Broken Silence

by Danielle Ramsay

  He clenched his jaw as he tried to hold back the overwhelming emotion he felt.

  Brady closed his eyes as he tried to block out the noise from his past.

  ‘Expected to find you here,’ mumbled a hoarse, thick Geordie voice.

  Brady quickly stood up, inwardly wincing as his leg kicked off at the strain. He turned round shakily.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ he muttered in a low, strained voice.

  ‘That’s no way to talk,’ replied the shabbily dressed old man sarcastically.

  Brady stepped back in repulsion as he took in the pathetic drunk in front of him. The same drunk who had accosted him the previous night outside the station. In daylight he looked worse. What was left of his sandy-coloured, curly hair hung in matted, grey wispy clumps. His yellowing, sagging skin was covered in angry patches of burst blood vessels and crusted sores. His stocky body had become swollen with whatever spirits and cheap beer he could lay his gnarled, liver-spotted hands on.

  Brady looked with disgust at his bloated, drunken face.

  ‘What? Don’t recognise me then?’ he asked gruffly before taking a swig from the bottle clutched in his blackened hand, his venomous eyes never leaving Brady.

  Brady stared at him, unable to answer.

  The drunk staggered backwards as he took another swig from the half-full bottle of vodka.

  ‘What are you after?’ Brady asked menacingly as he narrowed his dark brown eyes.

  ‘Come on, Jackie lad, there’s no need to be unpleasant,’ the man slurred.

  ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘I’m a bit strapped for cash right now,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘I’ve already given you enough.’

  He smiled at Brady crookedly as he drunkenly shook his head.

  ‘Well obviously it wasn’t, was it? Or I wouldn’t be back.’

  ‘I told you the last time, that was it.’

  ‘Come on, Jackie? I came to offer you a deal,’ the old drunk pleaded. He smiled repulsively baring the few blackened teeth he had left.

  Brady turned and walked away.

  ‘I’ll give you till Monday then?’ he called out after him. ‘Monday, yeah?’

  Brady stuffed his clenched fists into his jacket and lowered his head, ignoring the looks he was getting from the group of people waiting to go into the chapel. His face was stinging from the salty rain blowing in from the North Sea. All he cared about was getting back to the car before he lost it.

  ‘Sir?’ asked Conrad, startled as Brady’s ashen-faced figure climbed into the car.

  Brady didn’t react. Instead he closed his eyes and rested his head back against the seat.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Conrad asked, concerned.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  He realised he was still trembling. The cold, damp North East air had seeped through his clothes. But he knew that wasn’t the reason he couldn’t stop shaking.

  ‘Conrad?’ said Brady. ‘Drive, will you? Just get me the hell out of this place.’

  He pulled himself together. There was only one person now who could help him. He took out his mobile and started punching the number.

  ‘Yeah, it’s me,’ Brady said as he massaged his aching forehead.

  ‘I need to talk.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Brady limped into Antonelli’s restaurant and deeply breathed in the heady aroma of freshly ground Italian coffee. He’d left Conrad parked up watching what was left of the North East’s fishing trawlers as they docked into North Shields quayside.

  ‘Better be good, Jack,’ warned Madley as Brady approached his table.

  ‘You know me better than that,’ said Brady.

  He grimly nodded at the thirty-something, smart-looking, dark-haired man sat next to Madley.

  The dark-haired man smiled laconically at Brady.

  ‘What is it with you coppers? Always turning up just before the deal’s on the table,’ laughed Paulie Knickerbocker.

  Brady attempted to casually return the smile.

  It was enough for Paulie to know something was wrong.

  Brady and Madley had both known Paulie since St Joseph’s Primary School. As soon as word got out amongst the kids that his parents were Italian and ran the ice-cream vans parked up in all weathers outside St Mary’s lighthouse, Tynemouth Sands and Tynemouth Priory, the nickname ‘Knickerbocker’ came about. And for some reason it hadstuck, regardless of the years and Paulie’s two Italian restaurants known by his family name, Antonelli.

