Behind Dead Eyes (5 page)

‘Where do I go? What do I do?'

‘You go home; assuming your wife will have you. What you do then is up to you.'

‘That's where you're very wrong, Tom. It's not up to me. I know Annie would take me back but I'd have no job and no way of getting one. Not many blue-chip companies employ murderers and I don't think my father-in-law could be seen to be taking one back either, even if he felt inclined to.'

‘You were his Sales Director?'

Bell nodded. ‘Whatever would his clients say?'

‘I'm not saying it would be easy …'

‘Easy? It would be impossible.'

‘But …' Tom ventured ‘… better than this?'

It was as if Bell hadn't heard him. ‘What would I do for the rest of my life? Take walks in the park every day, go to the library, read even more books, then maybe meet my girls from school?' And he chuckled, but without humour. ‘Can you imagine the looks in the playground? Let's face it; my life is over as soon as I say I did it.'

‘I'm not sure you have an alternative.'

‘
You
are my alternative, Tom. I want you to clear my name. I need you to use all of your skills to take a fresh and unbiased look at Rebecca's murder and find out what really happened. The police did a rushed investigation under a great deal of media pressure. As soon as they found out I was seeing Rebecca and had everything to lose if she told on me, they never seriously looked for another suspect. Most people are killed by someone they know so it was all about me from the off. The police were convinced I was their man, the press went for my jugular and the judge bloody hated me. As for the jury, there were a couple of women who looked at me like they wanted to give me a life sentence just for cheating on my wife. There was no one on my side. I need someone to find
the truth and that someone is you. When you've uncovered the truth, you can write another book about it, with my blessing. It would be quite a story, wouldn't it? Journalist frees innocent man wrongly imprisoned for murder? You'll have another bestseller on your hands.'

Tom wasn't in the mood to contradict Bell on the sales figures of his book. The last time he'd seen
Death Knock
it was in a bargain bin, covered in large red ‘sale' stickers and marked down to £1.99. His publisher's only comment when he had enquired about sales was a rueful, ‘It's been a tough year for true crime'.

The publisher had been enthusiastic at first. ‘This could launch you!' he gushed, as if front-page leads in national newspapers didn't count for anything. When firstly the book stores then the public failed to share this enthusiasm for the investigation into the murder of Sean Donnellan more than five decades earlier, they quickly lost interest in Tom and the half-promised offer to write a second book somehow failed to materialise.

‘I'll be brutally honest with you, Richard, I'm not sure I can afford to spend weeks looking into a cold case on the off chance I find something that might be strong enough to reopen it for you.'

‘And I wouldn't expect you to,' Bell said, ‘which is why you will be paid.'

‘How would that work?'

‘My wife has money, enough to give you a weekly retainer while you look into this, with a bonus at the end should you discover fresh evidence strong enough to re-open my case – which you will, because I didn't do it. There will be a further, generous bonus for you when my conviction is finally overturned.' And Bell proceeded to spell out the terms of his
offer. The weekly amount alone was extremely tempting to a man in Tom's parlous financial state and the additional bonus at the end, should Richard Bell ever walk free, was the kind of cash injection any hard-up journalist would dream of.

‘And your wife is happy with this arrangement?'

‘She has agreed to it,' Bell confirmed, though Tom couldn't help feeling this wasn't exactly the same thing.

‘You make it sound very easy, but it could take months for me to find something and I may not come up with anything at all.'

‘Time is all I have, Tom. I'm not going anywhere. You can work at your own speed. Just keep me posted. If you draw a complete blank we can review things, but I honestly don't think it will come to that. You do have a distinct advantage over the police.'

‘Do I?'

‘They thought I was guilty. We know I'm not.'

‘But I don't know that,' Tom reminded him, ‘I could be helping a cold-blooded killer.'

‘You could be,' admitted Bell, ‘but if you are going into this with an open mind then you may have to give me the benefit of the doubt on that.'

‘Particularly if you are paying me.'

‘
If
you want to get to the truth,' Bell corrected him.

‘Okay but what if I can't find the truth?'

‘There is only really one thing I need to get through my days here, Tom, and it's not food, visitors or books.'

‘Hope,' said Tom instinctively.

‘You see,' said Bell admiringly, ‘you're good. I knew you would be.'

‘I can usually put myself in the other man's shoes,' said Tom, quietly.

‘
A useful quality in your profession,' said Bell, ‘if I can believe that a man like you; a good man, a clever man, is trying to find out what really happened, then I can go on.' When Tom said nothing in response, Bell's shoulders seemed to sag. ‘Look, I'm a realist. I have to be. I know you are busy and I don't expect you to work every hour of every day on it, just take some time to look into it for me; a couple of weeks at least, please? Just a little paid work looking for the truth, until you choose to look no more? Do it for Rebecca, if you won't do it for me.'

‘Where would I even start?'

‘I'll give you a list of names, everyone that matters. Go and see everybody connected with the case.'

‘I'd have go a lot deeper than that.'

