Broken Silence (13 page)

Brady looked up at the oil painting hanging over the fireplace, and resisted the urge to ask Louise Simmons more about it.

He suspected the painting was a stunning copy of King Edward’s Bay, an oil painting by F. W. Reaveley, a Tynemouth-born artist who began painting local sea and landscapes from 1891. Brady knew the painting was owned by a private collector, but was sure that the painting above the fireplace couldn’t be the original which was probably worth a small fortune by now.

Instead of asking more about the painting he turned to look at Paul Simmons who was stood in the large bay window with his hands clenched, jaw rigid, eyes resentfully narrowed as he watched every move Brady made. He did
little to hide his disdain at Brady’s return. He wanted Jimmy Matthews here.

‘What hope do we have of you lot finding out who … who’s responsible if you’re sat here?’ Simmons suddenly spat.

‘We’re doing everything we can, Mr Simmons,’ Brady reasoned.

‘Including ransacking her bedroom? Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage?’

‘I’ll personally make sure everything is replaced after we’ve finished.’

‘You’re damned right you will!’ Simmons replied.

He shook his head as more footsteps could be heard descending the spiralling wooden stairs. He looked through the gap in the curtains only to see officers carrying out two bagged and sealed computers.

‘What the hell are you doing with my computer? I … I need that for work! There are confidential work files on there. The last thing I want is you idiots destroying them! And when exactly do I get them back, eh?’ Simmons asked agitatedly as he ran his fingers through his short hair. ‘Christ! You’re a bunch of bloody idiots, all you’re doing is wasting time! There’s nothing on her computer or mine that’s connected to … to …’ Simmons faltered, unable to finish the sentence.

Brady didn’t reply. There was nothing he could say that would ease Simmons’ anger. Now wasn’t the time to explain that paedophiles used the internet to get close to children. Most parents were completely unaware of the dangers. Brady knew the statistics and they weren’t good. One out of every five children using chatrooms had been approached by a sexual predator unbeknown to their parents. Brady
couldn’t take a chance. The victim’s computer had to be analysed. And as for Simmons’ computer, it was simply protocol. He was after all the step-father and by default the first suspect in his step-daughter’s murder. Regardless of whether or not he had appeared shaken when he identified her body.

‘If you lot had done your job when I first reported her missing then she might still be alive,’ Simmons stated through gritted teeth. His face was flushed, even his temples glowed a furious scarlet. He looked like a man who was about to have a heart attack.

‘And don’t take me for an idiot, Detective Inspector. I know you knew something when you first called round.’

Brady kept quiet. Simmons was looking for a fight and he wasn’t up for accepting the challenge. He knew better than anyone the reason why the standard police procedure was to wait twenty-four hours before seriously acting on a missing persons report. If Sophie Washington had been under ten years old then the police would have acted immediately. However a missing child of Sophie’s age was treated with a dose of cynical pragmatism.

Sophie Washington wasn’t the first teenager to be reported missing and certainly wouldn’t be the last. Typically, kids Sophie’s age would disappear for a night, or at worst a few days. Arguments at home were the common cause for them absconding. However, sometimes parents weren’t so fortunate, sometimes their children never returned home. Brady had dealt with missing kids as young as eleven running off to Manchester or London, only to be swallowed up by the rapidly growing child prostitution market.

Considering all the possible outcomes, Brady had had to
ask some awkward questions, unwelcome questions; ones that Paul Simmons didn’t accept too readily. But what troubled Brady was the picture the Simmons were painting of their daughter. He was having difficulty swallowing it. She was perfect, too perfect. Yet they had waited until 3 am before reporting her missing? It didn’t rest easy with Brady.

More so when Paul Simmons had no alibi; his wife had gone to bed at 10 pm, which left his actions unaccounted for. And then, six hours later his step-daughter is discovered brutally murdered yards from her own home. Simmons’ lack of an alibi made Brady feel uncomfortable. Statistically, fathers were responsible for the majority of murdered children over the age of eight. Add to that the harsh reality that step-children were 100 times more likely to be murdered by their step-father.

