‘So we’d better not mess this up if you want a career.’
‘I figured that too.’ And when no one seemed to have anything to add, Ian said, ‘If that’s everything, I should really be getting back home.’
Bradshaw and Tom got to their feet then and started to move away from Helen’s table as they said their goodbyes. Helen stayed in her seat and seemed to hesitate before speaking.
‘Before you go,’ she asked Bradshaw, ‘could I have a word?’ Since they had shared a car both men turned back to join her. ‘Er … I meant with Ian,’ she said awkwardly to Tom, ‘if that’s alright.’
‘Oh,’ Tom said, momentarily taken aback, ‘of course, no problem. I’ll just go and wait in the car then.’
She hated to exclude him but she needed Ian’s advice as a policeman. Somehow she knew Tom would be too concerned and protective if he knew what had been happening to her.
Neither Helen nor Bradshaw spoke until Tom had left the room.
‘If you won’t tell Tom what this is about it must be bloody serious,’ he folded his arms, ‘so I’m listening.’
In the car on the way back to Durham, Tom didn’t ask what Helen wanted to talk to him about, even though he must have been burning to know, and Bradshaw was glad of that. He would not have been able to betray her confidence if Tom had pressed him but it was more than that. He understood why Helen didn’t want Tom to know about the attack on her in the car park, the threats over the phone and the vile message sprayed on her car. Tom would want to do something about it but what could he do that wouldn’t place him in just as much danger?
Ian Bradshaw knew he should have told her to make it all official; to formally report the incidents and let uniformed officers investigate them, but that would be a pointless waste of time. It would probably only serve to encourage whoever was responsible, since it was proof they were getting to her. Instead he gave her some advice on how to avoid putting herself at risk.
‘That’s all very useful, Ian,’ she told him, ‘but what should I actually do?’
‘Do you trust me, Helen?’
‘I wouldn’t be talking to you about this if I didn’t.’
‘Then leave it with me.’
Tom returned home to find a message on his answerphone. The voice was low and the words reluctant.
‘It’s Dean, from Meadowlands. Councillor Jarvis called me. We’ll let you in tomorrow afternoon,’ then he added, ‘but you have to bring a woman.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Tom said aloud to himself because he had only just left Helen. He had a phone number for her flat in Jesmond but didn’t want it to seem like he couldn’t go a night without calling her. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but feel slighted by the way she’d asked him to leave her for a cosy chat with Ian Bradshaw. ‘Bugger that,’ Tom said and he went off to bed.
Jimmy McCree regarded the man standing on his doorstep that morning with something between amusement and disdain. He turned to call back over his shoulder. ‘Put the kettle on, pet,’ he told an unseen partner, ‘and make a cup of tea for the officer,’ then he smirked and walked back into his house, leaving the door open for Bradshaw to follow him inside.
Bradshaw had never met Jimmy McCree but the gangster wasn’t psychic. In this part of Newcastle’s west end, if you saw someone dressed in a suit and tie he was more than likely a policeman. In some ways the folk that lived here were decent people and the streets supposedly a lot safer than more deprived areas, like the run-down high-rises not so many miles from here. Drugs were less of an obvious problem than feuding between the rougher families. Domestic violence or drink-related incidents were more common in this corner of the city and crime was seen as a perfectly viable career path. For many it was the only option. Jimmy McCree and his family had ruled this part of the world for years and he had never left its terraced streets. Bradshaw wondered what was the point of having all the money he was reputed to have earned if he couldn’t spend it on anything, but if McCree did move to a mansion in Gosforth he would lose a good portion of his romanticised, Robin-Hood man-of-the-people image and the protection from the community he lived in would vanish along with it.
