They spent the ordering time and the first course talking about his old literary agent. Donovan had forgotten she existed. When Wendy talked of the agency and the world he had once been a part of, it seemed like she was talking of events in a foreign country that he had once enjoyed visiting and meant to return to, but because other things had got in the way had never got round to it.
‘Morgan and Rubenstein,’ he said, watching the way the light caught the red wine as he swirled his glass. ‘Names I never thought I’d hear again.’
‘Well,’ said Wendy, leaning forward, ‘it’s not exactly M and R any more. Susanna Rubenstein’s gone.’ She smiled, savouring her next words. ‘It’s Morgan and Bennett now.’
‘Right. Well done, you.’
She raised her glass. ‘Thank you.’
The waiter cleared away the start plates and they looked at each other. There was that smile again. It was hard not to return it. So he did.
‘So,’ he said, reaching for his wine glass, ‘tell me about Mae Blacklock. And why I’m so crucial to the job.’
Wendy Bennett bent down, pulled out a folder from her bag. ‘It’s all here. Mae Blacklock obviously isn’t her name now. When she was eleven she killed a little boy. Trevor Cunliffe. Huge scandal at the time, big media circus.’
‘I remember.’
She looked at him and he was suddenly conscious of the gap in years between them. It wasn’t huge but it suddenly seemed that way. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Anyway, she was released about twenty years ago. Given a new identity, sent somewhere far away. She met a man, got pregnant, had a baby. A boy. Then she moved. And she moved again. And again. And now she’s back in Newcastle. And she wants to tell her story.’
Donovan frowned. ‘Why? Why now?’
Wendy shrugged. ‘Who knows? But she came to us. And we didn’t have anyone we thought could do that. And then someone thought of you.’
‘Someone?’
‘Well, me, actually’
Donovan smiled. ‘Thank you. And I have to say, I’m interested. But I’m not a journalist any more. I don’t do that kind of thing now.’
‘Oh I know’, said Wendy. ‘I know exactly what you do. I’ve been keeping tabs on you.’
‘You?’
She blushed slightly. ‘I meant we. The agency. We never forgot you. You did some good stuff. Back in the day.’
Donovan smiled again, loving the way young, middle-class professionals had appropriated aspects of urban culture to give them what they thought was a hip edge. ‘It was a blast,’ he said.
‘Good. Well, let’s hope this will be too. Are you interested? Will you do it? We’ve got a publisher lined up ready to pay the advance. I know that’s unusual without actually seeing anything, but this is an unusual case.’
‘What’s the money like?’
She told him. And he thought of the new Albion offices and the wage bill. And something else – how this might be just the thing to take his mind off Brighton.
He said he was in and asked for more details.
‘Right. Well, she now lives in Newcastle on the Hancock Estate in Byker.’ She was going to continue. He stopped her.
‘Please don’t do the Byker Grove thing.’
She looked slightly put out. ‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not funny any more. And because you’ll mark yourself out as a southerner and you might get a smack in the face for it.’
She looked round. ‘What, even in here?’
He smiled. ‘Even in here. City hasn’t been gentrified that long. Ancestral race memories and all that. Anyway. Please continue.’
‘Right. Well, she’s up here now. She’s moved about a lot. She’s got her son with her, like I said, and a partner.’
‘And do they both know who she used to be?’
‘The partner does. The boy doesn’t.’
‘Right. What’s she like?’
‘Very bright, very sparky, highly intelligent,’ said Wendy. ‘Self-educated, obviously. Did all sorts of studying inside. But, needless to say, that hasn’t translated to a steady job or a happy life since then.’
‘Sure. High IQ doesn’t always equal high self-esteem. Especially not when you’ve had her background.’
Wendy smiled. ‘You’ve met her boyfriend, then.’
Donovan raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh he’s all right, I suppose. I’m sure he loves her. She’s always saying how good he is to her. I’m sure he is.’ Wendy took another mouthful of wine, looked at him, her face suddenly serious. ‘Do you think you would have a problem talking to her?’
