Blind Alley

by Danielle Ramsay

  ‘Conrad, did you get a copy of the taxi drivers working in the area? Both private and with companies?’

  ‘Most of them,’ answered Conrad. ‘Still got a few to chase up.’

  Brady nodded. ‘Hand over what you have so far to Kodovesky and Harvey. I need you with me when I interview Munroe.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered, mildly surprised.

  He’d been expecting Brady to choose Amelia. She seemed the obvious choice given her qualifications and background. But then, after their slight disagreement perhaps it wasn’t a good idea for her to be present while Brady interviewed the suspect.

  Brady turned to Kodovesky and Harvey. ‘I want you to bring Munroe in.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ Harvey replied as he pushed his chair back and stood up.

  Kodovesky quickly followed.

  Brady knew they’d been chomping at the bit from the moment Harvey had informed him of the suspect. They had found Munroe and it was their right to bring him in.

  ‘When you get back I’ll need the two of you to continue following up this lead about a silver taxi. Trina McGuire mentioned one pulling up shortly before she was attacked and then Chloe Winters made a statement last night saying something similar. What’s the connection? We need to talk to this taxi driver. For all we know he could have seen both offenders without even realising it. It’s crucial we track him down ASAP,’ Brady ordered. He refrained from telling the team that they had to find this taxi driver before DI Bentley. He knew it wouldn’t look professional.

  Brady turned back to Conrad. ‘Does Bentley’s team have footage of the car yet?’

  Conrad nodded. ‘From what I’ve gathered they have, sir. They’re analysing it now. As soon as I hear anything I’ll let you know.’

  Brady had a choice. He could request to see the CCTV footage himself. But then how would he explain his interest in their investigation? He had already blown Bentley off by stating in no uncertain terms that Brady’s investigation wasn’t connected to Trina McGuire’s attack.

  Brady decided to let it go. Bringing Jake Munroe in for questioning was the priority. Why was he worrying about a silver taxi in an unrelated case?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Brady looked Munroe straight in the eye. He was an ugly bastard all right, who was lacking not only in looks, but also in basic oral hygiene. Ugly on the inside and ugly on the outside.

  ‘Fuck you!’ He leered at Brady as if reading his mind.

  ‘Yeah? I bet you wish you could,’ Brady answered with a smile.

  ‘You sick fucking bastard!’ retaliated Munroe.

  ‘Not as sick as you though, Munroe,’ Brady said as he picked up the file in front of him. ‘Let’s have a look at your life shall we?’

  Munroe turned and faced the uniformed officer standing guard by the door.

  ‘Your DI’s a fucking wanker. You know that darling?’

  The young woman turned red. But she kept her eyes straight ahead, refusing to look at the suspect.

  ‘She’s not interested, Munroe. You’re too ugly for her and too stupid,’ Brady said.

  ‘Fuck you!’ Munroe spat. ‘Where’s the fucking copper who brought me in, eh? The one that’s all legs and tits? Now I wouldn’t mind being interrogated by her!’ Munroe laughed as he sat back and folded his arms.

  Brady resisted the urge to inform Munroe that if DC Kodovesky was interviewing him, his balls would have been nailed to the interview desk by now.

  ‘Conrad, please tell me this next hour isn’t going to be a repetition of the last thirty excruciating minutes, where the suspect uses the same profanity again and again? Tell me that he has a wider vocabulary than these two words?’

  Munroe’s response was to smile at Brady.

  Brady was aware that he was clearly enjoying wasting their time.

  ‘Do you recognise any of these young women?’ Brady asked as he pointed to the photographs laid out on the table in front of Munroe.

  The suspect bent his head down to have a look.

  Brady could clearly see the six-inch gnarled scar running across the centre of his shaven head. It looked as if someone had planted an axe in his skull. Brady assumed that Munroe, whose muscle-bound body, thick-knotted neck and ugly face were intimidating enough by themselves, no doubt shaved his head so the scar was permanently on show.

  Munroe raised his head and caught Brady’s eye.

  ‘Yeah, it’s something, ain’t it?’ Munroe acknowledged, running a large hand over the scar.

  As Munroe raised his hand to his head, Brady saw part of a tattoo on Munroe’s lower right arm.

