Behind Dead Eyes (DC Ian Bradshaw #2) - Howard Linskey Page 0,22

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