Behind Dead Eyes (22 page)

‘I don't know.' When Tom seemed dissatisfied with that answer, the doctor felt compelled to add, ‘I suppose if it were me I could attempt to replicate those conditions in the lab, using male and female students perhaps, to see how many of them were capable of reaching the required levels.'

‘And did he do that?'

‘I have no idea but I suspect not.'

‘But I don't understand how he could come out with such
a strong opinion. He said that it would be a practical impossibility for a woman to deliver that blow.'

‘Did he?' The lecturer bit his bottom lip thoughtfully. ‘Look, I've never done that kind of work and I wouldn't want to but if you are called to comment on these cases you are there for a reason. The defence or, in this case, the prosecution, want an expert opinion and it won't be highly regarded if it is something woolly. No one is going to ask you back on the stand if you say,
Having examined all of the facts, I don't know what went on.
Professor Matthews was a favoured expert witness precisely because he was more comfortable making pronouncements based on less comprehensive data than many of us.'

Alexander's answer was a masterful piece of understatement. In short, the professor craved the fame of the courtroom and the accompanying exposure in newspapers more than scientific accuracy.

‘So he guessed?' announced Tom, stunned at the realisation. ‘I know it was a highly educated guess with a whole bunch of letters after its name but it was still a bloody guess.'

‘Er, I'd prefer to call it a supposition but, I suppose, you could, if you wanted, see it as … a guess.'

‘Christ all-bloody-mighty.'

Tom's
knowledge of physics hadn't greatly improved during his time with Doctor Alexander but his understanding of the world of the expert witness had increased markedly. Their fields of expertise were usually so narrow and specialist that normal members of a jury would be in no position to question the findings of a professor and would simply take their opinions as scientific fact.

Tom wondered how many men and women were languishing in prison because an expert said they must be guilty when they were not. Professor Matthews stood up in court and ruled that only a man could have killed Rebecca Holt. It had taken Tom just minutes with his former colleague to discredit that theory. In that sense it had been a successful morning so far and, buoyed by this, he took a handful of coins from his pocket and fed them into a payphone in the lobby of the university building then dialled Helen at the newspaper. As he waited for her to pick up he wondered again if he should invest in a mobile phone. He could probably justify their convenience but not their cost and though they were smaller than the brick-like unit he'd had when he worked for a tabloid, it was still a pain trying to fit one in a pocket and there were large parts of the north-east where the signal strength made you feel as if you were on the moon.

‘Hello.' Tom recognised Helen's voice straight away.

‘I need a woman,' he told her.

‘Are you always this direct?'

‘That depends on how urgent the requirement is and in this case I'm afraid I cannot manage without you.'

‘In that case I'm flattered, I think, but what do you want and when do you need it by?'

‘A burned girl, you say? Well that's terrible.' Jimmy McCree sounded to Bradshaw as if he couldn't have cared less. ‘It wasn't in Newcastle though, was it? I know everything that goes on in my city.' Bradshaw found himself irked by the arrogance of this man. It wasn't
his
city.

‘Her body was found in a scrapyard in County Durham but for some reason we've had trouble tracing the owner. Nobody seems to want to tell us who he is.'

‘Really? That sounds a bit dodgy to me. Has it crossed your mind that it could just be a front? You know, for criminal goings-on.' Bradshaw ignored him. ‘I'm very sorry, officer. I'd love to help you with that one but I can't. Tell you what, I'll ask around though.'

‘What about Sandra Jarvis?' asked Bradshaw.

‘Sandra Jarvis?' Once again the big man contorted his face but this time it was to feign a loss of memory where that name was concerned. Eventually he said, ‘The councillor's daughter?' as if it had suddenly come back to him. ‘That's a terrible business. Frank Jarvis must be grieving.'

‘She's not dead,' countered Bradshaw, ‘unless you are telling me she is?'

‘It's just a figure of speech. I meant her unexplained disappearance must be causing him grief. Nothing messes with a man's mind more than problems involving his immediate family.'

‘That's true,' said Bradshaw. ‘I hear she worked in one of your pubs.' He watched the big man intently now.

McCree regarded Bradshaw innocently as if he had been entirely misinformed. ‘I don't have any pubs, detective. Can't imagine where you got that idea from.'

‘Of course not,' said Bradshaw dryly and he tried another angle: ‘Some folk have profited from Sandra's disappearance haven't they, since Frank Jarvis had to step down as leader of the council?'

‘You can hardly blame Joe Lynch for taking over a vacant position. It's not his fault Frank's daughter has gone missing. Since when has ambition been a crime?'

