Brady spent a couple of minutes bent over the washbasin throwing cold water over his face. He needed to calm himself down first before he did anything else. He made a point of not looking at himself in the mirror. Unsure whether he would like what he saw. This was connected to Nick, which ultimately meant to him.
Back in his office, Brady tried calling Rubenfeld back. He needed to know how the hell he had gotten hold of this material. But he didn’t answer. Not that Brady expected him to. Rubenfeld would have already sunk his rat teeth into someone else by now.
Then he’d called Nick. Again no answer.
Where the fuck are you, Nick? I need you to talk to me. To tell me what the fuck’s going on because I am way over my head here, bro . . .
Brady could feel his eyes burning again. He had to get control of his emotions. He had no choice. He breathed in. Deep, slow breaths. He needed to pull himself together. Think logically and not be blinded by emotion. Now was not the time. Later. But not now. He had to think about how he was going to interview Jake Munroe. How the hell he was going to question him about the evidence Brady had just watched. And if this centred around Nick, how the hell was he going to keep his name out of it?
You bastard, Madley! You fucking bastard!
Suddenly there was a knock at the door.
Conrad walked in.
‘Sir, lab reports have come back. Good news. The boots we recovered conclusively match the footprints found at the crime scene. And the DNA found on the soles of the boots matches with the victim’s,’ Conrad announced, unable to keep the triumph out of his voice.
It took him a moment to register that something was wrong.
‘Sir?’
‘There’s something I want you to watch, but I advise you to sit down first,’ Brady said.
Without a word, Conrad did exactly as ordered. He had never seen Brady look like this before. There had been times when he’d witnessed Brady at rock bottom. But this? This was different.
While Conrad watched the film, Brady kept his head turned away. He couldn’t bear to see what that animal had done to her. Not again. After all, this was a woman he had watched grow up. This was Trina McGuire.
He waited until Conrad turned to him. It took his deputy a moment to compose himself. At least he hadn’t thrown up. But this was personal to Brady.
To Conrad it was just another rape and savage beating; another statistic.
‘Why?’ asked Conrad. His mouth was so dry that his voice was barely audible.
Brady shrugged. He felt the way Conrad looked. ‘I don’t know.’
He lied. Munroe had either taken orders from Madley or Johnny Slaughter. He’d been deployed to find Nick’s whereabouts by any means necessary.
‘What do we do now, sir?’ Conrad asked.
‘Get this sent off to Jed and then I inform DCI Gates.’
‘What about DI Bentley? Isn’t this his case?’
Brady looked at Conrad. He was a good bloke and an honourable copper; a rare breed. If he was not careful the Bentleys and Adamsons of the world would wipe their arses on him. Brady didn’t share Conrad’s sense of fairness.
‘Bentley can go fuck himself.’
‘Sir?’
‘Who arrested Munroe? We did. Not Bentley. Admittedly it was for an entirely unrelated crime but we got to him first. Also, who has the evidence against him? Us.’
If Brady was honest the last person he wanted getting his hands on Munroe was Bentley. Munroe worked for Martin Madley and Bentley had convinced himself that Madley was the North-East’s equivalent to Pablo Escobar: Colombian drug lord; narco-terrorist; cocaine trafficker; and politician. When Escobar was alive, his struggle to maintain power in the early nineties had resulted in Colombia becoming the world’s murder capital. The murder rate was fuelled by Escobar giving money as rewards to his hitmen for killing police officers.
But Madley was no Escobar. Brady was certain of that. But that was where it ended. He had no idea what his childhood friend was involved in now. Not to mention why he had Munroe on his staff.
‘Are you going to tell McGuire that we’ve caught her attacker?’ Conrad asked.
Brady nodded.
‘Once we’ve charged him. Then I’ll tell her that Munroe will never touch her or another woman again. That he’s going to be banged up for a very long time.’
