until 3 am before reporting her missing? It didn’t rest easy with Brady.
More so when Paul Simmons had no alibi; his wife had gone to bed at 10 pm, which left his actions unaccounted for. And then, six hours later his step-daughter is discovered brutally murdered yards from her own home. Simmons’ lack of an alibi made Brady feel uncomfortable. Statistically, fathers were responsible for the majority of murdered children over the age of eight. Add to that the harsh reality that step-children were 100 times more likely to be murdered by their step-father.
The modus operandi suggested that Sophie knew her attacker well. The murderer had clearly left his signature; to spend time bludgeoning Sophie’s face beyond recognition was an unnecessary addition to the murder. It reeked of emotional attachment to the victim. Brady had seen it numerous times when called to a murder scene where a woman had been beaten or stabbed to death by her spouse. It was always messy. The spouse would go into overdrive, which led to overkill. Unable to let go of whatever hatred they felt for the victim they would continue to rage long after the victim had stopped breathing.
‘Maybe if you spent some time out there rather than in here asking us ridiculous questions you might get your answers!’ snapped Simmons angrily.
‘I understand your anger, sir. But as I’ve said these questions have to be asked.’
‘What more do you want from us?’ attacked Simmons. ‘Can’t you see the state my wife’s in? This is damned ridiculous.’
‘I’m sorry, but we need all the information you can give us, regardless of how small. Including anything else you can tell us about who Sophie socialised with, whether on the internet or in person,’ replied Brady calmly.
‘Why? Surely to God it was a random attack? I mean, why would anyone who knew her want to attack her?’ questioned Simmons, his eyes fixed on Brady.
‘I don’t know, which is why I need to ask the questions I’m asking,’ answered Brady.
Simmons didn’t reply.
Brady decided to try another tactic; one that was guaranteed to get a reaction.
‘Why would Sophie have a tattoo?’
Simmons froze.
Brady watched as his face paled.
‘I … I don’t know …’ he muttered.
‘If I’m getting this right, you’re both telling me that Sophie was a grade A star pupil. That she tutored maths on a Saturday morning at school for Year 6 children and that she was also involved in quite a few extracurricular activities after school?’
‘That’s correct,’ answered Simmons stiffly as he narrowed his cold eyes.
‘Then why would such a bright, sociable fifteen-year-old decide to get something as rebellious as a tattoo? It just doesn’t fit with the story you’re giving me,’ Brady challenged.
He could feel the temperature in the room drop as Simmons turned on him.
‘You bastard! You have the audacity to question what we’re telling you about our daughter when she’s lying in a morgue because of you lot. If you idiots had taken me seriously when I reported her missing then she might not be dead. So don’t you dare make out we’re somehow guilty.’
It was a good move. So good Brady felt the punch. Simmons was clearly very adept at avoiding certain questions.
‘I apologise if I’ve offended you and your wife. I just need to be absolutely sure that you’re telling me everything you know about Sophie and not some edited version,’ replied Brady, ignoring the fact that his BlackBerry was vibrating.
‘I swear I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!’ exploded Simmons.
‘Paul?’ Louise Simmons whispered.
‘I mean it! No one comes into my house and disrespects Sophie. Get out! Go on! Get out before I throw you out!’ shouted Simmons.
‘All I’m trying to do is get a better understanding of who would do this to Sophie. And if that makes you uncomfortable, then I’m sorry,’ Brady apologised.
‘Detective Inspector Brady?’ Louise Simmons tremulously said.
Simmons was staring at his wife, his face contorted with repressed anger.
‘I … I didn’t know that Sophie had … had that tattoo … but it doesn’t surprise me,’ nervously stated Louise Simmons, ignoring her husband’s attempt to silence her.
‘Why?’ asked Brady.
‘Her father, my ex-husband, died last September and … and Sophie never really got over his loss. She … she was never the same after that.’
‘How so?’
Louise Simmons shrugged.
‘It’s hard to explain … she just seemed so distant and really angry most of the time … As if she was blaming me for her father’s death somehow … Maybe she got the tattoo as a way of getting back at me? She knew I hated them … and … well …’ She broke off as tears started to flow down her pale cheeks.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Louise,’ snapped Simmons. ‘She was just a typical teenager who was talked into getting that tattoo by her friends, no doubt. You know what peer pressure is like amongst kids. You’re reading too much into it. And if she was so affected by her father’s death then her schoolwork would have suffered. And did it?’
Louise Simmons shook her head reluctantly.
‘No …’ she weakly muttered.
‘Exactly! She was a straight-A student who excelled at everything she did. And yes, she could be moody and temperamental but you show me a teenager today who isn’t,’ asserted Simmons. ‘So let’s not waste police time talking about typical teenager behaviour. What counts now is finding out who did this monstrous thing to our Sophie. Yes?’
Louise Simmons looked up at her husband and nodded nervously.
‘You’re right,’ she conceded.
She then looked at Brady.
‘I’m sorry for wasting your time … I … I’m just not thinking straight …’ she whispered.
‘Come on,’ said Simmons, calming down. ‘How about I get you a refill?’
Louise Simmons looked down at the empty crystal glass cupped in her hands and nodded weakly.
Simmons took the glass and shot Brady a look which told him the interview was over.
Brady felt his phone vibrating again. He took it out of his inner jacket pocket and checked the caller.
‘I’m really sorry but I’m going to have to take this,’ he said as he looked at Louise Simmons.
He turned away, ignoring Simmons’ furious glare. ‘Of course. If you need privacy you can take it upstairs,’ Louise Simmons weakly answered. ‘Thanks,’ Brady replied.
He headed out into the hallway before answering the call.
‘About bloody time! I haven’t got all day!’ wheezed a familiar voice.
‘Yeah, I was tied up,’ Brady explained.
‘Aren’t we all, Jack? Aren’t we all?’ huskily wheezed Wolfe before succumbing to a coughing fit.
Brady patiently waited until the spluttering subsided to heavy wheezing. Wolfe had asthma. But that wasn’t what caused his wheezing and gut-splitting coughing. He was a heavy smoker and drinker with a rather robust appetite; all combined it led to him being at least five stone overweight. He liked his vices, a little too much.
‘What have you got?’ Brady asked Wolfe.
‘You’ll have to wait. I’ll be done by two. Meet me at the usual place. And lose the sidekick. He gives me indigestion,’ Wolfe ordered before disconnecting the call.
Wolfe and Conrad had never seen eye to eye. Wolfe was the best Home Office pathologist in the force; everyone knew it, but everyone also knew he had a drink problem; one that began at lunchtime and could continue through to the next working day. Somehow, the old bugger had developed the tolerance of a rhinoceros. Brady didn’t know how the hell he kept sober, but he did. Even Chief Superintendent O’Donnell was aware of Wolfe’s indiscretion, but chose to ignore it, knowing that he would never be able to replace Wolfe’s unerring skill.
Conrad on the other hand, found it difficult to listen to Wolfe’s findings over a pie and a pint. He didn’t have
