Broken Silence (5 page)

‘I better warn you, Jack, all hell’s breaking loose here,’ Turner said in a conspiratorial tone.

Brady searched Charlie Turner’s tiny, dark eyes hidden beneath sagging, crumpled eyelids and realised he was being serious.

‘What’s going on?’

‘What? You must have heard about Jimmy Matthews? He was suspended earlier this morning! I expect that’s why you’ve been called in early—’ Turner stopped as the doors behind Brady swung open and then slammed closed. The heavy dull sound reverberated throughout the old building.

The knot in Brady’s stomach tightened. Turner knew that he and Jimmy Matthews went way back. They had both signed up to the force the old-fashioned way and had worked hard, watching each other’s back to get to where they were now: Detective Inspectors.

‘I can’t say any more than I’ve said. But, watch your step, eh? Gates is in no mood for games right now,’ Turner said in a hushed voice before Conrad reached them.

‘So, Harry, how’s it going?’ Turner asked as he nodded at Conrad.

‘Fine, just fine,’ answered Conrad, straightening his tie.

‘It’s going to be one of those days,’ stated Turner as he shook his head. Murders were always bad news; especially when they landed on your doorstep.

‘Sure is,’ agreed Brady, wondering what the hell Matthews had done to be suspended. At least he now knew who it was he had replaced on the murder investigation. The question was why?

A sudden spasm of pain in his left thigh made him flinch.

‘You sure you’re all right there, Jack?’ queried Turner.

‘Yeah, it’s nothing. It comes and goes, that’s all,’ lied Brady as he tried to keep his voice steady.

‘Bloody bastards,’ Turner said in consolation.

Brady wanted to tell Turner to save his pity. He deserved everything he’d got. Maybe if he’d had his wits about him rather than feeling guilty about the previous drunken night with DC Simone Henderson it would never have happened.

The night he had been shot he had been following some low-lifes in North Shields when he had the sudden feeling that someone was tailing him. He didn’t say a word to Conrad or the three other guys in the back-up van a few streets away. He wanted to make sure first. Soon the dealers he had under surveillance were on the move. He shook the fear that he was being tailed, putting it down to paranoia, and made his way down to North Shields quayside. He had an instinct that something big was about to happen; he just hadn’t realised that it was going to happen to him.

He had parked in a dark side street which led down to the quay and got out of the car and waited. He had pimped his soul for what little information he had; the news of two warring drug dealers wanting to sort out territory was enough for him. He saw movement ahead as the men he had followed got out of their car and approached another one. He radioed Conrad and told him that it was going down but before he knew what had hit him, a bullet was lodged in his thigh, too close for comfort to his balls. The shock hit first, then the pain. He felt something; a sticky warm feeling seeping from between his clenched arse cheeks. For a God-fearing moment he thought he had shit himself. Then he realised with great relief that it was blood. Thank fuck was his only thought. He didn’t want anyone back at the station thinking his bowels had bailed out under pressure. Shit like that could never be lived down.

By the time he had realised what had happened it was too late. He had heard a car further up the street screeching as it tried to get away. The gun was never found. He presumed it was an unregistered piece loaned from any one of the enterprising, hardened scum that could easily be found if you looked long enough. Unsurprisingly no one witnessed
the shooting. He was under no illusions. This was North Shields quayside late at night. The only witnesses that would have been around would have just as readily pulled the trigger on a plain-clothes copper as the shooter himself.

A huge investigation was ordered by his superiors. After all, one of their detectives had been shot and they had to look as if they gave a damn. His superiors put on a good show of solidarity for the media, but privately they let him know he’d crossed the line once too often and this time they held him responsible for blowing the investigation. The gunshot wound to his leg gave them the ammunition for deriding him as too much of a risk-taker; stating it had only been a matter of time before he or another officer under his command ended up injured, if not dead.

The story that he had been sprung by local drug dealers became widely accepted. As expected, nothing turned up and inevitably the case went cold. Whether his cover had been blown, Brady couldn’t say. He’d crossed enough people in his life to make him realise that any one of them could have had him shot.

Brady looked up at Turner’s concerned, ageing face and gave him a half-smile.

‘I’m not dead yet, so don’t look so happy!’

