‘I don’t suppose you know where she lives?’
‘Hah! You know Jimmy. Likes to keep his private business private if you get my drift? Nah, all I know is that she was blonde with the biggest tits I’ve ever seen! I think her name was Tania but that’s about as much as I know.’
Brady sighed inwardly.
‘Jimmy hasn’t got himself into any bother, has he?’ asked Harvey.
‘No … no, Jimmy’s fine. Just a few problems at home. You know the shit he gets up to, well let’s just say it’s finally caught up with him,’ Brady answered.
‘Can’t say I’m surprised. I don’t know how the son of a bitch managed to get away with it for so long. I mean, fuck! You remember the time that shit-hot nurse he was screwing gave him the clap? I couldn’t look him in the face without laughing for a week. Especially after he’d said she specialised in highly contagious diseases. She did that all right. And then his wife had to pay a visit to the VD clinic and guess who treats her? The bloody cow that gave Jimmy the clap in the first place!’
‘Yeah, that’s Jimmy for you.’
‘Fucking right it is! He’s one hell of a guy.’
‘He really is. As soon as you have anything regards boyfriends let me know, yeah?’ concluded Brady. ‘Oh yeah, and do me a favour, will you? Take Dr Jenkins with you. She’s the right kind of person to have around when interviewing these kids. She’ll know whether or not they’re hiding something. May as well use her while we’ve got her.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ answered Harvey.
‘And that doesn’t mean you try and shag her, OK?’ warned Brady.
‘I knew it! Me and the lads had bets on whether you were shagging her. Seems I won. You bloody dog, Jack Brady!’ laughed Harvey.
‘You’re one sick bastard,’ replied Brady before disconnecting the call.
Brady threw his cigarette away and started walking towards the crowd.
He nodded at the short, shabby figure making his way towards him. He would recognise that ugly face anywhere.
‘Things must be worse than I thought if they’ve had to call you in,’ Rubenfeld said in a deep, raspy voice, the result of too much booze.
Brady gave Rubenfeld a pained grin.
He couldn’t remember a time when Rubenfeld hadn’t been around. As far as Brady could remember Rubenfeld had always worked for The Northern Echo. It was the biggest-selling newspaper in the North East and a lot of its sales were down to Rubenfeld. If there was a story to uncover, Rubenfeld was guaranteed to be the first one there. Brady didn’t know how he did it, but he had an uncanny knack of turning up when he was least wanted. But if Brady was honest, he needed Rubenfeld as much as Rubenfeld needed him.
‘So what are you after?’ Brady asked.
‘Now that would be too easy!’ Rubenfeld replied flashing his small, pincer teeth. He rubbed his two days’ worth of dark stubble as he scrutinised Brady.
‘I’ve heard something that might interest you,’ Rubenfeld began as he lit a cigarette.
He’d caught Brady’s attention.
‘How about we go somewhere a bit more private?’ Brady suggested.
‘One black coffee and …?’ Brady called out to Rubenfeld.
‘A double Scotch,’ grunted Rubenfeld. ‘Well, it’s gone lunchtime,’ he replied in response to Brady’s cynical expression.
‘That’ll be seven pounds ten, mate,’ the bartender said.
Brady handed him a tenner. He then nodded at the bleached blonde cleaner who’d been suspiciously watching him from the other side of the bar. He made a mental note to get statements taken from whoever was in the pub last night. The Beacon was literally a five-minute walk from the crime scene.
Brady picked the drinks up and limped over to Rubenfeld.
He sat down heavily on the barstool. He was feeling shortchanged; always did when he ran into Rubenfeld. He watched as Rubenfeld did his usual trick and knocked it back in one, swift gulp.
‘Ahh! Now, down to business,’ Rubenfeld replied in a satisfied tone. ‘First, I want to know what really happened,’ he said, leaning in towards Brady. ‘And don’t feed me any of your usual bullshit, Jack.’
‘What’s in it for me?’
Rubenfeld locked his beady eyes on Brady’s.
‘Jimmy,’ he whispered throatily.