  But running two restaurants and the family ice-cream business wasn’t all Paulie was known for; he was also the local fence. The vans and the restaurants acted as the ideal cover for such an operation. Paulie had contacts that Brady could only dream of and was always Brady’s first unofficial line of enquiry if a violent burglary had taken place.

  Paulie had a strong sense of moral duty which generously extended beyond family and friends. He had an unerring sense of right and wrong when it came to crime. He was happy to fence stolen goods as long as no unnecessary violence was exacted during the robbery. Brady had often laughed about the irony of being a fence with a conscience, but Paulie didn’t see the incongruity of it. His attitude was you should always act civilised, regardless of what you did for a living. Brady put Paulie’s morality down to being raised a devout Roman Catholic combined with growing up in the Ridges, where the brute reality of surviving the streets meant that at times, Catholic morals had to be temporarily put on hold.

  Brady pulled out a chair and wearily sat down directly across from Madley.

  ‘You look like you need a coffee,’ suggested Paulie as he nodded at the waitress busy arranging the tables for the expected lunchtime rush.

  ‘Same as Martin would be good,’ accepted Brady as he gestured towards Madley’s espresso.

  Brady was still trembling. He couldn’t get rid of the image of the shabby drunk who had threatened to destroy what was left of his life. He dragged a shaky hand through his hair as he caught Madley’s concerned gaze.

  ‘Paulie? Give us a minute will you?’ Madley suggested.

  Paulie respectfully nodded as he looked at Brady’s hunched figure.

  ‘Good to see you, Jack. Don’t leave it too long,’ he said, patting him on the back before leaving.

  ‘Yeah, same goes, Paulie.’

  Brady watched as Paulie disappeared behind the double doors that led into the busy kitchen.

  ‘Cheers,’ Brady said as he took his coffee from the attractive, dark-haired waitress.

  Brady took a sip of scalding black coffee as he turned his attention to Madley.

  ‘Thanks for the flowers.’

  Madley nodded.

  ‘She was always good to me.’

  Brady looked at him. He was right, his mam had always treated Madley like another son. He sometimes forgot that he wasn’t the only one who had taken her death badly.

  ‘So, what’s this all about?’ Madley questioned as his glinting brown eyes searched Brady’s pale face.

  ‘He’s back,’ replied Brady.

  ‘I thought you’d already taken care of him?’

  ‘Jimmy had. He’d scared him off. But he must have heard that Jimmy’s in it up to his neck and so the bastard reckons he can try and blackmail me again,’ explained Brady.

  Madley waited patiently for Brady to say more, but he didn’t.

  ‘You should have let me take care of him like I said.’

  Brady couldn’t bring himself to disagree. He knew Madley was right.

  ‘Question is, Jack, what are you expecting from me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He sighed heavily as he stared down at his espresso.

  ‘Until you do, I can’t help you. You understand that, don’t you?’

  Brady nodded.

  ‘I know …’ he said. ‘All I want is for the old bastard to disappear for good.’

  Madley narrowed his menacing eyes as he stared at him.

  ‘There�
��s only one way to guarantee that,’ Madley said, lowering his voice. ‘But it has to be your decision, not mine.’

  ‘I know …’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Brady breathed in the salty, decaying stench of North Shields quayside. It may have gone upmarket with all the fancy Italian restaurants and café bars, not to mention the expensive new apartments that now dominated the harbour backdrop. But one thing hadn’t changed and that was the nauseating smell of rotting fish.

  Brady stood and watched the sailing boats as they passed by, heading out to sea. He could see a ferry docked further up the Tyne. He turned and stared across at South Shields and the row of brightly-painted Victorian houses that looked out over the river. Even he had to admit it was a beautiful spot to just stand and watch life moving around you.

