‘I’m just saying there are lines of enquiry that can’t easily be pursued by the police. I’m not suggesting anything dodgy.’
‘Not another private eye?’ Jarvis shook his head at this. ‘I mean, seriously, did he actually give you anything you didn’t already have?’
‘Apart from his bill?’ Jarvis admitted, ‘No.’
‘Well, then.’
Jarvis didn’t seem to want to argue the point so there was a momentary lull in their conversation until he said, ‘What about this other fellah you told me about a while back?’
Kane seemed to stiffen at that but simply answered, ‘Which one?’ while privately regretting he had ever mentioned Tom Carney’s name, even in passing, for he realised the bloody reporter was undoubtedly the reason for Jarvis’ visit.
‘That journalist.’
‘That was a very different case, Frank.’
‘It was a missing person.’
‘It wasn’t that simple.’
‘But you said he was a real asset.’
That was before he stabbed me in the back, thought Kane, whose opinion of Tom Carney had plummeted since the days immediately following the resolution of the Michelle Summers case. ‘Don’t go down that route, Frank, I’m begging you.’
‘Why not? He’s a good investigator, isn’t he? You said so yourself.’
‘He’s also a self-centred, arrogant, egotistical, cage-rattling, pain-in-the-arse.’
‘Sounds like he’s just the man I’m looking for then.’ Jarvis leaned forward and poured another generous measure into Kane’s glass.
DI Tennant left her office an hour later and peered out at her team. Her gaze settled on Ian Bradshaw and her eyes narrowed. ‘Bradshaw,’ she called, ‘DCI Kane wants you.’
‘DCI Kane wants me?’ he parroted back at her in surprise. Bollockings from senior officers had been a regular occurrence during Ian Bradshaw’s police career but he had hoped that was no longer the case. He’d been keeping his head down and his nose clean as Kane once advised him.
‘Yes,’ she said curtly, ‘he wants you to drive him home.’
This was the cue for some hilarity from the team, including DS Cunningham reciting gleefully, ‘Kane and Bradshaw sitting in a tree, K.I.S.S.I.N.G.’
‘Fuck off, Cunningham,’ might not have been the wittiest answer Bradshaw could have come up with but he offered it anyway. He was troubled now. It wasn’t Cunningham’s comment that bothered him though or the banter that continued as he was leaving the room, it was the look on DI Tennant’s face as she watched him go, as if he’d just farted at the dinner table.
DCI Kane felt quite hammered. Not falling-down-drunk-on-a-night-out-with-the-lads pissed but drunk enough for a school night and certainly in no condition to drive, which was why he had phoned Katie Tennant to commandeer Bradshaw. It made obvious sense for him to kill two birds with one stone.
Katie had asked him why he needed to speak to one of her officers and his first reaction had been to tell her to mind her own bloody business but he bit his tongue. She was one of the new generation, he supposed, trained to use their initiative, not blindly follow orders like he had been. He would never have dreamed of questioning a senior officer. It wasn’t the way to get ahead.
Had he been entirely sober he might have said, ‘I’d like a word with him,’ but because of the whisky he’d been a little too honest and said, ‘I need him to drive me home,’ and by the time he’d realised that was probably not the most impressive thing he could have told his subordinate, it was too late.
‘I see,’ she clearly wasn’t impressed, ‘I’ll send him over.’
He was glad he had the Polo mints. God knows how long they’d been in his drawer but he didn’t care about that now. He shovelled four into his mouth and crunched on them, managing to swallow all of the minty fragments before Bradshaw showed up at his door.
‘Ah, Bradshaw,’ he said, ‘good lad. My car’s playing up and I wanted a word with you anyway. Be a good man and give me a lift home then you can knock off, eh?’ he said brightly. ‘After we’ve had our chat.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Bradshaw, who was still baffled as to why he had been summoned to act as his DCI’s taxi driver, though he did at least understand the reason why Kane wouldn’t be driving himself home. He noticed his boss discreetly palm a packet of Polos into his jacket pocket and there were two empty, recently rinsed glasses on a nearby cabinet. There was something solid wrapped in an old carrier bag that had been placed in the waste paper basket too, which could have been an empty spirit bottle. Bradshaw supposed he should be grateful there were two glasses.
