For now.
She made her way straight to the women’s lavatory.
The Prof was behind his desk in his office, fingers playing nervously, eyes unable to hide the apprehension. Jacket off, dull light glinting from his wire-framed glasses. Nattrass looked at him, let her eyes wander around the room.
A small, airless, breeze-block cube, he had done his best to personalize it. Shelved psychology textbooks gave way to the spines of old 1950s pulp paperbacks. Postcard copies of their lurid, thrilling covers dotted the wall behind his desk. Just the titles were enough, thought Nattrass, to put together a composite of the man before her: Demented, The Flying Saucers Are Real, Teen Temptress, The Marijuana Mob, The Body Snatchers.
Some were blown up to poster size. She picked out three of them as her immediate favourites: I Married a Dead Man– a picture of a bride and groom at the altar, the groom in a state of advanced decomposition – A Hell of a Woman– a femme fatale tempting a weak man to what was surely certain doom – and the most bizarre of all, The Gods Hate Kansas, which showed a picture of a spaceman with a raygun standing on his spaceship battling with a squid-like alien.
‘Nice designs,’ she said when she became aware of him watching her.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘One of the ways to take the temperature of a society is by its popular culture, I always think.’
Nattrass nodded.
‘However, this is something of a blind alley for me. A passion, I’m afraid.’
‘Makes you imagine what the stories are like inside them,’ she said.
The Prof smiled. ‘Some were excellent. Most of Faulkner’s work appeared like this; Zola, even. And there were indeed works of genuine brilliance within their genres. Thompson and Willeford, for instance, Day Keene, vastly underrated. Even William Burroughs. But for the most part the contents were disappointingly prosaic,’ he said. ‘Impossible to live up to that kind of billing.’
Nattrass, just about lost now, nodded again.
The Prof picked up on it. ‘Too much detail.’
‘Right,’ she said and waited an appropriate amount of time before continuing. ‘Jill Tennant. Her disappearance.’
The Prof’s mood changed. The room seemed to darken. The postcards, books and posters no longer seemed like a quirky affectation; they took on qualities of creepy compulsion.
Demented.
Teen Temptress.
The Body Snatchers.
Nattrass sat back, her face a blank, studied him. Waited for him to speak.
‘I was due to meet her, you know,’ he said eventually.
‘Yes, we know.’
‘She didn’t turn up. I thought nothing of it. Changed her mind. Something she’d agreed to in the moment, regretted later.’
‘Why would she have regretted it?’
‘Do I mean regretted? I don’t know. I’d bought the tickets for … someone else. They couldn’t go. And I bumped into Jill. One lunchtime after a seminar. We got talking, I offered one to her. I didn’t know her … personal situation. I just had two tickets and I liked her company. Nothing more than that.’
‘There was no … relationship between you?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘Did you want there to be?’
The Prof looked uncomfortable. ‘Relationships between lecturers and students are still frowned on. Even in this day and age.’
‘You haven’t answered the question.’
The Prof frowned, thought hard. ‘I don’t think I know the answer.’
Nattrass referred to her notebook. She questioned him on his personal history. His past relationships, his lack of marriages. She ascertained he was straight but uninterested in any long-term partner.
‘Perhaps my ego takes up too much space to admit anyone else,’ he said, attempting levity.
Nattrass looked at him, studied him. Waited for her instincts to tell her – yes or no. Nothing came.
‘We’ve talked to her friends, her boyfriend—’ the Prof flinched at the word ‘—and we’re looking into everything they’ve told us.’ Which wasn’t much, she thought. ‘Did anyone see you either before, during or after the Wilco gig?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Lots of people. They’re a very popular band among both students and lecturers. I had a couple of drinks with students, met another lecturer. In the university bar. Waited for Jill to turn up. When she didn’t, I went to join the others.’
‘I’ll need names, please.’
The Prof sighed, nodded.
‘And have you a list of the other students in Jill’s group? Perhaps I could ask around while I’m here.’
The Prof began to complain, tell her he had already handed one over to someone else on the inquiry, but did as she asked. She glanced down the list. One name stood out.
