Vanishing Point (14 page)

Brady drew heavily on his cigarette as he thought about the evidence on the surveillance tape Madley had given him.

He watched as Conrad hit the traffic lights where the amusements had once been on the sea front opposite the Spanish City Dome. He automatically glanced in the wing mirror to make sure they weren’t being followed. Or more to the point,
he
wasn’t.

He’d left his car being examined forensically by Ainsworth’s team. He had no choice. Hopefully he’d get it back by the end of the day.

He was worried about explaining all this to Gates. The reason he had been at the lighthouse was because he was meeting with Madley – a suspect in Adamson’s books when it came to Simone Henderson’s attack. And one alleged to be a local drugs baron, although that was still an unsubstantiated claim.

‘The serial number, sir,’ Conrad began. ‘Sir?’ he repeated when Brady didn’t reply.

Brady distractedly turned to Conrad, unable to rid himself of the gruesome image of the victim’s head in the black bin liner.

‘Sorry?’

His mind was racing.

There had been a note in the black bin liner. A note which made it quite clear that it was no accident that a severed head had been left in Brady’s car. He hadn’t told Conrad about the note. He had simply handed it over to Ainsworth to be forensically examined. He needed time to figure out exactly what the note meant before sharing it with Conrad and the rest of the team.

‘The serial number you gave me, sir,’ explained Conrad. ‘It seems that every silicone implant has a serial code which is registered with the clinic where they are surgically inserted. The silicone implants removed from the murder victim are registered with a cosmetic surgery clinic named Virenyos in Budapest, sir.’

Brady thought about the sixteen-year-old girl who had been reported missing earlier.

‘Did they have the patient’s name registered with the serial number?’

‘No, sir. Seems they have too high a turnover to keep all the records. They keep records for up to two months after the surgical procedure and then they delete them. I think it’s more to do with patients suing them for malpractice once they get back to the UK and realise that cheap surgery combined with a holiday comes at a price. You reckon it could be the missing girl, sir?’ Conrad asked.

‘We can’t rule out coincidence. But all the same, she did have a breast job carried out at a clinic in Budapest.’

Brady took out his phone. He needed to get Harvey on this straight away.

‘Tom?’ Brady asked.

‘Fuck me, Jack! How the bloody hell did you end up with the victim’s missing head in your bloody car, eh?’ quizzed Harvey.

Brady’s silence was enough.

‘Well, at least it’s saved us a job hunting up and down the coastline looking for it,’ Harvey continued, filling in the awkward gap.

‘That’s if it’s her,’ Brady coolly pointed out.

‘Yeah … let’s not get a
head
of ourselves, eh?’ replied Harvey, unable to help himself.

Brady didn’t laugh.

He knew that in all likelihood it would belong to the girl lying in one of the thirty body refrigerators in Rake Lane Hospital’s morgue. The girl whose body had been sadistically raped, sodomised and then murdered.

‘Conrad’s traced the serial number from the silicone implants found in the victim’s breasts to a clinic called Virenyos in Budapest. We need to see if they match with the missing girl so I need the details of the clinic and the serial number of the silicone implants from her parents. But under no circumstances let them know what we’ve found.’

‘Conrad’s already informed us. So I went ahead and requested the clinic details and serial number from the parents,’ answered Harvey.

‘Thanks, Tom.’

Brady sighed as he disconnected the call, relieved that Harvey was already onto it.

‘Gates wants to know when you’re holding a press call, sir,’ Conrad informed him.

Brady momentarily took his eyes off the wing mirror and shot Conrad an incredulous look.

‘Not exactly looking my best right now,’ replied Brady.

Conrad didn’t respond.

‘You did put the briefing back?’ asked Brady. It was already nearly 3pm, which was when the briefing was supposed to take place.

‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad replied. ‘I pushed it back by an hour given the circumstances.’

‘Good,’ muttered Brady. It gave him some time to get his head sorted and make a couple of calls.

‘Oh, and sir, Claudia, your ex-wife—’ Conrad began.

‘I know who Claudia is, Conrad!’

Brady nervously rubbed the dark, emerging stubble on his face as he checked the wing mirror again.

