Behind Dead Eyes (27 page)

‘They are selling sex?'

‘Sort of,' she said.

‘How can you “sort of” sell sex?'

She answered his question with another. ‘What kind of women turn to prostitution, in your experience?'

‘They tend to fall into a couple of categories,' said Bradshaw, ‘the ones who sell sex for cash either because they want to or are forced to, but either way, money changes hands. They work from their homes or rented accommodation. Then there are streetwalkers at the lower end of the scale, who climb into strangers' cars. It's risky and most of the money goes to the pimps who supply them with a fix because they are often dependent on drugs.'

She nodded. ‘The girls at Meadowlands are in a different category. They hang around older guys and become friendly with them. Those guys give them cigarettes, booze, weed,
small sums of money, a pizza maybe … but they expect something in return, not always right away but eventually. The girls get confused and sometimes think of these older guys as boyfriends or at least friends, and the boundaries become blurred, so when one of the men forces himself on a girl they often view it as normal, like it's the price they have to pay for the stuff they've been given.'

‘Christ. How old are these girls?'

‘The age range is thirteen to sixteen.' And Bradshaw realised the girl who propositioned him outside Meadowlands may have been even younger than he thought.

‘That is unbelievable, and you know for sure that this is going on?'

‘It's pretty common knowledge.'

‘Then why is nothing being done?'

‘I could ask you that,' she said, ‘since you're a police officer.'

‘I'm assuming there have been no arrests because no one knows where the girls are being taken.'

‘Oh no,' she said, ‘everyone knows. I told you; it's common knowledge. The men involved run a series of businesses in a street just a few hundred yards from Meadowlands. There's a taxi rank, a burger bar and an off-licence.'

‘And the men there openly prey on these underage girls?' She nodded. ‘But nobody has been punished, why the hell not?'

‘You might want to ask some of your colleagues about that.'

Tom
arranged to meet Helen later and started to retrace Annie Bell's steps, leaving the car park and mentally totting up the time it would take to do all of her errands as he progressed along the high street: past the dry cleaners, the department store and travel agents then Oscar's café. There was no need to check her story about the row in the café – enough people had witnessed that. Instead he looked through the window and noticed how cramped it was. Causing an argument in a place this size wasn't a very English thing to do, he reasoned … unless you wanted everyone to remember you.

When Tom Carney told the young manager of the local cinema he was a journalist, the guy couldn't do enough for him. As he led him into the foyer, Tom realised why he was being so cooperative. The cinema was old, dark and musty. There were even cobwebs in less accessible corners and the place smelt vaguely unpleasant. The manager must have been hoping a journalist might give the cinema a boost, though Tom wasn't sure how linking it to a murder was going to do it any good.

‘I'm looking for information on a specific film shown two years ago.' He gave the manager the relevant date, the name of the film and an explanation: he was researching the Rebecca Holt case.

‘The police asked us about that,' said the manager. ‘I was here then.' He sounded a little despondent as he said that,
perhaps realising the amount of time that had elapsed while he was still in the same dead-end job. ‘It was to do with an alibi.'

‘That's right.'

‘That should be easy enough to check. It's all in the logbook.'

Tom watched as he lifted something the thickness of two telephone books from a shelf behind the counter. There was no place for computers here. The manager began to leaf through the logbook, looking for the relevant date. It took him some time but eventually he glanced up at Tom.

‘Yes,' said the man with some pride at actually finding what he was looking for. He pointed at the date Rebecca Holt was murdered. ‘Screen 2,
Schindler's List
, three screenings: one thirty, five thirty and seven thirty.' He closed the book.

‘Do you get many for the early-afternoon showing?'

‘It varies. It's never as popular as the evenings but we get a few.' He contemplated this for a moment. ‘Or we used to, before the multiplex opened up outside town.'

‘What kind of people go to the cinema at that time?'

The manager shrugged. ‘Students skiving off lectures, shift workers, people who work weekends so their days off don't match their mates' free time, the unemployed; they get a discount.'

‘Bored housewives?'

The cinema manager grinned. ‘Sounds like a porn mag.' Tom greeted his feeble gag with a half-hearted smile. ‘Some,' he agreed, ‘like that Bell woman the police were asking about?'