‘Know him pretty well, do you? The councillor, I mean.'

‘I've
met
him because of my business but I wouldn't say I
know
him. Do you?'

‘I know he likes to threaten journalists.'

‘I've heard nowt about that.'

Bradshaw knew then and there that he was never going to get the infamous Jimmy McCree to let down his guard. He could have stayed there all day and McCree would bat back all of his questions with the consummate skill of a man who has been questioned countless times by police and never once been convicted. Bradshaw hadn't expected it would go any other way. He simply wanted to be face to face with McCree, to meet the famous adversary at the top of the hit list of every policeman in the north-east of England, and he also wanted a quiet word.

‘So Joe Lynch never asked you to terrorise Helen Norton?'

McCree didn't even pretend he wasn't aware of Helen. ‘A burned girl, a missing girl … and an annoying girl. You've got a thing about women, detective. I'm guessing you're a regular Sir Galahad.'

‘I'm here to warn you off her.'

‘Oh, really?' And he leaned forward in his chair then,
exuding menace, a street fighter who's been challenged. ‘Well I've no idea what you're talking about but if I did I'd probably take offence at that.'

‘You need to stay away from her.'

‘I've never been near the lass, except one time when she took my photograph in a restaurant without asking me, which was an invasion of my privacy, by the way. There was a second time when she followed me to a private charity event at a golf course and that was very rude of her, don't you think?'

‘That why you set your thugs on her,' asked Bradshaw, ‘and damaged her car – or are you going to say you had nowt to do with that too?'

‘I don't know any thugs and I'm not the sort to bear grudges against a woman, even one who seems obsessed with me … but if I
was
the type to take exception to someone I wouldn't mess about just spraying their car.'

‘Who said it was sprayed?'

‘You said it was vandalised. Round here they would key it or spray it. I assumed it was one or the other.'

‘You're right though,' admitted Bradshaw, ‘that's not really your method. Sickening beatings and the occasional murder are more your style.'

‘I've never been convicted of giving anyone a beating. I was arrested once for murder,' McCree conceded, ‘but the jury knew it was a stitch-up. The judge was very critical of Northumbria Police in his summing-up. He realised they were trying to frame me because they had a long-standing grudge against me.'

‘And why is that, I wonder?'

‘When I was a young man I kept bad company for a while and did some things I shouldn't have. I was a bit of a tearaway but I've changed now and I'm a successful businessman.
You lot resent that and you want to put me away for something I never even did. It's scandalous.'

‘In that case it might be a good idea to avoid harassing a journalist. You might bring the wrong sort of attention to yourself. So lay off her from now on.'

Jimmy McCree folded his huge arms and stared right back at the detective. ‘Or?'

‘You'll make an enemy of me,' said Bradshaw, ‘and you wouldn't want that.'

When the words came they were a low snarl that reminded Ian Bradshaw of a dog that was only kept back by the chain it was fastened to. ‘And I could say the exact same thing back to you, bonny lad. I've been threatened before and you're not the first police officer to do it, but I'm still here and they're all gone. You should bear that in mind. Now get out of my house before I forget you are a guest in it.'

He rose to show Bradshaw his time in McCree's home was at an end. Big Jimmy escorted Bradshaw to the front door and saw him through it. Before he closed the door he said, ‘And please give my regards to Miss Norton. Tell her I hope she has a nice day.'

‘Yes?' The voice was rasping and disembodied, a Dalek speaking from the intercom on the outside wall of the care home.

‘It's Tom Carney,' he said, ‘and I brought a woman.'

There was a moment's pause, followed by a buzzing sound from the intercom and the door clicked open.

Tom and Helen stepped inside and walked down an empty, brightly lit corridor until an unassuming man in his thirties emerged from an office halfway along it and intercepted them. ‘This is Helen Norton,' explained Tom, ‘a colleague of mine.'

The man nodded. ‘I'm Dean, pleased to meet you. Councillor Jarvis vouched for you, so that's good enough for me.' Then he said, ‘Just a quick word with you before you go in, if you don't mind?' They followed him to his office.

‘Thanks for bringing your colleague. No male is allowed in here unsupervised without a female unless he is a member of staff. That's for the girls' protection. I hope you understand. Usually a female member of staff would accompany you but there have been cuts so we can't spare anyone today. We didn't want to delay you, so we'll let you speak to the girls one at a time in their rooms, as long as you stay together. They know you're coming.'

