Behind Dead Eyes (21 page)

‘No one whose door you could get me through.' And when Jarvis looked surprised at that, Tom said, ‘I went down to that pub Sandra worked at on the Quayside. It's closed now but the police took statements from everyone who worked there with her.'

‘I've read them,' said Jarvis. ‘There wasn't much there.'

‘No, there wasn't,' agreed Tom. ‘Nobody even mentioned the owner, Jimmy McCree.'

‘Bloody hell,' said the councillor, ‘how come the police didn't work that out?'

‘I'm not sure,' said Tom, though he had his suspicions, corruption being chief among them. ‘I guess it got overlooked somehow.' And Tom told Jarvis about Helen's detective work.

‘Very bright lass, that reporter,' observed the councillor.

‘Have you met her?'

‘No, but I've read some of her recent articles about Joe Lynch.'

‘Do you think McCree could have known your daughter was working in one of his pubs?'

‘I honestly don't know.'

‘But he could have found out,' said Tom. ‘It's possible, I mean, probable even?'

‘The people who work for him would be expected to pass on information like that but …'

‘But what?'

‘What good would it do him? I grew up in the same streets as McCree, around the same time. He chose one path while I chose the other and I have followed his
career
with interest. I've campaigned against him and folk like him. I've been an ardent opponent of anyone who deals drugs or takes part in organised crime in my city but he has never moved against me before. I can see where you're coming from. Jimmy McCree is not a nice man. I used to think he was the devil … but I've since learned there are a lot worse than him out there. I've never heard of him harming innocent members of anyone's family. In a way he's quite old-fashioned about that short of thing.'

‘Honour among thieves eh?'

‘If there is such a thing.' Jarvis didn't sound sure about that. ‘More to the point, why would he do it?'

‘I don't know,' Tom admitted, ‘but Sandra has disappeared and there must be a reason for her disappearance. We can rule out anything at home and we're drawing a blank at her university so that leaves this Meadowlands place and the fact that she used to work in a boozer controlled by Tyneside's most notorious gangster.'

‘You're right about one thing,' said Jarvis. ‘I won't be able
to get you through his door and I wouldn't want to, for your sake. Jimmy McCree is a very private individual. Oh I know he's seen around town but he won't take kindly to a journalist sniffing about, especially one who's on the police payroll. He'll already know about that, by the way.'

‘From his contacts on the force?' asked Tom.

‘Exactly,' said Jarvis. ‘If you get too near him I'd be surprised if you didn't take a beating. Not there and then obviously but some other time when you were coming out of a pub or your own front door. Jimmy would be miles away when it happened of course and he'd have an alibi.'

‘Like you said, not a nice guy.'

‘Well a lot of pubs in the Toon have dodgy owners or bent money behind them.'

‘And I could be barking up the wrong tree here, but it got me thinking.'

‘What about?'

‘Who stood to gain?'

‘From what?'

‘Your daughter's disappearance.'

Jarvis thought for a moment. ‘I don't think anybody gained anything from her disappearance.'

‘Don't you?' asked Tom. ‘Think for a moment. What was the first thing you did when you realised she was missing and wasn't coming back any day soon?'

‘I started the campaign to find her,' he said.

‘Before that,' Tom prompted Jarvis.

‘Before that?' Jarvis wasn't following. ‘I liaised with the police as best I could …'

Tom shook his head. ‘You stood down.'

‘Well I had to,' said Jarvis. ‘I couldn't carry on doing all that when I had to find my daughter.'

‘So you resigned,' said Tom, ‘as leader of the city council. You gave up a position of great influence and you stopped campaigning on issues that were once very dear to your heart, like uncontrolled inner city development for example, particularly on publicly owned land on the banks of the Tyne.'

‘The Riverside tender?'

‘Which you were once very vocally opposed to.'

‘I was,' said Jarvis, ‘and a bit of a lone voice in the wilderness, I'm afraid. I wanted it to be public parkland surrounded by social housing with affordable homes for public-sector workers. I might as well have asked for Disneyland.'

‘But you were still a significant obstacle to the kind of development they are all bidding for now: retail centres with low-paid jobs, restaurants and penthouse apartments overlooking the River Tyne. You got a lot of people questioning the wisdom of that. There would have been some expensive compromises for the developers if you'd have still been in charge.'

‘Maybe,' said Jarvis, ‘so what's your point?'

