Behind Dead Eyes (8 page)

‘Rebecca would go out later that morning, pick up my message and leave one for me. I'd nip out in my lunch hour or on my way somewhere and pick up her reply. Sometimes it confirmed our appointment, sometimes she said she couldn't do it, which was always disappointing but at least I would know and I wouldn't waste my time hanging around waiting for her.'

‘Was that all you wrote? Just times to meet up?'

‘At first, but sometimes we would leave letters for each other. Rebecca started that.'

‘What was in the letters?'

‘Just, you know, how we felt about one another, how we
wished we could be together and not trapped with other people. It was our way of keeping the flame burning when we couldn't see each other.'

‘But you both destroyed these letters?'

‘Of course.'

‘Except the one Rebecca left in the glove compartment,' he reminded Bell. ‘Must have been stressful though, all that sneaking around.'

‘It was but you know what; it was exciting too. We were creeping round like a couple of teenagers whose parents didn't approve of us being together. Like it was us against the world, you know. It was part of the game.'

‘I get it,' Tom told him, ‘so what happened on the day she was murdered?'

‘I don't know,' Bell told him, ‘we weren't meeting up that day. She wasn't supposed to be there.'

‘That's the bit I'm struggling to understand,' Tom told him. ‘If you were saying she was killed by some passing maniac, that she was somehow in the wrong place at the wrong time and that you got there five minutes later then frankly even that would be pretty hard to swallow but it would be more believable than your story.'

‘It's not a story, Tom,' said Bell, ‘it's the truth.'

‘Then what was she doing there if you didn't arrange it? Did anybody else know about the dead-letter drop?'

‘No.'

‘You're sure about that?'

Bell nodded. ‘I was very careful. There was never anyone around when I put the letter in the wall. No one else knew about it unless …'

‘Unless what?'

‘Rebecca told them about it.'

‘And why would she?'

‘She wouldn't,' Bell said. ‘I've thought about it a lot. Even if for some inexplicable reason Rebecca wanted to tell a friend about it, if she felt the need to boast or confess or ask for advice, there would be no reason to reveal the exact location of our messages, would there?'

‘No,' agreed Tom, ‘there wouldn't, which leaves you with a problem and a big gap in your story. If this was the only way you communicated with one another, apart from the times you were physically together, then why did she go to your usual spot that day if you didn't summon her?'

‘I don't know,' Bell admitted.

‘Could she have got the day or the time wrong?'

‘Maybe. I wish I knew, believe me. It has been eating me up for more than two years.'

‘Could someone have followed her and seen her leave a message there?'

‘It's possible, I suppose, but I told her to be really careful, not to stop if she thought she was being followed or saw anyone else she knew. Even then the wall is set back away from the main road. You couldn't just follow a car up that trail without being seen so I don't understand how it could have happened.'

‘Then you have a very big hole in your story, because I don't see how she could have been there that day if you didn't arrange it.'

‘I know,' Bell said and he placed his elbows on the table and put his hands up to his face in frustration. ‘I've driven myself half-crazy thinking about it.'

‘Then there's your alibi,' said Tom, ‘or lack of it. You told the court you went to see a former lover.'

‘I wouldn't describe her as that.'

‘But you did have sex with her.'

‘She was a waitress at the sports club and it was only a two-time thing. Just a bit of fun, you know.'

‘And yet she summoned you to an urgent meeting and you dropped everything to go to her flat.'

‘She wrote to me at my office and told me she thought she was pregnant.' Bell was exasperated. ‘Can you imagine how I felt when I got that note? She told me she had to see me. I was worried she was going to tell the whole world the baby was mine if I didn't go.'

‘And when you called on her?'

‘She wasn't there. She'd cleared out and the house was empty.'

‘She'd been gone a fortnight by then,' said Tom, ‘off travelling the world, which rather blows a hole in your claim that she thought she was pregnant and desperate to see you that afternoon.'

‘I know,' admitted Bell, ‘the police couldn't trace her either, though I don't think they really tried.'

‘How do you explain her letter?'

‘A prank from one of her friends or a cruel trick she played to shit me up because I wasn't interested in seeing her again?' Richard shook his head. ‘I don't know what her motives were.'

‘You couldn't produce the letter when the police asked you for it.'

‘I put it in the shredder,' said Bell. ‘I could hardly keep it in my briefcase, could I? What if Annie found it?'

‘And the timing of this meeting roughly coincided with the time of Rebecca's death.'

‘Within an hour or so.' And he sighed. ‘I realise how it looks, believe me.'

