1976
‘I dare you to do it,’ she told him, ‘I double dare you.’
So it was a double dare and he couldn’t just ignore it.
‘Why should I?’
‘Because I double-dare you,’ she repeated, and there was no arguing with that. It was reason enough for a ten-year-old boy to do as he was asked. The fact she was a girl, and he didn’t want to look like a coward in front of her, clinched it. If he didn’t do this dare, she’d tell all the other girls and they’d flap their elbows like chickens and make clucking noises when he walked by. He couldn’t bear the thought of that.
But it was a very long way down.
Maybe she would tell the girls if he did do it, and then he’d be a bloody hero. That gave him courage and he took a step closer to the edge, but only a step. He was still a little way back from the perimeter fence, but he could see the great expanse of the old limestone quarry ahead of him. Most of the basin of the huge quarry was flooded, and nature had reclaimed it. Vegetation grew where once bare rock had been, while thick bushes thrived all around the flood water, from the bottom of the slopes until they hugged the steep sides of the quarry, which were covered in moss. Even trees grew out of the ledges here, before stretching upwards, as if trying to climb the cliffs of the quarry so they could haul themselves out and make a break for freedom.
The limestone had been hewn out years ago for building projects, and all that remained was a huge crater. Most of the stone became part of the new houses that widened the village of Maiden Hill on all sides during the boom years of the sixties. These two-up two-downs ringed the village like the circled wagons in a western.
The enormous hole that remained seemed to stretch for miles and miles, but he could still see the other end. It wasn’t how wide the crater was that was troubling him; it was how deep it looked. Every kid in the village was frightened of the quarry. They had all heard tales of children who had disappeared out here; swallowed up by the dark water at one end of the crater or dashed to pieces on the rocks at the other. Everyone knew that ghosts lived out here and bogeymen, and there was a grey lady too, who haunted the place after dark and could scare people to death with just one look. You were all right as long as you went in a group or with a friend, but if you came out here on your own those evil spirits would rush out at you and push you over the edge of the quarry just so they could watch you fall and listen while you screamed.
Every kid knew that.
The adults didn’t believe it, though. His mum had told him it was all nonsense. ‘Don’t you think I’d have read about it in the paper,’ she asked him, while she was baking in the kitchen, ‘if a kid had gone over the edge of that quarry? Don’t you reckon we’d have heard about it if someone was missing a child?’ And she laughed at his fears and offered him her wooden spoon to lick the cake mix from. Adults didn’t understand these things. They had forgotten what it was like to be a child; to believe in something because you just know it deep down to be true. They had to be told things by the TV or newspapers, but they were just stories as well, so how did they know they weren’t made up?
He knew the stories were real, so he couldn’t understand why the girl wasn’t scared, and this meant he couldn’t be frightened either. He wasn’t allowed to be more scared than a girl. That was another rule.
He hesitated now and looked at the gap in the wire.
‘I’ll go through the fence as well,’ she assured him, ‘just to watch you. I’m not doing it, but you can do it. I bet you can.’
He took his time thinking about it then gingerly edged further forward until he was able to stretch out his leg and push it through a gap in the fence. He wondered who had pulled at this first and how long it had taken them to worry away at it until they were able to bend the wire up and apart, forcing a hole in the fence that had been placed here to keep everyone away from the sheer drop that lay beyond it. He wondered how many other kids had gone through it, as he was about to. He had to hold on to the wire and lower himself virtually to the ground so he was almost on his back, then slide his feet through the gap first, his coat catching on the ragged wire until he managed to wriggle free.
Then he was through the gap and he stood up on the other side, a giddy, dizzying feeling sweeping over him, part excitement, part fear.
‘See,’ she said from behind the fence. ‘You did it, and there’s plenty of room.’
And there was.
Kind of.
He was standing on a plateau that jutted out into the bowl of the quarry’s giant crater but there was nothing now to protect him from a long fall on to sharp rocks. The fence had been placed around the quarry in a large, uneven circle. Most of the time, it went right to the edge, and there was nothing beyond the fence but a sheer drop. The crater wasn’t a perfect circle, though, so here and there slabs of land became imprisoned beyond the fence and jutted out into the quarry like jetties on a lake. The bit he was standing on was easily large enough for her to join him, and she wriggled through. On one side, tall, thick bushes created a natural barrier at the edge. The other side of the plateau was unprotected. He felt sick just standing there now. He knew if he were to close his eyes and take three steps he would fall over the edge, then be dead and gone for ever.
