DANIELLE RAMSAY
Vanishing Point

For Re – you know why.

Table of Contents

Title page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Read on for an extract of Danielle Ramsay’s compulsive debut novel, Broken Silence, out now.

Danielle Ramsay’s Writing Tips

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Friday: 2:40am

‘Kales vaikas!’

‘Gaukite sušikti kekše!’

‘Oh God … no …’ she muttered.

She didn’t hear the foghorn in the distance, or feel the wet sea fret as it wrapped itself around her thin, cold body. All she felt was fear.

She turned and ran as hard as she could up the dark street, away from the glow of the main road where she’d managed to jump out the car.

She could hear them continue to shout in what sounded like Russian followed by the roar of a car’s engine. She knew it was them. They wouldn’t give up until they caught her. She knew too much. Had seen too much for them to let her disappear.

Suddenly a hazy white glow appeared at the top of the dark street as a car turned down it, heading towards her.

Seeing her chance she ran as fast as she could towards the blinding glare of the approaching vehicle, grazing her bare feet against the jagged, uneven pavements. She suddenly tripped over the kerb and fell, landing heavily on her hands and knees on the road.

‘Fuck!’ she cried out.

She staggered up, her long dark hair clinging in damp clumps to her waxen, terrified face. Ignoring her bleeding knees, she lunged into the middle of the road, right in front of the oncoming car.

Skidding, the car slammed on its brakes, just missing her.

‘Help me, please … help …’

Furious, the driver punched his horn to get her out of the way.

‘Please …’

Visibly pissed off, the driver blasted the horn again.

Desperate, she ran round to the passenger door and tried to open it.

The door was locked. She started pounding at the window.

The driver, a dark-haired man in his late thirties, looked at her with contempt.

‘Please …’ she begged. ‘You’ve got to help me … please … They’re going to hurt me …’

‘Piss off home, you drunken cow!’ he said in disgust as he looked at her.

Her face was covered in a sheen of cold sweat as smudged black eyeliner and mascara trailed down her cheeks. Her short, strapless black dress was ripped halfway down the side, immodestly showing the scanty black lacy bra and thong underneath.

‘No, you can’t leave me here! They’ll kill me!’ she begged.

‘Too right I can, you slapper!’

He put his foot to the floor, threw the gear stick into first and took off, tyres screeching as he did so.

‘No … God … no …’

Feeling sick she watched the car speed away. She didn’t know what to do or where to run. All she knew was that if she didn’t hide, if they found her … She didn’t want to think about what would happen next.

She had to keep moving. And fast.

She turned and started running, following the direction the car had come from, hoping that she would find someone. Anyone who could help her.

Then she heard them turn into the street. Their footsteps pounding hard against the road, gaining on her. They were fast. Faster than her.

‘Stop jūs sušikti apskretėlė!’

She didn’t know what he was saying but she instantly recognised the voice and it caused her stomach to tighten with fear.

She stopped, paralysed.

Despite her instinct to run, she turned around.

He was standing less than twenty feet away. Six foot tall, if not more, wearing a designer black suit, an open-necked white shirt. Beside him, his muscle-bound brother. Virtually identical in height, build and dress. Both dark-skinned, covered in stubble that crept up their necks and across their prominent jawlines and cheek bones. Their hair was the same length as the stubble on their faces; coarse, thick and black. Their eyes just as dark with a hard, menacing edge.

Unable to move, she watched as a car idled up the street, coming to a stop behind the two men.

‘Ateiti cia kale!’

‘No … please …’

‘Ateik čia apskretėlė. Dabar!’ his brother barked, gesturing for her to come to him.

She shook her head as tears started to trail down her face. She didn’t need to understand the words to know what he wanted. He wanted her.

‘No … no …’

‘Fucking bitch!’ he cursed in a heavy accent as he strode over to her.

‘Help me! Someone! Help me!’ she screamed.

He grabbed her aggressively from behind. Yanking her head back by her long dark hair as his other leather-gloved hand silenced her. She struggled, unable to breathe as his hand covered her mouth and nose.

‘Sustabdyti!’ he ordered, snapping her head back as punishment.

She stopped fighting him.

‘Good girl,’ he muttered.

He then forced her over to the idling black Mercedes with blackened windows. The rear passenger window buzzed down to reveal a man in his early forties, tanned with short blond hair and piercingly blue cold eyes.

He momentarily held her terrified gaze, enjoying her fear.

The man put his right hand out the window and gently touched her cheek. His gold signet ring with the emblem ‘N’ catching her skin.

She winced, noticing that his smallest finger was deformed. Half a gnarled stump remained where the finger had been chopped off.

Terrified, she stared into the man’s eyes.

A delicate smile played at the corner of his lips.

He then nodded at the man restraining her.

‘Please … please … let me go … I won’t talk …’ she begged.

He ignored her.

She watched with sickening realisation as the dark tinted window buzzed up.

Her captor suddenly relaxed his grip on her.

‘Good. You’re learning …’ he whispered hoarsely, brushing his lips against her cold, glistening cheek.

The pungent smell of strong, stale tobacco lingered on his sour breath.

His hands gently encircled her throat.

‘No … no … please?’ she implored as she looked at the other brother.

He stared at her, unmoved, with eyes that had seen it all before.

She tried to prise the gloved hands from her neck.

His grip tightened.

Terrified, she struggled, clawing and scratching at his large hands.

Grunting with satisfaction he squeezed even harder.

She frantically tore with bloodied, broken nails as her lungs began to burn.

Ten seconds later she felt hot urine trickle down her legs as the fight started to leave her body.

‘Sssh, little bird …’ he moaned gutturally as she began to spasm.

He picked up her eight-stone body, threw her over his shoulder and carried her to the rear of the waiting black Mercedes. He released the boot and stared in admiration at the immaculate thick black plastic-lined interior. Without effort he dumped her into the prepared space. Smiling, he pulled out a ten-inch serrated knife from inside his coat and gently caressed the gleaming blade against the faint pulse in her neck and then slowly ran the tip down towards her full, pert breasts.

‘Later,’ he muttered in a heavy Eastern European accent before slamming the boot of the car shut.

He then looked around the shadowy street checking to see whether anyone was about. Nobody. The street was in darkness. He expected as much. It was after two-thirty in the morning. But he knew they had been lucky. This time.

Chapter Two

Saturday: 3:15am

Moaning, she lifted her aching head up off the cold tiled floor. It was dark, too dark to make anything out. The acrid stench of urine filled her nostrils. In the background, the razor-sharp noise of dripping water echoed again and again.

She tried to remember what had happened but her head hurt too much. It felt heavy and foggy. It took her a couple of moments to realise that she was cold, very cold, and another few more before she became aware that she was naked. An overwhelming sense of panic started to build. She couldn’t figure out where she was or how she had gotten there.

All she knew was that she was hurting. Really hurting.

She tried to swallow and gagged, forcing saliva and blood to dribble out the corners of her mouth. She attempted to gulp back the thick, metallic taste in her mouth but found herself choking. She knew something was wrong as blood continued to pool at the back of her throat.

Panicking, she staggered to her feet, causing a searing white burst of pain in her abdomen. She instinctively placed her hands over her stomach and felt a warm stickiness. She ran her fingers across the gnarled slash realising that it ran from hip to hip. Horrified, she slipped on the wet floor, falling backwards.

The only noise emanating from her mouth was a gurgling splutter as she continued to choke.

Suddenly the door was kicked open and harsh light from the hallway flooded the men’s urinals.

‘Fucking hell!’ muttered a male voice as he took in the carnage in front of him.

‘Get Madley! And I mean now!’ he shouted as he ran over to her thrashing body.

He knelt down beside her and gently moved her into the recovery position, ignoring her moans of agony as he turned her. She suddenly began convulsing. With two fingers he started to pull out the blackened blood clots which were choking her.

It was then he realised where the blood was coming from.

Her tongue had been cut out.

His eyes dropped to her mutilated left breast. Scorched deep into her skin was a four-inch ‘N’. On the other breast, the word ‘PIG’ was cut into it. He then noticed that the pool of blood he was kneeling in was coming from the deep slash running across her stomach.

He had recognised her immediately as the copper who had been in earlier.

She had come looking for trouble. And it seemed that it had found her.

She was now passing in and out of consciousness. It was bad enough having a mutilated copper found in Madley’s club, let alone a dead one.

She didn’t have much time. Blood was continuing to ebb from the knife wound across her abdomen.

He turned towards the corridor.

‘Get Madley. Fucking get Madley!’ he yelled as he looked around for something, anything to stem the flow of blood. He quickly took his shirt off and pressed it hard against her slashed stomach.

‘Shit! Shit!’ he muttered as he waited for instructions.

He couldn’t figure out what was taking Gibbs so long. All he had to do was ask Madley what he wanted done. He needed to know whether they had to dump her somewhere.

Then he heard the screech of approaching sirens. It was too late. Some bastard had set Madley up. Whoever had done this to her had made sure Madley had no time to clean up and get rid of her before the cops turned up.

‘Fuck it!’ he cursed, agitated.

He was worried. Madley was in trouble. And this was just the start.

Chapter Three

Saturday: 5:36am

Jack Brady watched as the blood-red sun continued to rise, blazing from the depths of the North Sea horizon. In the background Mazzy Star played, soulful and unobtrusive.

The calm was disturbed by the buzz of his phone. He stretched over for his BlackBerry. The copper in him told him it was bad news.

‘DI Brady,’ he answered quietly.

He listened.

‘Conrad?’

Brady sat forward. ‘Run that by me again.’

‘Christ!’ Brady let the shocking words sink in.

‘Yeah … yes, I hear you, Conrad,’ Brady answered. ‘Yeah … I’ll be ready … No … you’re not interrupting anything …’

He thought about the previous night. After a couple of pints in the Fat Ox watching the band, Damaged Goods, he had left. Not knowing where he was heading, only that he didn’t want to go back to an empty five-bedroomed house. Somehow he had ended up down at the Blue Lagoon nightclub.

And that was what had led him to spend the early hours sitting waiting for her call. Waiting for an explanation of why she was back in the North East. Why she hadn’t told him, hadn’t warned him. After all, the last time he had seen her was over a year ago. But DC Simone Henderson, his ex-junior colleague, was back. The problem was, she had been more than a colleague. He had regrettably spent a drunken night with her which had resulted in the end of his marriage. Ironically both Claudia, his wife, and DC Simone Henderson ended up transferring as far away from him as possible.

He had spotted her standing at the bar laughing with two men. Her black hair had shone in the dim light.

Brady had stood there, shocked. Not believing that she was actually there. It didn’t make any sense. She worked for the Met now, so why would she be back in the North East, let alone in the Blue Lagoon of all places?

He was about to go over. But in one move she flirtatiously tilted her head back and, laughing at whatever had been said to her by one of the men, turned and caught Brady’s eye.

Her smile froze. Something in her eyes told him to disappear. And fast. She clearly didn’t want him there.

Then, acting as if she didn’t know him, she turned her attention back to the two men.

Brady could see that they had money: their sharp black suits and sharply cut hair said as much.

Resisting the urge to go over, Brady did as she had intimated and quietly slipped out. He had then returned home and took up his vigil by the first-floor bay window, watching the black, unforgiving sea, waiting for her to call. He had played with the idea of ringing her. He still had her number. But he had fought the compulsion; this was her call.

Seeing her last night had uncomfortably awakened emotions that he had tried to suppress when she had suddenly put in for a transfer. She had literally disappeared from his life, refusing to answer any of his calls or emails. Finally, he got the message. But all he had wanted to do was to apologise for forcing her to leave the Northumbrian force.

‘Sir?’ questioned Conrad, interrupting his thoughts.

‘I’ll see you shortly,’ Brady replied.

‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered.

He’d only told Brady part of it. What was left unsaid had to be told face to face. The station was reeling from the news. But Conrad knew the news would hit Brady the hardest out of the lot of them.

*

Not a lot had happened to Jack Brady in the last six months. In fact to be fair, not a lot had happened in Whitley Bay; a small seaside resort in the North East of England. Overall, targets had been met and crime figures appeared to be at an all-time low. But Brady knew it was the calm before the storm. Police budgets were being slashed to the bone by the government. The thought of having to tackle the same inevitable crimes of second and third generations who had known nothing but a life of living on shoestring benefits was not one Brady relished. Especially armed with little more than a pencil sharpener and a box of staples.

Brady still had the same hard-nosed boss, Detective Chief Inspector Gates, and the same obtuse, career-chasing sidekick, Detective Sergeant Harry Conrad. And he still had the same old job as Detective Inspector. Simply put, he wasn’t the kind to get promoted. Not after everything he’d been through. Shot in the thigh, too close to his balls for comfort during an undercover drugs bust that had gone wrong. And then there was his affair with DC Simone Henderson.

But he was still a hell of a lot better off than his long-standing friend and now ex-colleague, Detective Inspector Jimmy Matthews. Jimmy’d found himself locked inside Durham Prison, with the very scum he had risked his neck – and at times his career – to put away. Scum who would gut a copper on the inside as soon as look at him, which was why he was in a segregated unit sharing his time with the worst sex offenders imaginable. As far as Brady knew, no one from the job had been to see Matthews; he was a bent copper who had seriously been on the take and in doing so had sold out. Even Brady had not been to see him, despite repeated requests from Matthews. He still didn’t have the stomach to look Matthews in the eye after what he had done.

Showered and changed, Brady slugged back what was left of his black coffee. He picked up his car keys off the granite worktop as he wondered exactly what had washed up onto the shores of Whitley Bay beach. Or to be more precise, exactly who had floated to the surface of the cold, grey murky waters of the North Sea.

Chapter Four

Brady bent under the police cordon and started making his way down the promenade steps looking for what his guts were already telling him was going to be trouble.

It was clear enough where he was heading; it wasn’t difficult to spot uniform on the sectioned-off beach below him. Not to mention the grim-faced SOCOs dressed in black pants and black polo shirts who were methodically working along the beach and lower promenade. As expected, they had created a wide circle around the crime scene, photographing and documenting everything and anything that might have some relevance to the investigation. Directly below him, a tight inner circle was in force, stringently controlled by SOCOs clad head to foot in white, who were painstakingly moving in and out of a large white forensics tent.

Brady caught sight of Conrad.

His deputy’s erect, stiff figure stood out from the crowd; for all the right reasons. Unlike Brady, he had the makings of a Chief Superintendent and soon enough it would be Conrad kicking Brady around. They were the antithesis of one another. Brady was six foot two and lean with muscle, whereas Conrad was a few inches shorter with a heavier, muscular frame. Conrad was invariably clean-shaven, regardless of the hour, with neatly cropped and gelled blond hair. Brady didn’t know how he did it, but he always looked impeccable in his array of suits, shirts and silk ties and tan brogues. Brady was all too aware that his own clothes – t-shirt, battered black jacket and matching skinny trousers and heavy black leather Caterpillar boots – made him stand out against Conrad’s typical CID traditional, conformist image. Not that Brady didn’t look smart, but his look was unconventional for a copper to say the least.

