‘I dunno … short, scrawny kid with a hoodie pulled down so I couldn’t make out his face. Said he’d been paid a tenner to take it into the station but didn’t have the nerve so waited for someone to come out …’ Turner faltered and sighed as he looked at Brady.
Brady didn’t say a word.
‘I’m too old for this game, Jack. Too bloody old,’ muttered Turner.
Brady rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on, Charlie. You’ll still be here when I’m long gone,’ he consoled.
Turner looked up at Brady, doubting his words.
It was then that Brady realised how frail and old Turner actually was without the protection of his uniform and front desk.
‘Charlie … don’t mention this to anyone. Let’s keep this between us, yeah?’
Turner nodded.
Brady gripped Turner’s shoulder, surprised that this kid had shaken Turner to this extent. He had been a copper for over thirty years and had dealt with more than his fair share of crime. Brady put his loss of nerve down to Simone’s attack. Everyone at the station was feeling jittery. Watching their back. Nobody more so than Brady, he mused bitterly.
‘He did what he was paid to do. Trust me, he’s not coming back,’ he reassured.
Turner’s shoulders suddenly slumped forward. He raised his eyes up to meet Brady’s.
‘What are you involved in, Jack?’ Turner asked as he nervously licked the spit from his thin lips.
He’d been in the game too long not to know that kids wearing hoodies didn’t make a point of hanging around police stations waiting to hand a note over to a copper.
Brady shook his head.
‘It’s nothing,’ he answered.
Turner sighed heavily and walked out, leaving Brady with his own troubles.
Brady closed his office door and automatically went over to the window and looked out. It was approaching 9pm and it was already dark. The hazy orange glow of the street lights cast shadows up and down the street.
Was he still being watched? He wasn’t sure.
‘Shit!’ he cursed to himself, angry at his own paranoia.
But who could blame him? He had seen the irrefutable proof on the hospital grounds security tape that he had been followed. And then they had watched and waited for an opportune moment to dump the victim’s head in the back of his car along with a note. A message clearly meant for him.
He walked away from the window and resignedly sat down at his desk. He steeled himself before opening the envelope. Inside was a handwritten note. Immediately, he recognised the distinctive swirling letters.
It was from Nick. It had to be.
He held his breath as he read the words:
Brady held his head in his hands as he tried to steady his breathing. His heart was racing as adrenalin coursed through his veins.
Then it hit him.
The note left with the severed head wasn’t from the Eastern European brothers. Or the Nietzschean Brotherhood; it was also from Nick.
It was a warning, not a death threat.
Nick was warning him not to lose his head. Which was exactly what he was starting to do. And now his brother had sent a second note, stating the obvious. It meant he was watching him. Watching his every move.
Brady remembered that the ‘N’ had been printed in blood in the first note – the victim’s blood, taken from a signet ring. Was that Nick’s way of telling him that the Nietzschean Brotherhood were involved? That this was bigger than just some sex trafficked girl washed up on Whitley Bay beach?
‘What do you want from me?’ whispered Brady, desperation in his voice.
But he knew Nick too well. He wasn’t playing a game with him; he was trying to help him.
Brady lifted his head up and slowly breathed out as he allowed relief to flood through him.
Nick may have been embroiled in some covert, sick sex trafficking operation but he wasn’t a willing part of it. He was trying his damnedest to lead Brady towards the central players.
He reread the note, forcing himself to focus.
‘Trademark … TM …’ he muttered, shaking his head.
Then it hit him. The only old friend Nick had in the North East was Trina McGuire.
His gut feeling had been right when he had rung Trina earlier that day. But what he hadn’t realised was that she had information on ‘N’, which he assumed could be the Nietzschean Brotherhood that Claudia had talked about. He thought back to the ‘N’ burnt into Simone’s breast and the ‘N’ on the gold signet rings worn by the two men who had been captured on the hospital surveillance footage asking about the condition of the mutilated DC.
He took out his phone and rang Trina McGuire.
He had no choice. He had to make her talk.
He listened as the phone rang for a couple of seconds and then cut off.
It was clear that Trina had no intention of talking to him.
Deciding that there was nothing else for it, he grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and stood up. He’d have to pay her a visit.
He shoved the handwritten note in his pocket for safe-keeping.
Suddenly there was a knock at his door.
‘Christ!’ muttered Brady, startled.
He had to get his head together otherwise he would be no use to anyone – especially Nick.
Before he had a chance to call out the door opened and Conrad walked in.
‘Thought you might need something to eat, sir? The rest of the team ordered in Chinese so I thought I’d salvage some for you before it disappeared,’ explained Conrad.
It took the younger man a second to realise Brady was going somewhere. He shot him a questioning look.
‘Thanks, Conrad. Just put it down on my desk. I’ll get it later. There’s something I need to do first, and I need your help,’ answered Brady.
‘Sir?’
‘Get your car keys, Conrad. We’re going for a drive.’
Brady waited by the station’s heavy wooden double doors. He drew heavily on the cigarette he’d rolled as he uneasily looked up and down the dark street. Even though it was deserted he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched.
Conrad pulled round the corner in his dark silver Saab.
Relieved, Brady threw his cigarette away and walked over and climbed in.
‘Where to, sir?’
‘Gainers Terrace, Wallsend,’ answered Brady.
‘Sir?’ questioned Conrad, worried.
‘Know it?’ asked Brady.
‘Not personally, sir. But I have heard enough about it to know that we won’t be welcome.’
Brady didn’t answer him. Instead, he distractedly glanced in the passenger wing mirror as Conrad reluctantly pulled out left past the Northern Rock bank hitting the traffic lights in the centre of Whitley Bay.
Brady looked over at the Town House pub where two scrawny men with tattooed bare arms and Toon shirts were stood outside tabbing. He watched them uneasily, realising that right now he didn’t trust anyone.
