Blind Alley (30 page)

‘Come on. I need to get cleaned up first. Then we’ll see what Munroe has to say about Eddie Jones.’

Brady automatically looked over at the back of the Blue Lagoon. Madley’s flash Bentley was parked up. He cast his eyes on the personalised number plate: MAD 1.

Madley was someone not to be messed with. But he’d given Brady no choice.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Eddie Jones’ murder had now taken precedence over the serial rape investigation. Brady had spent the last two hours updating his team and issuing orders. He was going to nail Munroe’s bollocks to the interview chair. But he wanted word back from the lab that Munroe’s boots matched the prints Ainsworth’s team had found. He also needed DNA evidence. Brady was in no doubt that part of Eddie Jones’ face was entrenched in the grooves of Munroe’s size eleven boots. Ordinarily lab reports could take weeks to come through. But Gates had ordered this evidence to be examined ASAP – regardless of expense. Northumbria’s forensic laboratory no longer existed so it wasn’t as if Brady could lean heavily on someone in the force. The work was now outsourced. It was another ingenious way of cutting costs.

Brady was also waiting for word back from Jed. They had Munroe’s mobile phone and Brady needed to know whether the footage had been filmed on it and if so, whether he’d used it to upload the film. Jed also had Munroe’s computer to examine.

‘Sir?’ Conrad said as he stuck his head round the door.

Brady looked up from his desk. He had been familiarising himself with Munroe’s police reports. If he was honest, he was searching for something, anything, that could explain Munroe’s threat. Whether the threat was from Madley or Johnny Slaughter, Brady had no idea. But he knew he couldn’t bring this up in the interview.

‘Dora in the canteen gave me this for you,’ Conrad said as he walked over to Brady’s desk. He was holding a bag of ice wrapped in one of the canteen’s tea towels.

‘How the hell did she know what had happened?’ Brady asked as he took the ice pack.

He placed it against the left side of his jaw. For some reason Munroe had taken exception to that side of Brady’s face. ‘Fuck!’ he cursed under his breath at the pain.

‘You ought to get that seen to, sir,’ Conrad suggested as he looked at Brady’s bruised and swollen face. But it was the jaw that worried him. It had taken quite a few blows.

‘Which part?’ Brady questioned, attempting to laugh. He quickly regretted it. ‘Fuck, that hurts!’

‘My point, sir. I can take you up to A&E if you want? We’ve got time before the interview.’

‘Do I look like I’ve got four hours to waste hanging around some Jeremy Kyle-style waiting room while half the scrotes who’ve been drinking all weekend drag themselves in to have an emergency liver transplant and shards of broken glass removed from their eyeballs?’

Conrad had forgotten that it was Monday. The weekend had passed in a blur. Half the population would have spent last night drinking in Tynemouth Front Street and down Whitley Bay’s South Parade and the Promenade. It was a local tradition to get as bladdered as possible and sustain it over a period of three nights. Whatever happened in between would be stitched up or pumped out at Rake Lane hospital.

‘Anyway, I’ve taken worse,’ Brady assured Conrad.

However, even after a couple of prescription painkillers that he had saved from when he’d been recovering from the gunshot wound to his leg, it still hurt to move his jaw. The cut above his eye had eased. Brady had spent some time cleaning himself up in the station’s Gents. Not the ideal place to deal with open wounds but it was better than nothing. It had stopped bleeding. That was good enough for Brady.

After the knocks and blows he’d received from his old man when he was growing up, Munroe’s fist in his face was nothing more than an embarrassment.

But Brady’s face was the least of his problems right now. He had something bigger and uglier to worry about – interviewing Jake Munroe.

Brady’s mobile began to vibrate. He picked it up half-expecting another anonymous email from ‘a concerned friend’. But this was not an email. Someone was calling him.

‘Conrad, give me ten minutes?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered.

‘And chase up that bloody lab, will you? Gates has paid through the nose for them to expedite that evidence. Tell them I needed it yesterday!’

