Speak No Evil by Martyn Waites Read Free Book Online Page B

children. Forced into prostitution at a depressingly early age by her father, she had grown up working the only way she knew how. By selling her body. Anne Marie, or Mae as she had been known then, had been born when Monica Blacklock was only seventeen and already her looks were fading due to years of abuse, her body tired and exhausted. But she still needed to earn so she had begun to specialize. S & M. Those punters cared less about looks and more about attitude. If she still had a bit of strength in her arm and a nasty way with her mouth they went away happy. Or at least satisfied.
    But there was one thing she hated even more than herself. Mae. Because the older her daughter became, the more she reminded her of how much she was ageing. And Mae’s increasing prettiness just contrasted with Monica’s increasingly haggard appearance. She began to feel like the child was sucking what life she had out of her.
    So Monica had tried, unsuccessfully, to give her away for adoption. When that failed she had, in desperation, left her with a childless couple and ran away. But Mae had been returned and Monica seemed to be stuck with her. So she resolved to kill her.
    She made the acts out to be accidental: pills that resembled sweets left lying around, a first-floor window left fully open where she was playing. Neither worked. So, with nothing left to lose, she had put Mae to work servicing punters. The S & M ones.
    Looked at in that context, the fact that Mae had, at the age of eleven, killed a toddler wasn’t surprising.
    Donovan had been presented with all these facts before he had started working with her. A literary agent had presented him with a report.
    The call was unexpected but timely. Peta, Amar and Jamal were in the process of leaving for Brighton. There was no one else in the office so he answered it.
    â€˜Hi. Can I speak to Joe Donovan, please?’ A woman’s voice.
    â€˜Yeah, this is me.’
    â€˜I’m sure you don’t remember me,’ she said. She was well-spoken, confident-sounding. Professional but enthusiastic. She clearly enjoyed her work and it showed in her voice. ‘My name’s Wendy Bennett. I’m a literary agent with, well, you’d know them as Morgan and Rubenstein. I’m sure that rings some bells for you.’
    It did. The words transported Donovan back to a time before Albion, before David went missing. When he still had a wife and family. A career. An agent for his freelance writing.
    â€˜God. The last person I expected to hear from.’
    â€˜I’m sure.’ There was warmth in her voice too. ‘I was just an office assistant in those days. Too junior for you to bother with then, probably.’ She laughed.
    She was right. He couldn’t remember her. She continued.
    â€˜Are you still in the market for freelance work?’
    â€˜What makes you ask?’
    â€˜Well … we had an approach. A job. And I thought of you.’
    â€˜After all this time? You’ve got no one else?’
    She laughed. ‘It’s a very specialized job. Would suit someone with your talents down to the ground. Let me tell you about it and you’ll see why.’
    She told him. And he did see why. Wendy Bennett was on the next train to Newcastle to discuss it with him.
    The Living Room on Dean Street was a modern, stylish restaurant. Attached to a boutique hotel, it catered to an aspirational, urban, hip clientele. And – which was why Donovan had chosen it – expense accounts. The sleek, modern décor had been designed to complement the high-ceilinged Georgian architecture. It felt, he thought, catching glances of the ways in which the other diners surreptitiously managed to get themselves noticed, exactly like it was supposed to.
    Wendy Bennett was, Donovan assumed, in her early thirties. She had brown hair, brown eyes and a wide, confident smile that showed perfect teeth and had engaged him immediately. She was full-figured, curvy in