‘Then have a bloody orange juice, for God’s sake,’ snapped Tom. He squinted against the rain that was driven into them by a swirling wind and steered Bradshaw along Sadler Street, which led to the famous cathedral at the top of the hill. They didn’t get that far though, as Tom motioned for Bradshaw to follow him into the Shakespeare, an ancient, tiny pub that provided a comfortable nook against the foul weather.
Tom ordered the drinks while Bradshaw removed his sodden coat and hung it on the back of a chair, where it dripped onto the floor.
‘Kane has given the go-ahead,’ he said when Tom returned with a glass of orange juice and a pint of bitter the detective eyed enviously.
‘Really?’ Tom could hardly have been more surprised. ‘You did tell him my side of the deal?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Of course,’ snapped Bradshaw. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get the help you asked for.’
‘Oh, so that’s it.’
‘What?’
‘He asked you to do the helping didn’t he,’ Tom told him, ‘which explains why you are narked. Well you should have seen that coming.’
‘I’m not narked. I’m just dripping wet and you’re the one with the beer.’ Bradshaw sipped his orange juice then pulled the face a small child makes tasting medicine.
‘I thought you’d be happy. You got Kane what he wanted.’
‘And you got what you wanted too,’ Bradshaw reminded him. ‘I’m just the one stuck in the middle.’
‘Cheer up. It’ll be like old times.’
‘I’m just very busy right now but maybe I’ll have more luck with another case. So, where do we start?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Anywhere,’ he said, ‘everywhere.’
‘That’s helpful.’
Tom realised Bradshaw was determined to play the grump, so he began with the case the detective cared about most. ‘Okay, answer a question I have about Sandra Jarvis. According to the file you left me, she was seen around the city for a couple of days after her father saw her last. They had an argument, she stormed off and didn’t come back, but where did she go?’
‘They drew a blank on that,’ said Bradshaw, meaning his compatriots in Northumbria Police.
‘She didn’t crash with a friend?’
‘If she did, they couldn’t find her … or him … or someone was lying,’ said Bradshaw.
‘So if she didn’t stay at a mate’s, what did she do between rowing with Dad and leaving the city two days later?’
‘We don’t know, but we got a number of sightings when we appealed for witnesses after her disappearance. She was seen in the Grainger market and Northumberland Street. There were also sightings in the Quayside and one at the Metro Centre.’
‘So she went shopping? Doesn’t sound like Sandra Jarvis was too stressed at that point then, but she was definitely last seen at the railway station?’
‘They have a whizzy new CCTV system. An eagle-eyed detective went through hours of footage until he spotted her.’
‘Good for him,’ said Tom and he meant it. ‘And they say your job isn’t glamorous.’
‘It has its moments,’ said Bradshaw, ‘but most of the time it’s mundane slog, like the case I’m working on right now in fact.’ And he told Tom Carney a little about the burned girl and the problems they were having identifying her.
‘And there’s no chance your burned girl could be Sandra Jarvis?’ Tom asked. ‘Not that I’m saying you haven’t thought of that, but if you can’t identify her?’
‘We can rule that out. Sandra Jarvis is considerably taller.’
‘This picture of Sandra taken from the CCTV,’ Tom asked, ‘where is it?’
‘It will be in the case files in Newcastle,’ said the detective,
‘I’d like to see it.’
‘I’ll get you in there,’ he told Tom. ‘They’re holding a lot of information about her that you’ll want to wade through.’
‘And while I’m doing that …’ Tom said slowly.
‘Sounds ominous,’ replied Bradshaw. ‘What do you want?’
‘We had a deal, remember?’ said Tom. ‘I help you with your case and you help me with mine.’
‘Yeah, yeah, what do you need me to do?’
‘Check out the local perverts for me,’ said Tom.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I need you to look into Lonely Lane,’ he told the detective. ‘I want to know everything that goes on down there.’