Conrad looked at Brady. Neither of them believed what Brady had just said. It was wishful thinking on Brady’s part. But if they didn’t hold onto the belief that when they handed over murderers and rapists to the judicial system, that the offenders would be appropriately punished, then there would be no point in continuing in the job.
Brady thought of Munroe and his history of prior convictions. When he’d interviewed him on Saturday, Brady had been convinced that he was a dangerous individual. But would he have believed that Munroe was capable of such horrific acts of violence: especially the brutal attack on Trina McGuire? The answer was simple – yes.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The rest of the evening had not quite gone as Brady had planned.
Jed had come back with the unsurprising news that it had been the same mobile phone used to film both crimes. The mobile may have been unregistered but it had been on Munroe at the time of his arrest. Munroe didn’t strike Brady as a stupid man. If anything, he had a chilling cunning about him. So the question Brady was struggling with was why would Munroe keep hold of incriminating evidence? He hadn’t even deleted the films from the mobile. In fact why film it at all? Unless it was evidence to whoever was paying him that he had fulfilled his contract?
Then there were the boots he had used to stamp on Eddie Jones’ face. Why leave them wrapped in a bin-liner by the kitchen bin? Why not dump them as soon as he left the crime scene? It didn’t make any sense to Brady. It all seemed to point in one direction – Munroe wanted to get caught.
Jed had freeze-framed and then digitally enhanced images from both attacks that conclusively proved it was Munroe. He’d filmed Trina McGuire’s rape and brutal beating with his left hand. He had used his right hand as a weapon. Exactly the same as when he filmed himself attacking Eddie Jones. The distinctive panther tattoo climbing down his right arm towards his hand was clearly visible on both pieces of footage.
Both films had been put onto his computer shortly after he’d left his victims and then uploaded onto YouTube. The police had tried everything to have the footage removed from the net. But it was proving to be impossible. YouTube had taken both films down. But it didn’t end there; people had already downloaded the footage from YouTube onto their own pages. Both films had gone viral.
The press had heard about Jake Munroe’s charges. The ‘YouTube Murderer’ and ‘YouTube Rapist’ would make the following morning’s front pages. But Brady had remained true to Rubenfeld. He’d been given the front page scoop he wanted ahead of any other journalist.
Rubenfeld had refused to divulge his sources to Brady regarding the YouTube uploads. But it seemed that he didn’t know everything. The hardened hack had no idea about the identity of the suspect. Jake Munroe’s name came as a surprise to Rubenfeld. He had never heard of him before. But Brady was still left wondering who was giving Rubenfeld this information to pass onto the police. Or to be more precise – Brady.
Brady had so many questions he needed answering. But Munroe was refusing to talk. Not that he needed to; the incriminating evidence against him was enough for Munroe to have signed his own prison papers.
Gates was satisfied. He was quite content to let the court fathom Munroe out. As far as he was concerned, Munroe had committed these crimes alone and under no instruction. Case closed, target figures met. A murder and a brutal rape in one day was quite a coup for any station.
So why did Brady not feel the same sense of achievement? Because he knew more than Gates. He knew that Munroe was looking for Nick. That he had beaten Trina McGuire to within an inch of her life to extract the information from her drug-abused, bony body. And when it had failed,
he had raped her. The final humiliation and the ultimate show of power.
But why beat Eddie Jones to death?
Brady was about to call it a night and take a walk down to the Blue Lagoon. The case was officially closed as far as Gates was concerned. But Brady needed to satisfy his own curiosity and try to put to rest any doubts he had about Munroe acting on Madley’s orders.
The phone on his desk started to ring. Brady contemplated answering it. He decided against it. He’d had enough for one day.
Just as he stood up to leave, Gates walked in.
‘Jack,’ Gates greeted him.
‘Sir,’ Brady answered, unsure why Gates was making an impromptu visit.
Brady watched as he went over to the window. He was a tall and broad-shouldered man who walked with authority. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back as he looked out on the dark street. The last few stragglers from the weekend binge-drinking escapade were starting to make their way back to the Metro station.
