Speak No Evil (30 page)

Donovan is about to speak but doesn't get the chance.

The bell rings …

24

‘This could be it, Ray,' Tess Preston said, after topping up with Collins's painkillers, ‘this is the big time.'

Ray Collins just grunted. He had been there before, the grunt said. No big deal. You get used to it. Or don't. Tess knew all this without asking because she was learning to interpret Ray's grunts. A real skill. Another thing she was getting good at.

They were in the car, heading towards the estate. Tess behind the wheel, elated. Walking on sunshine, walking on air. Or rather driving. Necking pills and smiling constantly. But she was feeling all those cliches and more. Even the plaster on her nose didn't make her look ridiculous, she thought. Just like Jack Nicholson in
Chinatown.
The guys back in the newsroom would think she was cool. And why would she want to look like Faye Dunaway, anyway?

She had written up her story, emailed it along with Collins's photos. Now they would get back to the Hancock, get some more external shots of the murderer's flat, sound out some neighbours for possible later reaction, maybe even get lucky and get inside the flat itself. That really would be a scoop. But apart from that it would be just background stuff, just making sure they were in the right place at the right time, ready to grab a ringside seat for when the story broke in the morning.

They approached the estate, Tess pleased with herself for remembering the way. Could almost be a local, she thought. Then, seeing the sprawling dirty red-brick flats in front of her, changed her mind. She would have to be paid to live on this estate, she thought. Or any estate, come to that. And she doubted whether there was enough money in the world to make her. She put those thoughts out of her head. Because it didn't matter. She was going places. And soon.

‘There's that kid,' said Collins, pointing out of the window.

Tess looked. It was Renny. Walking slowly along the pavement, kicking a plastic bottle, directionless.

‘Looks lost without his mate, doesn't he?' said Collins.

Tess didn't know whether the words meant the photographer was concerned or whether he was just making a statement. Tess didn't think it was important either way.

‘Shall we stop? Have a chat with him?' she said, already pulling the car over to the side of the road.

Collins gave only a grunt in reply. Tess decided to take that as a yes and put the handbrake on, wound down the window.

She leaned out. ‘Hey, Renny.'

Renny looked up, and Tess saw fear in the boy's eyes. His body posture changed; he tensed, ready to run, eyes darting round quickly, scanning for possible exits. Then he realized who it was calling him and his body relaxed. A lot. So much so, thought Tess, that it seemed as if Renny didn't care one way or the other whether Tess spoke to him or not.

Tess popped the bottle in the glove box, crunched another little pill, got out of the car. Collins followed suit.

‘How you doing?' said Tess.

Renny, with his eyes on the ground, shrugged.

Collins stood in front of the boy. Looked at him, got his attention. ‘You OK?'

Renny shrugged again, caught Collins's eyes. Some kind of communication had taken place. Collins nodded, cigarette in the corner of his mouth, as if he understood. Tess either chose to ignore this or didn't notice.

‘Heard about …' What was his name again? ‘Your mate. Pez. Harsh. Very harsh.' Slow down, she thought, you're talking too fast.

Renny nodded. Said nothing. Just looked at the pavement, scuffed his already scuffed trainers along the paving slab. Watched the plastic bottle roll into the gutter where he left it.

‘Yeah,' Tess continued, speech no slower, ‘knifed like that. Two in one week.' She leaned in close to the boy. ‘Hey, this'll cheer you up. Wanna make a bit more money?'

Renny looked up, suspicious after their last encounter, was about to reply when he saw Tess's face. ‘What happened to your face?'

Tess smiled. ‘Got into a fight,' she said with pride, knowing it would impress the boy. ‘What you do around here.'

It didn't. He just looked at her with contempt. ‘How do I make this money? Will I get it this time?'

Tess ignored the look, took her recorder out, stood ready, thumb on the button. ‘You will. Just tell me how it feels to lose your best friend. Give me a few quotes, something I can use in the paper and I'll see you all right for a few quid. What d'you say?'

Renny stared, said nothing.

Tess took his silence for interest at least, if not encouragement. She shoved the recorder in the boy's face. ‘You see, Renny, tomorrow, I'm going to reveal who killed Pez.'

