Blind Alley (6 page)

Conrad knew Brady held the rank of DI because he was damned good at his job. Admittedly, he was unorthodox at times, but he still managed to get there in the end, regardless of the way he looked. And luckily for Brady, he managed to pull off the unkempt, dishevelled, ‘couldn’t give a fuck’ look even as a Detective Inspector.

Conrad inwardly steeled himself. Something told him that he better get back into shape and fast. He was going to need his wits about him; especially now Brady was on to something. What it was, he had no idea. But if he knew his boss, it meant trouble – big time.

Chapter Eight

Brady pulled up as close as he could get to the crime scene.

‘Sir?’ Conrad asked, unsure why they were here. One answer came to mind, and it was one he didn’t like. This was only his fifth day back and things were starting to take a familiar turn for the worse.

‘Two seconds. OK?’

Brady slammed the car door, not giving Conrad a chance to argue.

He headed towards the police tape that sealed off access to the Ballarat pub and the back alley behind it. A large white Mobile Incident van and numerous other vehicles belonging to the forensic officers examining the crime scene blocked off most of the street.

Brady could see that Ainsworth’s team had placed three-inch plastic A-frame evidence markers along the path leading into the alley behind the Ballarat pub. The SOCOs had also placed stepping stones of forensic platforms for the team to walk on. It was Ainsworth’s way of preventing contamination of any evidence that might have been left at the crime scene.

Brady took in the location. It was the ideal place to hurt someone. The alley would have been dark, aided by the overgrown bushes and hedges that separated the entrance of the back lane from the houses that ran down the embankment towards North Shields quayside.

Brady knew that DI Bentley would have instructed officers to bang on all the doors to see if the residents had heard anything. He knew it was a waste of time. Even if someone knew something they wouldn’t talk for fear of repercussions. This was the lower end of North Shields, populated by hardened scum who would have stabbed a dirty needle in your eye before you even realised it.

Brady nodded as he approached the two uniformed officers blocking the entrance into the cordoned-off street.

‘DI Brady,’ he stated.

‘Sir,’ answered one of the officers.

The officers may have been stationed at North Shields but they both recognised Brady as the SIO in charge of the serial rape case. Brady had a certain unconventional look for a copper, let alone one of his rank, that preceded him.

He watched as one of the officers recorded his name in the crime scene log. The log list would stay active until the last person left, which would typically be Ainsworth, the Crime Scene Manager.

Brady knew he had to tread carefully. Word would get out fast that he was sniffing around. The last thing he wanted was trouble – especially not with DI Bentley. He was a hard-faced bugger at the best of times and if he thought Brady was trying to poach one of his cases then it would be all-out war. He guessed that Bentley would be assuming that this assault was linked to the ever-growing drugs problem poisoning the dregs of North Shields. Simple maths: a drug-addicted prostitute found beaten to within an inch of her life. Bentley would no doubt assume that she was assaulted because she owed money to her supplier. But Brady knew different. This had nothing to do with drugs; he was sure of it. Nick was at the forefront of his mind. He was certain that someone had beaten her up to get to him. The question that was torturing Brady, was why? Nick’s connection with her was firmly rooted in the past.

Or was it?

Brady watched as the white-clad figure of Ainsworth, the Crime Scene Manager, walked over. He had worked with Ainsworth on numerous cases. He was a short, portly, cantankerous man with a receding head of curly grey hair and a large, jowly face that had been ravaged by too many years on the job. He also had an infamous, fiery temper, which he defended as a legacy of his Gaelic roots. Despite his biting tongue, Brady would be the first to admit he was fond of Ainsworth. Some of the Crime Scene Managers he had worked with made it quite clear that they didn’t like coppers near their crime scene – regardless of whether they were Senior Investigating Officers.

Brady had heard talk that Ainsworth was due to retire soon and hoped this wasn’t the case. He had a dark, sick sense of humour; though it was hard to tell he had one at all during his daily rants at whoever had got in his way. Despite his reputation for being irascible, he was damned good at his job. Nothing excited Ainsworth more than a call in the early hours telling him his team were needed to attend a suspicious death. But he wasn’t that different from the rest of them. Whenever a call came in, anyone in the job would be lying if they didn’t admit to feeling the same surge of excitement and anticipation at what lay ahead. The only exception was when a suspicious death involved a child. In those situations every copper felt a sense of dread. Regardless of how often you dealt with a serious crime like that, you never got used to it.

‘You’ll be needing a suit before you trample all over my crime scene, Jack,’ Ainsworth greeted him in his usual brusque manner. ‘Help yourself. There’s plenty in the van over there.’

‘Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. I just wanted a word.’ This was Bentley’s crime scene and the last thing Brady wanted to be accused of was pissing over another man’s investigation.

‘All right, then. I assume, knowing you the way I do, Jack, that Bentley has no idea that you’re here?’

Brady ran his hand through his dark hair uncomfortably as he looked across at two young female SOCOs walking out from the cordoned-off alleyway. Both pulled down their white face masks to talk freely. One of them was carrying a plastic evidence bag. She held it away from her body as she laughed at something her colleague had said. Her bright green eyes sparkled with mischief as she said something in response. Brady recognised her immediately as Fielding, a new recruit on Ainsworth’s team. She was the new breed of SOCO, a recent graduate from Teesside University. Basically, they were cheap to employ. Cheaper than a copper who had been in the force for years and had specialised in photography, like Ainsworth. It wouldn’t be long before he retired, and he was doing what he could to train up the graduates so he could leave the force knowing they’d be capable of continuing in his absence.

Brady wondered what they were laughing about. And what was in the evidence bag. That was the real reason he was here. He wanted to know what Ainsworth and his team had found – if anything.