McCree sat in an armchair and filled it with his bulk. He was an imposing figure with huge biceps that threatened to rip through his T-shirt. He beckoned for Bradshaw to take a seat. ‘I’ve not seen you before, bonny lad.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You didn’t come down here mob-handed,’ the big man noted, ‘so you’ve obviously got balls.’ Bradshaw had heard the stories. If you wanted to arrest Jimmy McCree in his own back yard you turned up with back-up from armed officers and riot shields, because as soon as you knocked on his front door most of the neighbourhood would be out throwing half-bricks at you and simultaneously crying ‘Police brutality!’ as you led him away.
‘And nobody called to say you were on your way, so I’m wondering if this is properly official.’ He looked sly then. ‘Does anyone even know you’re down here?’ The implication was that if Bradshaw never returned he might not even be missed.
‘Are you finished?’ asked Bradshaw, who was in no mood for mind games.
McCree sighed, as if Bradshaw didn’t understand the rules of an audience with the King of Newcastle. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘so what’s this about?’ And his tone hardened. ‘Say your piece then fuck off.’
It didn’t take long for Tom to find the faculty building and nobody challenged him as he walked its corridors searching for the relevant room. He was grateful academic people didn’t believe in wearing their knowledge lightly, preferring to broadcast their credentials to the world with names and titles on every door, along with the letters denoting their qualifications.
When he found the right door he knocked. ‘Come,’ was the slightly imperious response. He entered to find a man standing by a blackboard busily scribbling numbers and symbols.
‘Looks complicated.’ When the doctor turned towards him he said, ‘Tom Carney. We spoke on the phone.’
‘Everything looks complicated if we have no understanding of it,’ said Doctor Alexander. ‘French, Swahili, the notes on a music sheet,’ the doctor said, and he added some numbers to his work before finishing, ‘If someone shows us what it all means, however …’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Tom doubtfully, while hoping the doctor would not try to explain the enormous equation that filled a large section of the blackboard, ‘I can cope with a bit of French but I suspect that might be beyond me.’
‘Please tell me you’re not one of those people who can’t comprehend the difference between astronomy and astrology.’
‘I think I can at least manage that.’ The lecturer peered at him expectantly. ‘Astronomy is the study of the planets and the stars,’ Tom said, ‘whereas astrology is just bullshit.’
The doctor seemed pleased with that answer. ‘There is no scientific basis in the notion that the future can be predicted by the position or motion of the stars,’ he nodded in agreement with his own point. ‘Astrology is often referred to as a pseudoscience but I think that’s very generous. I rather prefer your description, though I suspect I won’t get away with that in any of my lectures.’ Then he seemed to remember something. ‘Didn’t you call to speak to Professor Matthews?’
‘That’s right.’
His frown deepened. ‘And I did inform you the professor died some months ago.’
‘You did,’ said Tom, ‘but I have a couple of questions and I hoped you might be able to help me with them.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t know him all that well.’
‘They are about physics actually, not the professor.’ The doctor looked doubtful. ‘It relates to some expert testimony provided by the professor in a case I am looking into.’
Alexander blinked at him. ‘It can’t still be a live case. He has been dead for almost a year.’
‘It isn’t. I am re-examining the case and conducting a thorough review of all of the original evidence.’
‘I see,’ Tom could tell the lecturer was uneasy, ‘but I a
m not about to assist you in discrediting our former professor.’ He folded his arms and glared at Tom.
‘Nor would I expect you to,’ Tom assured him, ‘I just need a better understanding of his findings.’
‘Relating to what?’
‘The force of a blunt instrument striking an immobile object.’
‘Oh,’ he unfolded his arms then, ‘that I can help you with, I suppose, or I can at least try. What exactly do you want to know?’
‘To be specific, I want to understand how you would go about calculating the force of a hammer blow.’
‘Oh that’s relatively easy.’
‘Really?’ Tom was surprised to learn this.
‘Yes, it’s just Newton’s equation of motion.’
‘I could pretend I know what you’re talking about but …’
The lecturer reached for a piece of chalk and went back to his blackboard. He grabbed a dusty cloth and rubbed an old equation from the board, leaving a gap large enough to write his explanation, calling out the letters as he wrote them: ‘V squared is the final velocity of the hammer, which can be calculated because it is equal to U squared, the initial impact speed, minus 2 AX, with A being the deceleration and X being the distance travelled. You follow?’