‘With you gone or at least distracted by the disappearance of your daughter, the way was clear for one of the biggest land grabs in the history of the north-east.'

‘You'll forgive me if I view that as a pretty low priority right now.'

‘And that's exactly my point,' said Tom. ‘You stopped campaigning to make the Riverside development a community asset instead of a licence to print money and started giving different speeches about missing persons instead.'

‘So someone harmed my daughter to get me out of the way?'

‘It's not inconceivable, is it?'

‘And you think McCree could be behind this?'

‘When you resigned you created a vacuum,' Tom reminded him, ‘and you let someone else take your place.'

‘Joe Lynch.'

‘Who became leader of the council instead of you,' Tom said, ‘and Joe Lynch is a friend of …?'

‘Alan Camfield,' said Jarvis, ‘according to your reporter friend.'

‘Who is working with …?'

And it seemed as if the penny finally dropped. ‘Jimmy McCree.'

‘Exactly,' said Tom. ‘Now you've got it.'

‘Who stood to gain?' reflected Jarvis ruefully.

‘The answer is, all three of them,' said Tom.

Since
Helen lived and worked in Newcastle and the two men were based in Durham it seemed only fair to split their meetings between the two locations. Helen had given them her address in Jesmond but suggested meeting at the Lit and Phil instead. ‘It's more central,' she said quickly, ‘and my flat is tiny.'

It had been a while since Tom had been in the ancient library. Its full name was the Literary and Philosophical Society but everyone called it the Lit and Phil. It had occupied the same spot near the railway station for 170 years and held more than 100,000 books between its walls. The place had the atmosphere of a stately home that suddenly decided one day to admit members of the public and allow them to occupy its battered old chairs so they could read in peace. It was an oasis of calm in a bustling city and Tom wondered why he didn't use it more often.

Helen was sitting at a table near a wrought-iron staircase that curved up to the ceiling. Two huge bookcases on either side lent her spot an element of privacy. They could easily talk here without disturbing others, as long as they kept their voices reasonably low.

Helen told them about her meeting with Amy Riordan and the effect knowing she had once dated a murderer had had on her. ‘Amy is a damaged individual,' she concluded, ‘and some of that has to be down to Richard Bell, whatever else he is guilty of.'

‘It sounds like she has had trouble with a number of men,' observed Tom.

‘Are you saying that's her fault?' asked Helen sharply.

‘No,' Tom retorted, ‘I'm saying she's unlucky and so was Rebecca Holt. Richard Bell wasn't the only violent man in her life.' And he told them about his run-in with Freddie.

‘So Rebecca went from one angry controlling man to another?' observed Bradshaw.

Again Helen took umbrage: ‘Or maybe Tom just brought out the worst in him.'

‘How did you get on with Frank Jarvis?' asked Bradshaw, eager to avoid another argument about victim-blaming.

‘He's in a state,' said Tom, ‘as you would expect,' and he gave them a detailed report on his time with Jarvis. When he was done he told Helen, ‘He's a fan of yours too. I think he is quietly amused by the way you are steadily dismantling Councillor Lynch.'

‘What about Meadowlands?' asked Bradshaw.

‘He says he can get me in there, so we will see if he really can make things happen in this city.' When the detective seemed happy with that answer, Tom asked, ‘What about you?'

‘Me? The highlight of my day was getting love-life advice from my DCI. Surprisingly, he didn't seem all that arsed about either of the cases we're looking at.'

‘Sliding desk,' said Tom. ‘The Sandra Jarvis case is now being handled by someone else – you.'

‘That's what I figured,' said Bradshaw.

‘So we'd better not mess this up if you want a career.'

‘I figured that too.' And when no one seemed to have anything to add, Ian said, ‘If that's everything, I should really be getting back home.'

Bradshaw and Tom got to their feet then and started to move away from Helen's table as they said their goodbyes. Helen stayed in her seat and seemed to hesitate before speaking.

‘Before you go,' she asked Bradshaw, ‘could I have a word?' Since they had shared a car both men turned back to join her. ‘Er … I meant with Ian,' she said awkwardly to Tom, ‘if that's alright.'

‘Oh,' Tom said, momentarily taken aback, ‘of course, no problem. I'll just go and wait in the car then.'

She hated to exclude him but she needed Ian's advice as a policeman. Somehow she knew Tom would be too concerned and protective if he knew what had been happening to her.

