First thing in the morning he would also have to call Jimmy Matthews. Matthews had made it quite clear that Ronnie Macmillan and his boys had been in to pay him a visit. Brady needed to know exactly what Matthews knew and what game he was playing.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Exhausted, Brady collapsed on the beaten-up leather couch in his office. He rested his head in his hands as he thought over the events of that day.
Conrad cleared his throat.
Brady opened his bloodshot eyes and looked up at him.
His deputy was standing in front of him holding two mugs. He offered Brady the red and white Che Guevara one.
‘You look like you need it, sir,’ Conrad said.
Brady gratefully took it and watched as Conrad slowly sat down next to him.
‘Any sign of that Jag yet?’ asked Brady, already knowing the answer.
‘No, sir. It’s just disappeared. And as of yet, it hasn’t returned back to The Ship.’
Brady nodded.
‘It won’t,’ he muttered, accepting that would be the last thing the men would do.
He took a slow mouthful of the Talisker single malt, savouring the burning sensation. He sat back and waited for it to kick in.
‘Go home, Conrad,’ Brady muttered, as he rested his head back and closed his eyes. ‘The rest of the team have left. You should too. Get some sleep and be back for 7am.’
Brady had relieved the rest of the team. It was late and they wouldn’t be much use to him sleep-deprived. He just hoped that this new day would bring them closer to apprehending Melissa Ryecroft’s killers. But Brady had nothing concrete.
His mind kept replaying the image of the Jag as it stealthily pulled past them. The only question going through his mind was whether it really had been Macmillan in the back with Nicoletta. He couldn’t be certain, but he couldn’t ignore his gut feeling. Why, he mused, would Macmillan have a copper brutally butchered? It didn’t add up.
Conrad didn’t say a word. Instead he looked at the shallow contents of his mug.
‘Conrad?’ Brady questioned, opening his eyes and turning to him.
‘I reckon you could do with some company, sir,’ he quietly suggested.
‘I’m not good company right now,’ answered Brady honestly, sighing.
Conrad looked at his boss. He looked desperate. He didn’t know what it was that was troubling him, aside from the obvious.
‘Sir?’ carefully began Conrad.
Brady took another much needed drink. It rasped the back of his throat as it slid down.
‘Who is your informant?’
Brady dejectedly shook his head.
‘You see, I can’t quite figure out how you knew to go The Ship.’
‘Better that way, Conrad,’ answered Brady flatly.
‘And I don’t understand why the Dabkunas brothers – if it is them – left Melissa Ryecroft’s head in your car.’
Brady didn’t answer him.
‘Sir? Why are they targeting you? Why the note? It doesn’t make sense.’ quizzed Conrad as he leaned forward.
‘You and me both,’ hoarsely whispered Brady.
His eyes were stinging. He put it down to the burning malt and not the fact that his whole body was ravaged with fear. Dread at what could be happening to Nicoletta. And horror at the knowledge that his own brother was a part of it; willing or not, he was still involved.
‘Go home, Conrad,’ instructed Brady. ‘Things will be clearer in the morning. For both of us.’
He needed to be alone. He couldn’t think straight, least of all with Conrad beside him, worry lines etched across his face.
‘If you want to talk, you know where I am,’ offered Conrad, standing up.
He walked over and placed his untouched mug of malt on Brady’s crowded desk. He noticed the uneaten Chinese food that been left from earlier and hoped that Brady would see sense and eat something. Conrad didn’t like leaving him in this state, but he knew he had no alternative. Brady was right, he needed to get his head down. And hopefully his boss would do the same. He was certain that they would have a long day ahead of them tomorrow.
Before leaving, he glanced back at Brady once more. His head was back and his eyes were closed. But the last thing he looked was peaceful. His countenance was that of a tortured man. Tortured by what?
Brady breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Conrad leave, gently closing his office door behind him. He stood up and walked over to the filing cabinet. Instead of pouring himself another measure of malt, he carried the bottle back over to the couch. Before sitting down, he looked out the window. The street was dark. Nobody was about. It didn’t make him feel any easier. He still felt as if he was being watched; his every move scrutinised.