Brady nodded in response as the young, clean-cut figure of Conrad approached him.

‘Sir,’ greeted Conrad.

‘Conrad,’ Brady replied. ‘So what exactly do we have?’

‘Better you see this for yourself,’ replied Conrad, deciding it would be easier than explaining what they had found. Or more to the point, what they still had to find.

*

‘Bloody hell!’ muttered Brady as he held a gloved hand over his nose.

The overpowering stench hit him hard as soon as he entered the tent.

Without even taking into consideration what was left of the body, the smell emanating from it was bad enough to make him want to retch his guts up. The fact that the body had been washed ashore on one of the warmest mornings of the year so far wouldn’t have helped.

He was doing his best not to react to what was lying in front of him. He clenched his hands in an attempt to stop his guts curdling as he grimly stared down at the victim.

Conrad swallowed hard, trying not to breathe as he watched Brady crouch down.

Brady let out a low moan as his leg twinged again. It had been nearly a year since he had been shot in the thigh but the pain remained as a constant reminder of that night. They still hadn’t got the person or persons responsible, though Brady had a fairly good idea who was behind it. Which was one of the reasons that Gates now had him on a tight leash. The DCI didn’t want Brady causing trouble, particularly where Mayor Macmillan was concerned. Brady had been watching Macmillan for some time now. A man whose morals, principals and politics stood about four hundred yards to the right of Genghis Khan. And this was a man who had made powerful friends as a Conservative councillor and now Mayor of North Tyneside.

On the surface Mayor Macmillan was everything his brother, Ronnie Macmillan, wasn’t and that was exactly how Mayor Macmillan wanted it. He wanted no one making the connection. Brady had often moaned to Rubenfeld, a hardened, heavy drinking local hack, about the injustice of Macmillan’s dark past not making it onto the front pages of the local papers – to say nothing of his drug-selling gangster brother and prostitute of a sister.

‘Money, Jack!’ Rubenfeld said scornfully before knocking back yet another whiskey chaser paid for as usual by Brady. ‘Bloody money is what it’s all about! It can buy you anything! Including friends in high places.’

Brady accepted, as had Rubenfeld, that Macmillan was very good at what he did: lying. He was a politician after all. He had removed himself so far from his past life that no one would believe that he was the same Macmillan who had been raised in Blyth with a criminal for a brother who now lived in the deeply entrenched crime world of Wallsend.

‘You alright, sir?’ asked Conrad.

‘Yeah,’ muttered Brady, putting Macmillan to the back of his mind.

He held a gloved hand over his nose and mouth as he moved in closer to what was left of the victim’s neck. Flies had already started to gorge on the brutally hacked wound where bone and flesh ended in a jagged formation.

‘Some kind of serrated weapon was used to …’ he faltered, unable to state the obvious.

He turned and looked up at Conrad.

‘So where’s the head?’

‘I don’t know, sir. This was all that was washed up. The beach has been thoroughly searched, but nothing’s turned up.’

‘Here’s hoping for our sakes it does. Without a head it makes it damned difficult to identify her.’

‘They’re going through missing persons reports back at the station, sir,’ answered Conrad.

Brady raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Damned hard to know whether we do or don’t have a match considering all that’s left of her, don’t you think?’

Brady knew that without a victimology, figuring out the modus operandi would be virtually impossible. To understand why she had been murdered, they needed her identity. Her family. Her friends. Her life story.

‘No identity, no murderer,’ Brady resignedly muttered.

He looked at Conrad.

‘You know what doesn’t rest easy with me?’

Conrad shook his head.

‘Whoever did this wanted her found. They wanted her to wash up on Whitley Bay beach. If she’d been dumped far enough out at sea then she wouldn’t have floated to the surface. Add in the fact that it’s easy enough to weigh a body down so it permanently disappears.’

Brady was worried. Something about this didn’t feel right.

‘Why did they want her found?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ shrugged Conrad.

Brady turned back to the body. ‘See the bruising on both her arms? Someone’s held her down. There’s finger marks on the upper part of her arms but also around her wrists …’ Brady paused as he stared at what was left of the victim’s hands.

‘We’ve searched, but again, nothing,’ informed Conrad.

Brady carefully picked up the victim’s left hand and closely inspected the stubs of flesh and bone where her fingers should have been.

‘They’ve been cleanly cut off. Different to the neck. Probably garden pruners.’

It was becoming more apparent that whoever had murdered her knew exactly what they were doing; without the victim’s fingers or head it was impossible to positively identify her. Unless, Brady mused, she had some other identifiable traits on her body; that and a missing person’s report to match. Otherwise, Gates had tossed a dead case his way. Brady’s gut feeling told him that Gates knew this case was sunk as soon as the headless body had floated to the surface.

‘No clothes, no jewellery, no plastic. No formal identification. Her fingers and head hacked off …’

He suddenly realised something was wrong. Her breasts looked unnatural. The skin looked too stretched, too taut. He carefully lifted one of her large breasts and looked at the skin underneath.

‘Sir?’ Conrad, asked, curious.

‘Fake, Conrad. See the scar tissue underneath where she was opened up to insert the breast implants?’

He was well aware of the statistics when it came to young women and anorexia and wondered if the victim was another casualty of society’s body fascism.

Brady let his eyes drift slowly down to her flat navel and then further to her perfectly smooth, waxed groin. Yet another testament to the ubiquitous influence of the porn industry; that and the fake breasts, he mused.

‘We don’t deliver on this one, Conrad, Gates will make damned sure that by the end of the year I’ll be begging for my P45.’

Brady shook his head. There was no way he would be able to cope stuck behind a desk for another six months. He’d go stir crazy; even the threat of being demoted to uniform and walking the drug-ridden streets of Blyth was better than pushing pens for the rest of his days.

He sighed heavily as he questioned his chances of solving this murder. His guts kicked off, telling him it didn’t look promising.

‘Let’s take a look at her back and see if there’s any identifiable marks,’ suggested Brady.

‘Are you sure, sir?’

‘Ainsworth’s finished with her, Conrad, so moving her now won’t make any difference.’

Conrad wasn’t so sure. He knew that Ainsworth, the head SOCO, had a ferocious temper and hated anyone messing with his crime scene. But he kept quiet, accepting that Brady knew what he was doing. He watched as Brady carefully rolled the body onto its stomach.

The victim’s back and legs were covered in bruises. Brady had expected as much, but there was something else which took him by surprise.

‘Look at this,’ he muttered to Conrad as he pointed out the distinctive mark at the bottom of her spine.

Conrad nodded, puzzled.

‘What do you think it is?’ Brady asked as he gently touched the newly puckered, burnt flesh with a white latex gloved finger, lightly tracing the shape of the mark. It was two inches in diameter and seemed to be a scorpion. Below it were the bold letters, ‘MD’.

‘I don’t know, sir. It doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before.’

Brady took out his BlackBerry and photographed the burnt flesh.

He didn’t like what was coming to mind and knew that Gates would like it even less.

He stood up and turned to Conrad.

‘Let’s see what Wolfe has to say. He is carrying out the autopsy?’

‘I believe so, sir.’

‘Good, that’s something then.’

They were going to need all the help they could get with this case. And he trusted Wolfe. He was a cantankerous old bugger who drank too much, but he knew his job. He was the best Home Office pathologist the force had ever had, and they’d had a few. Even Chief Superintendent O’Donnell was aware of Wolfe’s foibles, but since he was the best pathologist around, everyone turned a blind eye.

‘Come on, let’s get out of here. I think we could both do with some fresh air.’

Chapter Five

‘So why didn’t the DCI ring me himself?’ Brady quizzed once they were outside.

He already knew that something wasn’t right.

‘He’s busy,’ Conrad replied uneasily.

Brady raised his eyebrows.

‘He’s dealing with another incident that happened last night,’ answered Conrad.

‘What? Involving Madley’s nightclub?’ asked Brady.

‘Yes, sir.’

That came as no surprise to Brady. He had noted the police tape sealing off the premises and the two uniforms stationed by the entrance as he had crossed the road heading for the beach that morning, and had assumed it was another early morning drugs raid. The nightclub belonged to Martin Madley, reputed to be the boss of the local mafia. Not that the police could ever finger Madley. It was rumoured that his main business was drugs. But right now Madley was the least of Brady’s concerns. He’d leave that to Gates.

‘Sir,’ Conrad said, trying his best to hide the apprehension in his voice. He was acutely aware that Brady still didn’t have any idea about what had happened in Madley’s nightclub. ‘We need to talk … before we go back to the station.’

‘Can it wait?’ said Brady distractedly.

He had only one thing on his mind right now and that was the mark burnt into the victim’s flesh. There was one person he needed to talk to and he needed to do it immediately.

Conrad didn’t answer him but his expression was enough for Brady to know something was troubling him.

‘Meet me back at the station. Then we’ll talk,’ assured Brady. ‘Just let me sort this out first. Alright?’

‘Yes, sir. But I need to speak with you as soon as you get back.’

‘Yeah, no problem. Just give me five minutes,’ Brady replied absent-mindedly. The last thing he wanted to do was make that call, but he had no choice.

Conrad nodded, realising that now perhaps wasn’t the best time. Not that there was a right time for what he had to tell Brady.

He reluctantly turned and walked across the beach back to the steps leading up to the lower promenade. He shoved his hands deep in his trouser pockets as he tried to figure out how to handle the fact that Brady still didn’t have a clue. The problem was, Conrad didn’t know how Brady would handle the news. He didn’t want to be the one to tell him, but perversely, he would rather it came from him than someone back at the station. In particular, someone like DI Adamson, who would take great relish in throwing it in Brady’s face.

Conrad decided the best thing to do was get back to the station and wait for Brady. He had no choice.

*

Brady watched Conrad leave. He had a bad feeling about that look in Conrad’s eyes. It couldn’t be good news.

But it would have to wait. Right now he had bigger problems to worry about.

He needed to make that call. And then he’d have to face the rest of the team back at the station. All hell would have broken loose there. It wasn’t every day that a girl’s body washed up on the shores of Whitley Bay. Never mind a headless one.

He hoped to God that somewhere, someone would be missing the victim. The problem he had was finding that someone. The odds at this moment were stacked high against her.

Brady sighed heavily he searched his jacket for his pouch of Golden Virginia tobacco. He then took a sheet of Rizla paper and placed some tobacco in the paper with a filter before delicately rolling it tight. He lit it with trembling fingers as he closed his eyes and allowed the smoke to clear the decaying, sickening air from his lungs. He inhaled deeply a couple more times until it was enough to quell the desire to retch. He had tried to give up smoking and had failed, swapping chemical-filled cigarettes for roll-ups. It was an easy cop out. Too easy.

He cast his eyes up at the sky. The day was already changing. The angry, crimson ball of sun was nowhere to be seen, blanketed instead by the heavy, mournful, gunmetal-grey clouds rolling in off the horizon.

It was an all too familiar sky. The North East of England was well known for its continuous grey drizzle, regardless of the seasons. The only difference was the temperature. Brady found he was either freezing his bollocks off during the winter months when the Arctic winds whipped in from the North Sea, bringing snow and treacherous plummeting sub-zero temperatures, or sweating during the humid summer months. But hot or freezing cold, there always seemed to be grey drizzle. Regardless, Brady loved the place. It was in his blood. He knew that no matter what, he’d never leave the North East.

Brady took his BlackBerry out. He needed to make a call. One that he didn’t want to make.

He scrolled through the names listed until he came to the one he wanted. Reluctantly he pressed call and then waited. And waited. And waited until she eventually picked up.

‘For God’s sake! It’s not even seven o’clock on a Saturday morning! This better be good!’ finally answered a familiar voice.

Brady could hear a man’s deep voice in the background asking who was on the phone. A man’s voice that Brady recognised.

‘Who do you think would call at this time?’ came the muffled answer as she covered the mouthpiece.

‘Claudia?’ interrupted Brady, trying to control his voice.

He had heard the rumours but hadn’t wanted to believe them. Now he had no choice.

‘This is work,’ he stated. ‘Nothing else.’

He heard her sigh heavily. ‘Go on …’

‘A girl’s headless body has washed up onto Whitley Bay beach.’

‘Alright … but what’s that got to do with me? You know my job profile. I deal with sex trafficking victims, Jack. Remember?’

‘I know,’ answered Brady, taken aback by the coldness in her voice. ‘But this isn’t just any murder victim. She has some odd markings at the base of her spine.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well … there’s a scorpion and below that two initials: MD. But these aren’t tattoos, the marks look as if they’ve been burnt on to her skin. As if …’ Brady faltered as Claudia quickly cut in.

‘She’s been branded,’ interrupted Claudia.

Brady waited.

‘Can you send me the photos of the markings?’ she finally asked.

‘Sure, I’ll send it to your mobile after this call,’ answered Brady, relieved that she was interested.

But he was no fool. This was work, and this was exactly the kind of thing that Claudia was involved in.

Branding was about registering ownership in the dark world of sex trafficking and sex slavery. And given that Claudia was involved with one of the first projects in the UK where the police and the Home Office worked in conjunction to free imprisoned women and occasionally children – mainly illegal immigrants – from brothels and houses where they were held hostage as sex slaves, he needed to know whether she recognised the brand left on the body.

Once the women were freed by the specialist police team, Claudia then worked hand in hand with the Poppy Project who offered the victims support and accommodation, providing specialist legal back-up to secure the illegally trafficked women rights to stay in the country. Claudia had told Brady enough tragic accounts of young women freed from sex slavery only to be forcibly sent back to their country of origin, straight back into the hands of the organised criminals who enslaved them in the first place.

‘If this is what I think it is, then this could mean she’s not the only one …’

‘I know,’ muttered Brady.

‘I hope for our sake that you’re wrong, Jack.’

Brady didn’t reply.

In the background a male voice complained about her taking too long.

Brady shoved his hand deep into his pocket and tightly gripped the only object he carried with him everywhere. He could feel the cold metal of his wedding ring digging into the palm of his hand as he thought about the implications of the mark on the victim. And more significantly, the implications of the man who was now sharing his ex-wife’s bed.

‘Send me the photo and I’ll start making enquiries my end, alright?’ Claudia instructed.

‘Yeah … thanks,’ muttered Brady.

‘Jack? You do know if this girl has been trafficked and imprisoned then you’ve got a problem on your hands?’

‘I know …’

‘Because the question is, why would someone kill her? These women can sell for something like £3,000 to £4,000, if not more. And her earning potential makes her a valuable commodity. And don’t forget how much money these women can make in one day. So why murder her?’

