‘Do we have an ID?’
Conrad shook his head.
If Conrad had said North Shields or even Shiremoor Brady would have understood but not West Monkseaton. It was classed as the upmarket part of Whitley Bay. Then again any place was better than Whitley Bay; to say the small seaside resort had seen better days was an understatement. The town was a testimony to the credit crunch, most of the retailers having closed up leaving behind a trail of depressing, musty-smelling charity shops and seedy pubs.
The only thing the rundown coastal town had going for it was that it was within commuter distance of Newcastle upon Tyne; a University city with a thriving student population and Goth culture. Newcastle was also known for the Bigg Market where punters would binge drink into the early hours, women staggering in their four-inch heels, and short, strapless dresses leered at by packs of thuggish men in sleeveless shirts – regardless of the North East’s all-year sub-zero temperatures.
But Brady knew from first-hand experience as a copper that the seaside resort of Whitley Bay could also hold its own when it came to binge drinking and lewd behaviour. So much so, it came as no surprise to Brady that the small, shabby, seaside town had been rated as a weekend stag party destination equal to Amsterdam.
‘Gates is waiting for you at the crime scene sir,’ Conrad emphasised. He was under strict orders to collect Brady and get him to Gates ASAP.
‘Let me grab my keys,’ answered Brady as he rummaged through the unopened mail and other objects dumped on the ornate marble mantelpiece.
Conrad looked around uncomfortably at what had become of his boss over the past two months. He had known the place when Claudia had been around and found it difficult to accept that it had degenerated into this soulless squalor. The smell of decaying food and stale alcohol clung nauseatingly in the air, as did the overwhelming feeling of despair and loneliness.
The last time Conrad had seen his boss was when he had visited Brady in hospital, shortly after surgery. Unfortunately, he had witnessed Brady losing it after Claudia had served him with divorce papers. That was over six months ago. Brady had refused to see him after what had happened. Wouldn’t allow him in to visit and when he discharged himself, refused to answer his door or any of the phone or email messages Conrad had left. Conrad had been worried, but not surprised that Brady had gone to ground given his state of mind after Claudia had left him.
Clutching his keys Brady limped out to the hall. Conrad followed.
‘Haven’t seen you since the incident, sir,’ Conrad offered, unsure whether he should mention it.
‘Yeah, well I’ve been busy,’ answered Brady.
They both knew he was a lousy liar.
Brady felt awkward. He had avoided Conrad for the past six months, deleting any messages Conrad had left without listening to them. So what? Brady thought. Conrad should be the one feeling guilty, not him. He had had word from an old colleague that Conrad was rumoured to have requested a transfer. Admittedly, it was only a rumour, but it still felt like a betrayal given everything they had been through. To make the situation worse, he had also heard that Conrad was scared that Brady would have some kind of breakdown. Even Brady had to admit that if he was in Conrad’s place, the last person he’d want to be teamed up with was himself. Not after what Conrad had witnessed.
‘So, put in for a transfer yet?’ As soon as the words had slipped out Brady hated himself.
Conrad was thrown.
‘No, sir. Why, should I have?’
‘You tell me!’
‘You’ve lost me, sir?’ replied Conrad.
Brady could hear the hurt in Conrad’s voice making him feel even more like a bastard.
‘Forget it…’ he muttered. ‘Forget I said anything.’
‘No, if you have something to say then say it,’ demanded Conrad.
Brady looked at him, mildly surprised, but impressed at Conrad’s ballsy outburst.
Brady shook his head.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I disagree. The fact that you could even think I’d put in for a transfer says it all,’ Conrad stated.
‘All right! You want me to tell you what really pissed me off?’
Conrad looked at him, locking his steel-grey eyes on Brady’s.
‘You of all people knew what Claudia did destroyed me. I mean fuck it, Conrad! You were there! She didn’t even respect me enough to tell me in private. She insisted you stayed in the room so you could witness my humiliation. What the hell do you think that did to me, eh?’
Conrad steadily held his gaze without saying a word.
