‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘Do you think he slept with her?’
Jenkins looked straight at Jack.
‘I’m not paid to make assumptions. That’s your job,’ she answered, smiling lightly. ‘But between you and me, there’s no smoke without fire.’
‘What about you? Do you believe that Ellison was nothing more than her teacher?’ Brady asked as he turned to Conrad.
‘Why not?’ Conrad questioned.
‘I don’t know. It just seems to me that everyone’s lying to save their own neck, while we have a victim who’s turning cold. Very cold.’
Brady looked around the Incident Room. It was crammed with over thirty detectives and officers. They were tired and restless and he couldn’t blame them. It was 7.10 pm on a Friday night and their shift still wasn’t over. He had spent the last ten minutes briefing the team on what they had so far; which wasn’t a lot. But what concerned him was what they were going to find if they kept digging. Matthews’ name kept uncomfortably coming to mind.
‘Harvey, Kodovesky: I want statements taken from all of the bar staff working in The Beacon last night,’ Brady ordered. ‘And I want you to scrutinise the security tape if they have one. The pub is right next to that abandoned farmland which means someone could have seen the victim before she was murdered. The person we’re looking for might have been drinking in The Beacon for all we know.’
Harvey nodded.
‘I thought we were looking for someone known to the victim? The modus operandi points to the murderer having a personal attachment to Sophie Washington, sir?’ questioned Kodovesky.
‘We still are,’ Brady answered. ‘Forensics found male hand and footprints at the opening in the fence leading out ontothe back lane next to the victim’s house. Prints that match ones found at the murder scene,’ Brady replied. ‘Someone was either waiting for her there, or she was already with them.’
Brady looked around the room.
‘She then had sex, consensual sex an hour before she was murdered. So we can take it as read that this boyfriend her classmates talked about, who may be older, does exist. It’s crucial that we find out his identity.’
‘Are we sure she actually walked home?’ asked Harvey.
‘We know that the victim left Evie Matthews’ house in Earsdon at around 10 pm on foot,’ Brady answered.
But what Brady wasn’t telling them was Jimmy Matthews’ involvement after that. Given what Matthews had told him, he must have picked her up somewhere between Earsdon and West Monkseaton to have then dropped her off home. But what happened after that was lost on him. What worried him was a CCTV camera catching Matthews actually stopping to give her a lift.
‘Our problem is we don’t know what happened between the victim leaving her best friend’s house in Earsdon at 10 pm and then being murdered yards from her own home between roughly 1.30 pm and 2.00 pm. That’s between three and a half to four hours. Our job is to fill those hours in, minute by minute.’
Brady turned to Conrad.
‘I need you to check out any CCTV footage we have between Earsdon and West Monkseaton. Anything, and I mean anything that looks suspicious you let me know.’
Conrad looked mildly surprised at the request but accepted the order without question.
It was simple. Brady trusted Conrad. He knew that if Conrad found something on CCTV footage that implicated Matthews, he would bring it to him first. Not that he knew what he’d do about it, but at least he’d have time to figure something out. Whereas someone like Adamson would go over his head and take it straight to Gates.
Brady couldn’t help but notice Adamson who was stood watching him against the wall to his right.
‘After interviewing the victim’s classmates we have one name to go on: Shane McGuire,’ stated Brady.
A few hushed voices around the room proved he was well-known to police stations across North Tyneside.
‘Seems he was an ex-boyfriend of the victim’s. I want him found. He’s not at his home address in North Shields and he’s not at his nan’s either. Adamson, I want you to pay a visit to The Sunken Ship and hassle his mother to see if she knows where he could be,’ Brady instructed as his eyes rested on Adamson.
Adamson scowled at the prospect of Wallsend on a Friday night. Worse than that, The Sunken Ship on a Friday night.
Not that it bothered Brady. He was only too glad to give him something to keep him out of the way.
‘I know it’s a shit job, but someone’s got to do it. And make sure you take someone with you for back- up.’
Brady knew the flak he would get; the place would be heaving with drunken thugs, ready to have a go at the police just for the hell of it. Whitley Bay had its problems all right, but Wallsend was the land that civilisation forgot. More so, where The Sunken Ship was concerned, known locally as the Hole. McGuire’s mother worked there most nights. She had a habit to feed, never mind her son, and with a henchman for a husband serving time for some particularly nasty crimes, she had no choice but to offer all shehad left; her body. It was the crassest of places where women with needle-riddled, fake-tan-smeared bodies danced in cages suspended from the ceiling.
The last time Brady was in the Hole, it wasn’t money the men threw at the lap dancers, it was cigarette butts and whatever dregs of beer they had left. And spit wasn’t the only body fluid the women found themselves being covered in. No, the Hole wasn’t known for its refinement, it was what it sounded like; a hell hole.
‘Can I take Dr Jenkins with me? From what I’ve heard of McGuire’s mother it might be useful to have a woman of Dr Jenkins’ skill on side to help question her,’ Adamson asked as he looked across at Jenkins.
Brady knew from the look on Adamson’s face that he was trying to wind Brady up. The problem was it was working.
Brady was about to say no, but Jenkins beat him to it.
‘I’ve got no problem with it, unless you have?’ Jenkins questioned as she looked at Brady.
He was thrown. He hadn’t expected her to want to be within a mile of The Sunken Ship on a Friday night. He refrained from telling her that if she walked in there, the punters wouldn’t let her walk out, that was a certainty.
‘You haven’t got a problem with that, have you, Jack?’ asked Jenkins.
‘I’m just not sure it’s the sort of place you should be going,’ Brady replied.
‘And why is that?’ quizzed Jenkins as she locked eyes with him.
‘The punters there aren’t exactly the kind of people you’re used to dealing with,’ replied Brady, aware that the whole room was watching. Including Adamson who was clearly enjoying the awkward situation he’d placed Brady in.
The last thing Brady wanted to be accused of was sexism. But even he wouldn’t willingly go in there and that was saying something given his background.
‘If I’m part of this investigation, then it means I get given the same crap meted out to everyone else. It might surprise you, but I can cope with a lot worse than a few drunken men in a strip bar,’ coolly answered Jenkins.
Brady could tell from her expression that she wasn’t going to back down.
‘Fine, accompany DS Adamson,’ he conceded. ‘But just watch yourself.’
There was a reason this place was hidden down by Wallsend docks. And if Jenkins wanted to find out why, then who was he to stop her?
Brady turned and looked at the whiteboard behind him. He pointed at the photograph taken of the victim’s tattoo.
‘We need to know which tattoo parlour is responsible for this,’ Brady said. ‘Two reasons,’ Brady added. ‘The tattoo’s fairly recent, so there’s a chance she went with this older boyfriend. Also, we want to know which stupid buggers would tattoo a fifteen-year-old without checking for ID.’
‘Whoever did it obviously didn’t realise how young she was,’ stated Jenkins.
