‘Sir, look … we’ve got the briefing in less than an hour.’
Brady agitatedly rubbed his hand over the coarse stubble on his chin. He felt cornered. But he knew he had no choice. He had to go.
‘This won’t take long. I’ll be back to handle the briefing. Just tell the team the meeting’s been pushed back until 3pm. It gives you time to set up the Incident Room and run a check on that serial number for me. I need to know for certain if the victim is or isn’t the Ryecrofts’ missing daughter before the briefing, Conrad.’
‘Sir?’ objected Conrad. ‘What happens if I need to contact you?’
‘To you, and you alone, I have my mobile. If anyone asks, tell them I’m at lunch,’ ordered Brady as he left the office.
Conrad watched him leave. He had a bad feeling that Brady was independently working on a connection with Simone Henderson’s investigation.
Conrad looked at the paper he had inadvertently crumpled up in his fist. He had work to do and decided that, knowing Brady, he was right: it was better that he didn’t know. All he could do was exactly what Brady had asked – cover for him until he got back.
Brady parked up and got out of his black 1978 Ford Granada 2.8i Ghia. He looked across at St Mary’s Lighthouse. It looked serene, ghostly even; crumbling white against a backdrop of muted grey and black clouds rolling in from the horizon. The lighthouse had once been a beacon of light shining across the cold, battering North Sea, stretching out as far as the naked eye could see, until it reached a vanishing point.
When he was a kid, he and Martin Madley would skip school, jump on the Metro to Whitley Bay and then walk the length of the beach and over the rocks to get to St Mary’s Lighthouse. With his brother Nick in tow they would spend tireless days wading in the rock pools, exploring St Mary’s Island.
St Mary’s was now a major tourist attraction for the small seaside resort. It was a leisurely stroll down from Feathers caravan site; still a popular destination with the Scots for their annual fortnight holiday, just as it had been since the fifties. The two council-owned car parks at St Mary’s were positioned to take in the breathtaking curve of beach and cliffs that was Whitley Bay. Brady looked at the beach stretched out ahead. This place was in his blood. No matter how much he fought it, he knew he was tied to it. That regardless, he’d never be able to leave.
He watched as early afternoon dog walkers and joggers dominated the white, unblemished sands while birds scavenged the promenades fighting over the previous night’s curried chips, charitably dumped by passing drunks stumbling home.
Brady locked his car and walked over to the grassy bank, breathing in the salty, fresh air. He headed along the path towards the second car park opposite the lighthouse, looking for Madley. He wasn’t there. But Paulie Knickerbocker’s ice-cream van was there waiting for the weekend trade. Brady slowly walked over, aware that his leg was starting to play up again.
He grimly nodded at the thirty-something, smart-looking, dark-haired, second generation Italian hanging out of the hatch watching him with interest.
Paulie nodded at Brady taking in the damage to his face. But he knew not to ask.
‘What is it with you coppers? Always on my back, eh? What? Am I illegally trading now?’ laughed Paulie Knickerbocker. ‘Believe me, officer, the only white stuff I’m selling to kids is ice-cream!’
Brady didn’t laugh. That was enough for Paulie to know something was wrong.
‘Have you seen Martin?’ Brady asked, getting straight to the point.
Paulie frowned. His large, deep black Italian eyes were questioning.
‘Why?’
Brady had known Paulie since St Joseph’s Primary School. As had Madley.
When word had 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 had stuck, regardless of the years and Paulie’s two Italian restaurants which were known by his family name, Antonelli.
These restaurants were hugely successful, both located along North Shields quayside. The original was known as ‘Antonelli’s’ and the second one as ‘Antonelli’s 2’. Brady had heard that there was going to be another Antonelli’s opening up in Whitley Bay. The food was good quality Italian, accompanied by simple wine or Peroni. The key to Paulie’s success was not being greedy: he never over-charged his customers, making sure that a good night out could still be a cheap night out. It meant his customers came back again and again, to the extent that it was so busy that they couldn’t guarantee you a table.
Brady knew why Paulie still covered the odd weekend shift in the ice-cream van – he owned a family business, which was over-run with squabbling Italian relatives and inevitably high tempers. That, and the fact that he was also a talented amateur photographer. Something he kept quiet. But he would use a still, brooding afternoon like this one to build on his black and white landscape portfolio, the best of which could be seen on the walls of his restaurants.
And 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 when a violent burglary had taken place.
Paulie had a strong sense of moral duty which generously extended beyond family and friends. 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 that 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 brutal reality of surviving the streets meant that, at times, Catholic morals had to be temporarily put on hold.
‘This is nothing to do with work, Paulie,’ Brady explained, aware that there was an edge to Paulie’s voice. ‘It’s personal.’
He realised that Paulie had obviously heard about the copper who had been mutilated. Who hadn’t? He had listened to Metro Radio in the car on the way from the station and it had been the only topic of conversation. He had even turned over to BBC Radio Newcastle’s Jonathan Miles morning show only to be confronted by the same discussions. The attack had also reached the national news – given its gruesome nature, Brady wasn’t surprised.
But as for the body washed up on the beach, for some reason it wasn’t quite hitting the headlines Brady had expected. It had been overshadowed by the human interest story of a beautiful young copper at the start of an exceptional career in the Met who had been brutally knifed and unceremoniously dumped, left with her tongue cut out to slowly bleed to death. If it hadn’t been for the anonymous emergency call and the bartender that found her, then they could have been dealing with a murder enquiry.
Brady knew that her photo would already have been uploaded onto Sky and BBC 24-hour news. Simone was young, attractive and talented, and the tragedy of what had happened to her, and the speculation as to why, would sell the news over and over again.
The difference between Simone Henderson and the story of the headless body was that she was still fighting for her life and they could get a background story; unlike the unidentified girl lying butchered in the morgue.
Paulie handed Brady a polystyrene cup of black coffee. ‘You look like you need this.’
‘Thanks,’ accepted Brady. He reached in his pocket for change.
Paulie shook his head. ‘Do me a favour, will you?’
‘What?’ asked Brady as he took a mouthful of strong Italian coffee.
‘Watch yourself, Jack. There’s shit happening here that you haven’t got a clue about. New people are turning up, trying to take over. Things are changing … Fucking bastards coming in from London, Europe, all thinking they can throw their weight around …’ Paulie faltered.
Brady turned and followed his gaze as a car sidled round into the car park.
‘Look out for him, will you?’ Paulie asked as he stared at the new black Bentley saloon. Its registration plate read ‘MAD 1’.
Brady turned and shot Paulie a quizzical look. If there was one person who didn’t need protecting, it was