‘So why then would you go to Gates? Why go over my head to my superior and tell him that I was a liability to myself and the job?’
‘Because it was the truth,’ answered Conrad simply.
Brady shook his head as he looked at his deputy.
‘You left me no choice,’ added Conrad.
Brady turned away. He couldn’t look at Conrad. He didn’t want him to see the pain in his eyes. He knew that Conrad was right; he had left him no choice.
Brady knew that what Conrad had seen in the hospital that night had scared him. Brady had scared himself. But it had affected Conrad so much that he had gone to see Gates without a word to Brady. Conrad had suggested that Brady needed a psychologist to help him get over being shot. In reality what he needed was a bloody good solicitor to help him get over his wife.
He couldn’t believe it when the police psychologist casually dropped by the hospital. Brady had the feeling that Gates had been secretly hoping that he had finally lost the plot and that the psychologist would recommend he should retire early from the force on medical grounds.
It didn’t take long before Brady found out that Conrad was responsible for his shrink sessions. After that he refused to see him, knowing that he would do something to Conrad that he would later regret and then really would be in need of a shrink. When he finally discharged himself from hospital he ignored the barrage of phone messages and texts left by Conrad.
‘You know why I couldn’t tell you,’ explained Conrad. ‘You were in no state to hear reason, not after …’ His voice trailed off, reluctant to bring up Claudia’s part in Brady’s self-destructive meltdown.
Brady knew Conrad was right. Nothing Conrad could have said would have stopped him that night. Nothing.
His memory of exactly what had happened that night after he had come round from surgery wasn’t that clear. But what he did remember was Claudia coming in and handing him divorce papers and Conrad being forced to stand there, not knowing what to do. Then Claudia turned on her high heels and left without giving him a chance to absorb what she’d done. After that, he couldn’t really be sure of what followed. He vaguely recalled pulling the wires from his body as he tried to get himself out of bed to go after her. And then Conrad perilously trying to stop him. Despite his condition he came at Conrad with a strength he didn’t know he possessed.
It had taken two male nurses to get him off Conrad and to forcibly hold him down until a doctor came with an injection so strong that it knocked him out for the rest of the night. Conrad had dutifully stayed by his bed for the next twenty-four hours, despite Brady having broken two of Conrad’s ribs in the struggle. But Brady had no memory of Conrad’s vigil. Nor did he remember repeatedly calling out for Claudia, unaware of what had happened. The days following came and went in a painful, drug-induced blur until eventually he accepted that Claudia wasn’t coming back.
Not that Conrad had told him that. It was his psychologist who had shared this information. Allegedly, Conrad had refused to even tell Gates how he had sustained the injuries, despite visibly having a broken nose and stitches zigzagging over his top lip and across his eyebrow. Add to that the medical report that had been filed on Brady’s sudden insanity. Even a fool would have realised that Conrad had got caught in the crossfire. But Conrad was loyal and he had done his best under the circumstances to protect Brady. And even Brady had to acknowledge that Conrad was prot
ecting him when he went to Gates.
‘Look … Conrad, I understand. All right?’ Brady quietly conceded.
It wasn’t until now with Conrad stood in front of him that he realised he wasn’t angry at Conrad. He was angry with himself for putting Conrad in that situation in the first place. And he knew the real reason Conrad went to Gates wasn’t because he wanted him to lose his job; it was the opposite, he wanted him to hold on to his job. And if that meant bringing in the police psychologist, then Conrad had no qualms in requesting that Gates did exactly that.
‘Honestly, I understand,’ he repeated.
Conrad nodded, grateful that they had finally cleared the air.
‘Jack? Jack? What’s going on?’ interrupted a soft voice from the top of the stairs.
Brady felt as if somebody had stuck a knife in his stomach and twisted it. He’d completely forgotten about her.
They both turned and looked up. Sleeping Beauty was standing shivering in what appeared to be just her T-shirt and skimpy knickers. She pushed her dark tousled hair out of her sleepy face as she stared in bewilderment at the two men below her.