‘You remember her then?'

‘It was all over the papers. I don't recall seeing her that
day but I'm not always out front. The police asked the lass who sold the tickets but she didn't remember.' Then he added, ‘Mind, you're lucky if she remembers to turn up. There were a few in that day though. It was a popular film.'

‘Mrs Bell did have a ticket stub with the date on.'

‘She must have been here then.'

‘She couldn't have got hold of it any other way?'

‘Not unless she asked someone for one on the way out.'

‘Which would have been a bit suspicious,' observed Tom. ‘I think you would remember if somebody asked you for the used stub from your cinema visit.'

‘People drop them in the foyer sometimes,' said the manager. ‘She could have picked one off the ground.'

‘Not without drawing attention to herself, so we can discount that possibility. So she bought it here? It's the only place you sell them?'

The manager nodded and Tom scanned the room. Once you bought your ticket at the booth by the entrance, you had no choice but to progress into the auditorium. ‘Could she have bought her ticket days before?'

‘Er no,' the manager sounded sheepish, ‘we don't do that here.' He meant they didn't have the technology to allow you to buy a ticket in advance. Tom surveyed the ticket booth. It had a single glass window with a space for one person to distribute tickets from a small semi-circular gap at the bottom of the window, and there was a flat brass counter top that had three slots in it, one for each screen, which spat the tickets out at you. The manager explained that tickets could be distributed on the day of the performance only, because the machine that issued them had to be set at a certain date and it was way too much hassle to change it for one ticket. The whole set-up was like something from the
ark and Tom knew the new multiplex would soon see this cinema off.

‘What time do you open?' asked Tom.

‘Half an hour before the first performance.'

‘So she could have bought a ticket thirty minutes before it started and then just turned around and gone out again without seeing the film?'

‘She could have,' said the manager doubtfully, but Tom knew Annie Bell couldn't be sure the girl who sold her a ticket wouldn't have noticed her leave, which would blow her alibi right out of the water.

‘No, she definitely went in.' Tom said this as much to himself as the cinema manager and his eyes trailed the walls with its posters of the latest releases, the most prominent of which was, appropriately,
The Usual Suspects
. There was a manned sweets kiosk that would have provided another witness to Annie's arrival. At that point the auditorium broadened and there was a wide, sweeping staircase leading to another level. Tom pointed to a dark alcove to one side of the staircase with a faint number three above the curtain. ‘So you've got screen three on the ground floor?'

‘That's the smallest screen, for the movies that have already been on for a while or the art house stuff nobody really watches,' explained the manager.

‘And the stairs take you up to screens one and two?' Tom asked.

‘The bigger screens,' agreed the manager needlessly.

‘What's through there?' Tom pointed to the dark alcove at the other side of the staircase.

‘Toilets,' answered the manager. ‘There's an electric sign above the door but it's not switched on just now.'

Tom walked towards it and the manager followed, all the
while keeping up general chit-chat about how good the cinema was and all it really needed was a bit of money spent on it: a lick of paint here, some modern lighting there, to lift the gloom. Tom wasn't really listening. He swept back the red curtain that blocked the entrance to the corridor leading to the toilets.

Tom walked a few feet into the dark corridor then the manager flicked a switch and there was the plinking sound of an ancient strip light trying to fire itself into action. The lights blinked on and off, then one became fully illuminated while the other continued to flash intermittently. ‘Bloody thing,' said the manager, ‘only changed that the other day,' but his guilty tone betrayed the lie.

Tom could now make out two doors at the far end of the corridor. One had a stick man on it and the other a stick woman. It was the dark shape beyond them that caught his attention.

‘What's that?' He pointed.

‘Just a door,' said the manager, ‘an emergency exit.'

Tom walked down the corridor and approached a large exterior door with a thick metal bar across it.

‘This locked?' he asked.

‘Never,' said the manager, ‘it's a fire escape.'

‘Alarmed?' Tom checked, though like everything else in the cinema it didn't look modern enough.

‘No.'

