circulation figures big-time.
He limped along the bleak, rubbish-strewn promenade. His leg was playing up; some days it was fine, at other times like this morning, it would give him jip. It was clear enough where he was heading; it wasn’t difficult to spot uniform on the sectioned off beach below him. They were stood around trying to look official while head to foot white-clad SOCOs diligently moved in and out of a large white forensics tent.
Brady kicked a broken vodka bottle out of the way, scattering the screeching seagulls from their fight over dumped curried chips. Beside it a deflated, limp condom lay abandoned. Both a testament that despite the credit crunch scum always found money from somewhere to get trashed and then shag and gorge on whatever; regardless. Whitley Bay hadn’t suffered because of the global economic crisis; at least the owners of the pubs and clubs hadn’t, unlike the residents. Property prices had crashed, but unlike the rest of Britain, it wasn’t the global recession that had sunk prices to an all-time low, it was the scum that travelled from miles around to get off their face and into someone else’s knickers just to briefly forget how pointless their lives were.
What more did he expect from Whitley Bay at six am on a Sunday morning?, questioned Brady as he looked around at the debris from the night before. The place was a dump. A half-eaten takeaway was strewn across one of the seats that faced the sea. Beside it empty beer bottles lay discarded. Even the air around him stank of stale piss, spilt beer and take-away food. Brady looked over at the unnaturally still waters of the sewage-strewn North Sea. He stopped for a moment and watched a small fishing boat drift over the eerily calm surface as he wondered how a girl’s body had come to be washed up onto the shores of Whitley Bay?
Brady turned and headed in the direction of the steps down to the beach, ignoring a group of four bleary-eyed men languishing against the railings, opposite The Royal Hotel and The Blue Lagoon nightclub. He presumed they were residents of the hotel, visiting for the weekend to get off their faces and pick up whatever woman was pissed enough to let them.
Both the hotel and 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 Madley was meticulous about covering his tracks and so far, the police had failed to get him. Brady knew Madley well; too well. They had both shared a childhood in the riot-fuelled, car burning streets of the Ridges until Brady was lifted off the streets and dumped in countless foster homes across North Tyneside. Neither had escaped their crime-ridden, violent background. It was in their blood; but Madley chose to work with it, and Brady against it.
Brady cast a quick glance over towards The Blue Lagoon nightclub, his eyes automatically looking up towards Madley’s generous first floor office. He was half-expecting to see Madley there, watching him, but the impressive ceiling to floor window was empty.
Brady turned back to the four hung-over revellers slumped against the promenade railings idly watching the proceedings unfolding on the beach below. They had a couple of six packs between them which they were casually slugging. A no-drinking zone operated along the promenade and on the beach, but that did little to deter the scum.
‘Hey, mate? Do you know what the fuck’s going on down there?’ One of the four men asked in a fast, thick Scottish accent.
Brady automatically dropped his gaze to the activity on the beach below and mutely shook his head.
‘Heard some lass was found fucking dead … fucking washed up on the beach!’ Slurred a second Scottish voice as he respectfully slugged from his can of lager.
‘Aye, fucking can’t believe it would happen here would you?’ Added his mate as he morosely shook his head.
Brady resisted the temptation to spoil their illusion about Whitley Bay and instead shrugged them off and headed towards the two officers standing guard at the sealed off steps leading down to the lower promenade.
‘What the fuck was his fucking problem then, eh?’ Jeered one the men in a razor sharp, Scottish accent.
‘Fuck if I know.! Fucking miserable bastard!’ Sourly replied one of his friends.
Brady smiled as a half-empty lager tin flew past him.
‘Sir,’ promptly addressed one of the uniforms.
‘Get rid of them will you?’ Brady said jerking his head towards the four spectators. ‘It’s bad for business.’
‘Yes sir,’ answered PC Hamilton as he uncomfortably weighed up the drunken men.
The other uniform dropped his eyes, safely fixing them on the ground.
For a brief second Brady felt for the red-faced constable. Even he wouldn’t want to try to break them up; not when they’d been up drinking all night. Brady could still remember the days when the public were respectful, if not fearful of the police. Nowadays the police were treated with contempt; both by law abiding citizens who were frustrated by how little jurisdiction the police had when it came to actually dealing with the scum who made their lives a misery; scum who knew their rights better than the solicitors called into represent them. Instead of the police reading them their rights when arrested, it was now the other way round.
‘What do you fucking mean we can’t fucking stand here? Eh? It’s a fucking free country isn’t it?’ Shouted one of the four drunken revellers, aggressively.
Brady couldn’t make out Hamilton’s reply only that his delivery was calm and to the point.
‘Hey, don’t you fucking tell me I can’t drink where the fuck I want to!’ Angrily garbled another of the men as he threw a scrunched up lager can at the officer.
‘I’ll fucking give you a Glaswegian smile if you’re not careful you wee shite!’
Brady didn’t know which members of the group were giving PC Hamilton grief and didn’t want to know, he had other things to worry about now. He bent under the police tape and started making his way down the steps looking for what his guts were already telling him was going to be trouble.
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. But for now, it was Brady’s job to do the kicking.
Conrad had already noticed Brady heading down the steps. He promptly finished talking to one of the white- clad SOCOS and made his way across the beach to meet him.
Brady nodded in response as the young, clean-cut figure of Conrad approached him.
‘I take it this isn’t an accidental drowning then?’
Conrad stiffly shook his head.
‘No sir. This definitely was no accident.’
‘Explains the amount of coppers we’ve got crawling all over the beach then,’ Brady said.
‘We’re still looking for the rest of her, sir,’ Conrad quietly answered.
Brady questioningly looked at him.
‘Better you see this for yourself sir,’ replied Conrad.
Brady followed Conrad’s eyes as he uneasily looked towards the large, white forensics tent.
I would first like to thank all my family and friends for their invaluable support. Thanks especially to Francesca, Charlotte, Gabriel and Ruby, without whom I would never have started the book, let alone completed it. The four of you are my raison d’etre. Thanks to Janette Youngson and Paula Youngson for their constant encouragement, and to Mark Burrell. Particular thanks to Vicki Walton, Kaaren Turner, Victoria Cox, Patricia Savage, Suzanne Forsten, Pamela Letham and Gill Richards for being there when I needed them. Thanks to my long- standing friends, Dr Barry Lewis for his sound advice, and a heartfelt thanks to Eliane Wilson and Professor Peter Wilson to whom I am heavily indebted to for their kindness and constant support.
I am eternally grateful to my literary agent, Jenny Brown. Thank you for believing. Thanks also, to all at Avon, for being so wonderful, and in particular Kate Bradley for being such an incredible, inspiring person to work with – no writer could have a greater editor.
And finally, thanks to my horse, Tico who in all the stress of writing kept me firmly grounded – at times literally!
BROKEN SILENCE
Danielle Ramsay is a proud Scot living in a small seaside town in the north-east of England. Always a