This was what was worrying Brady. Sex trafficking and sex slavery were growing international crimes; ones that had a stronghold in the UK. He knew the statistics. Claudia had brought her work home often enough for him to be keenly aware of the worrying exponential growth in sex slavery. Girls ranging from as young as eleven up to twenty-five were trafficked from all over Eastern Europe, across the fractured borders of Russia, smuggled through Afghanistan, and even brought in from as far afield as Thailand and China.

Brady shut his eyes as he massaged his forehead with his other hand. This was exactly what he didn’t want. A body turning up connected to sex trafficking. Not in Whitley Bay of all places. After all, this was just a small seaside resort in the North East of England where organised crime of this level didn’t exist. If it had been a major European capital then Brady would have been more ready to accept such a premise. Even Newcastle he could understand, but not Whitley Bay.

‘Unless … unless she was being made an example of?’ Claudia questioned, interrupting his thoughts.

‘Meaning?’

‘All I know is what I’ve heard from the women we’ve managed to free. But there are some horrendous stories of coercion and blackmail, Jack.’

‘Check out the markings for me first, yeah?’

He didn’t want to acknowledge that this problem had landed on his doorstep. But he couldn’t ignore what Claudia was suggesting. He had the same gut feeling that someone wanted to make a very public statement with this girl’s body.

Admittedly, Whitley Bay had a reputation for stag and hen parties and binge drinking. But that was a world removed from organised sex trafficking and sex slavery. Brady thought back to Matthews’ allegations against Madley and Mayor Macmillan. He had been adamant that between them they had a highly profitable sex trafficking and slavery operation. But Brady had put his crazy accusations down to the ramblings of a cornered man who, about to lose everything he had worked for, had decided to bring down as many people with him as he could. Brady would be the first to admit that there was something about Mayor Macmillan that didn’t sit easy with him. But even he had to concede that sex trafficking was a stretch too far. And as for Matthews’ claims against the local mafia figure, Madley, who was rumoured to be involved in drugs and other such lucrative enterprises, Brady couldn’t take it seriously. Sex trafficking was something that he knew Madley wouldn’t touch. Regardless.

‘Let me worry about why she’s been murdered once we know for certain that she’s been branded.’

Claudia’s only response to Brady’s words was to let out a heavy sigh.

Before he had a chance to say anything else she disconnected the call.

All he could do now was send her the photograph. He watched his phone to make sure that the image had definitely been sent. Satisfied, he put his phone in his jacket.

Now he had to wait. And pray to God that his hunch about the victim being a sex slave was wrong.

Chapter Six

Brady steadied himself before opening the doors to the station. He wasn’t sure why he had been handed this investigation. By rights it should have been Adamson called in; lately, he had been Gates’ first choice when it came to anything decent. Whereas Brady was just being thrown the rubbish murders.

So why this one, he mused? And where the hell was Adamson? It wasn’t like that weasel not to sink his teeth into such a high profile crime. Once the press got their greedy, grasping claws into this story, the seaside town of Whitley Bay would make national headlines.

He sighed heavily, accepting that maybe he was starting to get paranoid. The past six months behind a desk would do that to any copper, let alone him.

The air in the building was still rancid. Regardless of how often Nora, the station’s cleaner, swabbed down the Victorian green-tiled hallway, there was always an acrid, lingering dampness that resiliently clung to the walls and floor. That and the stale smell of old piss from one too many drunken louts dragged in to sleep it off in the cells.

The building was old and decrepit. But Brady felt at ease inside its cold, flaking walls and winding, maze-like corridors. His office, with its high, rattling windows and bulky, rust-stained, leaking radiators, felt more comfortable to him than his own home. Which wasn’t surprising given that over the years he had spent most of his waking life at the station. More so now that he couldn’t stomach going home to nothing.

Brady went through the second set of double doors and was greeted by the scraggy, wizened face of the desk sergeant, Charlie Turner. He was a short, rotund, balding man in his early fifties.

‘I better warn you, Jack, all hell’s breaking loose here,’ Turner greeted as he raised his white spidery eyebrows. It made no difference; his small dark eyes were still hidden beneath his sagging, crumpled eyelids.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘So you heard about the stabbing then? Christ! How bad can things get, eh?’

Brady frowned. Apart from Conrad, he hadn’t caught up with anyone yet.

‘What stabbing?’

‘You don’t know, do you?’ Turner replied worriedly. ‘It explains why the DCI has been desperate to talk to you. You do turn your phone on, don’t you, Jack? Because he’s been chasing my hide for the past hour wanting to know as soon as you turn up! And Conrad’s been hanging around waiting for you. I convinced him to get me a coffee just to get him out from under my feet.’

Automatically Brady reached for his phone.

He had forgotten to turn it off silent mode. He’d missed three calls; two from DCI Gates and one from Dr Amelia Jenkins.

Jenkins was the police shrink who, a year ago, had spent the first six weeks after Brady had been shot in the thigh trying to sort his head out. He had insisted all he needed was a couple of bottles of Scotch and a divorce lawyer but she had wanted to try the more professional method. In the end she gave up. She was into the ‘talking cure’ – which had become a problem given Brady’s refusal to talk.

But why she would be calling him at 7:30am was anyone’s guess. He hadn’t seen her since the last investigation they had worked on together, which was over six months ago. Amelia worked with the force as a forensic psychologist. But for some reason she opted out and had turned to practising clinical psychology instead. Brady presumed something had shaken her to her core. Which was why he was so surprised both that Gates had asked her to be part of the investigation and that Amelia had agreed. He knew that Gates had worked with Amelia when she had been a forensic psychologist, which meant he knew she was good. That, and he trusted her, which was why Brady presumed he had requested her assistance.

‘The DCI is out for blood given that one of our own was attacked early this morning in Madley’s nightclub,’ continued Turner.

Brady realised now why Turner was so agitated.

‘Who?’ Brady asked, realising he had been sat behind his desk for too damned long. Once news this crucial would have reached him immediately. Now he was so out of the circuit that it took the watchdog Turner to fill him in on the night’s events.

Then he remembered Conrad. This was obviously what he had wanted to tell him.

‘I’m sorry, Jack … I don’t know how to tell you this …’ Turner uncomfortably began.

‘Who, Charlie? Who was attacked?’ asked Brady, starting to feel uneasy.

‘Henderson,’ Turner quietly replied.

Brady felt as if he had just been punched in the guts. He couldn’t breathe. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the reception desk to steady himself. His head was spinning. All he could think was that it couldn’t be her. She wasn’t the Henderson Turner was talking about. It had to be someone else. But he already knew it was. After all, he had seen her with his own eyes in Madley’s nightclub. And he had turned and left. Left her alone with two men who, for all he knew, were responsible for … He couldn’t bring himself to think about it.

Brady raised his head and looked at Turner’s concerned face, searching for some sign that he had got it wrong.

‘Simone?’ Brady mumbled, his dark brown eyes begging Turner to tell him he was mistaken.

Turner nodded sadly, unable to repeat her name.

‘What happened to her?’ Brady whispered hoarsely, trying with all his might to ignore the panic that had taken hold of him.

‘That’s it. We don’t know,’ Turner answered quietly. He dropped his gaze, unable to look Brady in the eye. ‘An anonymous emergency call came through shortly after 3am this morning locating an injured DC locked in the gents’ toilets in the Blue Lagoon …’

‘And?’ pushed Brady, already fearing the worst.

Brady now understood why uniform had been stationed outside Madley’s nightclub and the reason the double glass doors into the premises had been sealed off with blue incident tape.

Turner shook his head, still unable to look Brady in the eye.

‘She was found naked … whoever had left her there had …’ Turner faltered, not wanting to say.

‘What? What did they do to her?’ Brady hissed, clenching his fists hard, fearing the worst.

‘Someone took a knife to her stomach and sliced her open … and cut out her tongue.’

‘God no …’ He felt as if he was going to throw up. ‘Is she? Is she still …’ Brady couldn’t bring himself to ask the obvious question.

‘She’s in a critical condition, Jack. As far as I know she’s still in surgery.’

Brady numbly nodded as he dragged a trembling hand through his hair. He was trying his hardest to keep his head together.

‘Why wasn’t I called in for this, Charlie?’ he eventually asked.

Turner shook his head.

‘You know better than me,’ he reluctantly answered.

‘What do you mean?’ Brady asked as shock turned to desperation. ‘Surely Gates will need everyone he can get to work on this?’

‘I know, I know, bonnie lad,’ sympathetically agreed Turner.

‘Why would that stop Gates from letting me work on finding out who … who did this to her?’ Brady asked, already knowing the answer.

‘Even you can understand why Gates doesn’t want you involved. Especially now he’s got Claudia back working for the force again. She may not be a duty solicitor here any more, but she’s doing a fine job with that sex trafficking project of hers in Newcastle. A lot of really good PR’s coming out of that for Northumbria Police and that’s down to her,’ explained Turner gently.

Brady said nothing.

Turner shook his head. ‘Come on, Jack. You know Gates was furious with you when she suddenly left for London. And then the next thing, there was Simone requesting an immediate transfer out of here. I’m surprised you didn’t end up in uniform.’

Brady knew that Gates had a soft spot for Claudia. Who didn’t? When Claudia suddenly quit the North East, Gates had found it difficult to replace her. She was damned good at her job and sorely missed by everyone; including Brady.

‘You’ve got too much invested, Jack. Sooner or later it clouds the judgement.’

‘Gates? Where is he?’ demanded Brady.

‘He’s in the first-floor conference room. It’s set up as an Incident Room. You should still find him there,’ Turner replied. ‘But if I was you I’d stay out of the way for now. Let him deal with the briefing on Simone’s attempted murder and then talk to him afterwards. The last person they’re going to want walking into that room is you.’

Brady ignored Turner and started to make his way to the first floor.

‘Jack?’ Turner called after him. ‘Watch yourself, will you? Gates is out to crucify someone and, given your track record with him lately, you want to make sure it’s not you.’

‘Thanks,’ muttered Brady. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

Brady suddenly halted and turned back. ‘Charlie?’

Turner looked at him.

‘Who’s heading the investigation? Into Simone?’

Brady knew the answer from his silence.

‘Adamson?’

Turner nodded. Brady had expected as much.

‘Jack? Don’t do anything stupid,’ warned Turner.

In all the years he had known Brady, Turner had never seen him react to news this way. Then again, he couldn’t blame him. This was personal to Brady: he had worked closely – too closely some would say – with DC Simone Henderson. And that’s what was troubling Turner.

Brady forced himself to meet Turner’s concerned gaze.

‘Like what?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

Turner resignedly shook his head. ‘I don’t know, bonnie lad. But that’s what worries me.’

Chapter Seven

Brady took a deep breath before entering the first-floor conference room. He had to get himself together. He would be no use to anyone in this state. Especially Simone. He did his best to sneak in. The room was filled with over twenty coppers; a mixture of uniform and CID all crammed in together. The atmosphere was electric. One of their own had been targeted. And this wasn’t some random attack. This was a brutal attempted murder. Brady scanned the room, recognising most of the faces. At least half of them had been called in from other area commands, but Brady knew most from the Sophie Washington murder investigation six months back.

Brady worked his way to the back of the room. His eyes automatically scanned the whiteboard next to Gates who was addressing the room. He held his breath as he took in the photograph of the blackened crimson clotted mess around Simone’s open mouth, an all too vivid contrast against the clean shiny white incident board.

Brady’s eyes then uncomfortably moved across to the images of the nightclub’s gents’ blood-stained floor. With gut-wrenching clarity, he registered that the blood was Simone’s.

Why the Blue Lagoon?

He didn’t like the answer that kept coming to mind. When she had been stationed at Whitley Bay, she, like the rest of them, would end up having a late night drink in Madley’s club. He remembered that she had seemed too interested in Madley and his whereabouts. When Brady had challenged her, she confided that she had heard that Madley’s nightclub was being used as a front. Brady had laughed it off, telling the over-zealous rookie that every resident in Whitley Bay knew that, never mind the police. He had updated her on Madley’s drug-dealing reputation and that to date he had never been caught. But Simone wasn’t interested in Madley’s drug activities. She had claimed that it was something bigger than that, involving someone more dangerous than Madley. Brady had tried to get more from her, but despite being a rookie she was savvy enough not to hand over everything she knew to a commanding officer who would then take the credit for all her undercover observations.

Brady continued to stare at the photographs, despite feeling sickened by the images. He couldn’t shake the idea that if he had gone over to her last night then she wouldn’t be fighting for her life.

Gates’ voice suddenly caught his attention.

‘I’ve just received an update from the hospital and … it isn’t good. Simone’s out of theatre now, but she’s still not regained consciousness. She’s lost a lot of blood and there was significant internal damage. More than they expected, which has caused some complications. She’s in ICU right now, so all we can do is pray that she pulls through.’

The room was tense.

Gates had everyone’s attention; especially Brady’s.

He was roughly Brady’s height and build, despite being ten years older. Gates’ muscular, toned body was a testament to the hours he put in at the gym. Everything about him was regimented and controlled. Even his aggressively receding dark hair was cropped short, unashamedly exposing his baldness.

Brady wanted to walk. Anywhere was better than being stood there. But he was unable to move. His gaze obsessively returned to the large whiteboard. He tried to focus on the clumps of frenetic scrawl, recognising it as Gates’ handwriting. Anything was better than looking at the gruesome photos of Simone’s injuries or the crime scene.

He suddenly felt someone staring at him. He turned and caught Amelia Jenkins’ eye. She was sitting at the front of the room observing everyone. Brady expected no less from her; after all she was the police psychologist.

As if conscious of his gaze, Amelia adjusted her skirt. She shot him a concerned look and then turned her attention back to Gates.

Brady forced his attention back to the Detective Chief Inspector, who was still speaking.

‘I know that every one of you will give one hundred and ten percent to this case and, given the circumstances, I would expect no less.’

Gates then turned to Adamson and gravely nodded.

Brady watched as Gates sat down and Adamson stepped forward. He couldn’t help but notice Adamson’s arrogant expression. This was exactly what he was born to do; exert his power. Brady waited while he made the most of the situation.

Adamson straightened his thick, dark burgundy tie as he cleared his throat, allowing the tension in the room to build. The air soon became electric as the team waited for Adamson to speak.

Eventually he nodded, acutely aware that he had them. ‘The assailant knew exactly what they were doing when they cut her – otherwise Simone Henderson would already be dead. The incision that was made across her abdomen was carried out by a skilled hand. The knife missed the inferior and superior vena cava which saved her life as these branch out into the femoral artery and vein. If he’d cut any of these major vessels then she would have bled to death in a matter of seconds. The heart pumps about eight litres a minute and given the average adult roughly has four to five litres … well I’m sure you can do the maths. The question we need to ask is why did they want to risk her being found alive?’