Tom pressed down on the metal bar with both hands and it gave way easily, forcing the door to swing open into an alleyway. If you turned to your left you could make your way back to the shops on the high street but the door was shielded from view by two enormous metal wheelie bins. If you turned to the right instead you could follow a narrow
litter-strewn alley nobody would usually venture down. A strong smell betrayed its use as a toilet at pub kicking-out time. Tom realised this lane took you towards the quiet back streets used by delivery vans behind the main stores. Go beyond them and you'd be able to creep quietly out of town.

He smiled to himself.

‘Like I said,' the puzzled manager reminded him, ‘it's only a door.'

‘No,' said Tom. ‘This, my friend, is a window.'

Ian
Bradshaw and Helen Norton stood outside the cinema, staring at the locked fire exit door. Tom Carney was not facing the door. Instead, he was looking at them.

‘How could Annie Bell have known the plot of the movie,' asked Helen, ‘if she skipped out of the cinema as soon as she bought a ticket?'

‘It had been on for ten days by then,' explained Tom, ‘she could have seen it already.'

‘A different performance on an earlier day?' asked Bradshaw and the question sounded rhetorical but Tom answered anyway.

‘Exactly.'

‘So she buys her ticket, heads for the toilets but walks past them, opens the fire exit and slips through it, closing the door behind her, then …?' asked Helen.

‘I'm guessing she does a right turn, taking her away from the main drag.' Tom started to walk down the alley. Bradshaw and Helen followed him.

‘If she did skip out of the film,' asked Bradshaw, ‘how long does that give her for this window you keep talking about?'

‘She chose the right film,' Tom said. ‘The running time of
Schindler's List
is three hours and fifteen minutes plus trailers and adverts. The average length of a film trailer in this country is two and a half minutes.' He could see they were both looking at him quizzically. ‘I've done my homework,' he
explained. ‘Add in a bunch of adverts for training shoes or the local tandoori and you have around fifteen minutes of extras, so that's three and a half hours.'

‘Which gives her enough time to get back to her car and away, except we know the car didn't move so …' Helen shrugged.

‘She didn't need her car,' explained Tom.

‘She couldn't exactly take a cab to a murder,' said the detective and he mimicked that conversation. ‘
Wait here while I kill someone.'

‘And she could hardly take the bus,' said Helen.

‘I never said she didn't need
a
car,' Tom explained, ‘I said she didn't need
her
car.' And at that point they reached the end of the alleyway, which opened out into a wide space. ‘She had another car,' Tom pointed ahead of them, ‘and she parked it right here.'

‘Bloody hell,' said Bradshaw, as he realised what Tom meant.

The council had put this open space behind the high street to good use: a car park big enough for around twenty vehicles.

‘Annie could have driven a second vehicle down here early that morning or even the night before and left it. She could have jumped on an early bus home if she didn't want to risk a taxi. Who's going to remember one woman on a bus? She parks her own car at the opposite end of town, buys a ticket, does all of her errands then leaves the cinema. She could have driven out of town, killed Rebecca Holt then returned here or left the other car somewhere else. As long as she was back in town to collect her car later, no one is going to question it. She even made sure she was a little late so she had to pay a fine, which went on record and
confirmed her alibi so she was in the clear. Her only mistake was making the alibi too damn perfect.'

‘That's a bit tricky, isn't it?'

‘She has an au pair to get the kids up and ready for school because she runs first thing in the morning. Maybe this time she ran to a car she'd parked a few streets away, drove it to town then got the bus back in time to get the kids to school before heading in again. It's tight but it's possible.'

‘How could she have a second car without anyone noticing?' asked Helen. ‘Could she rent one? Wouldn't there be records?'

‘She didn't need to rent one. She looks after the pool of company cars at her place of work. There are always demos just sitting there. They probably have to be signed out but she is the one responsible for that so I'm assuming she didn't bother.'

‘Then how can we prove she used one of them?' asked Helen, ‘if she didn't sign it out.'

‘I don't know yet,' he admitted, ‘but I'll think of something.'

‘Okay, it all sounds just about plausible,' admitted Helen, ‘but you've not explained one crucial thing.'

‘What's that?'

