‘What? She’s some fucked-up druggie who does tricks to get her next hit? Is that it?’
‘You know it’s fucking not!’ Brady fired back.
‘For fuck’s sake, Jack! What do you want from me? What’s got you so wound up you barge in here after how long? Eh? How long has it been? You haven’t given a shit about what was happening in my life until now. Are you here as Jack, or are you here as DI Brady?’
Brady turned away.
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘I have never once come here as a copper. Never,’ Brady said, looking Madley in the eye.
‘So what the fuck are you doing barging into my office? Eh?’
‘I told you. I needed to talk to you about Trina McGuire,’ answered Brady.
‘Then why don’t I believe you?’
Brady looked at Madley. He tried to hide the hurt he felt but knew that his eyes would betray him. He dragged a hand through his hair to compose himself.
‘You walk in pretending that this is something to do with some screwed-up prossie, when in fact you’re trying to poke your nose in my affairs. What have you heard, Jack? Who’s been talking to you, because I’d like to put them straight.’ Madley’s voice was calm, controlled again, without the hard North-East inflection.
‘Nothing . . . I’ve heard nothing on you.’
Madley stared at Brady, weighing him up. There was menace in his eyes. Something Brady had rarely seen directed at him.
For some reason Madley backed down. Maybe because Brady couldn’t hide the hurt he felt at Madley’s accusations. He sank back against the wall, exhausted, and waited for Madley to talk.
He knew from Madley’s defensiveness that he’d already been informed about Trina McGuire. Brady had no idea who could have told him.
Unless . . .
Brady didn’t want to think about that – not yet.
‘Does Nick know?’ Madley asked, the coldness gone from his voice.
Brady shook his head. ‘I can’t get hold of him.’
‘Why does that not surprise me?’
Brady looked at Madley. He knew that Madley would never trust Nick again; not after what Nick had done to him.
‘How did you know about Trina?’ Brady asked.
‘Contacts, Jack. It’s all about looking out for one another. You should know that better than anyone.’
Brady didn’t answer. He knew it was a direct reference to Nick.
‘So explain to me why you think I would have answers about who did this to Trina?’
Brady shrugged.
‘I know you better than you know yourself. You’re hiding something.’
‘Let’s just say I have a bad feeling that this was aimed at Nick,’ Brady answered.
Madley thought about it.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ Brady said.
Madley nodded, accepting that as a copper there were things that Brady couldn’t disclose.
‘Who do you think would know that Trina was Nick’s girlfriend before he left the North-East?’ Brady asked.
‘Christ, Jack! How many years ago was that? Fuck knows! Depends who has a score to settle with him, doesn’t it? Money can buy you any kind of information as you well know.’
‘Will you ask around for me?’ Brady knew he was asking a lot from Madley; more so given that he hadn’t been to see him for months. Madley’s anger at Nick had been directed at Brady too, which had resulted in him keeping his distance.
Madley gave a non-committal shrug. ‘I’ll see what I can do. In return I don’t want to see your face here again. Understand? It’s bad for business.’
Brady looked Madley in the eye. He was searching for some kind of reassurance that their friendship, which had lasted over thirty years and survived their polarised lifestyles, hadn’t run its course. Perhaps having a copper as a friend was too much of a liability for Madley. Maybe it had always been inevitable and they had been fooling themselves that it could continue. Or Nick’s betrayal had been too much for Madley to swallow.
Brady respected Madley’s wishes. There was nothing more to say. He turned to leave, not wanting Madley to see the pain in his eyes.
‘Jack? Remember, Nick’s pissed off a lot of people. Including Johnny Slaughter. From what I’ve heard he’s still after him. And then there’s those bastards he got caught up with—’
Without turning back, Brady muttered: ‘Thanks.’