‘I think I understand a little of the way you go about your work. Did you bring a pen?' Tom reached automatically into his jacket pocket and brought out his pen and a notebook.

‘Right,' the guard's voice boomed in the large visiting room, ‘wrap this up now.'

‘Just a few more minutes,' pleaded Bell, ‘we're writing a list …'

‘No lists, no writing, wrap it up now.' Bell looked like a child who had woken on Christmas morning to find no presents under his tree.

‘No lists then,' he conceded, ‘but you'll come back tomorrow.' It was more of a statement than a question and when Tom did not look entirely convinced, he added the word, ‘Please.'

Councillor
Jarvis hadn't made an appointment – but then Frank Jarvis didn't need to, not when he simply wanted to see a Detective Chief Inspector, and particularly when he had known that DCI since he was a beat bobby. All the same, Kane was a little perturbed when the politician produced a bottle of Scotch and placed it on the detective's desk.

‘Bloody hell, I'm supposed to be driving home,' but he still went to the cabinet in the corner of his office, opened it and produced two glasses.

‘Get one of your lads to drop you off,' Jarvis told him. ‘There's plenty would be willing to do that small favour for a DCI,' he said, unscrewing the top from the bottle and beginning to pour. ‘I'm being picked up later.' And Kane wondered which young member of the local party machine had been singled out for that honour.

‘This isn't the bloody seventies,' Kane scolded him half-heartedly as he watched the whisky go into the glasses. ‘Can't have detectives getting arseholed in their own offices in the afternoons anymore.'

‘One drink isn't going to hurt you and no one can see,' countered Jarvis and he was right. The view into Kane's office was obscured by an ancient set of grubby venetian blinds, permanently blocking the windows.

When the whisky was poured they both raised their glasses to each other and drank silently for a moment while Kane waited for Jarvis to say his piece.

‘My wife is struggling,' he told the policeman, ‘I mean she's
always
struggled …' and he looked away for a moment because that struggle was an embarrassment to him, ‘but this … this is …' and Jarvis turned slightly so that he was facing towards the window ‘… something else entirely.'

‘No joy from our friends up north?' asked Kane. They both knew he was referring to Northumbria Police, the force that had led the investigation into the disappearance of the councillor's daughter, Sandra Jarvis, since her whole family was from Newcastle. It was their patch, but Durham Constabulary, DCI Kane's force, had assisted in the hunt for the missing girl from the beginning. She was studying at Durham University when she disappeared so there were lines of enquiry pursued by both forces without any positive outcome.

The rivalry between them was friendly enough for the most part, though officers based in Newcastle tended to view their County Durham counterparts as slightly bumbling, country bumpkins who spent most of their time investigating gentle crimes like vandalism or burglary, whereas their opposite numbers in Durham saw Geordie officers as out-of-control city dwellers, who were only mildly better behaved than the gangsters and drug dealers they were paid to lock up. When it came down to it though, there was a good deal of ‘cross-border' cooperation between them, particularly if murder was involved or, as in this case, a disappearance that could have involved foul play.

‘There's nothing,' answered Jarvis. ‘That new bloke.' And he shook his head dismissively. Kane knew he meant the recently installed Chief Constable, who must have been foolish enough to be less than fully cooperative when Councillor Jarvis came knocking. He was surprised someone could actually become a Chief Constable without
understanding the influence a man like Jarvis held in the region. He might be the
former
head of Newcastle City Council but one word in the right ear could still mean a favour granted, a problem solved. A whisper in another could cause a major problem for a senior police officer with ambition. Simple passive resistance from key politicians round here was enough to derail a promising career on its own. Kane was certain the new guy would soon learn who the real power brokers were in his own back yard.

‘I don't know what to say to you, Frank, I really don't. We have tried everything. We've spoken to everyone who had even the vaguest dealings with your daughter.'

‘And come up with nothing,' the councillor reminded him sharply, ‘which smacks of incompetence.'

Kane's silence was his answer. Jarvis was a man suffering the worst possible grief combined with uncertainty. His daughter had been missing for six months without a word from her or a single confirmed sighting. DCI Kane knew by now that her chances were not good.

Eventually Jarvis sighed, ‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean that.'

‘I know.'

‘It's just …'

‘I won't say I understand, Frank, because I don't. No one can begin to comprehend how you are feeling but we know you are in a very dark place right now. We are doing all we can, I assure you.'

‘So you're leaving no stone unturned? You can look me in the eye and promise me that.'

‘We're doing everything in our power to find your daughter.'

‘What about things that aren't within your power?'

‘How do you mean?' asked Kane.

‘I'm just saying there are limits to what you can achieve, given that you are bound by a code of conduct.'

‘We're bound by the limits of the law, Frank,' Kane observed, ‘that's all. I hope you're not thinking of doing anything foolish.'

‘I'm just saying there are lines of enquiry that can't easily be pursued by the police. I'm not suggesting anything dodgy.'

‘Not another private eye?' Jarvis shook his head at this. ‘I mean, seriously, did he actually give you anything you didn't already have?'