  ‘What’s the tattoo?’ Brady asked.

  ‘Black panther coming down my arm. Beautiful piece. Bit like me, eh?’ Munroe said, laughing. He then proceeded to take his jacket off and to undo the cuff of his shirt to show Brady.

  It was an intricate piece of art. Only a highly skilled tattoo artist would be able to pull off the shading and textures used to create the effect of the black panther. Brady knew immediately who had done it.

  ‘Dan Ridgewell’s work?’

  Munroe looked at Brady, surprised he recognised the artist.

  ‘How do you know him?’ Munroe asked as he pulled his shirt sleeve down.

  ‘There’s only one tattoo artist in the entire North-East who could produce work of that quality.’

  Brady cast a glance at Conrad. They had already questioned Dan Ridgewell, about the possibility that one of his clients could be connected to the rapes, after Chloe Winters’ attack. After all, the rapist had removed the tattoo of a wolf’s head from her body. Her tattoo had been inked in the same, distinctive style – black and grey with subtle shading.

  ‘When did Dan do it?’ Brady asked, trying to be casual.

  ‘Oh, I dunno. Maybe two months ago?’ Munroe answered, shrugging.

  Brady silently did the maths. Two months ago was when Chloe Winters had gone to Fusion to get her tattoo. What was the possibility of Munroe waiting to get inked while Dan was working on Chloe Winters’ body? Given the intricacy of the art, both clients would have had to make at least three appointments with Dan Ridgewell to complete the tattoos.

  ‘So, do you recognise any of the young women here?’ Brady asked again, watching Munroe closely for a reaction.

  Brady pushed the photograph of Chloe Winters towards him and waited.

  Munroe raised his head and looked at Brady, refusing to look. He had been in the game too long and knew exactly what Brady was trying to do.

  ‘Nah, can’t say I do guv’nor,’ Munroe answered in a thick Cockney accent.

  For the brief second that Munroe looked at Chloe Winters’ face, Brady was certain he saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He knew that Munroe may have been ugly but he was far from stupid, regardless of what the pseudoscience, phrenology would have suggested. Developed by the German physician, Franz Joseph Gall in 1796, phrenology became popular in Britain in the nineteenth century. Munroe’s wide face, sloping forehead and beady black eyes fitted perfectly with the pseudoscience’s definition of stupid, untrustworthy, with a predisposition to criminal activities.

  ‘Pretty girls. Yeah I’d fuck them if they’re on offer. What are they? Tonight’s entertainment, lads, eh?’ Munroe asked, laughing at Brady and Conrad, still refusing to drop his eyes to look at them. ‘I’ve heard about you coppers. Bunch of dirty fuckers you lot. Who was the dirty bugger who asked for sexual favours from prossies in exchange for not banging them up? Worked here didn’t he? I read about it in the local rag. Go on, was it one of you lads? You—’ Munroe turned to Conrad. ‘Bet it was you. Bet you liked taking them up the fucking arse didn’t you? You look the sort. Believe me, I’ve met plenty of your kind! You look all civil and polite sat there in your expensive suit with your posh accent and that look in your eye that you can’t quite disguise. The look that says you’re better than me. Better than this—’ Munroe said grandly waving his arms around at the interview room.

  He suddenly leaned in
close to Conrad.

  ‘But I know you. Believe me; I can smell it on you. Have you told your boss? Does he know?’

  Conrad didn’t flinch. He didn’t move a muscle despite Munroe’s bad breath and ugly grin.

  Brady could tell that he was holding back. Conrad’s taut, clenched expression said it all. But Brady knew Conrad wouldn’t react. He was better than Munroe and he knew it. His problem was, it showed.

  ‘He hasn’t told you, has he?’ Munroe asked Brady, smiling. ‘Let’s do a trade, you and I. I don’t tell your boss about you and you let me go,’ he suggested.

  Again Conrad didn’t react.

  Munroe seemed to be enjoying this game at Conrad’s expense. Brady decided it was time to intervene.

  ‘The photographs, Munroe. Do you recognise any of them?’

  ‘Nah,’ Munroe said, now eyeballing Brady. ‘Why?’

  ‘You know why,’ Brady answered, his voice level.

  Munroe broke into a leer of a smile.

