Simon Beckett - The Scent of Death

I saw space against a wall and made my way over. Although I tried not to make a noise, my entrance hadn’t gone unnoticed. As I eased into the gap I realized I was being watched. Turning to the stage, I found the man who’d been at St Jude’s was staring at me. I’d thought I must have imagined the recognition in his eyes the day before, but there was no mistaking it now. He gave me a short, barely perceptible nod before switching his attention back to the woman speaker.

Do I know him? Baffled, I racked my brain to recall. If we’d met before I didn’t remember it, yet he seemed to know me. I was still puzzling over it when a low voice murmured next to me.

‘Wasn’t expecting to find you here, Dr Hunter.’

The Geordie accent identified Whelan before I even looked round. The deputy SIO squeezed in beside me, giving a quick smile to a woman who shuffled aside to make room.

‘You must be a glutton for punishment,’ he whispered. If he’d seen the nod I’d got from the man on stage, he didn’t mention it. ‘What brings you here?’

‘Just curious,’ I said, keeping my own voice down as well. I could hardly admit I’d nothing better to do.

‘Does DCI Ward know?’

‘I didn’t know myself until about an hour ago.’ If I’d had a chance I might have cleared it with Ward, but I couldn’t see there was any real need when it was a public meeting. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Oh, just keeping a quiet eye on things.’

‘Is Ward expecting trouble?’ She’d told me that local feelings over St Jude’s were running high even before the bodies had been found. But there weren’t any uniformed police in the hall, and I couldn’t see any other of Ward’s officers.

Whelan shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that. Doesn’t hurt to keep tabs on these things, though. You never know who’s going to turn up.’

Or not, I thought, looking again at the unoccupied chair at one end of the trestle table. I nodded towards the people on stage.

‘Who are these?’

‘Community leaders and small-fry activists, mainly. The woman talking now’s a councillor. The one next to her runs a food bank.’ He shrugged. ‘Well-meaning, most of ’em.’

‘What about the man sitting by the empty chair?’

A hard smile touched the policeman’s lips. ‘The jury’s still out on that one. That’s Adam Oduya. Local activist, but in a different league to the rest of them up there. Used to be a human-rights lawyer but he’s set himself up as a self-styled campaigner for “social justice”. He orchestrated most of the protests and rallies to save St Jude’s, and he’s the one who got the bat-protection league or whatever involved. Without him the place would’ve already been flattened.’

There was no clue there why this Oduya might think he knew me. ‘He won’t be popular with the developers, then.’

‘I doubt they’re losing any sleep over it. They’re some big international conglomerate so it’s just figures on a balance sheet to them. It’s the poor sods who live here that get the shitty end of the stick.’

‘You sound like you’re on the protesters’ side.’

‘I’m sympathetic, I don’t deny it. You might not think it to hear me talk but I grew up only a few streets from here.’ He nodded at my surprise. ‘I lived in Blakenheath until my folks moved to Newcastle when I was eight. Married a Londoner, that’s how come I’m back, but this is the first time I’ve been here since. Shocking what’s happened to the place. It was never a rich neighbourhood but not like this. Drugs everywhere, everything knocked down or boarded up, and a twelve-mile trip to the nearest hospital since St Jude’s closed. It’s enough to make you weep.’

He’d begun speaking more loudly, earning an irate look from the woman who’d made room for him. He gave her an apologetic nod and leaned closer, dropping his voice again.

‘The whole area’s crying out for redevelopment, but instead of affordable housing the developers want to throw up another shiny office block. And they’re trying to get their hands on the woods behind St Jude’s as well. It’s ancient woodland, but they say if they’re allowed to develop it they’ll be able to build houses. Oduya says they’re blowing smoke up everyone’s arse, and he’s probably right.’

‘So what’s your problem with him?’

Whelan hitched a shoulder. ‘I can’t disagree with a lot of what he says, I just don’t buy this “social messiah” act he puts across. He’s too much of a self-promoter for my liking. He’s got a popular blog, a massive Twitter following, and he knows how to play the media. Photogenic bugger, I’ll give him that, but I’m not convinced he doesn’t have his own agenda. St Jude’s hasn’t exactly done his profile any harm.’

I looked at the handsome man sitting on the stage. He wore a thoughtful frown as he listened to the woman drone on. ‘What sort of agenda?’

‘Who knows? Whatever ambitions made him jack in a law career. Politics, maybe. The man’s a natural politician, and he could pick his own ticket around here. Ah, here we go. The main event’s starting.’

The speaker was finally winding down, turning to Oduya as she introduced him. As she sat back in her chair, he applauded enthusiastically, prompting a more muted response from the audience. Then, instead of staying seated like the last speaker, he lifted his microphone from its stand on the table and rose to his feet.

‘Thank you, Tanja. And thank you all for coming here tonight. If not for the rain, we might have had a full house.’

He gave an easy smile, deliberately looking around the crowded hall to underline the joke. Amplified, his orator’s voice was even more impressive, and a ripple of laughter came from the audience. It quietened as he grew serious again.

‘Some people say there’s no such thing as community any more, that the ties binding our society have broken down. That nobody cares .’ He nodded, pausing for effect. ‘Well, standing here tonight that’s not what I see. What I see are people who do care. People who’re concerned for their families and neighbours, people who want to make better lives for their children. People who are sick and tired of not being heard!’

His voice climbed to echo off the hard walls of the church hall, earning a spontaneous round of applause. But I noticed how he also moved the microphone slightly away from his mouth, so there wouldn’t be feedback. Whelan was right: Oduya knew exactly what he was doing.

For the next ten minutes he spoke eloquently and with controlled passion. I already knew some of the background to St Jude’s, but then so did everyone there. It made no difference. Oduya commanded everyone’s attention, and I doubt there was an eye in the hall that wasn’t fixed on him.

Coming out from behind the table, he made a show of stepping around the empty chair as he came to stand at the front of the stage and stared out. A hush fell on the audience. He let the silence build.

‘I know I’m not saying anything you haven’t heard from me before.’ He was speaking more quietly now but still held everyone gripped. ‘The closure of our hospital, the theft — and it is theft — of our rights and land to satisfy corporate greed, that’s all old news. We’ve been there and done that. But this isn’t just about land, or buildings, or greed any more. This is about lives . People have died. Yet what do we have from the police? Silence.’

‘Uh-oh,’ Whelan muttered, straightening.

Oduya swept an arm towards the empty chair on the stage. ‘This was an opportunity for the police to speak directly to the people of this community, but instead they chose to say nothing. So where are they? Why aren’t they here?’