‘Peta Knight.’
The Prof swallowed. ‘What about her?’
‘I know someone of that name. What a coincidence. Wouldn’t be the same one, would it?’ Nattrass described her.
The Prof nodded. ‘Mature student. Ex-policewoman, I believe.’
Interesting, thought Nattrass, but she wasn’t sure why. She pocketed the list, gave the Prof her full attention. ‘One last thing. Graham McAllister. That’s your real name, I take it?’
The Prof nodded warily.
‘Only we’ve got a file back at the station on a Graham McAllister.’ She looked directly at him, unblinking. ‘Wouldn’t happen to be you, would it?’
The Prof’s eyes darted nervously, as if unsure whether to speak. Mind made up, he opened his mouth.
And her phone rang. It cut the air like an air-raid siren.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. She put it to her ear, ready to answer. The phone went dead. She frowned, looked at the number in the display.
Turnbull.
She returned the phone to her pocket, looked again at the Prof. ‘You were saying?’
He shook his head. Whatever it was, the moment had passed. ‘Nothing. That file. If it is the same one, that’s all long in the past.’
She sighed, stood up, tried not to let her agitation show. Handed him a card. ‘Give me a ring if you think of anything. Should be like old times.’
The Prof said nothing.
Outside the office she felt angry with herself. Regretted her parting line to him. It had been a cheap and unnecessary shot. She shook her head, phoned Turnbull’s number. Got his answerphone, left a terse message telling him to phone her, walked away.
Demented.
Teen Temptress.
The Body Snatchers.
She felt she had missed something, but she didn’t know what.
26
Peta opened the door to her house in Walker. They stepped in, shook off the cold and the dark.
‘It’s late,’ she said. ‘Might be better if you stay here tonight rather than driving back to Northumberland. Jamal’ll be OK. He’s at Amar’s.’
Donovan agreed. He hadn’t felt like being alone, and Peta’s company was better than most. And he enjoyed being in her house.
It was relatively small – two up, two down, with a small back yard – and she lived there alone, but she had worked hard to make it comfortable. It felt like a home. In the front room, where Donovan dropped his holdall, kicked off his boots and shed his jacket, the sofas were soft and welcoming, the shelved books wide-ranging and interesting, the art prints striking, the lighting tasteful and subdued. It was the kind of room where a couple could have curled up together, either on the sofa or the rug, shared a bottle of wine and watched a DVD. Something witty but adult. Lost in Translation, say, or Sideways. Donovan corrected himself. Not wine. Coffee, perhaps, for Peta. Hot chocolate to be daring.
‘You’re not leaving them there, are you?’
He looked up. Peta was pointing to his bag, boots and jacket.
‘No, Mum,’ he said, standing and scooping them up. ‘Where d’you want me to put them?’
‘Upstairs,’ she said.
He looked at her.
She looked at him. Neither spoke.
‘In the spare room,’ she said eventually, her face reddening slightly. ‘I know it’s my office, but there’s a futon in there. You can have that.’
She turned away. Donovan took his things upstairs, deposited them in the spare room. Went back downstairs again and went into the kitchen. Peta was taking things out of the freezer, looking at them. An unplunged cafetière of coffee sat on the side. Donovan took over, got mugs, milk and sugar out, made the drinks.
They settled back in the living room, waited for microwaved lasagne to thaw, cook and ping.
‘How d’you feel?’ she asked.
Donovan slowly shook his head. ‘I don’t know … Relieved? That it wasn’t him? Then guilty for feeling relieved. Then thinking of that other boy …’ He sighed. ‘I dunno. I really don’t know.’
Peta nodded understandingly. Then stood up. ‘I’d better check my messages.’
He heard her out in the hall, listening to her answer-phone. He was right: he didn’t know how he felt. He didn’t know how he was supposed to feel. Emotions churned painfully inside him, like a washing machine full of bricks on a fast spin. He heard Sharkey’s voice filtering in from the hall. Picked up the remote and pointed it at the TV. The news was on. Something about global warming, a condemnation of Bush’s wilful ignorance and downright lying in allowing the situation to become so bad. He should have been angry, he thought, but he just didn’t have the energy. Then the next item made him sit up.