‘Let’s get going then.’ Kane put the palm of one hand firmly against Bradshaw’s shoulder as he steered the detective sergeant to the door and Bradshaw got a strong whiff of mints as they left the office.
Katie Tennant was fuming. She normally had an ‘open-door’ policy but not that afternoon. Now her door was very firmly shut against an unfair world. God help anybody who tried to disturb her before this day was through.
Durham Constabulary’s solitary female DI should have seen it coming. She half expected there’d be a spy in the camp, reporting back to DCI Kane on her competence and fitness for leadership but she hadn’t expected Kane to be so bloody blatant about it.
He hadn’t liked it when she bridled then asked him why he needed to see one of her team so he had invented some bullshit story about needing a lift home. There was something else that was bothering her about the whole thing: Bradshaw. She’d actually thought he might be different, that he could, quite possibly, be one of the good ones and Lord knows there weren’t many of them. Well, at least now she knew differently.
In the morning she would challenge Bradshaw, maybe even ask him outright if he was Kane’s spy and see if that put the wind up him. If he wavered for an instant, she would never trust him again.
Chapter Nine
‘Working late again, I see.’ The words were spoken like a reprimand, as Graham Seaton surveyed the rows of empty desks in the newsroom but, as usual, there was a smile behind her editor’s eyes. ‘Aint you got a home to go to?’
‘So are you,’ Helen reminded him, ‘working late I mean – and you do have a home to go to.’ Graham was married with children, not returning to an empty one-bedroom flat like she was.
‘I’m planning on being there very soon and I didn’t put the hours in that you do when I was your age.’ This sounded funny, coming from her relatively youthful boss. Graham was still in his early thirties, which was very young for an editor on a daily.
‘I bet you did.’
‘Mmm, well maybe,’ he admitted, ‘but back then I was keen,’ he was heading back to his office, ‘not a cynical, clapped-out old veteran who never gets out of the newsroom anymore.’
‘I wouldn’t say you never get out of the newsroom.’
‘Oi, watch it, Norton,’ he grinned back at her, ‘or I’ll transfer you to the obituary page.’
‘Then who would get you all your exclusive crime stories?’ she asked. ‘You know you’d be lost without me.’
He pretended to ponder this for a while. ‘Maybe I would be.’ And their eyes locked for a moment. ‘Don’t stay too late though,’ and he disappeared into his office.
Oh God, did she just flirt with her boss? Was that flirting or was it blokeish banter? There was no innuendo; but maybe it wasn’t what she said, but the way she said it. Her editor was good-looking, but it wasn’t just that. What really made him attractive was how damned capable he was. Helen felt she was learning something new every day here and the six months she had been in the job had flown by. Graham was such a contrast to her old editor on the Durham Messenger. Malcolm had been lazy, and sleazy with it, which was never a winning combination. After that experience anyone would have been an improvement but Graham had trusted her from day one, despite her lack of experience, handing her plum assignments and letting Helen follow her own judgement. He provided wise counsel to ensure she didn’t drift into
territory that could prove ruinously expensive for the newspaper if somebody sued but he was never less than encouraging. Now she actually had a boss who behaved like she always imagined a newspaper editor should.
He was also married with kids, she reminded herself again, but even if he hadn’t been, Helen Norton was in a relationship; a long-standing and committed relationship she almost jeopardised once before by becoming too close to a colleague and she told herself she was never going to allow that to happen again.
There was no one else in the newsroom and the light from her editor’s open office door was enticing. More than once she had gone to see him at the end of the day with a question about a story. He would answer in his usual, unhurried manner and this often lead to a more general chat until they both realised time was getting on. She glanced towards that open door again now and found herself thinking of an excuse to knock on it.
That would be a bad idea.
