Blind Alley (8 page)

But this new face in front of him was local.

‘What’s your name, mate?’ Brady asked.

‘None of your fucking business, “mate”!’ came the sneering reply.

‘Mine’s Detective Inspector Brady,’ he said, flashing his ID card. ‘And when I say I want to see Madley, I mean now!’

‘I couldn’t give a shit if you were the Queen stood in front of me. I said we’re closed, so FUCK OFF!’

He went to slam the door shut but Brady was too quick. He threw the full weight of his body against the glass, throwing it back into the new recruit’s ugly face.

It had the desired effect. Madley’s employee was too preoccupied to even bother about the fact that Brady had walked past him.

‘You fucking bastard! Look what you’ve done!’ he said, cradling his nose.

‘You should be more careful, pal,’ Brady said as he pushed past him.

It was then he noticed they had an audience.

‘Hey, Carl. How’s business?’ Brady asked as he walked over to the club’s bar.

Carl, the one-eyed Mancunian bartender, shrugged. ‘Same shit as always.’

‘Get me a fucking bag of ice. Now!’ growled the black-suited thug. He had both hands over his nose as he tried to stem the blood.

Carl ignored him and continued methodically cleaning the bar. It was already spotless – not that Brady would be the one to point this out.

Brady liked Carl. He liked his attitude. He wasn’t intimidated by anyone. Including this new, bald thug who thought he could throw his weight around. Carl might have only been in his early twenties but he had a way about him that made him appear much older than his years. He was handsome, there was no disputing that. Never short of female attention. He was tall and fit, with tousled curly dark blond hair and designer stubble. Always impeccably dressed in dark, well-cut suits, crisp white shirts and sharp shoes. Everything about Carl spoke volumes. He was also one of Madley’s most loyal employees: barman, receptionist and prime look-out – he did it all, no questions asked.

‘Coffee?’ Carl asked Brady.

‘Yeah, why not?’ he answered.

‘Hey! What the fuck is your problem? I asked for a fucking bag of ice!’ the new recruit demanded. His hands and shirt cuffs were now covered in blood.

Brady watched as Carl politely continued to ignore him as he walked over to the coffee machine. A minute later he came back with an espresso.

‘Thanks,’ Brady said, taking the small coffee cup.

‘You fucking little Mancunian shit. Just wait until Madley hears about this.’ He grabbed the tea towel Carl had left on the bar and pressed it to his face. He flashed Brady a look that told him this wasn’t over, before turning and heading towards the Gents.

‘Who’s the pet Rottweiler?’ Brady asked.

‘A new bouncer. Well, not so new now. He’s been here for a couple of months. He’s turned out to be a bit of a dick, though,’ Carl explained.

‘I reckon that’s got to be the understatement of the year,’ Brady answered.

Carl raised his head and looked Brady straight in the eye.

‘Yeah . . . well, you know me. I’m paid to be polite,’ Carl said. His face remained as expressionless as always.

Brady sipped his coffee. It had a kick like a mule to the bollocks; just the way he liked it.

‘Is that little runt from the East End still working for your boss then?’ Brady asked.

‘Last time I heard, he was. Why?’

Brady shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

But he was concerned. Now that things had settled down, he couldn’t figure out why Weasel Face would still be on the payroll. Madley was obviously still worried. Brady just didn’t know why.

Brady realised that Carl might have looked as if he was busy wiping down the bar when in truth he was weighing him up. He drained his coffee. It was time to make a move. It was obvious that Carl wasn’t going to talk. Whatever was going on, Brady would have to go and ask Madley himself.

‘Great coffee, thanks,’ Brady said.

‘Anytime.’

Brady turned to make his way towards the back of the club.

‘Madley’s indisposed right now. But if you want to leave a message I’ll make sure he gets it,’ Carl said.

The look in his eye told Brady it was time to leave.

‘Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. I need to see Madley personally,’ Brady answered.

Carl didn’t reply but his silence said it all.

