Behind Dead Eyes (DC Ian Bradshaw #2) - Howard Linskey Page 0,24
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.
‘A little,’ she said though in truth it hurt like hell. As well as the sting of the cloth against broken skin, she could feel her whole knee beginning to stiffen as it swelled.
‘Who the hell were they?’ Graham was gently attempting to clean her knee without hurting her and although it felt strange to be sitting alone in the darkened newsroom with her editor while he sat on the floor and tended to her like this, his concern was touching.
‘A couple of morons,’ she said dismissively. Although it was tempting to tell him the truth; that they had been sent to warn her off, she couldn’t afford to be sidelined by a well-meaning editor trying to protect her.
‘What did they say to you?’ He looked up as he asked this.
‘Nothing but abuse,’ she told him. ‘I’d rather not repeat all of the words, if you don’t mind.’
‘So you’d never seen them before?’
‘Never,’ she replied honestly.
‘And they didn’t know you,’ he said it almost to himself and she decided to treat the question as if it didn’t need an answer, ‘so I guess you were just unlucky.’ And then he got to his feet. ‘All clean,’ he said. ‘We should call the police now.’
‘Oh no, really, let’s not,’ she urged him. ‘What’s the point?’ she had already lied to her editor by omission and didn’t want to compound the sin by misleading the police as well. ‘It was dark and I could barely describe them. The last thing I need right now is a few fruitless hours down the police station.’
At first it looked as if he was about to argue the point. ‘I’m fine,’ she said firmly, ‘really.’
‘Okay,’ he said uncertainly, ‘if you’re sure?’
Helen got to her feet then and instantly regretted it, crying out in pain. He grabbed her as her knee gave way and helped her stand straight again. ‘I’m alright,’ she said but he did not let go of her arm. Instead he steered her to the door, supporting her as they went. ‘I’ll drive you home,’ he said. ‘Your car will be fine here overnight and I’ll pick you up again in the morning.’
‘That will set tongues wagging,’ she told him.
‘I don’t mind if you don’t.’
‘I don’t,’ she told him.
Chapter Ten
As he drove into the prison, Tom Carney knew deep down he was kidding himself. This was a one-off job, he had reasoned, which would probably only last for a week or two but it didn’t mean he was back in journalism and he certainly wouldn’t be writing another book. Financially, it made sense at a time when he desperately needed an injection of cash and he absolutely wasn’t giving up on the house renovation. Perhaps now he would be able to afford to get someone in to help him finish some of the trickier jobs.
The one thing he didn’t admit was the truth. Tom was experiencing something he had not felt for some time: a surge of excitement. He was intrigued by the Rebecca Holt case. Tom was convinced there were secrets here, and he wanted to be the one to uncover them.
‘What do you think of me, Tom?’ Richard Bell asked abruptly as soon as they were seated in the visiting room. ‘Be honest.’
‘Think of you?’
‘I’m sure you’ve done your homework and we spent time together. What impression did you form of me?’
‘I’m not sure, yet.’
‘Do I look like a murderer?’ Bell probed.
‘Very few people look like murderers.’
‘Strike that then. Do you think I am a murderer?’
‘I honestly don’t know, Richard.’
Perhaps he had hoped for more. ‘Well, at least we are on first-name terms.’
‘You are capable of violence though,’ Tom reminded him.
‘I was attacked,’ Bell protested. ‘It was self-defence.’
‘I don’t mean in here. I’m talking about the ex-girlfriend.’
‘That was years ago. Christ, we were kids.’
‘You were twenty.’
‘Don’t you remember what it was like to be that age?’
‘I never punched a woman.’
‘It was a slap,’ Bell replied, ‘not a punch, and I’m not proud of it either way.’