Brady’s window was open so he could make out the odd drunken shouts and catcalls drifting up from the town centre.
‘I thought you’d like to know that Munroe has been remanded in custody,’ Gates informed him. ‘He left the station half an hour ago.’
He kept his back to him. It was rigid and proud.
‘Which prison is Munroe going to?’
‘All I know is that it’s maximum security. Munroe’s a dangerous character, there’s no doubt about that,’ Gates answered.
Brady expected no less for Munroe.
‘Anyway, I’m here to pass on Detective Chief Superintendent O’Donnell’s praises. I’m sure he’ll call you personally with his commendation. But needless to say he’s impressed that you managed to solve two apparently unrelated crimes in the same day. He was even talking back to your coup last year when you broke up that sex-trafficking ring. He had some good words to say about you. My advice?’ Gates turned round and looked at Brady. He waited for a moment as if weighing up what he was about to say: ‘Forget about that fiasco with Lee Harris. I have. You stepped up today, Jack. I appreciate that. The mood around the station has lifted and that’s because of you. And Conrad of course.’
Brady waited. He knew there was a ‘but’ coming: he could read it in Gates’s eyes.
‘A word of warning, though. The higher you climb, the further you have to fall.’
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
‘O’Donnell’s talking of promotion,’ Gates replied.
Brady couldn’t disguise the shock he felt. Firstly, he wasn’t aware that a DCI’s position was available and secondly, Brady was the most unlikely candidate for it.
‘It’s only talk, but I thought you should know. If people like DI Bentley get to hear what I’ve heard then you’ll have to watch your back.’
Brady didn’t answer. He hadn’t given Bentley any consideration – until now.
‘Just to forewarn you, I’ve heard that Bentley’s furious that you closed his investigation. Not to mention you had a suspect for his case without informing him.’
‘I didn’t know that Munroe was definitely responsible for the rape and assault on Thursday evening, sir. And when we had conclusive evidence it was too late. Munroe refused to be interviewed and we had no choice but to charge him.’
‘Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. You and I both know you kept Bentley as far away from Munroe as possible. I know Bentley and he has a long memory, Jack.’
With that, Gates left the room.
Brady watched as Gates walked out, leaving the office door wide open. He stood for a moment, not quite sure what had just happened.
‘So, where’s Madley hiding?’ Brady asked Carl.
He swigged back a mouthful of Peroni while he waited for an answer.
Carl was not that forthcoming. He simply shrugged.
‘Eddie Jones?’ Brady asked, changing the subject. He knew from the look on Carl’s face that he would get nowhere asking about Madley. Carl was as loyal to his boss as Conrad was to him.
‘Yeah. Little shit. Deserved everything he got and some,’ Carl replied. There was a glint in his eye that told Brady that Eddie Jones was as popular with his own kind as he was with the police.
Brady raised his eyebrows. ‘How so?’
Carl picked up Brady’s empty pint glass.
‘Refill?’
Brady nodded. ‘Thanks.’
He watched as Carl walked over to the pumps.
‘The amount of times I caught him selling drugs in here. He couldn’t give a shit. Wasted half the time. And you know Madley’s take on drugs in his clubs. He’s worse than you lot.’
Brady broke into a smile at Carl’s comment.
But he knew Madley had a very different reason for not liking people selling drugs on his premises. He had his own business to look out for and a fierce reputation to protect.
‘Little shit was in here last night. Dealing coke and fuck knows what else. Got himself thrown out with a warning that Madley had had enough.’
‘Is that why Munroe beat him up?’
Carl paused and looked at Brady. He cut the flow to Brady’s pint glass. Despite the fact that it was half full, Carl simply threw it down the sink.
‘Beer’s off,’ he said.
