Speak No Evil (28 page)

‘Well, he's just evil, isn't he? I mean, I'd call him an animal but that's an offence to animals, isn't it? My dog's an animal and he wouldn't behave like that.' That was about Fred West.

‘Well, they say you can't believe it but you can. You can. And they always think that it'll never happen to them but it will. Look at me, I used to say that. It happened to me.' The two boys in the Bulger killing.

‘They should just lock them up and throw away the key. Let them rot.' The Bulger case again.

Tess looked up. Something dark, sad and conflicted had stirred in her while reading the pieces but she quickly pushed it out of her mind. ‘It's a very impressive collection.'

Sylvia almost smiled. She nodded as if to confirm her impression. ‘It is. It's a lifetime's work. And it's still goin' on.'

Tess nodded.

‘So what did you want to talk to me about?'

‘Well, it was about the two boys killed this week.'

She nodded, as if ready to dispense her wisdom.

‘Who d'you think killed them?'

She thought for a moment. Tess surreptitiously slipped her hand into her jacket pocket, switched on her tape recorder. ‘Well,' she said at last, ‘these kids on these estates these days have got no respect. I mean, you can't blame them for everythin'. Just look at the parents.'

‘Right. So you think it was other kids that did this?'

She nodded, took a drag on her cigarette. ‘Who else? I mean these days you've got drugs like you never used to an' they bring their own problems. Dealers, an' that. An' then there's no jobs or nothin' for them to do. Nowhere to play. An' the parents don't care. They're just as bad.'

Tess nodded, expression blank, biding her time. ‘Absolutely. Now. What if I told you it might not be kids. What if I told you I had another theory?'

Her brow creased. ‘Like what?'

‘What if I said that living on the estate, right now, was someone who had been released from prison and given a new identity.'

‘What?' Syliva went into a coughing fit.

Tess waited until she had regained her composure. She took another drag on her cigarette, exhaled and she was listening again.

‘Now this killer with the new identity. What if I told you this killer had killed children?'

Sylvia waited. Tess, the dark conflict of a few moments ago now completely banished, could barely contain her excitement as the words left her mouth.

‘In fact what if I told you that this killer was responsible for the death of your son? Had killed Trevor?'

Another coughing fit. This one so severe, Tess thought she might expire. She looked round frantically for something, anything, that would help, a glass of water – wasn't that what they gave them in films?

It wasn't necessary. Svlvia rode it out. As she regained composure, Tess got a sense, from the look on her face, of what her life had been what kind of struggle she had gone through just to keep going. She was the last person to judge her about the choices she had made to help her keep going.

‘No … not Mae Blacklock …'

Tess nodded. ‘The very same. We're running a feature on it in the paper tomorrow. Just wanted your reaction before you saw it. Thought it only right that you should be the first to know.'

She nodded, the nasty light back in her eye. ‘Aye. You're right, pet.'

‘So what d'you think about that?'

‘I think … I think … it's too much of a bloody coincidence, is what I think. She turns up an'… an' those bairns get killed. Well, what would you think? What would anyone think?'

Tess nodded, struggled to keep a triumphant smile off her face.

Sylvia continued. ‘It's a bloody disgrace. She should have been locked up for the rest of her life where she couldn't do any harm again. Except to herself, mind. But that doesn't matter. Anyway, they have it cushy in prison these days, so it wouldn't be much of a punishment, would it?'

‘Quite,' said Tess, wondering whether she had actually been in a prison lately. Or ever. ‘So you think it's her then? Up to her old tricks?'

Sylvia was sitting bolt upright again now, feeding off her own anger. ‘Well, who else could it be? When you say that, it's got to be her, hasn't it?'

‘Right. So what should we do about it then?'

‘Get her out,' she said with no hesitation, no doubt in her voice. ‘Get her out. By force if necessary. I mean, how long before another one gets it?'

Tess nodded. Bingo. This was gold dust.