It took all of Brady’s willpower not to lean over the small, round table and grab Rubenfeld by his short fat neck and squeeze whatever he knew out of him. But he knew from past experience that it wouldn’t work.
‘Spit it out then,’ rasped Rubenfeld.
‘We’ve got a murder victim. Found in the early hours of this morning,’ Brady began.
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Rubenfeld replied irritably. ‘Bloody hell, Jack. You know better than that.’
Brady shrugged and decided to wait it out. It failed.
Rubenfeld stood up and put his shabby black raincoat on.
Regardless of the weather, or the location, Rubenfeld always wore it. Brady couldn’t imagine Rubenfeld without it. Underneath it he wore a black linen suit; equally scruffy and in need of dry cleaning. Brady presumed that Rubenfeld had never quite acclimatised to the bitter North East weather after coming back from the South and had compromised on a heavy raincoat. Brady admired his pragmatism; this was the North East of England after all, where the temperature rarely rose above 60 degrees during the summer and the rest of the year was spent under a miserable, disgruntled drizzle.
So much for global warming, mused Brady.
‘Yeah, all right,’ he reluctantly muttered. ‘But it better be worth it!’
Rubenfeld sat back down.
Brady looked over at the bartender and caught his eye. ‘Same again,’ he ordered as he raised Rubenfeld’s empty glass.
‘The victim’s just a kid …’ Brady paused as Rubenfeld raised his thick, black eyebrows.
‘A fifteen-year-old schoolgirl to be precise. I’ve just had a positive ID,’ Brady stated, dropping his voice as the bartender approached.
Brady took out another tenner and handed it to the bartender. ‘Keep the change.’
Rubenfeld swiftly drained the glass and then turned his attention back to Brady.
‘Cause of death?’
‘Can’t say until the post-mortem comes back.’
‘Suspects?’
‘Too early,’ Brady answered.
‘Where’s she from?’
‘Here, West Monkseaton,’ Brady answered. ‘Murdered literally yards from her own doorstep.’
‘You’ll be releasing her identity then?’ fired Rubenfeld.
Brady weighed him up; he was one sleazy son of a bitch.
‘Sophie Washington,’ Brady conceded, barely loud enough for Rubenfeld to hear. But he heard it.
Brady had no choice; he needed Rubenfeld on his side.
Rubenfeld rubbed his coarse chin as he considered what Brady had told him.
‘Well, I’m glad I’m not in your shoes just now! Or Jimmy’s come to that,’ he rasped.
‘Why? What’s going on?’
‘That’s what I want to know,’ Rubenfeld replied. ‘Jimmy’s got himself into a bit of bother with Madley. Word has it he’s pissed Madley off big time.’
‘Why? What’s he done?’
He knew then that he should have taken Matthews seriously when he said that Madley was out to get him. Brady had just assumed that Madley didn’t have the balls to touch a copper; maybe he was wrong.
Rubenfeld shook his head.
‘Don’t fuck with me!’
‘Do I look like I’m fucking with you?’ Rubenfeld snapped. He nervously ran his fat fingers through his short, receding black hair.
‘You know what Madley’s capable of, Jack. And I for one don’t want to mess with him.’
Rubenfeld checked his watch.
‘I’ve got to run if I’m going to make this evening’s edition. It’s due to roll in less than an hour.’ He paused, narrowing his distrustful eyes. ‘Come t
o think of it, where is that tight-arsed bugger, Jimmy? Shouldn’t it be him throwing his weight around, considering the state of your leg?’
‘He’s tied up,’ Brady answered.
Rubenfeld didn’t buy it.
‘Don’t get involved, Jack. Not when it concerns Madley,’ Rubenfeld warned as he stood up.
But that was exactly it, thought Brady. He was involved, and had been, from the moment he’d found Matthews sat in his office.
Chapter Nineteen
Brady kept his head down and pushed his way through, ignoring the barrage of questions. The scavenging rats were willing to sink their teeth into anything that moved. With the limp, Brady was too easy a target.
‘DI Brady? I thought you’d retired?’ shouted out one journalist.