‘You sure you’re ready to be back?’ asked Turner, unconvinced by Brady’s camaraderie.

‘Doctor wouldn’t have passed me if I wasn’t, now would he? You know what a tight-arsed bugger he can be,’ replied Brady.

‘Well, I can’t argue with you there,’ agreed Turner, smiling as he shook his head. ‘Bit of advice, bonny lad,’ offered Turner as he bent his head towards Brady’s. ‘Get some food
down you while you’ve got the chance. It might put a bit of colour back into you.’

‘Thanks, Charlie. Come on, Conrad, I don’t know about you but I’m starving,’ Brady said as he edged past Turner towards the wooden doors behind the reception desk.

Turner shook his head as he watched Brady disappear through the doors, followed by Conrad.

‘Watch your back, Jack,’ advised Turner just loud enough for Conrad to turn and catch his gaze for a few brief seconds.

‘Sir?’ prompted Conrad. ‘The briefing will be starting soon.’

‘Relax, will you?’ Brady said as he pushed his empty plate away. ‘You’re starting to make me feel bloody edgy.’

Brady could see that Conrad would rather be anywhere else than sat in the station’s basement canteen. The canteen was a depressing place at the best of times without the flickering overhead fluorescent lights adding to it. But Brady delighted in the greasy smell of fried food and cheap, bitter coffee. He felt most relaxed sat smoking at one of the many outdated sixties red, laminated tables, underneath the cracked basement windows. It always amused him that the basement windows were protected by wrought-iron bars. Who the hell would want to break into a cop shop? he wondered as he stared up at the dismal, bleak attempt at daylight outside.

Not that he could smoke by the windows any more. The new law had turned the building, as was the case with all public service buildings, into a non-smoking environment. Instead, Brady and the rest of the addicts were driven to standing in smoke-filled conspiratorial huddles outside the emergency exit door at the back of the station.

‘Not turning soft on me are you?’ questioned Brady as he turned his attention back to Conrad.

‘No, just have no appetite,’ answered Conrad pushing his uneaten fried breakfast away. The truth was he felt as sick as a dog and couldn’t understand how Brady, after seeing the state of the murder victim, could have just eaten a bacon and fried egg stottie.

Brady watched him. He knew that the state the victim had been left in had gotten to Conrad as much as it had to him. But the difference was Brady had eight years on Conrad and a lifetime in the force working his way up from the bottom. And along the way he had dealt with every imaginable crime possible. This young murder victim was just another statistic. But for Conrad, an Oxbridge graduate fast-tracked through the system, brutal murder victims like this one were still a raw and disturbing experience.

‘Jack!’ a deep voice boomed suddenly from behind.

Brady turned round and grinned lamely.

‘How are you doing?’ thundered Tom Harvey as he landed a large calloused hand on Brady’s shoulder.

‘Great,’ replied Brady.

Harvey pulled out a chair and sat down with a deep sigh.

Brady waited. Harvey wasn’t the kind of Detective Sergeant to waste time with small talk. He was a man in his mid-forties who had been in the force for as long as Brady could remember. There was a time when Brady and Harvey had shared the same rank, but then Brady had been promoted. They had spent too many nights discussing a case over a pint or two to let Brady’s promotion affect their friendship. Harvey was happy to admit that he was too steadfast and plodding to go higher than a DS and had added at the time that he couldn’t deal with the politics that came hand-in-hand with promotion. But then again, neither could Brady which was proving to be a problem.

‘I heard you were due back. But Christ! Talk about timing!’ Harvey said as he caught Brady’s eye. He rubbed his large hand over his clean-shaven jaw as he weighed Brady up. He noticed Conrad shoot him a disapproving look at his familiar tone with a senior officer, so for Conrad’s benefit he loudly added, ‘Sir.’

Brady smiled at Harvey’s heavy-handedness at pretending he was something other than just plain old Jack Brady.

‘What the hell happened to you while I was away?’ Brady asked as he gestured towards Harvey’s dark charcoal suit and dark maroon matching shirt and tie.

‘Just lost a bit of weight, that’s all,’ answered Harvey. ‘It’s worked wonders for my personal life,’ he added with a wink.