The modus operandi suggested that Sophie knew her attacker well. The murderer had clearly left his signature; to spend time bludgeoning Sophie’s face beyond recognition was an unnecessary addition to the murder. It reeked of emotional attachment to the victim. Brady had seen it numerous times when called to a murder scene where a woman had been beaten or stabbed to death by her spouse. It was always messy. The spouse would go into overdrive, which led to overkill. Unable to let go of whatever hatred they felt for the victim they would continue to rage long after the victim had stopped breathing.

‘Maybe if you spent some time out there rather than in here asking us ridiculous questions you might get your answers!’ snapped Simmons angrily.

‘I understand your anger, sir. But as I’ve said these questions have to be asked.’

‘What more do you want from us?’ attacked Simmons.
‘Can’t you see the state my wife’s in? This is damned ridiculous.’

‘I’m sorry, but we need all the information you can give us, regardless of how small. Including anything else you can tell us about who Sophie socialised with, whether on the internet or in person,’ replied Brady calmly.

‘Why? Surely to God it was a random attack? I mean, why would anyone who knew her want to attack her?’ questioned Simmons, his eyes fixed on Brady.

‘I don’t know, which is why I need to ask the questions I’m asking,’ answered Brady.

Simmons didn’t reply.

Brady decided to try another tactic; one that was guaranteed to get a reaction.

‘Why would Sophie have a tattoo?’

Simmons froze.

Brady watched as his face paled.

‘I … I don’t know …’ he muttered.

‘If I’m getting this right, you’re both telling me that Sophie was a grade A star pupil. That she tutored maths on a Saturday morning at school for Year 6 children and that she was also involved in quite a few extracurricular activities after school?’

‘That’s correct,’ answered Simmons stiffly as he narrowed his cold eyes.

‘Then why would such a bright, sociable fifteen-year-old decide to get something as rebellious as a tattoo? It just doesn’t fit with the story you’re giving me,’ Brady challenged.

He could feel the temperature in the room drop as Simmons turned on him.

‘You bastard! You have the audacity to question what we’re telling you about our daughter when she’s lying in a
morgue because of you lot. If you idiots had taken me seriously when I reported her missing then she might not be dead. So don’t you dare make out we’re somehow guilty.’

It was a good move. So good Brady felt the punch. Simmons was clearly very adept at avoiding certain questions.

‘I apologise if I’ve offended you and your wife. I just need to be absolutely sure that you’re telling me everything you know about Sophie and not some edited version,’ replied Brady, ignoring the fact that his BlackBerry was vibrating.

‘I swear I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!’ exploded Simmons.

‘Paul?’ Louise Simmons whispered.

‘I mean it! No one comes into my house and disrespects Sophie. Get out! Go on! Get out before I throw you out!’ shouted Simmons.

‘All I’m trying to do is get a better understanding of who would do this to Sophie. And if that makes you uncomfortable, then I’m sorry,’ Brady apologised.

‘Detective Inspector Brady?’ Louise Simmons tremulously said.

Simmons was staring at his wife, his face contorted with repressed anger.

‘I … I didn’t know that Sophie had … had that tattoo … but it doesn’t surprise me,’ nervously stated Louise Simmons, ignoring her husband’s attempt to silence her.

‘Why?’ asked Brady.

‘Her father, my ex-husband, died last September and … and Sophie never really got over his loss. She … she was never the same after that.’

‘How so?’

Louise Simmons shrugged.

‘It’s hard to explain … she just seemed so distant and really angry most of the time … As if she was blaming me
for her father’s death somehow … Maybe she got the tattoo as a way of getting back at me? She knew I hated them … and … well …’ She broke off as tears started to flow down her pale cheeks.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Louise,’ snapped Simmons. ‘She was just a typical teenager who was talked into getting that tattoo by her friends, no doubt. You know what peer pressure is like amongst kids. You’re reading too much into it. And if she was so affected by her father’s death then her schoolwork would have suffered. And did it?’

Louise Simmons shook her head reluctantly.

‘No …’ she weakly muttered.

‘Exactly! She was a straight-A student who excelled at everything she did. And yes, she could be moody and temperamental but you show me a teenager today who isn’t,’ asserted Simmons. ‘So let’s not waste police time talking about typical teenager behaviour. What counts now is finding out who did this monstrous thing to our Sophie. Yes?’

Louise Simmons looked up at her husband and nodded nervously.

‘You’re right,’ she conceded.

She then looked at Brady.

