything that has gone wrong in his own life – that he is not she.

‘Why him? Why then?'

Another sigh. ‘I don't know. I've asked myself that over the years. Tortured myself with it. I don't know. It was just …' Her eyes, closed, were screwed even tighter shut. ‘… everything. Everything came together. Everything came to a head. I don't know. Because … because he was there. Because I was angry.' She sighs. ‘I don't know.'