Speak No Evil

by Martyn Waites

The journalist Anne Marie had mentioned. Things were moving faster than he had thought. Donovan’s mind was racing to keep up. ‘Why did you come to me?’

  ‘Because as soon as this broke I did some digging. A couple of phone calls led me to the probation service. They gave me your name.’

  He nodded, averting eye contact. ‘Right.’

  ‘So …’ Nattrass looked round. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Why?’

  Nattrass looked at him as if he was a particularly stupid child. ‘Because the Hancock Estate is going to explode like Guy Fawkes Night. So I’ll have to take her in to protective custody, and her family, until we can sort out something a bit more long term.’

  ‘Right.’

  She locked her eyes on his like heat-seeking missiles. ‘This is serious, Joe. Her life is in danger. And her family’s life too. And possibly other people on the estate. This is no time to treat me to your awkward bastard routine.’

  ‘I’m not being awkward,’ he said, trying to think faster than he was speaking. He was conflicted and was trying to work through that conflict while he talked. He knew he should give Anne Marie up. Not only that, but tell Nattrass what Anne Marie was telling him. But that would ruin the trust he had built up with her. There was more she had to say and he doubted she would say it to a policewoman. Not only that, she certainly wouldn’t go gently.

  But on the other hand, it might just save her life. And Rob’s and Jack’s.

  ‘What about the knifings? You still working on them?’

  ‘Of course. But your name came up so I thought I’d better pay you a visit.’

  ‘Don’t you think Anne Marie had anything to do with those stabbings, then?’

  ‘Did she? If she did, then of course I want to talk to her. And you had better tell me where she is.’

  Donovan came to a decision. ‘She’s not here,’ he said.

  ‘Really,’ said Nattrass, clearly not believing him.

  ‘Really,’ he said. ‘We don’t work together every day. You probably know what we’re doing. Well, it’s a very intense procedure. Not the kind of thing you can do day after day.’

  Nattrass looked at him, unblinking, giving him the well-practised police stare that was supposed to break suspects down and make them confess. She – and other police officers – had tried it on him in the past and, although she was very good at it, he wasn’t going to give in. He hoped.

  ‘Honestly,’ he said, his voice slightly higher than usual.

  Nattrass broke off, realizing she was going to get no further. ‘Fine, you stubborn bastard. Play it your way. But don’t be surprised if I arrest you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I don’t fucking care. Listen, Donovan, this is no time to play cowboy. That estate is ready to go up. Two murders in the past week have put the national spotlight on them in the worst possible way. Then this. The Chronicle’s out, word’s spreading. They’ve got a killer in their midst and they’re very pissed off. Now if she isn’t moved we’re going to have a very bad situation on our hands. Very bad.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve been to her flat.’

  ‘No one in.’

  Donovan thought, sighed. ‘All right. Let me try to find her. If I do, I’ll talk to her, see what she says.’

  Nattrass realized this was the best she could hope for. ‘I don’t know why I came here. I should have just sent a uniform. Why I thought talking to you would be straightforward, I do not know.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  She did, but he still walked her to the door. Just in case she decided to make a detour upstairs.

  He watched her go. Once he was sure she was gone, he leaned against the wall, breathed out a huge sigh, closed his eyes. Opening them and straightening up, he looked upwards.

  Made his way slowly upstairs.

  Not looking forward to what he had to say.

  ‘I assume you heard all that.’ He stands in the doorway looking at her. Sobbing is his only reply.

  He enters the room fully, sits down on the sofa opposite her. She doesn’t look up, keeps her face bowed, in her hands. ‘OK. I’m guessing you did. Don’t …’ He searches for the right words. ‘Let’s get this sorted now. All of it. Tell me … tell me about him and I’ll do the rest.’

  She doesn’t answer, just keeps sobbing.

  His heart goes out to her. The world she had tried to create is crashing down around her. He has to do something. ‘Look, tell me who he is, where he is and I’ll get him stopped. Get him out of your life. For good. And we’ll deal with the other stuff too.’