  ‘Yeah, but I want to hear what happened to those girls. You know, the ones you said had been raped and tortured? I like a good story. Just make sure you don’t skip the sex scenes.’

  Brady didn’t say a word.

  ‘Ah, but you didn’t tell me, did you guv’nor? But that’s why I’m here, ain’t it? I’m not stupid. I read about this shit in the papers. Were you going to surprise me and hope that I’d break down and confess? Well, fuck you!’

  Brady felt sickened by the candid look of pleasure on Munroe’s face. His smile was twisted and cruelly ugly. Fate had dealt him an unkind hand. One that it seemed Munroe had used to his own advantage. His smile was perhaps his most sinister aspect. It was intimidating – intentionally so – but there was also a coldness; a chilling coldness deep in his black eyes. They spoke of a darkness that made the hairs on Brady’s back stand up. It felt as if he was looking at a man who had sold his soul to the devil. However, Munroe, unlike Christopher Marlowe’s Dr Faustus, would not be dragged to hell screaming and fighting. He would be pushing Mephistopheles aside to get there first.

  Brady thought about Amelia’s objections regarding Munroe. He understood her problem with his age, but sitting where Brady was sitting, even she wouldn’t be able to ignore the smell of blood on Munroe’s hands and the naked, disturbing lust to hurt set deep in his eyes.

  Munroe suddenly swiped at the photographs, knocking them onto the floor.

  Neither Brady nor Conrad moved.

  ‘So, when you worked in London as a hired thug, or should I say bodyguard, who employed you?’ Brady asked.

  Munroe scowled at him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just making conversation,’ answered Brady.

  ‘John De Silvio. Why, what the fuck’s it got to do with you?’

  Brady immediately recognised the name. John De Silvio was an East End gangster otherwise known as Johnny Slaughter.

  ‘So, was it De Silvio who recommended you to Madley?’

  ‘Summat like that.’

  Suddenly there was an abrupt knock on the door.

  The young officer answered it.

  ‘Sir?’ she said as she turned back to Brady.

  Brady got up. He couldn’t help but notice the look of satisfaction on Munroe’s face.

  ‘About fucking time, too!’ Munroe complained as he crossed his burly arms. ‘You, what about you get me a cuppa, eh? You lot want to be treating me with some respect now my lawyer’s here.’

  Brady had no idea what was going on.

  ‘I’ll be back in five minutes to resume this interview,’ he said, nodding at Conrad. His eyes automatically glanced up at the camera in the corner of the ceiling, which was filming the interview.

  ‘Yeah? Is that when I get my fucking apology for wasting my time?’

  Brady simply turned and left the room.

  DCI Gates stood waiting in the corridor. The look on his harsh face told Brady it was bad news.

  ‘Can I have a word, Jack?’

  Before Brady had a chance to answer, Gates continued. ‘Martin Madley’s lawyer’s here. Seems that on the nights in question, Munroe was working for Madley.’

  ‘Can he prove it?’ Brady asked. He couldn’t believe it. Since when had Madley stuck his neck out for someone – let alone a hired thug like Munroe?

  Gates nodded. He looked as pissed off as Brady felt.

  ‘Surveillance tapes from the nights in question. On all three nights Munroe is seen on the Blue Lagoon’s security tapes locking up. He then helps out behind the bar cleaning up and knocks off at about four a.m.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’ Brady asked.

  But the expression on Gates’s face told him he was deadly serious.

  Brady dragged a hand back through his hair as he tried to digest the information.

  ‘No . . . no . . . I don’t believe it,’ he muttered, more to himself than his boss.

  ‘Believe it. I’ve just had to sit through Madley’s lawyer showing me the evidence. Unless Munroe has an identical twin, he physically couldn’t have committed those three rapes, Jack.’

  ‘They haven’t been rigged, have they?’ Brady asked. He knew Madley was capable of doing that. He had money, which meant he could employ the expertise capable of digitally altering times and dates on security tapes.

  ‘It’s been sent off to Jed to authenticate,’ Gates said.

  Brady felt like he’d been winded.

  ‘You thought he was responsible?’

  ‘All the evidence pointed that way. His job, his history of violence and sexual offences, two of which included rape and . . .’ Brady faltered as he shook his head. ‘He even matches the photofit.’

