‘How old is she?’
‘Sixteen and currently studying at Tynemouth King’s School in their lower sixth form.’
‘Sixteen with fake breasts? How the hell did she pay for those and get legal consent?’
He couldn’t believe the way society was evolving. Reality TV like The X Factor commanded more votes than any government election ever could. People were more than happy to be anaesthetised by TV programmes about reality TV stars rather than face the bigger issues in the real world.
‘King’s is a private school, sir. Means her parents have money. They gave their consent and paid for the breast augmentation as a sixteenth birthday present. Took her abroad on holiday to Budapest allegedly.’
‘What the fuck is the world coming to, Conrad, when parents teach their daughters that all their self-worth is tied up in looking like a bloody porn star?’
‘Parents said she wanted to be a model, sir. Like Jordan, or should I say Katie Price,’ answered Conrad uncomfortably.
‘What happened to kids growing up wanting to be a doctor or a lawyer? Tell me, Conrad, when did being a topless model or a lap dancer become a girl’s ultimate goal in life?’
Conrad didn’t reply.
He knew there was nothing he could say that would snap his boss out of his diatribe about Western society’s ills. He was also well aware that the young, headless woman lying cut open in the morgue had deeply affected Brady. As had Simone Henderson’s attack.
Brady sighed as he stood up, trying not to wince as a searing pain in his ribs kicked off.
‘I need a copy of the parents’ statement on my desk by the time I get back,’ he ordered, clutching his car keys.
‘Don’t you just want me to drive you?’ asked Conrad. ‘You don’t look so good, sir.’
‘I’m fine, Conrad. Just some bruising, that’s all.’
Conrad clearly didn’t believe him.
‘Look, it’s better if you’re not involved,’ replied Brady uneasily.
He wasn’t good at lying; especially where Conrad was concerned.
‘Sir?’
Brady couldn’t look him in the eye. Instead he turned and walked to the door. He opened it and waited for Conrad.
His deputy didn’t move. Brady realised he was clearly waiting for an explanation.
‘Trust me on this, will you? Anyway, I need you to trace this serial number taken from the victim’s silicone implants,’ Brady said, offering the piece of paper that Harold, Wolfe’s assistant, had given him.
‘Why?’
‘It could identify our victim. And I want that information before I talk to the missing girl’s parents. Saves us all a lot of time.’
Conrad reluctantly walked over to him and took the paper.
‘Sir, look … we’ve got the briefing in less than an hour.’
Brady agitatedly rubbed his hand over the coarse stubble on his chin. He felt cornered. But he knew he had no choice. He had to go.
‘This won’t take long. I’ll be back to handle the briefing. Just tell the team the meeting’s been pushed back until 3pm. It gives you time to set up the Incident Room and run a check on that serial number for me. I need to know for certain if the victim is or isn’t the Ryecrofts’ missing daughter before the briefing, Conrad.’
‘Sir?’ objected Conrad. ‘What happens if I need to contact you?’
‘To you, and you alone, I have my mobile. If anyone asks, tell them I’m at lunch,’ ordered Brady as he left the office.
Conrad watched him leave. He had a bad feeling that Brady was independently working on a connection with Simone Henderson’s investigation.
Conrad looked at the paper he had inadvertently crumpled up in his fist. He had work to do and decided that, knowing Brady, he was right: it was better that he didn’t know. All he could do was exactly what Brady had asked – cover for him until he got back.
Chapter Sixteen
Brady parked up and got out of his black 1978 Ford Granada 2.8i Ghia. He looked across at St Mary’s Lighthouse. It looked serene, ghostly even; crumbling white against a backdrop of muted grey and black clouds rolling in from the horizon. The lighthouse had once been a beacon of light shining across the cold, battering North Sea, stretching out as far as the naked eye could see, until it reached a vanishing point.
When he was a kid, he and Martin Madley would skip school, jump on the Metro to Whitley Bay and then walk the length of the beach and over the rocks to get to St Mary’s Lighthouse. With his brother Nick in tow they would spend tireless days wading in the rock pools, exploring St Mary’s Island.
St Mary’s was now a major tourist attraction for the small seaside resort. It was a leisurely stroll down from Feathers caravan site; still a popular destination with the Scots for their annual fortnight holiday, just as it had been since the fifties. The two council-owned car parks at St Mary’s were positioned to take in the breathtaking curve of beach and cliffs that was Whitley Bay. Brady looked at the beach stretched out ahead. This place was in his blood. No matter how much he fought it, he knew he was tied to it. That regardless, he’d never be able to leave.
He watched as early afternoon dog walkers and joggers dominated the white, unblemished sands while birds scavenged the promenades fighting over the previous night’s curried chips, charitably dumped by passing drunks stumbling home.
Brady locked his car and walked over to the grassy bank, breathing in the salty, fresh air. He headed along the path towards the second car park opposite the lighthouse, looking for Madley. He wasn’t there. But Paulie Knickerbocker’s ice-cream van was there waiting for the weekend trade. Brady slowly walked over, aware that his leg was starting to play up again.
He grimly nodded at the thirty-something, smart-looking, dark-haired, second generation Italian hanging out of the hatch watching him with interest.
