So he had become even extra cautious. Pickpocketing was out. He was down to rolling drunks and setting up perverts. They were the least likely to complain.
He walked down Westgate Road, sun beating down on his back, the heat making him aware that he hadn’t had a bath since Jamal’s. Glancing round all the time, ready to run at a second’s notice.
But it was still in his head. The information. He had to think how to use it. And quickly. His old Connexions worker’s words came back to him. Make a mental list. Tick off the plus points and the minus points. Plan.
He did that all the way into town. Stopped off at McDonald’s for a burger, some fries and a strawberry shake. He always ate at McDonald’s. Knew that whatever else he was guaranteed some good food.
He reached the amusement arcade. Went inside. The hall was dark and cool, welcoming after the glare and the heat outside. He stood at one of the slot machines, feeding it with coins, not really looking at what was coming up, just playing automatically.
He became aware of someone behind him. He turned. A middle-aged businessman, suited and anonymous. Easy prey. Jason said nothing, waited.
‘Are you … are you working?’
Jason turned. ‘Might be.’
‘Good.’ The perv was sweating. Must take the heat really badly. ‘What … what’s your name?’
Jason almost gave his real one. ‘Kev,’ he said.
The perv looked disappointed.
‘Why?’ said Jason. ‘What’s yours?’
The perv licked his lips. All that sweat on his face, and his lips were still dry. ‘Sean,’ he said.
‘You got a place?’ said Jason.
Sean shook his head.
‘Come with me, then.’
They walked out of the arcade, down Clayton Street towards the Central Station, where it would be easy to run, get lost in the crowds.
Piece of piss, thought Jason. Money in the bank.
Peta pulled the car to the kerb, stopped the engine. She got out, looked round. A block of new flats in front of her constructed of sickly yellow brick. Small patches of arid grass ringed the ground floor. Cars, small and new, took up most of the communal parking spaces. A huge canvas billboard was erected on the Stanhope Street side of the development showing a young, photogenic couple lounging on boxy, beige furniture, grinning perfect smiles at each other over a moderate glass of wine. IF YOU LIVED HERE, the banner said, YOU’D BE HOME BY NOW.
If I lived here, she almost said aloud, I’d be dead by now.
She was in Arthur’s Hill in the West End of Newcastle. The area seemed quiet, like it was braced for the next thing to hit it. Opposite the new flats was an old council estate: Seventies, flat-roofed boxes. She locked the car, checked the piece of paper from her pocket, began walking towards the community centre.
Mary Evans was founder member, and head of, the local branch of COU, the Citizens Organizing Union. A grassroots community organization based in the north-east, it formed and encouraged local alliances between religious groups, schools, students and trade unions. With notable success: the streets were safer and cleaner, housing more affordable, drugs down, crime down, schooling up, local businesses committing to a minimum living wage and regeneration.
Or so the press release said. As she walked down the road to the community centre, Peta was struck by just how well maintained the estate looked. No furniture or household appliances littered the street, no broken windows. Front doors painted, gardens well tended. An obvious, but understated, pride. It looked if not a great place to live then the best it could be.
Peta had read up on Mary Evans. After she’d left the Hollow Men the police had pulled her in, tried to get her to roll over on her old colleagues. They bent laws to keep her in custody, questioned her illegally without a solicitor, subjected her to all manner of indignities, threatened herself and her family. She never gave in. Reluctantly, they released her. But her silence cost; she suffered a breakdown and, following a suicide attempt, had been hospitalized.
She had stated that it wasn’t solely due to the police: it was the culmination of years of abuse. Family, university lecturer, even fellow Hollow Men, she had claimed. Men. Always men.
Her poetry writing started during therapy and she had discovered a real talent for it. Several volumes had been published, at least one of which had won a literary prize.
Following classic patterns, Peta thought. Feminism, man hating, lesbianism. The poetry channelling her anger outwards. Peta could relate to that. She had been serious in what she had said to Donovan.