He could have forewarned Madley about the card for his nightclub the Blue Lagoon that Forensics had found. But he didn’t. Brady had never crossed the line and passed on information to Madley. He was worried that Madley was in trouble. That someone was setting him up, but Brady was powerless to say anything. He knew that DI Bentley would do a good enough job of informing Madley. It seemed they were both playing their cards close to their chests. Brady was under no illusions – Madley knew a hell of a lot more than he was admitting. He had known him long enough to know when he was lying. The question was, why?
Chapter Eleven
Brady returned to the station. He was in a foul mood. His run-in with Madley had affected him more than he wanted to admit. That and the fact that he still couldn’t get hold of Nick. His conversation with Madley had made Brady realise he had no one he could really depend on. Not any more. He rarely talked to Nick, let alone got the chance to see him in person. But Madley had always been there for him. Someone who really knew him, like Nick. Understood his background. And now? Brady thought of Trina McGuire – a drug-addicted prostitute who had once been the most beautiful girl to walk the streets of North Shields. She’d been filled with the promise and optimism of youth, only to have her naivety literally knocked out of her. Life could be shit depending on the streets where you grew up. It was a postcode lottery. Trina was a fine example of that.
Brady sighed heavily. He needed to get his head together. He had more pressing things to worry about, including trying to make some headway with the serial rape investigation that had developed into a ‘runner’. Not good for his career, team morale, or the hundreds of young women who should have the freedom to go out drinking in Whitley Bay at the weekend without worrying about some twisted, sadistic rapist on the loose.
He got out of the car and slammed the door. He took a deep breath before walking over to the station. The air was thick and heavy with a sea fret. He could literally taste the sea salt in the air. He climbed the steps, avoiding the dog-piss-covered ramp that DCI Gates had built as part of his new PC policy. It was his way of showing the public that Whitley Bay police station did not discriminate against the disabled criminal. Not that it had ever been used as intended – yet. But Brady was certain that with the draconian cuts the current government was making to disability benefits, the ramp might end up being useful. Slashing benefits to those in dire need could result in people turning to crime just to survive. And he wasn’t talking about the second and third generations who knew nothing but a life on benefits, he was talking about the most disadvantaged in society being easy government targets. Unfortunately, it would be the police force with its ever-decreasing budget that would have to pick up the tab for the government’s solution to the country’s debt.
Brady opened the heavy wooden double doors that led into the station. The smell of stale urine from too many drunken louts dragged in to sleep it off in the cells hit him. Nora, the station’s cleaner, did her best but it was an uphill battle. The old Victorian green-tiled corridor had seen better days, as had the building, which was decrepit with flaking walls and maze-like corridors. But Brady wouldn’t have it any other way. Even the out dated basement cafeteria with its cracked sixties red laminated tables and wrought-iron bars on the windows had an allure for him. The place was reassuringly familiar; not surprising given how many hours of his life he had spent there.
Particularly after his marriage to Claudia had broken down. Brady had sought solace in his work. Even the rumours that had done the rounds about his alleged affair with S
imone Henderson, the cause of his failed marriage, didn’t stop him from working extreme hours in a bid to avoid facing his wrecked home life. He couldn’t even count the number of dark, lonely nights he had spent in his office drowning in a bottle of scotch, unable to go back to an empty house. That period in his life was a blur now. At the time it had been a drunken blur, which was why he could barely remember any of it.
Brady dismissed thoughts of the car wreck his life had been back then. That was over twelve months ago. He was trying to get his life back on track. He had had no choice after news had filtered through to him that Claudia and her boyfriend, DCI James Davidson, had moved in together. Not that it should have surprised him. They’d been together for over six months. They co-headed a groundbreaking new Human Trafficking Centre in Newcastle that equalled Sheffield’s. And now they lived together. It had been Tom Harvey, a long-standing friend and colleague, who had delivered the news in his usual blunt, insensitive way. Brady had not reacted to the blow. But it had taken everything in his power to act nonchalant. It was only when he was alone that he allowed the news to sink in.
