Behind Dead Eyes (4 page)

‘Okay,
what have you got for me?' asked her editor. Helen placed the large black and white photograph on the table in front of him.

Graham Seaton regarded it for a second. ‘Whoa! Where did you get this?' he said, looking at her with something resembling amazement. ‘And
how
did you get this?' Helen did not reveal her source was an anonymous note but admitted borrowing the little camera and managing a handful of shots at the restaurant before being spotted. ‘And is this who I think it is?'

‘From left to right,' she began, ‘Alan Camfield, boss of Camfield Offshore, Councillor Joe Lynch and Jimmy McCree.'

‘Who needs no introduction,' he said of the latter. ‘And just why would these three fine fellows be sitting down to a cosy lunch together?'

‘It's got to be the Riverside development.'

Her editor knew all about the region's biggest property deal, involving acres of prime, council-owned, former ship-building land on the banks of the Tyne, currently up for grabs via a tender. ‘The councillor has no business sitting down to a cosy lunch with one of the bidders – and that's even before you throw in the inexplicable presence of Jimmy McCree. The man's a gangster and a very scary one. How the hell did they think they'd get away with this?' he mused.

‘They weren't expecting a journalist,' she reminded him. ‘Not everyone in the restaurant spotted McCree. I'd be
willing to bet hardly any of them recognised Camfield or Lynch. We live in a bubble.' Helen meant that public awareness of politicians was staggeringly low. Most people could not even name their local MP.

‘Jimmy must be offering up his security firm,' said Graham. ‘He's supposed to be going straight these days but the boys in blue aren't having that.'

‘So how are we going to run this story?'

‘Carefully,' he told her. ‘No matter how bad his reputation is, Jimmy McCree has never actually been convicted of any criminal offence. He's been arrested on countless occasions, even charged a few times, including once for murder, but was acquitted every time. Everyone knows he controls a lot of the crime in this city but we can't risk being sued,' he grinned at her, ‘and I want to be able to walk round without fearing for my life.'

‘Do I call the leader of the council?'

‘To ask him what the hell he is playing at? Leave that to me if you don't mind, Helen. Councillor Lynch has a right to reply on this,' he glanced at his watch, ‘but not just yet. If we give him too long he'll be making frantic phone calls to the owners of this newspaper and I'll get the heavy brigade down here. Right now he probably doesn't know who you're working for. There'll be nothing left of your story if our owners come under too much pressure from the vested interests in this city, and I won't let that happen.' Graham exhaled thoughtfully.

‘But how will we run this?' Helen asked him.

Her editor held up the photograph and looked at it closely. ‘You know what? I'm a firm believer in that old adage.'

‘Which one?'

‘That a picture is worth a thousand words.'

‘For fuck's sake,' hissed Michael Quinn, ‘do you have to use the front door?' Before Bradshaw could answer, the burly man steered him into the shop then shut and locked the door behind them, turning the ‘open' sign to ‘closed'.

‘You haven't got any customers, Michael. I checked.'

‘You call it checking,' said Michael, ‘I call it door-stepping where anybody could see you.'

‘Just tell them I was after a tattoo.'

‘You don't look the sort.'

‘You see all kinds with them these days; perfectly respectable lasses getting little tattoos on their ankles or the small of their backs. I prefer the good old days when we used to call tattoos barcodes-for-criminals.'

‘Times change, Detective Constable.'

‘It's Detective Sergeant, actually.'

‘Gone up in the world have we? Who did you nick to get that promotion?'

One of my own colleagues
thought Bradshaw, but he didn't tell Michael that, or the fact the man hadn't lived to do prison time.

‘It's alright,' Bradshaw reassured him, ‘it wasn't the case you helped me on.'

‘Could you not say that out loud, please.' Quinn winced, even though there was no one else in the shop.

‘You did the right thing, Michael. You could have carried on covering up gangsters' tattoos and done time for perverting the course of justice but, instead, you shopped them, retaining your liberty and the right to continue earning your livelihood.'

‘And those people on the inside still have friends on the outside. One careless word from you and I'm history.'

‘Is that right?' said Bradshaw nonchalantly.

‘Yes.'

‘Then you'd better stay out of dark alleyways,' said Bradshaw, ‘and on my good side.'

‘I don't know nothing else. I swear it. I haven't done any of those cover-up jobs since you blackmailed me.'

‘Blackmail is a very strong word, Michael. I just gave you the chance to do the right thing, but I'm not looking for you to shop anyone, at least not today. It's your professional expertise I am after.'

Bradshaw produced the photograph of the burned girl then and placed it face up on Quinn's tattoo bench.

