Behind Dead Eyes

by Howard Linskey

  Freddie Holt hesitated for just a moment ‘Then we’ll talk inside.’ He jerked his head towards a large Portakabin then set off down the metal steps of the gantry, his heavy steel-toed boots clanging ominously with every stride.

  Helen knocked on the apartment door and waited, then she knocked and waited some more. She was about to leave when she noticed the spy hole in the centre of the door and got the distinct feeling she was being watched through it. Sure enough, her patience was rewarded when the door opened a fraction but stayed on the chain. A woman in her early thirties peered through the gap at her. Tom had suggested Helen might be the best person to interview Amy Riordan and she had agreed, even though it had meant a drive to Leeds. Tom was right. Amy was nervous enough with a woman standing on her doorstep, let alone a man.

  ‘Amy Riordan?’ asked Helen and when the woman did not respond she went on, ‘I’m Helen Norton. I work for a local newspaper in Newcastle.’ She stressed that part, for she assumed Amy would be less forthcoming if she thought she worked for a London tabloid. ‘I’m investigating the Richard Bell case.’

  ‘That case is long over,’ said Amy, her voice barely audible, ‘why dig it all up again?’

  ‘Because there might be some doubt about the conviction.’ It was the shortest explanation Helen could think of. ‘I’ve come quite a long way to speak with you and I was hoping we could talk about Richard.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘No,’ she told Helen, ‘I’ve nothing to say about him.’ And before Helen could utter another word, the door was closed firmly in her face.

  ‘So you’re interested in the truth, are you?’ asked Freddie Holt once they were inside the Portakabin. ‘Well, here it is. Richard Bell beat my wife to death. It’s that simple.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Tom, ‘but there were other suspects.’

  ‘Including me? Oh I’ve heard it all before, in and out of court,’ he sighed, ‘and I have to put up with the gossip as well. Freddie Holt knew his wife was shagging that bloke Bell so he killed her and framed the poor bugger for it. Isn’t that how it goes? I suppose I should be flattered people think I’m capable of something that cunning but Christ, it’s fantasy, man!’

  ‘I tend to agree with you.’

  ‘You do?’ Holt was clearly surprised by that.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘Because I want to know more about Rebecca,’ said Tom, ‘other than the stuff they wrote in the paper.’

  ‘Most of which was bullshit,’ said Holt indignantly, ‘particularly the stuff her supposed best friend said. Do you know that bitch Nicole actually wrote to me to say she was devastated by the article? The woman posed in her bloody underwear next to those words. She took that newspaper’s money then had the nerve to beg me for forgiveness. She actually said the paper made it all up. Lying bitch!’

  Tom decided there and then there would be little point in interviewing Naughty Nicole. ‘I hate to break the news to you, Mr Holt, but they probably did.’

  ‘Aye well, I wrote back to her; told her I hope she gets cancer and dies before she has time to enjoy that money.’

  ‘Was none of it true then, the stuff the newspapers wrote about you and Rebecca?’

  Freddie Holt sighed, ‘Look I am not an idiot. I’m no Tom what’s-his-name …’ He paused to think for a moment before remembering ‘… Cruise. I realise it wasn’t my looks that attracted Rebecca. I thought she felt safe with me, stable. She had no worries, didn’t have to work, nothing. There’s not many can say that these days,’ he looked at Tom for confirmation, ‘is there?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t even need kids. Mine are grown up.’

  ‘Did she want them?’

  ‘No, at least she said she didn’t, but if she did want them we could have worked something out.’ Freddie made it sound like a business contract that was open for negotiation. ‘All I wanted was for her to be happy. I fell and I fell hard. There’s no fool like an old fool. I married a woman twenty years younger than me. What did I expect would happen?’

  ‘You sound angry.’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody angry!’ He seemed to make a conscious effort to calm down before saying calmly, ‘And that’s why I killed her.’

  Tom said nothing, just stared back at Freddie Holt.