‘It’s nothing. Go back to bed,’ Brady answered, embarrassed. His throat felt dry and tight. He didn’t want anyone knowing his private business; especially Conrad.
Looking at her standing there, vulnerable and still drunk, he felt disgusted with himself. He realised in that moment that Claudia was right about him. He was a bastard. He would never change, not really. And here in front of his and Conrad’s eyes was the evidence. He couldn’t believe how low he had stooped. He could now see what had eluded him last night: her age. If she were twenty-one it would have surprised him.
‘Come on,’ he said as he turned to Conrad.
Conrad didn’t say a word.
Brady knew what he would be thinking. And if he were in Conrad’s shoes right now, he’d be thinking exactly the same thing; that he deserved to lose Claudia.
‘Jack? Jack?’ she called out in a tremulous voice.
He turned and looked up at her still standing there, shivering.
‘I’ll … I’ll leave my number so you can call me about tonight … yeah?’
Brady nodded and then walked out into the black, empty night after Conrad. He knew for her sake the best thing to do was not call her back. Let it go and pretend it had never happened.
He could see nothing but blackness as he reached the path at the end of his long, front garden. But he could hear the thunderous crashing of the heavy waves as they beat against Brown’s Bay below. He lived on Southcliff, an imposing and exclusive row of Victorian houses that lined the cliff, facing out towards the North Sea. Nestled on a tight bend between Cullercoats and Whitley Bay, Brady had never been sure whether the row of houses fell in the sought-after fishing village of Cullercoats or whether it marked the very edge of the shabby seaside resort of Whitley Bay.
Claudia had fallen in love with the place as soon as she had seen the bending cliff with its dramatic plunge to the waiting rocks below. On a good day the view from the first-floor living room and second-floor study were breathtaking; dazzling azure waters lay perfectly still as far as the eye could see. White sailing boats and small, brightly coloured fishing boats would serenely blend in against the backdrop of stunning blue. But when the sea mirrored the grey, blackening skies overhead, the brooding waves would thrash against one another as they threw themselves against the cliff, violent and furious. At times the waves would be so high they would crash against the path lining the cliff, covering the large windows of the house in a thick, salty sea spray. If one of the local fishing boats was unfortunate enough to be out collecting lobster nets during a storm, Brady would watch through the murky windows mesmerised, while the tiny boat would be mercilessly tossed from one black wave to another.
‘Bugger me! It’s cold!’ he said as turned up his jacket collar against the cold, bitter air coming off the North Sea.
Conrad didn’t reply as he made his way along the walkway towards his car parked on the tight bending road at the edge of the jutting cliff.
Brady knew Conrad wasn’t impressed with what he’d seen. And Brady couldn’t help but agree with him.
Chapter Four
Conrad pulled the car over, joining the ominous line of police cars and vans parked along the edge of the road.
Brady inwardly steeled himself as he looked out at the twenty or so uniformed and plain-clothes officers. It felt as if he had been gone for a lifetime, not six months.
And given that it was only six-ten on a bitter November Friday morning, he had every reason to resist getting out of the car.
‘Are you sure you’re up to this, sir?’ Conrad asked as he turned to look at him.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘No reason, sir,’ answered Conrad uneasily.
‘Do you really think Gates would have called me in if I wasn’t?’ Brady asked him darkly.
Without waiting for an answer he got out of the car and slammed the door. He left Conrad to find somewhere to park and headed towards the blue and white police tape flapping miserably in the biting northern wind. The tape was sealing off a cumbersome iron gate. Brady presumed that the abandoned farmland beyond it was where the victim had been discovered.
He turned back and looked at the main road. It was deserted, blocked off by the police. A dismal, magnolia-painted Modernist building stood bleakly opposite. West Monkseaton Metro station; Brady knew it well enough. He could smell the stale piss drunkenly sprayed by passers-by against the badly-lit damp corners. He could hear the clinking of leftover bottles of cheap alcohol from the teenage kids who would travel from Shiremoor or North Shields and stand in huddled groups, shivering and laughing against the bitter night. Soon it would be swamped by early morning bleary eyed business-suited commuters clutching their latte or espresso from the local deli. They would dodge their way past the rolling, broken bottles and the pools of stinking piss trying not to breathe in the stench.
