Behind Dead Eyes

by Howard Linskey

  ‘I’m a bit late returning my library books this month,’ said Tom, ‘if you’re having a clampdown on that then now is the time to warn me.’

  ‘Trouble with you, mate,’ Bradshaw said, ‘you’re your own worst enemy.’

  ‘How’s that exactly?’

  ‘You don’t do yourself any favours.’

  ‘You mean I don’t do enough favours for the police,’ countered Tom, ‘like suppressing stories about incompetence or turning a blind eye to corruption.’

  ‘Corruption?’ asked Bradshaw. ‘If you could prove corruption you wouldn’t have left the names out of the stories.’

  ‘I would have thought you’d approve of that approach.’

  ‘No one’s perfect, Tom, coppers included. This job has a way of getting to you. Some people cut corners when that happens or they throw their weight around a bit too much, but it’s usually because they are under pressure and desperate to get a result.’

  ‘Does that make it right? Do you behave like that?’ When he received no answer from the detective Tom added, ‘So why should they?’ Then he said, ‘I spoke to a lot of people.’

  ‘And how many of them were criminals?’ Bradshaw shook his head. ‘I hope that one day, if anybody questions your conduct, they will give you the benefit of the doubt before they ruin your career on the word of a bunch of crooks.’

  ‘Most of them were crooks, yes,’ admitted Tom, ‘pissed-off ones: drug dealers who were shaken down instead of arrested, streetwalkers who had to give freebies so they could carry on working for a living …’

  ‘So they claim …’ said Bradshaw ‘… and most criminals will say anything to get a police officer into trouble.’

  ‘You have detectives in Durham Constabulary who use blackmail and extortion on a daily basis, expect a cut of a criminal’s enterprise instead of locking him up and that doesn’t concern you?’ asked Tom. ‘Or are you only interested in catching real villains.’

  ‘You think we’re all the same, don’t you? All coppers are bastards, all of us bent and on the take?’

  ‘No!’ snapped Tom. ‘But what I don’t understand is why honest cops always bend over backwards to save the crooked ones. I don’t believe you’re all on the take, or even half of you. I’m willing to subscribe to the rotten apple theory. The vast majority of serving police officers are more honest than me but let’s just say that five per cent … no … make it one per cent of detectives are as corrupt as I believe these men were. There are more than one hundred thousand police officers in the UK, so that’s a thousand people like them. Get rid of those guys, instead of quietly ignoring the problem, and I’ll stop writing the articles!’

  ‘That’s exactly what we are doing, Tom.’

  ‘So where are those men now,’ asked Tom, ‘on remand or bailed to appear before magistrates at some later date?’ Bradshaw didn’t answer. ‘Go on, tell me.’

  ‘Currently off sick,’ the admission hurt Bradshaw, ‘as if you didn’t know.’

  ‘Well, there’s a shock. Let me guess: depression? No, stress! You get more sympathy for stress. How long before a guilty man quietly slips away into early retirement? That’s what your lot always do, isn’t it?’

  ‘Jesus, I hate it when you say your lot like we are all in it together!’

  ‘You know that old saying: about being part of the solution or part of the problem?’

  ‘Look, Tom, I didn’t come here to have a row with you. I didn’t even come here to ask for your help. It’s Frank Jarvis who needs that, not us. He’s the one who’ll suffer if he never finds his daughter. He just wants to meet with you – but if you won’t help him because you still bear a grudge against Durham Constabulary, then that’s your prerogative.’ Tom didn’t respond to that. Instead he left the room with the beer he had been drinking and went into the kitchen.

  Bradshaw hoped he was thinking it through. He drained the dregs from his beer while he waited and when Tom returned the journalist said quietly, ‘It’s just … I’ve got a lot on at the moment.’

  ‘I can see how the DIY might be taking up all of your precious time but I’ll leave this here just in case.’ Bradshaw placed a Manila folder full of documents on the table in front of him. ‘There’s enough here to give you an overview. Like I said, a man is suffering right now so if you wake up in the morning and change your mind about working with us … then I’ll see you at the Rosewood café. Breakfast will be on me if you are mature enough to accept it.’