‘Jesus,' said Quinn, ‘what the fuck happened to … it?'

‘
It
is a
she
, Michael, and the answer to your question is undiluted sulphuric acid.'

‘Oh my God.'

‘We are having a problem identifying the poor victim, which is where you come in.' Bradshaw pointed at the photograph. ‘Take a close look at this,' he ordered the man, ‘and tell me what you think.'

Reluctantly Quinn bent lower and squinted at the area of the photograph Bradshaw had indicated. After a moment he said, ‘It could be.'

‘I know it could be but is it?'

‘Most of it has gone. It's just a tiny smudge really,' and he swung round a desk lamp with a magnifying glass attached to it so he could take a closer look. Bradshaw watched as Quinn turned on the lamp, peered through the glass and examined the light blue mark on the burned girl's neck. ‘But it does form an angle.

‘I think it
is
a tatt,' he said eventually, ‘but it could be almost anything.'

This was not the answer Bradshaw was hoping for. ‘What do you
think
it is?'

Quinn looked again. ‘Well it could be a number, a letter or the shape of an animal or possibly the corner of an emblem of some sort.'

‘Bloody hell, Michael, I could have told
you
that.'

‘Well, I'd need a bit more time if I'm going to examine it properly and compare it.'

‘How much do you need?' he asked.

‘I dunno,' Quinn shrugged helplessly, ‘a while, possibly quite a while.'

Bradshaw folded his arms. ‘I'm in no hurry.'

‘Look, I don't mean this disrespectfully, but could you at least fuck off for a bit and come back later?'

‘No, Michael, I couldn't.'

‘Christ,' hissed Quinn, as if Bradshaw was standing there in full uniform and not a suit.

‘So if you want me gone, you'd better get a move on.'

‘Alright, alright.' And Quinn did get a move on. He started dragging catalogues containing tattoo designs over to the bench and opening them near the photograph of the burned girl so he could compare the smudge to them.

‘Take your time, Michael,' said Bradshaw, ‘but I'm expecting great things from you.'

‘Don't hold your breath,' said the flustered tattooist as he leafed through the catalogues. Bradshaw killed time looking at the myriad of designs on the tattoo parlour's walls before deciding that none of them were remotely appealing to him.

It took Michael Quinn some time before he felt confident enough to look up from the catalogues and share his findings with Bradshaw.

‘If it is a smudge from a tattoo then it could be just about anything but …'

‘But what?' pressed Bradshaw.

Quinn pointed to an area on the photograph just inside the portion of skin that had been virtually destroyed by the acid, ‘you can just make out what remains of a very faint line.'

Bradshaw peered through the magnifying glass at the area Quinn was indicating. ‘So you can,' he agreed, ‘just.'

‘That could be a line that moves outwards into an edge, ending here and joining up with this more pronounced line that's still partially visible,' said the tattooist and he pointed at the blue mark on the burned girl's neck. ‘I think this mark you found might just be the curve of a sword or the outer edge of the wing tip of a bird.'

‘Really?'

‘Take a look,' said Quinn, and he slid the images he had found along the table so they were close to the photo of the burned girl. ‘These designs are very popular and small enough to go on your neck, ankle or an inner thigh. I've done a few of those.' He smiled at the memory. ‘The positioning of the smudge would tally with a tatt at the base of the neck and to one side so it's discreet. You can have it on show or not. Lasses like that.'

Bradshaw surveyed the images closely then glanced back at the picture of the burned girl.

‘Maybe,' he said uncertainly.

‘Hang on,' said Michael and he peeled a transparent design away from a pile of images and placed it right next to the smudge. Bradshaw could now more easily compare this tattoo and the mark on the burned girl. ‘It's not quite to scale but …' Michael slid the image of a dove towards the smudge until its edge slotted into its corner. Now that it virtually overlapped, Bradshaw could tell the faded edge of the tattoo could easily be a match to the outer edge of the dove's wing.

‘Bloody hell,' said Bradshaw, ‘you might just be on to something there, Michael. How did you manage that?'

‘I just picked the dozen or so most popular designs and this one is the closest match.'

‘Well done.'

‘Aye, well, I'm glad you're pleased and there's a very simple way you can repay me.'

‘Go on,' said Bradshaw assuming he wanted money for his time.

‘By telling no bugger about it.'

‘Have no fear, Michael,' said Bradshaw, ‘my lips are sealed.'

‘They'd bloody better be.'