‘Apart from his bill?' Jarvis admitted, ‘No.'

‘Well, then.'

Jarvis didn't seem to want to argue the point so there was a momentary lull in their conversation until he said, ‘What about this other fellah you told me about a while back?'

Kane seemed to stiffen at that but simply answered, ‘Which one?' while privately regretting he had ever mentioned Tom Carney's name, even in passing, for he realised the bloody reporter was undoubtedly the reason for Jarvis' visit.

‘That journalist.'

‘That was a very different case, Frank.'

‘It was a missing person.'

‘It wasn't that simple.'

‘But you said he was a real asset.'

That was before he stabbed me in the back, thought Kane, whose opinion of Tom Carney had plummeted since the days immediately following the resolution of the Michelle Summers case. ‘Don't go down that route, Frank, I'm begging you.'

‘Why not? He's a good investigator, isn't he? You said so yourself.'

‘He's also a self-centred, arrogant, egotistical, cage-rattling, pain-in-the-arse.'

‘Sounds like he's just the man I'm looking for then.' Jarvis leaned forward and poured another generous measure into Kane's glass.

DI Tennant left her office an hour later and peered out at her team. Her gaze settled on Ian Bradshaw and her eyes narrowed. ‘Bradshaw,' she called, ‘DCI Kane wants you.'

‘DCI Kane wants
me
?' he parroted back at her in surprise. Bollockings from senior officers had been a regular occurrence during Ian Bradshaw's police career but he had hoped that was no longer the case. He'd been keeping his head down and his nose clean as Kane once advised him.

‘Yes,' she said curtly, ‘he wants you to drive him home.'

This was the cue for some hilarity from the team, including DS Cunningham reciting gleefully, ‘Kane and Bradshaw sitting in a tree, K.I.S.S.I.N.G.'

‘Fuck off, Cunningham,' might not have been the wittiest answer Bradshaw could have come up with but he offered it anyway. He was troubled now. It wasn't Cunningham's comment that bothered him though or the banter that continued as he was leaving the room, it was the look on DI Tennant's face as she watched him go, as if he'd just farted at the dinner table.

DCI Kane felt quite hammered. Not falling-down-drunk-on-a-night-out-with-the-lads pissed but drunk enough for a school night and certainly in no condition to drive, which was why he had phoned Katie Tennant to commandeer Bradshaw. It made obvious sense for him to kill two birds with one stone.

Katie had asked him why he needed to speak to one of her officers and his first reaction had been to tell her to mind her own bloody business but he bit his tongue. She was one of the new generation, he supposed, trained to use their initiative, not blindly follow orders like he had been. He would never have dreamed of questioning a senior officer. It wasn't the way to get ahead.

Had he been entirely sober he might have said, ‘I'd like a word with him,' but because of the whisky he'd been a little too honest and said, ‘I need him to drive me home,' and by the time he'd realised that was probably not the most impressive thing he could have told his subordinate, it was too late.

‘I see,' she clearly wasn't impressed, ‘I'll send him over.'

He was glad he had the Polo mints. God knows how long they'd been in his drawer but he didn't care about that now. He shovelled four into his mouth and crunched on them, managing to swallow all of the minty fragments before Bradshaw showed up at his door.

‘Ah, Bradshaw,' he said, ‘good lad. My car's playing up and I wanted a word with you anyway. Be a good man and give me a lift home then you can knock off, eh?' he said brightly. ‘After we've had our chat.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Bradshaw, who was still baffled as to why he had been summoned to act as his DCI's taxi driver, though he did at least understand the reason why Kane wouldn't be driving himself home. He noticed his boss discreetly palm a packet of Polos into his jacket pocket and there were two empty, recently rinsed glasses on a nearby cabinet. There was something solid wrapped in an old carrier bag that had been placed in the waste paper basket too, which could have been an empty spirit bottle. Bradshaw supposed he should be grateful there were two glasses.

‘Let's get going then.' Kane put the palm of one hand firmly against Bradshaw's shoulder as he steered the detective sergeant to the door and Bradshaw got a strong whiff of mints as they left the office.

Katie Tennant was fuming. She normally had an ‘open-door' policy but not that afternoon. Now her door was very firmly shut against an unfair world. God help anybody who tried to disturb her before this day was through.

Durham Constabulary's solitary female DI should have seen it coming. She half expected there'd be a spy in the camp, reporting back to DCI Kane on her competence and fitness for leadership but she hadn't expected Kane to be so bloody blatant about it.

He hadn't liked it when she bridled then asked him why he needed to see one of her team so he had invented some bullshit story about needing a lift home. There was something else that was bothering her about the whole thing: Bradshaw. She'd actually thought he might be different, that he could, quite possibly, be one of the good ones and Lord knows there weren't many of them. Well, at least now she knew differently.

In the morning she would challenge Bradshaw, maybe even ask him outright if he was Kane's spy and see if that put the wind up him. If he wavered for an instant, she would never trust him again.