  ‘That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it? I got into one of my famous tempers and beat my unfaithful wife to death in a jealous rage? That would suit you, wouldn’t it? It’s about the only thing that would get that toe rag out of his life sentence – if I’d done it and I admitted it to you.’

  ‘So,’ Tom asked, ‘did you?’

  ‘Kill her? Don’t be fucking wet! Of course I didn’t. I loved the bloody woman,’ he was emotional, ‘still do and yes, I know how stupid that makes me sound but … I miss her. Or maybe I just miss the way she made me feel,’ he offered. ‘Perhaps that amounts to the same thing.’

  ‘But she didn’t feel the same way?’

  ‘Evidently not.’

  ‘And you never suspected?’

  ‘I told you I was a fool,’ Freddie said. ‘It does me no credit to admit it.’

  ‘That barrister for the defence,’ Tom knew he was about to tread on delicate ground, ‘gave you a hard time, didn’t he?’

  ‘Thought he could ruffle me, yes.’

  ‘But he didn’t?’

  ‘It takes a lot to knock me sideways and Rebecca’s death had already done that. He was talking nonsense.’

  ‘Because he said you had a better motive for killing your wife than Richard Bell.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why was that again?’

  ‘As if you don’t know.’ Holt gave Tom a dirty look but continued regardless: ‘I was the jealous, controlling husband, wasn’t I? The old, bald unattractive man with the beautiful trophy wife, as that bastard called her, like that was all she was to me. When I found out about Bell I killed her in a fit of jealous rage … except I carefully delayed that burst of temper until I could lure her down a lovers’ lane then murder her in a cold, premeditated manner, which sort of weakened his argument.’

  ‘There was also the money?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Your money. If she divorced you, she still would have ended up with some of your fortune, particularly if you couldn’t prove adultery.’

  ‘Why would she need to leave me to get my money? I gave her everything she could ever want. She had her own credit cards and a separate bank account with an allowance. I never questioned anything she bought. She lived very well.’

  ‘But she was in love with Richard Bell.’

  ‘She was screwing Richard Bell, there’s a difference. I don’t think for one moment either of them would have left the marital home. I was supporting her and from what I heard his wife was carrying him. The two of them wouldn’t have been much cop on their own, would they? He was a bit bloody useless, by all accounts.’ It was clear he took some satisfaction from Richard Bell’s lack of success outside of the bedroom. ‘Just a pretty boy really, though I hear he’s not quite so pretty anymore.’

  ‘You heard about his slashed face?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Holt, ‘and no, I didn’t pay anyone to do that to him, though I can’t say I was devastated when I read about it. I thought it was a form of justice, since looks are all he’s got. Look, maybe I did leave myself open but we all have our weak spots, Mr Carney. I loved Rebecca. Why can nobody else see that? They all think it was just about the sex or having the best-looking bird on your arm when you walk into a restaurant but it wasn’t. I genuinely loved the girl. The lawyers,’ he continued, ‘they all wanted me to get her to sign one of those … what-are-they-called … pre-nuptial agreements like they have in America but I mean …’ he shook his head ‘… you can’t ask your wife to sign something before you marry her in case it doesn’t work out. If you do that you’re bloody doomed from the start.’

  ‘I still can’t see a man like you l
osing half his fortune and a good chunk of his business empire to a young wife who’s been with him for a relatively short time.’

  ‘Look, Rebecca didn’t know how much I was worth. She didn’t even ask me, not the whole time we were together. She knew I was well off and it ran to millions but even fancy divorce lawyers would struggle to put a value on me.

  ‘I suppose at the back of my mind I knew she wouldn’t have been with me if it wasn’t for the money. She liked to be looked after, but I thought we had an understanding that included her not screwing another man when my back was turned. I thought she was different – but she was rotten, just like everybody else.’

  Until that point Freddie Holt had been kind about his late wife, so the sudden departure from the script was quite shocking. ‘You think everyone is rotten?’

  ‘To the core, bonny lad.’

  ‘That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?’

