Behind Dead Eyes

by Howard Linskey

  They ate the dinner she cooked then watched a video he had chosen from her local Blockbuster. She gave up on it during the second car chase and read a book instead. It was all about organised crime in the north-east in the sixties and seventies and was full of infamous characters, most of them long dead. It told of beatings, protection rackets and wars over the control of slot machines in pubs and working men’s clubs. There were bent coppers, corrupt politicians, unsolved murders and links with London gangsters like the Kray twins. Helen felt as if she was immersing herself in the history of the criminal world she was now reporting on. Even with the noise of the idiotic action movie in the background she couldn’t put it down.

  ‘That’s a cheerful read,’ Peter told her at one point, between shootouts.

  Later, they went to bed. ‘Do you mind if we don’t?’ she asked and he sighed as if this was the most unreasonable thing he had ever heard.

  ‘No,’ he said simply, which of course meant yes and she wondered if he was about to remind her of the cost of his rail ticket.

  He couldn’t have been too bothered though, because he was asleep and snoring in minutes, leaving Helen wide awake and restless. Half an hour later she gave up on sleep, went into the living room and began to read her book once more.

  The following morning Tom drove into the private underground car park, ignoring the warning signs about wheel clamping being the likeliest option, unless he was a legitimate client. The building housed a number of legal firms and nobody could possibly know who he was here to see.

  He climbed the stairs to a second floor that opened out into a reception area with soft leather chairs in front of a handful of glass-walled offices. The reception desk of Stone, Nixon and Stone was manned by an unsmiling guardian who regarded him suspiciously as he advanced on her.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr Nixon,’ said Tom with what he hoped was an air of complete confidence.

  The receptionist’s face darkened. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘I’ve phoned several times but nobody returned my calls so I thought I’d drop by.’

  ‘You’re the reporter,’ she said as if it made sense now, ‘Mr Cardey.’

  ‘Carney,’ he corrected her, ‘Tom Carney. I’m working on a story that features Stone, Nixon and Stone. Mr Nixon will want to know about it before it goes to press.’

  ‘I hardly think so,’ she said, ‘or he would have called you back. We don’t speak to journalists.’

  ‘Even ones who are about to put your firm on the front page of a newspaper read by four million people?’ He was bluffing but she looked a little less self-assured for a moment before quickly regaining her composure.

  ‘I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave,’ she told him icily.

  There was a small heap of glossy brochures on the reception desk and Tom picked one up. ‘Background reading,’ he told her.

  ‘If you don’t leave this minute I will have to call the police.’

  ‘Okay,’ Tom said, irked by the woman’s sense of superiority, ‘see you on the front page then,’ and he glanced at her name badge, ‘Carol.’

  Her face flushed at this and she hissed, ‘Get out.’

  Tom gave her his best disarming smile then left.

  ‘I think you should know,’ the old man warned him, ‘that I called the police.’ He took a step back when Bradshaw turned to face him, as if to avoid an imaginary blow from the man standing on his neighbour’s driveway.

  ‘I am the bloody police,’ Bradshaw told the wiry old man behind the hedge that lay between them. He produced his warrant card and showed it to Tom Carney’s neighbour.

  ‘Oh,’ he flushed, ‘well, how was I supposed to know you weren’t a burglar?’

  ‘Do you know the owner of this house?’ asked Bradshaw.

  ‘Yes. Well, no, not really. I don’t know him but I’ve seen him about,’ the old man said.

  ‘Is he around, usually, I mean?’ asked the detective.

  ‘Most of the time. He’s doing the place up, always coming and going with one thing or another: planks of wood, pots of paint.’

  ‘Do you reckon he’ll be back soon?’

  ‘More than likely,’ said the man. ‘Is he in trouble then?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Bradshaw, ‘he’s just assisting us with our enquiries.’ Which had been true once, though not for a while.

  ‘Well,’ said the old man with foreboding, ‘you always say that don’t you, right before you slap the cuffs on.’ He walked back inside his house and Bradshaw heard him lock and bolt the door then slide the chain across.