It was enough for Brady to know he had outstayed his welcome.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Brady had gone home to mull over the day’s events aided by a bottle of Rioja and a hastily thrown together stir-fry comprising the remnants of his fridge. In the background he had Radiohead blasting. He had the stereo on in the living room, which was at the front of the large terraced house. So it said something when he could still hear it in the kitchen at the far back of the property. The music was loud enough to drown out any complaints from the neighbours.
The house would be on the market soon anyway. He’d been here too long. It had taken eighteen months for Brady to accept the harsh reality that Claudia was never coming back. He had held onto their marital home in the vain hope she would return. It hadn’t happened.
He turned the heat off under the wok before refilling his wine glass. Suddenly he had lost his appetite. He left the food and walked through to the lounge where the acoustic version of Radiohead’s ‘Creep’ pulsated out of the state-of-the-art speakers on either side of the large room. It was sparsely furnished. Claudia had taken anything that hadn’t been nailed down when she’d gone. He had been in hospital recovering from the gunshot wound when she’d cleared the house. Brady hadn’t had the inclination to replace the furniture. He had simply bought what was necessary. The house had stopped being a home when she left. It wasn’t the fact she had emptied it. The furniture was irrelevant. It was her he missed. He then thought of DCI James ‘Wanker’ Davidson and realised it was time to let go.
He walked over to the large bay window, letting the music soothe his irritable mood. He watched the slow, undulating waves of the blue North Sea. The house would sell. No question. It was part of an exclusive row of Victorian terraced houses that had been built on a cliff overlooking Brown’s Bay, aptly named Southcliff. His expression was dark and brooding as he looked out at the calm water. Typically, when he wanted the sea to reflect his mood, it did the exact opposite. Normally the North Sea would be grey and heavy with thunderous waves crashing against the cliff forcing a shower of spray across the front windows of the house. But not tonight, mused Brady. Tonight it was the perfect picture of serenity.
He thought about Madley. Then Munroe. And finally Nick. His mind was in turmoil. Had Munroe been instructed by Madley to teach Eddie Jones a lesson? More than that: to film it and upload it for all to see what happens if you cross Martin Madley?
Then there was Trina McGuire. Was Madley after Nick? Did Madley have that much control and power over his henchmen that they would commit murder for him? Brady thought of the Colombian drug baron Escobar, who had paid his henchmen to kill anyone who got in his way. Was Madley any different?
Brady was woke
n by his mobile phone ringing. He groaned as he leaned over and checked the time: 9:23 a.m.
‘Shit!’
He had slept longer than he’d intended. Not that it was a problem. He had left the office last night with the intention of taking the day off. After Gates’s tête-à-tête regarding Bentley, Brady had decided the best thing to do was lie low for a few days. Let the dust settle and then get back on the job. He was exhausted anyway after the past few days. It was now Tuesday. He had been on the job since last Friday. It was no surprise he had slept so late. Anyway, if there was a problem he was sure Conrad would be on the phone.
Fuck! Phone!
Brady picked up his mobile and looked at the identity of the caller, expecting it to be Conrad. It was Madley.
Brady sat up.
What the hell would Madley be doing calling him?
It made no sense but there was only one way to find out.
‘Yeah?’ Brady answered. Short and succinct.
‘You took your time. What were you doing? Busy trying to put a trace on the call?’ Madley asked, laughing.
It was an insincere, cold laugh.
‘What do you want, Martin? If I remember rightly you told me to keep clear of you and your business associates.’
‘Come on, Jack. It’s not like you to take things personally. You should know me better than that. Bad day at the office and I’m an absolute bastard to be around.’
Brady was not buying it.
The false camaraderie was made worse by the fact that Madley had done everything in his power to avoid Brady. Then there was the question of Munroe. It hung heavy in the air between them.
Madley had after all walked into Whitley Bay station with the best lawyer money could buy to ensure the release of his employee. An employee who then went on to murder one of Madley’s small problems – Eddie Jones. Prior to that, he had beaten Trina McGuire so savagely that she was unrecognisable. Then he had raped her.
Blind Alley Page 23
