‘And what do you think has happened to Sandra?’
‘We don’t know,’ Jarvis admitted, ‘we just don’t know. It turned out she hadn’t stayed with the friend and no one close to her had seen Sandra for a couple of days before she finally disappeared but there were a number of sightings of her in the city during that period.’
‘And when was the last time anyone did see your daughter?’
‘That was on the eighteenth of February, when she bought a rail ticket at Newcastle Central Station.’
‘Do you have any idea where she was going?’ the host asked.
‘No,’ admitted Jarvis.
‘And I understand there was no particular reason for her to run away like that? She didn’t have any problems?’
‘None,’ he said and Jarvis sounded surprised again, ‘nothing, no reason at all. Sandra was always such a happy girl who had no reason to run away from home. She wasn’t in any trouble.’ Then he added quickly, ‘she isn’t in any trouble. We just want her to come home.’
‘And the police have been investigating but have no leads at all?’ the DJ questioned. ‘Even after eight months?’
‘We can’t fault the police. They have done everything they can. They have spoken to dozens of people about the disappearance of my daughter and kept us fully informed.’
‘And yet there have been no sightings of Sandra since that day when she boarded a train out of Newcastle?’
‘There have been numerous sightings,’ Jarvis corrected the host, ‘all over the country, but we have no way of knowing if they are genuine. We are just hoping and praying she is safe and one day will come back to us.’
‘This is a difficult question, Frank, but I know you want to give out as much information as possible.’ He paused. ‘Might someone have taken Sandra and could they perhaps be holding her against her will?’
Tom guessed the question had been pre-agreed between them.
‘It is possible,’ admitted Jarvis. ‘Sandra is not the kind of girl who would just run off, so the police say they can’t rule anything out. If someone out there knows something, anything at all, please come forward so you can help us to find my daughter.’ He cleared his throat once more. ‘Until that day comes, I will continue with the Searching-for-Sandra campaign,’ and he went on to give the campaign’s phone number.
‘And what kind of person is Sandra, Frank?’ asked the radio host when he was done.
‘Sandra is a kind and loving human being who lights up any room she walks into. She’s fiercely intelligent, has done well at everything she’s ever turned her hand to but is still a caring person with lots of friends. She would help anyone, absolutely anyone. She is our world,’ he concluded, ‘and I don’t know how we are managing without her.’
‘And if, by some chance, she is listening now …?’
‘I’d say please just get in touch, Sandra; you can phone home or call this show or the nearest police station but please just let us know you are safe. We’re not angry, we’re not upset, we just want you to come home.’
‘Frank Jarvis,’ the radio host sounded genuinely moved this time, ‘thank you so much for coming on the show today and being brave enough to talk about your daughter. If there is anyone out there who knows anything about the disappearance of Sandra Jarvis, please give us a call.’
Chapter Four
Helen Norton breezed into the restaurant, pretending to be in a hurry, a borrowed mobile phone clamped to her ear for effect. A panicked waiter belatedly noticed the attractive young woman then attempted to escort Helen to a table of his choosing but she sat down before he could reach her, as if weary from a morning conducting important business deals. Helen made a show of placing her handbag on the table, which she opened with one hand before extracting a pen and a notebook, all the while mumbling, ‘Yeah … yep … aha … okay,’ to the imaginary person on the end of the line, as she jotted down fictitious notes from her fake phone call. She wanted to be impossible to budge.
When the waiter reached her she said, ‘Just a moment,’ into her phone, in a brusque tone she hoped would intimidate him. She moved the phone away from her ear and told him firmly, ‘A Greek salad and a large glass of white wine,’ before adding, ‘anything but Chardonnay. I’m waiting for someone,’ she concluded before returning to her pretend call while the waiter scuttled off to fetch her order.
Normally Helen would never have dreamed of speaking to anyone in such an imperious manner but today she was somebody else. Helen Norton was working undercover and acting on a tip-off she prayed was reliable. Her table had been carefully chosen because it faced the bar and the front door of the restaurant but, crucially, also afforded Helen a view of the discreet alcove favoured by Alan Camfield.