Paulie nodded at Brady taking in the damage to his face. But he knew not to ask.
‘What is it with you coppers? Always on my back, eh? What? Am I illegally trading now?’ laughed Paulie Knickerbocker. ‘Believe me, officer, the only white stuff I’m selling to kids is ice-cream!’
Brady didn’t laugh. That was enough for Paulie to know something was wrong.
‘Have you seen Martin?’ Brady asked, getting straight to the point.
Paulie frowned. His large, deep black Italian eyes were questioning.
‘Why?’
Brady had known Paulie since St Joseph’s Primary School. As had Madley.
When word had 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 had stuck, regardless of the years and Paulie’s two Italian restaurants which were known by his family name, Antonelli.
These restaurants were hugely successful, both located along North Shields quayside. The original was known as ‘Antonelli’s’ and the second one as ‘Antonelli’s 2’. Brady had heard that there was going to be another Antonelli’s opening up in Whitley Bay. The food was good quality Italian, accompanied by simple wine or Peroni. The key to Paulie’s success was not being greedy: he never over-charged his customers, making sure that a good night out could still be a cheap night out. It meant his customers came back again and again, to the extent that it was so busy that they couldn’t guarantee you a table.
Brady knew why Paulie still covered the odd weekend shift in the ice-cream van – he owned a family business, which was over-run with squabbling Italian relatives and inevitably high tempers. That, and the fact that he was also a talented amateur photographer. Something he kept quiet. But he would use a still, brooding afternoon like this one to build on his black and white landscape portfolio, the best of which could be seen on the walls of his restaurants.
And 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 th
e 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 when a violent burglary had taken place.
Paulie had a strong sense of moral duty which generously extended beyond family and friends. 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 that 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 brutal reality of surviving the streets meant that, at times, Catholic morals had to be temporarily put on hold.
‘This is nothing to do with work, Paulie,’ Brady explained, aware that there was an edge to Paulie’s voice. ‘It’s personal.’
He realised that Paulie had obviously heard about the copper who had been mutilated. Who hadn’t? He had listened to Metro Radio in the car on the way from the station and it had been the only topic of conversation. He had even turned over to BBC Radio Newcastle’s Jonathan Miles morning show only to be confronted by the same discussions. The attack had also reached the national news – given its gruesome nature, Brady wasn’t surprised.
But as for the body washed up on the beach, for some reason it wasn’t quite hitting the headlines Brady had expected. It had been overshadowed by the human interest story of a beautiful young copper at the start of an exceptional career in the Met who had been brutally knifed and unceremoniously dumped, left with her tongue cut out to slowly bleed to death. If it hadn’t been for the anonymous emergency call and the bartender that found her, then they could have been dealing with a murder enquiry.
Brady knew that her photo would already have been uploaded onto Sky and BBC 24-hour news. Simone was young, attractive and talented, and the tragedy of what had happened to her, and the speculation as to why, would sell the news over and over again.
The difference between Simone Henderson and the story of the headless body was that she was still fighting for her life and they could get a background story; unlike the unidentified girl lying butchered in the morgue.
Paulie handed Brady a polystyrene cup of black coffee. ‘You look like you need this.’
‘Thanks,’ accepted Brady. He reached in his pocket for change.
Paulie shook his head. ‘Do me a favour, will you?’
‘What?’ asked Brady as he took a mouthful of strong Italian coffee.
‘Watch yourself, Jack. There’s shit happening here that you haven’t got a clue about. New people are turning up, trying to take over. Things are changing … Fucking bastards coming in from London, Europe, all thinking they can throw their weight around …’ Paulie faltered.
Brady turned and followed his gaze as a car sidled round into the car park.
‘Look out for him, will you?’ Paulie asked as he stared at the new black Bentley saloon. Its registration plate read ‘MAD 1’.
Brady turned and shot Paulie a quizzical look. If there was one person who didn’t need protecting, it was Martin Madley.
‘Word is some bastard is trying to take him down,’ Paulie explained.
Brady looked at Madley’s new Bentley. Gibbs, his driver who doubled as his henchman, depending on what mood Madley was in, was behind the steering wheel. Once a professional boxer, the 6´4?, forty-five-year-old African Caribbean was still an imposing sight, with the physique of a brick shithouse. His thick, knotted, black dreads, interwoven with strands of silver, now hung down to his shoulders. He looked at Brady and flashed him a menacing smile, making the most of the new diamond set in his left front tooth.
Gibbs didn’t trust Brady and he made no apology in letting him know it. Not that Brady could blame him; he was a copper after all. Behind Gibbs’ black Oakleys, Brady knew his eyes would be cold and predatory.
Beside Gibbs sat a weaselly, sharp-nosed, beady-eyed character. He stared at Brady, refusing to back down. From past experience, Brady knew always to be wary of the thin, sinewy, on-the-edge, wiry types. They were the ones who would have a knife in your neck before you knew it. His small, darting, bloodshot eyes told Brady there was trouble. Brady didn’t need to look at him to know that. The fact that Madley had hired him was evidence enough.
