Speak No Evil by Martyn Waites Page B

‘Sorry.’
    â€˜No problem. I’m not a writer any more.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Right.’ Wendy’s smile faded.
    â€˜Grief does affect different people in different ways.’
    She nodded. Her smile disappeared completely.
    â€˜Well,’ she said, ‘it’s been a great meal. Thanks. I—’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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