Helen decided to take her editor’s advice and go home.
‘Do you know Frank Jarvis?’ asked Kane as Bradshaw steered his car through the traffic.
‘The politician? Of course,’ answered Bradshaw, ‘though I’ve never actually met him.’ Bradshaw had followed up leads on the councillor’s missing daughter but hadn’t played a major role in the investigation. Later, when he was assigned to the burned girl case, Sandra Jarvis had been one of the first possibles but thankfully she was much taller than the murdered female.
‘I need a favour from you,’ Kane said as Bradshaw drove them out of the city, windscreen wipers working overtime against rain that had shown no sign of abating all afternoon. He must have seen something in Bradshaw’s face. ‘It’s nothing dodgy, so don’t get your knickers in a twist, Bradshaw. I’d hardly be asking you if it was, would I?’
‘No, sir,’ answered Bradshaw, even though the question was more than likely rhetorical and the accompanying compliment hugely backhanded.
‘You’re like bloody Florence Nightingale.’ The DCI realised he had probably said far too much. He wound down the car window for some air, despite the rain. ‘That journalist friend of yours,’ he began.
‘Which one?’
‘You know which one; Tom-bloody-Carney.’
‘I haven’t seen him in ages, sir,’ said Bradshaw, ‘not since …’ And he wanted to say not since he blotted his copy book with us but left the sentence incomplete. The last thing he wanted Kane to think was that he’d carried on a cosy little friendship with someone considered persona non grata by Durham Constabulary.
‘You don’t meet up with him now and again?’
‘God, no,’ protested Bradshaw and he began to wonder just what he was going to be accused of. ‘We cooperated on the Michelle Summers case …’ Was cooperated too controversial a word? ‘I was at school with him but we were in different years …’
‘Not even for a quick pint,’ Kane persisted and Bradshaw wondered how he knew that, ‘from time to time?’
Bradshaw sought refuge in a semblance of the truth. ‘I haven’t bumped into him in a while. He was a useful source of information for a bit but after that article …’
‘Yes,’ Kane seemed to sigh inwardly, ‘that article.’ And his brow creased at the recollection. ‘So you’re not exactly best mates then?’
‘No, sir,’ he answered quickly, ‘barely on nodding terms these days.’ He hoped that was enough to get him off the hook. Tom Carney had obviously capitalised on a leak from somewhere but it had nothing to do with Bradshaw and he certainly wasn’t going to take the rap for it.
‘Pity,’ said Kane.
‘What?’
‘I was hoping you did,’ Kane explained, ‘meet up with him that is.’
Bradshaw was baffled. All he wanted to do was distance himself from the accusation that he had been fraternising with Kane’s least favourite journalist but now the DCI seemed disappointed.
‘Could you, do you think?’ asked Kane quietly.
‘Sir?’
‘Take him for that pint and have a little chat, if I asked you to?’
‘Well, I could get in touch if that’s really what you want me to do?’
‘It is.’
There was a gap in the conversation while Bradshaw took this on board and Kane failed to enlighten him further. Finally the Detective Sergeant asked, ‘What do you want me to say to him?’
‘I’ve got a proposition for our Tom Carney.’
Outside, the evening air was crisp and Helen buttoned her coat as she walked across the car park. There were only a handful of cars left but Helen liked her job and often found herself staying late. When she got the call informing her that her application to join the newspaper had been successful she had moved to Newcastle as soon as her notice would allow, leaving the Durham Messenger with Malcolm’s words ringing in her ears, ‘The grass isn’t always greener you know,’ while neglecting to add any thanks for her hard work on his newspaper. Helen knew she would never be forgiven for leaving the place. It was as if ambition was a dirty word there and her departure some form of calculated snub.
Perhaps she should have spent more time looking for a flat though. Her place in Newcastle was tiny and more than a little depressing, another reason she was never in any hurry to go home.
