Martin Madley.
‘Word is some bastard is trying to take him down,’ Paulie explained.
Brady looked at Madley’s new Bentley. Gibbs, his driver who doubled as his henchman, depending on what mood Madley was in, was behind the steering wheel. Once a professional boxer, the 6?4?, forty-five-year-old African Caribbean was still an imposing sight, with the physique of a brick shithouse. His thick, knotted, black dreads, interwoven with strands of silver, now hung down to his shoulders. He looked at Brady and flashed him a menacing smile, making the most of the new diamond set in his left front tooth.
Gibbs didn’t trust Brady and he made no apology in letting him know it. Not that Brady could blame him; he was a copper after all. Behind Gibbs’ black Oakleys, Brady knew his eyes would be cold and predatory.
Beside Gibbs sat a weaselly, sharp-nosed, beady-eyed character. He stared at Brady, refusing to back down. From past experience, Brady knew always to be wary of the thin, sinewy, on-the-edge, wiry types. They were the ones who would have a knife in your neck before you knew it. His small, darting, bloodshot eyes told Brady there was trouble. Brady didn’t need to look at him to know that. The fact that Madley had hired him was evidence enough.
‘Fuck,’ muttered Brady under his breath, unsure of what he was getting into here.
He waited as Gibbs got out of the car and walked to the back passenger door to open it.
A few seconds later, Madley stepped out. He looked composed and dignified in his black Armani sunglasses and black Armani suit. His brown hair was neat as always, but his tanned sharp features and menacing eyes spoke of a cut-throat malevolence. Madley was Brady’s age, a few inches shorter at 5?10?, with a smaller frame. However, Brady had witnessed Madley fight and knew that he could take down even his own man, Gibbs.
Madley liked to look good. His tastes were expensive, compensating for a childhood of desperate poverty. He wore no jewellery apart from an expensive watch, which cost more than Brady’s annual salary. After sharing a childhood in the war-torn streets of the Ridges, they had both chosen a life of crime: Brady fighting it, Madley living it – and clearly profiting from it.
Brady watched with interest as Madley’s new henchman got out of the Bentley. He strutted behind Madley, making a point of adjusting his cheap black version of Madley’s suit for Brady’s benefit. Underneath the Burton suit jacket Brady caught a glimpse of exactly what it was Weasel Face wanted Brady to see. A bulging shoulder holster with a Glock 31 semi-automatic pistol resting underneath the jacket. Brady was under no illusion: the manoeuvre was intentional. And the Glock 31 would be loaded.
Madley nodded at Brady as he approached him.
‘Brought in someone new,’ he said in a smooth, refined voice; the hardened Geordie edge of his childhood years long gone.
‘I can see,’ answered Brady as he glanced towards Weasel Face.
Madley turned to his new employee. ‘Wait for me in the car.’
‘Are you sure, boss?’ questioned the wiry man in a thick Cockney accent as he gave Brady a distrustful glance.
Madley shot him a look.
It was enough for Weasel Face to turn back to the car.
Something wasn’t right if Madley had been forced to hire some trigger from the East End. It was now obvious to Brady that the dumping of Simone Henderson’s mutilated body in his nightclub was no accident.
It was a warning. They wanted her blood on Madley’s hands. The question was why?
‘What’s going on, Martin?’
‘Maybe you should tell me,’ replied Madley as he studied Brady’s swollen, cut face.
Brady ignored the question.
‘I got a call from Jimmy Matthews this morning,’ he said, changing the subject.
Madley looked at him. Brady could see that behind the dark sunglasses his eyes had suspiciously narrowed.
‘Go on,’ Madley instructed.
‘He reckons he’s got something on me. Wants me to go in and talk to him. I think it’s connected to—’
‘Go visit him,’ interrupted Madley, cutting Brady off.
‘The last person I want to visit behind bars is Jimmy,’ objected Brady.
‘Then that’s your choice. But right now Jimmy Matthews isn’t my main concern.’
Brady was about to ask what he meant but Madley’s expression was enough to silence him. He had met Madley on the assumption that they needed to find out exactly what kind of damaging information Matthews could have got hold of, and how to silence him.
Brady’s eyes dropped to Madley’s right hand. He noticed that Madley was holding a package.
‘I’ve kept this back from that shit Adamson. So this is between you and me, Jack,’ Madley said as he handed the brown envelope over. ‘Understand?’
Brady nodded. ‘What is it?’
But he already knew. It was the surveillance footage from the Blue Lagoon, Madley’s nightclub. He realised that Madley must have replaced some crucial footage on the tape. Brady knew that Madley was paranoid about covering his tracks and it came as no surprise that he had the expertise or had someone close to him who could alter his security tapes if the need ever arose.
‘Better you see for yourself.’
‘What did you do?’ he asked.
‘Copied it and then replaced the previous Friday night’s footage after the club had closed. So when your lot got there, the surveillance camera shows nothing unusual. You owe me for this, Jack.’
‘Why? What has this got to do with me?’
Brady was worried. But he made a point of not letting Madley know.
‘Everything.’
Brady looked at Madley’s face. He realised that he was deadly serious.
‘Who is on the tape?’ asked Brady.
‘Watch it,’ answered Madley, his expression dark and menacing. ‘No one fucks with me, Jack. No one.’
‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Brady as he tried to keep his voice steady.
‘Someone we both know well … too well.’
‘Is this to do with Matthews? Is that the reason he’s demanding to see me?’
Madley laughed. It was a cold, hard-edged response. ‘Like I said, he’s the least of my concerns right now. This isn’t Matthews’ style. He hasn’t got the balls.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Martin, stop playing games. Just tell me.’
Madley shook his head. ‘Better you see this for yourself. But I’m not the only one who’s being fucked over here. You don’t sort this then it’s not only my reputation that’s ruined, it’s your career.’
Brady kept quiet. He had no idea who Madley was talking about. The only person who came to mind who would have a score to settle with them both was Jimmy Matthews. And he was locked up in a secure unit for his own protection. Besides, Madley was right. Matthews could be an evil fucker, but even he didn’t have the balls to be involved in something of this magnitude.
‘Here,’ said Madley, thrusting a piece of paper at Brady. ‘I think you’ll need to talk to Johnny Slaughter once you’ve watched the tape.’
Brady reluctantly took the paper with the number on it.
‘Sort it. Or …’ Madley let the sentence hang.
‘I’ll sort it,’ Brady said.
But he didn’t know exactly what it was he was sorting.
He knew Madley wouldn’t go to the police. He’d already proven that. And he had known Madley too long and knew that he wasn’t prone to hyperbole. If he said it could destroy Brady’s career then he was under no illusions; that’s exactly what it could do.
Brady unlocked his car door and got in. He reached across to the passenger floor for his laptop. He paused, not really wanting to go through with it. But he had no choice.