She let her go on but she had the quote she wanted. She nodded sympathetically, fake-matched her anger and told her, with all the sincerity she could muster, that her words would be the centrepiece of her article and she was to look out for it tomorrow.

‘I get your paper every day. Think it's a great paper.'

‘I'm glad to hear it,' she said, smiling.

She left as quickly as she could. She felt like she was about to faint, she was so excited. That or the painkillers.

Elizabeth's car, an anonymous Renault Clio, pulled up in front of Bristol Temple Meads Station. Amar had the passenger door open before Elizabeth had put the brake on.

‘Hey,' she said.

‘Sorry,' he said, getting out, ‘but I have to catch him.'

‘Look,' she said, grabbing his arm, ‘I have done the right thing, haven't I? Helping you? You're not some kind of con man?'

He quickly reached inside his pocket, took out a business card. ‘Phone this number if you've got any worries. Or if you want to see what happens.'

She gave him a shy smile. ‘Will you be at the end of it?'

He gave her a sad smile in return. ‘I'm sorry,' he said, ‘but I'm on a different bus to you.'

He got out of the car, ran into the station concourse, checked the monitor. He had minutes to board the train. He ran to the gate, went straight through, holding up a Metro transport pass and shouting to the startled female member of staff that he was police. Flustered, she let him through. Once there, he ran down the steps, along the underpass and up on to the platform. The train was still there. Without hesitating, Amar jumped on.

The door slid shut behind him. He looked up and down the carriage, with no idea where Flemyng might be, only hoping he was on this train. He started his search.

It didn't take him long. The aisles were full of people taking off coats, storing luggage, checking reservations. Amar managed to blend in perfectly, looking like a lost traveller checking for his seat number. He moved up the train, and found Flemyng in coach C. Sitting by himself in an airline seat on the far side, looking out of the window, biting his nails. The seat next to him was tree. Amar sat down in it.

Flemyng glanced at him, then, once he had realized who it was, did a double take that under other circumstances Amar would have found comical. Flemyng immediately tried to get out of the seat.

‘Going somewhere, Martin?' said Amar. ‘You've booked all the way to Edinburgh.'

Flemyng was trapped. He looked round frantically for a way of escape, but like a claustrophobe in a broken lift knew it was hopeless. Eventually he slumped back down in his seat. Sighed.

‘How did … how did you know where I was?'

‘Checked your laptop. Always cover your tracks. You've been so good at it for so long, but you're getting careless now, aren't you?'

He frowned. ‘My laptop? How … have you been in my house?'

‘I have.'

‘You broke in?'

Amar shook his head. ‘No your neighbour let me in. Elizabeth. Lovely woman.'

Flemyng sat back against the seat. Hard. ‘Why? Why would she …?'

‘Because I told her I wanted to question you in relation to a series of child sex offences that you were involved in a few years ago. Couldn't let me in quick enough after that. Even gave me a lift to the station.'

Flemyng covered his face with his hands, groaned.

‘So. You and me are going to have a long chat. We've got hours to do it in. It's a long way to Newcastle.'

‘But … but I'm going to Edinburgh.'

‘You were going to Edinburgh. Now you're coming to Newcastle. With me.'

Another groan.

‘Right,' said Amar, settling back, ‘let's start. Anne Marie Smeaton. You can tell me all about her.'

‘Now I want you to tell me about the boys.'

‘The boys?'

‘The other boys. The dead ones.'

She holds her face in her hands once again. ‘Oh God … no … don't make me. Please, don't make me …'

‘Anne Marie, you have to.'

‘No … I don't know anything about them, please, I don't …'

‘I don't believe you.'

She stands up. ‘That's it. I'm goin'. I've told you about Trevor, that's enough. That's all I'm sayin'. This was a bad idea, stupid. I haven't got time to stay here. I'mgoin'.'