She noticed the two young men then. They were crossing the car park from the opposite direction as if heading towards the newspaper’s offices but they didn’t look like cleaners or security men. They were both too young and dressed too casually for that. They were doing that lazy, exaggerated shoulder-rolling walk, trying to look like gangsters. Helen knew it was a form of prejudice to be immediately distrustful of young people but she couldn’t help wondering if they were there to break into cars. She kept her eye on them both as they drew nearer but avoided directly crossing their path. Thankfully they showed no interest in her, staring straight ahead as they swaggered up the centre of the car park.
Helen was glad of this. More often than not, when she encountered youths like these two they felt the need to verbally abuse her. Young women were routinely heckled on the street in a way men rarely encountered and seldom understood; receiving judgemental comments about looks, figure or dress. Helen had been called a slut and a whore then, in the same breath, a frigid bitch for ignoring the abuse she was receiving. She wasn’t sure how she could be both of those things.
So why wasn’t she grateful that these two rough-looking young men were ignoring her?
Because something didn’t seem right.
Despite her suspicions, she wasn’t expecting what happened next. As they drew alongside Helen, the furthest from her suddenly nudged his friend hard with his shoulder, which sent the other man stumbling towards her at speed. It was a deliberate act and his friend used the shoulder barge as an excuse to collide with Helen, knocking her off her feet and sending her crashing to the ground. Helen hit the cement hard and narrowly avoided striking her head against the nearest car. Her handbag slipped from her arm and bounced onto the floor, upending itself and spilling its contents in the process.
Before she could react the thug who clattered into Helen was already standing over her. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing!’ he roared.
‘Watch where you’re going, you slag!’ the second man bawled and she rolled over to face them, turning to look up into two twisted, hate-filled faces. She could feel the rawness on one knee where it had scraped against the cement as she fell and the palms of her hands were sore from the impact as she tried to protect herself.
‘Get away from me,’ Helen demanded, her voice wavering as she tried to climb to her feet.
‘Who do you think you are, bitch?’ And the man who knocked her to the ground leant in close as she got to her feet. She could smell his breath, rank with the stale smell of beer and cigarettes. The second man closed in on her and Helen began to fear they would attack or even try to rape her here in the car park. She was looking around for anyone who might be able to help her but there was no one. She could run but wouldn’t be
able to get far with two young men in trainers chasing her. She’d never be able to reach her car.
When the second man spoke, she instantly understood why they were here. ‘That’ll teach you to stick your nose in.’ This wasn’t some random assault on the first young woman they found. These thugs had actually targeted her because of the stories she had been writing. They’d been waiting for her to come out of the newsroom and now she really was frightened.
‘Oi!’ The male voice was deep and angry. ‘Get away from her!’ It was Graham and she had never been happier to hear him. He was standing on the office steps some distance away. Her editor started to march towards them and she prayed they would think they’d done enough and melt away. Graham hadn’t hesitated to come to her aid but could he really fight them both off? They looked like the kind of young men who were used to violence.
‘You’ve been warned,’ the second man told her, ‘it won’t happen twice.’ Then he shoved Helen violently. She shot backwards and fell hard against the bonnet of the nearest car, pain shooting through her spine.
Both men took off at a casual jog as Graham ran towards her. She was vaguely aware of them laughing, swearing and turning back to mock the older man, giving Graham the finger. Sensibly he did not pursue them, deciding instead to halt by her side. They ran from the car park then, whooping excitedly at a job well done before they vanished into the night.
‘I’m alright,’ she told her editor, ‘I’m alright.’
Graham took one look at her, his face all concern. ‘No Helen, you’re not.’ Then he bent low and deftly scooped the spilled contents back into her handbag, handed it to her and said, ‘You’re not alright. Come on.’
Graham took her back into the newsroom, sat her at her desk and disappeared for a moment to the tiny kitchen area, which was little more than a fridge for sandwiches and a vending machine next to a row of cupboards. She heard a cupboard door open then close and this was followed by the sound of a tap running. Graham returned, bent to examine her knee then gently pressed a wet cloth against it. ‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.
Behind Dead Eyes Page 6