It took all of Brady’s willpower not to lean over the small, round table and grab Rubenfeld by his short fat neck and squeeze whatever he knew out of him. But he knew from past experience that it wouldn’t work.
‘Spit it out then,’ rasped Rubenfeld.
‘We’ve got a murder victim. Found in the early hours of this morning,’ Brady began.
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Rubenfeld replied irritably. ‘Bloody hell, Jack. You know better than that.’
Brady shrugged and decided to wait it out. It failed.
Rubenfeld stood up and put his shabby black raincoat on.
Regardless of the weather, or the location, Rubenfeld always wore it. Brady couldn’t imagine Rubenfeld without it. Underneath it he wore a black linen suit; equally scruffy and in need of dry cleaning. Brady presumed that Rubenfeld had never quite acclimatised to the bitter North East weather after coming back from the South and had compromised on a heavy raincoat. Brady admired his pragmatism; this was the North East of England after all, where the temperature rarely rose above 60 degrees during the summer and the rest of the year was spent under a miserable, disgruntled drizzle.
So much for global warming, mused Brady.
‘Yeah, all right,’ he reluctantly muttered. ‘But it better be worth it!’
Rubenfeld sat back down.
Brady looked over at the bartender and caught his eye. ‘Same again,’ he ordered as he raised Rubenfeld’s empty glass.
‘The victim’s just a kid …’ Brady paused as Rubenfeld raised his thick, black eyebrows.
‘A fifteen-year-old schoolgirl to be precise. I’ve just had a positive ID,’ Brady stated, dropping his voice as the bartender approached.
Brady took out another tenner and handed it to the bartender. ‘Keep the change.’
Rubenfeld swiftly drained the glass and then turned his attention back to Brady.
‘Cause of death?’
‘Can’t say until the post-mortem comes back.’
‘Suspects?’
‘Too early,’ Brady answered.
‘Where’s she from?’
‘Here, West Monkseaton,’ Brady answered. ‘Murdered literally yards from her own doorstep.’
‘You’ll be releasing her identity then?’ fired Rubenfeld.
Brady weighed him up; he was one sleazy son of a bitch.
‘Sophie Washington,’ Brady conceded, barely loud enough for Rubenfeld to hear. But he heard it.
Brady had no choice; he needed Rubenfeld on his side.
Rubenfeld rubbed his coarse chin as he considered what Brady had told him.
‘Well, I’m glad I’m not in your shoes just now! Or Jimmy’s come to that,’ he rasped.
‘Why? What’s going on?’
‘That’s what I want to know,’ Rubenfeld replied. ‘Jimmy’s got himself into a bit of bother with Madley. Word has it he’s pissed Madley off big time.’
‘Why? What’s he done?’
He knew then that he should have taken Matthews seriously when he said that Madley was out to get him. Brady had just assumed that Madley didn’t have the balls to touch a copper; maybe he was wrong.
Rubenfeld shook his head.
‘Don’t fuck with me!’
‘Do I look like I’m fucking with you?’ Rubenfeld snapped. He nervously ran his fat fingers through his short, receding black hair.
‘You know what Madley’s capable of, Jack. And I for one don’t want to mess with him.’
Rubenfeld checked his watch.
‘I’ve got to run if I’m going to make this evening’s edition. It’s due to roll in less than an hour.’ He paused, narrowing his distrustful eyes. ‘Come to think of it, where is that tight-arsed bugger, Jimmy? Shouldn’t it be him throwing his weight around, considering the state of your leg?’
‘He’s tied up,’ Brady answered.
Rubenfeld didn’t buy it.
‘Don’t get involved, Jack. Not when it concerns Madley,’ Rubenfeld warned as he stood up.
But that was exactly it, thought Brady. He was involved, and had been, from the moment he’d found Matthews sat in his office.
Brady kept his head down and pushed his way through, ignoring the barrage of questions. The scavenging rats were willing to sink their teeth into anything that moved. With the limp, Brady was too easy a target.
‘DI Brady? I thought you’d retired?’ shouted out one journalist.
Brady ignored the question and bent down under the police tape. They knew him from the shooting. His story had made the headlines for three days running in the local papers. It wasn’t every day that a copper got shot in an undercover drugs bust. Brady kept going. It was easy to block out the frenzied yelling behind him, he only had to think about his next task after revisiting the crime scene; re-interviewing the murdered girl’s parents.
‘Where’s DI Matthews? Rumour has it he’s been taken off the investigation and that you’re his replacement. Is that right, DI Brady?’ a female voice called out. ‘DI Brady? Harriet Jacobs from
Brady didn’t react even though his guts twisted with every word. He kept his back to the crowd and continued walking down the dirt track towards the crime scene.
‘Why was DI Matthews suspended? Is it connected to the murder investigation?’ Jacobs shouted after him. ‘Did you hear what I asked you, DI Brady? Why was DI Matthews taken off this investigation?’ she added in a last- ditch attempt at getting a reaction.
Brady had heard her all right. The question had cut straight through the crowd. The fact that someone had talked to the press didn’t surprise him. What did surprise Brady were the questions; they were about Matthews, not the murder. It didn’t make sense. Matthews was the type of guy who was liked by everyone, even Gates. But, from the question he was just asked, it was obvious that someone on the force had it in for Matthews. The question was, who? One name kept coming up. DS Adamson.
Brady just couldn’t shake off his suspicions about DS Adamson. Adamson had already proven that he had no loyalty to the investigative team, let alone Brady. As Conrad had said, he was out for himself. And with Matthews conveniently out of the picture, Adamson might have a real shot at promotion. Especially given how much Gates wanted Adamson to transfer to Whitley Bay.
Brady tried to ignore the doubts he was having about Adamson. He had other things on his mind, in particular finding Jimmy Matthews before Gates became suspicious. That is, if he wasn’t already.
‘I’d have thought you’d be too bloody busy to be making social calls,’ Ainsworth, the senior SOCO, greeted when he spotted him.
‘Wanted to get a second look,’ Brady answered as he took in the ruined farmhouse.
‘Different feel to it in the daylight,’ Ainsworth commented following his gaze.
Brady noted that he was right. It did feel different. When he was called out early this morning it felt as if they were miles away from suburban West Monkseaton. The overgrown hedges and looming trees had added to the blanket of blackness, blinding Brady to the row of houses that backed onto either side of the farmland.
He ignored the urge to have a cigarette. Ainsworth was a good enough reason not to; this was Ainsworth’s office now and even Brady wouldn’t cross the line with him.
‘I take it you’re not here for a bloody chat. Presume you want to see where your victim was attacked?’ Ainsworth asked.
Brady nodded.
‘All right, but follow my exact footsteps. It’s bloody difficult enough to figure out what’s what down here with