  Holt shook his head calmly. ‘Not at all. It’s self-preservation. Think about it. Everybody is out for themselves in the long run.’

  ‘What about people who do genuinely good things – selfless stuff that benefits other people but not them?’

  He shook his head. ‘They do it so they can feel good about themselves,’ he affirmed. ‘They like people saying how nice they are so it’s just another form of self-interest.’

  ‘That’s a pretty fucked-up world view.’

  ‘It’s realistic pessimism,’ Holt reasoned.

  Tom knew it was none of his business but for some reason he was curious. ‘What about relationships, do you bother with any of that now?’

  ‘I’m through with all of that nonsense. I haven’t got the time or the inclination.’ Then he qualified his statement, as if he didn’t want Tom to get the wrong idea. ‘Everything is still in working order and if I want a woman I have one but there’s nothing to it. I don’t even take them out anymore.’

  ‘You must know some obliging women.’

  ‘Escort girls.’ He said it shamelessly, as if daring Tom to look shocked. ‘They know what you want and there’s no pretence, you pay them, it’s a business deal, the good ones even pretend you’re something special for an hour or so, then you leave and you don’t take any of their baggage with you. I’m a businessman and I respect the honesty of that transaction. You might be judging me right now but you haven’t lived as long as me.’

  ‘I’m not judging you,’ Tom told him. ‘I read an article on you recently. The reporter said you had an estimated wealth of nearly twenty million pounds. That’s bloody impressive … if he didn’t overcall it, of course.’

  ‘Underplayed it if anything.’ Tom correctly surmised the self-made man from Newcastle’s mean streets wanted everyone to know just how successful he had been.

  ‘And you built all that from scratch.’

  ‘I’ve done well, I suppose.’ Holt was trying to sound modest but virtually puffing his chest out now.

  ‘Which gives you a pretty big motive.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You just told me there was no pre-nuptial agreement, so if your wife left you for Richard Bell she could have sued for divorce and taken half of it.’

  ‘Now wait a minute,’ demanded Holt, ‘I had an alibi.’

  ‘Any number of people would be willing to swear they were with you if you asked them to.’

  ‘I didn’t have to ask them,’ he said and there was anger in those words. Tom began to wonder if he could goad the man into letting his guard down. ‘Or bribe them if that’s what you mean. I had no reason to kill Rebecca.’

  ‘You had ten million reasons,’ said Tom.

  Tom quickly realised he’d gone too far. Freddie Holt wasn’t the kind of man to accept that kind of insult. Instead he went for the reporter and pushed him hard, crying out in rage at the same time. Tom was slammed back against the wall of the Portakabin. His tape recorder had been sitting unused in his pocket because he didn’t think Freddie Holt would open up if his every word was recorded and it crashed to the floor now with an ominous sound of shattering plastic.

  ‘You bastard!’ shouted Holt and he immediately grabbed Tom by the throat then started to squeeze, cutting off his air supply. ‘I’ll bloody kill you …’ Holt’s eyes were wild and there was spittle coming out of his mouth as he let loose a stream of insults. Tom tried to protest but he could barely breathe. He pushed against Holt’s bulk, even landed a punch into the man’s torso but Holt didn’t even loosen his grip. He really is going to kill me, thought Tom and panic gripped him as he realised the man might just be capable of that – and it might not be the first time.

  In desperation, Tom did the only thing he could think of to dislodge his attacker. He brought his hand down low, grabbed Holt between the legs and squeezed hard.

  Holt’s choke hold loosened just a little and he cried out in pain but Tom did not let go.

  ‘We are both going to let go of each other at the same time,’ Tom managed to get the words out, despite the pressure on his throat, ‘on the count of three.’ When Holt failed to agree to this he squeezed harder. Freddie Holt almost doubled up right there and then but somehow he stayed upright and kept his fingers round Tom’s throat.

  ‘One … two … three,’ said Tom and he squeezed extra hard then twisted his hand, so that the businessman cried out again and finally let go of him.