As Tom drove back into Newcastle he kept the radio on out of habit. At this time of the day, between the lunch-time news and drive-time, the local station hardly played any music, having long since realised phone-ins with unpaid members of the general public were far cheaper than paying royalties for songs. In this instance, talk really was cheap. Today’s topic was a popular one, as it involved the region’s unofficial religion, football. Newcastle United were top of the league and finally poised to end their decades-long wait for a trophy. They were so far ahead of anyone else that failure seemed a virtual impossibility.
‘Howay man,’ a caller assured a sceptical radio host, ‘even Newcastle couldn’t cock this up.’
‘Don’t bet on it,’ muttered Tom as he steered his car into a street full of red-brick, two-up-two-down terraced houses then parked it behind a white van that was so caked in grime someone had used a finger to write, ‘I wish my missus was this dirty,’ in the muck on its rear doors.
Tom knocked at number twenty. She took so long to answer he assumed no one was in, and was about to walk away when the front door swung open.
‘Mrs Jarvis?’ he asked the startled-looking woman who answered.
‘Yes,’ she said in a very quiet voice, as if she wasn’t entirely sure.
‘I’m here to see your husband,’ he told her. ‘I’m Tom Carney.’ He expected her to ask him in but instead she disappeared into the house without another word, leaving the door open. Rather than wait on the doorstep he followed her inside.
As he entered the lounge she was leaving it through the kitchen door and he heard the heavy back door open. She mumbled something that could have been, ‘I’ll get him,’ but it was barely audible. He was left standing in the living room and he was not alone.
An old lady wearing a white cardigan over a floral-pattern dress was sitting in an armchair, peering at him intently, her face cratered by deep wrinkles.
‘Who are you?’ she asked accusingly.
‘I’m Tom,’ he offered, and hoped that might be sufficient explanation.
‘And what do you want, Tom?’ she asked archly, as if everyone who visited the Jarvis household was a con man of some kind.
‘I’m here to help Councillor Jarvis.’ From her age and the fact she seemed quite at home here, this had to be Sandra’s grandmother.
‘Help him with what?’
‘He has asked me to try and find his daughter.’ He knew this revelation could upset the old woman.
‘Oh, that one,’ she said dismissively, ‘she’s a little cuckoo.’
Tom was taken aback by the description of her own granddaughter but from the slightly glazed expression on the old lady’s ancient eyes she did not appear qualified to comment on someone else’s mental stability. She opened her mouth as if she was going to add something. ‘It’s not as if …’
‘Be quiet, Mother,’ snapped Mrs Jarvis, who reappeared suddenly in the doorway. The old woman didn’t seem unduly concerned at being silenced so sharply. The councillor’s wife turned her attention to Tom. ‘He’s not out back. He must be down the allotment.’ She said this as if she couldn’t quite remember whether he had told her or not.
‘Okay,’ Tom said, ‘could you maybe point me in the right direction?’
‘So what can I do for you, Detective Sergeant,’ asked Sergeant Hennessey. He was one of those old hands who was always cheerful because he was edging closer to retirement with every passing day.
‘I’m after some information about Lonely Lane,’ said Bradshaw.
‘Shaggers’ Alley?�
� asked Hennessey. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘It’s something I’m looking into for a case.’ He felt no need to elaborate but needn’t have worried, for Hennessey didn’t even feign interest. ‘I’ve heard it’s like the Wild West out there,’ Bradshaw concluded, expecting the other man to play it down.
‘You would not believe what goes on out there after dark,’ he offered instead, ‘other than the obvious.’ Bradshaw assumed he was hinting about darker deeds than teenage sex and extramarital affairs.
‘We’ve not had many arrests though.’
‘There’s been loads,’ said Hennessey and when Bradshaw looked puzzled he added, ‘just not many charges. Between you and me, we let most of them off with a caution or a warning.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, my dear friend,’ said Hennessey, ‘if we arrested every man down there with his cock out, the cells would be fit to bursting and the Assistant Commissioner would have my guts for garters.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Bradshaw and he really didn’t. ‘Surely if these people are caught committing criminal acts we should be arresting, charging and convicting.’