‘Peta,’ he called, ‘get in here.’
She did. Just in time to hear the news about Jill Tennant.
‘Oh, my God …’ She looked at Donovan. ‘I knew her … Oh, my God …’ She sat down next to him. ‘Oh, fuck …’
Fenton’s face appeared next, looking drawn and tired. He made the usual noises, but neither Donovan nor Peta were listening. They were still letting the shock sink in.
Peta moved close to Donovan. She began to cry. Donovan looked at her, surprised. This wasn’t like her, he thought. He gently placed his arm around her and she folded into him, sobbing quietly. They sat like that for a while, the bouncing rays from the TV illuminating the dimly lit room, an island of warmth.
‘That was Sharkey,’ said Peta eventually. ‘He’s got some work for us.’
Donovan said nothing.
‘Janine Stewart wants us to find Michael Nell.’ She sat up, stared Donovan in the eye. Her tears seemed to have hardened, crystallized to sharp, freezing icicles. ‘Let’s find him, Joe. Let’s fucking find him.’
Donovan watched the shape of her mouth change with each word she formed, the movement a sensuous, undulating riff on the letter ‘o’. Expensive, expertly applied gloss gave her lips a rich, crimson lustre, the teeth glimpsed behind a perfect white. Again, he was fascinated and again he figured that was the intention.
‘So that’s the situation,’ Janine Stewart said. ‘My client has disappeared, another abduction of a young, female student has taken place. And they are also trying to link the death of a prostitute to him from last year.’
‘And Paul Turnbull’s gone too, I hear,’ said Donovan, proving he was following her this time. ‘Becoming a regular Bermuda Triangle around here.’
Janine Stewart graced him with a smile of enough dazzling power to light up a small town, showing off her expensive dental work in the process.
She sat back in her chair, seemingly waiting for him to speak. She reminded Donovan of a beautiful queen in one of those old Hammer lost-world epics from the 1960s: beautiful, much desired, but with a core of ice.
He spoke. ‘And what’s my part in this?’
‘We want to track down Michael Nell before the police do. My client has always maintained his innocence. We’re worried the police may have a slightly skewed version of this.’
‘Right,’ said Donovan, slowly nodding. ‘Father Nell’s had another change of heart, has he? Decided to dip into the old handbag again?’
‘The father–son bond is a very strong one. And very glad we are of it too,’ she replied, seemingly immune to his sarcasm. ‘As should you be. Since you’ll also be benefiting handsomely from this.’
‘What d’you want me to do?’
She passed an envelope across the table. The same size as before but heavier than the last one. Donovan guessed what it contained. ‘More of his models?’
Stewart nodded. ‘The full portfolio. If you could track them down, see if they know where my client is. See if any of them are harbouring my client.’
‘And if they are?’
She shrugged. ‘Negotiate his safe passage back to us.’ She straightened her body in her chair, smoothed down her blouse and skirt. The effect wasn’t unpleasant. ‘Since Michael Nell has not been charged with any crime, we have to assume his innocence. We just want what’s best for our client.’
They discussed money, how impressed the company had been with Donovan’s previous work with them, and then it was time for him to leave. Janine Stewart stood, offering her hand to be shaken. Donovan did so, finding it, unsurprisingly, cool and smooth.
He left the building, stood in the street and looked around. He hadn’t thought about David for nearly an hour. He looked at the envelope in his hands.
Grateful for the diversion.
The university looked the same but felt very different.
Radically different.
She walked over the main square, coat and scarf pulled close against the biting wind, bag over her shoulder, ready for her afternoon seminar. The tension all around her was almost palpable, a physical constriction in her chest making her unable to breathe. Students eyed each other warily; girls walked in pairs and stared at boys with outright hostility. No one was smiling. Home-made, quickly assembled banners had been tied to the walls:
RECLAIM OUR STREETS
RECLAIM OUR BODIES
Some girls were sporting quickly manufactured badges with the same slogan.
