Madley had given him no choice.
He ripped open the package and took out the unmarked DVD. He laid it on his knee as he rolled a tab. He needed one to steady his nerves.
His phone started to vibrate in his jacket pocket.
‘Christ!’ he cursed, startled. He decided to ignore it.
He shakily lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. His dark brown eyes narrowed as he looked out the windscreen at the winding bay that was Whitley Bay. In the distance he could just make out the row of Indian, Italian and pizza restaurants and takeouts that littered the stretch of road facing the sea. In between them sat Madley’s nightclub, the Blue Lagoon, and next door, the Royal Hotel. As he did so he unconsciously tightened his grip on the package.
When he was ready, he pushed the DVD into the laptop and waited.
The image went from black to a grainy grey empty corridor. Brady fast-forwarded. Then he saw it. A blurry, tall male figure with cropped, short hair carrying something over his shoulder. Something bulky wrapped in what looked to be black plastic, like a bin liner.
Then Brady saw it. A hand fell from out of the plastic wrapping.
Brady exhaled, knowing that it had to be Simone’s.
He watched as the figure went into the gents’. At least a minute or more went by before the man exited again.
Brady noted that he was wearing a G-Star Raw camouflage jacket. He knew it was G-Star Raw because he recognised the distinctive style.
But he was at a loss. He didn’t recognise the figure. None of this was making any sense.
The tall, well-built figure headed down the corridor, passing the camera. As he did so, Brady caught sight of a blurred image of his face.
He sat for a moment, staring at the face. Not fully registering who he was staring at.
Then it hit him. It was all the confirmation he needed that he was right about the voice on the 999 call. Cold dread took hold of him. Then sheer panic.
Brady squeezed his eyes shut, willing the image of the face to disappear.
He shallowly breathed out, trying to slow his racing heart down. Steadying himself, he opened his eyes hoping that he had been wrong. He had to be wrong.
But as he stared at the evidence in front of him he realised that everything he had believed in, worked for, had suddenly evaporated. Replaced by an inconceivable fact: he knew the attacker.
His past had come back to haunt him.
‘No!’ shouted Brady as he hit the dashboard in pure rage.
Brady didn’t need Jed to digitally enhance the image. He already knew who it was – the three-inch scar down the left cheek was a dead giveaway. Then there was the jawline, the nose, those eyes. All unmistakable.
He was going to throw up.
Brady quickly opened the car door and bent over and retched. Acrid black coffee hit the ground, burning the back of his throat on its way out. He retched again and again until there was nothing but bile forcing its way up from his empty stomach. He slowly breathed in deeply, trying to steady himself, but the foul, decaying stench that hung in the air was only adding to the urge to retch again. Brady put the rancid smell down to the slurry from the agricultural fields behind the car park being carried over on the slight coastal breeze.
He could hear his phone vibrating as he clung onto the car door with his head hanging over the ground.
‘This can’t be happening. Please God this can’t be happening …’ Brady said to himself. Again and again and again.
A car slowly drove past, the elderly driver and passenger watching him. They stopped and waited, not sure if he needed help.
Brady realised he must have looked as bad as he felt.
It was enough to bring him to his senses. He pulled himself up and slammed the car door shut.
Brady sat and stared blankly out the windscreen. Minutes went past as he sat there, not seeing the horizon or the North Sea. All he could see was that scar running down the left cheek of the man who had dumped Simone Henderson in the gents’. Every muscle in his body, every sinew was taut. Every nerve on edge; waiting. Not knowing what to think, let alone what to do. All he felt was blinding panic.
Brady could feel himself starting to hyperventilate. His breathing was coming in short, rapid bursts just as it had done when he’d finally come round in hospital to the knowledge that someone had tried to blow his balls off and that his wife had walked out on him.
He tried to focus on steadying his breathing. Remembering the technique Amelia had taught him in the hospital to control the panic attacks he had suffered after realising he had lost Claudia for good. He had explained the panic attacks away as a result of being shot and reliving the memory of hearing the handgun go off and simultaneously feeling the impact of the bullet. Amelia had never said as much, but she had known that he wasn’t suffering from post-traumatic stress from being shot. It was the shock of being left by the only person he had loved. Claudia was the one person he had opened up to and he never meant to hurt her, let alone drive her away.
Brady put his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, trying to breathe slowly. But the face he had recognised on the tape kept tormenting him. He couldn’t shut it out.
He had to watch it again. Just in case he had made a mistake. In case Madley had made a mistake. It couldn’t be him. It just couldn’t.
Brady pressed play and then paused the DVD on the close-up of the figure’s face. But there it was, the three-inch, gnarled scar down his left cheek.
Brady stared at the image desperately trying to convince himself he was mistaken. But the longer he stared, the more certain he became that it really was him.
He looked at his phone. With shaking hands he started to key in a mobile number. He knew it from memory. He had never stored it in the phone just in case it fell into the wrong hands.
‘Come on!’ shouted Brady when he keyed in the wrong number.
His hands were shaking uncontrollably. He tried to breathe slowly, deliberately, in an attempt to steady his nerves. He keyed the numbers in again and pressed call.
He listened as the phone rang and rang.
‘Pick up… . pick up!’ urged Brady.
Eventually it cut to an automated voicemail. He disconnected the call and started keying in a London landline number.
He waited. The dial tone was dead. The phone had obviously been disconnected.
‘No … no …’ he muttered, his hands trembling as he cut the dead tone.
He didn’t know what to do next. It took him a minute to realise that he had no choice but to follow Madley’s advice.
He took out the piece of paper that Madley had given him. On it a mobile phone number was scribbled.
Brady keyed it into his phone and waited.
‘What?’ came the sharp answer.
‘Johnny?’ answered Brady. ‘It’s Brady … Jack Brady.’
‘What the hell do you want?’ Slaughter demanded. ‘And who gave you my fucking number?’ His hoarse voice had a heavy, thick East London accent. It was a voice that carried with it an air of sinister threat.
Slaughter didn’t want anyone getting close to him and used his brother, Billy, as a front man. There was a good reason why Billy was known amongst his friends and enemies as ‘Slash’. Anyone who came into contact with Billy never again crossed Johnny Slaughter.
‘Madley gave it to me,’ answered Brady.
He was certain there wouldn’t be any ramifications for Madley. He knew Slaughter and Madley looked out for one another. Madley took care of business if Slaughter ever needed it in the North East and the same applied with Slaughter in London.
‘And why the fuck would he do that?’
Brady steeled himself. ‘I need to know where Nick is.’
‘And how would
‘Madley reckoned you’d know. That’s why he gave me your number. He’s in trouble, Johnny. Serious trouble
