Behind Dead Eyes

by Howard Linskey

  Bradshaw deliberately narrowed his eyes at Dean. ‘I’ll bet you do, Dean,’ he said, ‘you must fear that every day. Of course, it’s a vocation.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Working here with, as you say, vulnerable kids. You must be very dedicated.’

  ‘Well, I do my best,’ and with the threat of immediate arrest having been lifted, it was as if Dean was suddenly able to think straight again. ‘I’m surprised they sent a DS down here for this. We usually just get a bobby from the local nick if any of the girls step out of line.’

  Bradshaw had anticipated this. ‘The allegations against Callie are part of a wider, ongoing investigation into a criminal syndicate exploiting young people. Callie’s information could be priceless.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dean, who was hardly comforted by this admission, and he looked away.

  ‘Which one is it, then?’ asked Bradshaw and when Dean looked confused he added, ‘Callie’s room?’

  Dean took Bradshaw to the end of the corridor. Callie was awake and dressed but sprawled lethargically on her bed in jeans and T-shirt.

  ‘There’s a police officer here to see you, Callie,’ announced Dean, ‘so sit up now like a good girl eh?’

  Callie obeyed him, but Dean didn’t move.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll understand that this part is of course confidential, Mr Anderton.’

  Dean couldn’t resist a last sidelong glance at Callie as he left her room. ‘I’ll be in my office at the end of the corridor, if you need anything.’

  ‘I’ll leave the door open,’ Bradshaw said as Dean sloped away. ‘I can call if I need you.’

  Callie was sitting up now on the edge of her bed, looking groggily at the detective.

  ‘Right then, Callie, I am Detective Sergeant Bradshaw and I am here to talk to you about some allegations of a criminal nature that have been made against you,’ he said and listened for a moment in case there were any sounds that might give away Dean’s presence in the corridor. ‘I’m sure you are aware that theft is a very serious matter.’ Then he heard Dean’s door open and close, its hinges squealing. Bradshaw took a step back and leaned out to survey the empty corridor. Now he could talk freely to the girl.

  He knew he had to move fast. ‘You know why I am here?’

  ‘Ian, is it?’ He nodded. ‘What we waiting for then?’

  ‘Show me,’ he demanded, and she rolled over on the bed and slid her pillows to one side to reveal a metal grille in the wall close to the spot where Callie laid her head each night. Bradshaw realised you could probably hear a lot of what went on in the next room but he couldn’t work out how you could see anything, let alone photograph it. Callie snatched a nail file from her bedside cabinet and used the thick end to work at one of the screws on the edge of the panel until it came free. She repeated the exercise until there were four screws on her bed and the grille came away from the wall. She moved out of the way to allow Bradshaw to bend down and take a look.

  Behind the grille was a space and on either side of this was a cavity that ran through the wall. Directly in front of him was a second grille that was the twin of the one Callie had removed. There were sizable gaps between the slats for ventilation, which meant Bradshaw had a reasonably uninterrupted view of the next room and its contents, including the bed which, crucially, was set against the far wall. Anyone doing anything there could be easily observed thanks to the gaps between the metal slats on the grille, which would prevent someone on the bed from noticing they were being spied upon.

  ‘I was just messing about one night and I realised the screws came off if you turned them. I thought it would be a laugh for Di and me to have a chat in the middle of the night.’ She looked sad then. ‘The other thing was her idea.’

  ‘Taking the photograph, you mean?’

  ‘She asked me to get some proof, so I did.’

  ‘So you took a photograph and this shows …?’

  ‘Him on top of Diane.’

  ‘But Callie,’ he asked, ‘how the hell did you get a photograph like that developed? Who in the world would process something like that and not immediately phone the police?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ she said, ‘Diane did.’ She smiled at his naïvety. ‘She took it to the guy who runs a little shop at the end of town. He does all sorts.’ Bradshaw knew the kind of place: a store that stays open all hours and does everything from dry cleaning and clothes mending to photocopying documents and taking passport photos. ‘She gave him a handy,’ said Callie matter-of-factly, and there was his answer. He’d processed a photograph showing the rape of an underage girl and kept it quiet in return for a hand job from that same young girl. Bradshaw made a mental note to reckon with that guy before this was over.

