Behind Dead Eyes (13 page)

The
multi-storey car park was dark even during daylight hours, thanks to low, grey, concrete ceilings supported on thick pillars, the gloom broken only by light coming from narrow spaces at either end of a long line of parked cars. Helen crossed the ground floor then found the lift had broken down, forcing her to take the stairs, which were lit by bare bulbs strong enough to illuminate the misspelt graffiti covering the walls. As the door closed behind her she was entirely alone and suddenly felt extremely vulnerable in this enclosed space so she moved quickly, becoming out of breath as she took each set of steps without pausing until she reached her floor. This wasn't where she wanted to be right now. Not when she had just been threatened by a powerful man with gangsters for friends, but Helen couldn't spend her whole career hiding in the newsroom. She had just interviewed a youth worker who was helping teenagers avoid gangs by teaching them boxing and this necessitated a visit to one of the rougher parts of the city. Helen had to push the heavy door hard to get it to open and its lowest edge scraped against the ground as it moved. It eventually swung noisily open before wedging itself into the concrete. Once again she was alone and the car park was so quiet every step she made was audible as she crossed the floor.

There was something that didn't feel quite right here, an atmosphere that Helen told herself was caused solely by her overwrought imagination, because she was in an unmanned
car park and had seen too many movies where lone women were suddenly pounced on by men who lurked in dark shadows. Nonetheless, she quickened her pace.

Helen was halfway to safety and beginning to feel calmer when there was a sudden loud bang that made her simultaneously start and turn in a panic towards the noise. She almost stumbled, convinced that she was about to be attacked.

But there was no one there.

It took Helen seconds to work out the cause of the noise that had echoed across the car park. The door she wedged open slammed shut with a terrific bang. Helen took two deep breaths before she felt able to resume her walk to her car, which was on the upper of the two levels on this floor. That meant climbing the ramp the cars used, as she could not see a footpath. She did this briskly while looking around her to make sure no one was following. Helen knew she was well and truly rattled now but she couldn't help herself. She vividly recalled the threats from Councillor Lynch and knew the company he was keeping these days. She told herself she had good cause to be nervous.

Helen spotted her car, but as she drew closer, what she saw stopped her in her tracks. Someone must have followed her here – how else could they have known where to find her car? The message had been sprayed on the light-coloured bodywork in thick, dark lettering as unsubtle as the words used: ‘Bitch, whore, slag.' It was enough to make Helen feel sick and she was momentarily torn. She had no desire to go near the car but nor did she want to risk going down that dark, enclosed staircase again. She couldn't stand out here in the open either. What if the man who had done this was still nearby? What if he was watching her right now?

Helen decided to move and set off at a normal walking pace
towards her car, noting with relief that at least her tyres remained undamaged. If the vandal was watching her, she was determined not to let him see how upset she was. Helen banished her feelings of revulsion and kept walking. She put her hand into her bag and drew out the keys so she could get into the car and drive away as quickly as possible.

She was only a few yards from her car when it suddenly dawned on her that whoever did this could be inside. He might even be lying in wait for her on the back seat.

She steeled herself and gripped the keys in her palm, ensuring the pointed end stuck out through her fingers. If he was inside and he leapt for her, she swore she would gouge him in the face.

Heart pounding, Helen reached the car and stole a quick glance inside, but saw nothing on the back seat and no one hiding in the foot wells. Instantly her fear of the car was replaced by a desperate desire to climb inside it as quickly as possible and lock the door. She moved the key into a more natural position, opened the door and got in as fast as she was able. Helen slammed the door so quickly she banged her knee, but without pausing, she started the car's engine, reversed swiftly out of the space and drove as fast as she dared for the exit.

The rain was lashing down on Ian Bradshaw as he stood disconsolately on Elvet Bridge, cursing Tom Carney for his lateness. Why had he agreed to meet the reporter in Durham city out in the open? Because the weather had been deceptively warm and sunny earlier that day and it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

‘You're late,' he told Tom as he trudged towards Bradshaw with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

‘Traffic was a bastard. They are digging up the roads
again. I told you we should have met in a pub.' Tom couldn't see the point of meeting at all, since he couldn't imagine DCI Kane agreeing to his little deal.