Brady was too aware that the room was silent, a few heads shaking. The same thought would be going through everyone’s mind – that even though Simone Henderson was found alive, she’d been left in a condition which guaranteed she would never talk. These were hardened officers used to dealing with the worst possible crime. But this was different. This was one of their own.

‘We know from the forensic evidence that …’ Adamson cleared his throat as he looked back at the gruesome images ‘… that Simone was attacked at another location and then dumped in the toilets.’

Adamson shook his head at the gravity of the attack but Brady couldn’t help but get the feeling that he was loving every minute of this. All eyes on him. Everyone waiting for his next word.

‘You can see that her left breast was also burnt during the attack. And the word ‘PIG’ slashed across the other breast. We’ve run the image through our national database but no matches have come back.’

Brady looked at the image of Simone’s burnt left breast. He could make out the raised mark of the letter ‘N’ that had been burnt deep into the flesh.

Two victims on the same night. Both branded; flesh burnt. Both found yards away from one another. One in a nightclub, savagely cut up, and another headless, washed up on a beach. But even Brady had to admit to himself that the burnt ‘N’ on Simone’s breast bore no similarity to the branding of the scorpion and the letters ‘MD’ found on the murder victim.

‘We know from the nightclub’s security tape that Simone was with two men,’ Adamson paused and pointed to the whiteboard. ‘This is the best image we have of them. As you can see, there’s not a lot to go on. But we’re hoping that the bar staff who were on duty last night will be able to help us with a photofit.’

Brady looked at the grainy freeze-framed images. Adamson was right, all you could make out was that they were both dark with short hair. Nothing more. Brady had replayed the scene of Simone with the two men over and over again in his head but he still couldn’t come up with anything that would be of any use. His problem was that he hadn’t seen their faces – they had both had their backs to him. If he had, then he would have had no qualms in sharing it with the investigating team, despite Adamson.

Nothing had been mentioned of Brady’s presence in the nightclub. He would have known by now if they had caught him on the club’s surveillance camera. But Brady had come in through the back door of the club used by Madley and his men. Brady knew there was no camera covering that door. Madley was too clever for that. He ran his affairs from his first floor office above the nightclub and liked the assurance that he could come and go unnoticed. And that included his business associates. The last thing they or Madley wanted was footage that could fall into the wrong hands – especially the police’s.

It was from there that he had spotted Simone standing at the bar with the two men. She had turned and caught his eye and in that one look had said enough. So he had left. The only person who had known he had been there was Simone. And now she was … Brady couldn’t bring himself to think about the consequences of him turning and discreetly leaving.

‘Simone left at approximately 1am and then two hours later we get a tip-off call from an unregistered mobile to say she’s been attacked and left in the gents’ at the Blue Lagoon …’

Brady looked at Adamson.

Adamson paused. For effect. Brady was sure of that.

Brady narrowed his dark brown eyes as he watched Adamson, knowing what was coming next.

‘The very same nightclub owned by Martin Madley. A local businessman who, we have been led to believe from certain sources, is connected to drug dealing. But as of yet, this is something we haven’t been able to prove. Whether Simone’s attack has anything to do with Madley is something we have yet to determine.’

Brady was certain that Madley had nothing to do with Simone’s attack. This wasn’t his style. In all the years he had known Madley he had never hurt a woman, let alone a copper. Aside from that, he was too clever to leave one of his victims in his own nightclub. Brady couldn’t figure it out. All he knew was that his gut feeling was telling him that Madley had been set up. Someone was sending him a very clear message. But who and why were questions that only Madley could answer.

‘We have already taken a statement from Martin Madley and he has a watertight alibi proving that he was nowhere near his nightclub last night.’

Brady looked at Adamson’s expression which clearly showed that he didn’t believe Madley.

‘We also have Simone’s blood results back and there are strong traces of Rohypnol. Whoever did this to Simone knew exactly what they had in mind.’

Rohypnol was effective at wiping the victim’s memory and removing their inhibitions. Brady had dealt with numerous rapes where the victim’s only memory was of drinking in a pub or nightclub and then coming to the next morning, completely unaware of what had happened over the past four to even twenty-four hours.

‘It’s crucial we find the identity of the caller,’ Adamson continued. ‘We’re releasing the tape at the press conference later and seeing what results we get. Hopefully, someone will recognise the caller’s voice.’

Brady watched as Adamson caught Amelia’s eye. Brady couldn’t help but notice that something passed between them.

‘This is all we have to go on,’ Adamson said. ‘But someone out there will know him.’ He turned to press play on the emergency call.

‘A female police officer is locked in the gents’ toilets in the Blue Lagoon nightclub … If you don’t get there in the next few minutes she will bleed to death.’ The voice was low and muffled, as if the caller was holding a gloved hand over his mouth. But there was no question that there were traces of an accent; a Geordie accent.

‘Sir? Can you elaborate? Can you give us your name and address? Sir?’ The phone line clicked dead.

Brady inwardly recoiled. He clenched his hands as he steadied himself.

No … It can’t be …

He could feel himself starting to sweat as his mind raced.

It’s not possible …

Brady closed his eyes as he tried to block out what he was thinking.

The voice, despite being distorted, sounded like someone from his past. Someone who had been very close to him. Brady quickly discounted the possibility as being too incredible.

It was just a distorted Geordie male voice. One that no doubt sounded like any number of men in the North East.

He breathed out and opened his eyes, only to meet Amelia’s inquisitive look.

He quickly composed himself and focused on Adamson.

‘We’ve gone through the surveillance footage in the Blue Lagoon from the point that she left with the two men she was seen with, up until when she was discovered attacked in the nightclub. But how she ended up in the gents’ is beyond us. There’s nothing on the security tapes. Forensics are currently examining the toilets to see whether it was possible that she was brought back in through the window in there which faces out on to the back of the premises.’

Adamson stopped and looked around.

‘All we have to go on is the anonymous caller and these two men seen with Simone two hours before she was discovered. It’s crucial we find these men and the male caller. As you can see, we’ve got our work cut out. But it’s our job to find out who did this to her and why.’

The room bristled with agitation. Everyone more than eager to get started.

‘Thank you, DI Adamson,’ said Gates, resuming command. He stood and deliberated as he looked around the tense room. ‘I don’t need to add that this isn’t just any ordinary investigation. I’m sure there’s a lot of you here who remember Simone for the hardworking, capable officer—’

Suddenly Gates’ voice stopped. Something or someone had caught his attention.

Gates’ dark brown eyes were now unnervingly fixed on Brady. They belied the cold, detached intelligence of a man who would never allow himself to be compromised.

Brady waited for Gates to address him. He was dressed in his typical black uniform with gold braid, as befitted a man of his rank. Brady looked at the heavily etched lines on Gates’ hard face; a testimony to his dedication to the job. His skin was covered in harsh, pitted acne scars, some partially hidden by a permanent five o’clock shadow, but there all the same. Irritably Gates pulled the cuffs of his expensive white shirt down past his black uniform as he glared at Brady.

‘Can I help you, Jack?’

Brady tensed. He now realised that he had made a mistake coming in. What had he been looking for? He didn’t know. But the last thing he wanted was disapproving glances from colleagues who had heard the rumours about his relationship with the victim.

But worse than that, he was certain he had recognised the caller’s voice, despite the attempt at disguising it. He cleared his throat, aware that the entire room was watching him.

‘I was just waiting until the briefing ended so I could have a word, sir,’ Brady answered, inwardly cursing.

‘My office in ten minutes.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Brady answered.

‘If that’s all, you can leave,’ Gates ordered. ‘I’m sure you’ve got enough work to do.’

Brady caught the mocking stare of DI Robert Adamson who was clearly enjoying his downfall. Brady held his breath as Gates shot him a cold, penetrating glare before he turned to Adamson and quietly muttered something. Adamson nodded in response as he shot Brady a dismissive look.

Brady turned and left the room, feeling more certain than ever that his career was shot to hell.

More so, if he was right about the identity of the caller.

Chapter Eight

Brady walked downstairs and careered straight into DS Tom Harvey.

‘Bloody hell, Jack! You look like shit,’ Harvey confided.

Brady just looked at him. He didn’t need Harvey pointing out the obvious.

‘Are you OK? What with …’ Harvey mumbled, realising that he’d obviously heard.

Brady nodded as he ran his right hand through his hair. He was trying his best to keep his head together. ‘Yeah,’ he muttered. ‘Just … you know? It’s hard to believe that anyone would want to … to hurt her like that …’

Harvey simply nodded, at a loss for what to say.

Brady had known Harvey for years. They went way back to the early days where they both had worked long hard shifts followed by equally long sessions over too many pints. Harvey was a good copper and a long-standing friend. And most importantly, he was someone Brady could trust.

Brady had gone on to get promoted to DI whereas Harvey had stayed as a DS. The fact that Brady was now his boss had never come between them. Harvey was more than happy with his role and had no intention of furthering his career. He liked the job too much to get involved with the politics that came naturally with a more senior role. Not that Brady could blame him. If Brady had known how the politics of the role got in the way of the job itself, he wasn’t so sure that he would have ever taken on the role of DI.

Brady shook his head as he met Harvey’s eyes. ‘The worst thing is I wouldn’t trust Adamson to wipe his own arse never mind head something as crucial as this …’

‘I know,’ agreed Harvey. ‘He’s one fuck-up if ever I’ve met one. He’ll screw up big-time, Jack. Just wait.’

‘The problem is I don’t want to be proved right about him with this case. Christ, this is Simone we’re talking about.’

‘I know …’ Harvey mumbled awkwardly.

Brady looked at Harvey, realising he wasn’t the only one who had been deeply affected by what had happened to her.

‘There’s nothing we can do, Jack. How about we get started on this investigation and leave Adamson and his team to find out who’s responsible for attacking Simone?’

Brady’s mute reaction told Harvey he didn’t agree.

‘Jack?’ warned Harvey, recognising the look on his face. ‘Leave it, will you?’

‘Tell the others I want to hold a briefing at 1pm, will you?’ ordered Brady, changing the subject.

Brady needed time before the briefing. He had too many questions that needed answering first.

‘Where?’ asked Harvey.

‘I’ll tell you that after I’ve talked to Gates. I need to see what kind of resources he’s allocating us, which includes where we can set up the Incident Room.’

Harvey nodded, relieved that Brady was now thinking about the murder investigation.

‘And, Tom? I want a list of every girl that’s been reported missing over the past year between the age of sixteen and thirty.’

‘Why the past year and not more recent reports?’ Harvey asked, puzzled.

‘Just trust me, will you?’ replied Brady. ‘And make it a national search. I have a feeling that this is bigger than the North East.’

‘You seriously want us to search through all that data?’

‘That’s what I said,’ answered Brady. ‘And given the fact I want that information ready for the briefing you better get a move on.’

‘You’re the boss,’ accepted Harvey as he turned and started to make his way up the stairs to the first-floor computer room. He turned and looked back at Brady. ‘Despite the fact I think Adamson’s a fool he will get whoever did this to Simone.’

Brady looked as unconvinced as Harvey sounded.

‘Look, regardless of Adamson, his team will,’ Harvey continued. ‘I know most of them and I can guarantee that not one of them will rest until they catch whoever’s responsible. And when they do, God help him!’

Brady didn’t argue with Harvey.

The last thing he was going to do was tell Harvey that he would be making enquiries of his own into who could have done this to her. And he was certain he’d get to the bastard responsible before Adamson got even close.

*

‘What do you think you are playing at?’ demanded Gates as he sat down.

‘Sir?’ Brady asked.

His boss’s attitude came as no surprise. He’d been expecting to get it in the neck.

‘Walking into that briefing when you did.’

‘I didn’t realise that it was off-bounds, sir.’

‘Christ, Jack, do I have to spell it out for you?’

Brady didn’t answer.

‘Don’t mess with me,’ warned Gates.

He sighed heavily as he deliberated what to say next. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands together as he looked Brady in the eye.

‘Look, I understand this must be difficult for you,’ Gates said, choosing his words carefully. ‘It’s hard enough for the rest of us.’

Brady didn’t reply.

‘But I want to make myself perfectly clear. You are to go nowhere near this investigation. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Brady coolly.

‘DI Adamson is in charge of the Henderson investigation. You have your own investigation to deal with and I can’t have you compromising that because you’re not giving it your undivided attention.’

Brady watched as the DCI sat back in his chair. He looked agitated and Brady knew the reason why. Gates didn’t trust him not to get involved.

‘You’ve got your usual team; I wish I could give you more but unfortunately that’s all I can offer you under the circumstances.’

Brady nodded. He expected as much. But he was relieved that at least he had his old team. They were good, but whether they could pull off this investigation with such limited resources was highly questionable.

‘And you can have Room 201 on the second floor as an Incident Room. It’s one of the largest on that floor.’

Brady made the mistake of slightly reacting to the demotion. Ordinarily a murder investigation such as this one would have been given priority and the large room on the first floor would have been used. But that had been assigned to Adamson. And under the circumstances, Brady couldn’t object. He of all people wanted Simone’s attackers found and if that meant Adamson being assigned the best room and resources available so be it.

‘If I had my way I would have offloaded this murder investigation onto another area command. We’re already stretched as it is with Henderson’s attack. But no one wants to touch it. And I can’t say I blame them considering how little we have to go on. Who wants to have an unsolved murder case on their books affecting their damned targets?’

Gates was making it perfectly clear that he expected Brady to deliver on the case. Brady refrained from stating the obvious – that his boss was asking the impossible.

‘So far we have the best target record this year. Don’t blow it!’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Brady dutifully, not feeling that optimistic.

Gates looked at Brady expectantly. ‘Well, Detective Inspector? What are you waiting for? From where I’m sitting you’ve got a lot of work cut out for you.’

Brady stood up.

‘And just to be totally clear, Adamson’s investigation is off limits,’ the DCI repeated.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Brady before heading for the door.

‘And, Jack?’

Brady turned back to face him.

‘Do you know what Simone Henderson was doing in Madley’s nightclub last night? Let alone back in the North East?’

‘No, but I wish I did, sir,’ replied Brady.

Gates deliberated for a moment and then nodded.

He watched Brady as he walked out of his office, hoping that he did as he was instructed and left the Henderson investigation alone. His personal relationship with Simone Henderson made him a liability and Gates wasn’t prepared to have him screw up under his watch.

Chapter Nine

Brady walked out of Gates’ office and straight into Amelia Jenkins.

‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there,’ he apologised.

‘We need to talk,’ suggested Amelia.

‘Look, I wish I could but I’m really busy,’ replied Brady.

He couldn’t believe his luck. It couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

He could see from her expression that Amelia wasn’t buying it. He dropped his gaze, finding himself staring uncomfortably at the ground.