Brady shrugged it off. He had no choice. He needed to talk to Madley. He headed towards the stairs ignoring his gut feeling that maybe he should have taken Carl’s advice. That he should just leave a message and disappear – fast.

Chapter Ten

Brady climbed the stairs leading up to the first floor and Madley’s spacious office. Directly above, on the second floor, were his lavish private quarters. Not that he needed them; he had a house rumoured to be worth a million on Marine Avenue in Whitley Bay and a palatial farmhouse in the middle of the wilds of Northumberland. Life had been good to Madley.

Brady reached the first-floor landing, anticipating a cold welcome. But he was surprised. No one was there. He was expecting to face another clone of the black-suited gorilla who was fixing himself up in the Gents. He walked along the corridor to Madley’s office door. He thought briefly about knocking and decided against it. Better to just walk in.

‘What the fuck?’ someone said as Brady entered.

Weasel Face, who had been standing behind the door, stepped in front of Brady, blocking him.

But it was too late. Brady had already seen them. Two businessmen sitting on a leather couch with their backs to him. Neither one even bothered to turn and look at Brady. Whoever had walked into the room uninvited was inconsequential. A minor irritant to be dealt with in the alley at the back of the nightclub.

Madley was sitting across from them on one of his antique leather couches. His phone was ringing on the desk set against the back wall. A continuous, intrusive dull whine.

‘Get that, will you?’ Madley ordered, making a point of ignoring Brady’s sudden intrusion.

Gibbs nodded and walked over to the phone. He picked it up, listened and then hung up. Brady assumed it was Carl with the warning that he was on his way up. Gibbs caught Brady’s eye. It was an unblinking stare devoid of any emotion or even recognition. He walked over to his boss, bent down and whispered something to him.

Madley simply nodded.

Brady noticed a thirty-year-old bottle of Talisker on the table with two tumblers, both filled with a liberal measure of whisky. Madley, however, was drinking coffee. Not that Brady was surprised. It was only 11:00 a.m. Madley looked relaxed, casual. But the glinting coldness in his brown eyes told Brady immediately that he wasn’t welcome.

Brady had known Madley for as long as he could remember. They had shared a childhood, if it could be called that, in the war-torn, crime-ridden streets of the Ridges. Both had chosen a life of crime: Brady fighting it, Madley living it. The police had been after Madley for years but he was elusive. Rumour had it that he didn’t owe his extravagant lifestyle to the two nightclubs and hotel he owned. Revenue was good, but not good enough to afford Madley the life he led. The simple answer was drugs. Madley was the drugs baron and mafia lord of the North-East; at least, that was the word on the street. The closest the police had come to Madley was arresting two of his henchmen for dealing in Class A drugs and carrying firearms. Neither man talked, despite being offered more lenient sentences in exchange for information. Brady didn’t know whether these men were working for themselves or someone else. Nor did he want to. He had once asked Madley about the rumours and Madley had appeased him. He had sworn to Brady that he wouldn’t deal in that kind of shit and Brady had believed him. If the alternative was true, then Brady would have to distance himself from Madley. But Brady was certain he knew Madley well enough to know that he wouldn’t deal in drugs.

Madley stood up, smiling apologetically at his guests as he did so. He made a point of smoothing down his black Armani suit and slightly adjusting his Italian, handmade silk tie before turning and walking over to Brady. Each step was measured as he weighed up the consequences of Brady’s intrusion. Madley was the same age as Brady and a few inches shorter. His frame may have been slighter than Brady’s, but that meant nothing. Madley could take down anyone. There was no question about it; his reputation preceded him. Not that Brady had ever witnessed anything. If he had, he would’ve had no choice but to act upon it – friend or no friend. But Madley had morals – of a sort. Like Brady, he had been raised a Catholic and would call upon his faith if the need arose. When his barman Carl had his eyeball ripped out by someone punching him with a car key over the bar, Madley had looked after him. He had made sure that Carl was treated to the best medical care money could buy. As for the man who’d attacked Carl, Brady had heard talk that he’d ended up paying for what he’d done. Not that Madley’s name had ever come into it.

