The Mercy Seat (29 page)

And dealt with, thought Donovan. He remembered the place now. He scrolled down.

And there it was.

A group of Irish travellers had set up camp in a field just
by the main body of houses. The newly created village had been the target for travellers several times in the past, so much so that the residents had formed a consortium in order to buy the surrounding land from the farmers who owned it in an attempt to deter any more travellers from setting up camp there. The field they had chosen was one that the consortium owned.

The villagers, thinking they had, legally, the upper hand, weren’t too concerned. However, when the travellers delivered a retrospective planning application on a Friday night, knowing that the local council offices were closed, then spent the weekend installing drainage and sewerage, hooking up generators and creating a flat, tarmacked surface for the caravans to rest on, the villagers’ position changed.

Donovan remembered the story. He had decided to cover it for the
Herald.
It wasn’t his usual type of story; they usually involved cover-ups, corruption or social injustice. He remembered that this represented, for him, the shrivelled, Daily Hate Mail heart of middle England getting its comeuppance. And that, he had thought, was worth gaining as wide an audience for as possible. Holding values he found hypocritical and hateful up to public ridicule. If they had been asylum seekers as well as travellers it would have been even better. Suburbia’s own pathetic War on Terror.

He folded his arms, stared at the screen.

Two years ago. Something there … He had been working on the story when …

When David disappeared.

He shook his head, read on.

But there was nothing else. It simply stated that legal proceedings had been started but not allowed to progress. The travellers had moved on.

Something there …

There had been a reason he had gone to Wansbeck
Moor, a deeper reason beyond the one he remembered. Something that tied the story in with his usual type. Cover-up. Corruption. Social injustice.

He thought. But couldn’t remember. All his memories from round that time were inaccessible. It was self-preservation: like a corrupted section of a computer hard drive memory, cordoned off so the rest of the machine could still function.

Donovan frowned.

There was a knock at the door.

Sharkey, he thought. He crossed the room to answer it, invective at the ready. Pulled the door open.

‘Hello, Mr Donovan. Sorry to disturb you again so soon.’

The curses died on his lips. DI Nattrass and DS Turnbull.

‘Could we come in, please?’

Donovan stood aside, let them in. ‘Make yourselves at home,’ he said.

He gave a quick glance at his holdall. The revolver was still hidden beneath the T-shirt.

Nattrass sat on the edge of the bed. Turnbull stood, looking around. Donovan sat on the bed also. Looked at Nattrass.

‘Have you got someone?’ asked Donovan. ‘For Maria?’

‘Not yet,’ said Nattrass, ‘but we will. Got another couple of questions for you, though.’

Donovan said nothing, waited. He was aware, through his peripheral vision, of Turnbull prowling the room. His actions irritated Donovan. He was coming to really dislike the man.

‘As we said earlier,’ said Nattrass, ‘Maria Bennett’s notebook contained details of Colin Huntley.’

‘As does your laptop.’

Donovan turned. Turnbull was standing by the desk, scrolling up and down the screen. He looked at Donovan, vindication and triumph in his eyes.

Nattrass threw him a questioning glance.

‘You mentioned it yourself,’ said Donovan. ‘Said Maria had been looking into it. So I did, too. Wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I didn’t.’

‘And we wouldn’t be doing ours properly if we didn’t question you on it,’ said Nattrass. ‘Did you find anything?’

Donovan flattened his eyes, looked at Nattrass. ‘I’d just started looking.’

Nattrass’ flat, poker eyes never left his. She nodded.

‘We’ve had a look at Ms Bennett’s mobile phone records. The
Herald
supplied them to us. Most of the calls we can trace. But there’s one we can’t. An unregistered number. She called it approximately six hours before her death. They then returned the call.’ She read the number out.

‘Ring any bells?’ said Turnbull, pleased with himself.

Nattrass glanced at him, unable to hide her irritation with her junior colleague. She turned back to Donovan, poker-faced once more.

Donovan recognised Jamal’s number. Shook his head slowly. Said nothing.

‘We’ve got an eyewitness saying that when Ms Bennett approached Caroline Huntley’s flat she was accompanied by, and I quote, “A coloured lad. Looked like one of them rappers.”’ She shrugged, gave him the poker face. ‘Anything?’

Donovan tried to return the poker face.

‘No,’ he said. He resisted the urge to swallow. Or look away. Or blink.