Dr Amelia Jenkins had a way of getting to him. She had a knack of looking too deeply into his eyes and searching for the truth. That was partly why he had never looked directly at her when they had had their shrink sessions a year ago. And at this precise moment the last person he wanted knowing that he was vulnerable – dangerously so – was Amelia. He had too much to lose. The last thing he wanted was to unravel in front of her; he needed to keep his wits about him. Especially after the emergency call he had heard. He was certain he recognised the voice. That alone was enough to send him over the edge.

‘I understand that. But given the circumstances, I thought you might want to off-load?’ Amelia ventured gently.

It had been six months since he had last talked to her. Then she had been assigned by DCI Gates to work with him on the murder investigation of a local fifteen-year-old girl.

Brady didn’t respond.

‘Jack? Listen, I know what happened between you and DC Henderson. Remember the counselling sessions we had after you had been shot?’

Brady slowly raised his head and looked at her. Of course he remembered the sessions. That was the very reason he didn’t want to talk to her now.

Before he knew it he was looking into her almond-shaped dark brown eyes. They were filled with genuine concern.

Brady’s problem was he didn’t like to talk. Especially about personal matters. Whatever he was feeling about the fact his ex-colleague was lying mutilated in Rake Lane Hospital was personal. Which meant it was off-limits. Way off-limits. He had his own way of dealing with his feelings.

His reply was straight to the point.

‘Amelia, I’m sorry. I just can’t …’ he muttered.

He turned and started to walk down the corridor.

‘Jack? Please?’ she called out, regardless of the two officers walking down the corridor towards her. He gave no sign he had even heard her. Amelia sighed heavily and quickly walked after him, her heels clicking irritably against the wooden floor.

‘Jack?’ she called again as she caught up with him.

Brady continued walking. He had somewhere to go and the last thing he needed was any distractions.

She grabbed him by the arm, forcing him to turn and face her.

He looked at her and waited.

‘Look, I know this must be really hard for you. Alright? I’m here if you need me, that’s all. I … I want to help …’

Brady looked at her. He wasn’t sure exactly what kind of help she was offering. And more worryingly, he didn’t know whether DCI Gates had put her up to this to get the ammunition he needed to get Brady signed off as unfit for work because of personal reasons.

‘Look, I really appreciate your concern, But I’m alright. I’ve just got a lot to deal with right now. I’m sure you heard about the murder victim found washed up on Whitley Bay beach this morning?’

‘Yes, I heard,’ answered Amelia as she searched his face. ‘Actually, I asked DCI Gates if I could be assigned to your case. Given what I know, it sounds like you could do with some help profiling the victim’s murderer.’

Brady looked at her, surprised. Then he swiftly composed himself, unsure of what game was being played.

‘Thanks,’ he replied. ‘But if I’m honest I’d rather you were working with Adamson. They need your kind of expertise to find whoever has done this to Simone. But I appreciate the offer.’

Before Amelia had a chance to answer he walked away.

He hated himself for the reaction his words had elicited. For a brief moment she had looked hurt. Then she had composed herself and nodded coolly with an air of professional detachment. A look that he recognised from his time with her as his shrink.

*

Brady slammed his office door shut and walked over to his desk. He was angry with himself. Angry that he had shut Amelia out. He’d already done that once before when the investigation they had worked on together had ended. He had promised her a drink with the rest of the team and found himself bailing. Unable to let anyone get close; especially someone like her. So he had left when she had turned up. He knew that she wouldn’t wait around for him to sort his act out. Why would she? Amelia had everything going for her. She was only in her early thirties, with a career that was going somewhere – and fast. Add to that, that she had that fatal combination of intelligence and uniqueness about her.

He sighed heavily as he sat down at his desk. He had to focus. He didn’t have the time or luxury to wonder about what ifs where Amelia was concerned. His life was already too complicated.

He needed to make a call.

‘It’s me,’ Brady said.

‘I’ve been expecting a call.’ The voice was controlled, with an air of menace.

‘We need to talk,’ stated Brady.

‘Usual place?’

‘Yeah, give me a couple of hours or so. There’s a few matters I need to sort out first.’

Brady hung up.

He needed questions answering about what exactly had happened in the Blue Lagoon last night and there was only one person who could tell him.

His phone began to buzz. He looked down at it.

Matthews.

‘Damn!’ he cursed. This was the last thing he needed. ‘What? Haven’t I already said I’m not interested?’ Brady answered, his voice heavy with a guttural Geordie inflection.

‘Jack? Come on, pal. This is ridiculous. What can I say to convince you that I just got caught up? And before I realised it, I was way in over my head. Don’t you think I wish I could change what’s happened? For fuck’s sake, my life is hell in here.’

‘Yeah? My heart bleeds,’ answered Brady.

‘Fuck you! Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough? I’ve lost everything … My wife, my daughter and … and my career.’

‘You lost your career as a copper the day you started taking backhanders, Jimmy.’

‘Come on, Jack. It’s not that simple and you know it,’ replied Matthews.

‘Isn’t it?’

‘Don’t start getting all moral with me. There’s a few things in here I’ve found out about you. Information that I’m sure the DSI would be interested in hearing.’

‘Yeah?’ questioned Brady, trying to sound calm despite feeling as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

‘Don’t mess with me,’ snapped Matthews. ‘You know exactly what and who I’m talking about!’

‘Like what?’ he pushed, not wanting to hear it but knowing he had no choice.

‘It concerns your old man. Let’s say he’s been saying some things that concern you and Madley.’

Brady slowly breathed in as he tried to figure out what the hell to do. He knew what Matthews was referring to and the last thing he wanted was Gates finding out. If he did, then it wouldn’t be the streets of Blyth he’d be working – he’d be banged up alongside Jimmy Matthews. Let alone if Adamson got wind of it. He didn’t like Adamson and he definitely didn’t trust him. Brady needed to make sure that his tracks were covered. Out of desperation he had asked Madley to help him out. He’d needed a problem from his past to disappear; for good. And it had. Whether Madley had sorted it, or it was coincidence, Brady had never asked. He was just relieved that the shabby old drunk claiming to be his old man had been taken care of, no questions asked.

‘Alright, I’ll come visit. But I can’t say exactly when,’ replied Brady, trying his best to keep the panic out of his voice. ‘All hell’s broken loose here. We’ve got two major investigations running concurrently.’

‘I know,’ interrupted Matthews. ‘Another reason why I need to talk to you.’

‘How the hell do you know?’

‘You shouldn’t concern yourself with that, Jack. You should be more concerned with how quickly you can get here. And when you come, bring me 200 grams of Golden Virginia.’

‘You don’t smoke,’ stated Brady.

‘I do now,’ replied Matthews with an edge of desperation.

Brady wasn’t sure whether Matthews wanted the tobacco for himself or as a trade with other inmates to keep himself in one piece. But that wasn’t his concern. Matthews had brought whatever hell he was living in on himself.

‘Come on, Jimmy, how am I meant to bring that through?’ asked Brady.

‘You’ll figure it out. Call it payment.’

‘You shit,’ muttered Brady.

‘Yeah? We’re the same you and I, Jack. Don’t forget it.’

Before Brady had a chance to respond the line had gone dead.

‘Damn it!’ he cursed as he looked up and stared up at the dusty grey slats of daylight stabbing through the off-white Venetian blinds.

He was wondering whether Matthews was bluffing or whether he actually had some information on the two investigations. Whatever it was, Brady had no choice but to make a visit. After all, Matthews had him firmly by the balls. Whatever he was holding over him regarding his old man could be enough to destroy him once and for all.

Brady breathed out.

A loud rap on the door broke him from his thoughts.

‘Yeah?’

The door swung open and Conrad walked in carrying a black coffee and a bacon stottie from the basement canteen.

‘Thought you might need some breakfast, sir.’

‘Thanks, Conrad,’ replied Brady, though he knew he wouldn’t be capable of keeping anything down right now.

Conrad carefully cleared a space on Brady’s cluttered desk. He then looked at his boss trying to gauge his mood.

‘I’m sorry, sir …’ he began uncomfortably.

Brady stopped him.

‘You tried to tell me. I should have listened, Conrad. I’m the one who should be apologising.’

Conrad mutely nodded, relieved.

Brady picked up his coffee and took a slow, deliberate drink.

‘Sir, Wolfe is carrying out the victim’s autopsy now,’ Conrad offered, filling in the awkward silence.

‘Is Adamson still questioning the barman from the Blue Lagoon?’ Brady asked, ignoring what Conrad had said.

He needed to talk to the barman about the two men who had left with Simone. The two men Brady had seen drinking with her.

‘Sir?’ Conrad questioned.

‘Simple question, Harry. Yes or no?’ demanded Brady agitatedly.

‘No, sir. I saw Amelia a minute ago and she said that Adamson had let him go. They’ve got a photofit of the two men which helps, given how blurred the images of them are on the nightclub’s surveillance tape.’

‘Has Adamson sent it over to Jed to get him to digitally enhance the security tape images?’ Brady asked.

Jed was the force’s computer forensic analyst. And he was the best, if not the only, one in the field. A shrinking budget now saw Jed overloaded with too many cases. But given the seriousness of the crime against one of their own, Brady was certain that Jed would prioritise this job.

‘As far as I am aware, sir,’ Conrad replied, uneasy with Brady’s line of questioning. They had their own murder investigation to be working on rather than obsessing about Adamson’s.

Brady nodded, relieved. Jed would send him a copy of the enhanced images, he was certain of that. ‘If Adamson finds the emergency caller on CCTV footage, I want to know. Understand?’

‘How, sir? Adamson won’t let me anywhere near the investigation,’ Conrad pointed out.

‘Amelia,’ stated Brady simply. ‘She’s on Adamson’s team. You’re good friends: I’m sure she’ll keep you updated.’

Conrad wasn’t convinced, but he let it go. It was pointless arguing with Brady. More so given Brady’s personal attachment to the case; it was clear that he wouldn’t be able to persuade him otherwise. Conrad decided to keep quiet. It would be dangerous to tell his boss to let Adamson just get on with the case instead of Brady torturing himself with updates related to Henderson’s attack.

‘I reckon we should keep Kenny and Daniels out of trouble by getting them to go over every bit of CCTV footage caught last night down on the Promenade and the surrounding streets.’

‘Won’t Adamson think that we’re interfering in his case?’ suggested Conrad.

‘Can’t see how. Not when we’re working on finding anything we can connect to our murder victim being dumped on the beach directly opposite the Blue Lagoon. Do you?’

‘But wasn’t she washed up? Dumped at sea?’

‘Says who? As far as I’m concerned I need Daniels and Kenny looking at that CCTV footage for any unusual activity.’

Brady’s mind was on the anonymous 999 caller. He desperately needed to know if the man had been caught on CCTV footage. Only then would he know if his fear about the caller’s identity was true.

‘Sir?’ Conrad said tentatively. ‘Tell me this isn’t connected to Simone Henderson. Because we’ve already got our hands full with our own investigation.’

He had been worried that this would happen. That as soon as his boss heard about what had happened to Simone Henderson that he would go all out to apprehend whoever had done this to her. Regardless of the consequences.

Brady looked at Conrad’s worried expression.

‘No, like I said, I want to cover all possibilities with our case,’ calmly reassured Brady. ‘Now we’ve got that sorted, get your jacket. We need to be somewhere, which means rescheduling the briefing for 2pm.’

Conrad didn’t move.

‘Come on, Conrad. We haven’t got all day,’ stated Brady as he stood up.

‘Sir? I’m sorry … about Simone.’

Brady nodded.

‘I know you are,’ he answered. ‘So am I.’

Chapter Ten

‘Left here.’ The sudden instruction from Brady came halfway through a conversation on his BlackBerry. ‘No, not you!’ His attention returned to the person on the other end of the line. ‘I’m talking to Conrad. Listen, I’ll call you later. Alright?’

‘Bloody hell, Jack!’ replied Rubenfeld. ‘This won’t wait.’

‘That’s the same line you’ve been threatening me for years. Give me a couple of hours and I’ll get back to you and then we’ll meet? Call you later,’ concluded Brady, not giving the hardened hack a chance to argue.

‘I said left,’ repeated Brady, relighting his cigarette.

‘Sir?’ Conrad asked as he turned to Brady.

‘What?’ asked Brady as he dragged on his cigarette.

‘Do you think this is a good idea?’

‘It is if I want to find out what’s happened to our murder victim.’

‘As long as you remember that’s why we’re here, sir,’ warned Conrad as he pulled into Rake Lane Hospital.

‘Drop me off at the emergency entrance. Then meet me at the morgue,’ Brady instructed, ignoring Conrad’s comment.

Conrad didn’t reply.

Instead, his steel-grey eyes looked straight ahead as he did as he was told and parked by the emergency entrance. His strong jaw remained firmly set as he watched Brady get out, throwing what was left of his cigarette butt to the ground.

Conrad noticed that the ground was covered in cigarette butts. Smoked by either patients driven to distraction by their prognosis, or their equally worried relatives.

He watched Brady stride towards the entrance. He knew exactly where he was heading. And that was straight for trouble. He didn’t trust Brady to let it go. He decided to park the car and then follow him. The problem was, he knew exactly where he would go – and it wouldn’t be the morgue.

Without looking back at Conrad or the car, Brady made his way through the addicts who were standing, regardless of the smoking ban now in place on the hospital grounds, shivering in dressing gowns and slippers, with tubes attached to their arms and portable oxygen tanks or morphine drips.

Desperate wasn’t the word.

Brady walked straight over to the reception desk and flashed his ID badge at the receptionist.

‘Here to see Simone Henderson,’ Brady said.

The receptionist nodded at Brady before keying the name into the hospital’s database.

‘ICU, Ward 7, Room 2,’ she replied when she found her.

Grateful, Brady nodded.

Before he turned away the receptionist stopped him.

She conspiratorially bent forward.

‘I think you should know that two men were in first thing this morning asking if they could see her. I thought it was suspicious at the time since she’s under police protection and they obviously weren’t officers.’

‘What did they look like? The two men?’ Brady asked.

‘Maybe late twenties, early thirties? Dark, good-looking. Well-built. And they had a funny accent like they were foreign. Definitely not from around here.’

Brady accepted that anyone who didn’t have a Geordie accent was seen as being foreign in North Tyneside.

‘I thought they were lawyers or something … you know? Both wearing suits. Expensive-looking. Looked like they had money.’

He nodded, thinking back to the two men he had seen talking to Simone in the Blue Lagoon. They could easily have fitted the receptionist’s description. But as for their accent, Brady didn’t get close enough to hear whether they were locals, or to clearly see their features.

‘Was there anything about them that stood out? Something they said, maybe? Or even a distinguishing mark?’

‘There was something that struck me as odd …’

Brady nodded for her to elaborate.

‘One of them had a large platinum signet ring on the third finger of his right hand.’