‘Yeah,' said Tom. ‘It looks bad. It looks like you killed her.'

‘Why are you still here then,' challenged Bell, ‘if you reckon I did it?' He sat back in his chair and stared at the reporter.

‘I'm waiting for you to convince me otherwise,' Tom told him. ‘Perhaps I want to believe you, maybe I feel there is something not quite right about this whole case. You could be telling the truth, and when I look at the evidence against you it all feels a bit convenient; a few small things that add up to not that much but it made the jury rule against you.'

‘Go on.'

Tom started counting the points off on his fingers while Bell listened to him, ‘One; they didn't like you. They saw you as an arrogant womaniser. Two; you can't reasonably explain why Rebecca was there on the day she died if you didn't summon her. Three; the judge completely disregarded the notion that Rebecca could have been killed by a stranger. Four; you have no alibi but her husband and your wife do, which rules out two other people who might just have had cause to kill her, particularly the husband since we know the killer's blows were so strong they could only have been delivered by a man but alibis can be bought or concocted, particularly by wealthy businessmen.'

‘Exactly,' said Bell.

‘Though how the hell we can prove that, I don't know.'

‘It's the injustice that makes me so angry,' said Bell. ‘I tell you, Tom, I have even contemplated killing a man in here, just so I could say I actually deserve the punishment I've been given. It's not as if there aren't a large number of suitable candidates. You wouldn't believe the vermin in here. They would chill you.'

Tom regarded Bell closely. He didn't seem to realise that the words he had just uttered made him sound like a man capable of anything.

‘Isn't
the Metro fantastic,' announced Helen as they emerged blinking into the light of a chilly but bright afternoon, ‘a couple of stops and we're back in Jesmond. The trains are always half empty too.'

‘That's because they're all still in bed,' Peter countered, ‘unless it's collect-your-giro day.'

Peter had been doing this more and more lately, believing every regional stereotype and cracking lame jokes about them; Scousers were thieves, Scots were alcoholics, Yorkshiremen never bought their round and Geordies were all unemployed. These were views he would have never have spouted at college but it was as if he had abandoned any notion of open-mindedness on the day they graduated.

‘We went to university with people from different parts of the country,' she reminded him, ‘including the north-east.'

‘They don't count,' he'd told her with a glint in his eye. ‘They escaped and I bet none of them returned.' Before adding, ‘No jobs to go back to.'

‘Most of the people up here have jobs, you know.'

‘If you say so,' he said as if he was humouring her.

‘Not everybody gets the chance to work for their dad.' The words were out of her mouth before she could prevent them. She could feel his whole body stiffen. A few steps later he let go of her hand, which signified the beginning of one of his sulks. She was supposed to apologise then. The withdrawal of the hand was a clear signal, which Helen chose to
ignore. He didn't say another word until they were back at her flat.

They ate the dinner she cooked then watched a video he had chosen from her local Blockbuster. She gave up on it during the second car chase and read a book instead. It was all about organised crime in the north-east in the sixties and seventies and was full of infamous characters, most of them long dead. It told of beatings, protection rackets and wars over the control of slot machines in pubs and working men's clubs. There were bent coppers, corrupt politicians, unsolved murders and links with London gangsters like the Kray twins. Helen felt as if she was immersing herself in the history of the criminal world she was now reporting on. Even with the noise of the idiotic action movie in the background she couldn't put it down.

‘That's a cheerful read,' Peter told her at one point, between shootouts.

Later, they went to bed. ‘Do you mind if we don't?' she asked and he sighed as if this was the most unreasonable thing he had ever heard.

‘No,' he said simply, which of course meant
yes
and she wondered if he was about to remind her of the cost of his rail ticket.

He couldn't have been too bothered though, because he was asleep and snoring in minutes, leaving Helen wide awake and restless. Half an hour later she gave up on sleep, went into the living room and began to read her book once more.

The following morning Tom drove into the private underground car park, ignoring the warning signs about wheel clamping being the likeliest option, unless he was a legitimate client. The building housed a number of legal firms and nobody could possibly know who he was here to see.

He climbed the stairs to a second floor that opened out into a reception area with soft leather chairs in front of a handful of glass-walled offices. The reception desk of Stone, Nixon and Stone was manned by an unsmiling guardian who regarded him suspiciously as he advanced on her.

‘I'm here to see Mr Nixon,' said Tom with what he hoped was an air of complete confidence.

The receptionist's face darkened. ‘Do you have an appointment?'