Helen's Norton's newspaper ran a front-page lead story about the Riverside tender. It stressed the need for openness and transparency during the bidding process and the importance of getting the very best deal possible from the sale of publicly owned land. Next to it they printed the photograph she had taken, with the caption, ‘Council leader Joseph Lynch enjoys lunch with Camfield PLC owner Alan Camfield and well-known-local-businessman James McCree in a high-class, city centre restaurant.' The hyphens in McCree's title were her editor's idea. They were not quite as blatant as punctuation marks but they ably highlighted the ironic nature of their description of the local gangster

For anyone outside the region, that photograph would have seemed innocuous. However, if you were from Newcastle the image would have been shocking. The leader of the council was sitting down to a cosy and expensive lunch with a multi-millionaire and one of the city's best-known criminals.

Councillor Lynch used his right to reply to offer a flustered and angry response, which Helen's editor included at the foot
of the article. ‘I absolutely deny I had lunch with Mr Camfield and Mr McCree. I was there to meet someone else. Mr Camfield was already at his table. I went over to say hello to a prominent local businessman I have known for many years. While I was speaking to Mr Camfield, Mr McCree arrived at the restaurant to discuss opportunities for his security business, should Camfield Offshore be successful in their bid for the Riverside development scheme. At that point I left both the conversation and the table.'

‘I should have waited till the food arrived,' said Helen, ‘I've given him an out.'

‘Do you think anyone is going to believe that?' asked Graham. ‘The people of Newcastle have legendary bullshit detectors. Lynch has been banged to rights. We have done some serious harm to his credibility.'

‘Was he angry?' Helen asked.

‘No,' said her editor, ‘he was apoplectic.'

‘So will he try to …?'

‘Ruin our lives? Oh yes. If I know anything about Councillor Lynch he will not rest until I'm fired, this paper's closed down and the building we are standing in demolished, but do you know what? Fuck him. That's journalism. Sometimes you just have to roll the dice and print the story, otherwise what's the point?'

Helen Norton may have been a reporter but right then she would have struggled to put her admiration for her editor into words. ‘Print and be damned, eh?' she managed.

‘Print and be damned,' Graham repeated firmly.

‘Tom
Carney?' The prison officer called his name and Tom, having waited for what seemed like an eternity, was suddenly snapped out of his private thoughts. He got to his feet and followed a burly man in a blue jumper with epaulettes on his shoulders.

He had expected to be fobbed off. He figured there would at least be a number of bureaucratic hoops to be navigated before he was able to come to the prison. Instead it was almost as if they were expecting him and, to his genuine surprise, he was given an appointment that same day.

Tom was led into the visiting area. He had assumed he would be among the friends and families of dozens of inmates but instead of a crowded room full of wives and children at visiting time, he found himself alone in a room filled with empty chairs and small tables. Tom chose one and sat down. He didn't have to wait long for Richard Bell to appear.

The heavy metal door at the opposite end of the room swung open and the murderer stepped inside. He smiled broadly at Tom and there was a disconcerting excitement in his eyes. Tom was glad of the presence of the barrel-chested prison guard who took up a position a little way from the table Tom had selected. No one else followed Bell through that door. It seemed they really would have the room to themselves.

Bell walked towards him. He was still a handsome man but those famous looks had been diminished by two years in prison. The effects of an inadequate diet and being locked up
for most of the day were obvious. Richard Bell had traded a life of expensive restaurants and foreign holidays for one of extreme stress, poor nutrition and perpetual confinement and it showed. His face, starved of sunlight, was pale, his hair straggly and uncombed, but the most startling alteration to his appearance was the vivid scar on the side of his face. It wasn't entirely new but fresh enough to provide a stark contrast to the rest of his skin, running in an almost horizontal dark red line across his right cheek. This was a mark Bell would be forced to carry for the rest of his life.

Tom stayed in his seat because it didn't feel right to rise for a murderer. He felt decidedly on edge. Seeing Bell in the flesh prompted him to fully recall his crimes. They no longer had the distance created by bland words in a newspaper article. Tom checked Bell's hands to ensure they were empty but Bell wasn't carrying anything.

The killer stretched out an arm to shake his visitor by the hand. ‘Thanks for coming, Tom. I can't tell you how much this means.' Tom did not react. Bell's smile dissolved into a slight frown but it was one of bemusement, not anger.

‘I don't think we've reached that stage,' Tom told him.

Bell seemed to ponder this for a moment before withdrawing his hand. ‘Fair enough. I appreciate you taking the time to visit me.'

‘You were very persistent.'

‘Three letters?' recalled Bell. ‘I'd have written thirty-three if that's what it would have taken to persuade you,' he reflected. ‘You are just the man to help me.'

‘I didn't say I was going to help you,' Tom told him firmly. ‘I'm here to listen to you. I'll hear you out but I'm promising nothing.'

