‘She’s a friend.’
The bartender gave him a sceptical look.
‘That’s what they all say, mate,’ he replied flatly.
He gestured towards the hired muscle that Brady had met at the door to get rid of him.
Brady realised he was bad for business. A copper questioning one of their girls wouldn’t look good. It would be enough to scare off punters.
‘Look, I’ll make this easy,’ he said, holding up his hand. ‘Where’s her dressing room? I’ll talk to her there.’
‘You having a laugh or what?’ replied the bartender. ‘Toilets is the best they get here! Try the fucking Moulin Rouge if you want dressing rooms, pal!’
Brady quickly scanned the dark room.
‘Hey! Where do you think you’re going?’ asked the hired muscle as he pushed his crossword away and stood up, making sure that his imposing, steroid bulk was felt.
‘I need the toilet,’ answered Brady.
‘I don’t fucking think so. You need a piss, you take one outside like the fucking rest of us! And then you can fucking clear off!’
‘Sure. I’ll disappear but then I’ll be back here with our Narcotics Unit and before you know it this place will be shut down. And that’s before we get onto the illegal trade in sex here,’ Brady said as he made a point of jerking his head towards the four men who were now whooping and cheering the lap dancer.
‘Fuck you and your fucking threats. This place is clean!’ answered the hired muscle.
‘What about the foreign workers? All legal, are they?’
Brady was well aware that, like farm labouring and other crap jobs, cheap Eastern European labour would have been brought in. The sex industry was no different.
‘I don’t know what the fuck you mean.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Brady watched as the bartender made a call.
All he could make out was ‘Trina’. Or was that ‘Trouble’?
The hired muscle, no doubt paid the minimum wage to keep trouble out, made a point of readying his fists. Brady caught sight of the classic, fading bluish-black-ink tattoos of ‘Love’ and ‘Hate’ across the knuckles of each of his large hands.
‘Look, I’m not here to cause trouble. Alright? I need to talk to Trina. So back off, mate,’ Brady said as the hired muscle started to loom in close. Too close.
A second later and Brady heard her voice. Despite the lurid music playing in the background, Brady would recognise her voice anywhere.
A sense of relief flooded through his body. This was a place where he’d be lucky to get out alive if things turned nasty. His beaten-up body would be taken out the back. Shoved into the boot of a car and unceremoniously dumped with a bullet through his head into the cold, murky grey waters of the Tyne.
‘What the hell are you doing here, eh? Looking for sexual favours like your pal, Adamson, are you?’ scornfully demanded Trina McGuire as she strutted over in implausibly high killer heels.
Her scorn for DI Adamson came as no surprise. Brady had heard talk that Adamson liked to exert his status as a copper over women like Trina McGuire.
She shot Brady a look that told him he’d over-stepped the mark coming into her place of work.
‘Davy man, fucking put your fists down, will you?’ Trina ordered as she shook her head at the hired muscle. ‘You’ll get Ronnie pissed off if he hears you knocked out a copper. And a mate of Adamson’s at that!’
Trina’s threat worked.
Davy sulkily skulked off back to his
Brady couldn’t blame him.
Trina might have only been five foot four and six stone if that, but she was dangerous. And she had one hell of a temper. Brady had been witness to it once too often when she’d come from work to pick up her street- hardened son from the holding cells at the station.
For such a petite woman she had an amazing power to reduce a grown man to tears. Which effectively is what she used to do to her foul-mouthed, ‘couldn’t give a fuck’ son, Shane McGuire. Shane, a regular at the station, was a hard nut. He’d even landed a blow on Brady once when he’d been arresting the scrawny, sneering juvenile who had been high as a kite on amphetamines and had fought Brady and Conrad with superhuman strength due to the effect of the drug coursing through his cold, sweating body.
Trina McGuire caught Brady’s eye. It was evident that she was unimpressed that he was there. She had the same sneer on her face that her son wore. She threw back her long glossy blonde hair as she scowled at him.
This was Nick’s ex-girlfriend. And half of North Tyneside’s if the local rumours were to be believed. Trina had never forgiven Brady for Nick clearing off to London. But given what had been kicking off in the Ridges at the time of Nick’s youth, Brady had been relieved to see him go and not arrested, condemned to a life in and out of prison like his mates.
Brady had always had a thing for Trina. When she was younger that was – not the woman she had become. Social determinism at its worst, he thought sadly.
She’d been a real beauty then. Like Brady, Nick and Madley, Trina had grown up in the ugly harshness of the Ridges; a run-down housing estate which was a no-go area for police and non-residents. Infamous for the riots in 1991 when community buildings had been burnt to the ground and shops looted in protest at the deaths of two local youths killed while driving a stolen car pursued by police. Suggestions by the boys’ friends that the police had forced the vehicle off the road triggered the spark that saw the riots go up against a prolific background of social deprivation and crippling poverty. Riot police and the fire services had gone in, backed up by the police helicopter, only to be pelted by stones as a stronghold of at least 400 people held together as a community, fighting the shit lives they’d been dealt through the reign of middle- and upper-class terror meted out by Thatcher and her henchmen.
Brady looked at Trina McGuire. She had lost that delicate, remarkable beauty that had so set her apart in the Ridges. But years later, she epitomised everything about the sorry place. She might have still had that ‘heroin chic’ beauty about her, but even with the heavy black eyeliner and mascara, it was fading fast. A poverty-stricken, desperate junkie, who didn’t have a hope in hell of getting out.
‘You’re bloody lucky your brother’s not still around, Jack,’ Trina warned him.
‘That’s the point,’ replied Brady softly. ‘He’s back.’
‘I told you, I’ve got nothing to say,’ hissed Trina, not wanting to bring attention to herself.
‘Look, the last place I want to be is here on a Saturday night hassling you, alright? But Nick told me to come,’ explained Brady.
‘You having a laugh or what?’ she scornfully replied.
Brady shook his head. The look on his face deadly serious.
‘How do I know you’re not lying then?’ she cynically questioned.
Brady reluctantly took the note out from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to her.
Brady knew she instantly recognised the handwriting from the look on her face.
She quickly composed herself and handed the note back.
‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,’ she said. But her eyes betrayed her. She looked scared … very scared.
Brady replaced the note in his pocket and tried not to let his imagination run away with him. He had never seen Trina McGuire fazed, let alone scared. Clearly, she knew something about Nick and realised that he must be in deep trouble to have sent Brady here.
He suddenly caught sight of the bartender out of the corner of his eye. He was on the phone again. Observing Brady and talking quietly.
Too quietly for Brady’s liking.
The name ‘Ronnie’ had rung alarm bells.
How many Ronnies were there in Wallsend who had a hand in the sex industry?
Only one, thought Brady. It could only be Ronnie Macmillan.
Brady turned his attention back to Trina McGuire who had obviously carefully considered the contents of the note. She didn’t look too happy with the situation.