‘Fair enough,' said Tom. ‘How does it work here? Are the girls allowed out on their own?'

‘Of course,' said Dean, ‘it's not a prison and the girls here are older but we do operate a curfew. They are expected to be in by nine p.m. We have rules and they lose privileges if they break them.'

‘Right,' said Tom, ‘we'll begin then.'

‘Be careful,' Dean warned, ‘all of these girls have had a very hard start to their lives and as a result they are all quite …' his eyes narrowed as he searched for the right word ‘… vulnerable.'

‘We'll try not to upset any of them,' Helen assured him.

‘It's not just that,' he told her. ‘I'm sorry to say this, but you can't always trust them. Because of their past and their upbringing, it's in their natures to deceive. Some of them have mothers who are criminals, prostitutes, drug addicts or all three. Many of them never knew their fathers or mothers at all. Some have been in the care system all of their lives and have acquired certain skills along the way.'

‘What kind of skills?'

‘Well I wouldn't leave any of your belongings lying around if I were you, but it's not just thieving.' Dean lowered his voice in a confidential manner. ‘Some of them like to play games. You're clearly both intelligent people but I would advise you not to allow yourself to be manipulated by them. They are good girls for the most part but a past like theirs is bound to affect anyone.'

‘Thanks for the warning,' Helen told him. ‘Will you be in the room while we talk to the girls?'

‘Oh no, they are free to speak their minds. We don't have anything to hide here.'

The girls had their own rooms and each one waited with her door open. The first girl was lounging on her bed, but looked as if she hadn't slept properly in months. She remembered Sandra Jarvis but didn't have much to say about her. Sandra had been here for a while then gone, she said, as if that was a helpful observation. Towards the end of an unsatisfactory conversation, Tom asked her if she liked it at Meadowlands. ‘Oh yes,' she said, ‘I feel safe here.'

The second and third girls both knew Sandra but said they had not really confided in her, nor had she told them anything about her own life or plans for the future. They didn't know where she lived, who her father was or whether she had a boyfriend.

The fourth girl reiterated the testimony of the previous two but added, quite unprompted by them, that she liked it at Meadowlands.

The fifth girl said she felt safe here.

The sixth refused to speak to them at all, except to say she knew nothing about Sandra Jarvis other than the fact that
she had long hair, then she told them to, ‘Leave me alone for fuck's sake,' and clammed up.

Girl seven offered very little beyond her assertion that everyone here was well looked-after and she felt safe.

The next room had no one in it.

The last girl in the corridor was slumped on her bed with her head propped up slightly on a pillow and only her eyes moved when they entered the room. Tom guessed she was around fifteen years old but it was hard to tell the exact age of any of the girls. She was wearing faded black jeans and an orange T-shirt with a designer logo, so it was either fake or stolen. The girl had a slim figure and long, dirty blonde hair.

When Helen asked her name she gave it up reluctantly as if it could be used against her: ‘Callie.'

‘Nice name,' said Tom.

‘S'pose,' said the girl without either aggression or any obvious enthusiasm.

‘Is it short for Calista?' asked Helen brightly and Callie looked at her as if she had just stepped out of a flying saucer.

‘Not short for anything,' observed the girl, ‘just Callie.'

‘Okay, Callie,' said Tom, ‘I guess you know why we're here?'

‘You want to know stuff about Sandra,' answered Callie, ‘cos she's missing.'

‘That's right.'

‘How well did you know Sandra?' asked Helen.

‘I don't know nothing about her except she used to volunteer. Fuck knows why.'

‘What was your impression of her?' asked Helen and Callie looked blank so Tom intervened.

‘Did you like her,' he asked, ‘or was she one of those stuck-up kids who know nowt about the real world?' He was
trying to get some sort of a reaction from Callie, having drawn a blank with all of the other girls.

‘She was alright, I s'pose. She actually gave a shit.'

‘Do the people that run this place not normally?' asked Tom. ‘Give a shit, I mean?' and Callie flared.

‘I never said that,' she hissed, ‘you're twisting what I said.' She looked anguished.

‘You're right,' Tom said, ‘I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. It seems okay here.'

‘It's great,' she assured them ‘We're well looked-after. I feel safe here and I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.'

‘That's good, Callie,' said Helen, ‘so what was it that Sandra did here, exactly?'

Callie seemed calmer now. ‘All sorts. She'd help out with meals and stuff and if you needed something writing, a letter or a form or summat, she'd give you a hand. If you had a problem you could go to her if you wanted to speak to someone nearer your own age.'