Behind Dead Eyes

by Howard Linskey

  ‘But she doesn’t win,’ said Bradshaw. ‘She covers her tracks so well her husband goes down for the murder instead.’

  ‘What if that’s what she wanted?’ Helen asked him. ‘We haven’t really considered that possibility. We just accepted she is standing by him, but he’s going to be away for twenty-four years at this rate.’

  ‘It’s his idea to deny guilt, which will keep him in for the full tariff, not hers,’ said Tom.

  ‘But has she been arguing that decision with him or is she going along with it?’ asked Helen. ‘Maybe it suits her just fine for him to be in prison.’

  ‘Not fond of her, are you?’ asked Tom. ‘If it makes you feel any better, she ain’t too keen on you either.’

  ‘I was playing a part,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Of an annoying journalist, and you played it very well.’ He grinned at her. ‘If she really did kill Rebecca, it’s two birds with one stone.’

  ‘There is one thing which undermines that theory,’ said Helen. ‘Why the hell couldn’t she just divorce him?’

  ‘Strange as it may sound, she has too much money,’ Tom answered.

  ‘How can you have too much?’

  ‘Usually when people get divorced, they sell the house, split the proceeds and argue about maintenance depending on their circumstances. In most cases the kids stay with the mum, the father leaves and pays support to the mother because he is often the one working full time …’

  ‘… And she is stuck doing part-time, lower-paid work, having sacrificed her career to bring up their children,’ Helen reminded him pointedly.

  ‘Pretty much,’ said Tom, ‘but in Annie Bell’s case, it’s different. She’s a board member of Soleil and a significant shareholder. They have money. Richard Bell on his own is worth bugger all. He has a well-paid job, which he would doubtless immediately lose if he splits from the boss’s daughter. With his CV – or lack of it – he’d have very little to offer another employer, so he’d probably end up as a middle-income salesman of some kind, several levels below the false position he found himself in as a family member. Crucially, that means he could take Annie Bell and her dad to the cleaners. He’d be the one who could expect to keep up a lifestyle he has become accustomed to without any of the means. For Annie Bell to give Richard half her net worth she would have to sell her house and shares in the company her father built up. Knowing her, I can’t see that happening. Can you?’

  ‘Okay, I agree,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Divorce would be a catastrophe for Annie Bell, which gives her a motive to fix things violently, but is there any actual evidence to support this?’

  ‘Let’s consider it then,’ offered Tom. ‘Her alibi was always a bit too damn perfect. We know there is a possible gap around the time the murder was committed and it’s sizable. She could have left the cinema easily, giving her around three hours to drive out to Lonely Lane, kill Rebecca then return to town.’

  ‘Why would Rebecca agree to meet her lover’s wife at an isolated location without even telling Richard about it in advance?’

  ‘I haven’t figured that bit out yet.’

  ‘So what else have we got?’ asked Bradshaw.

  ‘We know the expert witness who said the blows could not have been struck by a woman was guessing, so we can disregard that – and there’s one other thing,’ said Tom, ‘today she tried to buy me off.’

  ‘What?’ asked Helen. ‘She tried to bribe you?’

  ‘Not quite,’ he said, ‘she offered me a job.’

  ‘What kind of job?’ asked the detective.

  ‘PR director with a nice, big salary.’

  ‘Was this dependent on you dropping the case?’

  ‘No,’ Tom admitted, ‘she was at pains to tell me it was waiting for me once I have given up trying to solve the case. She told me she didn’t expect too much from me on that front. It was subtler than that but I got the message.’

  ‘As subtle as a brick,’ said Bradshaw then he remembered Helen’s window. ‘Sorry,’ he told her.

  ‘You really think Annie Bell killed Rebecca Holt?’ asked Helen.

  ‘I’m starting to,’ he said. ‘Why else would she try and derail the investigation her husband started? Proving it though, that’s another matter.’

  That evening, while Tom was reading the paper Helen asked, ‘Do you mind if I ring, erm—’ and he knew she meant the boyfriend.