Conrad refrained from saying anything. Instead he focused on the traffic lights, waiting for them to change.

‘I’m sorry, Conrad,’ apologised Brady as Conrad slowly pulled away. ‘I’ve just got a lot on my mind right now.’

His deputy nodded,

‘I understand sir,’ he answered simply.

‘Claudia then?’ Brady asked.

‘She’s waiting in your office for you,’ Conrad nodded. ‘Seems she has some information.’

‘Do you know what it’s about?’ asked Brady.

Conrad shook his head. ‘No sir, she wouldn’t say.’

*

Conrad pulled into a rare parking space opposite the station.

Brady waited until he had turned off the engine before slowly getting out the car. He still felt shaken. His head and ribs still hurt and he couldn’t get rid of the stench of decomposing flesh from his nostrils. He knew the smell would be clinging to his skin. And he could feel the decay emanating from his pores.

‘Conrad, do me a favour will you? Go and tell Claudia I’ll be with her directly.’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Conrad as he locked his car.

He turned expectantly to Brady, surprised he wasn’t making a move towards the station.

‘I just need five minutes on my own to clear my head,’ Brady explained.

Conrad gave him a questioning look.

‘Get Harvey to leave a copy of the missing girl’s parents’ statement on my desk for me. Just in case the clinic and silicone details match.’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Conrad.

Brady watched as he walked across the road and up the stairs into Whitley Bay Police Station. Conrad turned and looked back at him briefly before going through the heavy, wooden double doors.

Brady was the first to admit that at this precise moment he didn’t look too good. His face told a recent story of having had the shit kicked out of him. He was temporarily vehicle-less while forensics treated his car as a crime scene and he was withholding evidence in his jacket pocket that fingered his brother Nick for the attempted murder of a copper.

In those early, blurred months over countless bottles of Scotch, Brady remembered talking to Nick about the reason his wife had left him. But he was certain he wouldn’t have mentioned Simone by name. Or had he? He wasn’t sure about anything any more.

The only thing he was certain about was the fact that he needed to find Nick before someone else did.

He took out his phone.

Trina McGuire was Nick’s girlfriend of old. And apart from Brady and Madley, she was the only other connection Nick had with the North East.

He scrolled down his list of numbers. He knew he had her in there somewhere. He’d had to call her enough times in connection with her wayward son, Shane McGuire. Trina was a lap dancer at the Hole in Wallsend. A place that only the hardened locals would dare visit.

Brady found her number. He pressed call and waited.

‘Yeah?’ croaked a sleepy voice.

‘Trina? It’s Jack,’ answered Brady.

‘Oh fuck! What’s he been up to now, eh? I swear I’ll drown him in the Tyne if he’s been stealing booze again!’

Brady cleared his throat.

‘No, Trina, this has got nothing to do with Shane.’

‘Then why the hell are you calling me at 2:47pm on a Saturday afternoon when I just crawled into bed a few hours ago?’

Brady realised that she must have had a busy night at work. Despite the recession, the sex trade was still going strong.

‘It’s Nick,’ Brady answered. ‘He’s back in the North East.’

‘So? What that’s got to do with me, DI Brady?’

‘I need to get in touch with him.’

‘Hadaway and shite, will you? Do what most people do, give him a call!’

‘He’s gone to ground. And I was hoping he might have got in touch with you.’

Trina was silent.

Brady knew her silence meant that she knew something. She was a woman of many words; too many at times.

‘No …’

‘Come on, Trina.’

Silence again.

‘What is it? What do you know?’

‘Nothing. Alright? I know nothing!’

‘Don’t make me put out a call to get Shane lifted. Maybe he’ll be a bit more forthcoming. Last time I heard he was dealing in coke.’

‘You bastard! I could never figure out how you could be Nick’s brother. At least he’s got principles!’

Brady didn’t answer her. Once he would have agreed that you couldn’t meet a man with more honour and principles than his brother.

‘Look, Trina … please. I’m desperate …’

‘Listen to me, Jack Brady, you stay well away from me and my Shane. Understand?

With that Trina McGuire hung up.

He tried to call her again. The phone rang and then it cut off. He tried a third and fourth time to no avail. She was making it very clear that she had no intention of talking to him.