  She looks up at that, her face red and swollen from crying. ‘The uh – other stuff?’ she manages to sob out. ‘That’s all it is, the other stuff? It’s my fuckin’ life you’re talkin’ about. An’, an’ my son’s …’

  ‘I know. I realize that. That’s not what I meant. You know that. Please, Anne Marie, work with me here. I can help you. Tell me about him and I’ll make sure you’re safe. I promise.’

  The sobs are subsiding slightly. She can’t keep that intensity going indefinitely, no matter how upset she is. Donovan presses on. He takes hold of her bandaged hands, looks her straight in the eye. She has no choice. She has to look at him.

  He hopes his sincerity will be understood. ‘I promise. Tell me and I will help you.’

  Her sobbing is fading away. She looks back at him. He sees that she desperately wants to believe him. He remains calm, holding her gaze. Eventually she nods.

  ‘All right,’ she says. ‘I’ll tell you.’

  Donovan breathes a sigh of relief.

  ‘But on one condition.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘I want to see Jack. I want to tell him.’ She takes a deep breath, tries not to start crying as she exhales. ‘About everythin’. But mostly about what I did. About who I used to be.’

  Donovan is unable to disguise the worry on his face. ‘You think that’s a good idea?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably not. But I’m tired of runnin’. Of hidin’. I’m just tired. I want … peace. I just want peace.’

  ‘Anne Marie, this isn’t the right time. You’re distressed, you’re not thinking straight. By all means let him know, but get this out of the way first.’

  Her hands begin to tremble in his. ‘You don’t understand,’ she says. ‘I do have to do it now. Jack’s a target. I know who’s after him. I have to warn him, tell him why. It’s the only bit of power he’s got. Over me, over my son. Don’t you see?’ Her eyes were imploring. ‘If I break that, he’s got no hold on me. Ever.’

  ‘And you can move forward. And we can deal with him.’

  She nods.

  Donovan sits back, lets go of her hands. It feels like letting a toddler walk unaided or releasing a bird and watching it fly. ‘OK then. Give him a ring. Get him over here.’

  She almost smiles. Instead she sighs. Her relief is palpable.

  Donovan can feel it but he doesn’t share it. He has a bad feeling about her decision. A very bad feeling.

  25

  Jamal’s fingers were numb. In fact, he could barely feel either hand. He wished he was wearing gloves but hadn’t had time to grab any. And now that he came to think of it, the wind was cutting through his jacket. But none of that was important now. He had to concentrate. He had to keep tailing the Audi.

  He had been on it since it pulled out on to Brighton’s seafront. Always a couple of cars back, but still well placed to keep following if Milsom made an unexpected turn or stop. He hadn’t so far. But Jamal couldn’t rule it out.

  Jamal tried flexing his fingers while still gripping the handlebars. He threw quick glances to either side, trying to guess where they were headed. The fish and chip restaurants, hotels and bars were thinning out. They were heading out of town, he reckoned. That didn’t sound good. If they got on to a motorway he couldn’t follow them. If they went on the winding, country roads around the South Downs he would be too conspicuous. So he just bided his time, hoped for a break, or even a cl
ue as to where he might expect to end up. Try and memorize the numberplate so at least he would have something.

  He saw a roundabout up ahead, the right-hand turn pointed to the M23. The Audi signalled right.

  ‘Aw no …’ he said into his helmet.

  He was going to lose them. No doubt about it.

  But then something unexpected happened. Before joining the motorway, the Audi pulled in to a service station. Jamal followed, scooting round the side of an automated car wash, hoping Milsom hadn’t seen him. He pulled the scooter to a halt, turned off the engine, dismounted.

  His legs felt numb from both the cold and being locked in the same position for so long. He shook out his hands, flapped his arms around his body to get the circulation started again. He opened his visor; his breath came out in plumes of steam. He risked a glimpse round the corner of the car wash. The car was at a petrol pump. Milsom got out, began to fill up with petrol.

  He had checked the gauge on his scooter before pulling up. He could do with some petrol himself but he didn’t dare risk it. So he could either run out of petrol or lose him on the motorway. Either way, it seemed he was screwed.

