Behind Dead Eyes (DC Ian Bradshaw #2) - Howard Linskey Page 0,33

‘Get out.’

Tom gave her his best disarming smile then left.

‘I think you should know,’ the old man warned him, ‘that I called the police.’ He took a step back when Bradshaw turned to face him, as if to avoid an imaginary blow from the man standing on his neighbour’s driveway.

‘I am the bloody police,’ Bradshaw told the wiry old man behind the hedge that lay between them. He produced his warrant card and showed it to Tom Carney’s neighbour.

‘Oh,’ he flushed, ‘well, how was I supposed to know you weren’t a burglar?’

‘Do you know the owner of this house?’ asked Bradshaw.

‘Yes. Well, no, not really. I don’t know him but I’ve seen him about,’ the old man said.

‘Is he around, usually, I mean?’ asked the detective.

‘Most of the time. He’s doing the place up, always coming and going with one thing or another: planks of wood, pots of paint.’

‘Do you reckon he’ll be back soon?’

‘More than likely,’ said the man. ‘Is he in trouble then?’

‘Not at all,’ said Bradshaw, ‘he’s just assisting us with our enquiries.’ Which had been true once, though not for a while.

‘Well,’ said the old man with foreboding, ‘you always say that don’t you, right before you slap the cuffs on.’ He walked back inside his house and Bradshaw heard him lock and bolt the door then slide the chain across.

Bradshaw walked back along the driveway towards his car. When he was halfway down, two uniformed officers he vaguely recognised suddenly appeared at the other end of the driveway and began to walk towards him. They stopped when they realised who he was.

‘You beat us to it,’ the young one said.

‘We had a call,’ his older colleague explained, ‘a sighting of, quote, “a highly suspicious-looking person who is very probably up to no good”, unquote.’

‘That would be me,’ Bradshaw told them and he had to commend the old man on the accuracy of his description.

The charity golf day was about to commence as Helen arrived. The contestants, all well-heeled businessmen, were there as guests of Camfield Offshore. They had arrived at the annual event for an early tee-off and been rewarded with bacon rolls, coffee and fresh orange juice served by a bevy of teenage girls dressed in crisp white blouses and dark skirts with hair tied back in ponytails. Helen noticed there wasn’t a girl over twenty among them and each waitress was strikingly pretty. It seemed Camfield had very specific requirements about who could wait on their middle-aged, entirely male clientele.

The men filed out of the room towards the first tee but Helen’s quarry was not among them. A well-built man in a dark suit approached her. ‘Can I help you, miss?’ he said in a tone that made it clear he was not interested in helping her at all. The absence of a white blouse and ponytail had been a giveaway, she realised, and she was past the retirement age for a Camfield waitress.

‘I’m looking for Alan Camfield.’

‘And you are?’

‘Helen Norton from the Record,’ she explained, ‘the newspaper.’

The man took out a notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket, made a note of something, presumably Helen’s name and employer, then smiled mockingly at her.

‘I’m not working undercover,’ she explained, ‘I’m here legitimately to speak to Alan Camfield in my capacity as a journalist.’

‘Mr Camfield rarely grants interviews but if you would like the opportunity to write a profile on him you can submit a written request to our press office,’ he told her.

‘I’m not interested in a profile piece.’

‘You’d rather harass him at a charity event.’

‘Oh it’s a charity event, so why did he invite a gangster?’ she asked. ‘Unless you’re going to tell me that wasn’t Jimmy McCree I saw in the car park, getting out of a big black BMW.’

‘Right, that’s it, Miss Norton,’ and he grabbed her by the arm. ‘I asked you nicely to leave and you refused to comply, so I’m escorting you from the premises.’ He started to tug her by the arm towards the entrance.

‘Get off me,’ she demanded but he didn’t break stride. ‘You didn’t ask me to leave …’

‘Then I’m asking you now.’

‘You can’t do this,’ she told him, ‘you’re hurting my arm. This is assault.’

‘Is it?’ He could not have sounded less interested. ‘Mr Camfield has hired the whole course for the day. This is private property and you are trespassing at an invitation-only event.’ He’d already marched her out through the main door and was pulling her across the gravel driveway