The words at the bottom of the anonymous note sent to her newspaper were clear, ‘Camfield is meeting someone he shouldn’t.’
Helen had ordered the cheapest thing on the menu but still felt giddy at the prospect of the bill from one of Newcastle’s few shamelessly upmarket restaurants. She hoped her editor would let her claim it back on expenses but knew she would need to write a good story to justify that. Helen worked for a ‘daily’ these days, not a ‘weekly’, but the paper wasn’t made of money.
Her hand shook slightly as she took off her scarf and placed it on the table. She reached inside her handbag and slowly drew out the tiny camera, another expensive item borrowed for the occasion. She positioned the camera so that it faced the table Camfield favoured but was obscured from view by her scarf. Next, she pretended to drop her pen on the floor and bent low to pick it up. As her head rose again she stole a quick look into the camera, lifting the scarf a fraction of an inch so she could adjust its angle till it provided a clear shot. Satisfied, she straightened and hid the camera beneath the scarf once more.
Helen’s wine arrived in a large, heavy, crystal glass and she took a sip just as Alan Camfield walked through the door.
The Chief Executive, Chairman and majority shareholder of Camfield Offshore was a rare north-east success story, the head of a business that was actually expanding while the manufacturing base of the region was contracting alarmingly, thanks to competition from cheap foreign imports and an indifferent government, which always favoured the free market.
Camfield was bucking the trend with fingers in numerous pies and an empire built on cheap borrowed money and what was sometimes referred to as entrepreneurial zeal. He was a developer, with a mission statement that promised the realisation of maximum potential for underutilised, often brown-belt land in the north, but his business had numerous sub-divisions. There was also a ‘service provision’ arm that competed for government contracts in the expanding private sector. The services provided included care for the sick and elderly, plus catering operations in hospitals, prisons and large works’ canteens.
Helen had her own opinion of Alan Camfield’s business acumen. It seemed he had managed to amass a considerable fortune, of some several hundred million pounds, by taking advantage of other people’s misfortunes. If a council, particularly a northern one, received insufficient funding from central government to run a service, then Camfield would graciously step in and save the day, by taking the employees and assets off the council’s balance sheet. He would then ‘streamline’ this ‘inefficient’ business, which in practice meant getting rid of a number of employees while the remaining ones, who were desperate to keep their jobs, would be forced to sign new contracts with fewer rights and benefits in order to provide ‘flexible’ working practices. Cut to the bone, this new subsidiary of his business would then provide the barest minimum level of service to the council’s dependants, who were often the most vulnerable in society, so their complaints were ignored. Somehow this new, lean and efficient business would then manage to bank large profits, while paying its employees the lowest possible wage for their ‘unskilled’ labour. As far as Helen could make out, neither the people providing these services nor those dependent upon them were benefitting from their privatisati
on. The only one who did gain from the new way of doing things was Alan Camfield.
Helen leafed through a copy of Tatler for the first and only time in her life, occasionally stealing furtive glances at the millionaire, who was frowning at the menu as if it was not entirely to his liking. At that point, the second half of her story helpfully walked into the restaurant. A fawning maître d’ personally escorted Joe Lynch, leader of Newcastle City Council, to Camfield’s table, with whispered platitudes about how wonderful it was to see him again. So much for the democratically elected representative of the working man, thought Helen.
Councillor Lynch took his seat opposite Alan Camfield and they began to talk quietly to one another. Helen wasn’t close enough to hear them, but her tip-off had been accurate. The leader of the council, who could steer opinion either way on the upcoming Riverside property tender, a deal conservatively estimated to be worth more than one hundred million pounds to the successful business, was being entertained at an expensive lunch by one of the main bidders. That fact alone, placed into her story, would be enough to cause consternation. Readers would undoubtedly wonder what else Councillor Lynch might be receiving from Alan Camfield in return for his influence.