Brady couldn’t help but smile. There was a time when Harvey wouldn’t be seen in anything other than khaki chinos, an unbuttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tan brogues, but since Gates had taken over as DCI things had changed.

‘Dora!’ Harvey thundered warmly at the short barrelled woman wiping down the table next to them. ‘Be a pet and get me my usual!’

‘How many times do I have to tell you? Place your order up at the till. I can’t be running around all day after the likes of you,’ she answered in an irate, thick Geordie accent. Her large breasts heaved as she breathed out in exasperation.

Harvey’s eyes sparkled as he playfully winked at her.

Dora harrumphed, and shook her head in defeat before walking away.

‘Have you seen Jimmy yet?’ Harvey asked as he turned back to Brady.

Brady sat upright.

Harvey shot Conrad a look which told him that he wasn’t wanted.

‘I need a fresh coffee,’ Conrad said, taking the not too subtle hint.

Harvey waited until Conrad had moved off before speaking.

‘He’s in a bad way.’

‘What the fuck’s going on, Tom?’

Harvey leaned forward. ‘I don’t know why exactly but from what I heard he lost it for a few minutes at the crime scene. He was one of the first called out and … Fuck! Your guess is as good as mine,’ Harvey said as he shook his head. ‘Bloody took his coat off and put it over the victim’s body! I mean … fuck it! What the hell would possess him to do that?’

Brady remained silent. It just didn’t sound like Matthews; he was one of the best DIs on the force and had in his time encountered worse murder scenes than this one. Brady knew that sometimes a grisly murder could send even the most hardened cops over the edge, but not Matthews. Brady had grown up fast and furious on the desperate streets of the Ridges, Matthews in war-torn Benwell, each learning to survive on instinct and fists alone. Neither believed that their work in CID could change what happened in the Ridges and the Benwells of the world, but they would do their best to contain it.

Brady had seen as many murders as any other DI during his time stationed at Wallsend and the West End of Newcastle, but as of yet, nothing had significantly thrown him. He casually put it down to the fact that he had had a tough childhood, tougher than even Matthews’ thuggish upbringing; one that had prepared him well for being a copper.

Brady looked up at the dim, grey light squeezing through the bars of the basement window. He couldn’t think straight, it just didn’t make sense. Matthews was different; Brady would never make it beyond Detective Inspector, whereas Matthews had the makings of a Chief Superintendent. He was ruthless, that was all there was to it; bloody ruthless.

‘Got to go,’ apologised Brady as he stood up. He had to find Matthews.

His leg had stiffened again making him wince.

He turned to Harvey.

‘Tell Conrad that I’ll see him at the briefing.’

‘Sure,’ replied Harvey. ‘The Incident Room is being set up in the first-floor conference room, so you’ve got no excuses for being late. Remember, 8.30 am sharp. That gives you fifteen minutes, even you should make it in time!’

Brady managed a faint smile despite the irritating throbbing in his leg. They both knew his time keeping was poor.

‘Just so you know, we really tried to get those bastards who did that to you,’ Harvey said as he glanced at Brady’s leg. ‘Especially Conrad. There were times during the past six months when he worked two straight shifts.’

‘Yeah, he’s a good bloke,’ Brady acknowledged as he looked over at his deputy.

‘You look like shit!’ Brady said to Matthews as he entered his office.

He had expected to find Matthews waiting for him. It’s exactly what he would have done in his situation. But he couldn’t help being thrown. Matthews’ face was sickly pale and his eyes, which watched Brady’s every move, shone with a feverish madness.

Brady limped over to his desk and sat down. He could see that Matthews had already helped himself to a generous measure of the Glenfiddich he kept in his drawer for when things got too much.

‘You want another?’ Brady asked as he jerked his head in the direction of the malt.

Matthews nodded dejectedly.

Brady obliged him with a liberal refill. He picked up another mug off his desk and thought about pouring himself a small measure. Something about Matthews’ silence told him he was going to need it. He then thought the better of it and put the malt back. The last thing he wanted to do was rile Gates more than usual and drinking on the job on his first day back wasn’t a good tactic.

Brady watched as Matthews gratefully downed the malt
before letting out a low, wounded sigh. He shook his head in disbelief before lifting his eyes to meet Brady’s. They had the despairing look of a rabid dog condemned to die.