Behind Dead Eyes (14 page)

‘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.'

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,' said 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.'

‘Aye, well, I wouldn't wish that on anyone, even him. The police asked me all about it at the time like.'

‘They asked
you
about her?'

‘Yes, but they asked everybody,' he seemed eager to dispel any misunderstanding, ‘and I saw her, didn't I? A couple of days before she disappeared.'

‘Where was that?'

‘Here,' answered the man. ‘You never see young lasses on the allotment, so I noticed her.'

‘Was she up there long?'

‘That's exactly what the police asked me. I don't know but I
was probably having my scran,' the man told him. ‘My wife always does me a snap tin so I don't have to come back.'

Tom realised he was talking to a former miner as soon as he mentioned his snap tin, which was a sturdy lunch box made of metal that could be taken down the pit. ‘So Sandra Jarvis could have walked back down while you were having your butties.'

‘I eat them over there.' He jerked his head towards the back of a large, crudely constructed, rickety wooden hut some way from the two of them. ‘Got myself a chair and table and I have my tea in a flask,' he said with some pride.

‘You just need a bed and you'd never have to leave.'

‘Aye, right enough.' He clearly enjoyed that idea.

‘Was that all the police asked you?'

He nodded. ‘More or less. They wanted to know whether I'd seen or heard anything else.'

‘And?'

‘Well, I didn't see anything from down here and I heard nowt bar a bit of shouting.'

‘You heard shouting?'

‘It was only a bit of a row. You hear worse coming from the houses down yonder.'

‘So who was doing the rowing?' asked Tom.

‘Him and her.'

‘Frank and Sandra?'

‘I wasn't able to make out the words but they were having a barney of some sort.' And he sniffed.

‘No idea what it was about then?'

‘Do I look like a mind-reader?' he asked. ‘Since she's a teenager and he's her old man I'd say he was trying to tell her what to do and she was giving him a load of lip because she wanted to do the opposite. Isn't that the way it goes?'

‘I don't know,' admitted Tom.

‘Me neither,' admitted the man. ‘Got no kids but that's what I hear.'

‘And you never saw her come back down again?'

He laughed. ‘No, but I don't think he did her in, do you? The police told me she's been seen around since.'

‘She got on a train to London a couple of days later,' confirmed Tom.

‘There you go then.'

‘Thanks, Mr …?'

‘Don't you Mr me,' warned the old man and he straightened then puffed out his chest. ‘I'm not one of the bosses. The name's Harry.'

‘Then I'll see you around, Harry.'

‘Not if I see thee first,' laughed Harry and he went back to his digging.

Jarvis was sitting outside his own hut, staring off into space, when Tom reached his plot of land. He was easily recognisable from all of his local TV appearances. Jarvis spotted the younger man and watched with interest as he ascended the hill.

‘Quite a spot you've got here,' said Tom by way of introduction. ‘I'm Tom Carney. I understand you wanted to see me.'

‘Thanks for coming, Tom.' His handshake was firm and his smile broad, as Tom would have expected from a politician. ‘I was hoping you would.'

‘So was DCI Kane,' replied Tom, ‘apparently.'

‘Aye, well, we go back a long way. He told me all about you.'

‘And you still wanted to meet me?'

‘Yes, I did,' the councillor laughed. ‘I suppose I should start by asking you what you know about me, or at least what you think you know.'

Tom shrugged. ‘You're a politician, you've been active in local government these past twenty years and up until relatively recently you were the leader of the city council,' he said, ‘but you gave that up.'

‘To search for my daughter, yes,' he agreed. ‘Our mutual friend DCI Kane mentioned you once. It was something about the case of a missing girl you helped him with.'

‘Michelle Summers.'

Jarvis nodded.

‘That was a very unusual case and I don't see how it could possibly relate to the disappearance of your daughter.'

‘It doesn't – but you sounded like a resourceful man who might be able to help someone in dire need, and I am that someone.'

‘What exactly did the DCI tell you about me?'

Jarvis took a moment to answer. ‘He told me you were a journalist who thought like a copper but had more freedom to investigate things than a police officer does. He said you were clever and you sometimes saw things other people missed. In short, he rates you highly.'

‘That doesn't sound like Kane,' said Tom, and the councillor sighed.

‘He also said you were a bit of an arsehole. There, I've said it. Happy now?'

Tom laughed. ‘Was that all?'

‘He added a few other choice phrases,' admitted the politician, ‘like stubborn, opinionated, cocky and there was something about a chip on your shoulder “the size of the Tyne Bridge”.'

‘That does sound like him. Thanks for the honesty.'

‘Glad we could clear the air. Look, whatever he actually
thinks, it was Kane who put me on to you. He doesn't suffer fools and nor do I. Now can you help me or not?'

‘What do you want me to do?'

‘Find my daughter,' Jarvis said simply.

‘Just like that?' asked Tom. ‘How?'

‘Well, if I knew that I wouldn't need you, would I? I don't know how but I want you to use your skills to try to get to the bottom of Sandra's disappearance.'

‘And you think she's still alive?' Tom probed. ‘I'm sorry, but I obviously have to ask that.'

