Behind Dead Eyes (19 page)

‘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.

‘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.

In her note Helen had chosen a neutral approach and attempted to hand some power back to Amy. Though the judge had, controversially, allowed her history with Richard to be mentioned in court, she had not been called to give
evidence for either the prosecution or the defence. Helen wanted to give her the opportunity to speak about the man she had once been intimate with; to condemn him or help to save him but ensure that either way, the choice was hers. She had folded the note, written the name of the café on the blank side and slid it under Amy's door.

The woman Tom described from his interview with Mark Birkett was a free-spirited soul who was too vibrant and carefree for an immature and controlling Richard Bell. Time and circumstances had altered Amy Riordan; Helen could tell that from the moment she first saw the woman and she could see it now as she watched Amy leave her apartment block and make her way cautiously to the café. She was dressed as if to hide her looks in blue jeans and baggy jumper, sleeves pulled down over her hands and balled in her fists. What the hell had happened to Amy in the intervening years? thought Helen. As the other woman opened the door of the café, she sensed she was about to find out.

He drove one-handed, rubbing the chafed skin around his throat with the other hand. Tom kept reliving the moment when Freddie Holt lunged for him. Was it murder he had seen in the older man's eyes and what would he have done if Tom had been incapable of fighting him off? More to the point, had Tom been given a glimpse of what he had done to his wife? Perhaps both Annie and Richard Bell were right about that. Freddie Holt had a strong motive and hadn't tolerated it when Tom reminded him of the fact.

How could he have been so stupid? Tom had been deliberately goading Holt, looking to get a reaction from the businessman, testing his feelings for Rebecca to gauge if they were real. He would surely be more likely to let
something slip in an emotional state but Tom had woefully misread the situation. Holt was a street fighter who grew up swinging punches. Tom had meant to press Freddie but only to knock him off balance, not push him right over the edge.

With time before his next appointment, Tom headed back into the city to replace his broken Dictaphone. He'd had a good few years out of the tape recorder and it had seen him through many an interview. Now though it was broken and obsolete. Tom knew just how it felt.

Amy Riordan sipped from a cup of fruit tea and spoke in a very quiet voice, as if Richard Bell was sitting at the next table. Helen had to lean forward to hear her. Amy was still an extremely attractive woman but she looked incredibly tired. ‘I'm sorry I didn't let you in,' she told Helen, ‘I've had some problems lately.' She didn't elaborate on what they were.

‘That's okay,' Helen said, ‘thanks for seeing me.' She explained why she was there, including the role Tom Carney was playing in their investigation but stressing that nobody was saying Richard was innocent just yet.

‘Richard has a sweet side and a dark side,' Amy told Helen, ‘he is capable of love but it has to be on his terms. That's why I broke it off with him, but he's not used to rejection. He takes it very badly. It brings out the worst in him.'

‘Richard wanted to control you,' said Helen.

Amy shook her head. ‘He wanted to own me. It was great at first but then he started making comments like “You're not wearing that are you?” and “Who was that you were talking to?” ' Her face showed her anger now. ‘I was nineteen, for God's sake. I was enjoying life and he wanted to keep me tethered to him.' She sat back in her chair and started
twirling a strand of hair in a nervous, repetitive gesture. ‘It got much worse. I don't think he even realises his behaviour isn't normal.' She shook her head. ‘It's always the way; for some reason men get obsessed with me.' This might have sounded egotistical from another woman but not the way Amy Riordan said it, like it was a curse. ‘Why can't they just
be
with someone without having to own them?'

‘I don't know,' said Helen, quietly. It seemed that Amy Riordan had rarely known anything other than this kind of relationship and it had damaged her.

Amy looked desperate then. ‘What's wrong with me?' she pleaded, as if the other woman could provide her with an answer.

The shop had changed since Tom had last been in there. The owner used to provide recording equipment for journalists, secretaries and clerks who took dictation, with a sideline in 35mm cameras and rolls of film, but lately he'd branched out and the small shop looked like something Q from the James Bond films would have been proud of. The technology leap in the past decade meant that machines, which were the preserve of large companies or wealthy individuals in the eighties were now available to anyone with a bit of disposable income.