Renny narrowed his eyes. Tess could almost see his mind working.

‘Oh yeah. And when I do, I'll need a few quotes.'

Renny still stared, said nothing.

Tess was on a roll, words tumbling out. ‘'Cos you see, when I unmask Pez's, I'm also going unmask Calvin's killer. And it's going to be huge. The biggest thing this place has ever seen.' She leaned in closer to the boy, completely invading his personal space, recorder right against his mouth. ‘So, I mink you're going to want to be there. Don't you? Want to say something now for the record?'

Renny looked like he was ready to kill. He backhanded Tess, who, taken by surprise, found herself unbalanced and stumbled backwards, recorder going flying. Renny then stalked off, as fast as he could. He reached a corner, turned to see the two of them still there and ran away.

‘What is the matter with these fuckers round here?'

Tess got slowly to her feet, more surprised than hurt. She picked up her recorder that was still thankfully intact, looked at Collins, smiling, expecting him to share in her reaction.

Collins pulled his cigarette down to the filter, exhaled and casually flicked the stub at Tess. ‘I thought you were OK. For a posh bird. But you're a special kind of cunt, you know that? And you're not having any more pills, either.'

Collins got back in the car, and without waiting for Tess, drove away. Tess opened her mouth to shout but stopped, frowned. What had she said? What had she done to annoy him?

Tess watched Collins drive away feeling confused. And it was her own car. She tried not to let that get to her. She would meet up with him later. She trusted Collins not to damage the Golf. Knew that whatever was upsetting him, he obviously wanted to be alone. And he wouldn't want to drive round in a posh bird's car for long.

Instead, Tess decided to walk round. Ask questions. She didn't think anyone else would try to damage her the way that Rob had. She was no longer scared of this estate, not today. She felt on top of the world, like bullets would bounce off her. That once the locals knew it was her who had outed the monster in their midst, they would just about venerate her.

She took in the atmosphere, looked at the locals. They all seemed so unhealthy. Overweight, a lot of them, but still looking undernourished. All kitted out in Primark's finest. And all with a lethargy, like they'd either been worn down or, and this was more likely, she thought, they couldn't be bothered to make an effort. Really, she should keep as far away from them as possible, just in case whatever they had rubbed off on her. Even if they were her readers, the very people who were going to make her famous.

Walking, she sensed something. A tension in the air, an expectancy. And not a pleasant one. Like waiting for a lynching. Angry faces, tense bodies. She was glad it wasn't dark. Whatever veneer of politeness daylight confers would be gone by then. She popped into a newsagent for a can of Red Bull.

And stopped dead.

The early edition of the
Evening Chronicle
was on the counter, the headline:

CHILD KILLER BACK AND LIVING ON MURDER ESTATE

She nearly dropped her Red Bull.

In a daze she picked up the paper, read on. It told how convicted child murderer, Mae Blacklock, was living on the Hancock Estate. It speculated in the loosest terms – Tess could spot a piece that had been scrutinized by the legal department when she saw one – that she might possibly be responsible for one, if not both, of the two recent deaths.

There were photos accompanying the article. The famous old one of Mae Blacklock as a child, smiling, the photo that resided in the public psyche as much as that of Myra Hindley. And beside that another photo, an older woman with a stern, forbidding face. Sylvia Cunliffe. And sure enough, as she read on, there were quotes from her. Plenty of them. Just the kind of quotes she had put into her own article.

‘Bitch. Fucking bitch …'

By the time she had finished reading, she had worked out what must have happened. She wasn't stupid. But she felt like she was. As soon as she had left, Sylvia Cunliffe must have been on the phone to her friends in the local press. And did she have a story for them. It wouldn't have taken too long for them to look into matters, see who was leading on it the next day. Whatever, it had scuppered her own story.

She screwed the paper up, stood there in the shop not knowing what to do next.

‘Hey,' said a Geordie Asian accent, ‘you buying that?'

Tess looked down at the screwed-up newspaper in her hands. ‘Have it,' she said to the man behind the counter.

‘Hey. You pay for that!'

Tess walked out of the shop. The shopkeeper was out after her.

