Knickerbocker.
Brady attempted to casually return the smile.
It was enough for Paulie to know something was wrong.
Brady and Madley had both known Paulie since St Joseph’s Primary School. As soon as word got out amongst the kids that his parents were Italian and ran the ice-cream vans parked up in all weathers outside St Mary’s lighthouse, Tynemouth Sands and Tynemouth Priory, the nickname ‘Knickerbocker’ came about. And for some reason it hadstuck, regardless of the years and Paulie’s two Italian restaurants known by his family name, Antonelli.
But running two restaurants and the family ice-cream business wasn’t all Paulie was known for; he was also the local fence. The vans and the restaurants acted as the ideal cover for such an operation. Paulie had contacts that Brady could only dream of and was always Brady’s first unofficial line of enquiry if a violent burglary had taken place.
Paulie had a strong sense of moral duty which generously extended beyond family and friends. He had an unerring sense of right and wrong when it came to crime. He was happy to fence stolen goods as long as no unnecessary violence was exacted during the robbery. Brady had often laughed about the irony of being a fence with a conscience, but Paulie didn’t see the incongruity of it. His attitude was you should always act civilised, regardless of what you did for a living. Brady put Paulie’s morality down to being raised a devout Roman Catholic combined with growing up in the Ridges, where the brute reality of surviving the streets meant that at times, Catholic morals had to be temporarily put on hold.
Brady pulled out a chair and wearily sat down directly across from Madley.
‘You look like you need a coffee,’ suggested Paulie as he nodded at the waitress busy arranging the tables for the expected lunchtime rush.
‘Same as Martin would be good,’ accepted Brady as he gestured towards Madley’s espresso.
Brady was still trembling. He couldn’t get rid of the image of the shabby drunk who had threatened to destroy what was left of his life. He dragged a shaky hand through his hair as he caught Madley’s concerned gaze.
‘Paulie? Give us a minute will you?’ Madley suggested.
Paulie respectfully nodded as he looked at Brady’s hunched figure.
‘Good to see you, Jack. Don’t leave it too long,’ he said, patting him on the back before leaving.
‘Yeah, same goes, Paulie.’
Brady watched as Paulie disappeared behind the double doors that led into the busy kitchen.
‘Cheers,’ Brady said as he took his coffee from the attractive, dark-haired waitress.
Brady took a sip of scalding black coffee as he turned his attention to Madley.
‘Thanks for the flowers.’
Madley nodded.
‘She was always good to me.’
Brady looked at him. He was right, his mam had always treated Madley like another son. He sometimes forgot that he wasn’t the only one who had taken her death badly.
‘So, what’s this all about?’ Madley questioned as his glinting brown eyes searched Brady’s pale face.
‘He’s back,’ replied Brady.
‘I thought you’d already taken care of him?’
‘Jimmy had. He’d scared him off. But he must have heard that Jimmy’s in it up to his neck and so the bastard reckons he can try and blackmail me again,’ explained Brady.
Madley waited patiently for Brady to say more, but he didn’t.
‘You should have let me take care of him like I said.’
Brady couldn’t bring himself to disagree. He knew Madley was right.
‘Question is, Jack, what are you expecting from me?’
‘I don’t know.’
He sighed heavily as he stared down at his espresso.
‘Until you do, I can’t help you. You understand that, don’t you?’
Brady nodded.
‘I know …’ he said. ‘All I want is for the old bastard to disappear for good.’
Madley narrowed his menacing eyes as he stared at him.
‘There’s only one way to guarantee that,’ Madley said, lowering his voice. ‘But it has to be your decision, not mine.’
‘I know …’
Brady breathed in the salty, decaying stench of North Shields quayside. It may have gone upmarket with all the fancy Italian restaurants and cafe bars, not to mention the expensive new apartments that now dominated the harbour backdrop. But one thing hadn’t changed and that was the nauseating smell of rotting fish.
Brady stood and watched the sailing boats as they passed by, heading out to sea. He could see a ferry docked further up the Tyne. He turned and stared across at South Shields and the row of brightly-painted Victorian houses that looked out over the river. Even he had to admit it was a beautiful spot to just stand and watch life moving around you.
In the seventies and eighties and even as late as the nineties the harbour and the pubs lining it were notorious for crime and prostitution. If you were looking to have your throat slit, then a night visit to North Shields harbour would do the trick. The no-go area was frequented by hardened, bloodthirsty sailors from all corners of the world, prepared to kill a man if the mood took them. By the time the police were called, the sailors in question would have long since set sail for other nefarious quarters while the victim lay turning very cold.
He walked over to Conrad’s car which was parked up facing the bleak, swirling waters of the Tyne. Seagulls screeched and dive bombed one another as fishing trawlers dredged up whatever crap filled the frothing black water. Brady climbed into the car and helped himself to one of Conrad’s hot, greasy chips. The quayside had the best fish and chips in the North East which explained why it was always so damned busy regardless of the bitter weather.
‘Do you want me to get you some, sir?’ asked Conrad.
‘Nah, not hungry,’ answered Brady as he took a few more.
He looked out the windscreen and thought about what he was going to do about the old drunk. He was trouble, always had been. Maybe now was the time to put an end to it, once and for all.
‘Ready?’ Brady queried, as he turned to Conrad.
He checked his watch. It was just before 2 pm and they still had a hell of a lot to do before the day was over.
‘Yes sir,’ answered Conrad as he scrunched up his vinegar-soaked remains.
He buzzed his window down and threw the scraps out for the birds.
‘Better watch you don’t get done for littering,’ noted Brady as he watched as scavenging seagulls descended upon the offering.
‘By who, sir? This is North Shields.’
‘You’re lucky this time. Come on then. We’re needed back at the station.’
Gates had requested to see him. Immediately. It was now 1.33 pm and Gates had been expecting him since 1.15 pm.
Brady was under no illusions what it was about. But he had other things on his mind. He had just returned to the station and the first thing he needed to do was to call the lab. He was still waiting for the results on Ellison’s DNA and prints. He wanted to be able to walk into the interview room with as much evidence against Ellison as possible.
Brady punched in the relevant numbers and waited as his eyes drifted over to his office window. Grey shafts of dusty light stabbed through the Venetian blinds. He still couldn’t shake the shabby, old drunk from his mind. He didn’t know which way to turn and bitterly wished that he could talk to Matthews.
‘How can I help you?’ answered a female voice.
‘DI Brady here. I’m waiting for some results?’
‘Can you hold please, sir?’