‘I understand how Annie Bell could get away to kill Rebecca,' she said, ‘but how would she persuade Rebecca Holt to come and meet her?' Helen mimed picking up a phone then and speaking into it. ‘
Hello, it's Annie Bell here. I know you're having an affair with my husband and I would love to discuss this with you down an isolated country lane but don't worry, I promise not to kill you
.'

‘Yeah, yeah, I hear you. I don't know the answer to that question either, but if we do find out how she got Rebecca to agree to meet her we are almost there.'

That night, back at Tom's house, Helen had a hot bath and basked in the heat from fully functioning radiators. Afterwards, she climbed into the big double bed. It was quiet now, the only sound coming from the shower as Tom also took advantage of the hot water. Helen felt warm, safe and drowsy. By the time Tom came to bed she was already fast asleep.

The next morning when Tom visited Annie Bell at her office for a second time it clearly irritated her, though she said nothing. He kept her talking for half an hour, going over old leads and asking questions he'd asked before, just for clarification. Then he asked some new ones, all of which she answered calmly. He told her about his recent meeting with Freddie Holt, which she took a great interest in, but neglected to mention the businessman had attacked him. Tom kept an eye on the time, subtly checking the clock on the wall in her office at regular intervals, because timing would be crucial that morning.

‘Oh, I nearly forgot,' he said, ‘I do have one more question.'

‘What about?'

‘Your car scheme.'

‘Sorry?'

‘The demos on your car fleet,' he said, ‘can anyone use them?'

Annie looked confused but replied, ‘Theoretically, anybody can drive them. They are insured by the manufacturers for all drivers but we don't permit anyone outside the company car programme to take one for a spin.' She noticed the half-smile on his face and thought she understood now. ‘Including you, Mr Carney, if that is what you're asking?'

He held up his hands. ‘Can't blame me for trying,' he said.
‘I'm thinking of trading mine in for something with a bit more oomph under the bonnet. It's off the road at the moment.'

‘Sorry, can't help you,' she told him firmly.

He stole a quick look at the clock again then. It wouldn't be long now, assuming she didn't let him down. ‘I suppose you can't let people abuse the system,' he said amiably, ‘but how can you possibly control it when the cars are just sitting around here all day?'

‘I control it,' she told him. ‘If you're a qualifying driver, you can take a demo for a few days or even just a few hours before you order your next car and we sometimes use them as pool cars for off-site meetings, but I keep the keys and they have to be signed out in the ledger.' She tapped her finger against an A4-sized, thick, red, hard-backed book that was on her desk.

‘Do you drive them all?'

‘Yes,' she said, ‘I need to have a working knowledge of them to manage our fleet, in case drivers ask me questions.'

‘What's to stop someone just coming in here when you're not around, picking up a set of keys and going for a joyride without you knowing?'

‘That couldn't happen,' she said. ‘The keys are locked away and when you take a car you have to sign it out.'

‘In the ledger,' he said. ‘Looks pretty thick. You must have had a lot of cars?'

‘We buy a lot of cars,' she told him, ‘for managers and the sales force. This ledger contains five years of demonstrators.'

‘You're very organised. How many demos do you have at any one time?'

‘Usually three,' she said, ‘from different manufacturers, rotated every two or three weeks. Why do you ask?'

‘You must be an expert then. What would you recommend?'

‘That depends on what you're looking for.'

‘Something I can count on.'

‘German cars,' she told him, ‘are usually best for reliability these days.'

‘Thanks for the tip. I'll bear it in mind.'

The phone rang then. Right on time, and so loudly that it almost made him jump.

‘Excuse me,' she said and picked up the phone. ‘Yes … what?' A deep sigh. ‘What does she want?' she asked irritably and there was a pause while she digested the answer.

Tom frowned his concern. ‘Everything alright?'

‘There's a journalist at the front desk.'

‘Really? What does he want?'

‘It's a she and I'm just—' Annie listened for a few moments more then told Tom, ‘She's from a newspaper in Newcastle and says she wants to speak to me about Richard's case being reopened.'