He let go of the dusty Venetian blind and lay down on the couch. He brought the bottle of Talisker to his lips and swallowed; anything to get rid of the torment he was feeling.
He then sighed heavily as he rested the bottle on his chest. He was scared, and he was even more scared to admit it.
All that kept going through his head was, why St Mary’s Lighthouse? Why plant the victim’s head with a note in his car there of all places? Nick knew him, and he knew that if he was planning on talking to Madley that would be where he’d do it. All three of them played there as kids. Nick, four years his and Madley’s junior, would wildly run around, jumping in between the rocks, or just sit, mesmerised by the white Victorian lighthouse against the backdrop of the violent, brooding North Sea. The lighthouse had been Nick’s favourite haunt as a kid. And even as an adult. If Nick ever returned, it would be the second place he would visit after their mother’s grave at Whitley Bay cemetery positioned just off the top of the access road to the lighthouse.
Brady knew Nick was trying to tell him something by leaving the black bin liner with Melissa Ryecroft’s remains inside. But the question was what?
Brady forced back the tears that were starting to burn his eyes. He refused to believe his brother was willingly involved with such a heinous crime. He knew in all probability that Edita was already dead. He had been a copper too long and knew the statistics too well to convince himself that they would find her alive. He closed his eyes, tormented by the knowledge that he had unwittingly endangered Nicoletta’s life and that she might suffer the same fate as her friend Edita because he had made her talk.
Brady couldn’t get rid of the thought that had been plaguing him since the briefing when Claudia had shown the team a photograph of Edita Aginatas. There was no denying it. The resemblance to the murdered teenager Melissa Ryecroft was startling. Exceptionally pretty with large brown eyes and long, straight, dark brown hair. It was no coincidence. The girls fitted a type.
The two girls had suffered the same sadistic torture; both had had their fingers cut off. One was lying in Rake Lane morgue and the other victim?
Brady couldn’t shake the doubt torturing him.
It wasn’t possible … was it?
Chapter Thirty-Five
Brady’s phone continued to buzz.
Half-asleep, he stretched his hand out and fumbled around on the floor, knocking the empty whisky bottle over.
‘Fuck!’ he cursed.
Eventually he found it. He picked it up and looked at who was calling him at 6:10 on a Sunday morning.
He didn’t recognise the number.
‘Yeah? he warily answered.
Nothing.
‘Who is this?’ he demanded, suddenly sitting up.
He winced from the exertion.
The other person hung up.
Brady sighed heavily. He nervously dragged his hand back through his hair.
He looked at the number. It was a mobile number, one he definitely didn’t recognise.
He stood up and squinted through the office window trying not to move the blinds. If anyone was out there, he didn’t want them to know he was looking for them.
No one. It was early on a Sunday morning and the street was typically deserted.
He breathed in deeply. He felt like crap. His ribs and face ached from the beating he’d received yesterday and his head pounded from too much malt.
He decided he had better straighten himself out before the team returned. He needed a shower and a black coffee to clear his head. He thought about going home but didn’t want to waste time. That, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. Under the circumstances, the station was the safest place to lie low. Which was why he had spent the early hours of the morning in a restless slumber on his office couch, haunted by dreams of Nick and his old man.
He had no choice but to use the station’s antiquated shower room and risk the cafeteria’s coffee and a bacon stottie in the vain hope it would clear his hangover.
*
Brady decided to call Claudia before Conrad arrived with an update from the team.
In recognition of the fact that it was Sunday morning, and she’d been up late last night working on any leads that might help, he’d waited until after 10:00am to make the call.
However, she answered her mobile immediately, as if she had anticipated it.
‘Listen, I hate hasselling you …’ Brady said, his voice filled with urgency ‘… I just need to know whether you got that warrant to search Ronnie Macmillan’s club in Wallsend to check out whether the women employed there as sex workers are legal? By the way I do use the term “employed” loosely,’ he added.