‘Sit down, Anne Marie. Come on, you've got to keep going …'

‘No. I want Jack. I want to see Jack …'

He gets up, crosses to her, looks her straight in the eye. ‘Come on, Anne Marie, please. I'm trying to help you. If you run, what happens then? I can't protect you.'

She is listening. She says nothing. He continues.

‘I can help you. But you have to talk to me. Please. Sit down. And we'll keep going.'

She looks at the sofa, at the door and at him. Makes up her mind. She sits down again. He does the same.

‘Thank you. Now. Those boys. Tell me about those boys.'

‘No … Don't make me, please don't make me … I don't know about them …'

‘I think you do, Anne Marie. I think you know about them. And you've got to tell me about them, you've got to. It's important.' He puts his hands in front of him, imploring her. ‘Come on, face it, Anne Marie, whatever went on then you have to face it. Then start to get over it. Face it. Tell me.'

She keeps her face covered, starts rocking back and forward where she's sitting. He keeps pressing her.

‘Tell me …'

She makes a strangled sound in the back of her throat. It sounds like a wild animal caught in a trap, dying slowly.

‘You have to face it, you have to tell me …'

‘I don't have to face it, I don't … you don't tell me what to do. That's what he does, you're just like him, just like him …'

He leans forward, aware that some kind of breakthrough has taken place, but not sure what. He tries to keep his voice even when he talks, swallowing down his excitement. Just like who, Anne Mane? Who?'

She pulls back, aware that she has said too much.

‘Who? Tell me.'

She doesn't reply.

‘I'm not like him, whoever it is. I'm honestly not. I'm trying to help you. Please, just tell me about him.'

‘I can't …'

‘You can. Come on, Anne Marie, you're doing really well, getting really strong. Just tell me.'

She doesn't reply.

He decides to take a chance. He has to do what he can to keep her talking. Whether she is guilty or not he has to do everything to keep her talking. ‘Look, I know you didn't kill all those boys. I'm sure you didn't. I never for one minute thought that. But I do think you know who killed them. So tell me. And I can help you.'

‘Help me to do what?'

‘Find whoever's done this. Turn them in.'

She looks at him, her broken face trying to find truth in his words. She's distraught, he thinks, carrying the knowledge of the killer's identity is obviously a burden to her, on top of everything else she has to go through. She opens her mouth to speak, thinks better of it.

‘Anne Marie …'

‘No. I can't. You don't know. The bad spirits. He's one of them. The worst one. He's the one who talks to me. Tells me I'm a bad person. He's there even when he's not. I see him in my dreams and he won't let me go … He tells me how I let these things happen. How I can't stop them … I can't stop them … I can't stop him …'

‘Anne Marie, look. It's not you doing this. Any of it. I believe that. What does he do to make you think that?'

The tears start again. She seems to be sobbing her heart out. ‘I black out … an' when I do, things happen. Things I can't remember …' She holds up her bandaged hands. ‘I hurt myself. I could hurt other people … I can't remember … And then he calls me, tells me these things … these horrible things …'

‘What horrible things? When does he call you?'

‘Last night, he called me last night. Told me … reminded me about the deal …'

‘The deal? What deal?'

‘The deal. The one I made with him, all those years ago.'

‘What kind of deal?'

‘If …' She sniffs, wipes her nose on her sleeve. ‘If … he knows. I have to do what he tells me. Or he'll tell everyone what I did. Who I am. When I try to get away from him somethin' happens. Somethin' … bad.'

‘Something bad? Like killing all those boys?'

She nods, crying too much to speak.

‘Why? Because you try to get on with your life and he doesn't want to see you do that?'

She nods again.

‘So he kills a boy? Why?'

‘He tells me what to do … sometimes when I black out, I don't know …'

A cold chill goes through him. ‘What are you saying? He kills them? Or what? He makes you kill them?'

‘The bad spirits … I … black out … I don't know … I could hurt myself or other people, those I love … I don't know … he tells me
…
he tells me I have to keep quiet, but it hurts, hurts so much I black out … But it's Jack he wants …'