Neither Helen nor Bradshaw spoke until Tom had left the room.

‘If you won't tell Tom what this is about it must be bloody serious,' he folded his arms, ‘so I'm listening.'

In the car on the way back to Durham, Tom didn't ask what Helen wanted to talk to him about, even though he must have been burning to know, and Bradshaw was glad of that. He would not have been able to betray her confidence if Tom had pressed him but it was more than that. He understood why Helen didn't want Tom to know about the attack on her in the car park, the threats over the phone and the vile message sprayed on her car. Tom would want to do something about it but what could he do that wouldn't place him in just as much danger?

Ian Bradshaw knew he should have told her to make it all official; to formally report the incidents and let uniformed officers investigate them, but that would be a pointless waste
of time. It would probably only serve to encourage whoever was responsible, since it was proof they were getting to her. Instead he gave her some advice on how to avoid putting herself at risk.

‘That's all very useful, Ian,' she told him, ‘but what should I actually do?'

‘Do you trust me, Helen?'

‘I wouldn't be talking to you about this if I didn't.'

‘Then leave it with me.'

Tom returned home to find a message on his answerphone. The voice was low and the words reluctant.

‘It's Dean, from Meadowlands. Councillor Jarvis called me. We'll let you in tomorrow afternoon,' then he added, ‘but you have to bring a woman.'

‘Bloody hell,' Tom said aloud to himself because he had only just left Helen. He had a phone number for her flat in Jesmond but didn't want it to seem like he couldn't go a night without calling her. Despite himself, he couldn't help but feel slighted by the way she'd asked him to leave her for a cosy chat with Ian Bradshaw. ‘Bugger that,' Tom said and he went off to bed.

Jimmy McCree regarded the man standing on his doorstep that morning with something between amusement and disdain. He turned to call back over his shoulder. ‘Put the kettle on, pet,' he told an unseen partner, ‘and make a cup of tea for the officer,' then he smirked and walked back into his house, leaving the door open for Bradshaw to follow him inside.

Bradshaw had never met Jimmy McCree but the gangster wasn't psychic. In this part of Newcastle's west end, if you
saw someone dressed in a suit and tie he was more than likely a policeman. In some ways the folk that lived here were decent people and the streets supposedly a lot safer than more deprived areas, like the run-down high-rises not so many miles from here. Drugs were less of an obvious problem than feuding between the rougher families. Domestic violence or drink-related incidents were more common in this corner of the city and crime was seen as a perfectly viable career path. For many it was the only option. Jimmy McCree and his family had ruled this part of the world for years and he had never left its terraced streets. Bradshaw wondered what was the point of having all the money he was reputed to have earned if he couldn't spend it on anything, but if McCree did move to a mansion in Gosforth he would lose a good portion of his romanticised, Robin-Hood man-of-the-people image and the protection from the community he lived in would vanish along with it.

McCree sat in an armchair and filled it with his bulk. He was an imposing figure with huge biceps that threatened to rip through his T-shirt. He beckoned for Bradshaw to take a seat. ‘I've not seen you before, bonny lad.' His eyes narrowed. ‘You didn't come down here mob-handed,' the big man noted, ‘so you've obviously got balls.' Bradshaw had heard the stories. If you wanted to arrest Jimmy McCree in his own back yard you turned up with back-up from armed officers and riot shields, because as soon as you knocked on his front door most of the neighbourhood would be out throwing half-bricks at you and simultaneously crying ‘Police brutality!' as you led him away.

‘And nobody called to say you were on your way, so I'm wondering if this is properly official.' He looked sly then. ‘Does anyone even know you're down here?' The implication
was that if Bradshaw never returned he might not even be missed.

‘Are you finished?' asked Bradshaw, who was in no mood for mind games.

McCree sighed, as if Bradshaw didn't understand the rules of an audience with the King of Newcastle. ‘Okay,' he said, ‘so what's this about?' And his tone hardened. ‘Say your piece then fuck off.'

It didn't take long for Tom to find the faculty building and nobody challenged him as he walked its corridors searching for the relevant room. He was grateful academic people didn't believe in wearing their knowledge lightly, preferring to broadcast their credentials to the world with names and titles on every door, along with the letters denoting their qualifications.

When he found the right door he knocked. ‘Come,' was the slightly imperious response. He entered to find a man standing by a blackboard busily scribbling numbers and symbols.