‘You’ve done it . . . almost!’ she said, but that wasn’t true. The really hard part, the bit she had double dared him to do, still remained. She wanted him to hold on to the wire fence from the inside and leave the relative safety of their rocky out-crop to make his way along the edge of the quarry, which had only a small, rutted bit of grassy land against it to keep him safe. He would have to plant his feet on a ledge that wasn’t much wider than his shoes while holding on for his life with splayed fingers that clutched the octagonal gaps in the wire as he went hand over hand.
He leaned forward again and looked at the ground far below. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, trying to sound calm. ‘What if I fall?’
‘You won’t fall. Freddie Andrews didn’t fall.’
‘Yeah, but he’s thirteen,’ he reminded her, ‘and his dad’s in prison.’ This meant Freddie had nothing to lose because his life was already horrible and it wasn’t ever going to get any better, not never. Freddie had scrambled around that edge from the inside like he didn’t care if he fell or not. He’d reached the other gap in the wire, which had to be at least twenty steps along the ledge, before you even knew it. Then he’d climbed out to cheers that must have been the highlight of his sad, young life.
‘Naah,’ he said. ‘I could do it . . .’ He wanted her to know he was capable of the act. ‘I just don’t want to.’
‘Go on!’ she urged him. She smiled then, and the smile seemed to come from deep within and something lit up inside him. That smile made him want to do anything she asked.
Anything.
There was a fire in her eyes when she said, ‘I triple dare you.’
Howard Linskey has worked as a barman, journalist, salesman and catering manager for a celebrity chef. Originally from Ferryhill in County Durham, Howard now lives in Hertfordshire with his wife and daughter.
HowardLinskey.com
@HowardLinskey
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No Name Lane
THE DAVID BLAKE SERIES
The Drop
The Damage
The Dead
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
India | New Zealand | South Africa
Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published 2016
Copyright © Howard Linskey, 2016
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover design © www.blacksheep-uk.com
Cover images: fence © Milennium Images; grass © Getty images; house and barbed wire © Shutterstock
ISBN: 978-0-718-18035-5
Letter Number Three
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Letter Number One
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Letter Number Two
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Acknowledgements
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For Erin & Alison
Perhaps you think I’m a monster. Is that it?
Maybe that’s why you’ve not been in touch. Have you read terrible things about me, Tom? Heard stories that disturbed you? None of them are true.
I’ve done bad things of course, who hasn’t? None of us are saints. Let’s not bother to pretend we are. I know the one thing you truly understand is human frailty, Tom. I’ve had to account for my actions and I’ve paid a very heavy penalty for my misdeeds but I can assure you I never killed anyone.
Did you believe the poison that drips from the pens of those so-called reporters? They’re not interested in the truth, none of them. They spend their lives wading through other people’s trash looking for dirt, turning over rocks to see what crawls out. And they have the nerve to call me names.
The Lady-killer.
What chance did they give me?
Please see me. I’d visit you but clearly they won’t allow that. If we were to meet face to face, I’m certain I could convince you I am not the man they say I am. If you can look me in the eye and actually believe I am capable of such savagery, then I promise I won’t blame you for leaving me here.
I think you are a truth-seeker, Tom, but you don’t seem to be at all interested in my truth. That’s disappointing.
You are my last and only chance, Tom Carney. Please DO NOT continue to ignore me.
Yours, in hope and expectation.
Richard Bell
Tom Carney was having a very bad day. Maybe it was the new kitchen cupboard doors and the way they refused to hang straight or the boiler going on the blink again or perhaps it was the letter from a convicted murderer.
No, it was definitely the boiler.
He hadn’t owned the house long but it seemed virtually every part of the offending boiler had failed and been replaced at great cost, only for another of its components to buckle under the strain and cease to function. He should have got a new boiler when he bought the creaking old pile but funds were short then and virtually non-existent today, so he’d opted for the false economy of replacing it bit by bit instead of wholesale. How he regretted that now, as he stood tapping the pipes with a wrench in an attempt to knock the ancient thing back into life. Tom exhaled, swore and surveyed the stone-cold water tank ruefully. It came to something when a personal letter from a man who had beaten someone to death with a hammer was the least of his concerns.