She reached the community centre: a one-storey brick building, the paintwork on its doors and sign looking fresh, the grass around it well tended. The interior was all blond wood, old but well cared for. Clean and brightly lit. It smelled of polish. Offices led off to the side, the main hall ahead of them. From beyond the double doors came the sounds of children playing. Peta put her head round the door. Pre-school-age children were running around playing, parents and helpers alongside them. Everyone seemed happy.
‘Can I help you?’
Peta turned at the voice. A woman, old, small and thin, was standing in a doorway. It took a few seconds but Peta recognized her from the photo.
‘Mary Evans?’ she said, smiling.
‘Yes.’ She looked apprehensive, tried to mask it with a smile. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Can we go in?’ said Peta, looking round. ‘Easier to talk inside.’
She opened the door wide, they went in. The office was brightly painted, papered by primary-coloured wall planners and posters advertising various politically worthy causes. The furniture was old, mismatching, goodwill donations. She sat behind the desk, pulled her chair up slightly higher than the chairs at the front of the desk that Peta took. She had stayed loyal to her old dress sense, was still swathed in printed cotton, scarves and bangles. There had been strength in her voice, but her eyes darted and fluttered like trapped sparrows before alighting on Peta. But she sat purposefully, like she had forced herself to be strong.
She looked at the card. ‘Peta Knight. Albion. Are you trying to sell me something?’
Peta tried for a reassuring smile. Evidently missed from the look on Mary Evans’s face. ‘I’m here on behalf of Trevor Whitman. He’s one of our clients.’
Her face crumpled in on itself. Now she looked even older. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I saw he was back here.’ She nodded, seemingly unaware that her head was doing it. ‘Trevor Whitman. God. What does he want with me?’
‘He’s been getting some threatening calls,’ said Peta. ‘We’re looking into it for him.’
‘And you think I did it? I need a cigarette.’ She fumbled one out of the carton, lit it with shaking hands and inhaled deeply, eyes closed as if sucking down strength along with the smoke.
‘Of course not,’ said Peta. ‘We’re just talking to people up here who know him or used to know him.’
Breathing out, she looked at her again. ‘Why the hell would I want to talk to him?’ Her voice dropped, a dark bitterness. ‘Threatening phone calls? If I’d wanted to hurt him I would have done it sooner. And better. What are you looking at me like that for?’
Peta looked taken aback. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You just seem to have a very deep well of anger for him.’ And you accessed it so quickly, she thought.
Mary Evans seemed to realize how she must have looked. She attempted a laugh. ‘Well. He’s a bastard and a bully, Trevor Whitman. And a misogynist. And if he wants to fuck you up, he’ll really fuck you up.’
Peta frowned. This wasn’t the way she had expected the conversation to go, but she went with it. ‘How d’you mean?’
Mary Evans dragged frantically on her cigarette, putting a cloud of smoke between her and her guest, trying to disappear behind it. ‘I joined the Hollow Men because I believed in its ideals. And I left because I realized that it was just an excuse for middle-class boys to get into fights and behave like football hooligans. And take drugs. And use women
. They called it free love …’ Her face twisted into an ugly sneer. ‘But let’s call it what it really was. Rape.’
‘Right,’ said Peta, not wanting to get caught up in that argument. ‘What about blowing things up?’
Mary Evans smiled. ‘Their answer to everything. A very male answer to everything. Things needed to change. Make no mistake. But you can’t create a new world using brute force. There are more subtle ways than that.’
‘Such as?’
‘Did you see the new housing development opposite?’
They both nodded.
‘One of our initiatives. Wasteland we bought from the council then sold to a private developer. For a much higher price.’
‘Sounds more capitalist than socialist,’ said Peta.
Mary Evans smiled. ‘I prefer the term pragmatic. The Malcolm X approach. By any means necessary. Now we’re working with local housing associations to ensure those flats have a high proportion of affordable accommodation. For local working people.’ She sat back, looking pleased with herself. ‘Sometimes whispers are louder than screams.’
‘Very good,’ said Peta. ‘I think I saw something on the news about it this morning.’
An emotion Peta couldn’t trace flitted across Mary Evans’s face. Fear?
‘That’s … that’s something else.’