‘I've phoned several times but nobody returned my calls so I thought I'd drop by.'

‘You're the reporter,' she said as if it made sense now, ‘Mr Cardey.'

‘Carney,' he corrected her, ‘Tom Carney. I'm working on a story that features Stone, Nixon and Stone. Mr Nixon will want to know about it before it goes to press.'

‘I hardly think so,' she said, ‘or he would have called you back. We don't speak to journalists.'

‘Even ones who are about to put your firm on the front page of a newspaper read by four million people?' He was bluffing but she looked a little less self-assured for a moment before quickly regaining her composure.

‘I'm afraid I will have to ask you to leave,' she told him icily.

There was a small heap of glossy brochures on the reception desk and Tom picked one up. ‘Background reading,' he told her.

‘If you don't leave this minute I will have to call the police.'

‘Okay,' Tom said, irked by the woman's sense of superiority, ‘see you on the front page then,' and he glanced at her name badge, ‘Carol.'

Her face flushed at this and she hissed, ‘Get out.'

Tom gave her his best disarming smile then left.

‘I think you should know,' the old man warned him, ‘that I called the police.' He took a step back when Bradshaw turned to face him, as if to avoid an imaginary blow from the man standing on his neighbour's driveway.

‘I am the bloody police,' Bradshaw told the wiry old man behind the hedge that lay between them. He produced his warrant card and showed it to Tom Carney's neighbour.

‘Oh,' he flushed, ‘well, how was I supposed to know you weren't a burglar?'

‘Do you know the owner of this house?' asked Bradshaw.

‘Yes. Well, no, not really. I don't know him but I've seen him about,' the old man said.

‘Is he around, usually, I mean?' asked the detective.

‘Most of the time. He's doing the place up, always coming and going with one thing or another: planks of wood, pots of paint.'

‘Do you reckon he'll be back soon?'

‘More than likely,' said the man. ‘Is he in trouble then?'

‘Not at all,' said Bradshaw, ‘he's just assisting us with our enquiries.' Which had been true once, though not for a while.

‘Well,' said the old man with foreboding, ‘you always say that don't you, right before you slap the cuffs on.' He walked back inside his house and Bradshaw heard him lock and bolt the door then slide the chain across.

Bradshaw walked back along the driveway towards his car. When he was halfway down, two uniformed officers he vaguely recognised suddenly appeared at the other end of the driveway and began to walk towards him. They stopped when they realised who he was.

‘You beat us to it,' the young one said.

‘We had a call,' his older colleague explained, ‘a sighting
of, quote, “
a highly suspicious-looking person who is very probably up to no good
”, unquote.'

‘That would be me,' Bradshaw told them and he had to commend the old man on the accuracy of his description.

The charity golf day was about to commence as Helen arrived. The contestants, all well-heeled businessmen, were there as guests of Camfield Offshore. They had arrived at the annual event for an early tee-off and been rewarded with bacon rolls, coffee and fresh orange juice served by a bevy of teenage girls dressed in crisp white blouses and dark skirts with hair tied back in ponytails. Helen noticed there wasn't a girl over twenty among them and each waitress was strikingly pretty. It seemed Camfield had very specific requirements about who could wait on their middle-aged, entirely male clientele.

The men filed out of the room towards the first tee but Helen's quarry was not among them. A well-built man in a dark suit approached her. ‘Can I help you, miss?' he said in a tone that made it clear he was not interested in helping her at all. The absence of a white blouse and ponytail had been a giveaway, she realised, and she was past the retirement age for a Camfield waitress.

‘I'm looking for Alan Camfield.'

‘And you are?'

‘Helen Norton from the
Record
,' she explained, ‘the newspaper.'

The man took out a notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket, made a note of something, presumably Helen's name and employer, then smiled mockingly at her.

‘I'm not working undercover,' she explained, ‘I'm here legitimately to speak to Alan Camfield in my capacity as a journalist.'

‘Mr Camfield rarely grants interviews but if you would like the opportunity to write a profile on him you can submit a written request to our press office,' he told her.

‘I'm not interested in a profile piece.'

‘You'd rather harass him at a charity event.'

‘Oh it's a charity event, so why did he invite a gangster?' she asked. ‘Unless you're going to tell me that wasn't Jimmy McCree I saw in the car park, getting out of a big black BMW.'

‘Right, that's it, Miss Norton,' and he grabbed her by the arm. ‘I asked you nicely to leave and you refused to comply, so I'm escorting you from the premises.' He started to tug her by the arm towards the entrance.

