Free Behind Dead Eyes by Howard Linskey

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 was a form of prejudice to be immediately distrustful of young people but she couldn’t help wondering if they were there to break into cars. She kept her eye on them both as they drew nearer but avoided directly crossing their path. Thankfully they showed no interest in her, staring straight ahead as they swaggered up the centre of the car park.
    Helen was glad of this. More often than not, when she encountered youths like these two they felt the need to verbally abuse her. Young women were routinely heckled on the street in a way men rarely encountered and seldom understood; receiving judgemental comments about looks, figure or dress. Helen had been called a slut and a whore then, in the same breath, a frigid bitch for ignoring the abuse she was receiving. She wasn’t sure how she could be both of those things.
    So why wasn’t she grateful that these two rough-looking young men were ignoring her?
    Because something didn’t seem right.
    Despite her suspicions, she wasn’t expecting what happened next. As they drew alongside Helen, the furthest from her suddenly nudged his friend hard with his shoulder, which sent the other man stumbling towards her at speed. It was a deliberate act and his friend used the shoulder barge as an excuse to collide with Helen, knocking her