Brady ignored the question and bent down under the police tape. They knew him from the shooting. His story had made the headlines for three days running in the local papers. It wasn’t every day that a copper got shot in an undercover drugs bust. Brady kept going. It was easy to block out the frenzied yelling behind him, he only had to think about his next task after revisiting the crime scene; re-interviewing the murdered girl’s parents.
‘Where’s DI Matthews? Rumour has it he’s been taken off the investigation and that you’re his replacement. Is that right, DI Brady?’ a female voice called out. ‘DI Brady? Harriet Jacobs from The Evening Chronicle here,’ she added, hoping to make an impact.
Brady didn’t react even though his guts twisted with every word. He kept his back to the crowd and continued walking down the dirt track towards the crime scene.
‘Why was DI Matthews suspended? Is it connected to the murder investigation?’ Jacobs shouted after him. ‘Did you hear what I asked you, DI Brady? Why was DI Matthews taken off this investigation?’ she added in a last-ditch attempt at getting a reaction.
Brady had heard her all right. The question had cut straight through the crowd. The fact that someone had talked to the press didn’t surprise him. What did surprise Brady were the questions; they were about Matthews, not the murder. It didn’t make sense. Matthews was the type of guy who was liked by everyone, even Gates. But, from the question he was just asked, it was obvious that someone on the force had it in for Matthews. The question was, who? One name kept coming up. DS Adamson.
Brady just couldn’t shake off his suspicions about DS Adamson. Adamson had already proven that he had no loyalty to the investigative team, let alone Brady. As Conrad had said, he was out for himself. And with Matthews conveniently out of the picture, Adamson might have a real shot at promotion. Especially given how much Gates wanted Adamson to transfer to Whitley Bay.
Brady tried to ignore the doubts he was having about Adamson. He had other things on his mind, in particular finding Jimmy Matthews before Gates became suspicious. That is, if he wasn’t already.
Chapter Twenty
‘I’d have thought you’d be too bloody busy to be making social calls,’ Ainsworth, the senior SOCO, greeted when he spotted him.
‘Wanted to get a second look,’ Brady answered as he took in the ruined farmhouse.
‘Different feel to it in the daylight,’ Ainsworth commented following his gaze.
Brady noted that he was right. It did feel different. When he was called out early this morning it felt as if they were miles away from suburban West Monkseaton. The overgrown hedges and looming trees had added to the blanket of blackness, blinding Brady to the row of houses that backed onto either side of the farmland.
He ignored the urge to have a cigarette. Ainsworth was a good enough reason not to; this was Ainsworth’s office now and even Brady wouldn’t cross the line with him.
‘I take it you’re not here for a bloody chat. Presume you want to see where your victim was attacked?’ Ainsworth asked.
Brady nodded.
‘All right, but follow my exact footsteps. It’s bloody difficult enough to figure out what’s what down here with all the bloody onlookers we’ve had …’ Ainsworth grumbled. ‘If it’s not your lot making my job impossible then it’s the bloody public. Bloody useless, the lot of them!’
‘Why do you work with people if you’re such a miserable old sod then?’ Brady laughed.
‘I don’t,’ Ainsworth answered flatly. ‘They’re already dead so they’re no bother. It just so happens that the living keep bloody interfering with what I’m trying to do.’
Brady followed Ainsworth. Someone, no doubt kids, had built a large bonfire, using some of the broken rafters and other debris left lying around. It was still smouldering. Brady wondered whether any of the kids who used the place last night could have witnessed what had happened; or even, been responsible?
Ainsworth noticed Brady taking in the piles of discarded broken bottles and used needles that littered the ground. Evidence that the place was popular with the local kids.
‘Bet their parents don’t know what the little bastards get up to down here.’
Brady liked Ainsworth for the same reason that everyone else couldn’t stand the cantankerous old sod; he hated civilisation, or what had become of it. It didn’t matter where you were; an impoverished council estate or so-called respectable suburbia; kids were kids and would find a way to get pissed and shag around. It was human nature, but without the clothes on.
Brady looked over at the area where the murder victim had been found. He then looked up at the sky overhead. It was partially obscured by trees, so at night it would be dark, too dark to see anything.