He went back downstairs and tried to phone the plumber again but the guy didn’t pick up. If events ran their usual course, Tom would have to leave several messages before the plumber eventually got back to him. He might then grudgingly offer to ‘fit him in’ towards the end of his working week. If Tom was really lucky, the bloke might even turn up on the actual day but he knew this was far from guaranteed.
Tom recorded a message then picked up the letter from the hall table. The words ‘FAO TOM CARNEY’ had been scrawled on the envelope in large block capitals with a marker pen, above an address handwritten in biro. It was disconcerting to realise one of the relatively few people who knew where Tom lived these days was a murderer.
For the attention of Tom Carney? Why not some other reporter? One who was actually still reporting, and not so disillusioned he’d turned his back on the whole bloody profession, to plough what was left of his money into renovating a crumbling money pit? This was the third letter he’d received from Richard Bell. Tom had read then studiously ignored the previous two, hoping one of the north-east’s most notorious killers would eventually tire of contacting him but, just like his victim, Tom had clearly underestimated the killer’s resolve.
Bell was a determined man, but was he a psychopath? He read the letter again, surveying the handwriting for evidence of derangement but this wasn’t some rambling, half-crazed diatribe, scrawled in crayon and inspired by demonic voices. It was angry, and there was an undeniable level of frustration at Tom’s failure to engage with him, but that was all. Having singled Tom out, Bell presumably felt the hurt of rejection. The handwriting was neat enough and it flowed evenly across the page. Tom couldn’t help wondering if this really was the same hand that brought a hammer crashing down repeatedly onto a defenceless woman’s skull until she lay dead in the front seat of her own car? A jury thought so and the judge had told Bell he was a monster. Tom remembered that much about a case that dominated the front pages for days a couple of years back. Was Richard Bell insane, or was he really an innocent man; the latest in a long line of miscarriages of justice in a British legal system discredited by one scandal after another?
Tom took the letter into his living room, if he could still accurately call it that with the carpet ripped up and tools scattered everywhere. He sat in the armchair and read it once more. Richard Bell’s message in all three of his letters was consistent and clear. He wasn’t mad and he wasn’t bad. He hadn’t killed his lover. Someone else had done that and he was still out there.
Detective Sergeant Ian Bradshaw stared at the woman’s face and wondered what she had looked like. Was she pretty once? He couldn’t tell from this photograph. No one could. Someone had done one hell of a job on her.
All of the woman’s teeth had been pulled out with pliers and the flesh on her face burnt with a strong acid; sulphuric most likely, of an amount sufficient to scorch away the lips, nose, eyelids and the flesh from her cheeks, leaving discoloured skin that looked like it was part of a melted waxworks dummy. In a final brutal act, the tops of her fingers had been snipped off with pliers to prevent the collection of prints.
Thankfully, these horrific injuries had all been inflicted post mortem. According to the report, the cause of death had been strangulation with a ligature of some kind. The victim would have had no knowledge of the gruesome things done to her to erase her identity. This might be some small comfort to her family but, since they would probably never be able to positively ID the body, tracing them seemed an unlikely prospect. In the absence of teeth, they’d had to resort to scientific analysis of the bones in order to put an approximate age to the corpse, which was estimated at somewhere between fifteen and nineteen years of age, according to the experts. This was all to do with the amount of cartilage present in the joints of the limbs, which transforms into bone as a body develops. The corpse was not yet fully matured, so they were attempting to identify a relatively young woman.
The body had been found three months ago, following a tip-off about illegal goings on at a scrapyard with suspected links to some of the region’s shadier ‘businessmen’. The officers who attended had hoped to find drugs or money, but figured they would more than likely have to settle for stolen goods or perhaps the discovery of a hot car awaiting the crushing machine. They didn’t expect to find a body. They certainly weren’t ready for one missing its face.