  Bradshaw walked back along the driveway towards his car. When he was halfway down, two uniformed officers he vaguely recognised suddenly appeared at the other end of the driveway and began to walk towards him. They stopped when they realised who he was.

  ‘You beat us to it,’ the young one said.

  ‘We had a call,’ his older colleague explained, ‘a sighting of, quote, “a highly suspicious-looking person who is very probably up to no good”, unquote.’

  ‘That would be me,’ Bradshaw told them and he had to commend the old man on the accuracy of his description.

  The charity golf day was about to commence as Helen arrived. The contestants, all well-heeled businessmen, were there as guests of Camfield Offshore. They had arrived at the annual event for an early tee-off and been rewarded with bacon rolls, coffee and fresh orange juice served by a bevy of teenage girls dressed in crisp white blouses and dark skirts with hair tied back in ponytails. Helen noticed there wasn’t a girl over twenty among them and each waitress was strikingly pretty. It seemed Camfield had very specific requirements about who could wait on their middle-aged, entirely male clientele.

  The men filed out of the room towards the first tee but Helen’s quarry was not among them. A well-built man in a dark suit approached her. ‘Can I help you, miss?’ he said in a tone that made it clear he was not interested in helping her at all. The absence of a white blouse and ponytail had been a giveaway, she realised, and she was past the retirement age for a Camfield waitress.

  ‘I’m looking for Alan Camfield.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Helen Norton from the Record,’ she explained, ‘the newspaper.’

  The man took out a notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket, made a note of something, presumably Helen’s name and employer, then smiled mockingly at her.

  ‘I’m not working undercover,’ she explained, ‘I’m here legitimately to speak to Alan Camfield in my capacity as a journalist.’

  ‘Mr Camfield rarely grants interviews but if you would like the opportunity to write a profile on him you can submit a written request to our press office,’ he told her.

  ‘I’m not interested in a profile piece.’

  ‘You’d rather harass him at a charity event.’

  ‘Oh it’s a charity event, so why did he invite a gangster?’ she asked. ‘Unless you’re going to tell me that wasn’t Jimmy McCree I saw in the car park, getting out of a big black BMW.’

  ‘Right, that’s it, Miss Norton,’ and he grabbed her by the arm. ‘I asked you nicely to leave and you refused to comply, so I’m escorting you from the premises.’ He started to tug her by the arm towards the entrance.

  ‘Get off me,’ she demanded but he didn’t break stride. ‘You didn’t ask me to leave …’

  ‘Then I’m asking you now.’

  ‘You can’t do this,’ she told him, ‘you’re hurting my arm. This is assault.’

  ‘Is it?’ He could not have sounded less interested. ‘Mr Camfield has hired the whole course for the day. This is private property and you are trespassing at an invitation-only event.’ He’d already marched her out through the main door and was pulling her across the gravel driveway towards a row of cars. ‘Yours, I presume,’ he said nodding at the little Peugeot parked at the end of a row of Mercedes, BMWs and Jaguars.

  Helen saw a group of men on the horizon to her left, heading out towards the first
tee. She shouted, ‘Get off me!’ as loudly as she could causing some of them to stop and turn to see what was amiss. They were greeted by the site of a young woman being dragged towards her car by a be-suited security man.

  ‘Scott.’ The word was delivered with just the right amount of calm authority to halt the security man, who let go of Helen’s arm. She scowled at him and clutched the spot he had gripped. Then she turned to look at the half-dozen men staring back at her. At their centre stood Alan Camfield, watching her intently. Next to him was the unmistakable figure of Jimmy McCree. It crossed her mind to march over to Camfield and protest about her rough treatment, while firing off some questions about his choice of guests and possibly even his plans for the Riverside development.

  ‘Don’t … even … think … about … it,’ hissed Scott, enunciating each word slowly through gritted teeth and she realised the security man would probably relish the chance to harm her if she shamed him twice in front of his boss. ‘On your way.’