‘Of course, you've not heard my side yet. I understand
your caution. I'd have been disappointed if you'd promised me cooperation without hearing what I have to say. That would have meant you were more interested in making money out of me than clearing my name. I don't want the kind of reporter who's only interested in
an-interview-with-a-killer
.' Bell said the last words ironically.

‘You
are
a killer,' Tom reminded him.

‘I'm a convicted murderer,' Bell admitted, ‘but I didn't kill anyone, Tom. That's what I've been trying to tell you and if you'll just keep an open mind …'

‘What happened?' Tom interrupted and when Bell didn't comprehend his meaning, he stroked a finger along his own cheek, mirroring the scar on Bell's face.

‘Oh, that.' Bell actually smiled then. ‘One of my fellow inmates fell in love with Rebecca during my trial.'

Like those doomed rock stars of the sixties and seventies, death had done little to quell Rebecca Holt's popularity with the opposite sex. ‘Unfortunately for me, he happened to be a particularly vicious London gangster with a bit of an entourage. He got one of his men to come at me armed with a toothbrush,' his smile turned grim, ‘with a razor blade attached to it. I was actually quite lucky. He was aiming for my throat but I saw it coming and at the last moment I managed to duck. The second slash caught me on the cheek and it opened me right up,' he said brightly. ‘There was an awful lot of blood and I had a second mouth for a while until they managed to stitch me up.

‘I was quite proud of myself though,' continued Bell. ‘After he slashed me, I managed to punch the guy right in the face. I don't know who was more surprised by that; me or him. Most people go down, you see. They clutch their wounds and beg for mercy but they won't get any in here. Not me though.
I just got angry and thumped him. I think it was all the months of stress and carrying this huge feeling of injustice around with me. I was just waiting to take it out on someone. It's funny, I used to spend all that time in the gym just to look fit, but I'd been doing weights for so many years that when I finally put those muscles to good use, I dropped that guy on the spot. It might actually be the single most impressive thing I've ever done. I mean if a criminal attacked me in the street with a knife and I decked him like that they'd run a story in all of the newspapers, wouldn't they?'

‘I suppose they would,' Tom conceded.

‘But not in here. They ran stories alright, but it was “Ladykiller slashed in face by vengeful inmate”, as if the guy actually knew Rebecca. There was no mention of the fact I knocked my attacker senseless. They gave him solitary for that but he didn't give a shit. Lifers,' he added ruefully, ‘you just can't control them.' Bell added, ‘I don't regret it though.'

‘You don't regret hitting him or being slashed open with a razor blade?'

‘Either of those things,' Bell said calmly. ‘He did me a favour, in fact. Up until that point I'd been sharing a cell with two other men,' he explained. ‘After they stitched me up I had a few days in the hospital under crisp white sheets. Then, when they put me back, I got a cell on my own far away from the nut-jobs and gangsters – because they heard there were several people in here still keen to kill me. Rebecca has quite a fan club. Anyway the governor knew he would look very foolish if anything else happened to me.' He pointed to the vivid scar on his face. ‘
This
made the nationals and he doesn't like newspaper reports that make it seem like he isn't entirely in control of his own prison. So I am also in a form of solitary confinement, for my own safety, which I appreciate.'

‘Is that why we are on our own right now?'

Bell nodded. ‘My solicitor wanted to sue the arse off them but I persuaded him not to. Let's just say the governor appreciated my discretion. I get certain unspoken privileges as a result; one of them is time alone with you here today, as long as Andrew is in the room with us,' he indicated the prison guard. ‘A cell to myself is another – they can't guarantee my safety any other way,' he shrugged. ‘I get a little privacy, I feel safer, my cell doesn't stink of other men; every cloud.'

‘That's pretty extreme.'

‘Well I'm in an extreme situation, Tom,' Bell made a point of looking around the place, ‘haven't you noticed? They used to hang people here, you know. Out there in the courtyard; imagine that. The last man to be hanged in Durham jail was a twenty-year-old soldier named Brian Chandler, who killed an old lady … with a hammer,' and he widened his eyes ironically at the coincidence. ‘I suppose they would have hanged me if Rebecca was killed back in 1958 but, as I keep telling everybody, I didn't do it.'

‘You do keep saying that,' said Tom, ‘but nobody seems to believe you.'

‘My wife believes me,' he said, ‘but you're right, nobody else does, despite the fact there is very little evidence against me.'

‘Did you study English at college?' Tom changed the subject.

‘Business studies, why?'

‘I was remembering your letters,' and he quoted from them: ‘
The poison that drips from the pens of those so-called journalists?
'

‘Are you mocking me, Tom?'