Helen checked the waiters were busy then she lifted the end of her scarf with one hand and activated the camera with the other. The sound made by the click of the shutter could not have carried much beyond her table but she waited for a moment to see if either man reacted to it. When they showed no sign of comprehension she repeated the manoeuvre once more.
‘Gotcha,’ she whispered softly to herself.
At that point the front door of the restaurant opened abruptly and there was a loud bang as it slammed into the wall. The man who swung it open looked puzzled, as if he didn’t quite know his own strength – which was entirely possible, judging by his bulk. Along with most of her fellow diners, Helen had looked towards the noise and been shocked at the sight that greeted her. She had never met the man before but knew him instantly. The maître d’ stepped quickly out of his way and the waiter let the man pass without a word. Almost everyone in the restaurant recognised the new arrival or had heard of his exploits. He was the most dangerous man in the city and he was heading straight for Helen.
Photographs of the latest batch of missing persons filled every surface of Ian Bradshaw’s desk at headquarters, arranged neatly in rows from left to right. More than a dozen faces stared up at him and he gazed back at them, not hearing the sounds of his colleagues going about their business; phones ringing, the tapping of keyboards as yet another report was prepared, laughter at the usual office banter. Ian Bradshaw was completely oblivious to all of this.
He had already examined the cases of every female reported missing in the north-east of England dating back years before the corpse of the burned girl was found but come across nothing to link any of them to her. Like Tom, he had listened on his car radio as Councillor Frank Jarvis appealed for information on his own missing daughter and Bradshaw was reminded of a brief period when they had wondered if she might be the burned girl; a theory that lasted as long as it took to compare their measurements. Sandra Jarvis was almost four inches taller than the burned girl.
Bradshaw widened the radius and asked for help from all over the country, even though his gut instinct told him this girl was local. These pictures had been sent from North Yorkshire and he read all of the reports carefully, dismissing them one by one. Some were too short or too tall, some he could exclude from their skin tone or other distinguishing characteristics and others had gone missing after the date their victim had been found. He was beginning to come to the inevitable conclusion that, whoever she was, the burned girl had never been reported missing – but how could a young woman just disappear like that without anyone noticing?
Bradshaw looked at her photograph again, taking in every mark and blemish on her charred skin. He knew he was becoming obsessed but he just couldn’t help himself. He had to know who she was. His eyes followed the scorched boundaries on her face and neck where the acid had robbed her of an identity. Then he noticed something. There was a tiny blemish, which was a slightly different colour from the larger marks on her face and neck. He was still peering at it intently when DI Kate Tennant’s voice snapped him out of his private thoughts as it carried across the room.
‘Stop what you are doing for a moment,’ she called and the four other members of the team transferred their attention to her. Tennant’s squad had been steadily dwindling in numbers as detectives were reassigned to more important cases now that twelve weeks had elapsed since the burned girl had been found and no progress had been made.
‘I know you are disillusioned,’ her gaze seemed to take in each of them in turn, ‘it’s written all over your faces,’ no one contradicted their DI, ‘but we will solve this case.’ So they were in for a probably long overdue pep talk. ‘If we follow up each and every lead, no matter how inconsequential it might seem. Sooner or later something is going to give and we will get real, solid intelligence about this victim, but only if we stay on top of our game. That means not allowing the negativity that’s setting in to get the better of us,’ there were a couple of murmurs of agreement at that, ‘because I won’t allow this to go unsolved.’
She sounded a bit desperate, Bradshaw thought, and he suspected she knew it but he was always willing to cut Kate Tennant some slack for she had more brains than the rest of them put together. A female DI was unheard of in the north-east before she’d been transferred in, during a move rumoured to have been instigated by the top brass because they were desperate to fill a government quota.