‘Why? How d’you mean?’
‘She killed a little boy. And you … y’know.’
Donovan nodded, took another mouthful of wine. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Well, I don’t know. Honestly. But I’d give it my best shot. Give her the benefit of the doubt. She was only a child herself when she did that.’
Wendy nodded. ‘I agree. I think everyone deserves a second chance. Well, most people, anyway.’ She smiled again. ‘But that’s good. In fact, that’s exactly what I was hoping you would say.’
‘Good.’ Donovan returned her smile.
The main courses arrived. They ate. He asked more questions about the job. What did they hope the book would achieve?
‘We don’t want it to be sensationalist. Not the usual true crime kind of thing. Not just a ghosting job. More like what Gordon Burn did with the Yorkshire Ripper and the Wests. Your voice is just as important. That kind of thing. I’m sure that’s right up your street.’
Donovan agreed it was. They worked out a rough schedule and working method. Interview Mae – Wendy still wouldn’t tell him her new name at this point – wherever she felt comfortable. Start generally, work in deeply. Mae knew what to expect. She knew how emotionally challenging the questions would be. She was prepared. She was ready.
They finished their mains. The waiter cleared the plates away.
‘That was brilliant,’ said Wendy. She leaned back in her chair. ‘Man, I’m stuffed.’
As she leaned back, her large breasts strained against the low-cut dress she was wearing. He tried not to, but couldn’t help his eyes from dropping down there.
She sat forward again. Another smile. ‘This is so great to have you on board. I can’t tell you how excited I am.’
‘Good. I hope I can do a good job for you.’
‘I’m sure you can.’
Was she coming on to him? He didn’t know. But he didn’t mind. She was very attractive. And he was unattached.
‘So …’ he began. He was so out of practice. ‘What about you. Tell me about you.’
She looked slightly taken aback but a smile played round the corners of her lips. ‘I’m thirty-four, I work in publishing. I’m a literary agent. I love my job.’
Donovan was smiling. Enjoying himself for the first time in ages. ‘Anything else?’
‘Like what?’
‘Married? Kids?’
She blushed slightly. ‘There’s … someone. We’re not married, though.’
‘Is he in publishing?’
‘God no. Local government. Couldn’t do that. Get enough of writers all day.’ Then she looked at Donovan. ‘Sorry.’
‘No problem. I’m not a writer any more.’
‘But you will be again, I hope.’ She smiled, but some of the sparkle seemed to have dissipated from her.
At the mention of the boyfriend, Donovan decided that pursuing interest in her was, unfortunately, a dead end. He brought the talk round to work again. ‘Trevor Cunliffe’s mother’s still around, you know’, he said.
Wendy frowned. ‘How d’you mean?’
‘She pops up on TV now and again. Whenever there’s a murder involving kids they trot her out for a quote. Whether she knows anything or not. Gets her face on TV, in the papers, radio. Everywhere.’
‘Is she an expert?’
Donovan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Her son was murdered. And she’s had a lifetime of bitterness
and pain to contend with because of that.’
‘Right.’ Wendy’s smile faded.
‘Grief does affect different people in different ways.’
She nodded. Her smile disappeared completely.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s been a great meal. Thanks. I—’
‘Are you rushing off?’
She pointed towards the hotel next door. ‘Staying overnight. Got to head off in the morning. Early. Need some sleep.’ The smile returned. ‘Thanks for a great time.’ She signalled to the waiter for the bill.
‘Would you like to stay and have a drink?’
She looked genuinely torn. ‘Maybe next time.’
Donovan nodded. Tried not to feel too sad. ‘OK, then.’
She charged the meal to her room, stood up and looked at him. ‘Thanks. It’s been great to meet you. Any problems or questions, give me a ring.’
And she was off.