  Tom released his grip too and Holt buckled. He went down hard, his eyes seeming to swivel as his body hit the floor like a felled tree. The entire Portakabin shook with the impact. Holt lay still for a while, groaning and holding his crotch.

  Tom took in a few large lungfuls of air then pressed his own hands to his tender throat gingerly, while checking to make sure his assailant wasn’t about to get up again in a hurry. He stooped to retrieve his broken tape recorder and realised it was smashed beyond repair. He surveyed the prone, groaning figure of the businessman, muttered, ‘Thanks for your time,’ and left Freddie lying there on the floor.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘You want me to write to you?’ asked Bradshaw in disbelief.

  ‘New rules,’ explained the voice on the end of the line, ‘new procedure. You can’t just phone us up and ask for a copy of photographic evidence. You could be anyone.’

  ‘I could be,’ admitted Bradshaw, ‘but I’m not. I told you, I am Detective Sergeant Ian Bradshaw of Durham Constabulary and I am formally requesting to view a piece of evidence in the Sandra Jarvis missing person case. You can easily check if I’m legit just by calling me back on the Durham Police switchboard number so they can put you through.’

  ‘And I told you there’s new rules in place and I can’t do that.’

  Bradshaw had heard about outsourcing, which seemed to be the new buzz word at Assistant Commissioner level and above. He knew that certain tasks formerly done by uniformed officers had been taken on by civilians working for private firms in order to ‘free up resources and put bobbies back on the beat’, as one politician put it. This was the first time he’d been forced to deal directly with one of the androids employed by them. He was already missing the good old days when all you had to do was ring someone you knew and ask them for a favour.

  ‘So I have to put the request in writing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is a fax okay?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It has to be a letter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It just does.’

  ‘Because that’s the procedure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, let’s say I understand I have to actually write to you to request the photograph but at the moment it’s missing, so could you at least look for it and call me back if you manage to find it? It could be an important part of our investigation.’

  ‘No, I can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m not allowed to look for something that hasn’t been formally requested.’

  ‘Again, why not?’

  ‘Because we
are very busy here and I can’t waste the time.’

  Bradshaw wanted to say, ‘But you’re more than happy to waste mine,’ then thought better of it. He was still hoping to get the guy to see sense, though that hope was beginning to fade with every passing minute.

  ‘So you are seriously saying I have to write you a formal letter, put it in the post to you, then wait for it to arrive at your HQ before you’ll even start to look for a photograph you might never find.’

  There was a deep sigh on the other end of the line. ‘That’s the procedure.’

  ‘Jesus,’ hissed Bradshaw, his frustration bubbling over to the point when his usual discretion left him. ‘If the building was burning down would you wait for the evacuation order to arrive in the post before running out of it?’

  ‘Now you’re just being objectionable,’ the man told him, ‘I don’t have to listen to this kind of abuse.’

  Abuse? I haven’t even started yet. ‘Alright, okay, I’m sorry. It’s just this procedure of yours is very frustrating, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s not my procedure. I don’t make the rules. I only follow them.’

  That’s what the Nazis said at Nuremburg. ‘Of course. I didn’t mean it like that. I would be very grateful if you could commence looking for the missing photograph upon receipt of my letter … please.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘Thank you.’ You officious git.

  Helen had been sitting in the café for nearly an hour, sipping cups of tea she didn’t really want so she could justify her presence to the owners. She told herself she would give it another twenty minutes before admitting defeat. From her seat by the window she could see the entrance to Amy Riordan’s apartment block. She’d hoped her note and the public setting of the café might persuade the woman to join her there.

  Helen had not really expected Amy to let her into the flat, which is why she had written the note in advance. She worded it carefully, not knowing how Amy would feel about Richard Bell. True, she had been assaulted by her college boyfriend and forced to call the police on him but they had, presumably, shared some good times together before that point. So despite his inexcusable behaviour, it was possible Amy didn’t like to think of her former boyfriend spending the rest of his life in prison.