  At Bradshaw’s urging, Callie screwed the metal grille back in place. By now she had convinced the detective she wasn’t making this all up. ‘Can we get the picture?’

  ‘I think so.’ But she didn’t sound certain.

  ‘Come on, we’ve haven’t got long,’ he said, ‘and grab your bag.’ He didn’t want anything to delay them.

  ‘If I can get the photo,’ she threw the bag on her shoulder, ‘you can’t leave me here.’ The fear in her eyes was genuine.

  Callie was right not to trust anyone. Once that photograph was filed as evidence its presence could be leaked; then someone might try and silence Callie.

  ‘Get me the photo and I won’t leave here without you,’ he promised her, ‘but hurry.’

  She sprang from her bed and rushed to the door, but paused while she leaned out to check for Dean’s presence. When she was satisfied he wasn’t there she whispered, ‘Come on,’ and led Bradshaw into the room next door, which used to be Diane’s. They already knew it was empty thanks to the grating, but Bradshaw wanted them to be in and out of there straight away. They couldn’t afford to let Dean know about the photograph.

  Callie went to a corner of the room and dropped her bag. ‘Lift me up,’ she said to Ian and angled her head towards a ceiling tile that looked like all of the others.

  Bradshaw heard Dean’s door squeak open. ‘On my shoulders.’

  He bent low and the girl clambered on him, then he straightened with her on his shoulders. Wasting no time, she pushed the ceiling tile upwards and it came loose. Callie moved it to one side and reached in. ‘I can’t feel it,’ she said. ‘It’s not there.’ She sounded panicked.

  She looked down at him then. ‘Move me,’ she demanded and he walked in the direction she indicated so she could reach another tile, which she pushed upwards before scrabbling around beyond it once more.

  Bradshaw knew Dean would be there any moment and he didn’t want the carer to find him standing in the wrong room with a young girl on his shoulders. ‘Got it?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she hissed back, ‘over there.’ She replaced the second tile and waved an arm once more so he could steer her to the opposite corner and another ceiling tile which she pushed up. ‘It’s not …’ She didn’t need to finish. She clearly couldn’t find the photograph. Not for the first time, Bradshaw wondered if she had made the whole thing up. Even if she wasn’t lying about the existence of the photograph, it wasn’t here now. Someone had taken it. Diane maybe, or perhaps someone else had found the incriminating evidence and destroyed it. He could hear Dean’s footsteps coming closer.

  ‘Take me back there,’ she demanded and he realised she wanted to try the first ceiling tile again. His first instinct was to say no, particularly when he heard Dean’s footsteps draw even closer.

  ‘Be quick then,’ he whispered and he let her have one last go at the opening behind the first tile.

  There was a knock at a door then and Callie was still scrabbling around above him.

  A second knock, firmer this time.

  He was about to let her down when she said, ‘Got it.’ It must have been pushed too far back for her to reach at first.

  A door opened then and Callie was still on his shoulders.

  She withdrew an envelope and he l
owered her to the ground as swiftly as he could without dropping her.

  ‘Callie?’ Dean’s voice, close by but muffled by a wall and sounding confused. ‘What are you up to? Where are you?’ Dean was in the wrong room. Naturally he had walked into Callie’s room, not Diane’s, and this had given them precious seconds to retrieve the photograph. ‘Detective?’ shouted Dean. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Just a moment,’ called Bradshaw as Callie straightened her clothing then he noticed something. ‘The bloody tile,’ he told Callie desperately when he realised she hadn’t put it back properly and there was a noticeable gap in the ceiling.

  ‘Shit,’ she hissed.

  ‘With no time to put her on his shoulders, he grabbed Callie round the waist and hoisted her into the air like a ballerina. She stretched out an arm, pushed up the tile then let it fall back snugly into place. Bradshaw dropped Callie back onto her feet just as the door opened.

  ‘What is it now, Mr Anderton?’ asked Bradshaw irritably. Then he realised Callie had dropped the envelope on the bed when she replaced the tile and it was still sitting there. He prayed Dean wouldn’t notice.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ demanded Dean. ‘You can’t just walk into another girl’s room like this.’