DCI Davidson was everything that Brady hated. He was a tall, muscle-bound, ex-military Ross Kemp lookalike who had swaggered into the Armed Response Unit on the back of his hands-on combat experience in Iraq and Afghanistan. He was good looking in a macho, arrogant kind of way, with an arsenal of war stories that mere mortal men would kill for. Not that Brady could take that away from him. The man had balls and plenty of them. Anyone who risked their life in a war against fundamentalist insurgents, who used dirty guerrilla tactics, was a hero in Brady’s books.
However, Brady’s problem with Davidson was down to one simple fact: he was a self-confessed player with a reputation that a dog would be ashamed to own. Not that Brady could talk, but the last thing he wanted was Claudia being played.
Brady breathed in deeply as he prepared himself for what lay ahead. Given the morning he’d already experienced, his expectations for the rest of the day were low.
He pushed open the second set of doors to be greeted by the desk sergeant on duty, Charlie Turner. He was a short, rotund, balding man who looked as if he should have been forced to retire years ago. However, despite appearances, Turner was still a few years off retirement. The desk sergeant raised his unruly, spidery white eyebrows at Brady. It made no difference. Brady still couldn’t make out the small, dark brown eyes hidden by Turner’s sagging, heavily creased eyelids. But the act was enough to know that Turner, in his own paternalistic way, was warning Brady that something was wrong.
‘Well, well, bonny lad! What have you done to get Gates so fired up, eh?’
Brady feigned surprise. ‘I’m still breathing?’ he answered with a wry smile.
‘Better watch yourself, Jack. I’m being serious. Gates is livid. Conrad’s been getting it in the neck. So God knows what he’s got in store for you given the fact that that poor sod has just returned to work!’
‘I’m sure after what Conrad’s been through he can handle getting a bollocking from Gates.’
‘Bloody hell! Why do you take such delight in winding Gates up? You know if he had his way you’d have been demoted to the streets of Blyth years ago,’ Turner said, wizened, craggy face scowling at Brady.
‘Who have you been talking to, Charlie?’ It was a line Brady knew off by heart. It was one of Gates’s popular threats when Brady pissed him off – which was often. But how Turner knew it was beyond him.
‘I may be getting old but some people don’t realise I still have my wits about me. I overheard Gates discussing your latest antics with O’Donnell earlier.’
‘Is O’Donnell still here?’ Brady asked, taken aback. He realised it must be serious for the Detective Chief Superintendent to have paid a visit to Whitley Bay police station.
‘No, you just missed him. Maybe it’s a good thing. He didn’t look best pleased when he left.’
‘Shit!’ Brady muttered. He didn’t like the idea that Conrad had got it in the neck because of him as much as he didn’t like the thought of Gates running him down to O’Donnell.
He was aware that turning up at Rake Lane hospital and visiting a victim of a crime that he hadn’t been assigned to investigate was not such a good idea. Not to mention his unauthorised visit to the crime scene afterwards.
‘Thanks, Charlie. I owe you one,’ Brady said. He needed to get hold of Conrad before Gates realised he was back in the station. The last thing he wanted was to be hauled into Gates’s office without an update from Conrad of what had been reported against Brady – if anything.
‘You owe me more than one, bonny lad,’ corrected Turner.
‘Yeah . . . yeah,’ Brady replied, walking away.
‘You’ll miss me when I’m gone, Jack Brady!’
‘If you’re right, looks like I’ll be going long before you retire,’ Brady called back light-heartedly before taking the stairs.
It was unfortunate timing. He ran straight into DCI Gates. He soon lost his jocular mood. The look on his boss’s face was enough to tell him he was not impressed with Brady’s attitude.
‘My office. Now!’ ordered Gates.
‘Sir?’ Brady asked. It was a precarious move, but before he went in front of Gates’s firing squad he wanted to know exactly what he was being shot for. He needed to be certain it was connected to DI Bentley’s case and not some other monumental ‘fuck up’ he had no idea about.
Gates was roughly Brady’s height and build, but right now he was using the advantage of being three steps up to tower over Brady. He was an imposing man at the best of times. He might have been ten years older than Brady but he was physically fitter, and he knew it. Everything about Gates was regimented and controlled.