‘Oh my poor naïve soul,’ Hennessey said to Bradshaw condescendingly, ‘it cannot work that way. Why, because all of our recorded crimes would go through the roof in an instant and that’s all anyone in authority cares about these days: stats and figures. No, no, no, we give the perverts a slap on the wrist and send them packing, which hopefully deters some of the less determined ones from getting their todgers out in public again.’
‘So you’re just talking about flashers and the like?’
‘I’m talking about everything,’ he said. ‘We’ve stumbled across gang bangs and even a group of Satanists once, in flowing white robes. We’ve had more than one case of bestiality with farm animals and literally hundreds of married men hooking up with gay boys. Do you want me to charge all of them? I’m sure their wives and families don’t – and they certainly don’t.’
‘What about attacks,’ pressed Bradshaw, ‘on women? Do you ever get anything like that?’
‘Oh God, yeah,’ said the sergeant, ‘every other night.’
Bradshaw was staggered. Hennessey made it sound as if they were discussing trivial stuff like an argument in a pub not men preying on women. ‘Every other night?’
‘I exaggerate of course,’ he conceded, ‘but we get several cases a month where a woman comes in here claiming she’s been grabbed by a man or men in that area.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Deadly,’ he shook his head, ‘but you don’t get it. Trust me, I do most of the interviewing. The vast majority of them were off their tits on drink and suddenly decided it’s a great idea to walk along one of the dozens of lanes that criss-cross the countryside in that part of the world. They go out in those skimpy little outfits, get pissed and head home on their own or they wander up there with a bloke they’ve just met and, when they’ve finished copping off with him, head off by themselves in the middle of the night. I mean, come on, talk about asking for trouble. It’s no wonder they get groped and sometimes worse.’
Bradshaw could not quite believe what the old-timer was telling him. Sergeant Hennessey didn’t seem to care about any of the women who reported these incidents, but before Bradshaw could pull him up on this he was off again. ‘They usually can’t provide any kind of description because the guy has crept up on them from behind. It’s dark, they’re pissed and scared. I mean tell me, how do you investigate that? Knock on every door in Durham and say, “Excuse me, sir, did you grab a bird’s tits last night down Shaggers’ Alley and I’m only talking about the ones who didn’t want you to?” Imagine the paperwork.’
Bradshaw found himself hoping this waste of space was going to take his pension soon, but had to hold his tongue till he had all the information he needed. ‘What about more serious stuff? You ever get men who do more than grope? I’m talking rape or attempted rape.’
‘From time to time,’ he said calmly, ‘but we don’t usually report it like that.’
‘What the hell do you mean?’
Hennessey clearly didn’t like the way Bradshaw had addressed him. ‘Listen, son, you don’t understand what it is like dealing with these types of crimes. A report of stranger rape sets alarm bells ringing all over the place but the conviction rate for rape is unbelievably low. You deal with murder or assault, the accused doesn’t normally say, “It was consensual.” ’ He was putting a stupid voice on now. ‘Or, “She was asking for it.” You get some pissed-up slapper who’s already shagged half the town walking home on her own and she’s dragged into a bush somewhere by a stranger. The first thing his defence lawyer is going to say is “You wanted it and now you feel guilty so you’re crying rape,” and you know what, half the time that’s exactly what’s happened.’ He surveyed Bradshaw to see if he understood his reasoning. ‘I’m telling you, ninety-nine times out of a hundred a jury is going to go along with that.’
‘So it’s the victim’s fault?’ said Bradshaw. ‘Is that what you tell them?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Look, don’t be like that. I’m not callous. I sit them down, make them a cup of tea and give them a biscuit, we even get female officers to have a word with them, but most of the time they end up agreeing with us.’
‘About what?’
‘That it’s not worth pursuing.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘Of course I am. Look, why put yourself through the ordeal all over again when we probably won’t ever find the guy, let alone arrest him. There’s all those intrusive examinations from the doctor, you have to go to court and they pick your whole life apart, the newspapers are jotting it all down and the bloke who’s done it to you is standing in the dock not five yards away. Far better to put it all behind you and get on with your life.’