  ‘I can if I have reason to believe a crime has been committed,’ Bradshaw told him. ‘Don’t think for one moment that Callie is the only girl involved in this.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ sneered Callie. ‘I told you I ain’t done nothing.’

  ‘Callie,’ warned Dean.

  ‘Right that’s it,’ Bradshaw said, as if his patience had finally deserted him. ‘Callie McQuire, I am arresting you on suspicion of theft.’

  ‘What?’ she cried in protest, playing her part. ‘You can’t do that!’

  ‘No,’ said Dean, ‘you can’t.’ He seemed very sure of that all of a sudden, which troubled Bradshaw.

  ‘And why not?’ the detective demanded.

  ‘Because I phoned Northumbria Police and they have no record of a detective Ian Bradshaw.’ He eyed Bradshaw contemptuously.

  ‘Well they wouldn’t, Mr Anderton. I’m with Durham Constabulary. Did I not make that clear to you? Do you wish to see my ID again?’ He took out his warrant card and pressed it close to Dean’s face. ‘Now is that all, or perhaps you’d like to come along as well to assist me with my enquiries?’

  ‘No,’ said Dean in a very small voice.

  ‘Okay then,’ he turned back to the girl, ‘let’s get this over with, Callie.’

  ‘This is a fucking joke!’ shouted Callie. ‘You can’t do this. You’ve no right!’

  ‘I have every right, now move it!’ He guided them both towards the door, ensuring Dean went through it first and, as he did so, he used Callie’s exit to scoop up the photograph and tuck it under his jacket before leaving, then he marched her off down the corridor.

  As they left the building, Bradshaw made a point of holding on to her arm and steering her towards the back seat of his car. He opened the door then pressed down on her shoulder, so it looked as if she was being coerced into the vehicle. He climbed into the front seat, then started the engine. Bradshaw glanced back at the care home and saw that Dean, as he expected, was watching from a window.

  ‘Oscar winner or what?’ asked Carrie exuberantly.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We totally fooled Freak Boy. Good, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Exceptional,’ he told her as he drove away.

  He bought Callie a can of Coke and some crisps then took her to the interview room. He didn’t tell any of his colleagues why she was there. He let her eat the crisps while they waited for Helen and Tom to arrive. Once she was settled, he picked up the envelope and withdrew the photograph and looked at it.

  When Callie finally spoke, he almost started, for he had forgotten she was in the room with him by then. ‘Told you,’ she said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you did,’ and he slid the photo back into the envelope. ‘Do you have any other photographs?’ asked Bradshaw, not that he needed further proof.

  Callie rummaged eagerly in her bag and handed him a yellow envelope with a Kodak logo on it. She must have misunderstood him. When he opened the envelope, all that was revealed was a handful of snaps featuring Callie goofing around in town; sometimes on her own, but on occasions with another girl. Bradshaw didn’t bother to tell her he meant other photos of the Councillor. She was watching him intently so he skimmed through them dutifully, taking the time to look at each one. If you didn’t know anything about Callie’s life or what she had been through you might have imagined she was a normal fifteen-year-old girl hanging out with ordinary friends just like thousands of others her age, but Bradshaw knew she had already been abused by countless men. It was heartbreaking.

  ‘This your friend?’ he asked as he came upon a photograph of the two girls sitting on a wall together and laughing.

  ‘That’s me and Di.’

  A thought struck him then. ‘When did Diane disappear?’

  ‘She didn’t disappear,’ and he regretted using the word, ‘I get cards from her.’

  ‘Cards?’ He recalled Tom mentioning something about this.

  ‘Postcards,’ she said, ‘from London.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘so when did you last see her?’

  ‘The day before she left.’

  ‘Did she tell you she was going to leave?’

  ‘She told me loads of times she was going to London.’ Callie was evasive. ‘I’m going too, when I’m sixteen.’

  ‘But did she tell you she was about to leave that day?’