‘Kind of,’ said Tom unsurely.
‘It’s simple physics.’
‘How do you calculate the level of force used if you don’t know the impact speed or the distance travelled because you weren’t there to measure it?’
‘You can’t.’
‘But Professor Matthews did.’
Doctor Alexander shook his head. ‘He couldn’t have done. He had to have made certain assumptions, if he wasn’t there to witness the … er … I was going to say experiment but clearly it was more serious than that if he was testifying in a court of law.’
Tom explained the circumstances behind Professor Matthews’ appearance in court.
‘Oh dear Lord,’ said Alexander, ‘that’s truly horrific.’
‘So how did he do it?’ asked Tom quickly. ‘Calculate the force of the blow, I mean?’
‘Well the simple answer is he couldn’t have done.’
‘What?’ Tom had been expecting a long discussion about the mechanics of that calculation and, if he was lucky, some small grey area of doubt that could be used to dispute the professor’s findings. He wasn’t expecting this however.
‘Well he wasn’t at the scene, was he? He didn’t witness the crime and wouldn’t have been able to calculate its force just by looking at it.’
‘So how did he come up with his findings?’
‘I don’t want to disparage the late professor,’ the doctor said quietly, ‘but I am surmising he simply worked backwards.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He surveyed the damage caused to that young lady by the hammer then estimated the level of force required to cause it. From that he could extrapolate until he had a series of estimations of velocity, impact speed and the deceleration required to administer the deadly blow.’
‘But how could he ascertain whether a man or a woman were capable of delivering such a blow?’
‘I don’t know.’ When Tom seemed dissatisfied with that answer, the doctor felt compelled to add, ‘I suppose if it were me I could attempt to replicate those conditions in the lab, using male and female students perhaps, to see how many of them were capable of reaching the required levels.’
‘And did he do that?’
‘I have no idea but I suspect not.’
‘But I don’t understand how he could come out with such a strong opinion. He said that it would be a practical impossibility for a woman to deliver that blow.’
‘Did he?’ The lecturer bit his bottom lip thoughtfully. ‘Look, I’ve never done that kind of work and I wouldn’t want to but if you are called to comment on these cases you are there for a reason. The defence or, in this case, the prosecution, want an expert opinion and it won’t be highly regarded if it is something woolly. No one is going to ask you back on the stand if you say, Having examined all of the facts, I don’t know what went on. Professor Matthews was a favoured expert witness precisely because he was more comfortable making pronouncements based on less comprehensive data than many of us.’
Alexander’s answer was a masterful piece of understatement. In short, the professor craved the fame of the courtroom and the accompanying exposure in newspapers more than scientific accuracy.
‘So he guessed?’ announced Tom, stunned at the realisation. ‘I know it was a highly educated guess with a whole bunch of letters after its name but it was still a bloody guess.’
‘Er, I’d prefer to call it a supposition but, I suppose, you could, if you wanted, see it as … a guess.’
‘Christ all-bloody-mighty.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tom’s knowledge of physics hadn’t greatly improved during his time with Doctor Alexander but his understanding of the world of the expert witness had increased markedly. Their fields of expertise were usually so narrow and specialist that normal members of a jury would be in no position to question the findings of a professor and would simply take their opinions as scientific fact.
Tom wondered how many men and women were languishing in prison because an expert said they must be guilty when they were not. Professor Matthews stood up in court and ruled that only a man could have killed Rebecca Holt. It had taken Tom just minutes with his former colleague to discredit that theory. In that sense it had been a successful morning so far and, buoyed by this, he took a handful of coins from his pocket and fed them into a payphone in the lobby of the university building then dialled Helen at the newspaper. As he waited for her to pick up he wondered again if he should invest in a mobile phone. He could probably justify their convenience but not their cost and though they were smaller than the brick-like unit he’d had when he worked for a tabloid, it was still a pain trying to fit one in a pocket and there were large parts of the north-east where the signal strength made you feel as if you were on the moon.