‘The team and I are just waiting for the warrant to be authorised as we speak.’
‘Good … that’s something,’ replied Brady, impressed by her initiative. ‘When you say your team, who are you taking?’ he asked as an afterthought.
‘Do you mean am I taking James Davidson? What do you think? These men are dangerous, Jack. He’s trained in armed response. You do the maths.’
Brady didn’t answer her. But if he was honest, he was relieved that she had Davidson with her.
‘Keep me updated,’ Brady said.
‘Sure,’ replied Claudia. She paused for a second before continuing. ‘Jack? I’m doing everything I can to find that girl.’
‘Nicoletta,’ muttered Brady.
‘Yes, Nicoletta. I’ve looked into all of Ronnie Macmillan’s business affairs. The disused land he’s been buying up around North Tyneside. All the abandoned buildings, including two warehouses down by North Shields quayside he’s bought, allegedly with the intention of renovating them into luxury apartments.’
Brady waited, hoping she had more.
He’d already done the same thing. He’d got Conrad on to it as soon as his deputy had turned up. But they hadn’t been able to find anything dirty. The money Macmillan had used was kosher and the building and land bought seemed innocuous enough.
Brady had also sent Daniels and Kenny down to check out Macmillan’s latest acquisitions and was still waiting for word back. Not that he expected anything: Macmillan was too clever for that. Or at least, thought Brady, his brother, the politician, was too clever.
‘I’ve also put in warrants to search those premises,’ Claudia added. ‘Just to be sure.’
‘Appreciate that, Claudia,’ Brady said.
And he meant it.
‘Before you go … have you told Adamson any of this about Ronnie Macmillan and the two suits I recognised from the Blue Lagoon?’
‘No … not yet. Not until we have something concrete,’ answered Claudia. ‘This operation is going to be tricky enough as it is, so the fewer people who know the better. Anyway, didn’t you say that’s his local haunt?’
‘Yeah, that’s what one of the lap dancers told me. He’s Mr Regular there, which I’d say suggests a conflict of interest,’ answered Brady.
‘You could be right,’ replied Claudia. ‘I’ll keep you informed.’
He was relieved that Claudia was keeping this from Adamson. How long before he found out was anyone’s guess. But at least they had a head start.
Always at the back of his mind was Nick. Where was he and how could Brady get to him first?
‘Claudia?’ Brady said, stopping her from hanging up.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘My informant said that the Lithuanian Ambassador is tied up with the Dabkunas brothers. Do you know anything about this ambassador?’ Brady questioned.
He had no choice but to ask. They had taken a girl in front of his eyes, there was one lying murdered in a hospital refrigerator and another, a copper, fighting for her life.
Brady heard Claudia take an intake of breath.
‘What?’ he questioned. ‘What do you know?’ he repeated when she didn’t answer.
‘I … I’ve had some contact with him. Not personally, but with his PA and secretary. I’m supposed to be at a speech he’s giving at the Civic Centre this afternoon in fact, but obviously I’m prioritising this case.’ Claudia’s voice faltered as she tried to get her thoughts together.
‘Go on.’
‘There’s a big formal dinner tonight at 8:30pm being held at the Grand Hotel in Tynemouth. I have to be there, as does James … I mean DCI Davidson. You see, the ambassador’s over here supporting our sex trafficking unit because it’s the first of its kind in the North East. And, given that a lot of Eastern European girls are trafficked and held as sex slaves in the UK, he’s doing as much as he can to highlight the plight of the women who’ve gone missing from his country.’
There was a long silence.
‘Jack?’ Claudia said, an edge of panic in her voice when he didn’t say anything. ‘Whatever you do, keep what you’ve just told me to yourself, will you? You go around making allegations like that, then you’ll be kicked off the force without a pension. With nothing.’
‘I only asked if you knew anything about him,’ Brady replied. ‘I’m not going to take it to O’Donnell. I’m not that stupid.’