Nattrass didn’t drop her gaze.

‘Mr Donovan, we want to find Maria’s killers as much as you do. What were you working on when she died?’

Donovan felt Turnbull circling behind him. Making him feel uneasy.

‘Does that matter?’ asked Donovan.

Nattrass sighed.

‘Look,’ said Turnbull, standing directly in front of Donovan, legs apart, hands on hips, ‘it’ll be better in the long term if you cooperate. Better for you, I mean.’

Donovan looked up. Eyes the same level as Turnbull’s crotch.

‘Or what?’ he said. ‘You’ll give me a lap dance?’

Nattrass looked away. Donovan caught the ghost of a smile on her lips. Turnbull reddened.

‘Right …’ he said.

Nattrass intervened.

‘We’ve spoken to her newspaper,’ she said, ‘and they’ve told us she was up here working on a story with you. They couldn’t tell us what. Told us to speak to either yourself or Francis Sharkey.’

‘And you are.’

All three turned to the door. There stood Sharkey, unable to stop grinning at the dramatic impact of his arrival.

‘The door was open, so …’ He shrugged.

Sharkey entered the room, handed his card to Turnbull. ‘Francis Sharkey. I represent good ship
Herald
and all who sail in her. Even those—’ he looked at Donovan ‘—who just get caught in her slipstream.’

Donovan frowned, opened his mouth to speak. Sharkey ignored him.

‘Now,’ said Sharkey, voice polite yet commanding, ‘since I’ve introduced myself, would you be so kind as to supply me with your names?’

Nattrass told him, handed him her card. Indicated Turnbull.

Sharkey nodded. ‘Good. Well, now that introductions have been made, I believe you had questions to ask both myself and my client.’

Sharkey looked between the two of them. Turnbull wanted to go ahead, but Nattrass indicated they should leave.

Turnbull, begrudgingly and silently, did so. Nattrass turned to Donovan.

‘Remember our earlier conversation, Mr Donovan,’ she said, voice hushed.

‘Which?’ said Donovan. ‘The one about exchanging information or about me not playing cowboy?’

‘Both,’ she said.

Donovan nodded.

‘You’ve got my card.’ Nattrass stood up, nodded at Sharkey and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Sharkey smiled at Donovan, pleased with himself. ‘If I hadn’t been a newspaper lawyer they’d have had us down the station by now,’ he said. ‘Trying to sweat the truth out of us in a tiny little room.’

Donovan just stared at him. Sharkey’s jocular mask disappeared. He became sombre, serious.

‘May I just express my sincerest condolences,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you—’

‘Fuck off, Sharkey,’ said Donovan. He stood up. ‘You’ve kept them off my back. Good. Now get out of my sight.’

Sharkey remained where he was. Looked at Donovan, his expression businesslike.

‘I need to talk to you, Joe,’ he said. ‘Personal differences aside, there are a couple of things we need to discuss. Newcastle’s crawling with media right now, all wanting Maria’s story. I’ve tried to keep them off you, but I think the best thing you can do is talk to one of the
Herald’s
journos. Get your side of the story—’

‘Fuck off, Sharkey. I’m not talking to anyone.’

‘But—’

Donovan crossed to the lawyer. Sharkey took an involuntary step back.

‘I came here to do a specific job. With a specific person, for a specific reason. Unfortunately that person isn’t here any
more. But the job is. And I’m going to see it through.’ He stepped up close to Sharkey, went face to face. ‘And that specific reason had better be there at the end. Or the person who promised it will be in very specific trouble. Got that?’

Sharkey swallowed hard.

‘Listen,’ he said. He looked trepidacious. ‘We still need to talk …’

‘No, we don’t. Now get out.’

Donovan, still eyeball to eyeball, began to walk Sharkey towards the door.

‘I … I can see this isn’t a good time for you … We’ll talk later, when you’re feeling more … receptive … I’m, I’m afraid I have a funeral to organize …’

His words took him over the threshold and out of the door.

Donovan sat back on the bed, spent. He rubbed his face with his hands, sighed. He looked at the laptop, crossed to it, sat before it. Read, from start to finish again, all the information on Colin Huntley. Twice.

Thirty-five minutes later, he sat back rubbing his eyes.

He knew what to do next.

He switched the shower off, body tingling, and began to towel himself dry.