Brady wearily sighed.

He looked up and down the street. He had every right to be paranoid. Someone was playing with him. Once he was satisfied that no one had followed him, or was watching him, he walked across the road to the station. His biggest fear was that someone had a hold over Nick. That he was being coerced into doing whatever it was he was involved in. Trina was right. Nick had principles. More principles than he himself did.

So he knew that Nick couldn’t have harmed Simone. But then, questioned Brady, troubled, why was it that he’d been caught on Madley’s nightclub surveillance camera carrying her body, wrapped up in black plastic, into the gents’ toilets five minutes before an anonymous call was made to the emergency services?

And despite the attempt at disguising the voice, Brady had recognised it. He had denied it, of course. Argued with himself that it could be anyone with a North East accent. Brady assumed Madley, like himself, had recognised Nick’s voice when Adamson had played him the 999 call. But Madley, being Madley, obviously hadn’t reacted.

That didn’t mean he was protecting Nick. No, Madley was protecting Brady. At least for the time being. Madley wanted Brady to find out exactly what Nick was involved in and why. So Madley could sort it his way without police involvement.

Brady knew that Carl, the one-eyed Mancunian barman who had found Simone Henderson’s body in the gents’, had sent for Madley. Immediately. Carl always looked out for Madley. His loyalty was sealed when Madley had got even on his behalf with the bastard who had punched him in the face with a car key. All because he thought Carl had short-changed him at the bar. Madley had taken the bloke into the cellar and had both his arms broken at the elbow by Gibbs. Effectively making sure he couldn’t even wipe his own arse, let alone take someone’s eye out again.

Carl owed Madley and would do anything he asked. Including discreetly removing the copper from the nightclub and making her someone else’s headache. The last thing Madley wanted was a copper turning up gutted and mutilated in his nightclub. It wasn’t good for business and it wasn’t good for his reputation. Madley didn’t want his competitors, always hungry for the next big job, to know that he’d been set up.

But Nick hadn’t given Carl, or Madley, time to sort it.

The emergency call had come in before Carl had a chance to get Madley. Before he knew it the police had covered the place.

Brady sighed heavily as he walked up the stairs to the station doors. Unsurprisingly, his head was pounding from repeatedly going over everything and getting nowhere.

Before he realised it, he had walked straight into DI Robert Adamson coming out through the wooden doors of the station.

‘You’re the last person I would expect to see here after the stunt you pulled at the hospital!’ Adamson thickly greeted.

Brady shot him a dark look before pushing past.

‘I take it you haven’t seen DCI Gates yet?’

‘What particular aspect of the star sign “prat” were you born under?’ Brady muttered.

‘What did you say?’ demanded Adamson.

Brady turned back and stared at him.

‘I’m going to make sure that you get kicked off the force,’ snarled Adamson. ‘Just wait until the DCI gets a good look at your face. Go on, tell me how you’re going to hold a press call for that washed-up murder of yours? Eh? Not exactly going to instil public confidence in the police if you go about looking like some thug from the Ridges. Oh, I forgot – that’s exactly what you are!’

‘Fuck off!’ replied Brady, turning away.

‘Say that to my face, you wanker!’ shouted Adamson.

Brady clenched his fists and forced himself to walk through the double doors. Otherwise he would end up doing something he would later regret.

Chapter Twenty-One

Brady walked past reception and the desk sergeant and through the door that led into the station.

Still pissed off by his run-in with Adamson, he didn’t see Amelia coming round the corner.

‘I’m sorry,’ he quickly apologised. ‘I didn’t mean to …’

‘What? Walk straight into me?’ replied Amelia irritably. ‘Second time today.’

She bent down and picked up the folder of notes she was carrying.

‘Here, let me help,’ offered Brady, bending down. He winced slightly as his bruised ribs objected.

Amelia heard him moan and looked up from the scattered notes she was hurriedly gathering up off the floor to see Brady uncomfortably crouching down, clutching his right side.

‘Christ, Jack!’ Amelia said. ‘You need to get seen by a doctor.’

‘I’m fine,’ lied Brady. ‘Honest.’

She gave him a hard, unimpressed look before she resumed picking up the sheets of paper.