‘Fuckin' bitch! Fuckin' scum! Why don't you fuck off back to London and leave us all alone!'

Tess felt something hard and heavy hit her between the shoulders. Bullets didn't bounce off her. She turned, looked. A full can of Coke. The shopkeeper was giving chase, his hands full of whatever he could find to throw.

Tess ran away. As fast as she could.

She no longer felt comfortable or happy. She felt miserable, coming down. She wanted to get out of the estate as quickly as possible.

And get some more pills off Collins.

The ringing bell is followed by a sharp rapping on the door. Donovan looked up as if woken from a trance. Anne Marie jumped too.

‘The only people who knock like that,' she said, fear mingling with experience in her voice, ‘are police.'

‘Don't worry,' said Donovan standing up and making his way to the stairs, ‘it'll not be anything important.'

Anne Marie clearly didn't share his opinion but she said nothing. Donovan turned away from her. He didn't share his opinion either.

He went downstairs, opened the door. DI Diane Nattrass was standing there.

‘Howdy, sheriff,' said Donovan, masking his surprise as quickly and as flippantly as possible. Hoping he carried nothing with him of the conversation he had been having upstairs. Or nothing visible to Nattrass. ‘What brings you round these here parts?'

‘Hello, Joe,' she said, a trace of weariness in her voice. Whether from her work or his attitude he couldn't tell. He decided it must be a bit of both. ‘Can I come in?'

Donovan stepped back, allowing entry. ‘But of course. Always a pleasure and never a chore. To receive a visit from the law.' He smiled. ‘Hey, that rhymes. Should go into poetry. I'll put the kettle on.'

He turned, walked away towards the kitchen.

‘You need a receptionist,' she said, following him.

‘It has been mentioned,' he said. ‘Come on through.'

Nattrass was looking tired, he thought, more so than usual. But then the murders on the Hancock Estate were her case and she had every right to be. She was dressed in her usual long, brown overcoat that covered a dark, two-piece trouser suit, heels that were more to give her height with the men than any overt concession to fashion and a light-coloured blouse. Her hair was still cut in its no-nonsense style and she wore only the minimum of make-up. She wasn't an unattractive woman but Donovan knew she deliberately unsexed herself for work. It was a good ploy. Everyone took her seriously. No one messed with her.

‘So,' he said, once the kettle was on, ‘I presume this isn't a social call.'

Nattrass shook her head. ‘No.'

‘Not that it wouldn't be pleasant. It's been too long since we caught up.'

Nattrass nodded. Paul Turnbull, the ex-policeman Donovan had employed to investigate Matt Milsom had been her old partner. His death had cast a shadow between them. It always would. ‘It has.'

‘Should get together some time.'

Nattrass nodded. He knew she wouldn't just as much as he knew that he wouldn't. It was the kind of thing you were supposed to say. They both knew that.

He made the coffee, handed one to her. They went into the main office, pulled out two office chairs, sat down.

‘Didn't you used to have a room where you could sit? Comfortably?' said Nattrass.

‘That was the old place,' said Donovan, covering. ‘Bit different here.'

She nodded, not quite taken in but not pressing it. ‘Where's the rest of the gang?'

‘On assignment. Things are going well in the private sector.'

‘I'm glad they're going well for someone.'

‘Always a place for you here.'

Nattrass managed a weak smile. ‘Thanks but … I think I'm better off where I am.'

Donovan said nothing. She was alluding to Turnbull again.

He nodded. ‘Right,' he said, face as blank and as open as he could make it. ‘What can I do for you?'

Nattrass took a sip of her coffee, placed the mug on one of the desks. ‘I'll come straight to the point. Have you seen the
Chronicle
today?'

Donovan shook his head.

‘The TV news? Local?'

Another shake.

‘I didn't think so. Well I have. And you're not going to like it.'

‘Why?'

‘Because Mae Blacklock has been outed.'

Donovan sat back. He felt almost physically winded by the news. ‘Shit.'

‘Indeed. At the moment all they have is the information. They don't have her new name or address. And thankfully they don't have a photo. Although from what I hear, they're working on that.'