Predictably, the guy running the scrapyard swore he knew nothing about the body found at the back of his premises. The place was a vast out-of-town site with cars piled up all round it, so a heap of dead bodies could have been hidden in one of its messier corners without anyone spotting them. It didn’t stop them giving the guy a thorough going over.
He had no idea why anyone would dump a body at his scrapyard.
He had not been asked to dispose of it.
He had no clue as to its identity, nor did he ever hang out with known criminals.
Nobody believed him of course. Nathan Connor was a shifty and feckless loser with a minor-league criminal past, presumably granted custody of the yard for those very reasons. He would do as he was told without asking questions, but was he actually a killer? It seemed unlikely and, aside from the fact that he oversaw the yard where the body was dumped, there was nothing to link him to the murder.
Efforts to trace his employer proved frustrating. They were able to interview one other man who was described as the owner but under questioning from the police he couldn’t remember too much about the place. It wasn’t long before he was dismissed as a front man, whose name was on the door and ownership papers, with no actual involvement in the day-to-day running of the enterprise, which was ideal for laundering cash and ridding its real owners of awkward items like a body. The detectives gave up trying to get anything more out of either man and they were released on police bail. The threat of a lengthy prison sentence was not as frightening a prospect as grassing up whoever really owned that scrapyard.
Usually senior detectives in Durham Constabulary vied with one another for murder cases. They were rare in these parts and a successful conviction would be a feather in the cap that could ultimately lead to promotion. However, an unidentifiable victim meant the usual enthusiasm for a murder case was absent.
The Detective Superintendent placed responsibility for the case with DI Kate Tennant, a newly promoted outside-transfer who was the only female detective on the force with a rank higher than Detective Constable. She was also bright enough to realise she had been stitched up like a kipper. Nothing in those intervening months had altered Tennant’s view, even if she steadfastly maintained an outward conviction that her team, which included DS Bradshaw, would ultimately solve a case that saw them plodding through a seemingly endless number of box-ticking enquiries for more than three months, with nothing in the way of concrete leads.
How could they hope to solve this murder, Bradshaw wondered for the umpteenth time, if there were no witnesses, nothing from the usual public appeals, zero intelligence from sources in the criminal world and they could not even identify the victim?
‘What are you doing?’ he hadn’t noticed DC Malone’s approach until she was standing over his shoulder. He could tell she was perturbed to find him staring at images of the burned girl, as she had become known to them.
‘Looking at her photos.’ He deliberately included the word her.
‘Why are you looking at them?’ Bradshaw knew DC Malone thought he was just being ghoulish.
‘To remind myself,’ he said eventually as he stared at the blackened skin on the disfigured face, ‘that she used to be a person.’
You don’t know me, Tom, but I suspect you know my name. I’m infamous I suppose, ironically for something I did not do. I did not kill my lover and I think you can help me prove that.
Two years ago I was convicted of murdering Rebecca Holt; a woman I was seeing. We were both married, so when the police told me she had been beaten to death I panicked and said we were simply friends. I have deeply regretted that lie ever since – because it was used to discredit me. I lied about that, so I must have lied about everything else, or so the story goes.
There was no real evidence against me though. I was arrested by police officers too lazy to search for another suspect, prosecuted by a CPS who thought motive was everything, my name was blackened by journalists jealous of my success with women and I was convicted by a jury who wanted to punish me for my lifestyle.
I read your book, Death Knock, and was mightily impressed. You solved a sixty-year-old mystery that baffled everyone else and it gave me hope. I haven’t had much of that lately.
Visit me at HMP Durham. You’re only round the corner. Hardly anything of any real substance ended up in the newspapers and most of that wasn’t true. I can give you something no other writer has had: access to the truth. All I ask in return is that you keep an open mind.
Yours sincerely
Richard Bell
The radio was on but it always crackled inaudibly in Tom’s car, unless it was tuned to a particular local station that only played adult-oriented rock. As Tom drove, Foreigner were loudly pleading with him to explain what love was.
An upbeat jingle was followed by the affected transatlantic voice of the local DJ, who sounded part-Geordie-part-American as he read out a series of local events ‘coming your way this weekend’. Tom listened to a predictable weather forecast for autumn; cloudy and overcast, chilly with a strong likelihood of rain later then a traffic bulletin explained why he’d barely moved; road works in Durham city centre. It was the change of tone from the talk show host that captured his interest.