  ‘That’s not what Dr Jenkins has said,’ Gates stated.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ answered Brady.

  Gates waited, clearly wanting more.

  ‘Aside from being older, he fits every other aspect of Dr Jenkins’s profile, sir.’

  ‘Irrelevant now, if he has a watertight alibi, don’t you think?’ Gates pointed out.

  Brady kept quiet.

  ‘Sort this mess out, Jack. And fast. I don’t want any fallout. You understand? We’ve got the press crawling all over us as it is without you making us look incompetent. As soon as Jed authenticates the surveillance footage release him.’

  Before Brady could argue, Gates had already turned and started walking away.

  He stood for a moment trying to compose himself. He now had to go back and terminate the interview. Munroe would be entitled to have a private conversation with Madley’s lawyer, who so happened to be one of the best – and most expensive – in the North-East. But Brady could not get rid of his gut feeling about Munroe. There was something about him; it wasn’t just the look in his eye and his cocky, foul-mouthed attitude. It was something else, but Brady couldn’t put his finger on it. There was one thing he was certain about. Munroe was capable of murder – he had already proven he was capable of rape.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Brady had spent the entire day chasing his own tail – to no avail. The upshot was Munroe had been released without charge. They had nothing on him. The surveillance tapes had come back kosher. Brady had talked to Jed, who had stated categorically that they hadn’t been altered in any way. Brady had taken some persuasion, but Jed had indulged Brady’s refusal to accept it; counteracting every argument until he felt he had no choice but to hang up on him and get on with some ‘real’ work. Madley’s lawyer had also dropped the bombshell that on the three nights in question, Munroe had also driven Madley home after he’d locked up. Apparently both Gibbs and Weasel Face, Madley’s bodyguards and drivers, had been given those nights off. So, not only did Madley provide Munroe with surveillance footage as an alibi, he threw himself in for good measure.

  Brady didn’t buy it. But there was nothing he could do. Madley was protecting Munroe, that much was obvious. But why?

  He had rung Madley, of course. He wanted to know what was in it for him to risk everything for a hire
d thug with a history of sexual violence. Brady had never known Madley to willingly get involved with the police. He had too much to hide to want to attract attention to himself. But Madley had refused to take Brady’s calls. So he’d decided to pay the Blue Lagoon a visit. But the doors were locked and the place seemed conveniently deserted.

  Brady had then taken a detour to Fusion to talk to Dan Ridgewell. He wanted to check his records to see whether Chloe Winters had been booked in on the same day as Munroe. Simple answer – she had. Brady asked if they’d talked. Ridgewell’s answer had been: ‘Fuck knows. It’s a fucking tattoo studio not a fucking knocking shop, Jack!’

  They’d stood outside while Ridgewell had a tab break. Brady had questioned him about Munroe and found out the East London bloke had quite a fierce reputation. No one messed with him. Not even Ridgewell, who had quite a reputation of his own and was built like a New Zealand rugby player. He had turned to Brady with a serious look and said: ‘There’s something in that mad fucker’s eyes which tells you he wouldn’t think twice about slitting your throat from ear to ear if the fucking mood took him.’

  Ridgewell went on to advise Brady to steer clear of him. That he was one of Johnny Slaughter’s boys. Or had been. These days he was under the protection of Martin Madley. Brady had refrained from telling him that he already knew. And it was these precise facts that worried him.

  After they’d smoked another cigarette and chatted about Newcastle United’s chances this season, Brady had thanked Ridgewell and left. He had headed back to the station hoping that Amelia would have already clocked off. He’d successfully avoided her since Munroe had been released. It was late on a Saturday night and the last thing he needed was Amelia gloating over the fact he had got it so wrong. But there was still something about Munroe that made Brady uncomfortable.

  Brady took a gulp of black coffee. It was lukewarm. He sat back in his seat and put his hands behind his head as he looked out the windows. Dusk was settling outside. It unnerved him. Another Saturday night. Had he released a potential murderer and sadistic rapist back onto the streets of Whitley Bay? He couldn’t be sure. It was that knowledge that was chewing him up inside. What had he done? Or, more to the point, what had he failed to do?