‘Someone did something unspeakable to this poor girl. Why? Because they are scared,’ and she let that thought sink in, ‘scared of us and what we might find. You don’t do this to a body unless she is part of a very big secret indeed. If we find out who she is, we are halfway to understanding why she was killed. So keep at it,’ she urged them.
She was right, identifying this poor girl was the key to the whole case but they knew that already. How could you do it though, when there was nothing to distinguish the burned girl from anyone else?
She was a blank canvas.
Almost.
Ian Bradshaw focused again on a tiny area in the photograph that was subtly different from the rest. A second later, he was up from his seat and tugging on his jacket. Bradshaw was out of there before anyone could ask him where he was going.
Helen watched helplessly as Jimmy McCree marched towards her. The most notorious gangster in Newcastle had to be mixed up in this somehow. It was too large a coincidence for him to be entering the restaurant independently of Alan Camfield and Joe Lynch. Had he somehow spotted the camera jutting out from beneath Helen’s scarf and was about to snatch it, taking all the evidence with it? She was torn between leaving the camera on the table beneath the scarf and trying to pretend it wasn’t there and an almost overwhelming urge to snatch it and run from the restaurant, but how could she do that when the big man was between her and the door?
Jimmy McCree had to be at least six feet four, with a broad chest and the kind of physique that only comes from endlessly pumping iron. The absence of hair on his bullet head seemed only to highlight two dark brows furrowed above menacing eyes that were staring straight at her. As he reached her, Helen realised she was holding her breath.
And then he was gone. The moment he reached her table he passed it without a word, going straight to the councillor and the businessman. For a brief second she pictured him pulling out a gun and shooting them both, as if she was suddenly part of some American gangster film, but instead he nodded a greeting, then pulled out a chair and sat down between them. For some reason neither man seemed to find the presence of a known criminal at their table disturbing.
Jimmy McCree had his back to the wall, which looked like an instinctive move to avoid presenting it to the street, but this meant he was also facing Helen’s camera. Only when they were deep in conversation did she slowly reach out a
n unsteady hand until it slipped beneath her scarf. With the little finger of her left hand she lifted the material slightly to uncover the lens then used her index finger to depress the shutter. She repeated the process twice more to ensure she had a perfect shot.
As Helen was taking the third picture she risked a sidelong glance towards their table and realised Jimmy McCree was staring straight back at her. The expression on his face told her everything she needed to know. He knew exactly what she was doing.
McCree said something to the other men and they turned to gaze at Helen. She started to rise from her seat. This was McCree’s cue to get up, too. She knew he would reach her before she could escape. He was starting to come round the back of the table and she frantically scooped up her belongings to shovel them into her bag, but it was hopeless. He would be across that room in seconds.
Then Helen got a lucky break. Before she could leave her seat the maître d’ swept past her with another man, who was carrying a large silver ice bucket on a stand with a bottle of champagne leaning lopsidedly in it. The waiters made a show of delivering it to the men at the table but, as they fussed and fretted about the positioning of the ice bucket and started the elaborate process of uncorking the champagne they inadvertently blocked McCree. There was frustration and anger in McCree’s eyes and there was no doubt in Helen’s mind that if they had been anywhere but a very fancy restaurant, the wine waiter would have simply been pushed to one side so he could get at her.
As Helen swept her belongings into her bag, Alan Camfield calmly spoke to the maître d’ and indicated Helen. In her haste she dropped the borrowed phone and had to quickly bend to retrieve it. ‘Miss,’ called the maître d’, as she rose with the phone. ‘Miss,’ he called again, louder this time, somehow managing to make the word sound sinister in these genteel surroundings. She banged her head on the table as she stood and threw the phone and camera into the handbag, while grabbing her purse. ‘Miss, could you please …’ He was heading towards her now, twisting his hips to get through a narrow gap between tables, the restaurant’s greed at packing the place with as many covers as possible working in her favour. She grabbed notes from her purse that more than covered the cost of her meal and dropped them onto the table then headed for the door, still with a head start on the maître d’.
Behind Dead Eyes Page 2