He suddenly thought of the witness who had stumbled with her torch upon what was left of Sophie Washington’s face. Before he left the station he had briefly read the statement that had been taken from the witness. She was a divorcee in her early fifties, who lived alone with her dog. Every morning at four she walked her black Labrador down the track of the abandoned farmland before leaving for work at the local Sainsbury’s. This was the first morning in years she had never made it to work. The state she was in when the police arrived after her 999 call was enough to convince even the most hardened cynic that she had innocently walked into a horrific crime scene. Unfortunately for the police she hadn’t seen or heard anyone else before her dog found the murder victim.
‘Trying to ascertain whether someone could have witnessed something?’ Ainsworth asked, following Brady’s gaze.
‘Yeah, but given the conditions when we came out early this morning, I seriously doubt it.’
‘That’s not to say someone wouldn’t have heard something,’ Ainsworth replied.
‘Maybe,’ muttered Brady.
Brady looked up towards the dirt track. He could just make out the road and the traffic lights. The depressing Modernist building that was West Monkseaton Metro station loomed on the other side of the road.
‘Give me a bloody minute will you?’ Ainsworth suddenly barked at a SOCO standing nearby. ‘Christ! They’ll expect me to wipe their arses next.’
‘So what have you got for me?’ Brady asked, ignoring Ainsworth’s outburst.
‘Hah!'Ainsworth spluttered. ‘Would have been a lot easier if your lot hadn’t muddied the bloody water. What with Matthews pissing us around by trampling over whatever prints were there and then the idiot goes and finishes the job by covering her body with his coat. What the bloody hell is that all about then?’
Brady shrugged.
‘I’ll bloody strangle the useless bugger when I get my hands on him!’
Join the queue, thought Brady.
‘But we did find enough blood and flesh to confirm that the murder victim’s face was definitely bludgeoned in situ,’ Ainsworth stated.
Brady turned to him. His gut feeling had told him that Sophie Washington’s body hadn’t been dumped; that this was a murder scene.
‘No weapon yet. But, if it’s been dumped here, we’ll find it,’ Ainsworth promised. ‘From the mess we saw under the UV light, I reckon you could be right about the murderer using any one of the pieces of rubble lying around.’
‘No sign of
her mobile?’ Brady asked, knowing the answer.
Ainsworth shook his head.
‘No, but you’ll be the first to know if we find it. However Fielding here has found something that just might interest you,’ he said as he gestured towards the waiting SOCO.
Brady suddenly felt a kick of excitement; it had been a long time since he’d felt this way.
‘Go on then, Fielding, what are you waiting for? A bloody round of applause or what?’ barked Ainsworth.
Brady turned to ask Ainsworth something else but he was already bollocking some other poor sod.
Instead he limped after the SOCO who had started heading off towards the dirt track.
‘So, how do you cope working with a miserable, old bugger like Ainsworth then?’ Brady asked once he’d caught up. He threw in a smile, ignoring his throbbing leg.
‘Oh, he’s not so bad. You eventually get used to it,’ the SOCO replied, pulling off her face mask.
‘Can’t breathe in these things,’ she explained, smiling.
She then pulled back the suit’s white hood and shook free her short, ruffled black hair.
She playfully ran her fingers through her hair as she smiled at him.
He couldn’t help but stare into her bright, green eyes. They sparkled with mischief.
‘So, what is it that you’re supposed to be showing me?’ Brady asked.
‘That depends on you,’ she said suggestively.
‘Jack! Jack!’ Ainsworth panted out from behind them.
‘Damn,’ she said, hearing Ainsworth’s voice. ‘What if you take me out for a drink and then I’ll show you?’ she suggested flirtatiously.
Brady felt awkward. For once he didn’t know what to say. His conversation with Claudia earlier had thrown him, and he could still feel the physical pain of her rejection.
‘When?’ she asked with a coy smile.
‘When?’ Brady repeated, feeling like an idiot.
He ran his slender, long hand through his dark hair as he smiled at her, embarrassed.
She seductively returned the smile, slowly taking in his prominent cheekbones and strong, rugged chin. She then looked up at his deep, penetrating, dark brown eyes.
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