‘Good,’ answered Claudia. ‘Because from what I’ve gathered, Chief Superintendent O’Donnell has worked very hard to get the Ambassador’s support. You know, good publicity and everything. Especially for my unit. And O’Donnell isn’t the only one involved here, I know that Mayor Macmillan is hosting this dinner tonight. And that he has had quite a few dealings with the Ambassador over the past six months trying to set up some business between Lithuania and the North East.’
‘I bet he’s trying to go in to business with him,’ muttered Brady.
‘For God’s sake, Jack! Don’t be ridiculous. You have the word of a snitch – a questionable one at that – against that of someone like Mayor Macmillan. I know who I’d choose.’
‘That’s what makes us so different,’ replied Brady.
His phone started to beep.
‘Look, get back to me if anything comes up,’ Brady said before disconnecting Claudia.
He expected more of her.
He answered the new call. ‘Brady.’
Rubenfeld’s irritated voice came over the line. ‘Why didn’t you get back to me, Jack? I’ve got better things to do than chasing you up on a Sunday.’
‘Look, yesterday was one hell of a day,’ Brady explained by way of an apology.
‘Save your breath and meet me. This is for your benefit, not mine.’
‘Can’t you just save time and tell me now? I’m up to my neck in it, Rubenfeld.’
‘You and me both,’ answered Rubenfeld. ‘And no, what I have to tell you has to be in person.’
‘Where?’ asked Brady.
He knew that the hardened hack must have some crucial information to be insisting on meeting him.
‘The Cluny at 2:00pm,’ instructed Rubenfeld. ‘Alright?’
‘It’ll have to bloody be alright, won’t it!’ He took a deep breath. ‘Why the Cluny?’
The Cluny was a pub located off the beaten track down under Byker Bridge. It was one of those pubs that you had to know about, whi
ch made Brady curious as to why Rubenfeld wanted to meet there.
‘Out the bloody way of prying eyes and ears,’ answered Rubenfeld.
‘What’s this connected with?’ asked Brady, starting to feel uneasy.
‘Everything! Just get your arse in gear!’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Brady dragged heavily on his cigarette as Conrad parked up next to the Cluny in full view of the overhead Byker Bridge. The morning had gone slowly; too slowly. No new developments, nothing. He felt as if the team were chasing their own tails and getting nowhere fast.
Brady stared over at the pub wondering exactly what it was that Rubenfeld had for him. The Cluny was located in the Ouseburn area of Newcastle where it shared a former flax spinning mill with local artists, offices and recording studios.
It was well known locally and internationally, and often listed as one of the top 100 world’s best bars. It was a live music venue as well as a pub and a café. Brady couldn’t fault the place. Great music, good beer and appetising food. On an average day, he couldn’t ask for more from life. However, today wasn’t a typical day; it was far from it.
Brady turned to Conrad. ‘Can you chase up Daniels and Kenny? We should know by now whether they’ve found any evidence of anything suspicious around the land and buildings that Ronnie Macmillan’s bought up. And remind them that they’ve to keep their eyes out for a black Jaguar.’
‘Yes, sir,’ nodded Conrad.
‘Any word back on Adamson’s case?’ Brady asked, knowing even as he spoke that it was a dumb question. He knew that he would be the last person to hear of any developments on Simone Henderson’s attack.
‘No, sir,’ Conrad confirmed coolly.
Conrad had talked to Amelia earlier, but if the team had any new information she wasn’t sharing it. Whether it was because she was worried Conrad would report it straight back to his boss, he wasn’t sure. Conrad didn’t like Brady’s unhealthy interest in Adamson’s investigation. Even less so as it was becoming clear that Brady’s mind was torn between his own murder case and something else. Not that Brady would ever admit it, but it was obvious that something or someone had got to him. And Conrad presumed that was why they were parked up outside the Cluny for a meeting with an informant of Brady’s. But whatever information Brady would glean, Conrad was pretty sure he wouldn’t be party to it.
Vanishing Point Page 23