‘Don’t try and be clever with me, Jack. You know exactly what this is about. My office, and I mean now!’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Brady, accepting that he was about to get bollocked.
Chapter Twelve
‘Sit,’ ordered Gates when Brady entered his office.
Brady closed Gates’s door, then did exactly as instructed. Now was not the time to push Gates. Brady may have been a lot of things but he wasn’t an idiot.
Gates kept his back to Brady as he stood looking out of his office window. Something he never did. The atypical behaviour told Brady he was in trouble. The question plaguing Brady was what kind of trouble? He kept his mouth shut and his head down while Gates collected himself.
‘Would you like to tell me what the fuck you’re playing at?’ Gates finally asked. He turned and looked at Brady. His eyes demanded an explanation.
Brady tried to think of a believable answer. He knew that he was in deeper trouble than he first anticipated. Gates rarely cursed. Which meant that when he did, something or someone had seriously angered him.
Gates sat down and waited. His intelligent eyes were filled with an unnerving coldness.
‘All right, since you don’t seem to understand my question, let me rephrase it for you. Why would you pay an unauthorised visit to one of DI Bentley’s victims?’
Brady started to clear his throat but Gates silenced him.
‘Do you know DI Bentley?’ Gates asked, his voice as chilling and damning as his eyes. Again, he made it quite clear he did not expect an answer. ‘No?’
‘I can explain, sir,’ Brady began, but Gates’s expression told him if he wanted to leave in one piece he better keep his mouth shut and take what was coming to him.
He did the only thing he could do in the circumstances; he inwardly readied himself for the verbal whipping that Gates was intent on unleashing.
‘So, explain to me why DI Bentley knows so much about you and your exact whereabouts this morning? Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but don’t you have your own investigation to deal with, let alone make some headway on? Or what? Is it that after two months of being in charge of your case you’ve decided you’ve had enough? Because from where I’m sitting you’re not exactly delivering, are you?’
B
rady sat perfectly still and waited for Gates to continue. He did his best to hold Gates’s scathing stare, but it was proving difficult. The problem was, there was some truth in what Gates had said. He was getting nowhere with the rape case, which had resulted in him taking desperate, unorthodox measures. He had gone along in good faith believing there was a chance that Trina McGuire had been attacked by the man he was trying to apprehend. Admittedly, he should have gone to Gates and asked for authorisation so as not to tread on anyone else’s toes – Bentley’s in particular.
Gates leaned forward on his desk. He narrowed his eyes slightly as he weighed Brady up.
‘I don’t like getting it in the neck from North Shields Area Command because of your reckless behaviour. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So, is Bentley’s case connected to our investigation?’
Brady took his time. He was absolutely certain that it wasn’t the same perpetrator who had attacked the three girls in Whitley Bay, but he was unsure whether Gates was trying to trip him up. That maybe he knew something that Brady should have known.
‘No, sir,’ Brady answered.
‘Why?’
‘Different MO.’
‘How?’ asked Gates, interested. ‘From what I’ve been told it’s exactly the same MO.’
Brady shook his head.
‘No, sir. Initially it sounds as if it is, but when you compare Chloe Winters’ injuries to this recent victim they’re very different.’
Gates nodded for Brady to elaborate.
‘Well, sir, whoever attacked Chloe Winters knew what they were doing. It was a skilled hand. The removal of her tattoo was an intricate business. He took his time. Last night’s attack was rushed. There was no thought or care taken when her skin was removed. If we get the photographs of her injuries we can make comparisons to Chloe Winters. I’m certain you’ll find that a different blade was used. Then there’s the breast fetish. He makes a point of focusing on his victims’ breasts. This isn’t the case with last night’s assault. Also, whoever attacked the victim last night seemed to know her. It was overkill. He couldn’t control his anger. The level of violence smacked of something personal. The problem we have is whether the victim will ever be able to tell us who did this to her. She’s in a really bad way.’
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