Conrad nodded and then turned and headed for the door.

Brady waited until the door was closed before answering the call.

‘What the fuck do you want?’

‘Come on, Jack. After what I gave you, this is how you talk to me?’

‘What? A scathing front page attack inciting public hysteria?’

Rubenfeld laughed. It was a deep, throaty, gurgling laugh.

Brady cut the line.

‘Fuck you!’ he muttered.

His phone started buzzing again. Rubenfeld.

‘Come on, Jack? What’s your problem?’

‘You!’ Brady answered.

He was about to hang up but Rubenfeld knew how to keep Brady interested.

‘What did you think of the “YouTube Murderer” then?’

‘What?’ Brady asked as his mind raced to think how Rubenfeld could have possibly got hold of this information.

Admittedly it had gone viral. But as yet, the public didn’t know that the police had the offender in custody. DCI Gates was still arranging the Press Call. As the Senior Investigating Officer in charge of the investigation, it should have been Brady’s Press Call. However, no amount of make-up could hide the mess that was his face. Gates had been quite sympathetic regarding Brady’s injuries. After all, he had sustained them apprehending a suspect. But Gates had explained in no uncertain terms that the state of Brady’s face would do more harm than good when it came to public confidence. Considering the dire outcome of the rape investigation, Gates wanted to use Munroe’s arrest as a decoy. The press had been baying for blood for some time now. They had a serial rapist on the streets and so far, the police had no concrete leads. Gates was now going to do some damage control and throw them Jake Munroe.

It could work.

So what the fuck did Rubenfeld want from him?

‘I don’t understand,’ Brady replied.

‘I sent it to you, Jack. I thought you would have realised by now.’

‘So why be cryptic with the “concerned friend” crap? You’re only concerned about who’s buying the next round.’

‘Had to be careful. I can’t use my work or personal email. So I sent it to you from one of those anonymous pay-as-you-go email accounts. There’s a place in Northumberland Street in Newcastle if you ever need to use one,’ Rubenfeld replied.

Brady wasn’t interested in how Rubenfeld got his grubby hands on the footage or why he was acting as if MI5 were watching him. Nothing surprised him where Rubenfeld was concerned. Rubenfeld was always out for what he get could; either the big scoop that would make him, or the next best thing – alcohol and lots of it. If he had stepped on someone’s toes on the way, that was his problem. Not Brady’s.

‘Thanks, but that was yesterday’s news. No longer relevant,’ Brady replied. It was cutting and to the point.

‘Not so, my friend. I have something else that you might want. It’s connected to the attack on that prossie on Thursday night?’

Brady didn’t reply. How the hell had he found out that the victim was a prostitute? Brady decided he was better off not knowing.

‘Why don’t you inform DI Bentley of what you have? Surely you know he’s the SIO in charge of that investigation? You have your ear to the ground and your nose in the shit!’

‘Come on, Jack. That article last Thursday didn’t hurt your feelings did it? I thought you were made of tougher stuff than that,’ Rubenfeld stated.

‘Like I said, try Bentley.’

‘Bentley’s a fucking arse and you know it!’

Brady listened as Rubenfeld took a much-needed drink. He assumed he was in the pub. Exactly where Brady would have been if he had a choice.

‘Come on, it’s getting late and I’ve still got a hell of a lot to get through before the day disappears on me.’

‘All right, Jack. I hear you. Look, I’m sending you a little something. You’ll make better use of it than Bentley. That bloke doesn’t know his arse from his elbow!’

‘What do you get out of this?’ Brady asked before Rubenfeld hung up.

‘The biggest story of my career and a one-way ticket out of this shithole.’

With that, Rubenfeld was gone.

Brady placed his mobile phone down on the desk.

He didn’t have the time or inclination for Rubenfeld’s games. He had a murder suspect to interview.