  Helen was surprised at how easily the lies came to her. She had been forced to leave her flat for a few days while repairs were undertaken on the boiler, an idea that had been planted in her head by the problems Tom had with his own central heating. Then she casually added she would probably use this opportunity to get a different place because her current home was ‘a bit grotty’.

  Peter had listened to this and, though she was expecting the question, she still felt a slight panic when he suddenly asked, ‘So where are you staying now?’

  ‘At a friend’s,’ she managed.

  ‘A friend? Which friend?’ he asked, his tone disbelieving

  Helen had always believed honesty was the most important building block in any relationship but she also knew telling the full truth now would be way more damaging than a manufactured half-truth. She was staying with a friend; that much was true – but if Peter learned she was not merely sharing a house with Tom Carney but also the man’s bed, regardless of the fact that no physical contact had taken place, she was certain this would sound the death knell of their relationship. Peter’s jealousy would outweigh any trust he might have had in her.

  ‘Susan,’ she told him brightly. ‘You remember, I told you about her.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ he said doubtfully, ‘did you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Susan was a real person from the newsroom. Helen had spoken to her on a handful of occasions but sincerely hoped her boyfriend would never be in a position to meet her because Helen could easily imagine her blank face when Peter thanked her for helping out his girlfriend.

  Helen had told Graham about the attack on her flat, though she played it down considerably. He was still concerned enough to have allowed her a morning off to search for a new place to live. Now she was back in the newsroom looking at old copies of the Record. Helen was leafing through one of the heavy old binders with a frown of concentration on her face, oblivious to the chatter and the noise of phones ringing around her. The binder covered the first six months of 1987, around the time Meadowlands first opened its doors, and she examined every page carefully but swiftly, mindful of missing something important. She was searching for a photograph she had never seen before but was confident it would be somewhere in this binder if she looked hard enough. Just when Helen had begun to convince herself her hunch was wrong and this was a fruitless and forlorn exercise, she turned a page and there it was.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said when she immediately recognised the face in the middle of a group shot.

  What was it that Graham once told her … A picture is worth a thousand words?

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  With the kitchen finished and most of the new floorboards in place, thanks to Darren’s efforts, it was much easier for them to meet at Tom’s. Helen was already staying there of course, which Bradshaw found amusing. He arrived before her that evening and, as usual, Tom handed him a beer while they waited for her to join them.

  ‘Brave lass, that Helen.’

  ‘She is,’ agreed Tom.

  ‘Smart too.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ said Tom guardedly.

  ‘Bonny lass as well.’

  ‘Paid-up member of her fan club, are you?’

  ‘It’s a rare combination,’ admitted Bradshaw. ‘You don’t normally get bright lasses who are good company and that agreeable to look at.’ He realised he was comparing Karen to Helen Norton and that was unfair, but he couldn’t help himself. He had begun to wonder what it might be like to be in a relationship with a woman like her.

  ‘True enough.’ Bradshaw noticed Tom’s reluctance to get too immersed in thi
s topic of conversation.

  ‘Ever fancied a pop at her yourself?’ asked the detective. ‘You seem close.’

  ‘We work well together, that’s all.’

  Bradshaw nodded slowly. ‘And now she’s living under your roof.’

  ‘Only till she gets somewhere else.’ And when Bradshaw did not reply he added, ‘I could hardly chuck her out on the street.’

  ‘Good of you,’ said Bradshaw, ‘but I’m surprised you’re not tempted. I would be.’

  ‘Sounds like you already are, mate,’ and Bradshaw realised he had needled the other man by the way he placed too much emphasis on the word mate, ‘but I’m sorry to tell you she’s got a boyfriend.’

  ‘And I’ve got a girlfriend,’ said Bradshaw.

  ‘How’s that working out for you?’

  ‘Good,’ he replied quickly, ‘very good, thanks.’

  There was a tense silence between them for a moment until Bradshaw broke it.

  ‘Don’t worry about Helen,’ he said. ‘I can always tell when a girl is already spoken for.’ And Tom noticed the faint trace of a smile on the detective’s face as he said that.