‘Jack?’ Madley asked as he approached Brady. His voice was polite and controlled but his eyes said something entirely different.

‘Martin,’ Brady nodded at him. ‘Do you mind calling your guard dog off?’ He gestured at Weasel Face.

‘What did you fucking say?’ Weasel Face demanded in a thick Cockney accent, his blue beady eyes challenging Brady. He made a point of flashing the Glock 31 he had concealed under his cheap Burton’s jacket.

‘I said why don’t you get the fuck off my planet?’

‘I’ll fucking—’ Weasel Face began, but Madley’s hand on his shoulder swiftly silenced him.

Brady watched him squirm under his boss’ touch. There was something about Madley’s unnerving calmness that could put the fear of God into even an on-the-edge, dangerous hired gun like Weasel Face.

‘Why don’t you let me handle this?’ Madley said as he bent towards his employee’s ear, not once taking his dark eyes off Brady. His voice was barely audible; low, unobtrusive but chillingly menacing.

Brady had known Madley too long and shared too much history with him to be intimidated. Brady knew where he came from, no matter how much Madley tried to pretend otherwise. He may have smoothed the edges off his rough North-East accent, refining it to suit the company he now kept, but they both knew his roots. The designer suits, tanned complexion and golfing afternoons might have fooled everyone else, but not Brady. He knew Madley better than anyone in that room. Which was the very reason he was there.

Brady watched as Weasel Face stepped away to lick his wounds. He shot Brady a look that said it all. He would wait for the day when it was just him and Brady. And then he would show Brady who was boss.

Brady gave Weasel Face a ‘fuck you’ look.

‘Outside. Now,’ instructed Madley.

Brady knew he’d overstepped the mark. But he didn’t care. He needed to hear from Madley what the hell was going on.

Just as he was about to walk outside, he watched as one of the businessmen turned and said something to his associate. Quietly laughing at whatever his partner sitting next to him had said, he leaned over and picked up his whisky tumbler.

He wondered who they were and why they were in Madley’s office. Both had kept their backs to him, making it impossible to identify them. But it was clear from the way they held themselves and their expensive taste in suits that they had money.

‘Jack,’ Madley said. It was not a question, more an order.

Distracted, Brady nodded. He was trying to see if he recognised the other man. But all that Brady could make out was the back of his head and his wide shoulders.

Brady realised that Gibbs was assessing the scene from the window. Thick, swollen biceps folded across his overly pumped, wide chest. Brady could see the buttons on the white shirt beneath his black suit jacket straining from the bulging muscle beneath. He gave Brady a jerk of the head. A subtle prompt to make a move – or else.

Brady ignored him. He had dealt with worse and survived.

‘Why don’t you introduce me to your friends, Martin?’ he said, keeping his eyes on the two men on the couch.

Brady watched as the blond businessman abruptly stood up and walked over to the window towards Gibbs. He kept his back to the room as he said something to Gibbs that Brady couldn’t hear, not that he was meant to. Gibbs nodded and then unfolded his arms and looked over in Madley’s direction. It was clear that Madley’s guest was uncomfortable. More, pissed off by Brady’s unwelcome presence. He was obviously hiding something – his identity.

But before Brady could walk over to him, Madley had him by the arm and was dragging him out of the room into the corridor.

Madley waited until the office door closed behind them before speaking. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’

‘Who is he?’ Brady asked, ignoring both the question and Madley’s furious expression.

‘None of your fucking business, that’s who.’

‘Looked a bit edgy to me . . . as if he’s hiding something. You should be more careful who you do business with,’ advised Brady.

Madley lost control. He pushed him hard against the wall and shoved his arm tight under Brady’s throat. He might have been shorter but he had the upper hand; always did when it came to a fight.