‘Our next guest is no stranger to this show,’ he announced solemnly. ‘Well-known in the region before he resigned as leader of Newcastle City Council earlier this year, Councillor Frank Jarvis has placed politics firmly on the back burner to undertake a very personal quest and he is here today to tell us all about it.’ The radio host paused. ‘Frank, a very warm welcome from everyone here and thanks so much for coming on.’
‘Thanks for having me, John.’
‘Would you like to tell us why you’re on the show?’
‘I’m looking for my daughter.’ The councillor spoke slowly, as if he was trying to control his emotions.
Tom may not have been a journalist any more but he still devoured the news and recalled reading something about the politician in Newcastle who was worried about his teenage daughter. He was aware of Frank Jarvis too. The man was something of a firebrand, with an old-fashioned opposition to big business and unrestrained urban development that set him aside from the modernists in his party.
‘Your daughter, Sandra?’ offered the talk show host gently, as if coaxing the details from his guest, ‘who is nineteen?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And she has been missing for some time now?’
‘Eight months,’ answered the politician flatly.
That didn’t sound good. If she had been missing for that long the very best you could say was that she really did not want to be found. The worst-case scenario wasn’t worth contemplating. Tom didn’t hold out much hope for poor Sandra or her father.
The radio host sighed in sympathy at the councillor’s plight. ‘That must be incredibly difficult for you and your family?’
‘It is,’ said Jarvis, ‘it has been a terrible time for my wife Elsie and I. I can’t tell you …’ He seemed to falter then and there was a silence for a moment. The dead air time seemed to stretch out and Tom found himself concentrating hard while he waited for the councillor to speak once more.
‘Take your time, Frank,’ his host told the former councillor but he was really urging him to say his piece.
‘I’m sorry.’ And Tom’s heart went out to the poor man. A politician lost for words? It would have been comical if it hadn’t been so tragic.
‘That’s absolutely fine, we all understand what you are going through right now,’ the host assured him. How could you, Tom wondered? ‘Perhaps you could begin by describing her.’
There was another pause while Jarvis attempted to find the words. ‘Sandra is five feet five inches tall with long blonde hair. When she was last seen she was wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt, with white trainers and a dark brown coat.’
‘Now why don’t you tell us, in your own words, what happened on the day she disappeared?’
‘My daughter told us she was going out with some friends,’ he began. ‘She was in her second term of her first year at Durham University and was home with us in Newcastle during reading week. We thought she was staying with a friend and were expecting her back the following night but she never came home.’ When he said that Tom could clearly detect the disbelief in his voice, even after all this time.
‘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.’
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 privatisation. 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 an 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’.
She had almost made it when another waiter stepped out in front of her, instantly blocking her escape, saying, ‘Excuse me, Miss,’ as he held up his hands.
‘It’s okay,’ she said quickly, ‘my money’s on the table but I have to go now.’ But the waiter must have taken his cue from the maître d’ and he refused to step out of her way. ‘Excuse me,’ she said firmly but he reached out a hand until it touched her arm, lightly at first, then his grip started to tighten. Helen was trapped.
‘Don’t touch me!’ she shouted instinctively at the waiter and all heads instantly turned towards them. ‘How dare you touch me like that!’ The waiter flushed, backing away quickly as if he’d just been slapped across the face. Seizing her opportunity, Helen marched for the door, but not without calling the single word ‘Disgusting!’ back over her shoulder.
She pushed the door open and bolted through it. As soon as Helen was out of the door, she ran. She moved quickly across the street without glancing back then rounded a corner before losing herself amongst a crowd of shoppers on the high street.
Were you alarmed by my correspondence, Tom? Was that it? There was a time when I might have been upset to receive a letter from a convicted murderer – and a famous one at that. I should probably have explained how I found you. It wasn’t difficult. People are easy enough to track down. You might want to be more careful in your line of work.
I don’t normally trust journalists but I think that you are different. I like your work. I believe you managed to crawl your way out of the gutter and I respect that. Are you ‘the repentant sinner’ the prison chaplain keeps telling us about, Tom? You might just be.