  Before he could respond they heard a key turn in the lock and Helen came in. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘traffic was a nightmare but …’ she paused to put down her bag and a handful of folders ‘… on a lighter note, I think I found a flat.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tom, ‘that’s great, Helen,’ and ignored the look Bradshaw was giving him. Helen was too busy taking off her coat to notice.

  Tom ordered pizza and they argued over who was going to pay. Helen insisted, in lieu of rent for her stay with Tom. While they waited for their food, she showed them her most recent discovery.

  ‘I did some research on Meadowlands. It opened in 1987, so I did some digging into our back copies. It took a while because I didn’t have an exact date but eventually I found it.’

  ‘Found what?’ asked Tom.

  ‘The picture I was looking for.’ She started to remove the evidence from her bag. ‘Places like Meadowlands don’t open every day,’ she explained. ‘They require funding and lobbying plus planning permission and multiple layers of bureaucratic sign-off.’

  ‘It’s a wonder they ever open their doors at all,’ agreed Tom.

  ‘So when they do finally open,’ she prompted, ‘what does everyone involved like to do?’

  ‘Pat themselves on the back in a self-congratulatory manner …’ Tom began and then cottoned on ‘… usually at an opening ceremony of some kind.’ And he smiled at her initiative.

  ‘With a local dignitary or two in attendance – and there’s nearly always a photo in the local paper.’ She handed him a photocopy of the picture she had found in the newspaper’s archives.

  Tom glanced at the photograph of a small huddle of council officials and child care officers smiling outside the brand new Meadowlands building. One of them was helpfully holding up a length of tape, while another man posed with scissors waiting to cut it and declare the place officially open.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting that,’ said Tom – for the man with the scissors was none other than Councillor Joe Lynch.

  They stared at the photograph for a while, then Bradshaw said, ‘What does this prove? Other than the fact Councillor Lynch likes to see his face in the newspaper? They all do.’

  ‘It proves he knows the place,’ said Tom.

  ‘It proves he opened it,’ countered Bradshaw. ‘He may never have been back there. I wouldn’t say it was evidence of foul play.’

  ‘But we know what he is capable of,’ said Helen quietly.

  ‘He does seem to keep cropping up,’ said Tom, who was happy to make the link between Joe Lynch’s presence at the Meadowlands opening ceremony and the disappearance of Sandra Jarvis. He was recalling his own conversation with Frank about who stood to gain from the former leader stepping down.

  ‘It is something,’ said Bradshaw, ‘but it’s not much.’

  ‘What did you come up with then?’ demanded Helen, irritated that Bradshaw could be so dismissive of her detective work.

  He seemed almost reluctant to begin. ‘I spoke to a lady who works with vulnerable children.’ And he told them what the social worker had said about older men preying on the Meadowlands girls.

  ‘Christ, that’s terrible,’ said Helen, ‘but where is this happening? Do they take them to some sort of hideaway?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Bradshaw, ‘that’s the worst part. The woman I spoke to told me there’s an office belonging to a small taxi company in the high street, a few hundred yards from Meadowlands. It’s in a row of shops next to an off-licence and a burger bar, all owned by the same people. The guys who use it get the girls from Meadowlands to hang out there and that’s how it starts.’

  ‘So what exactly are the police doing,’ Helen was outraged, ‘if everybody knows this is going on?’

  ‘That’s what I couldn’t understand, but she implied the police don’t care. I refused to believe that so I spoke to a uniformed officer who covers the area and he told me they couldn’t arrest anyone because it was impossible to press charges. The girls always deny anything bad has happened because they are either too scared of the men or in love with them. He said they were all unreliable witnesses with a history of lying and petty crime and no jury in the world would convict a man on their testimony.’

  ‘That’s appalling,’ said Tom.

  ‘Are you not bothered that this is going on?’ Helen asked Bradshaw when she mistook his calmness for disinterest.

