‘Must be,’ said Madley. ‘What about Claudia?’
Brady shook his head dejectedly as he stared at the blackening horizon.
‘No … nothing …’
Madley shrugged.
‘Give her time, Jack.’
Brady nodded as he thought it over.
‘Martin?’
‘Yeah?’
‘If you track him down, let me talk to him?’ Brady asked.
Madley narrowed his glinting brown eyes as he weighed up what Brady was asking.
‘I’ve got to find the bastard first.’
Brady waited until he was outside before calling Matthews. Still no answer.
‘You stupid bugger, Jimmy,’ Brady said under his breath.
The only thing he could do was keep his head down and get on with the investigation in the vain hope that Matthews would see sense and contact him before Gibbs and his sidekick got hold of him.
‘Pull over,’ Brady instructed, suddenly realising they were already on Tynemouth Front Street. And he was late. It was after 3.44 pm.
He had been preoccupied with his conversation with Madley and his insight into Matthews, who still wasn’t answering any of his calls, despite Brady leaving explicit messages to get back to him ASAP.
‘Should have guessed,’ Conrad said as he noted Wolfe’s racing green vintage MG parked opposite The Turk’s Head. ‘I take it that Wolfe’s expecting me as well?’
Brady raised his eyebrow at him. They both knew the score.
‘Actually, I want you to attend this afternoon’s press conference on my behalf, while I go over the post- mortem findings with Wolfe.’
The last place Brady wanted to be was sat before a room of journalists baying for blood. And he didn’t want that blood to be Matthews', or his come to that. The journalist at the crime scene had unnerved him when she had asked outright if Matthews’ suspension from the investigation was connected in any way to the murder. He definitely didn’t want to be held to ransom by her at the press conference. And given that it had only been six months since Brady himself had made the front pages when he had been shot, he didn’t want his failed undercover drugs bust coming up either.
‘There is only one slight problem, sir. Gates is expecting you,’ Conrad reminded him.
Exactly, thought Brady. That in itself was a good enough reason. Gates was starting to get antsy about Matthews. Things were starting to turn from bad to worse. He now had confirmation that the victim had spent the hours leading up to her death with Matthews’ daughter. This was news that he’d have to relay to the rest of the team at the briefing later. What worried him was that it made Matthews’ behaviour at the crime scene, and now his sudden disappearance, all the more problematic. And right now, after his talk with Madley, Brady didn’t want to be answering any awkward questions; either from the press or his boss.
‘Tell Gates that I’ll report back to him as soon as I’ve finished with Wolfe,’ Brady instructed.
‘Yes sir, but he won’t be happy,’ answered Conrad.
‘He never bloody is where I’m concerned, so it won’t make much difference, will it?’
‘What about getting back to the station?’
‘I’ll get Wolfe to drive me. Maybe I’ll even go home and pick up my own car,’ Brady replied.
‘I don’t think you’d get very far. Do you, sir?’
Brady automatically looked down. Conrad was right. His leg was buggered and there was no way he could use it; every time he put pressure on it he felt as if someone was giving him electric shock treatment, straight up his left inner thigh to his balls. No, he’d have to make do with charity for now.
‘I’m under orders from DCI Gates to be your chaperon for the next few weeks, sir. Until you settle back in, so to speak,’ Conrad stated uncomfortably.
Bloody great, thought Brady. He needed to get back into Matthews’ house later and the last person he wanted witnessing his break-in was Conrad. He didn’t want to involve Conrad any more than he had to.
‘Conrad? Not a word about my visit to Madley.’
‘There’s nothing to tell, sir,’ answered Conrad.
Brady got out of the car. He steeled himself for his update with Wolfe. If his hunch was right, the post- mortem would have uncovered a darker side to Sophie’s life.
Brady breathed in the lingering stale smell of alcohol and furniture polish as he walked into the pub.
He nodded respectfully at the one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old collie dog, lying immortalised in a glass display box mounted against the wall. This was The Turk’s Head, otherwise known affectionately by the locals as The Stuffed Dog for obvious reasons.
‘You’re late, laddie!’
Brady smiled to himself. He would recognise that wheezy gruff accent anywhere. Despite having worked in the North East for years he still hadn’t lost the rough edges of his northern Scottish tongue. He turned to see Wolfe.
‘It’s been one of those days,’ Brady apologised.
‘Tell me about it!’ Wolfe wheezed. ‘Just finished with that girl of yours and they’ve already put someone else on bloody ice for me. And I’ve got three more before I get to him. It’s like a damned conveyor belt.’
Brady raised his eyebrows.
‘A floater. Dragged out the Tyne about two hours ago.’
‘Jumped or pushed?’
Matthews’ problem with Madley was still niggling him. He knew what Madley was capable of and that worried him.
‘Why are you so interested?’ Wolfe asked. ‘Haven’t you already got your hands full with the murdered girl?’
‘Just the copper in me.’
‘I’d say suicide,’ answered Wolfe. ‘But can’t say for sure until I’ve had a proper look.’
Relieved, Brady nodded. He was keenly aware that Matthews’ disappearance was starting to make him paranoid. He tried to relax and put his concerns about Matthews to the back of his mind.
‘Do you want another pint?’ Brady asked, heading for the bar.
‘I want a smoke. That’s what I want. Bloody ridiculous, at my time of life I shouldn’t have to freeze my bollocks off just to have a ciggy,’ Wolfe wheezed.
Brady frowned as he watched Wolfe suddenly gasp for breath.
‘Just need a ciggy, that’s all,’ he wheezed breathlessly as he bent forward and thumped his chest.
Wolfe shot Brady a questioning look when he returned with a soft drink.
‘So, are you going to spit it out?’ Wolfe asked, eyeing Brady suspiciously. ‘I’ve known you a long time, laddie, and I’ve never seen you off your drink. Not a healthy sign if you want my medical opinion.’
Brady resisted the urge to tell Wolfe his medical opinion was worth shit. The only patients Wolfe dealt with were well past resuscitation. Coupled with the fact that Wolfe was a hard drinker, whose gut instincts made him deeply suspicious of any man who didn’t drink. Sobriety wasn’t a voluntary condition in his book.
‘First day back and there’s a lot of shit flying around,’ said Brady.
‘Matthews or your murder victim?’
‘What have you heard about Matthews?’ Brady questioned, trying not to look concerned.
‘That the lad went a bit soft at the crime scene and ended up being pulled from the investigation. Why? Is there more to tell?’
‘No, that’s as much as I know.’
Wolfe shook his jowly head as he studied Brady.
‘You look like shit. You need a proper drink in you, laddie.’