  The golfers had already turned their backs and were marching over the horizon to their golf day. She wondered what Camfield would tell them about her. Was she merely a reporter demanding an interview at an inappropriate time or perhaps she was an anti-capitalist environmentalist who thought profit was a dirty word.

  Helen climbed into her car and steered it down the driveway. She could clearly make out the surly figure of Scott in her rear-view mirror, watching her until she passed through the gates of the golf club.

  Tom waited in the underground car park for nearly ninety minutes, hoping that Nixon would eventually emerge. He had not really expected to be admitted to the inner sanctum and was fully prepared for a lengthy wait. On the passenger seat next to him was the firm’s brochure, opened on the double page entitled ‘Partners’. Martin Nixon’s bespectacled face stared out from it self-importantly.

  Tom read then re-read the copious notes he had taken, glancing up occasionally when the lift doors opened and another serious-looking individual departed. He occupied his time making a list of people to talk to, not including the lawyer who was eluding him. Top of that list was Annie Bell, the loyal, long-suffering wife who still stood by Richard. Was she too good to be true? Tom wanted at least to know why she was so convinced her husband did not kill his lover. He’d like to speak to her father too; the man who had employed his son-in-law as his Sales Director. Tom had to wonder if that appointment had been based solely on merit. Then there was Freddie Holt, the supposedly ruthless millionaire who’d been cuckolded by Bell and humiliated when the newspapers printed every detail of the case. Mark Birkett was an old friend from college who had been summoned by the defence as little more than a character witness. That had not gone as well as they might have hoped when Birkett had been forced to confirm a violent incident from Richard’s past involving his old girlfriend. Then there was Nicole – or ‘Naughty Nicole’ – as the press had christened Rebecca’s supposed best friend in her exclusive, confessional interview. He wanted to speak to Richard Bell’s ex as well. If anyone knew what the man was capable of in a dark moment it was her. He surveyed the list:

  Martin Nixon – lawyer

  Annie Bell – loyal wife

  Annie’s father – employer

  Freddie Holt – Rebecca’s husband

  Mark Birkett – Richard’s best man

  Nicole – Rebecca’s friend from the cruise boat

  Amy Riordan – Bell’s ex

  It seemed enough to be going on with for now.

  Finally, a man emerged from the lift who looked a lot like Martin Nixon. Tom glanced again at the photograph in the brochure then back at the man in the raincoat who was walking briskly towards an enormous silver Mercedes, briefcase in hand.

  It was him.

  Tom got out of his car before Nixon could elude him.

  ‘Mr Nixon!’ he called and the figure stopped in his tracks and turned to face Tom. ‘Could I have a quick word?’

  If Tom was hoping that Nixon might not at first realise who he was he was soon disillusioned. ‘I don’t speak to reporters,’ said the lawyer, who had obviously been well briefed by his receptionist.

  ‘You’re clearly a man in the know,’ Tom told Nixon as he began to climb into his car, ‘so you will be aware of who I write for.’

  ‘I have no interest in who you write for Mr …’ He had clearly forgotten Tom’s name already. ‘I simply do not speak to reporters,’ he said that last word like it was an infectious disease, ‘ever. Is that clear enough for you?’

  At this point the lawyer was climbing into his car, giving him a look that clearly said ‘Back away,’ but Tom didn’t move. Instead he replied, ‘It certainly is but I really would advise against that,’ his tone was conciliatory, ‘unless you want a fine reputation built over years destroyed overnight. I’ll be making some pretty strong claims. If you don’t respond, people will assume you have no problem with my allegations.’

  Nixon took his leg out of the car. ‘What allegations?’

  ‘My argument will be that an innocent man may be serving a lengthy prison sentence because he failed to get satisfactory legal representation from your firm. It’s my responsibility as a journalist to give you the right of reply but it really doesn’t matter. I can simply put that you refused to comment. It would certainly make my life simpler.’ And when Nixon hesitated, Tom said, ‘Sorry to have taken up your valuable time,’ then he began to walk away. He’d taken a few steps and begun to question whether his bluff had failed when he heard a single, slightly panicked word from Nixon.