‘Fuck,’ muttered Brady under his breath, unsure of what he was getting into here.
He waited as Gibbs got out of the car and walked to the back passenger door to open it.
A few seconds later, Madley stepped out. He looked composed and dignified in his black Armani sunglasses and black Armani suit. His brown hair was neat as always, but his tanned sharp features and menacing eyes spoke of a cut-throat malevolence. Madley was Brady’s age, a few inches shorter at 5´10?, with a smaller frame. However, Brady had witnessed Madley fight and knew that he could take down even his own man, Gibbs.
Madley liked to look good. His tastes were expensive, compensating for a childhood of desperate poverty. He wore no jewellery apart from an expensive watch, which cost more than Brady’s annual salary. After sharing a childhood in the war-torn streets of the Ridges, they had both chosen a life of crime: Brady fighting it, Madley living it – and clearly profiting from it.
Brady watched with interest as Madley’s new henchman got out of the Bentley. He strutted behind Madley, making a point of adjusting his cheap black version of Madley’s suit for Brady’s benefit. Underneath the Burton suit jacket Brady caught a glimpse of exactly what it was Weasel Face wanted Brady to see. A bulging shoulder holster with a Glock 31 semi-automatic pistol resting underneath the jacket. Brady was under no illusion: the manoeuvre was intentional. And the Glock 31 would be loaded.
Madley nodded at Brady as he approached him.
‘Brought in someone new,’ he said in a smooth, refined voice; the hardened Geordie edge of his childhood years long gone.
‘I can see,’ answered Brady as he glanced towards Weasel Face.
Madley turned to his new employee. ‘Wait for me in the car.’
‘Are you sure, boss?’ questioned the wiry man in a thick Cockney accent as he gave Brady a distrustful glance.
Madley shot him a look.
It was enough for Weasel Face to turn back to the car.
Something wasn’t right if Madley had been forced to hire some trigger from the East End. It was now obvious to Brady that the dumping of Simone Henderson’s mutilated body in his nightclub was no accident.
It was a warning. They wanted her blood on Madley’s hands. The question was why?
‘What’s going on, Martin?’
‘Maybe you should tell me,’ replied Madley as he studied Brady’s swollen, cut face.
Brady ignored the question.
‘I got a call from Jimmy Matthews this morning,’ he said, changing the subject.
Madley looked at him. Brady could see that behind the dark sunglasses his eyes had suspiciously narrowed.
‘Go on,’ Madley instructed.
‘He reckons he’s got something on me. Wants me to go in and talk to him. I think it’s connected to—’
‘Go visit him,’ interrupted Madley, cutting Brady off.
‘The last person I want to visit behind bars is Jimmy,’ objected Brady.
‘Then that’s your choice. But right now Jimmy Matthews isn’t my main concern.’
Brady was about to ask what he meant but Madley’s expression was enough to silence him. He had met Madley on the assumption that they needed to find out exactly what kind of damaging information Matthews could have got hold of, and how to silence him.
Brady’s eyes dropped to Madley’s right hand. He noticed that Madley was holding a package.
‘I’ve kept this back from that shit Adamson. So this is between you and me, Jack,’ Madley said as he handed the brown envelope over. ‘Understand?’
Brady nodded. ‘What is it?’
But he already knew. It was the surveilla
nce footage from the Blue Lagoon, Madley’s nightclub. He realised that Madley must have replaced some crucial footage on the tape. Brady knew that Madley was paranoid about covering his tracks and it came as no surprise that he had the expertise or had someone close to him who could alter his security tapes if the need ever arose.
‘Better you see for yourself.’
‘What did you do?’ he asked.
‘Copied it and then replaced the previous Friday night’s footage after the club had closed. So when your lot got there, the surveillance camera shows nothing unusual. You owe me for this, Jack.’
‘Why? What has this got to do with me?’
Brady was worried. But he made a point of not letting Madley know.
‘Everything.’
Brady looked at Madley’s face. He realised that he was deadly serious.
‘Who is on the tape?’ asked Brady.
‘Watch it,’ answered Madley, his expression dark and menacing. ‘No one fucks with me, Jack. No one.’
‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Brady as he tried to keep his voice steady.
‘Someone we both know well … too well.’
‘Is this to do with Matthews? Is that the reason he’s demanding to see me?’
Madley laughed. It was a cold, hard-edged response. ‘Like I said, he’s the least of my concerns right now. This isn’t Matthews’ style. He hasn’t got the balls.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Martin, stop playing games. Just tell me.’
Madley shook his head. ‘Better you see this for yourself. But I’m not the only one who’s being fucked over here. You don’t sort this then it’s not only my reputation that’s ruined, it’s your career.’
Brady kept quiet. He had no idea who Madley was talking about. The only person who came to mind who would have a score to settle with them both was Jimmy Matthews. And he was locked up in a secure unit for his own protection. Besides, Madley was right. Matthews could be an evil fucker, but even he didn’t have the balls to be involved in something of this magnitude.
‘Here,’ said Madley, thrusting a piece of paper at Brady. ‘I think you’ll need to talk to Johnny Slaughter once you’ve watched the tape.’
Vanishing Point Page 9