Fielding turned, as if conscious of Brady watching her. Surprised that he was there, her face suddenly flushed.

Brady had run into Fielding on an investigation a year earlier. She had made it quite clear that she wanted more than a professional relationship – even insisting Brady took her number so he could call her. It never happened. The investigation Brady had been in charge of got in the way. That and his unresolved feelings for his ex-wife, Claudia.

Fielding held Brady’s eye for a moment then turned back to her colleague, acting as if she didn’t know him.

Brady breathed out slowly.

‘No good looking at them, Jack. My SOCOs are off-limits where you’re concerned. Last thing I want is my staff transferring because of you,’ Ainsworth joked light-heartedly. He instantly realised what he had said; but it was too late.

If it had been another bloke, Brady would have laid him out flat. But this was Ainsworth and Brady knew he’d simply let his mouth run before putting his brain into gear. Ainsworth might have had one hell of a temper when someone was screwing up the job, but the last thing he could be accused of was being callous – at least not where Brady was concerned.

Anyone with a pulse in the Northumbrian force knew about Brady’s brief affair with DC Simone Henderson. She had been a junior copper stationed at Whitley Bay. Their regrettable one-night stand had resulted in her transferring to the London Met to get as far away from her commanding officer and the ensuing gossip as possible. But unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of it. She had ended up a casualty in an undercover investigation gone wrong. It had cost her more than Brady could bear to think about. She was still recuperating from her horrific injuries six months on. Brady was uncertain whether she would ever fully recover or accept the cruel hand that life had dealt her. She still refused to see him, in spite of his numerous attempts. He knew that she had remained in the North-East, despite hearing that the Met had offered her a post. However, the fact that she could no longer talk meant that she would never be a copper again. And from what Brady knew of Simone, behind-the-scenes admin work wasn’t for her. She had loved her job with a passion. But the case she had been working on had become more of an addiction – one she had paid a high price for.

Brady knew from the look of regret in Ainsworth’s small black eyes that he was really sorry about his reference to Simone Henderson.

‘Look . . . Jack . . . I didn’t mean anything when I—’

Brady stopped him. ‘Forget it. I have.’

Neither spoke for a moment.

Ainsworth was the first to talk. His way of making amends. ‘You know, I’ve clocked up more years on the force than I care to remember. And now I’m being replaced by young kids who don’t know shit about policing. Civilians who walk in as Crime Scene Officers with nothing more than a degree in forensic science. You know I was a copper first for twenty years? Specialised in photography, which is how I ended up being a Crime Scene Manager. But once a copper, always a copper. Big bloody difference between having experience behind you and coming in as a civilian with some fancy qualification.’

Brady simply nodded.

‘You know the two I’m training up just now?’

‘They seem to know what they’re doing,’ Brady said as he watched Fielding and her colleague.

Ainsworth shot him a sceptical look.

‘That’s because I’m breathing down their necks all the time. They even expect me to wipe their bloody noses for them! It’s all about budgets. They’re a damned sight cheaper to employ than the likes of me, but it comes at a price. At least when you’ve come through as a copper you’ve got a nose for when something isn’t quite right. Civilians wouldn’t know a hunch if it kicked them in the guts. Christ knows what crucial evidence they’re going to miss when I’m not around to tell them what to do.’

Brady couldn’t disagree. TV programmes like
CSI
had glorified forensic science, leading to huge interest in the profession. However, the reality of the job was far removed from the sexy image portrayed on TV.

‘You know this job involves a lot more than just photographing and bagging up evidence. A hell of a lot more!’ Ainsworth complained, the sadness in his eyes stronger than the anger in his voice.

Brady didn’t answer. He knew Ainsworth was right. Times were changing, and not for the better. The overall police budget had been drastically slashed by the government, which meant that the cheapest option had to come first. Instead of training up coppers to be forensic officers, as they had done in the past, it was cheaper to employ civilians. Even the police laboratory used for forensic analysis no longer existed. Instead, the work was outsourced to the cheapest company, and cheap didn’t necessarily mean good.

Worryingly, that was just the start of it. The public were completely unaware that highly qualified CID officers were now reduced to working in uniform because of the budget cuts. The choice was hard: take a demotion or lose your job. But some officers had lost their jobs anyway when the depleted funds demanded it. Brady had personally known quite a few officers who, when re-interviewed for their current posts, didn’t quite make the grade and were now unemployed.

‘You know something?’ Ainsworth said.

‘Maybe you’re getting out at the right time?’ Brady suggested.

Ainsworth laughed.

‘Yeah . . . maybe I am,’ he answered, shaking his head at the prospect of his looming retirement.

Brady watched Ainsworth contemplate what the future held for him. He had been there himself after he’d been shot. Not sure whether he’d be able to return to work. He’d realised that without the job, he had nothing. The sad fact was that his life was the job. It meant everything to him.

‘Anyway, at least I’ve still got a job, unlike some, eh?’

‘Yeah.’ Brady inwardly prepared himself. He needed to ask a favour. That was the reason he was there.

‘Look, Ainsworth . . .’

‘Exactly what is it you want?’ Ainsworth asked.

‘I need to know what you’ve found,’ Brady answered.

Ainsworth shook his head.

‘You know what you’re asking?’

Brady looked away uncomfortably. Disapproval lined Ainsworth’s face.

‘Shit, Jack! You know this is Bentley’s investigation. If you have a query, you should be going to him. Not turning up here asking me about the evidence.’

‘I know . . . but . . . I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important. You know me better than that.’

‘All right, all right! Just keep my name out of it. Understand?’

Brady nodded. ‘Thanks.’

‘Yeah . . . yeah. You owe me, Jack.’

Ainsworth sighed as he rubbed a hand over his face.