  Milsom took a while filling up which Jamal interpreted as him going on a long journey. His heart sank further. Milsom replaced the nozzle in the pump, went inside to pay.

  Jamal watched helplessly, as his one lead slipped away before his eyes and there was nothing he could do about it.

  But then for the second time in as many minutes, something unexpected happened. Milsom came back out and gestured to the car. The woman who claimed to be his wife reluctantly unbuckled her seat belt, picked up her handbag, went inside.

  ‘Must have had his card refused, or some thin’,’Jamal said aloud to himself.

  And he looked again at the car. The boy was in the back seat. Alone. Jamal had an idea. It was wild and reckless and desperate but it seemed like the only option he had if he wasn’t to lose the boy.

  Keeping his helmet on to perplex the CCTV cameras, he ran over to the car and opened the driver’s side door.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he said to the startled boy as he got in.

  The boy didn’t reply, just looked at him.

  Jamal checked for keys. Milsom had left them there.

  ‘Oh you fiickin’ beauty,’ Jamal said, and laughed.

  Locking the doors, he turned the engine on and put it in gear. Took the brake off.

  ‘Don’t worry, kid,’ he said to the boy in the back, ‘slight change of plan. You’re goin’ on an excursion.’

  He was aware of Milsom running towards the car as he reached the turning for the main road and drove off as fast as he could.

  He threw his head back, let out a huge laugh. He had no idea where he was going, what he would do next. But he had the boy. Joe would be proud.

  Hopefully.

  Jamal put his foot down. Didn’t look back.

  Jack saw his phone ring. He didn’t hear it; his headphones were firmly clamped to his ears. School cancelled for the day he was in his room, trying to tune everything out, letting Fall Out Boy into his head. He had been thinking about mem a lot, ever since Abigail mentioned she liked them. He had played several tracks, listening to them over and over again, trying to work out what it was she must like about them. He found them a bit ridiculous, likan underage heavy metal band, or something you would hear on the soundtrack of that old sitcom they kept repeating, Friends. But Abigail liked them. So they couldn’t be that bad.

  His phone flashed, vibrated. He took the headphones off, the sound of their cover of Michael Jackson’s ‘Beat It’ bleeding feebly out, and checked the display. His mother. He debated for a few seconds whether or not to answer it. He doubted it would be good news. It usually wasn’t.

  But she was still his mother. And she obviously needed him. He answered it.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, son.’ His mother sounded hesitant, nervous. He felt like a cloud had taken residence over his head. ‘Are you busy?’

  He said he wasn’t.

  ‘Good. Listen, I need you to come down to Albion. Now. There’s …’ She sighed. And it sounded like a similar cloud was hanging over her own head. ‘There’s something we have to talk about. Urgently.’

  His instincts had been right. It didn’t sound good. But he told her he would be there and hung up. He threw the phone on the bed beside him. ‘A Little Less Sweet Sixteen’ came from the speakers. He wished Abigail were here so she could come with him.

  Reluctantly, he got off the bed, turned off the stereo, made for the door. As he walked past the other bedroom, he heard the sound of Rob snoring. He had been asleep all day, since he and his mother had been up all night. Talking. Not arguing, although it had started mat way, but talking. He had cracked open his bedroom door and watched them, unseen. Sitting next to each other on the sofa, voices quiet but sad. Sometimes his mother cried and Rob hugged her. It wasn’t the usual kind of argument or heated discussion, but something much sadder. Scott Walker had been playing softly, his mother’s favourite, so he hadn’t been able to hear anything. But he doubted it was anything good.

  And now this. He tiptoed past the bedroom, down the hall and quietly closed the door on the way out.

  Not expecting good news.

  The train pulled into Newcastle Station; Amar pushed a very reluctant Martin Flemyng on to the platform.