  In the seventies and eighties and even as late as the nineties the harbour and the pubs lining it were notorious for crime and prostitution. If you were looking to have your throat slit, then a night visit to North Shields harbour would do the trick. The no-go area was frequented by hardened, bloodthirsty sailors from all corners of the world, prepared to kill a man if the mood took them. By the time the police were called, the sailors in question would have long since set sail for other nefarious quarters while the victim lay turning very cold.

  He walked over to Conrad’s car which was parked up facing the bleak, swirling waters of the Tyne. Seagulls screeched and dive bombed one another as fishing trawlers dredged up whatever crap filled the frothing black water. Brady climbed into the car and helped himself to one of Conrad’s hot, greasy chips. The quayside had the best fish and chips in the North East which explained why it was always so damned busy regardless of the bitter weather.

  ‘Do you want me to get you some, sir?’ asked Conrad.

  ‘Nah, not hungry,’ answered Brady as he took a few more.

  He looked out the windscreen and thought about what he was going to do about the old drunk. He was trouble, always had been. Maybe now was the time to put an end to it, once and for all.

  ‘Ready?’ Brady queried, as he turned to Conrad.

  He checked his watch. It was just before 2 pm and they still had a hell of a lot to do before the day was over.

  ‘Yes sir,’ answered Conrad as he scrunched up his vinegar-soaked remains.

  He buzzed his window down and threw the scraps out for the birds.

  ‘Better watch you don’t get done for littering,’ noted Brady as he watched as scavenging seagulls descended upon the offering.

  ‘By who, sir? This is North Shields.’

  ‘You’re lucky this time. Come on then. We’re needed back at the station.’

  Gates had requested to see him. Immediately. It was now 1.33 pm and Gates had been expecting him since 1.15 pm.

  Brady was under no illusions what it was about. But he had other things on his mind. He had just returned to the station and the first thing he needed to do was to call the lab. He was still waiting for the results on Ellison’s DNA and prints. He wanted to be able to walk into the interview room with as much evidence against Ellison as possible.

  Brady punched in the relevant numbers and waited as his eyes drifted over to his office window. Grey shafts of dusty light stabbed through the Venetian blinds. He still couldn’t shake the shabby, old drunk from his mind. He didn’t know which way to turn and bitterly wished that he could talk to Matthews.

  ‘How can I help you?’ answered a female voice.

  ‘DI Brady here. I’m waiting for some results?’

  ‘Can you hold please, sir?’

  ‘Sure,’ he answered absentmindedly as he waited.

  ‘Just the man I’ve been wanting to talk to.’

  ‘Ainsworth?’ Brady questioned.

  ‘You’re not going to like this but you’ve got a problem.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘We’ve got the lab results from the murder victim’s body and Jimmy Matthews’ DNA was all over her.’

  ‘No, that can’t be right. Are you certain?’

  ‘Hundred per cent. And I don’t just mean the kind of contamination that happens when you lot turn up at a crime scene. I would have expected some from Matthews since he was the first one there, but not to this level.’

  Brady shook his head.

  ‘You do know he put his coat over her body?’ questioned Brady in an attempt to explain Matthews’ DNA on the victim.

  ‘Yes I know. Silly sod, what the hell was he playing at, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Brady.

  ‘But even that still doesn’t explain the degree of contamination, Jack. And then there’s his handprints at the bloody crime scene. I mean, a man of Matthews’ rank knows the protocol at a murder scene. Bloody hell, Jack, he’s not some wet-behind-the-ears DC here.’

  ‘Does Gates know?’ Brady asked.

  ‘What do you think?’ replied Ainsworth.

  ‘Bugger. Why didn’t you let me know first?’

  ‘Why do you think? You’re bloody lucky I’m warning you,’ replied Ainsworth.

  ‘I realise that. Thanks,’ apologised Brady quickly.

  ‘I should bloody think so.’

  ‘As soon the lab has the DNA results on Ellison you’ll let me know, yeah?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I’ll give you a call,’ concluded Ainsworth before cutting the line.