Bradshaw picked up the photograph on Hennessey’s desk. ‘Your daughter?’ he asked of the dark-haired smiling girl in her graduation robes.
‘Yep,’ he said proudly.
‘Let’s hope she never meets one of the men you’ve been too lazy to arrest.’
‘What did you say?’ He got to his feet as if Bradshaw had stepped over the line. For a moment Bradshaw actually thought a punch might be thrown his way but he was ready for that.
‘No, you hang on.’ Bradshaw towered over the time-server and jabbed him in the chest with a finger. Hennessey hesitated when he saw the look in the detective sergeant’s eyes. ‘How would you feel if someone gave your daughter the advice you’ve been giving the women you meet? You could have been putting some of these guys away but they’re still out there, thanks to you. You’re a bloody disgrace. You’ve forgotten what you’re here for and the sooner you fuck off for good the better.’
Bradshaw was fuming. It wasn’t just Hennessey’s attitude towards the countless women he’d talked out of making a fuss about indecent assault or even rape that infuriated him. When Richard Bell was on trial no one seriously believed a maniac was roaming the area round Lonely Lane, but Bradshaw knew killers often committed less serious offences before their crimes gradually escalated. If Rebecca Holt had been beaten to death by a crazed stranger, it now seemed possible he could have been stopped long before if Bradshaw’s own force had taken the situation seriously. Instead the killer might have been let off with a caution or not even pursued at all. That was a thought that genuinely chilled him.
When the older man sat back down again Bradshaw told him, ‘You’re not a police officer, you’re an accomplice.’
Chapter Nineteen
The allotments were set back from the main road behind an old Methodist chapel, three rows of terraced houses and some playing fields. There was no sign of Frank Jarvis here but the allotments covered a substantial area with paths leading to left and right and a third route that climbed the hill ahead of him. A man who looked to be in his sixties was digging into the soil of the nearest allotment.
‘I’m looking for Frank Jarvis,’ s
aid Tom.
‘Are you, now?’ He ceased his digging for a moment. ‘Well he’s right at the top of the pile, as per bloody usual.’
‘Sorry?’
The man pointed. ‘His allotment’s up the hill,’ he went back to his digging, ‘though it’s wasted on him.’ And Tom was treated to a rambling monologue about how Frank Jarvis didn’t deserve an allotment. Tom tried to interject at that point but the old man wouldn’t be silenced. ‘Thinks because he can grow runner beans, he knows what he’s doing,’ he moaned, ‘well anyone can grow runner beans but this daft bugger doesn’t even know the planting season for potatoes.’ Tom opened his mouth then to say something but before he could: ‘It’s late March at the earliest! April even, you don’t plant them in pigging February when you’ve still got chance of frost …’
‘Anyway …’ Tom said but he wasn’t finished yet.
‘… but there’s no telling a man like that. He always knows best.’
He finally finished his lecture. ‘Not a fan of the councillor then?’ said Tom.
The man stopped digging again. ‘No, I’m not but I don’t discriminate. All politicians are a waste of bloody space.’
‘Interesting you should say that,’ said Tom, ‘some people think he’s one of the good ones.’
The man was annoyed at that. ‘Do they now? Why? Because he still lives in a council house and he’s not on the rob like the rest of them? I doubt they can point to a single thing he’s done for his own people. All he cares about is the city centre and the big projects, but nowt’s changed round here for nigh on twenty years. Who are you anyway and why are you asking about Frank Jarvis?’
‘I’m investigating the disappearance of his daughter.’
‘You’re a copper?’ The man seemed even less impressed now.
‘No, I’m not, but they know I’m working on the case.’
His mood seemed to lighten then. ‘You’re a PI eh? Like that fellah off The Rockford Files? I like that show.’
‘Not quite. I’m just trying to help Jarvis locate her. Obviously he’s very concerned.’
Behind Dead Eyes Page 14