‘I'm on duty,' Bradshaw reminded him, ‘it's alright for you.' And the two men walked across the stone bridge together into the old core of the city.

‘Then have a bloody orange juice, for God's sake,' snapped Tom. He squinted against the rain that was driven into them by a swirling wind and steered Bradshaw along Sadler Street, which led to the famous cathedral at the top of the hill. They didn't get that far though, as Tom motioned for Bradshaw to follow him into the Shakespeare, an ancient, tiny pub that provided a comfortable nook against the foul weather.

Tom ordered the drinks while Bradshaw removed his sodden coat and hung it on the back of a chair, where it dripped onto the floor.

‘Kane has given the go-ahead,' he said when Tom returned with a glass of orange juice and a pint of bitter the detective eyed enviously.

‘Really?' Tom could hardly have been more surprised. ‘You did tell him my side of the deal?' he asked suspiciously.

‘Of course,' snapped Bradshaw. ‘Don't worry, you'll get the help you asked for.'

‘Oh, so that's it.'

‘What?'

‘He asked
you
to do the helping didn't he,' Tom told him, ‘which explains why you are narked. Well you should have seen that coming.'

‘I'm not narked. I'm just dripping wet and you're the one with the beer.' Bradshaw sipped his orange juice then pulled the face a small child makes tasting medicine.

‘I thought you'd be happy. You got Kane what he wanted.'

‘And you got what you wanted too,' Bradshaw reminded him. ‘I'm just the one stuck in the middle.'

‘Cheer up. It'll be like old times.'

‘I'm just very busy right now but maybe I'll have more luck with another case. So, where do we start?'

Tom shrugged. ‘Anywhere,' he said, ‘everywhere.'

‘That's helpful.'

Tom realised Bradshaw was determined to play the grump, so he began with the case the detective cared about most. ‘Okay, answer a question I have about Sandra Jarvis. According to the file you left me, she was seen around the city for a couple of days after her father saw her last. They had an argument, she stormed off and didn't come back, but where did she go?'

‘They drew a blank on that,' said Bradshaw, meaning his compatriots in Northumbria Police.

‘She didn't crash with a friend?'

‘If she did, they couldn't find her … or him … or someone was lying,' said Bradshaw.

‘So if she didn't stay at a mate's, what did she do between rowing with Dad and leaving the city two days later?'

‘We don't know, but we got a number of sightings when we appealed for witnesses after her disappearance. She was seen in the Grainger market and Northumberland Street. There were also sightings in the Quayside and one at the Metro Centre.'

‘So she went shopping? Doesn't sound like Sandra Jarvis was too stressed at that point then, but she was definitely last seen at the railway station?'

‘They have a whizzy new CCTV system. An eagle-eyed detective went through hours of footage until he spotted her.'

‘Good for him,' said Tom and he meant it. ‘And they say your job isn't glamorous.'

‘It has its moments,' said Bradshaw, ‘but most of the time it's mundane slog, like the case I'm working on right now in fact.' And he told Tom Carney a little about the burned girl and the problems they were having identifying her.

‘And there's no chance your burned girl could be Sandra Jarvis?' Tom asked. ‘Not that I'm saying you haven't thought of that, but if you can't identify her?'

‘We can rule that out. Sandra Jarvis is considerably taller.'

‘This picture of Sandra taken from the CCTV,' Tom asked, ‘where is it?'

‘It will be in the case files in Newcastle,' said the detective,

‘I'd like to see it.'

‘I'll get you in there,' he told Tom. ‘They're holding a lot of information about her that you'll want to wade through.'

‘And while I'm doing that …' Tom said slowly.

‘Sounds ominous,' replied Bradshaw. ‘What do you want?'

‘We had a deal, remember?' said Tom. ‘I help you with your case and you help me with mine.'

‘Yeah, yeah, what do you need me to do?'

‘Check out the local perverts for me,' said Tom.

‘Excuse me?'