‘Get off me,' she demanded but he didn't break stride. ‘You didn't ask me to leave …'

‘Then I'm asking you now.'

‘You can't do this,' she told him, ‘you're hurting my arm. This is assault.'

‘Is it?' He could not have sounded less interested. ‘Mr Camfield has hired the whole course for the day. This is private property and you are trespassing at an invitation-only event.' He'd already marched her out through the main door and was pulling her across the gravel driveway towards a row of cars. ‘Yours, I presume,' he said nodding at the little Peugeot parked at the end of a row of Mercedes, BMWs and Jaguars.

Helen saw a group of men on the horizon to her left, heading out towards the first tee. She shouted, ‘Get off me!' as loudly as she could causing some of them to stop and turn to see what was amiss. They were greeted by the site of a young woman being dragged towards her car by a be-suited security man.

‘Scott.' The word was delivered with just the right amount of calm authority to halt the security man, who let go of
Helen's arm. She scowled at him and clutched the spot he had gripped. Then she turned to look at the half-dozen men staring back at her. At their centre stood Alan Camfield, watching her intently. Next to him was the unmistakable figure of Jimmy McCree. It crossed her mind to march over to Camfield and protest about her rough treatment, while firing off some questions about his choice of guests and possibly even his plans for the Riverside development.

‘Don't … even …
think
… about … it,' hissed Scott, enunciating each word slowly through gritted teeth and she realised the security man would probably relish the chance to harm her if she shamed him twice in front of his boss. ‘On your way.'

The golfers had already turned their backs and were marching over the horizon to their golf day. She wondered what Camfield would tell them about her. Was she merely a reporter demanding an interview at an inappropriate time or perhaps she was an anti-capitalist environmentalist who thought profit was a dirty word.

Helen climbed into her car and steered it down the driveway. She could clearly make out the surly figure of Scott in her rear-view mirror, watching her until she passed through the gates of the golf club.

Tom waited in the underground car park for nearly ninety minutes, hoping that Nixon would eventually emerge. He had not really expected to be admitted to the inner sanctum and was fully prepared for a lengthy wait. On the passenger seat next to him was the firm's brochure, opened on the double page entitled ‘Partners'. Martin Nixon's bespectacled face stared out from it self-importantly.

Tom read then re-read the copious notes he had taken,
glancing up occasionally when the lift doors opened and another serious-looking individual departed. He occupied his time making a list of people to talk to, not including the lawyer who was eluding him. Top of that list was Annie Bell, the loyal, long-suffering wife who still stood by Richard. Was she too good to be true? Tom wanted at least to know why she was so convinced her husband did not kill his lover. He'd like to speak to her father too; the man who had employed his son-in-law as his Sales Director. Tom had to wonder if that appointment had been based solely on merit. Then there was Freddie Holt, the supposedly ruthless millionaire who'd been cuckolded by Bell and humiliated when the newspapers printed every detail of the case. Mark Birkett was an old friend from college who had been summoned by the defence as little more than a character witness. That had not gone as well as they might have hoped when Birkett had been forced to confirm a violent incident from Richard's past involving his old girlfriend. Then there was Nicole – or ‘Naughty Nicole' – as the press had christened Rebecca's supposed best friend in her exclusive, confessional interview. He wanted to speak to Richard Bell's ex as well. If anyone knew what the man was capable of in a dark moment it was her. He surveyed the list:

1. Martin Nixon – lawyer
   
2. Annie Bell – loyal wife
   
3. Annie's father – employer
   
4. Freddie Holt – Rebecca's husband
   
5. Mark Birkett – Richard's best man
   
6. Nicole – Rebecca's friend from the cruise boat
   
7. Amy Riordan – Bell's ex
   

It seemed enough to be going on with for now.

Finally, a man emerged from the lift who looked a lot like Martin Nixon. Tom glanced again at the photograph in the brochure then back at the man in the raincoat who was walking briskly towards an enormous silver Mercedes, briefcase in hand.

It was him.

Tom got out of his car before Nixon could elude him.

‘Mr Nixon!' he called and the figure stopped in his tracks and turned to face Tom. ‘Could I have a quick word?'

If Tom was hoping that Nixon might not at first realise who he was he was soon disillusioned. ‘I don't speak to reporters,' said the lawyer, who had obviously been well briefed by his receptionist.

‘You're clearly a man in the know,' Tom told Nixon as he began to climb into his car, ‘so you will be aware of who I write for.'