‘Hello.’ Tom recognised Helen’s voice straight away.
‘I need a woman,’ he told her.
‘Are you always this direct?’
‘That depends on how urgent the requirement is and in this case I’m afraid I cannot manage without you.’
‘In that case I’m flattered, I think, but what do you want and when do you need it by?’
‘A burned girl, you say? Well that’s terrible.’ Jimmy McCree sounded to Bradshaw as if he couldn’t have cared less. ‘It wasn’t in Newcastle though, was it? I know everything that goes on in my city.’ Bradshaw found himself irked by the arrogance of this man. It wasn’t his city.
‘Her body was found in a scrapyard in County Durham but for some reason we’ve had trouble tracing the owner. Nobody seems to want to tell us who he is.’
‘Really? That sounds a bit dodgy to me. Has it crossed your mind that it could just be a front? You know, for criminal goings-on.’ Bradshaw ignored him. ‘I’m very sorry, officer. I’d love to help you with that one but I can’t. Tell you what, I’ll ask around though.’
‘What about Sandra Jarvis?’ asked Bradshaw.
‘Sandra Jarvis?’ Once again the big man contorted his face but this time it was to feign a loss of memory where that name was concerned. Eventually he said, ‘The councillor’s daughter?’ as if it had suddenly come back to him. ‘That’s a terrible business. Frank Jarvis must be grieving.’
‘She’s not dead,’ countered Bradshaw, ‘unless you are telling me she is?’
‘It’s just a figure of speech. I meant her unexplained disappearance must be causing him grief. Nothing messes with a man’s mind more than problems involving his immediate family.’
‘That’s true,’ said Bradshaw. ‘I hear she worked in one of your pubs.’ He watched the big man intently now.
McCree regarded Bradshaw innocently as if he had been entirely misinformed. ‘I don’t have any pubs, detective. Can’t imagine wher
e you got that idea from.’
‘Of course not,’ said Bradshaw dryly and he tried another angle: ‘Some folk have profited from Sandra’s disappearance haven’t they, since Frank Jarvis had to step down as leader of the council?’
‘You can hardly blame Joe Lynch for taking over a vacant position. It’s not his fault Frank’s daughter has gone missing. Since when has ambition been a crime?’
‘Know him pretty well, do you? The councillor, I mean.’
‘I’ve met him because of my business but I wouldn’t say I know him. Do you?’
‘I know he likes to threaten journalists.’
‘I’ve heard nowt about that.’
Bradshaw knew then and there that he was never going to get the infamous Jimmy McCree to let down his guard. He could have stayed there all day and McCree would bat back all of his questions with the consummate skill of a man who has been questioned countless times by police and never once been convicted. Bradshaw hadn’t expected it would go any other way. He simply wanted to be face to face with McCree, to meet the famous adversary at the top of the hit list of every policeman in the north-east of England, and he also wanted a quiet word.
‘So Joe Lynch never asked you to terrorise Helen Norton?’
McCree didn’t even pretend he wasn’t aware of Helen. ‘A burned girl, a missing girl … and an annoying girl. You’ve got a thing about women, detective. I’m guessing you’re a regular Sir Galahad.’
‘I’m here to warn you off her.’
‘Oh, really?’ And he leaned forward in his chair then, exuding menace, a street fighter who’s been challenged. ‘Well I’ve no idea what you’re talking about but if I did I’d probably take offence at that.’
‘You need to stay away from her.’
‘I’ve never been near the lass, except one time when she took my photograph in a restaurant without asking me, which was an invasion of my privacy, by the way. There was a second time when she followed me to a private charity event at a golf course and that was very rude of her, don’t you think?’
‘That why you set your thugs on her,’ asked Bradshaw, ‘and damaged her car – or are you going to say you had nowt to do with that too?’
Behind Dead Eyes Page 22