Chapter Thirty-Five

But Brady didn’t get very far. In fact, he didn’t even manage to get up from his desk before another email came in. Again from ‘a concerned friend’ – Rubenfeld.

He reluctantly opened the email. Again there was a web link. The title of this one was ‘YouTube Rapist’.

Brady braced himself for the worst. He clicked on the link and waited. He watched in disgust and repulsion as the film proved to be very much in keeping with its title.

He could feel his stomach contracting at the sadistic, violent scene being played out in front of him. Despite every inch of his body wanting to turn away, he forced himself to watch it to the end. This was personal. Too personal.

When it had finished he had no choice but to make his way to the Gents. Checking it was empty, he locked himself in a cubicle and proceeded to vomit up whatever contents he had in his stomach until there was nothing left but gut-wrenching bile. He waited a moment, body bent over the cracked bowl to make sure he’d got it out of his system. Tears were burning his eyes. He put it down to the force of the vomit coming up his throat rather than admitting the truth; that it hurt. It hurt so bad that he wanted to punch something – someone. He wanted to keep punching until the pain stopped.

Brady spent a couple of minutes bent over the washbasin throwing cold water over his face. He needed to calm himself down first before he did anything else. He made a point of not looking at himself in the mirror. Unsure whether he would like what he saw. This was connected to Nick, which ultimately meant to him.

Back in his office, Brady tried calling Rubenfeld back. He needed to know how the hell he had gotten hold of this material. But he didn’t answer. Not that Brady expected him to. Rubenfeld would have already sunk his rat teeth into someone else by now.

Then he’d called Nick. Again no answer.

Where the fuck are you, Nick? I need you to talk to me. To tell me what the fuck’s going on because I am way over my head here, bro . . .

Brady could feel his eyes burning again. He had to get control of his emotions. He had no choice. He breathed in. Deep, slow breaths. He needed to pull himself together. Think logically and not be blinded by emotion. Now was not the time. Later. But not now. He had to think about how he was going to interview Jake Munroe. How the hell he was going to question him about the evidence Brady had just watched. And if this centred around Nick, how the hell was he going to keep his name out of it?

You bastard, Madley! You fucking bastard!

Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

Conrad walked in.

‘Sir, lab reports have come back. Good news. The boots we recovered conclusively match the footprints found at the crime scene. And the DNA found on the soles of the boots matches with the victim’s,’ Conrad announced, unable to keep the triumph out of his voice.

It took him a moment to register that something was wrong.

‘Sir?’

‘There’s something I want you to watch, but I advise you to sit down first,’ Brady said.

Without a word, Conrad did exactly as ordered. He had never seen Brady look like this before. There had been times when he’d witnessed Brady at rock bottom. But this? This was different.

While Conrad watched the film, Brady kept his head turned away. He couldn’t bear to see what that animal had done to her. Not again. After all, this was a woman he had watched grow up. This was Trina McGuire.

He waited until Conrad turned to him. It took his deputy a moment to compose himself. At least he hadn’t thrown up. But this was personal to Brady.

To Conrad it was just another rape and savage beating; another statistic.

‘Why?’ asked Conrad. His mouth was so dry that his voice was barely audible.

Brady shrugged. He felt the way Conrad looked. ‘I don’t know.’

He lied. Munroe had either taken orders from Madley or Johnny Slaughter. He’d been deployed to find Nick’s whereabouts by any means necessary.

‘What do we do now, sir?’ Conrad asked.

‘Get this sent off to Jed and then I inform DCI Gates.’

‘What about DI Bentley? Isn’t this his case?’

Brady looked at Conrad. He was a good bloke and an honourable copper; a rare breed. If he was not careful the Bentleys and Adamsons of the world would wipe their arses on him. Brady didn’t share Conrad’s sense of fairness.

‘Bentley can go fuck himself.’

‘Sir?’

‘Who arrested Munroe? We did. Not Bentley. Admittedly it was for an entirely unrelated crime but we got to him first. Also, who has the evidence against him? Us.’