Brady shivered as he turned back to the farmland. He tried his best to walk without a limp, aiming for the two brutish officers guarding the entrance to the farmland.
‘Sir,’ PC Hamilton nodded. He quickly dropped his eyes and fixed them on his feet as he moved out of Brady’s way.
‘Inspector Brady?’ queried the other younger officer.
Brady looked at him. He knew that his black jeans, black polo shirt and black leather jacket didn’t adhere to the Superintendent’s dress code which was how he presumed the rookie had guessed right about him being the DI. Brady’s lack of suits was legendary at the station. It wasn’t to say that he didn’t look professional, but casual professional was how he liked to term it.
‘Sir, the DCI was expecting you—’ the young officer faltered, flustered.
‘And?’ prompted Brady irritably, aware that he was late.
‘The problem is you’ve missed him. He left a few minutes ago,’ the constable mumbled uneasily.
‘Shit!’
The last thing he wanted to do was piss Gates off. Not on his first day back. If Conrad had put his foot down like Brady had said then they would have gotten here over five minutes ago.
‘Do either of you have any mints?’
‘Sorry, sir?’ questioned the young officer, confused.
‘Bloody mints! Do you have any?’ replied Brady losing his patience. The knowledge that Gates had already gone had left him in a foul mood.
PC Hamilton hurriedly pulled out a packet of mints from his jacket pocket and handed them to Brady.
He would need them when he came face to face with Gates. The last thing Gates would tolerate was the smell of booze. A reformed alcoholic, Gates had led a Puritanical crusade against the vice, intolerant of any officer who came in to work oozing the telltale lingering perfume of a heavy night’s drinking.
Brady pocketed the mints and bent down under the tape and walked through the open gate.
Below in the distance he could see the cold glow of lights set up over t
he crime scene. The constant hum of the generator to power the spotlights muffled the low talk of the officers behind him.
He walked down the dirt track that had been ravaged by weeds and long, wild grass.
‘Never knew this existed,’ said Conrad catching him up.
Brady nodded as he looked around. It was a dark, lonely spot; an ideal location to murder someone or dump a body. All around him thick clumps of bushes loomed threateningly, wild and overgrown, hiding a multitude of sins.
‘Who do you think comes down here?’ asked Conrad.
‘Kids,’ answered Brady. He had already noticed a couple of empty, plastic cider bottles dumped in the overgrown bushes.
‘It’s the ideal place to come and get pissed or high. No one is going to bother you,’ continued Brady as he turned his head and looked back at the unlit track leading up to the main road.
He stopped abruptly and sighed.
‘Shine your torch down here, will you, Conrad?’
‘Crap!’ Brady cursed as he looked at the dog faeces stuck to the sole of his boot. ‘There’s your answer, Conrad.’
‘Sir?’
‘Kids and bloody dog walkers. That’s who come down here,’ he muttered as he tried his best to clean his boots.
‘What the bloody hell is this? Didn’t I make myself clear when I said that I don’t want any more bloody footprints messing up my crime scene? You lot have already buggered up enough! Now clear off!’ thundered an irate white-clad figure as he emerged fuming from the crumbling walls that would have once been a farmhouse. Behind the ruined walls spotlights coldly illuminated the crime scene.
Conrad stiffened his shoulders, his jaw rigid as he readied himself for battle with Ainsworth, the Scene of Crime Unit’s senior officer; infamous for his ill-temper and obstinacy.
‘Good to hear that you’re still the same sour-faced old bugger!’
‘Jack Brady?’ spluttered Ainsworth.
‘They couldn’t get rid of me that easily,’ answered Brady as he approached the senior SOCO. He was a short, portly man with a receding head of curly silver hair and a large, ravaged face that belied the fact that he was only in his mid-forties.
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