‘No,' Tom said, ‘I'm just noting you have a way with words.' He quoted the other man once more: ‘
Are you mocking me
not
Are you taking the piss
?' and he looked at Richard Bell
intently. ‘I wondered if you were a writer in your spare time, that's all.'

Bell shook his head. ‘Not a writer, no, but I can appreciate a good turn of phrase and spare time, as you call it, is all I have these days. I chose my words carefully because there was a great deal resting on them. I read a lot. That's the one thing they are pretty good about. They don't mind us having books and I devour them. There really is nothing else to do in here. We are locked up for twenty-three hours a day, so books are all I've got. I read yours in a day. I thought it was exceptional.' Tom ignored the compliment. ‘I reckon I could tell a pretty good story, given the chance.'

Tom leaned forward. ‘Then why don't you tell me yours.'

Richard Bell began his story with the words, ‘I'm trapped. I don't just mean in here. I am trapped in another way. Do you know what is meant by an innocent man's dilemma, Tom?'

‘I think so, yes.' But Bell regarded him as if he was a student who had not yet provided a satisfactory answer, so Tom continued, ‘You've been sentenced to life in prison for murder but life does not necessarily mean life. You could qualify for parole once you've served around a third of your sentence. Most murderers don't serve their full term. The average is around fifteen years but if a man is of previously good character, if a parole board can be persuaded that he snapped for some reason or was provoked and is highly unlikely to kill again, he could be out in less than ten.'

‘That happens to around one in ten convicted murderers,' confirmed Bell. ‘They are released back into the community to resume their lives,' he said, ‘just like nothing ever happened
but
… and it is a very big
but
…' He paused and allowed Tom to complete the point.

‘The murderer has to admit guilt.'

‘Precisely.' Bell nodded his approval at the journalist's knowledge of the legal system. ‘To qualify for parole, a prisoner must first confess his crimes. He must show sufficient remorse for the pain and suffering he has caused. He must have paid his debt to society and be fully rehabilitated.' He spread his palms in front of Tom. ‘But what if he didn't do it? If he is innocent. What then?'

‘He may not wish to admit to a crime he didn't commit, so he will never qualify for parole and must serve his full sentence.'

‘Life,' agreed Bell, ‘which in my case is twenty-four years, according to the judge. I've done two, so only another twenty-two to go,' he said brightly. ‘I'll be fifty-six when I get out of here, assuming I don't conveniently die before then, which is a distinct possibility.'

‘But you won't admit guilt?'

Bell shook his head.

‘So you're stuck in here.'

‘Trapped in an innocent man's dilemma,' and he snorted, ‘I'd be treated far better as a self-confessed killer than a man who continues to protest his innocence. Even my lawyers have advised me to say that I did it.'

‘Ever cross your mind to take their advice?'

‘Why would I? I didn't kill Rebecca.'

‘So you say, but your lawyers must have had their reasons for urging you to admit guilt.'

‘And those reasons have nothing to do with justice.' When he realised Tom did not understand he grew impatient. ‘They don't care whether I'm guilty or not. They just think we have run out of options. The authorities will not allow me to appeal against the guilty verdict or the length of my sentence. There is a lack of evidence to contradict the
verdict and the normal sentence for murder is life, with the exact tariff at the judge's discretion, which is then reviewed after a time by the parole board.'

‘But you can't qualify for parole,' Tom reminded him, ‘unless you admit guilt.'

‘Exactly,' said Bell, ‘and that's why I had a falling-out with my lawyers. I asked them what my options were and they said, “You don't have any, why not just admit you're guilty and see if you can get parole.” ' Then Bell pretended to talk casually: ‘ “It's not like you killed a bunch of people, Richard. This was a crime of passion. If you admit it, you'll probably only do nine or ten years in total. You've already served two.” ' The look on Bell's face said it all. His legal team were morons who did not understand the two years he had already served were a living hell and that seven more would be a lifetime.

‘I can understand your reluctance to do that but,' and Tom chose his next words carefully, ‘nine years is better than twenty-four. If you don't admit to the killing, the parole board will never recommend you for release. You'll be …'

‘Officially classed as
In Denial of Murder
,' Bell said. ‘I should keep my head down, maybe do an Open University course, develop a sudden interest in God. If I behave like a model prisoner then I could be out of here in another seven years, as long as I take responsibility for my actions and admit my terrible crime. Just say the word and serve a third,' he added dryly, ‘but if I continue to maintain my innocence I'll do the full tariff. So let's say I admit to killing Rebecca, hypothetically.'

‘Hypothetically,' agreed Tom.

‘What then? What happens to me?'

‘You serve the rest of your sentence, then leave.'