‘I’m sorry for wasting your time … I … I’m just not thinking straight …’ she whispered.

‘Come on,’ said Simmons, calming down. ‘How about I get you a refill?’

Louise Simmons looked down at the empty crystal glass cupped in her hands and nodded weakly.

Simmons took the glass and shot Brady a look which told him the interview was over.

Brady felt his phone vibrating again. He took it out of his inner jacket pocket and checked the caller.

‘I’m really sorry but I’m going to have to take this,’ he said as he looked at Louise Simmons.

He turned away, ignoring Simmons’ furious glare. ‘Of course. If you need privacy you can take it upstairs,’ Louise Simmons weakly answered. ‘Thanks,’ Brady replied.

He headed out into the hallway before answering the call.

‘About bloody time! I haven’t got all day!’ wheezed a familiar voice.

‘Yeah, I was tied up,’ Brady explained.

‘Aren’t we all, Jack? Aren’t we all?’ huskily wheezed Wolfe before succumbing to a coughing fit.

Brady patiently waited until the spluttering subsided to heavy wheezing. Wolfe had asthma. But that wasn’t what caused his wheezing and gut-splitting coughing. He was a heavy smoker and drinker with a rather robust appetite; all combined it led to him being at least five stone overweight. He liked his vices, a little too much.

‘What have you got?’ Brady asked Wolfe.

‘You’ll have to wait. I’ll be done by two. Meet me at the usual place. And lose the sidekick. He gives me indigestion,’ Wolfe ordered before disconnecting the call.

Wolfe and Conrad had never seen eye to eye. Wolfe was the best Home Office pathologist in the force; everyone knew it, but everyone also knew he had a drink problem; one that began at lunchtime and could continue through to the next working day. Somehow, the old bugger had developed the tolerance of a rhinoceros. Brady didn’t know how the hell he kept sober, but he did. Even Chief Superintendent O’Donnell
was aware of Wolfe’s indiscretion, but chose to ignore it, knowing that he would never be able to replace Wolfe’s unerring skill.

Conrad on the other hand, found it difficult to listen to Wolfe’s findings over a pie and a pint. He didn’t have the stomach for it. Either for the food or Wolfe’s autopsy reports and definitely not served together.

Brady looked out of the large window. Below him was the Simmons’ long back garden. And just beyond it, the crime scene. Trees and overgrown bushes hid most of the farmhouse ruins but Brady could still make out the white-clad SOCOs. He sighed heavily and turned round. He was stood in one of the two double back bedrooms. But this wasn’t just any room, Brady suddenly realised. This was Sophie’s room. The room’s heady aroma was claustrophobic; a sickly combination of perfume and deodorant, it was all that was left of Sophie Washington.

Brady had excused himself a few minutes earlier, stating that he needed to take a call. He wanted to be out of earshot of the Simmons and the other officers as soon as he realised it was Wolfe calling and had found his way upstairs into Sophie’s room.

He looked around at the teenage chaos. Posters of bands and other crap covered the walls, reminding Brady that he was getting old. The double bed and the large chest of wooden drawers and bedside cabinets were covered in make-up, perfume, nail varnish, clothes, CDs; the sprawling paraphernalia was endless. The door to the walk-in closet had been left wide open and Brady could see from where he was standing that clothes and shoes lay scattered in much the same disarray as in her room. A large mirror stood in the corner, lost in a disarray of clothes, some of which were
tossed over the mirror or dumped on the polished wooden floor. Wherever she was going last night, the last thing she had on her mind was homework.

He wasn’t surprised that Sophie had a state-of-the-art forty-inch flat-screen HD television mounted on her wall or that she had every electronic gadget you could imagine scattered around. She was an only child after all, and one whose father had committed suicide and whose mother had remarried a man who Brady’s gut feeling was telling him, she didn’t actually like. The room smacked of guilt. Everywhere around him, from the fancy flat-screen TV to the expensive clothes, jewellery and make-up carelessly thrown about, suggested that Sophie’s affections were being bought.

His eyes were soon drawn to the crammed notice board above the empty computer desk. He limped over to it. It was a colourful mosaic of different sized photographs. It took Brady a minute to realise that the girl staring back at him from most of the shots was the victim. But the girl he was looking at definitely didn’t match the innocent girl her parents had just described. Nor the school photo they had first shown him.