  Ian Bradshaw left, but as he was walking down the driveway, Tom appeared at the door behind him. ‘Ian,’ he called and when Bradshaw turned back to face the journalist, hoping he’d had a change of heart, Tom called, ‘you’re a sanctimonious prick at times. Has anyone ever told you that?’

  ‘No,’ replied Bradshaw cheerfully, ‘but I’ve been called far worse things.’

  ‘I’m bloody sure you have,’ replied Tom as he closed the door firmly behind him.

  Tom Carney didn’t sleep that night. Instead he lay awake while reminding himself of numerous good reasons for avoiding another partnership with Durham Constabulary, even if they had sent a bloke he usually had a high opinion of to act as peace maker.

  Tom was busy enough with the Rebecca Holt case. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced the jury had convicted Richard Bell of murder on the strength of a collective aversion to his personality, coupled with previous evidence of a loss of control against a woman years earlier. The lack of an alibi didn’t help either. To be truthful, Tom Carney did not know whether Richard Bell was a murderer or not. Bell could very well be conning him to evade justice but Tom was intrigued enough to probe deeper to find out what really happened to Rebecca.

  But, and there was a big but, he would struggle to do this without cooperative contacts in the local police force. In the past he could have called up Ian Bradshaw and asked him to check a fact or give him a bit of inside information, but that avenue was now closed to him. In fact, he knew that if he reopened an old case like the Rebecca Holt murder this would only serve to annoy Bradshaw’s superiors further, since they already had their conviction and would not want its veracity threatened by a meddlesome reporter.

  There was also his financial situation. Richard Bell’s family would pay him a retainer while he worked on the case and he was glad of this, since it might help him to keep his home, but even working on the case part time would rob him of the hours he needed to finish the seemingly never-ending project. If the police were willing to pay him too Tom could hire someone to finish all of the jobs in the house. Then he could sell it and go back to what he was really good at. He couldn’t do that while he was embroiled in an ongoing feud with Durham Constabulary though.

  Finally, there was the girl to think of. Tom knew a favourable outcome was unlikely at this stage but whatever had happened to Sandra, her family deserved to learn the truth, however painful that might be; rather than see out the rest of their lives in a terrible limbo, not knowing if their daughter was alive or dead.

  Tom sat up then, pulled back the covers and climbed out of bed. ‘What’s the bloody point?’ he asked himself, as he gave up on sleep and trudged downstairs. He made a cup of tea then picked up the photograph of Sandra Jarvis that was next to the file Bradshaw had left him. The girl’s unsmiling face gave her an enigmatic appearance, as if she was deliberately harbouring a secret.

  ‘What happened to you?’ he asked Sandra’s picture. ‘Where did you go?’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Rosewood café had one of those bells that rang when the front door opened. Ian Bradshaw glanced over at the door’s steamed-up window every time the bell made a sound.

  On the sixth time it rang, his vigilance was rewarded. ‘I didn’t expect you to turn up.’ Bradshaw looked into a tired face with dark marks under the eyes.

  ‘I’m always happy to take a breakfast from Northumbria Police,’ Tom told him.

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to think of it as a bribe.’

  �
��Right now, for a double bacon butty I’d sell my soul, along with all of my journalistic principles.’

  ‘What principles?’ scoffed Bradshaw then he grinned. ‘We can throw in a fried egg if you like and a pot of tea.’

  ‘Coffee,’ Tom insisted and he sat down opposite the detective. A moment later a young girl appeared and Tom waited till she had taken their order.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll help you with your case,’ but before Bradshaw could enjoy his small moment of triumph he added, ‘but there’s one condition.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have to help me with mine.’

  Kane did not invite Bradshaw to sit down and the younger man was glad of it. He wanted to get out of the DCI’s office before Katie Tennant got the hump with him again.

  ‘Did you tell him we’d put him on the payroll?’ asked Kane.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bradshaw.

  ‘And?’

  ‘It wasn’t enough.’

  ‘The greedy bastard!’ the DCI flared.

