Behind Dead Eyes (DC Ian Bradshaw #2) - Howard Linskey Page 0,2

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.’

LETTER NUMBER ONE

* * *

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

Chapter Three

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