There was an increased security presence from bought-in guards. All ages, shapes and sizes, with their uniforms smartly pressed and their erections almost visible, they strolled, eyes darting around corners, into doorways, anyone caught in their cross-hairs vision a potential troublemaker, rapist, murderer. Demanding ID as they performed illegal stop and searches. Peta noticed that the black and Asian students were primarily singled out for this treatment. No one stopped these rent-a-cops, questioned their actions. No one wanted to be singled out as a troublemaker, a protester with too much to hide, a target inviting a thorough investigation of their life.
The university was a society in microcosm, a society with fear and anger in the ascendancy. Never a good way to live, she thought.
She reached her building, showing her ID to a security guard on the door, unwinding her scarf and opening her jacket as she did so. He glanced idly at her photo, his eyes more interested in trying to see down her top. She felt the anger rising, couldn’t stop herself.
‘Had a good look?’
The man was middle-aged and small. Bespectacled. His eyes widened as if he had been jolted out of a pleasant reverie.
‘And you’re supposed to stop us being abducted, raped and murdered, is that it?’
The guard reddened. ‘I don’t … don’t know what you mean …’
She gave an angry shake of her head. ‘Pathetic.’ She strode off.
Still angry when she reached her classroom, she almost missed the notice on the door informing her that the day’s seminar had been cancelled. She wasn’t surprised. She should have phoned before coming in.
She sighed, anger subsiding. She thought of Jill. Sighed again.
‘Bit old for this lark, aren’t you?’
Peta turned quickly. DI Diane Nattrass stood behind her. Peta was too surprised to speak.
‘I’m not stalking you,’ said Nattrass. ‘Saw your name on the register. Gone back to college?’
‘Yeah.’ Peta didn’t feel like explaining. ‘Unfinished business.’
‘Know what you m
ean. Happiest days of your life.’ Nattrass almost smiled. ‘Or they were mine.’
‘Not for Jill Tennant, though.’
‘No. Did you know her?’
‘She was in my year,’ said Peta, pointing to the classroom. ‘First-year psychology. Got on well with her. She was a nice girl.’
‘Don’t say “was”, Peta. Don’t make my job any harder.’
Peta nodded. ‘How’s it going?’
‘We’re looking at several lines of enquiry, following several leads. That sort of thing. I’m sure you remember the drill.’
Peta nodded. ‘And you don’t tell the public what they don’t need to know.’
Nattrass gave a sad smile. ‘Exactly.’ She frowned, looked around before speaking, made sure they were alone. ‘I’m glad I ran into you. Want to ask you something.’
Peta felt wary. ‘What?’
‘Your lecturer. The Prof. Is that what he calls himself?’
Her sense of wariness increased. ‘What about him?’
‘What d’you make of him?’ Nattrass tried to make the question neutral, casual, even. Peta wasn’t fooled. She had asked the same kind of question in the same kind of tone many times.
‘Is he a suspect?’
‘Would he be walking around free if he was?’
‘If you didn’t have enough to bang him away, yes.’
Nattrass sighed. ‘That sounds like Joe Donovan talking.’
Peta smiled. ‘Taught me everything I know. And Northumbria Police, of course.’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
Peta thought. ‘He’s … a one-off. Hopefully. Eccentric, certainly. But you’re asking me if he’s capable of abduction and murder?’
Nattrass looked at Peta. Her blank face gave nothing away.
Peta returned the unyieldingly blank look with interest. ‘I doubt it,’ she said.
Nattrass kept her eyes on Peta as if checking her words for veracity. Eventually she nodded. ‘Thanks, Peta.’ She looked around, ready to leave. ‘I’ll be off. Which way out?’
Peta showed her. Nattrass walked away. Peta watched her go. She opened her mouth to call out, stop her, talk to her, confide. But she didn’t. Instead she pulled her jacket about herself, rewound her scarf, readied herself to leave. Nattrass had gone through the door, closing it behind her. Peta turned the other way, not wanting to bump into her again. She began walking.
Bone Machine Page 22
