‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ muttered Brady.
‘She’s just arrived and caught me as I was leaving. She was adamant about coming with us. Something about you briefing her about the investigation?’
‘Shit,’ cursed Brady. ‘Tell you what, Conrad. Just drive, will you? I’ll worry about Dr Jenkins.’
‘Whatever you, say, sir,’ answered Conrad. ‘But she won’t be happy.’
‘Good, that makes two of us,’ replied Brady.
‘I better warn you, sir, she’s not a woman who likes being messed around.’
‘Tell me one who does?’ asked Brady, thinking of Claudia.
‘Do you mind?’ he asked as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from inside his jacket. There was no question about the fact that he needed one.
‘Does it matter if I do?’ Conrad asked as he buzzed down the passenger window.
‘Appreciate it.’
‘Just don’t get any ash in the car, sir.’
Brady suddenly realised the car was new. Same model, but brand new.
‘Whatever we’re paying you, it’s too much,’ Brady replied as he gestured at the state of the art dashboard.
He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply making a mental note not to accidentally burn the leather upholstery. He rested his head back against the seat and momentarily closed his eyes as he enjoyed the icy damp air washing over his face. He felt very tired and realised that he had only had a couple of hours’ sleep, if that.
‘No word yet on the victim’s identity?’
‘No, sir. Few maybes, but nothing concrete,’ answered Conrad.
Exactly as Brady had expected.
His phone rang. Without thinking he answered it.
‘DI Brady?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I take it I’ve wasted my time?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You know exactly what I mean. I turn my back for one minute and you conveniently disappear. This is typical of you to run out on me, Jack. However, this isn’t one of our counselling sessions, this is a murder investigation. And it was DCI Gates who requested my expertise, not the other way around.’
‘I apologise for not being there to brief you, Dr Jenkins, but I have instructed DS Adamson to show you what we’ve got so far,’ answered Brady evenly.
‘I’ve cancelled patients to help you with this investigation but if you’re not interested in my expertise then I’d rather know about it than have you waste my time. Which it seems you’re rather good at.’
‘I honestly don’t know what’s given you that idea.’
‘Cut the bullshit, Jack!’
‘Got to go, but we’ll catch up when I get back to the station,’ Brady concluded abruptly before disconnecting the phone.
‘Sounds like she’s not too happy with you,’ stated Conrad.
‘Yeah? What makes you think that?’ asked Brady as a flicker of a smile played on his lips.
‘Take a right, here,’ he instructed as they approached a roundabout.
‘Yes sir,’ answered Conrad as he swung over into the right-hand lane.
‘At least she’s got Adamson to keep her busy.’
‘I’d be careful of Adamson, sir. He’s interested in no one but himself. Let’s say he’s not a team player,’ answered Conrad as he narrowed his steel-grey eyes. ‘Word is he’s after a promotion and he doesn’t care how he gets it, or who he takes it from.’
‘I take it you don’t like him?’
‘We joined at the same time so I had the misfortune of spending two years with Adamson. When the training was over, I swore I’d never work with him again.’
‘That bad?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
Brady knew Adamson was a roach, but to have Conrad say it worried him. In all the time he’d worked with Conrad he’d rarely heard him say a bad word against anyone.
‘Where to now?’ Conrad asked, after taking the right turn.
Brady looked out the window and realised they were heading along Seatonville Road. Not far now, he uneasily thought.
‘Fairfield Drive, West Monkseaton. Number 18.’
‘Can I ask why there, sir?’ Conrad ventured.
‘Later. Just let me see if my hunch is right first. The less you know about this, the better,’ Brady answered, not wanting to jeopardise Conrad’s career, as well as his own.
Number 18.
He walked up the newly paved driveway carefully lined with shrubs and trees. He glanced at the one-year-old dark blue metallic BMW 5 Series saloon parked in front of the electronic white garage doors, passing it to reach the white, wooden porch.
He took a deep breath before ringing the old-fashioned doorbell. As he waited, he took in the original 1920s ornate stained glass in the front door and below it the antique polished brass lion’s head knocker and letter box.
Heavy footsteps approached as a man in his late forties opened the door.
‘Yes?’ he curtly demanded.
Brady noted that his overall appearance may have been conservative but it made a statement. He was wearing a casual pale blue Armani jeans stripe shirt and Crombie front pleat dark grey trousers, finished off with black Kurt Geiger shoes. The man obviously liked to look good; nothing brash, but it took money to wear those clothes.
Brady held up his ID.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I need to ask you a few questions about your daughter, Sophie?’ Brady began.
He seemed to deliberate over Brady’s words. He may have been clean-shaven with short black hair, respectably peppered with flecks of silver, but behind his black Christian Dior spectacles his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes told another story. Craggy lines spread out from the corners of his eyes as he suspiciously narrowed them.
Brady waited until he reluctantly held the door open for Brady to walk past him into the stained-glass vestibule. Brady made his way through into the wide hallway conscious of his feet, heavy and resonating on the polished parquet flooring. An antique writing bureau and a burgundy leather chair sat under an impressive wooden spiral staircase. Opposite it was an old oak hall table with a small stained-glass Tiffany lamp and an empty brass letter holder. Above the table, a large, imposing mirror sat, reflecting the wooden staircase as it spiralled up to the first floor.
He tried not to limp as he made his way down the hallway towards the fresh smell of ground coffee coming from the kitchen. He stopped dead as he caught sight of the forty-something, long-blonde-haired woman anxiously waiting in the kitchen doorway. She tightly pulled her black silk flower kimono around herself as she looked at him. Even though it was well after ten, she still wasn’t dressed. Brady inwardly winced as her dark blue, desolate eyes searched for anything that resembled hope.
Brady fought the urge to leave. Her hair, the shape of her face seemed uncannily familiar. He deliberated apologising for wasting their time. He could hand the task to some other poor sod. But, he knew he couldn’t do that. For Matthews’ sake he had to see this through to the end.
‘Here you go,’ Simmons said as he thrust the photograph he had just taken off the Smeg fridge at Brady.
Brady was sat with Mrs Simmons at the large wooden table positioned in the centre of the spacious kitchen. Both had cups of black, unadulterated coffee. The only difference was Brady had politely drunk most of his, whereas