Donovan had gone back to his flat, read the report, made notes. Readied himself to start work.
Put Wendy out of his head.
Donovan poured himself a coffee, sat down on the sofa, checked his watch. Too early to go to the Cluny. Even if he was going to eat there too. He picked up his notes from the session, thought of listening to the tapes. Decided against it. Not enough there worth transcribing. He would do it tomorrow when hopefully there would be something more to add.
He picked up the remote, flicked on the TV. Local news. A boy had been killed in Byker. The Look North anchor had on his serious face for relaying it. The scene switched from studio to live outside broadcast, where a reporter wearing a similarly serious face was standing outside the gates of a school in Byker. She told the camera what had happened. A thirteen-year-old boy had been stabbed in the early hours of the morning on the Hancock Estate.
‘Not surprised,’ said Donovan under his breath.
The boy was named as Calvin Bell and his family were appealing for witnesses.
Good luck with that, thought Donovan, quickly castigating himself for being so cynical then reasoning to himself that it wasn’t cynicism. Who else would be out at that time of night apart from the killer? And who would come forward from the Hancock Estate?
The scene jumped to a police press conference where a female detective was making an appeal for information.
‘Hi, Di,’ said Donovan, waving to the screen when he saw DI Di Nattrass. She and him had history. Mostly good, or tolerable at least, but not always.
She finished and the story was filled with images of a more general nature. Knife-crime stats swirled and danced. A voiceover told of rising violence among the young in such apocalyptic terms that Donovan wouldn’t have expected a single teenager to still be alive by the time EastEnders came on. They went for a quotation to a talking head – and Donovan was taken aback.
There was Sylvia Cunliffe. He remembered his conversation with Wendy once again.
She was a grandmother now, heavy and solid, her brow furrowed, her face permanently twisted. She looked like an angry Easter Island head. Donovan knew from experience how easy it was to allow just one, horrific event to define a life. She had parlayed her rage and grief into a media career, never forgiving, never forgetting.
He switched off the TV, picked up the mug, took another mouthful, drained the mug empty. He took it into the kitchen, placed it on the draining board. Albion House. He couldn’t resist it. If ever there was a place and a business made for each other, this was it.
Situated on Stepney Bank in the heart of the Ouseburn area of Newcastle, the area’s claim to fame was that it used to appear in the credits of Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads? as a symbol of the region’s run-down industrial past. It was now rapidly redeveloping as a base for newer, smaller, more dynamic businesses. Artists’ studios. Theatre companies. Galleries. Printers. Publishers. The Seven Stories children’s literature museum. And pubs like the Cluny, a reclaimed bonded whisky warehouse now turned into bars, restaurant, live music venue and art gallery. And Donovan’s local. Almost his second office.
Albion House was a great location, he thought. And the mortgage was cheaper than on the old place. Business was starting to pick up and the place had been renovated and redecorated. Things were going well.
He thought of the screen downstairs in the office showing the unchanging blue door.
Most things were going well.
He checked his watch once more. Yes, he wouldn’t look too desperate if he turned up at the Cluny now. He was just about to leave, moving towards the front door, when he noticed an envelope on the floor. A brown manila. He picked it up. No postmark, no address. Just his name printed on the front.
He opened the door, looked up and down the street. Saw no one, nothing except streetlight-cast shadows in the late November evening. It could have been delivered any time since Anne Marie left. He closed the door, entered the office, opened the letter. Read it.
You’re working with that child murdering bitch. She’s probably giving you the sob story. Well here are a few things you don’t know about her. Check these. Guy Brewster. London. Adam Wainwright. Bristol. James Fielding. Colchester. Patrick Sutton. Hull. Now go to work.
Donovan no longer wanted to eat or drink at the Cluny. Or anywhere. He wanted to do what the letter said. Go to work. He sat down at his iMac.
Did just that.
‘So what were you found guilty of?’ He knows the answer to the question but asks it anyway. For the recorder. For the record.