  Callie hesitated for a moment. ‘No,’ she said and he could tell this admission hurt her for she would have expected Diane to confide her plans to her best friend. ‘As soon as she had the chance to get away from Freak Boy she went. She had to go when she could.’ Callie was defending her friend’s actions but he suspected she was also justifying them in her own eyes. ‘That’s why she sends me the postcards,’ Callie said, ‘so I know she’s okay and she’s waiting for me. As soon as she tells me where to meet her, I’m gone, out of there.’

  ‘And when exactly did she leave?’

  ‘I don’t know the date,’ she said, ‘but it was a Friday. I remember that.’

  ‘How many months ago,’ he asked in as calm a voice as he could manage, ‘would you say, roughly?’ He shrugged as if it was no big thing.

  ‘Five?’ she offered. ‘Six maybe.’

  There was no trace of anxiety, for Callie knew her friend was safe; she’d had the postcards, but the time frame she now described forced Bradshaw to take a long hard look at one of the photographs of Callie and Diane. He zeroed in on it and had to force himself to mask his emotions then. What he was looking at still wasn’t entirely clear however.

  Bradshaw took a moment to compose himself. ‘There’s something I need to ask you, Callie,’ he said carefully, trying to make this sound as routine as possible. ‘It might help us to find your friend when all of this is over.’

  She nodded her understanding.

  ‘Does Diane have a tattoo at all,’ he pointed to his own neck, ‘just here?’ He traced the spot where the tattoo would have been if it hadn’t been scorched from the skin of the burned girl.

  ‘Yeah, she does,’ said Callie, ‘she’s got a tattoo of a little blue bird,’ and she smiled at the memory at first but then she regarded him oddly. ‘How’d you know that?’

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Bradshaw walked to his desk very slowly. The look on his face was enough to attract interest from several of his colleagues. Even DC Malone asked, ‘You alright, Ian?’ but he didn’t reply. He didn’t even hear her.

  He was about to sit down when a familiar voice called his name: ‘Bradshaw! Get in here,’ and he looked up into the unsmiling face of his boss. DI Tennant did not look happy but, unlike Malone and the rest of Ian’s colleagues, she was too angry to notice the almost robotic way Bradshaw moved from his desk to her office.
/>   ‘Ma’am …’ Bradshaw began listlessly but she cut him off before he could continue.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re playing at …’ Tennant told him ‘… but I’m not putting up with it any longer.’

  Bradshaw failed to comprehend her meaning but for once he wasn’t unduly concerned about his boss’s opinion of him. He was preoccupied with thoughts of the young girl in the interview room and how he was going to find the words to break the news to her that her best friend was dead. DI Tennant’s foul mood was of minimal concern.

  ‘Ma’am?’ he offered again but he had to make a conscious effort to concentrate on the conversation because he was in danger of zoning out.

  ‘This charade you are conducting with DCI Kane …’ she began.

  ‘Oh,’ Bradshaw said, ‘that,’ because it really didn’t seem remotely important any more.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that!’ Kate Tennant couldn’t understand why he was being so calm. She had known they were up to something ever since Kane asked Bradshaw to drive him home. Her suspicions were intensified by the ludicrous mentoring programme Kane had signed Bradshaw up to; as if the older man even knew the meaning of the word. ‘At least you’re not denying it …’ She launched into a lecture about Bradshaw having the bloody nerve to ignore the chain of command, spy on her, go behind her back and undermine her authority all at the same time. When Bradshaw failed to respond to this she asked him outright what he had been up to and whether he had anything to say for himself.

  ‘Up to?’ he asked dumbly.

  Bloody hell,’ she hissed through gritted teeth, ‘I’m trying to give you a bollocking here, Bradshaw, and you’re just standing there like a spare prick at a wedding. You don’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. What have you been doing for fuck’s sake?’

  ‘Following a new line of enquiry,’ he told her blandly.

  ‘What?’ she asked and she looked as if she was about to completely lose it. ‘Is that all you have to say for yourself?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said simply, ‘and I know who the burned girl is.’

  DI Tennant didn’t quite hear him at first. Her mouth was already open as she had been about to administer an arse-kicking of immense proportions in which trust, honesty, integrity and professionalism would have played a major part. ‘What did you just say?’ she asked him instead.