Remembered the phone call he had made the previous day to Peta. Asking for her and Amar to help find Jamal.

‘Will you be coming along, too?’ she had asked.

‘No,’ said Donovan.

‘Why not?’

Donovan sighed.

‘Because I’ve got to go home.’

Donovan lurched forward, opened his eyes. He had been asleep again.

‘Good, you’re back,’ said a voice next to him. ‘You can keep an eye out for coppers.’

Donovan looked around, momentarily confused. Then he remembered. Peta’s car, Peta driving. Headed towards London. He checked the speedometer: touching a hundred on the outside lane of the M1.

The previous day’s phone call: Peta had persuaded him to allow her to accompany him while he went to London to get his old laptop, go through his old notes. Visit his old home. Where his wife and daughter still lived.

She had weighed and chosen her words carefully. She could drive Donovan, be a sounding board for anything that came up. That kind of thing. Her interviews had been done, everything taken care of. Amar was more than capable of running the business, fielding any new offers of work. Finding Jamal, even.

She had put forward a very persuasive argument.

Donovan felt she was keeping something back or not telling him something. But he didn’t feel this extended to a hidden or separate agenda, so he had agreed. Glad of the company but not wanting to admit it.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘But you’ve got to emphasize to Amar that when he finds Jamal he’s got to make him feel safe. Safe. Right?’

‘Right.’

‘That’s the only way we can get him to stay in one place and be settled long enough to talk to us with any degree of recall about what’s on that disc. What was on that disc.’

If Jamal’s still there, thought Donovan. If he can be found.

‘OK.’

Decided.

A car in the middle lane gave a small, vague signal, began to drift to the outside lane. Peta pressed the horn, flashed her lights. The car moved swiftly back, as if jolted awake from a lilting dream. The Saab cannonballed past.

‘Testosterone levels high today?’ asked Donovan.

‘Are cars just for boys, then?’ Peta replied, eyes staying ahead of her.

Donovan said nothing.

‘I’d hate to be thought of as a girlie girl.’

‘Heaven forbid.’

Peta looked briefly at him, smiled. Pushed down harder on the accelerator.

Donovan had always had an ambivalent relationship with cars, taking public transport whenever possible and viewing them only as a necessary evil. Donovan would never have driven like Peta was doing; he was too fearful of crashing. Peta handled the Saab with the skill of a rally driver: a speed junkie but in complete control.

Smoothly guiding the car like a heat-seeking missile.

Donovan shook his head. Resumed his lookout for police.

They reached Crouch End by early dusk.

The flat, wide sterility of the M1 had given way to the choked, claustrophobic North Circular. The road encircled Inner London like a too-tight elastic band round a wrist, keeping it held together but throbbing painfully.

Tree-lined streets and premium-priced flats of unremarkable design gave way to characterless retail parks, floodlit
billboards and urban blight. Cars were driven in neo-grid-locked, selfish desperation; traffic moved like one huge, Darwinistic, carbon monoxide-pumping snake.

Even Peta seemed cowed.

‘Don’t know how anyone could live here,’ she said.

‘It’s the place to be,’ said Donovan.

‘You really believe that?’

Donovan looked out of the window. Everything seemed squashed together, crushed down, crowded both in and out. Aggression behind every encounter, easily escalating: accidental pavement collision becoming territorial threat becoming call for retaliation becoming nasty, bloody fight.

Urban paranoia.

London living.

‘Not any more,’ he said.

He directed her off the North Circular, away from urban survivalism through more affluent, leafy areas. Although the houses became bigger, the streets wider, Donovan couldn’t shake the feeling of paranoia, of threat.

Maybe it’s just being out of the city so long, missing its rhythm, its beat, he thought. Maybe it’s me.

Maybe it’s who I’m going to visit.

They drove into the Broadway, the heart of Crouch End. Independent bookshops, exotic restaurants and cafés, gas-tropubs and expensive, exclusive furniture shops. All well-preserved Edwardian and Victorian architecture, huge, mature trees dotted along the streets.

‘This is quite pleasant,’ said Peta.

‘I used to think so.’

And he did. As they drove, his mind slipped back a few years and he could almost glimpse his younger, more confident and idealistic self walking along the pavement. The working-class northern kid with the glittering, award-winning media career ahead of him, the beautiful Scottish wife
who directed TV news and current affairs programmes at his side, the young family. A man with no concept of failure, only success.