  Brady contemplated the news. It was no surprise then that Gates wanted to see him ASAP. Matthews’ inexplicable DNA evidence all over the murder victim who was also his daughter’s best friend explained Gates’ urgency.

  ‘Shit!’ he cursed as he realised the enormity of the situation.

  His leg kicked off again; a constant reminder of why he shouldn’t be there.

  He limped over to the window and peered through the Venetian blinds. Police cars and vans blocked most of the street. He looked up at the black, ominous clouds overhead and wondered if the day could get any worse.

  Brady tried his best to look relaxed in front of Gates.

  ‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’ Gates asked.

  The problem was, he didn’t know where to start. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead as he thought about his conversation with Ainsworth.

  ‘Then start by explaining to me why they found Matthews’ DNA all over the victim’s body?’

  ‘I can only assume it’s because he covered the victim’s body with his overcoat, sir,’ Brady replied.

  ‘And how do you explain his handprints?’

  Even Brady had to admit that it didn’t look good, a man of Matthews’ rank contaminating a murder scene.

  ‘He knelt down to look at the body, placing his hands on the ground?’ surmised Brady as casually as he could.

  But he knew he was fooling nobody.

  ‘Without gloves? For God’s sake, Matthews is one of my most experienced DIs!’

  Brady remained silent. There was nothing he could say. Matthews had recognised the victim, and had, understandably, lost it.

  ‘No, I’m having trouble explaining it myself,’ stated Gates in response to Brady’s awkward silence.

  ‘How do you account for the call the victim made to his mobile?’

  ‘Evie Matthews’ statement clearly explains why, sir. Evie gave Sophie the number so she could call Matthews if she felt things were getting out of hand at home with Simmons. I presume that’s what happened, sir.’

  Gates deliberated for a moment.

  ‘What troubles me is that it should be Matthews sat in front of me explaining this, not you.’

  Brady didn’t answer.

  ‘What’s he hiding?’

  ‘I know as much as you, sir.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  He sighed as he stared at Brady.

  ‘We both know Matthews recognised the victim. His erratic behaviour gave him away. What I want to know is why he didn’t come forward with her identity as soon as he realised it was her?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir
,’ answered Brady uncomfortably, reluctant to explain that Matthews was worried about the implication of driving the victim home the night she was murdered.

  Gates slowly weighed Brady up.

  ‘And Evie Matthews’ traces of DNA? The hair samples that were found? How do you explain that?’ Gates asked.

  ‘Sophie left the Matthews’ house wearing Evie’s jacket. So it’s no surprise her DNA was found on the victim’s body.’

  ‘And the other DNA evidence found on the victim?’

  ‘I’m hoping it’s Ellison’s, sir. I’m just waiting for word back from the lab.’

  ‘I hope for your sake, and Matthews', that you’re right. Even if it is just coincidence and poor judgement on Matthews’ part, it still doesn’t look good.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ replied Brady doing his utmost to maintain Gates’ unnerving eye contact.

  ‘You have heard the insinuations the press are making about Matthews’ suspension?’

  Brady nodded as Harriet Jacobs came to mind.

  ‘This is the last thing this force needs. I want an arrest and I want one fast!’ ordered Gates.

  ‘Yes sir. My next move is to interview Ellison,’ answered Brady quickly.

  ‘Actually, I’d rather you weren’t involved in the interview.’

  ‘Sir?’ Brady asked, confused.

  ‘I think Adamson would be better suited.’

  Brady sat back stunned.

  ‘I’ve enough of a headache trying to deal with Paul Simmons after the way you handled his interview to risk any more of your unorthodox methods.’

  Brady understood why Gates was so pissed at him. Simmons was considering suing Northumbria Police Force on the grounds that Brady had roughed him up. Brady had shrugged it off when he had first heard, knowing that all he was responsible for was forcibly making Simmons sit back down. In his opinion, Simmons had too much to hide to want to go public. However, Brady accepted that Gates didn’t necessarily share his opinion.