‘OK. Back to Trevor Whitman. Do you know anyone with a grudge against him from back then? Anyone he upset?’
Mary Evans gave a short, hard laugh, rattling the tar in her lungs. ‘How long have you got? He pissed off everyone.’ She stubbed her cigarette out in an already crowded ashtray, taking pleasure in watching it fall apart.
‘How?’ said Peta.
‘Because he’s a manipulator. Of people. He pretends to be friends with them, then twists them all out of shape until they’re mangled and useless. That’s the kind of person he was. And probably still is. So there’s your answer.’
Peta thought of him with Lillian. The smiles she gave him. Wondered how long it would be until she was twisted out of shape.
‘D’you ever see anyone else from those days?’
Her eyes misted slightly. ‘Richie. Richie Vane.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘He was the only decent one among them. Poor Richie.’
‘Drugs and drink, wasn’t it?’ said Peta.
Mary Evans shook her head. ‘The party never ended for Richie and the clearing up never began. I still see him now and again. Try to help him when I can. But …’ She shrugged.
‘We’re trying to track down all the old Hollow Men. D’you know where we could find him?’ said Peta. ‘Just to talk.’
Mary Evans thought hard, reached a decision. ‘When d’you want to see him?’
‘Soon as.’
Nodding to herself, she picked the phone up, made a call. Peta tried not to listen but picked up phrases, especially ones about her: ‘I think so … she seems on the level … trustworthy … genuine … well, we’ll see …’ She put the phone down. ‘You’re in luck. He’s still attending his courses at the centre.’ Mary Evans wrote an address on a piece of paper, handed it over. ‘Two o’clock this afternoon.’
Peta took it, smiling. ‘Thank you. I really appreciate it.’
A smile played across Mary Evans’s features. ‘No problem. Perhaps you might be in a position to do me a favour one day. Have you spoken to Gideon yet?’
‘Abdul-Haq, you mean? Not yet. We thought he might be a bit busy at the minute.’
‘I refuse to call him by that pathetic name. But I’m sure he’s never too busy to talk about himself.’ Another unreadable smile. ‘Especially to a pretty young thing like you.’
Peta felt herself blush. ‘Right. What happened to Alan Shepherd? Trevor’s book doesn’t go into much detail.’
Mary Evans’s face darkened. ‘Alan Shepherd. Christ. He was …’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think I want to say anything more. I hope I’ve proved I’m not your anonymous caller.’
Peta, realizing this was all she was going to get, stood up. ‘You have. Well, thanks for your help. If you think of anything in the meantime—’
‘You look familiar.’ Peta stopped. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Peta Knight.’
Mary Evans frowned. ‘Knight.’
‘My dad was Philip Knight. Married Lillian Wallis.’
‘Wait.’ Mary Evans got hurriedly up, walked round the desk until she was in front of Peta. She reached up, touched Peta’s face. ‘Lillian,’ she said. Peta hardly breathed.
Mary Evans’s hand stroked her cheek, slowly, compassionately, her eyes alive and dancing with secrets and tenderness, the years dropping off her. ‘Yes. Lillian. You look just like her.’
‘Lots of people say that.’ Peta’s voice was suddenly hoarse and croaky.
‘You do,’ said Mary Evans as if she was looking into the past, seeing something long lost. ‘I see it now. Oh, you do.’
A light came on in Mary Evans’s eyes. ‘Did Lillian introduce you to Trevor?’
Peta nodded, unsure of her voice.
Mary Evans nodded. She almost smiled. ‘Of course. And that’s why you were chosen.’ It was less of a question than a statement of confirmation.
‘He … spoke to my mother, yes. And she … she contacted me.’
‘Of course she did.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, Lillian. He got you too.’
Mary Evans stood back, took her hand away from Peta’s face with seeming reluctance. She looked to Peta like she was just coming out of a trance. Suddenly embarrassed, she went back behind the desk, busying herself with her cigarettes.
Peta stared, confusion etched on her features.