‘Why did that strike you as odd?’ quizzed Brady.

‘Because when they turned to leave I realised that they were both wearing them. One of them had his hand in his pocket you see. Then his phone rang. And when he took it out I saw that he was wearing an identical ring. And on the same finger.’

‘What did the rings look like?’

‘It was the letter “N”. But it was all fancy, inset with diamonds. And the backdrop to the letter had what looked like Latin writing on it. They looked expensive, you know?’

‘You’ve got a good eye,’ Brady said. ‘Ever thought about becoming a copper?’

She laughed. ‘Divorced and single,’ she explained. ‘Force of habit, checking out whether a man’s married or not. First thing I look for now is a wedding ring, or the tell-tale sign that it’s been temporarily removed. Been stung in the past you see.’

Brady shoved his hand in his pocket and gripped the silver wedding ring he kept on him at all times. He couldn’t manage to let go of it, despite the undeniable fact that Claudia had taken up with another man. DCI James M. Davidson was a muscle-bound, ex-military Ross Kemp look-alike, who had swaggered into the Armed Response Unit on the back of his hands-on combat experience in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Not that Brady would take that away from him. It took balls to risk your life in a war reminiscent of Vietnam. In other words, a war against fundamentalist insurgents who used dirty, guerrilla warfare against the enemy. But, regardless of his heroism, Davidson was still an arrogant, tall, good-looking, dangerously charming player, who had war stories that mere mortal men would kill for.

And that was Brady’s problem. He didn’t want Claudia to be played. But he wasn’t in a position to say anything, given his own history with her.

‘Thanks for your help,’ Brady said.

He stopped and turned back.

‘What did you say to them when they asked to see her?’

‘I said only immediate family could visit,’ she answered. ‘But what was odd was their reaction. They didn’t say a word. Just walked straight back out.’

Brady nodded. He expected as much. They had got all the information they had needed. Whether or not Simone Henderson was still alive.

‘Where’s the security camera?’ asked Brady.

The receptionist pointed at the camera discreetly placed on the ceiling behind the reception area. Perfectly positioned to capture whoever came in and out the hospital main entrance.

Brady would need the footage from earlier that morning to see whether the two men who had come in were the same ones he’d seen with Simone hours before she was brutally attacked.

Somehow he would have to get Amelia to request it. Nobody would question her authority. After all, she was working on the investigation as a forensic psychologist. Her job was to come up with a profile of the attacker.

He knew that he couldn’t get any of his team to do it. Inevitably word would get back to Adamson and then Gates. Brady knew that that letter ‘N’ wasn’t just coincidence. What it meant he didn’t know but he sure as hell was going to find out why it had been burnt into Simone Henderson’s breast.

‘Thanks,’ he said to the receptionist before turning and heading down the maze-like corridor.

The only thing on his mind now was Simone.

Regardless of what Conrad had said in the car, he needed to see her.

Chapter Eleven

Brady pressed the intercom button for the security doors leading into the Intensive Care Unit.

‘Detective Inspector Brady to see Simone Henderson,’ Brady said into the intercom, trying to keep his voice level.

The door buzzed open and Brady walked through into the sterile, white hall and headed for the nurses’ desk at the end.

‘Simone Henderson? DI Brady,’ he added as he flashed his ID at the young Filipino nurse.

She nodded distractedly as an alarm from one of the patients’ machines went off.

‘Down there, Room 2. On your left,’ she instructed before hurriedly walking off in the direction of the alarm.

Brady turned and walked past the ward of male and female patients. Most of an age, attached to bleeping machines that monitored their every breath and heartbeat. Brady looked straight ahead, not wanting to witness the loss of humility that came with old age. Craggy, parched mouths hanging open, with skin peeling off from their tongues due to lack of hydration and eyes either tightly shut against their situation or open, staring ahead with a watery, glazed look.

Brady hated hospitals. Hated the smell, the noise and the fact that death morbidly clung to every patient, silently waiting.

Brady didn’t need to be told which room. The uniform outside was obvious enough. Brady approached the door of the private room, noting that the blinds on the window looking into the room were closed. Immediately, he knew it was a bad sign.

‘Sir?’ PC Smith asked uncomfortably.

Brady could see in his eyes that Smith, along with everyone else, knew that he was the reason Simone Henderson had transferred out of Whitley Bay.

Brady looked at him. He was twenty-three, if that.

‘I’m here to see Simone Henderson.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ve been instructed not to allow you in,’ the PC answered nervously.

‘Who by?’ demanded Brady as he edged towards PC Smith, forcing him to strategically place his six-foot-four, rugby-playing bulk between Brady and the door.

‘DI Adamson, sir,’ explained PC Smith, his cheeks reddening.

Brady noted that Smith was another Conrad in the making. Smart appearance, short, cropped blond hair, bright, boyish blue eyes and clean-shaven. But more importantly, Smith had that look of integrity about him.

‘Is he here?’

‘That’s not the point, sir.’

‘I only want a minute, Smith. That’s all. I just need to see that she’s OK.’

PC Smith uncomfortably stared straight ahead past Brady, refusing to make eye contact.

‘I can’t do that, sir. I have my orders.’

‘Fuck your orders!’

Smith fixed his stare on the wall ahead of him, clearly desperate for someone to intervene.

‘One minute is all I’m asking for, nothing more,’ attempted Brady, too aware that getting angry with Smith wouldn’t get him anywhere.

‘I wish I could, sir, but her father’s here. And he’ll be back shortly. He’s only gone to fetch a coffee from the cafeteria.’

‘One minute. You can leave the door open and warn me when he returns.’

PC Smith frowned, torn between doing his job and loyalty to Brady. He’d worked on an investigation headed by Brady nine months back and had seen what a dedicated copper Brady was at heart.

After a beat, Smith shook his head resignedly.

‘One minute, sir,’ he said. ‘But if anyone finds out …’

‘No one will,’ assured Brady. ‘Thanks, Smith.’

PC Smith turned and opened the door to allow Brady in.

Nothing could have prepared Brady for what greeted him.

DC Simone Henderson lay unconscious. From what he could tell she had been heavily sedated. Various other wires were attached below her paper-thin hospital gown, recording her heartbeat with irritable regularity. Intravenous tubes wormed their way into her lifeless arms.

Brady stood, unable to move towards her. Her face was unrecognisable from that of the woman he had seen the night before. Brady clenched his fists as he played the ‘what if’ game. What if he had gone over to her? Maybe she wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed fighting for her life.

Brady didn’t need a doctor to tell him that she was in a bad way. The ghostly, sickly greyish pallor that clung resiliently to her skin scared the hell out of him. He didn’t know whether to go over to her and try his damnedest to shake her out of the shadowy underworld she now inhabited. He wanted to shout her name out loud enough to bring her back. To remind her that she didn’t belong where she was, that she needed to return to the living. He needed her to regain consciousness so he could find out who had done this to her. So he could hunt them down and make them suffer the way she had been made to suffer.

He struggled to hold her name at the back of his throat, knowing that if he uttered it out loud it would only be heard as a painful, primeval, anguished sob.

He forced himself to walk towards the bed. Each step feeling as if he was walking barefoot on broken glass.

He reached her side and waited. Willing her to feel his presence.

She didn’t move.

He bent over her waxen, taut face, gently brushing her long, damp hair away from her cold, translucent skin.

‘I’ll get them, Simone … whoever did this to you … I’ll get them … .’

He couldn’t help but notice how young and fragile she looked. And yet, there was something about her which suggested she was too old for this world. She had seen too much and was done with this life.

Brady breathed in and tried to get his head together.

He didn’t have time to reflect. He had work to do.

Hand trembling, knowing that what he was doing was breaking every rule in the book, he pulled back the tape holding the gauze padding covering her left breast. He knew he shouldn’t be interfering with the dressing but he needed to see for himself the four-inch letter ‘N’ burnt into her flesh.

He forced himself to look. He willed himself not to react as he took in the gnarled, weeping, open wound. He took out his phone, the reason he was there, and photographed the letter ‘N’.

Satisfied with the image, he carefully replaced the dressing and turned away, feeling disgusted with himself. He fought back the overwhelming tumult of emotions coursing through his body.

He pulled himself together. Now wasn’t the time to get emotional. He owed Simone more than that. It was simple: he had a job to do and that had to be his main focus. Breathing slowly he gave her one last look before turning and walking out.

‘Sir,’ greeted PC Smith, relieved when Brady joined him in the hall.

‘Thanks, I owe you one,’ Brady said.

But he couldn’t bring himself to look at him. He didn’t want the junior copper to see the pain etched across his face. Or the shame he felt at what he had just done.

He turned and walked away, head bent down as he sent Claudia the photograph accompanied by an explanatory text.

He watched as the signal ebbed and then surged, until the photo finally disappeared, along with the message.

‘DI Brady? Jack Brady? You bastard!’

Brady turned and before he had a chance to react he felt a hard blow to his face knocking him against the wall. Another landed and before he knew it he was down on the floor.

‘I’ll kill you!’ threatened the assailant.

Brady scrambled to his feet while trying to get away from the punches and kicks that his attacker was relentlessly delivering.

The last thing Brady could do was retaliate, despite the blows and kicks being delivered in his direction.

After all, this was Simone Henderson’s father.

And at five foot eight with a stocky, pit-bull build and thick, brutish arms that kept coming, he was a serious contender. His bald, shaven head glistened with sweat as he did everything he could to kill Brady.

Suddenly PC Smith was there trying to pull Frank Henderson back.

‘You son of a bitch! How dare you show your face here!’ panted the fifty-something man as he flailed around against PC Smith, trying to land as many blows and kicks as possible on Brady. ‘Do you know what those bastards have done to her? To my little girl? Do you? It’s all your fault!’

Brady backed away from him, trying to avoid the frenzied punches.

Suddenly the security doors buzzed.

Conrad walked through. It took him a moment to take stock of the situation. He’d expected to find Brady here. Which was why he had come to the ICU first before going as instructed to the morgue. But what he hadn’t expected was to find Brady on the floor with Simone Henderson’s father’s boots violently kicking his face and body while PC Smith did his best to hold him back.

Without a second’s hesitation Conrad ran over and forcibly restrained Simone’s father. Between them, PC Smith and Conrad somehow managed to hold him long enough for Brady to get some distance and get to his feet.

Brady looked at Conrad’s face, which was flushed as he fought to control Simone Henderson’s father. He was relieved that his deputy hadn’t followed his orders and was too aware that this wasn’t the first time he had stepped in and saved Brady’s neck.

Bent over, gasping for breath as he held his ribs, Brady backed away from his struggling assailant who was still intent on finishing the job. Catching his breath in deep shallow gasps he raised his head to meet Henderson’s hate-filled eyes. From that one look of absolute fury and disgust Brady realised that this man held him responsible for the fact that his only child was lying in intensive care, heavily sedated after too many hours on an operating table, not knowing whether she would even pull through.

‘If you’ve been in her room, I’ll kill you! You hear?’ shouted Frank Henderson as Conrad pinned his arms behind his back.

‘I wanted to but Smith there wouldn’t let me in,’ hoarsely panted Brady, still winded from the blows he’d taken.

‘You stay away from her!’

‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry …’

‘You think I believe that? It was you, you bastard, that made her transfer to the Met. Left me and her mother because of you. Her mother was dying of cancer, did you know that? Did you? That’s what you did to us. Forced our only child to run as far away as possible from the North East,’ yelled Henderson as he continued to struggle like a man possessed against Smith and Conrad.

Conrad’s face was now burning red with the exertion of holding him back. Even Smith was clearly struggling to restrain him.

Still clutching his right side, Brady turned to leave before Henderson’s sheer hatred of him overpowered both men holding him back.

‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Brady. ‘You’ll never know how much.’

‘And so you should be. If it hadn’t been for you she wouldn’t have come back here. I want to know what happened. I want to know how you could let her get hurt.’

Brady stopped. He turned round, confused.

‘I don’t understand. I haven’t seen Simone since she transferred from Northumbria a year ago.’

Henderson stared hard at Brady. It was evident that he didn’t believe him.

‘Then why did she tell her flatmate that she had to talk to you? That she had some unfinished business?’

Brady looked at Conrad who looked equally puzzled.

‘She never contacted me,’ Brady replied, shaking his head.

‘So you tell me why her flatmate said that she was coming up here on leave to see you.’

Brady stared at Henderson, not understanding what he was saying.

‘Maybe you got it wrong,’ suggested Brady carefully.

‘I got it wrong, did I? I didn’t find out that she was in the North East until your lot showed up on my door. You tell me why she didn’t want me to know she was here?’

Brady couldn’t answer him.

‘I’ll tell you, shall I? Because she knew how I felt about you. If I’d known she was coming up to see you I would have done everything in my power to stop her!’

‘She didn’t arrange to meet me,’ Brady answered quietly but firmly.

It was the wrong answer. Henderson lunged forward, fighting Conrad and Smith with renewed vigour.

Conrad, breathless and scarlet-faced, shot Brady a look which told him to disappear, and fast, before he lost control of Henderson.

Dejectedly Brady turned and limped out of the ICU, feeling as if he had just had the worst kicking of his life. And the worst part was, he knew he deserved it.

Chapter Twelve

Brady held onto the washbasin.

He was still shaking from the attack.

But it wasn’t the blows that had got to him.

He turned the cold tap on and splashed himself with water. Face drenched, he looked up at his reflection in the mirror.

He looked like shit.

Wincing, he straightened up and lifted his t-shirt. His light olive-coloured skin was starting to discolour into mottled purple patches spreading across the side of his right ribcage. He gently ran his fingers over the bruising which led down to his abdomen.

He let go of his t-shirt. Bending over the washbasin again, he drenched his face, groaning with the exertion.

But no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get rid of the image of what they had done to Simone.

He was very aware that word would get back to Gates. Brady could deny having seen Simone. He knew that Smith wouldn’t say a word. But there was no way he could deny the run-in with the victim’s father. Nor could he explain why Frank Henderson believed his daughter had returned to the North East because of Brady. It didn’t make sense. He hadn’t talked to her in over a year. Nothing. And then suddenly, she’s back up here lying critically wounded in the ICU.

He narrowed his eyes as he looked at the damage. Nothing was broken. His left cheek was split open. Frank Henderson had also landed a lucky blow above his left eyebrow, resulting in another open gash. Blood trickled down into his eye.

He bent down and doused himself in more cold water in a bid to get rid of the blood. He didn’t have time to go and get the cuts stitched. Not that he would have done. He’d had a lot worse than this and had lived to tell the tale.

He raised his head up and slowly breathed out. His head was throbbing. He ran his hand over his scalp for any tell-tale damage. Nothing. Apart from the raised four-inch scar at the back of his head where his father had taken a baseball bat to him when he was eight years old. All he remembered was hearing the swoosh of air as the baseball bat had swung towards him. He’d felt it connect with his skull before everything went black.