‘Manslaughter. On the grounds of diminished responsibility.’
‘And how did you feel about that when it was read out?’
She sighs. She reaches automatically for a cigarette but stops herself from taking one. Her bandaged hands stay on the table, fingers moving like small electric shocks are being administered.
‘I didn’t know what he meant at first. I didn’t know whether that meant I could just go home or not. I knew that if he said murder then that meant prison.’
‘How did you know that meant prison?’
‘I’d seen it on the telly. Murderers were caught and went to prison. Sometimes they were hanged. That’s what really scared me. That they would hang me.’
‘They wouldn’t have hanged a child, I would have thought. Not even then.’
‘They would have done if they could have got away with it. But they gave me manslaughter because of the psychiatric report.’ Her fingers reach for the cigarette pack on the word ‘psychiatric’.
‘What did that say?’
‘That I had a psychopathic personality. That I didn’t know right from wrong. That I had no concept of death.’
‘And did you?’
‘Which one?’
‘Any of them.’
She thinks for a moment before speaking. ‘Back then I probably didn’t know right from wrong. No. Lookin’ back I can say that now. But then I only had the things that had happened to me up till then to go on. But death … no. I thought Trevor would get up again. And play.’
‘Trevor was …’
‘The boy.’ She nodded. ‘That I killed.’ Her voice shrank away from the words as she spoke. ‘No, I didn’t know what death was. Not really. I used to love police shows. Cops and robbers. Couldn’t get enough of them when I was a kid. But like I said, when they caught the baddie they put him in prison or murdered him. And then next week he was back, in some other cops and robbers programme. So he wasn’t really dead, was he? I mean, now I know they were only actors. That it wasn’t real life. But not then.’
He starts to ask another question but she hasn’t finished. ‘That’s the only question they should ask, I think. Well, only two. To kids in murder trials. Do you know what death is? Real death? And do you know right from wrong? The only two.’
‘What about the other thing you said?’
She frowns.
‘A psychopathic personality? What do you think about them saying that?’
She looks at him, away from him, down at the cigarette packet. She take
s one, lights up, exhales. Again. Looks at him once more, then looks away, head slowly shaking.
‘And you wonder why I fuckin’ hate psychiatrists?’
6
‘Hey kid, what’s your name?’
Jack Smeaton looked up. He had been in his own world, head down, trying not to walk home too quickly, fearful of what kind of mood his mother would be in. The woman before him was dressed casually: leather jacket, jeans, trainers. Dressed for a quick getaway. Hair dark and straight. London accent. Cocky, confident grin, the kind that was verging on arrogant. The kind Jack wished he had.
‘J – Jack.’
‘Yeah, Jack. Terrible this, don’t you think? This kid getting stabbed. You knew him?’
Jack made her now. Journalist. On the hunt. He looked round, taking in the scene properly now. How had he missed it before? There were TV cameras pointed at the school gates, still cameras flashing all the time. He recognized a couple of the faces talking to cameras from the local news. Word of Calvin’s death had spread.
Jack looked back. The journalist was still in front of him, waiting.
‘N – no, I didn’t know him. Not very well, anyway.’
‘Sure?’ She gave him a kind of come-on look, eyes locked on to him like heat-seeking missiles. He stepped back, frightened. ‘Could be a bit of money in it for you. Get yourself a new PlayStation. Nintendo Wii. Whatever. Good bit of money.’
A new PlayStation sounded great. In fact, any PlayStation sounded great. It was something they had never been able to afford. In the other schools he had been to he had been so jealous of the kids who did have them. Which seemed to be all of them. It had just been one more thing that had stopped him fitting in.
But he hadn’t known the dead boy. So it didn’t matter.
Jack couldn’t answer. He shook his head and walked away. The journalist didn’t waste time calling after him, just went up to the next child leaving school.
Speak No Evil Page 5