  ‘Of course I’m bothered, Helen,’ he told her. ‘It made me ashamed to be a police officer.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she told him, ‘it’s just … I’m outraged that no one is doing anything to stop this.’

  ‘The guy I spoke to literally laughed it off, as if having sex with a fourteen-year-old in exchange for a pizza and a packet of fags was acceptable behaviour. He said if it wasn’t those men it would be someone else, because the girls don’t know any better. He joked they were doing GCSEs in prostitution and told me there was a place like that cab rank in every town in Britain. He reckons the guys behind it pass the lasses to other men who pay them for the privilege, so not only are they having sex with young girls they are making money too.’

  ‘I can see why the police might have a problem charging the men,’ said Tom, ‘but there’s a simple way to prevent all this. Just make sure the girls don’t leave Meadowlands at night. They are all under sixteen so lock the place up at nine o’clock and keep them in.’

  ‘I don’t understand why they don’t do that,’ said Helen.

  ‘I think I do,’ said Tom. ‘The guys at that taxi rank need at least one man on their side for this to work.’

  ‘Dean,’ she said.

  ‘I’m betting he’s on the payroll,’ offered Tom. ‘If police and social services are aware of what’s going on, how could he not be? He must let the girls come and go at all hours.’

  ‘There’s a lock on the door with a keypad,’ said Helen. ‘You just need to know the entry code to get in. Dean wouldn’t even have to get out of bed. I still don’t understand how the police feel completely powerless to arrest men who are having sex with underage girls and treating them like prostitutes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it prostitution,’ said Bradshaw, ‘I’d call it rape.’ Then he added, ‘How can they consent at their age?’

  ‘How many girls at Meadowlands are involved in this kind of thing?’ asked Tom.

  ‘I asked that,’ said Bradshaw, ‘and the answer I got was all of them.’

  Chapter Forty

  When the pizzas arrived they ate them wordlessly, each lost in private thoughts about the girls from Meadowlands and the men who exploited them.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ said Helen, pushing her pizza to one side. ‘Does nobody at social services take it seriously when they get a report of child abuse?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m assured it does get taken seriously but they’ve been quite honest with me about i
t. They are completely swamped. They don’t have enough resources to deal with serious cases, let alone all of the frivolous ones.’

  ‘ “Frivolous ones”?’ He could tell Helen had taken offence at his choice of words.

  ‘Helen, they just can’t cope with the workload. They even set up a special phone line during the summer so depressed young girls could call in and talk to a professional if they were experiencing physical or mental abuse and felt suicidal.’

  ‘Well that sounds like a good idea.’

  ‘It was,’ he confirmed, ‘until they were swamped by hundreds of calls from lasses who simply couldn’t go on,’ and when she gave him a withering look at his unsympathetic tone, he added, ‘because Robbie Williams left Take That.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said and reminded herself to be less judgemental in future. ‘Do you think this situation with the Meadowlands girls was the big secret Diane told Sandra Jarvis? Is this why they both disappeared?’

  ‘But it isn’t a secret, is it,’ countered Tom, ‘if the police and social services know all about it. They think they’re powerless to prevent it, so what could Sandra Jarvis do with that information, except embarrass a few low-level people like Dean? That’s not enough reason to kill someone or force them into hiding.’

  ‘You’re right,’ admitted Helen, ‘it must have been something bigger – but what?’

  ‘We may never know,’ acknowledged Tom, ‘and Meadowlands might be entirely unrelated to Sandra’s disappearance, but I think that it is. There’s one person who knows a lot more about all of this than they’re admitting.’

  ‘Dean?’ asked Helen.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m talking about young Callie.’

  ‘You want me to do what?’ asked Helen when Bradshaw was gone.

  ‘Well, I can hardly do it alone, can I?’ Tom told her. ‘If I’m caught, I’ll be arrested. No one is going to believe there’s an innocent explanation.’

  ‘And what will they believe if I’m caught?’ she asked him, her voice becoming shrill.

  ‘That you’re a journalist working on a story,’ he assured her. ‘Besides, it’s a matter of trust and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t trust me.’