  ‘I don’t mean the money,’ Bradshaw said quickly, ‘it’s not about that.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘He’s working on something else,’ said Bradshaw, ‘and you’re not going to like it.’ He explained Tom Carney’s interest in the Rebecca Holt case then.

  ‘You’re joking,’ was Kane’s response and Bradshaw wondered why people always said that, even when it was patently obvious no one was joking.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Why does he want to open up that can of worms? Richard Bell was tried and convicted.’

  ‘But the evidence was largely circumstantial,’ said Bradshaw, adding hurriedly, ‘according to Carney.’

  ‘I’m familiar with the case, I was SIO on it,’ Kane reminded Bradshaw, ‘and there was enough there to satisfy us and the CPS that there was a reasonable chance of a conviction in a murder trial. The jury agreed with us and Bell got life … but he’s convinced Tom Carney he’s innocent?’

  ‘Carney is not saying he’s innocent, just that there is some doubt about his guilt. He thinks the jury might have been influenced by Bell’s personality.’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ admitted Kane, ‘the man shagged everything that moved.’

  ‘Bell’s family are hiring him to take another look at the case. They want him to discover new evidence that might exonerate Bell.’

  ‘I’m thinking of the shortest verse in the Bible right now,’ admitted Kane.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Jesus wept,’ Kane sighed. ‘He won’t find anything, we went over it all endlessly.’

  ‘Then it probably won’t do any harm,’ offered Bradshaw. ‘He’s promised he’ll keep an open mind and if he uncovers anything that Richard Bell won’t want to hear, he’ll tell him anyway.’

  ‘Including proof that he did it?’

  ‘Including that.’

  ‘So he’s too busy to help us?’

  Bradshaw hesitated. ‘Well he did make one suggestion, but I strongly suspect you are not going to like it.’ Bradshaw wasn’t sure he liked the suggestion either.

  ‘Go on,’ said Kane impatiently, ‘out with it.’

  ‘He says he will help us with our case if we help him with his.’

  ‘Ha! He wants us to investigate a case we’ve already looked into and taken to a satisfactory conclusion, so we can undermine ourselves?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘The cheek of the man.’ Kane fell silent for a long while then. Bradshaw knew his boss was pondering Tom Carney’s bizarre offer. He was more than a bit surprised when the DCI suddenly said, ‘What harm can it do? You said that yourself.’

  ‘So you want us to help him with the Richard Bell case?’ Bradshaw genuinely wasn’t sure if that was what his boss was suggesting.

  ‘Why not? We can provide him with some inside information, let him read the case files and so on,’ said Kane amiably. ‘If he has a lead that needs following up, assuming it’s a sensible one, then I suppose there’s no harm in lending a hand with it, strictly on the QT, as long as it doesn’t tie you up for too long.’

  ‘Me?’ Bradshaw really didn’t like that idea.

  ‘Of course you,’ said Kane, ‘who else?’

  ‘But I’m working on the burned girl case for DI Tennant. Are you taking me off that?’

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t do that. Katie Tennant would rightly see that as a depletion of her already limited resources. No, you’ll have to do it in your spare time.’

  ‘Spare time? I haven’t got any spare time.’

  ‘Then make some,’ snapped Kane. ‘If Tom Carney will bring his undoubted skills, along with his hugely annoying personality, to bear on the Frank Jarvis case then it will be worth it – because I am telling you now, he’ll not find anything new for Richard Bell. We had some of our best men on it.’

  ‘Skelton and O’Brien,’ said Bradshaw before he could stop himself.

  ‘Amongst others.’ The tone was a rebuke. ‘There were twenty detectives at one point. I put every good man I could find on it in the early days.’ That was another putdown, as Bradshaw had never been asked to work the Rebecca Holt murder.

  ‘I’m not sure I will get away with working on the Sandra Jarvis disappearance and re-examining the Rebecca Holt murder in my spare time, without DI Tennant noticing, sir.’

  ‘Oh I get it,’ said Kane and his eyes narrowed slyly. ‘It’s that bit of skirt you’re seeing, isn’t it? What’s-her-name; the fit one, with the blonde hair?’