‘Looks complicated.' When the doctor turned towards him he said, ‘Tom Carney. We spoke on the phone.'

‘Everything looks complicated if we have no understanding of it,' said Doctor Alexander. ‘French, Swahili, the notes on a music sheet,' the doctor said, and he added some numbers to his work before finishing, ‘If someone shows us what it all means, however …'

‘Yeah,' agreed Tom doubtfully, while hoping the doctor would not try to explain the enormous equation that filled a large section of the blackboard, ‘I can cope with a bit of French but I suspect
that
might be beyond me.'

‘Please tell me you're not one of those people who
can't comprehend the difference between astronomy and astrology.'

‘I think I can at least manage that.' The lecturer peered at him expectantly. ‘Astronomy is the study of the planets and the stars,' Tom said, ‘whereas astrology is just bullshit.'

The doctor seemed pleased with that answer. ‘There is no scientific basis in the notion that the future can be predicted by the position or motion of the stars,' he nodded in agreement with his own point. ‘Astrology is often referred to as a pseudoscience but I think that's very generous. I rather prefer your description, though I suspect I won't get away with that in any of my lectures.' Then he seemed to remember something. ‘Didn't you call to speak to Professor Matthews?'

‘That's right.'

His frown deepened. ‘And I did inform you the professor died some months ago.'

‘You did,' said Tom, ‘but I have a couple of questions and I hoped you might be able to help me with them.'

‘I'm afraid I didn't know him all that well.'

‘They are about physics actually, not the professor.' The doctor looked doubtful. ‘It relates to some expert testimony provided by the professor in a case I am looking into.'

Alexander blinked at him. ‘It can't still be a live case. He has been dead for almost a year.'

‘It isn't. I am re-examining the case and conducting a thorough review of all of the original evidence.'

‘I see,' Tom could tell the lecturer was uneasy, ‘but I am not about to assist you in discrediting our former professor.' He folded his arms and glared at Tom.

‘Nor would I expect you to,' Tom assured him, ‘I just need a better understanding of his findings.'

‘Relating to what?'

‘The force of a blunt instrument striking an immobile object.'

‘Oh,' he unfolded his arms then, ‘that I can help you with, I suppose, or I can at least try. What exactly do you want to know?'

‘To be specific, I want to understand how you would go about calculating the force of a hammer blow.'

‘Oh that's relatively easy.'

‘Really?' Tom was surprised to learn this.

‘Yes, it's just Newton's equation of motion.'

‘I could pretend I know what you're talking about but …'

The lecturer reached for a piece of chalk and went back to his blackboard. He grabbed a dusty cloth and rubbed an old equation from the board, leaving a gap large enough to write his explanation, calling out the letters as he wrote them: ‘V squared is the final velocity of the hammer, which can be calculated because it is equal to U squared, the initial impact speed, minus 2 AX, with A being the deceleration and X being the distance travelled. You follow?'

‘Kind of,' said Tom unsurely.

‘It's simple physics.'

‘How do you calculate the level of force used if you don't know the impact speed or the distance travelled because you weren't there to measure it?'

‘You can't.'

‘But Professor Matthews did.'

Doctor Alexander shook his head. ‘He couldn't have done. He had to have made certain assumptions, if he wasn't there to witness the … er … I was going to say
experiment
but clearly it was more serious than that if he was testifying in a court of law.'

Tom explained the circumstances behind Professor Matthews' appearance in court.

‘Oh dear Lord,' said Alexander, ‘that's truly horrific.'

‘So how did he do it?' asked Tom quickly. ‘Calculate the force of the blow, I mean?'

‘Well the simple answer is he couldn't have done.'

‘What?' Tom had been expecting a long discussion about the mechanics of that calculation and, if he was lucky, some small grey area of doubt that could be used to dispute the professor's findings. He wasn't expecting this however.

‘Well he wasn't at the scene, was he? He didn't witness the crime and wouldn't have been able to calculate its force just by looking at it.'

‘So how did he come up with his findings?'

‘I don't want to disparage the late professor,' the doctor said quietly, ‘but I am surmising he simply worked backwards.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘He surveyed the damage caused to that young lady by the hammer then estimated the level of force required to cause it. From that he could extrapolate until he had a series of estimations of velocity, impact speed and the deceleration required to administer the deadly blow.'

‘But how could he ascertain whether a man or a woman were capable of delivering such a blow?'