When he had come round, it wasn’t to concerned medics. He had found himself lying on grime-encrusted bare floorboards, in a pool of his own blood. He had awoken to the terrified eyes of his younger brother Nick, four years old, huddled in a foetal position on the piss-stained mattress dumped on the floor in the corner of the room they slept in.

The room was empty of furniture, apart from the old, torn, flea-infested mattress. There was no wardrobe or drawers in the bedroom; there was no need. The only clothes Brady and his brother owned were the ones on their backs. Everything went on his father buying his next pint and pack of tabs. Resulting in them living in squalor with little or no comforts, despite his mother’s best intentions.

Their father being imprisoned was the best thing that had ever happened to Brady and Nick. Being dumped around the North East in countless foster homes was luxury compared to their brutal start to life.

Brady stared at his reflection, fingers touching the gnarled scar at the back of his head as he remembered the price he had had to pay to get away from his father.

The same night that his father had taken a baseball bat to him, breaking not only three ribs and his right arm, but also splitting open his skull, he had then turned on his mother.

Brady was acutely aware that if she hadn’t intervened when she had, he would have been the one that was later found dead.

That was why, when he came to, the first thing he saw was Nick’s wide, petrified eyes watching, huddled in the corner like a wild animal. The second thing he registered was his mother’s screams as his father ‘taught her some respect’.

Brady blinked back. His eyes stinging with fresh, salty pain.

He reminded himself that it might have taken years, but his father had finally been made to pay.

Yet, it still didn’t ease the pain of witnessing your own mother being beaten and raped in front of you.

When his father had momentarily stopped, leaving the room, his mother had whispered to him to get up and run.

‘Take Nick, Jacky, and run. Don’t stop. Understand? No matter what, don’t you stop, Jacky. Now go! GO!’ she had urged, knowing that her husband was coming back to finish what he had started.

Brady did exactly what he was told. He knew, as she did, what would happen if he didn’t.

He never saw his mother again. Well, he never saw her alive again.

Brady had pulled out the court case records and autopsy report a few years back, thinking it would give him some kind of resolution. It hadn’t. The crime scene photographs brought to life his worst nightmares.

When he had taken his mother at her word and run, his father had returned to stab her over twenty times. Her face was so mutilated from the frenzied knife attack that the only way she could be identified was through her dental records.

Brady let go of the old wound and gripped the sides of the washbasin, steadying himself as he forced himself to come back to the present.

To Simone.

Brady desperately needed to talk to Madley. Whatever was going on had to have something to do with him.

A gutted and mutilated copper being dumped in Madley’s toilets wasn’t an everyday occurrence. This was a warning to Madley. The question was why?

He leaned over the sink and splashed his face one more time. He needed to clean himself up. He looked bad enough with the purple and black bruising and cuts, without the blood.

His phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket.

He took it out: Conrad. A sudden reminder that he had a case of his own to work on.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow the two cases were connected.

Chapter Thirteen

Brady shivered involuntarily.

Unlike Wolfe, he didn’t have the stomach for this. He was grateful that he’d left the bacon stottie that Conrad had brought him earlier, certain he wouldn’t be able to keep it down.

Brady glanced at Conrad who was stood next to him, grim-faced, lips tightly sealed in nothing less than a grimace.

Not that Brady could blame him. It wasn’t just being witness to the autopsy that was clearly disturbing Conrad. That in itself was bad enough. It was having to be in the same room as Wolfe. For some reason he and Wolfe didn’t quite see eye to eye. And Brady knew for a fact that Wolfe didn’t appreciate Conrad watching him work.

Brady had suggested that Conrad wait in the cafeteria, which unbeknown to the public was located right next to the morgue. But Conrad had refused. He didn’t have to say it, but Brady knew he didn’t trust leaving him on his own while Simone Henderson’s father was still on the premises. Rake Lane might have been a huge, sprawling maze of a hospital but Conrad clearly believed that it wasn’t large enough to keep Brady away from trouble.

Brady looked down at the dissected body, wishing he was anywhere rather than in front of a mortuary slab looking at a body that resembled a Damien Hirst piece of art. His face hurt like hell and his ribs burnt every time he breathed. But he didn’t have time to feel sorry for himself.

‘You don’t look so grand. You want Harold to fetch you the bucket, laddie?’ Wolfe said mockingly, as he looked across at Brady.

Despite having lived in the North East for the past thirty years, Wolfe’s Edinburgh roots had never left him. His soft, well-educated Scottish lilt was a constant reminder that he was originally from north of the border.

Brady swallowed hard and shook his head, avoiding Conrad’s concerned look.

The ‘sick bucket’ was always on stand-by for new coppers or for the particularly gruesome autopsies, where the bodies had been left to fester for weeks, allowing insidious, eye-watering bodily gases to build.

‘No … I’m fine.’

‘Aye, I can see that!’ Wolfe said with a wheezy laugh.

Wolfe suddenly went from a wheezy gurgle of laughter to struggling to breathe. Brady watched as the pathologist bent over as he tried to free up some air in his lungs. Despite suffering from asthma, and having carried out countless autopsies on lung and throat cancer patients, Wolfe was still a hardened smoker. His twenty a day was seen by him as moderate. As was his daily couple of lunchtime pints.

‘You want to cut back,’ Brady advised, concerned by his old friend’s sudden loss of colour from his face and his bluing lips.

‘I have cut back … I used to smoke forty a day … didn’t I?’ panted Wolfe, still bent over. ‘Aye, and it’s no doing me any harm!’ wheezed Wolfe, still managing a wry smile.

Brady watched as he pulled out his blue Becotide inhaler and breathed in four long puffs to open up his airways.

Finally, he straightened up. He frowned at Brady’s look of concern.

‘It’s not me you should be worried about, Jack. Take a look in the mirror. You look worse than half the stiffs we get in here.’

Brady unconsciously touched the open wound above his eye.

‘I can put a couple of stitches in that for you?’ Wolfe offered.

Brady shook his head. ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ Brady replied. ‘You’ve got your work cut out as it is.’

‘Well, laddie, it’s your funeral when DCI Gates clocks you,’ Wolfe replied, disgruntled. The look of disapproval on his face was aimed directly at Conrad. As if for some reason Conrad was responsible for the condition of his boss’s face.

Wolfe dropped his gaze back to the work at hand. He was dressed in a white surgeon’s gown and skull hat with white rubber boots which had a yellow stripe down the back with his name, Dr A. Wolfe, written in black ink. On his small, but long-fingered, delicate hands he wore white latex gloves.

To anyone’s eye he looked like a surgeon. The difference was, his patients couldn’t be saved.

Brady winced as he looked at the gutted insides of the victim. Her ribs had been forced apart and her organs had been removed leaving behind a scene of bloody carnage. A pool of black blood swilled around in what was left of the empty carcass.

‘You sure you don’t need the bucket?’ queried Wolfe.

He had an uncanny knack of knowing when someone was going to puke.

‘No, just aching a bit. That’s all,’ Brady said.

‘This isn’t like you, Jack. Normally you’d take someone down before they even had a chance to look at you,’ Wolfe wheezed.

Brady held his breath as he tried not to react. Wolfe had performed most of the autopsy, which accounted for the disconcerting smell emanating from the systematically butchered body. The internal organs still had to be replaced back into the chest before the deep Y-shaped incision which worked from the shoulders down to the groin could be stitched up and the body could be stitched back together. But first the internal organs would have to be individually weighed and documented. The slightest detail noted.

Brady looked across at Harold, the anatomical pathology technician. Not that Wolfe ever used him. Harold’s job was mainly to stand around and watch as Wolfe cut up and investigated every unusual detail on whatever stiff Harold had removed from one of the thirty body refrigerators in the hospital. Harold was a tall, gaunt-looking young man with long reddish-blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and a long red goatee beard plaited in two strips.

‘What have you found?’ asked Brady as he walked round to Wolfe.

He was busy examining the victim’s internal reproductive organs which were still in situ.

‘The victim wasn’t pregnant at the time of death but she had had an abortion within the last month I’d say,’ replied Wolfe.

‘Both her fallopian tubes and ovaries are scarred by severe endometriosis. As is the uterus which also shows evidence of extreme trauma. So I’m surprised she was able to get pregnant given the scar tissue. But you see here?’ Wolfe said, pointing. ‘There is an area of haemorrhage on the anterior surface of the cervix where it joins the body of the uterus. This haemorrhagic area measures approximately two centimetres and there is also a tear in the cervix measuring three centimetres in length.’

Brady stared at the mutilated body, wondering what kind of short life she had lived.

‘See this scarring on the cervix here?’ questioned Wolfe as he looked up at Brady.

Brady nodded.

‘Caused by an abortion – a bad one at that. She would have had extensive bleeding afterwards. Still evidence of haemorrhaging pooling by the cervix, as I already pointed out. In all honesty I’m surprised she survived. I’ve had autopsies where women have died from botched abortion jobs like this one. She would never have been able to have children after that.’

Brady looked closely at the scarring from the botched abortion. It was bad. Even to his untrained eye.

‘And you see this trauma here?’ Wolfe pointed out.

‘These internal and external wounds were carried out when she was alive and are indicative of her being raped. Gang-raped and violently might I add to cause that kind of damage.’

Brady looked across and caught Conrad’s eye. He looked equally as uncomfortable with the finding.

‘When you get the autopsy report you’ll see that I’ve established numerous finger marks on her lower and upper legs and her hips and back from where she has been forcibly held down. I’ve checked them and there is a consistency which shows that three different people held her down.’

‘What about any traces of DNA evidence? Sperm? Pubic hair?’ Brady asked.

‘Bleach has been inserted into her vagina and rectum, no doubt to cover the DNA evidence. But it appears that they wore protection as I’ve found nothing. And then we have to add in that she’s been in the sea for approximately two hours.’

Brady sighed. He had been hoping that Wolfe would have been able to find some trace of forensic evidence left behind.

‘What about the victim’s age?’

‘Approximately 16 to 18 years of age; body length 65 inches and weight 90 pounds which suggests she’s malnourished.’

Wolfe paused.

Brady followed his gaze to the sagging flaps of skin that had once been her breasts.

‘As you can see the victim had breast implants which I have removed. The serial number on the implants might be of some use to you,’ Wolfe said. ‘Harold will give you a copy of it.’

‘At least that’s something,’ Brady conceded as he caught Conrad’s eye.

Brady didn’t know whether Conrad’s silence was because he was fighting the urge to puke, or whether he was keeping quiet to avoid Wolfe’s acerbic tongue.

But he looked as hopeful as Brady felt at the possibility of being able to identify the victim from the serial number.

‘Cause of death?’ asked Brady.

‘Well … this is the interesting part. You would think asphyxiation because of the damage to her neck externally and internally,’ Wolfe explained as he pointed to the mottled bruising around what was left of her neck. ‘But that wasn’t the cause of death. She was strangled but whoever did this stopped before she actually asphyxiated. The hyoid bone, the thyroid and the cricoid cartilages are fractured, and there is pulmonary edema, with froth in the trachea and bronchi. The lungs are bulky, crepitant and over-distended and there is right ventricular dilatation. But …’ Wolfe paused, ‘the damage isn’t significant enough for her to have suffocated.’

Brady nodded.

‘Cause of death was definitely cardio-respiratory arrest due to shock,’ added Wolfe.

‘Was she alive when they started to decapitate her?’ asked Brady, hoping that for her sake that wasn’t the case.

He saw Conrad shift uncomfortably at the question.

Wolfe shook his head.

‘No. There’s no defensive knife wounds which is what you’d expect if she had been conscious. And if she had been alive when they decapitated her, the blood loss would have been extreme. The carotid arteries on either side of the neck are the major arteries that pump blood to the head and then there are the jugular veins which return the blood back to the heart. If she was alive when these were cut, she would have died within seventeen seconds from blood loss. And believe me that would be one gruesome crime scene. But as you can see from the pool of blood that’s still left in the body’s cavity this wasn’t the case. She was definitely deceased before she was decapitated. Whether she was shot in the head or received a blow to the head which caused cardio-respiratory arrest, I can’t say.’

Brady nodded, relieved.

‘The knife that was used?’ Brady asked.

‘Ten-inch stainless steel hunting-survival knife with a five-and-a-half-inch large serrated spine capable of easily cutting through bone. I’d say the handle was also steel with a knurled handgrip as there’s no traces of fabric or any other material on the neck wound.’

Brady nodded as he wondered what kind of person carried such a knife.

‘Finally,’ Wolfe began. ‘The burn mark of the scorpion and the letters “MD” are intriguing. Reminiscent of cattle branding. And from the condition of the wound, I’d say it’s only two days old.’

‘How long do you think she’s been dead?’ Brady questioned, not wanting to think about the implications of a branded victim.

‘I’d say she’d been dead for about three hours before she was found on the beach,’ Wolfe answered. ‘Time of death was approximately 1am, or thereabouts.’

‘She looks in a bad way for just three hours,’ Brady suggested as he looked at the swollen and discoloured body in front of him.

He caught Conrad’s puzzled expression, which told him he was equally surprised.

Wolfe gave Brady a withering look.

Brady remembered that there was one thing with Wolfe that you couldn’t do and that was question his skill.

‘I’m certain. From the body’s rate of cooling and the degree of rigor mortis and the partially undigested food in her stomach, she had been dead for three hours before she was discovered.’

‘The tide was coming in at 1am. So, whoever dumped her in the water must have known that she would be washed up onto the beach.’ Brady shook his head as he considered the implications.

‘Which means that they wanted her to be found, laddie,’ Wolfe noted.

Brady looked at the body, wondering why she had been gang-raped then murdered. And crucially why her murderers wanted the body found.

‘The head …’ began Brady. ‘Makes identification damned difficult without it or her fingers. Why would someone go to those lengths to make sure she can’t be identified and then want her body found?’

‘Mortui vivos docent,’ Wolfe simply replied.

He nodded at Brady’s puzzled expression.

‘Latin for,’ he paused for effect, ‘the dead teach the living.’

Chapter Fourteen

Brady checked his watch. It was nearly 12pm. He was running late.

He had someone to see connected to Simone’s attack. Whether he would glean anything was another matter, but he felt compelled to follow it through. But first, he needed to get a hold of Amelia back at the station. He needed her to do him a favour. Whether she would was questionable, but he had no option but to ask.

‘As fast as you can, Conrad,’ instructed Brady.

He was on edge at the thought of what lay ahead of him. And the prospect of walking back into the station wearing the brunt of Frank Henderson’s fists wasn’t helping.

Conrad simply nodded as he reversed his new dark silver sports Saab Phoenix out of the hospital parking space, all too aware that Brady was holding a take-out black coffee from the hospital cafeteria. He didn’t want coffee spilt all over the new interior, or his highly-strung boss.