The Dictaphones, or personal recording devices, as the owner insisted on calling them, were stored in a locked glass cabinet and the prices varied wildly. ‘I just want a bog-standard one,' Tom insisted. ‘I'm a journalist, not a spy. What's this?' he asked, picking up something that looked like a cross between a chubby pen and a torch.

‘A nanny cam.'

‘A what?'

‘It's the latest thing from America,' the owner enthused. ‘You just put it somewhere discreet and you can secretly record the room. It's called a nanny cam so you can check that the nanny is looking after your kids properly and not harming them.'

‘So you're filming a young girl without her knowing?'

‘Aye,' he admitted.

‘Sounds a bit creepy to me. What's all this stuff?' Tom was pointing to a second cabinet.

‘Covert listening devices.'

‘Bugs?'

‘Yep.'

‘Everything is so tiny,' marvelled Tom.

‘That's the future. We've got high-res surveillance cameras and voice-recognition audio recording devices.'

‘I just need something to record interviews,' Tom told him. ‘I want an old-fashioned, battery operated, reliable tape recorder with buttons on it.'

‘Buttons?'

‘
On
,
off
and
record
and possibly
pause
– but nothing flashier than that,' Tom said, ‘got it?'

‘Aye, I've got it.' The owner did not conceal his disappointment. ‘I might still have one of those,' he said gloomily, ‘out the back.'

It had taken some time for Helen to assure Amy Riordan she was not the cause of the verbal and physical abuse she had received from several men over the years.

‘It's not your fault. You're just very unlucky that's all, but you'll find someone …'

‘I don't want to find someone,' she said sharply and Helen decided to curtail that subject straight away. She had to
remind herself she was here for a reason and needed information from Amy.

‘When Richard Bell slapped you …'

‘He hit me. It wasn't a slap!'

‘I'm sorry,' said Helen. ‘When he hit you …'

‘He punched me,' said Amy. ‘He was immediately sorry and begged me not to report him but I did. The police were pretty good about it. I think they put the fear of God into him. He never bothered me again. I thought he was going to drop out at one point. He stopped turning up at his lectures or tutorials until Annie apparently dragged him in with her one day.'

‘What did you think of her back then?'

‘I never even noticed her,' said Amy, ‘not at first. Annie seemed to just appear in Richard's life and then she was
there
all the time … What kind of woman takes on a man when he has been dumped by his girlfriend for hitting her?'

‘Do you think she genuinely loved him?' Helen asked.

‘I think she loved the project he became,' conceded Amy. ‘She liked to think she was taking on a hopeless case and redeeming him. I don't know if that's love.'

‘And did Richard love her?'

‘Course not,' said Amy, ‘he loved me – or should I say he was obsessed with me at the point she pushed her way into his life. She was picking up damaged goods. He was just grateful because she
saved
him.'

‘That's why he cheated on her,' asked Helen, ‘because he never really loved her?'

‘Possibly. I just think he went back to his old ways. I hurt him so he decided he would avoid emotional attachment. He had his low-maintenance new girlfriend who became his wife and he had others on the side to satisfy his appetite for
sex. I think it was all a way to avoid intimacy so he could never get hurt again.'

‘But he hurt you, not the other way around.'

‘He hit me because I hurt him,' Amy explained. ‘He couldn't handle being rejected. Don't you get it? There was no way Annie was ever going to reject him, no matter what he did. She's still standing by him even now, according to the newspapers. When he started seeing her he knew she would never dump him, so he'd never be hurt like that again. Now do you see?'

‘I do see. You make him sound very cold.'

‘Oh, he can be.'

‘Do you think he killed Rebecca Holt?'

‘When I broke up with Richard he called me some terrible things, he hurt me, hit me, even wished me dead. Did he mean that at the time? I don't know. Was Rebecca Holt a re-run of our relationship with a different, far worse ending? It seems so. I have spent a lot of time going over all of that in my head. I worry that it's my fault.'

‘How could it be your fault?'

‘The police asked me if I wanted to press charges when he punched me. I didn't want to ruin his whole life so I let them give him a caution and the university allowed him to stay on. If they'd prosecuted him for assault he might have been convicted. Don't you see? He'd have been kicked off his course and Annie wouldn't have been able to save him. He never would have married her or even met Rebecca Holt so he could never have killed her. That's why I can't help blaming myself.'