  ‘This is kidnapping, I’ll have you arrested.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Amar, trying not to yawn, ‘so you keep saying.’ He pointed to a pair of uniformed police officers patrolling the concourse. ‘Look, there’s a couple there. Why don’t you run up and tell them that? And then I’ll tell them who you are and what you’ve done, and we’ll see who gets arrested. What d’you reckon?’

  Flemyng said nothing.

  ‘Didn’t think so. But don’t worry, you’ll be seeing them soon enough. In the meantime, Martin,’ Amar said, grabbing the other man’s arm, ‘let’s go.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘To see an old friend of yours.’

  The remaining colour drained from Flemyng’s face.

  Peta drove towards Newcastle as fast as she could. No radio, no music, no distractions. She wanted to think.

  There was something niggling at her. She had tried to work out what it was all the way up the A1 but it had so far eluded her. Something to do with Tom Haig. Something he had said.

  Or not said. Or the way he had said it. Or not said it.

  Or something.

  She relayed the conversation with Haig from the beginning, word for word, as well as she could remember it. Playing it over in her mind. Again. And again. Nothing came to her. But there was something. She just couldn’t reach it.

  So she tried not to think about it. Come at it from a different angle, think laterally, try to creep up on it by surprise. She thought instead about Donovan and his night out with Wendy. Unsure what to make of the situation. She thought of how Wendy had contacted him, out of the blue with the job—

  And she had it. The thing that had been niggling her. How had Tom Haig found her mobile number? Neither she nor Amar had given it to him. So how had he got it?

  Perhaps Flemyng wasn’t the only one who needed further investigation.

  She floored the accelerator.

  ‘Hi, Jack. Come in.’

  Donovan opened the door to Albion, Jack entered. The look on Donovan’s face – taut, sombre – did nothing to calm his fears about this meeting. Donovan attempted a smile, but Jack could tell it sat uneasily on his face.

  ‘Upstairs,’ said Donovan, closing the door behind him. Jack walked slowly upstairs. He had seen a black and white film once about a murderer being sent to the gallows. The camera tracked him climbing the steps to the scaffold where he was hanged. That was exactly how he felt now. Condemned.

  ‘Any trouble getting here?’ Donovan had tried to make his voice cheery and open but he couldn’t disguise the tension.

  ‘No, it was fine.’ That wasn’t en
tirely true. Jack had felt as if he was being watched when he walked through the estate. There was a real tension in the air, as if something was about to happen. Something bad like a fight or a riot. He had thought he was imagining things or it was just him experiencing it, but Donovan’s question made him think that maybe there was something more to it.

  Jack reached the top floor. He went into the conference room where his mother was sitting on a leather sofa. If anything, she looked even worse than Donovan. Sitting up all night talking to Rob hadn’t helped, but she looked even worse than expected.

  ‘Hello, son,’ she said. ‘Come and sit down.’

  She gestured towards the other sofa. Donovan slipped silently out of the room, closed the door behind him. Jack swallowed, waited.

  ‘Listen,’ said Anne Marie, ‘I’ve got somethin’ to tell you. It’s important because it concerns all of our futures, and you in particular.’

  She sighed. He waited. His body was so tense he could feel his muscles starting to ache.

  ‘You know I have … episodes. Bad episodes. I wish I didn’t but … there you go. And you know we have to move around a lot. Well.’ Another sigh. He noticed her hands were shaking. ‘There’s a reason for that.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, his voice small and reedy. It did matter, but he didn’t want to hear it. Not now. Not ever. Because he sensed that once he did, it was something that would tear his world apart.

  ‘It does,’ his mother said. ‘I never wanted you to know this, but I think it’s time you did. Because someone else has found out. And they’re tryin’ to tell everyone else. And they’re tryin’ to force us out.’

  ‘No …’

  Another sigh. ‘Yes. I wish it wasn’t like that, but it is. I thought I’d be able to come home and settle. But we can’t. You can’t go home again. An’ it’s because of this.’ She looked down at her bandaged hands as if expecting to find strength there. She looked up again, clearly decided she couldn’t face him with what she was about to say, looked back down again. ‘When I was young, younger than you, I did some-thin’ bad. Really bad.’