Brady took a slug of lukewarm, weak black coffee. He forced it down, despite its bitter, burnt taste.

‘Would you believe this is worse than the station cafeteria’s coffee?’

‘I did warn you, sir. Which was the reason I didn’t want one,’ replied Conrad as he slowly pulled his car out of the hospital grounds.

The muscles in Conrad’s jaw were knotted as he concentrated on the busy traffic ahead. That and the call he had received while he had waited in the car when Brady had gone off to get some coffee.

‘Christ, Conrad …’ muttered Brady as he shook his head.

‘Sir?’

‘What do we have? An unidentified, decapitated victim whose head is still missing, aged between sixteen and eighteen, savagely gang-raped, then murdered and dumped in the sea with the intention of her body washing up on the shores of Whitley Bay beach,’ Brady said, sighing. ‘And then there’s the markings burnt onto her body which suggest …’ he faltered.

‘Sex trafficking, sir?’ suggested Conrad.

Brady turned and looked at him, mildly surprised.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Just that the letters “MD” and the scorpion seem like an ownership mark, sir.’

Brady wearily nodded. ‘And that’s exactly what’s worrying me, Conrad. You tell me what sex traffickers would be doing in Whitley Bay of all places?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ answered Conrad, as much at a loss as his boss.

‘That’s the problem, Conrad, neither do I,’ replied Brady. ‘In all the years I’ve been stationed at Whitley Bay I’ve never come across a crime of this nature. I really hope we’re wrong.’

From the tense expression on Conrad’s face he obviously felt the same way.

Brady took another mouthful of the bitter coffee. He was still waiting for Claudia to get back to him regarding the markings found on the victim. He knew better than to chase her up. He had no choice but to wait for her call. If the victim was a sex slave, then Claudia was right – she wouldn’t be the only one.

‘I’ve heard that Adamson’s out to cause trouble for us,’ Conrad began tentatively.

‘Don’t you mean he’s out to cause trouble for me? Nothing new there then, Conrad.’

Conrad shook his head. This was serious and he needed his boss to know just how serious.

‘Frank Henderson has made an official complaint about you, sir. And Adamson is demanding to know why we were in the ICU. That, and why Simone Henderson’s flatmate claimed she was coming up to the North East to see you in connection with an old case you both worked on.’

Brady felt his stomach knot. What exactly had Simone got involved in, and why had she brought his name into it?

‘Adamson can go fuck himself,’ muttered Brady darkly.

‘Rest assured, one day it will happen, sir,’ replied Conrad dryly.

Brady turned and looked at Conrad, surprised by the hardness in his voice. Conrad never had a bad word to say about anyone, especially a colleague. But Adamson was a different case entirely. Conrad had spent his first two years of training at Headquarters in Ponteland with Adamson and so knew him of old. After they’d both passed, Conrad swore never to work with the man again. Brady had never asked Conrad exactly what Adamson had done to elicit such an uncharacteristic reaction from his deputy and Conrad had never volunteered one.

Conrad was the kind of guy you wanted around. He was level-headed, reliable with an unerring sense of fairness. Add to that his unquestionable sense of loyalty where Brady was concerned, and the fact that he knew when to keep his mouth shut, and he was invaluable. Without Conrad by his side, Brady didn’t know what he would do. Ironic given how much flak he gave DCI Gates when he had first assigned Conrad to him, never mind the hard time he’d given Conrad for being the poor, unfortunate sod appointed as his sidekick.

Brady took another slug of the unpalatable black coffee as he thought about what Conrad had just said. He’d heard rumours about Adamson. Ones that didn’t rest easy with him.

‘You know you could press charges against Frank Henderson, sir? After all, he did assault you,’ Conrad pointed out. ‘And it might counteract the complaint he’s made against you.’

Brady looked out the passenger window and shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to press charges when he felt that the punches were deserved. He just had to make sure he kept out of Adamson’s way.

He caught a glance of his reflection in the wing mirror. He face was a mess, which explained why he hurt like hell. The cut above his swollen eye looked nasty and his ribs still burnt every time he breathed. But he didn’t have the time or inclination to get himself checked over. There was still too much work to do; and part of that involved Simone’s attack.

He rummaged in his jacket pocket for some painkillers. Finding some, he popped a couple in his mouth and washed them down with a swig of coffee. He grimaced at the bitter aftertaste.

‘Any updates while you were waiting for me?’ he asked abruptly.

‘We’ve got a local teenage girl whose parents have just rung the station to file a missing persons report.’

‘How long’s she been missing?’ Brady questioned as he turned to Conrad.

‘That’s all I know, sir,’ answered Conrad. ‘Harvey and Kodovesky are dealing with it though.’

Brady nodded. Given the number of teenagers who disappeared for a couple of days after an argument with their parents, it wasn’t worth getting excited about. Most would eventually return home. But unfortunately there were always the few cases where the missing teenager never resurfaced, swallowed up in one of the large cities by prostitution, or worse.

Brady leaned his head back against the headrest and wearily massaged his forehead.

‘Problem, sir?’ queried Conrad.

‘I’m not sure,’ answered Brady honestly.

Conrad looked over at him. It was clear from his dark, pensive expression that his boss had no intention of sharing whatever it was that was bothering him.

Brady’s silence troubled Conrad. He hadn’t spoken about whether he had actually seen Simone Henderson in the ICU. But Conrad knew better than to ask.

*

Conrad parked up outside the station. Brady got out the car without waiting for him. He took out his BlackBerry as he walked towards the station and scrolled down his list of contacts until he came to Amelia Jenkins. He pressed call.

‘Amelia?’ Brady said.

Before she had a chance to say anything Brady quickly cut in. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m heading to the cafeteria for lunch,’ answered Amelia, surprised by his directness.

‘Good, I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.’

He hung up before she had a chance to object.

‘I’m going to grab some lunch from the basement. Do you want anything?’ Brady asked as Conrad caught up.

Conrad’s expression was enough to let Brady know he was still feeling queasy from the autopsy.

‘Thanks, but I’m fine, sir,’ answered Conrad.

‘Alright, you check with Harvey and Kodovesky exactly what they have on this missing girl.’

Brady didn’t wait for an answer as he walked in through the double doors of the station. Neither did he give Turner, the desk sergeant, a chance to ask what had happened to his face. He’d leave the damage limitation to Conrad.

Chapter Fifteen

Brady kept his head down, avoiding the quizzical looks as he made his way through the lunchtime crowd towards Amelia. The last thing he wanted was questions about his beaten-up face. Then again, he accepted, he’d be surprised if news hadn’t already got around.

He headed for the cracked, red laminated, sixties-style table under the wrought iron barred window where Amelia was sitting with her back to him and the rest of the cafeteria. She was easy to spot with her black razor-cut bob. That, and the fact she was the only one sitting alone.

‘I take it you heard,’ she greeted him coolly, not looking up from her phone.

There was an edge to her voice. Exasperation … irritability? Brady wasn’t sure. He accepted that maybe it was both.

He pulled out a chair and sat down next to her, waiting until she’d finished whatever message she was sending.

‘Oh my God, Jack? What happened to you?’ she said, her voice betraying her as she looked up and saw his face.

‘It’s nothing,’ Brady answered lamely.

‘Have you had that cut above your eye checked out?’ she asked, frowning. ‘It looks really nasty …’

‘It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it,’ replied Brady, embarrassed by her concern.

He looked away, pretending to be distracted by the noise around him, unable to hold her questioning gaze.

To Brady’s relief her phone suddenly buzzed, diverting her attention from him.

Amelia picked it up and read the message.

He watched, surprised, as she chewed the corner of her red lips while she contemplated the content. He wondered whether the text was from some boyfriend and was surprised by the pang of jealousy he felt at the thought.

‘Sorry about that,’ Amelia said, as she turned the phone onto silent without replying.

‘Go ahead, answer it,’ offered Brady.

‘No. It’s not important,’ she lied.

He looked at her. He didn’t know what it was about Amelia that made him feel so nervous when he was around her.

‘You were asking if I’d heard?’ Brady reminded, wanting to break whatever it was that was going on between them. ‘Heard what?’

A flicker of disappointment registered on Amelia’s face.

She nodded, suddenly resuming a detached and professional air.

‘Gates is furious with you,’ she pointedly stated.

‘Tell me something new,’ replied Brady laconically.

‘This isn’t funny, Jack,’ Amelia snapped, clearly frustrated by his response. ‘Adamson went straight to him and lodged a complaint about you – to add to the one from Frank Henderson.’

‘I take it Frank Henderson has been talking to Adamson then?’

‘You could say that,’ answered Amelia.

Brady didn’t say anything.

‘Jack, why didn’t you just stay away? Why go looking for trouble?’

‘What if I was to say that I think the murder investigation I’m working on is connected with Simone Henderson’s attack?’

‘How?’ questioned Amelia, intrigued.

‘That’s what I’m trying to figure out. And that’s why I needed to talk to you.’

‘I’m listening …’ she said as she sat back, folded her arms and waited.

Brady bent forward and lowered his voice, not wanting anyone around to overhear.

‘I haven’t got time now because I’ve got to be somewhere. But I promise I’ll fill you in later. In the meantime, I need you to do something for me. If I had any other choice, believe me I wouldn’t ask …’

‘Go on,’ she instructed with an edge of cynicism.

‘What I need is the surveillance footage for this morning’s shift covering the main reception area at Rake Lane,’ Brady explained. ‘And … I need your help to get it.’

‘Why me?’ she asked, frowning.

‘Because I can’t and you can. You’re part of the investigation into Simone Henderson’s attack which ultimately gives you the authority I don’t have to request it.’

Amelia reached for her cappuccino and slowly took a sip as she thought it over.

She placed the cup back in the saucer and looked him in the eye. ‘Tell me why I should do that for you?’

‘We’ve got one headless girl in the morgue who was gang-raped and sodomised before being murdered. Then we have one of our own coppers in ICU. What connects them is the fact they’ve both been branded.’

Amelia gaped at him. ‘Run that by me again?’ she asked quietly, trying to hide her surprise.

Brady edged forward in his seat towards her.

‘Both victims have been branded. Simone has the letter “N” burnt onto her breast and the girl in the morgue has the letters “MD” with a scorpion above branded at the base of her spine.’

‘If you think there’s a connection—’ began Amelia, starting to shake her head.

‘I know there’s a connection. Don’t ask me how I know, I just know.’

‘What? A hunch? Is that it?’ questioned Amelia with an edge of scepticism.

‘It’s enough to worry me,’ Brady replied, sighing heavily.

She didn’t reply. From the troubled look on her face Brady could see that she was weighing up the enormity of what he was asking her to do.

He nervously dragged his hand back through his hair as he waited for her to respond.

Eventually she looked him in the eye.

‘You’ve got to take this to Adamson. If you don’t then you’ll be seen as withholding evidence. If Gates finds out he’ll crucify you.’

‘Like you said, it’s just a hunch. For the time being I want to keep this between you and me. Get me that surveillance footage and I’ll have a clearer idea as to whether or not I actually have something concrete.’

She remained unmoved.

‘Please, Amelia. Believe me, if I had any other choice …’ Brady’s voice trailed off. He didn’t know what else to say to convince her. She didn’t owe him anything. And he was acutely aware of that fact. Until today they hadn’t seen each other in over six months and then only in a professional capacity. She had hinted that she wanted more, but he had backed away, unable to move on after Claudia.

‘You know what you’re asking me to do, don’t you?’ asked Amelia, raising her head.

‘I’m desperate …’

She lightly sighed. ‘Alright, I’ll do it. Only because I’d hate to see you do something that will mean you end up losing your job once and for all.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t thank me, thank Conrad. He rang me earlier. He’s the one who convinced me to help you. He’s a good man, Jack. You’re lucky to have him on your side.’

‘Yeah, I know. What did he say?’

‘Enough,’ answered Amelia.

Brady didn’t say anything.

‘Do not screw up and involve me,’

‘Thank you, Amelia. I owe you one,’ Brady replied, relieved.

‘This is against my better judgement, Jack. And I’m not doing this as your colleague, I’m doing this because I care about what happens to you. Even if you don’t.’

Amelia held his eye as she waited for a response.

But typically, Brady didn’t say a word. Instead he uncomfortably broke away from her gaze.

She knew why. She’d read the files from his childhood and knew better than anyone why he couldn’t deal with emotion. Why, when offered the chance of something good, he would inevitably end up running from it for fear of destroying it. But there was something about him, a vulnerability that meant she couldn’t resist wanting to help him. Despite her better judgement.

‘Amelia, I … I …’ began Brady.

But Amelia was already gathering up her bag and phone.

‘Save it, Jack. For when you actually mean it,’ she said as she stood up to leave.

Before he had a chance to say anything she was already walking away.

*

Brady made his way back to his office. He was cursing his stupidity at leaving his car keys on his desk. He needed to be somewhere and fast. And the last place he wanted to be was wandering around the station when Adamson was looking for blood: his blood.

He grabbed his keys off the desk as someone knocked on the door.

‘Yeah?’ Brady called out distractedly.

Conrad walked in.

‘Sir?’ Conrad greeted, surprised that Brady looked as if he was going somewhere.

‘I’ve got a meeting to go to, Conrad,’ answered Brady. ‘This won’t take long, will it?’

‘You wanted an update on the missing girl, sir.’

‘What have you got?’

‘I’ve just spoken to Harvey, sir.’

Brady sighed as he agitatedly ran his hand through his hair. ‘Can it wait?’

‘You might want to hear this,’ replied Conrad.

Brady sat down.

‘Does she fit the body type?’ he asked, cutting to the chase.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Go on,’ he instructed, aware that he was going to be late. And the person he was meeting wouldn’t hang around.

‘Well, she’s been missing since Thursday morning, sir,’ answered Conrad. ‘Didn’t turn up at school.’

‘So why wait until now to report her missing?’

‘Harvey said her parents weren’t overly concerned until they saw the news this morning about our murder victim. Panicked them. They tried calling her mobile, but she’s not answering.’

‘Where did they think she’s been since Thursday? I mean, this is Saturday for Christ’s sake.’

‘Parents believed that she’d been staying at a friend’s house. It seems her younger sister’s been covering for her. The missing girl’s called Melissa Ryecroft and unbeknown to her parents she was allegedly approached by a model agency scout on her Facebook wall last Sunday. Said he could get her in front of a top model agency in London if she was prepared to move fast. Said he’d arrange a meeting with them which was supposed to have been scheduled for 10am Friday. He also said he’d meet her in London on the Thursday. All of this was arranged without her parents’ knowledge. They had no idea about this model agency or scout. As I said, they believed she was staying over at a girlfriend’s house. They had no idea what she was getting involved in.’

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