Tom shook his head. ‘That's not a good idea, Annie. We need to control this story not let every rogue reporter get their hands on it so they can twist things.' He furrowed his brow. ‘What's her name?'

Annie asked that same question down the phone and turned back to Tom when she received an answer. ‘Helen Norton.'

‘Oh, Christ.'

‘You know her?' asked Annie.

‘We …' he paused as if he was trying to put things delicately ‘… worked quite closely together on the case I wrote about in my book, but to be honest I never really felt I could trust her.'

‘But how could she know we were looking to reopen the case?'

‘Prison guards,' said Tom. ‘Your husband warned me one of them would leak it to the press eventually.'

‘The bastards,' she said, and it was the first time he'd heard Annie swear.

‘Just get rid of her.'

‘They've tried but she insists she won't leave until she's seen me. She seems to think I might want to speak to her.'

Tom exhaled. ‘Look, I know Helen Norton well enough and she won't budge unless you go out there and tell her face to face to leave.'

‘I really don't want to talk to her.'

‘Just tell her you still firmly believe in your husband's innocence and are open to any new information that will help to clear his name but you are not actively pursuing any new investigation. That will give her the quote she needs to keep her editor happy but it will kill the story stone dead.'

‘Are you sure that will work? What if it makes things worse?'

‘It won't,' Tom assured her, ‘but whatever you do, don't tell her
I'm
here.'

Annie thought she understand then. ‘A woman scorned?'

Tom was evasive. ‘It just won't help either of us if she knows I'm on the case.'

Annie still looked unsure. She got to her feet but did not leave the office; instead, she stood there, thinking. She looked at Tom, glanced down at the phone she was still holding in her hand as if reluctant to speak into it again, and then both of them listened as the faint voice at the end of the line began speaking once more. Finally, Annie raised it to her mouth and said, ‘Tell Miss Norton I'll be there in a moment,' and hung up without another word. Annie walked out of her office as if sloping reluctantly to the gallows, heading for reception.

Tom didn't move. Not at first. He was mentally tracing the number of steps Annie had to take to reach the end of the room and pass through the door. He had counted them in his
head on arrival. She would then march purposefully to reception to meet Helen. A great deal would depend on how long Helen could keep her there but he couldn't rely on it being long. Helen would stall, she would ask questions and demand answers, but Annie would fight her corner and rebuff the journalist. She would regurgitate Tom's statement about believing her husband's innocence then send Helen Norton packing.

Tom had to move quickly and he had to move now. He left his seat and moved to Annie's desk, glancing towards the door to make sure no one was about to walk through it. Outside, the desks were all manned but nobody looked towards him as he bent to slide out the ledger. He ducked back down into his chair and quickly began to leaf through the ledger from the back to the front. There were a series of columns denoting the manufacturer and model, followed by the car's registration number then a time out and a time in to indicate when the car had been taken and returned. Finally, there was a column for the driver's signature, so he couldn't wriggle out of responsibility for an accident or a speeding fine if one landed on Annie's desk weeks later.

Tom knew Annie would be back at any moment. If she had given Helen an unsympathetic hearing, which was likely, she might already be on her way. He thumbed the ledger's pages while he speed-read the dates at the top of each page and drew closer to the date he was looking for.

All too soon he saw the door at the other end of the outer office open. Annie was back already. ‘Bollocks.' This was nowhere near enough time. He couldn't afford to be caught leafing through the ledger, but knew he would never get another chance to check it alone.

She was halfway across the room when his eyes settled on the correct page. Three cars were listed there. Tom scanned
the notices for the entire week, including the date of Rebecca Holt's murder, but when he reached it he noticed only two had been signed out. The third car must have been the one she took that day, but Annie Bell was almost back at her office door now and Tom had no more time to make a note of it.

Then Annie stopped, right outside the door. At first he thought she had somehow spotted what he was doing and was about to burst in and confront him. Then he heard a voice, but it wasn't Annie's. Instead there was the low murmur of a male employee asking a question. Someone had left his desk and intercepted the boss before she could vanish back into her office. This was Tom's chance. He grabbed a pen and notebook from his jacket pocket and, balancing them against the ledger, hastily noted down the make, model and registration number of the third car.