  ‘Wait,’ he urged. Tom turned back to face Nixon, who looked decidedly uncomfortable now, ‘which case?’

  Tom made a show of looking round the underground car park. ‘I don’t think it would be proper to discuss it down here, do you?’

  When the lift doors opened, the receptionist was surprised to see her boss again so soon and at first she wondered what he might have forgotten. When she realised Tom Carney was walking calmly behind him, her surprise turned to shock as they both headed for Nixon’s office.

  ‘Coffee, Carol,’ Nixon told her curtly then added, ‘and biscuits.’

  Tom grinned at her then and enjoyed the look of indignation on her face as she was dispatched to provide him with refreshments.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bradshaw waited for an hour, hoping Tom had just nipped out for a tin of paint, but he did not return. He decided to give the reporter ten more minutes but realised he faced a frustrating day, involving repeat visits to Carney’s small semi-detached house until he finally nabbed him.

  While he waited, Bradshaw’s thoughts idly turned to his girlfriend. He and Karen were an unlikely couple. She was tall, blonde and beautiful with a gym-toned figure that would normally have been enough to keep her well out of his league, but when Karen met Ian for the first time, he was at his absolute best, for he was unconscious. There was no way he could mess things up with a terrible opening line and nerves were never going to get the better of him. Karen was a WPC sent to check on him at his hospital bed by a concerned DCI Kane when Bradshaw nearly drowned. She had brought him fresh clothes from his home and instead of being disgusted by the mess in his flat, had decided he was like a lot of single guys: hopeless without a woman in his life. He later discovered the nurses had done half the work for him by assuring Karen he was a bloody hero. Although he had done everything they claimed he had done, he still couldn’t help feeling like a bit of a fraud. When he eventually came round to find this angelic figure smiling down at him he had been quick to dismiss his achievements and she, naturally, assumed he was just being modest.

  Bradshaw’s unease did not stop him asking her out for a drink when she popped round to his flat a few days later to ‘see how he was doing’. Later she freely admitted she hoped he would invite her on a date.

  The past eighteen months had been a bit of a whirlwind for a man who hadn’t had a girlfriend in a long while. As well as numerous visits to pubs, restaurants and cinemas there had been
, he had to admit, some pretty amazing sessions in the bedroom.

  It was true that Karen was not his usual type and they did often run out of things to say to each other, having quite different views on the world. She tended to care a lot more than he did about station gossip, frivolous TV shows and the need to get down to the gym four times a week as an absolute minimum. He went with her though and Karen assumed he was as obsessed with burning calories as she was. In truth he exercised because he always felt better afterwards and it helped to banish the low moods before they took a hold. He didn’t tell Karen about this because he instinctively knew she would never understand.

  There was still no sign of Tom Carney and Bradshaw figured he had better get back to the rest of the team. The very last thing he wanted was to be in DI Tennant’s bad books. As Bradshaw drove away he noticed a curtain twitch at the house next door to Tom’s.

  ‘Here comes trouble,’ remarked her editor as Helen walked into the newsroom.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A certain high-powered London-based PR agency has been on the phone to me. They represent Alan Camfield.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘I got a pretty lengthy lecture about not allowing my reporters to intrude on property that has been privately hired for a charitable event, namely a very fancy golf course not too many miles from here.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes,’ Graham went on, ‘words like trespass, illegal, unethical and Press Complaints Commission were mentioned.’

  ‘Right,’ she said unsurely and waited for the telling-off that would naturally follow.

  ‘I used a few choice words myself; including freedom of the press, public interest and finally fuck off and don’t ever bother me again,’ he told her. ‘Don’t worry, Helen, I’ve got your back.’

  Her smile was warm. ‘Thanks, Graham. I really appreciate it and sorry for the hassle I caused you.’