Mary Evans lit up, breathed out a cloud of smoke like a huge sigh of relief. ‘I have work to do.’ She studied some paperwork in front of her. ‘I’m sorry.’
Recognizing her cue, Peta turned to go.
‘But be careful. The past—’ Mary Evans stopped herself. Peta waited. ‘Just be careful,’ she said and went back to her work, her wall of smoke.
Peta couldn’t get out of there quick enough.
19
Turnbull sat outside the house in Hertfordshire, hoping they hadn’t seen him. The road was quiet and leafy, just as Donovan had said it would be. The sun beat down, the branches barely moved. He found a good spot with plenty of shade and sat unobserved, making notes. U2 playing quietly on the stereo, absently nodding his head to the beat.
Before driving down, he had run a thorough check on the couple, discovered nothing more than Sharkey’s earlier investigation. But he hadn’t let that deter him. Because he had the beginnings of a plan.
He looked down at his notepad, read back what he had written.
School. DNA. Be careful.
Get close to the boy, some hair or something, kiss off a Coke bottle, get it pulled, matched up and Bob’s your uncle. He looked down at his notes again. The plan was there, he just needed a way to make it happen.
He turned the stereo up. Elevation. Helped him think.
Kev stared at the house, not believing he had the right one. On a new housing estate just off the A1 in Grimley, between Gateshead and Chester-le-Street. Boxy and modestly sized, with no shops, pubs or schools nearby, the houses looked like they had just sprung out of the surrounding fields. Just an ordinary housing estate.
Where Gary lived. His old recruiter. His old lover.
He had walked round, building himself up, rehearsing imaginary conversations in his head, mentally exploring every possible outcome. Now commuters were returning home, mainly suited and carrying briefcases, getting out of shining silver cars, turning off rock music. He had always prided himself on not living that sort of life, thinking it was living hell, or not living at all. Unimaginative zombies incapable of thinking freely. That’s what the party had always told him. But they didn’t look like that. Good cars, good jobs. Good money. Living in good houses, miles away from anywhere, where you could lock the door behind you, keep the world at bay. They weren’t zombies. T
hey looked happy.
A van pulled up. Kev hid. It had Gary’s name on the side, with the word BUILDER underneath and some kind of logo, crossed roof rafters. Gary picked up some papers and a clipboard from the passenger seat, went inside.
Kev hadn’t seen Gary in over two years. He had been tautly muscled before, with a wiry energy; now his body looked heavier, more relaxed. Comfortable in his own skin. Kev waited a few minutes, then followed him. Walking up to the front door, butterflies flipping, trying to escape from his stomach, he rang the bell. It was answered.
‘It’s me.’
Surprise didn’t adequately convey the look on Gary’s face. So many conflicting emotions, Kev couldn’t recognize all of them. But he knew fear when he saw it.
‘What the … What … what d’you want?’
‘I need to talk to you. Can I come in?’
Gary looked up and down the turning, checking no one was watching. It was clear he didn’t want him there, certainly not inside the house. Nevertheless he ushered him in, closed the door behind him.
‘How did you find me?’
‘Went through the files in the office. Wasn’t easy.’
‘You shouldn’t have bothered.’
The words hurt. Kev tried to ignore them. ‘You a builder now? Did you do all this yourself?’ Gary nodded. The hallway was well decorated. ‘Nice.’
‘Thank you. So what d’you want?’
Now that he was here, with Gary, he couldn’t find the words. ‘I need to talk to you.’
Gary looked round, ushered him upstairs into a small bedroom that was kitted out with fake beechwood office furniture. ‘In there.’ He put Kev inside, closed the door. From elsewhere in the house came the sounds of the TV. He heard Gary say something, heard a muffled response by a female voice. Then Gary came back up the stairs, came in. Closed the door behind him.
‘I’ve told Rebecca you want some work doing.’ He sat down in the desk chair, rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. When he took them away the fear was still there. ‘You’re the last person I expected to see. The last person.’
Kev nodded, hurt again by the words. His wound was starting to ache again. ‘I wouldn’t have come if there was another way. I’m sorry.’ Kev tried to smile. ‘Nice place.’
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