‘Aye, I do, for what that's worth. Call it a feeling, call it pig-headedness but I firmly believe Sandra is alive. She's out there somewhere. If she wasn't, we'd have found her body by now.'

Not necessarily, thought Tom, but he wasn't going to share that notion with her father. ‘What makes you think I can succeed where the police couldn't?'

‘I might be a politician but I don't live in an ivory tower. We both know there are sections of society, whole communities even, that won't talk to the police, no matter what's at stake. I grew up in the west end of Newcastle and to a lot of people there, the police were the enemy. Now if someone out there knows something but they are into drugs or prostitution or Lord knows what then they aren't going to talk to a detective … but they might talk to you.'

‘Why?'

‘Money,' Jarvis said. ‘I haven't got much but I have some and I'm prepared to part with it in return for information on the whereabouts of my daughter.'

‘Contacting a journalist wouldn't be most people's first port of call, so who else did you try – aside from the police, I mean?'

Jarvis seemed embarrassed then. ‘A private detective. He approached me and said he'd have her back within the month. I wanted to believe him but he got nowhere. Took me for a fool and took my money too.'

‘What makes you think I won't do the same?'

‘Because I approached you, not the other way round, and you still haven't said you even want the job.'

‘The police are going to pay me anyway,' Tom told him, ‘from some fund they use for specialists and experts, though I am neither.'

‘Oh,' said the councillor, ‘I didn't realise that.'

‘You can thank your old friend DCI Kane.'

‘I will.'

‘What if I don't find anything?'

‘Then we call a halt but I have a good feeling about you. Kane told me all about that body in the field and how you worked it out.'

‘I had help with that,' Tom told him.

‘I know; a female reporter and one of Kane's more …' Jarvis seemed to be searching for a diplomatic phrase ‘…
unconventional
detectives. I'm happy for you to get help if you need it. I don't care how you do it. Just help me get my daughter back. Please.'

Tom still wasn't sure he could help Frank Jarvis but the man looked desperate.

‘Alright.'

‘Good man!'

Tom held up a hand. ‘I'll ask around and see what I can uncover but it might not be much.'

‘I'm prepared to run that risk,' Jarvis assured him. ‘So, when can you start?'

‘Now.'

The sun suddenly emerged from behind the dark clouds that had been threatening rain again but at the last moment decided against it. The allotment was bathed in bright sunshine and Tom noticed how big it was. Frank Jarvis had obviously spent a lot of time here since he stepped back from front-line politics.

‘Plenty to do on an allotment.'

‘Always,' agreed Jarvis. ‘I've had one for years. Grown most of me own veg since then,' he said proudly.

‘My dad used to have one.' Tom surveyed Jarvis's plot. ‘Isn't it a bit high for growing stuff?'

‘The vegetables don't seem to mind and my bit's sheltered by the top of the slope. You should have said you were coming though,' he told Tom. ‘I'd have met you at the house and saved you the bother of trailing up here.'

‘It's no problem. I went to your house; your wife said you'd be here.'

‘Did she?' He sounded doubtful.

‘Yeah,' said Tom, ‘I met your mother-in-law too.'

‘Well,' said the politician, ‘now you know why I have an allotment.' And he did a little grimace. ‘No one can bother me up here, including her. If you got any sense out of Audrey you are a better man than me.'

‘I only spoke to her briefly but she did say one thing that puzzled me.'

‘And what was that?'

‘It was about your daughter,' Tom informed him. ‘She said she was cuckoo.'

Jarvis snorted, ‘She can talk,' then he turned serious again. ‘You would have thought her own grandmother might have been a bit kinder under the circumstances but she's always been a malicious old bag that one.'

‘Why do you think she said it?'

‘I have no idea. There's nothing wrong with my daughter's mental health. She wasn't depressed, mad or suicidal. You're not going to get very far if that's a line of enquiry – I suspect you noticed that if anyone is cuckoo, it's Audrey. Her and her senses parted company many moons ago.'

‘So there's no substance in it?'

‘God, no. Sandra was as sane as anyone. Her behaviour did change before her disappearance but she wasn't having a nervous breakdown or anything.'

‘But that change in behaviour was noticeable enough to cause you concern?'

Jarvis nodded. ‘I read up on it, even asked a doctor who's a friend of mine. I didn't tell him I was asking about Sandra. I made out I had a friend who was worried about his son. I told him the behaviour I'd witnessed and he came to a simple conclusion.'

‘Which was?'

Jarvis seemed to sag then. ‘Drugs. You know, I used to have a very old-fashioned view on drug users. I thought that if parents took the time to outline the pitfalls of drug abuse, if they came down hard on their children if they caught them with a spliff, then they would never lose them to drugs. That's what I used to think.'

‘And what do you think now?'

‘That I was a fool,' he admitted, ‘that it can happen to anyone: your kids, my kids, anybody's kids. If they get a taste for drugs, they'll give up everything for them because nothing means more to them than the next fix. I've seen it, down at the rehab centres and the needle exchanges. We have to provide them, otherwise the playgrounds would be full of used syringes. It's a bloody tragedy.'