  Bradshaw knew he should have taken issue with his senior officer for describing his girlfriend as a ‘bit of skirt’. This was 1995 for God’s sake, not the Dark Ages. He also knew his DCI would be completely baffled to be pulled up by Bradshaw on it. Kane would assume he had actually just paid the younger man a compliment. In truth Bradshaw lacked the energy to fight yet another battle and cursed himself inwardly for his cowardice. How the hell did his boss know who he was seeing, in any case?

  ‘Karen,’ he answered.

  ‘Yes, her,’ Kane nodded, ‘you don’t want to miss too many nights in with Karen now you’re shacked up together.’

  ‘We don’t live together!’ protested Bradshaw. What the hell had made his boss think that?

  ‘Oh, I heard she’d moved in. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll still have most of your evenings together, just put a bit of your leisure time into this and I won’t forget it. I have a solution that will give you some days away from DI Tennant without Katie getting her knickers in a twist,’ he said and he smiled smugly. ‘Mentoring.’

  ‘Mentoring?’

  ‘It’s a new initiative from the Home Office and championed by the Chief Constable. Senior officers select junior officers with potential and give them mentoring. It’ll make you stand out and you might even get fast-tracked.’

  ‘What would I have to do?’

  ‘I’ll get you a copy of my diary; you make a note of the things I’m doing, particularly any off-site stuff, leadership courses, visits to other forces, meetings with local brass or politicians, that kind of thing, and you tag along,’ he said, ‘only you won’t be tagging along, you’ll be working the other cases. Katie Tennant won’t be pleased you’re missing days with her team of course but she’ll like it a lot more than the truth.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t actually be getting any mentoring though, would I?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Kane was dismissive, ‘it’s all a load of rubbish anyway. I mentor you lot every day. Look we can meet up and I’ll have a chat with you about your career, your strengths and your … er … weaknesses, so you can work on them. We’ll even map out a career plan for you and I’ll get one of the girls to type it up so you can show it to Katie Tennant.’ He beamed at Bradshaw. ‘The best thing is we can do all of this in the pub. I’ve always said you learn way more having a few pints with the men above you than you do actually on duty. How does that sound?’

  ‘Gr
eat, sir,’ said Bradshaw quickly, for he knew this was the answer expected of him.

  ‘But Katie cannot know the real reason you are AWOL from her team,’ said Kane. ‘It’s an off-the-record thing you’re doing for me here. DI Tennant will be extremely upset if she finds out about it,’ Kane reminded him, ‘but her anger will be as nothing compared to my vengeful wrath if you fuck this up,’ and he let that sink in, ‘got that, Bradshaw?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good lad,’ said DCI Kane, ‘now enjoy the rest of your day.’

  The statement was terse, short and to the point. ‘I do not comment on private family matters,’ was all Councillor Lynch offered in his defence, so Helen’s newspaper ran the story of his suspicious house sale with that quote at the bottom.

  Helen hadn’t expected Lynch to phone her back the next morning and threaten her. It was so blatant she had trouble accepting that the words were actually coming from the leader of the city council but when she pushed him a little on whether he had ever met the mysterious Mr Cooper, things rapidly escalated.

  ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ he snarled at her, and these ferocious words were so unexpected from someone in a position of power that Helen immediately felt queasy. But Joe Lynch was far from through. ‘I have worked tirelessly for the people of this city for more than twenty years, then you come along and try to destroy me. Well I won’t let that happen, Helen Norton,’ and he paused for a second before adding, ‘of 14a Monks Walk, Jesmond. Yeah,’ he said, ‘I know where you live and I know what kind of person you are.’ Then he used a stream of foul, misogynistic, four-letter words to describe her that she might have expected from a man like Jimmy McCree but not an elected official.

  ‘Now wait a minute …’ she began.

  ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘You’ve already had your say, now it’s my turn. You picked the wrong guy to fuck with, you bitch. I am going to end you, Miss Norton.’ And he abruptly hung up.

  When he had gone, Helen sat at her desk in complete shock. She realised she was still holding the phone uselessly in her hand when she heard its dead tone. She got up and went to the toilet, ran the cold tap then splashed water on her face.