‘I need you to look into Lonely Lane,' he told the detective. ‘I want to know everything that goes on down there.'

As Tom drove back into Newcastle he kept the radio on out of habit. At this time of the day, between the lunch-time news and drive-time, the local station hardly played any music, having long since realised phone-ins with unpaid members of the general public were far cheaper than paying royalties for songs. In this instance, talk really was cheap.
Today's topic was a popular one, as it involved the region's unofficial religion, football. Newcastle United were top of the league and finally poised to end their decades-long wait for a trophy. They were so far ahead of anyone else that failure seemed a virtual impossibility.

‘Howay man,' a caller assured a sceptical radio host, ‘even Newcastle couldn't cock this up.'

‘Don't bet on it,' muttered Tom as he steered his car into a street full of red-brick, two-up-two-down terraced houses then parked it behind a white van that was so caked in grime someone had used a finger to write, ‘I wish my missus was this dirty,' in the muck on its rear doors.

Tom knocked at number twenty. She took so long to answer he assumed no one was in, and was about to walk away when the front door swung open.

‘Mrs Jarvis?' he asked the startled-looking woman who answered.

‘Yes,' she said in a very quiet voice, as if she wasn't entirely sure.

‘I'm here to see your husband,' he told her. ‘I'm Tom Carney.' He expected her to ask him in but instead she disappeared into the house without another word, leaving the door open. Rather than wait on the doorstep he followed her inside.

As he entered the lounge she was leaving it through the kitchen door and he heard the heavy back door open. She mumbled something that could have been, ‘I'll get him,' but it was barely audible. He was left standing in the living room and he was not alone.

An old lady wearing a white cardigan over a floral-pattern dress was sitting in an armchair, peering at him intently, her face cratered by deep wrinkles.

‘Who are you?' she asked accusingly.

‘I'm Tom,' he offered, and hoped that might be sufficient explanation.

‘And what do
you
want, Tom?' she asked archly, as if everyone who visited the Jarvis household was a con man of some kind.

‘I'm here to help Councillor Jarvis.' From her age and the fact she seemed quite at home here, this had to be Sandra's grandmother.

‘Help him with what?'

‘He has asked me to try and find his daughter.' He knew this revelation could upset the old woman.

‘Oh, that one,' she said dismissively, ‘she's a little cuckoo.'

Tom was taken aback by the description of her own granddaughter but from the slightly glazed expression on the old lady's ancient eyes she did not appear qualified to comment on someone else's mental stability. She opened her mouth as if she was going to add something. ‘It's not as if …'

‘Be quiet, Mother,' snapped Mrs Jarvis, who reappeared suddenly in the doorway. The old woman didn't seem unduly concerned at being silenced so sharply. The councillor's wife turned her attention to Tom. ‘He's not out back. He must be down the allotment.' She said this as if she couldn't quite remember whether he had told her or not.

‘Okay,' Tom said, ‘could you maybe point me in the right direction?'

‘So what can I do for you, Detective Sergeant,' asked Sergeant Hennessey. He was one of those old hands who was always cheerful because he was edging closer to retirement with every passing day.

‘I'm after some information about Lonely Lane,' said Bradshaw.

‘Shaggers' Alley?' asked Hennessey. ‘What do you want to know?'

‘It's something I'm looking into for a case.' He felt no need to elaborate but needn't have worried, for Hennessey didn't even feign interest. ‘I've heard it's like the Wild West out there,' Bradshaw concluded, expecting the other man to play it down.

‘You would not believe what goes on out there after dark,' he offered instead, ‘other than the obvious.' Bradshaw assumed he was hinting about darker deeds than teenage sex and extramarital affairs.

‘We've not had many arrests though.'

‘There's been loads,' said Hennessey and when Bradshaw looked puzzled he added, ‘just not many charges. Between you and me, we let most of them off with a caution or a warning.'

‘Why?'

‘Because, my dear friend,' said Hennessey, ‘if we arrested every man down there with his cock out, the cells would be fit to bursting and the Assistant Commissioner would have my guts for garters.'