‘I know,’ she answered.
‘Where are you?’ Brady asked.
‘At work,’ she evenly replied.
‘I haven’t seen you around,’ Brady stated.
‘You wouldn’t. I’m in my own office dealing with my own backlog of work.’
‘Is that it? You’re off the investigation?’ Brady asked, trying to hide his disappointment.
‘I wouldn’t have thought you needed me any more. You’ve got Ben Ellison, so there’s nothing more I can do. Anyway, I’ve got a pile of work I need to catch up on.’
‘I see,’ said Brady.
‘Look, Jack… this is… well… it’s becoming difficult… for both of us,’ Jenkins attempted. ‘I think it’s better this way.’
‘Sure, you’re the doctor,’ answered Brady lamely.
Someone knocked at the door.
‘Got to go,’ Brady said.
‘I’m sure you do,’ answered Jenkins before she disconnected the call.
‘What!’ Brady called out as he eyed yet more paperwork that had surreptitiously made its way to his in- tray.
Conrad walked in.
Brady noted that Conrad looked more refreshed than he did. He presumed Conrad hadn’t tried sleeping three hours on a lumpy, old sofa.
‘Trina McGuire rang wanting a word with you, sir.’
‘Yeah?’ asked Brady, surprised. ‘Why the bloody hell would she want to talk to me? Oh, don’t tell me,’ he muttered. ‘She wants to make an official complaint about bloody Adamson.’
‘Shane McGuire’s in hospital, sir.’
‘What happened?’ Brady asked.
‘That’s what she wants to know,’ answered Conrad.
‘Yeah?’ Brady said as he answered his mobile.
He looked over at the hospital’s main entrance.
Numerous patients were stood outside the revolving door tabbing away. One old guy with gaunt, sunken cheeks and sagging yellowing skin even had a drip attached to his large, bony hand. In between his skeletal fingers he tremulously held a cigarette. His other bony hand was gnarled around a portable oxygen tank. His blue lips sucked greedily at the cigarette, oblivious to the people walking past. He then yanked at the oxygen mask flaccidly hanging around his scrawny, chicken neck before taking another puff.
Brady hoped for his sake that the portable oxygen tank was switched off. Otherwise, the daft old bugger might end up going a damned sight quicker than he expected.
Fuck, Brady thought. Life can’t get worse than that.
‘Got a message for you, Jack,’ Turner, the desk sergeant, said hesitantly.
‘Spit it out then,’ replied Brady.
‘It’s from Claudia,’ Turner began.
Brady immediately stiffened.
‘And?’
‘She wants you to call her as soon as you can.’
‘Why not call my mobile if she wanted to talk to me?’ questioned Brady.
‘I don’t know, all she wanted me to do was pass the message on,’ Turner explained uncomfortably.
‘I see,’ Brady stiffly replied. ‘Thanks for letting me know, Charlie.’
He sighed heavily as he disconnected the call.
‘Bad news?’ Conrad asked as he set the alarm on his car.
‘I don’t know,’ reflected Brady.
He decided to worry about it later. If it had been that important she would have rung him rather than going through the station.
First he had to see exactly what had happened to Shane McGuire.
Someone had done a good job, Brady had to concede.
Shane McGuire was an ugly sight. His face was so swollen and disfigured it was difficult to know whether it was really him.
Tubes protruded from his scrawny arms while multiple wires fed back to various bleeping machines.
Brady wasn’t surprised. He had read McGuire’s medical report and even though he wasn’t a doctor, he recognised enough to know it didn’t look good.
McGuire had four broken ribs, one of which had punctured his right lung. His nose, left arm and right leg were broken, as was his back in two places. His spleen had also been ruptured and he had suffered significant internal bleeding.
McGuire moaned as he tried to open his swollen eyes.
‘Shane pet, Jack Brady’s here. I want you to tell him who did this to you,’ Trina gently asked.
‘Tell him to fuck off. I told you there’s nothing to tell,’ whispered McGuire hoarsely.
‘For fuck’s sake, Shane! Whoever did this tried to kill you!’
‘I told ye, Mam, I didn’t see ‘em,’ moaned McGuire.
‘This is your fault!’ accused Trina McGuire as she spun round on her four-inch stilettos.
‘Look … I’m really sorry about Shane but I don’t see how—’
Trina McGuire cut Brady off.
‘Of course you don’t cos you lot think you can throw your weight around wherever you want, regardless of the consequences for people like me and my Shane!’
‘I’m really sorry that this has happened, but I don’t see the connection,’ Brady replied firmly.
‘Then maybe you should think twice about dragging him off in front of his mates to the police station for questioning, eh? Makes him look like a fuckin’ grass or someit! No surprise he then gets given a beating if they think he’s been talking to you lot!’
‘Look, Mrs McGuire—’
‘Fuck me! Listen to you! Detective Inspector Jack Brady! You wouldn’t think he’d grown up with the likes of me? Would you?’ she asked sarcastically as she turned to Conrad.
Conrad stepped back.
Brady couldn’t blame him. She may have only been five feet four and six stone if that, but she was dangerous.
Trina McGuire threw back her long, glossy blonde hair as she turned her attention back to Brady.
He was unfortunate enough to have known her from a previous life. She had caught his eye, just as she had caught many men’s roving eyes at the time. Growing up she had blossomed into a remarkable beauty, somehow avoiding absorbing the ugly harshness of the Ridges. But now, years later, she epitomised it. She still had a ‘heroin chic’ beauty about her, but even with the liberal make-up, it was fading fast. A poverty-stricken, desperate junkie, who didn’t havea hope in hell of getting out. The best thing she had ever done in her life was lying in a hospital bed with the shit kicked out of him.
‘You’re bloody lucky your brother’s not still around. He’d soon sort you out.’
Brady kept quiet. He knew they had once been an item and that she blamed Brady for him leaving the North East and ultimately her, behind. But that was years ago. He had gone to London to get away from the fact that Brady was a copper. Not that Brady could blame him. He was secretly relieved that his brother had made that decision, otherwise it would have been Brady who would have had to put some distance between them.
‘Shane?’ Brady said, deciding it was time to leave.
The last thing he wanted was Trina McGuire bringing up the past: his past. Not in front of Conrad.
‘Listen, if you decide you want to talk, just let me know. Here’s my number, yeah?’
‘Fuck off will ye? And take yer fuckin’ number with ye?’ said McGuire, thickly.
Brady ignored him and left his business card on the kid’s bedside table.
