Vanishing Point

‘The press call, sir? It’s scheduled for 5:00pm,’ questioned Conrad. ‘And it’s now 2:15pm. We’ve still got a lot to do before then.’

‘I need to do this first, Conrad,’ Brady calmly pointed out.

Given the state of his face, Brady had decided that Conrad would be better suited to give the press call about Melissa Ryecroft with Gates.

He shut the car door, putting Conrad’s uptight attitude down to the impossible workload he had just given him. But he’d had no choice. His team were under-funded and under-staffed and, unfortunately for him, Conrad was by far the best officer on his team.

Brady breathed out slowly, trying to get rid of the mounting pressure he felt and looked around for Rubenfeld. He couldn’t see him amongst the smokers tabbing outside. Then he spotted the short, shabby figure standing alone, smoking. He would recognise that ugly mottled face anywhere. The nose in particular which was becoming more bulbous and purple every time he saw him. Rubenfeld was a journalist through and through; he liked to drink and his drinker’s nose was a testament to that.

Not that Rubenfeld cared. All he cared about was his next story and next shot, and not necessarily in that order.

Rubenfeld always wore his shabby black raincoat, regardless of the weather, or the location. Brady couldn’t imagine Rubenfeld without it. Underneath he wore a black linen suit; equally scruffy and in constant need of dry cleaning, mainly because of liquor spills when he’d had one too many. Which in Rubenfeld’s case, was every night. But Rubenfeld had the tolerance of a rhinoceros. The man could drink the hardest men under the table and still remain standing.

Brady watched as Rubenfeld pulled the collar of his raincoat up around his neck. Rubenfeld had never quite acclimatised to the bitter North East weather after coming back from the South and had compromised on a heavy raincoat. Brady admired his pragmatism; this was the North East of England after all, where the temperature rarely rose above 60 degrees during the summer and the rest of the year was spent under a miserable, disgruntled drizzle.

Brady couldn’t remember a time when Rubenfeld hadn’t been around. As far as Brady could remember Rubenfeld had always worked for The Northern Echo. It was the bestselling newspaper in the North East and a lot of its sales were down to Rubenfeld. If there was a story to uncover, Rubenfeld was guaranteed to be the first one there. Brady didn’t know how he did it, but he had an uncanny knack of turning up when he was least wanted. But if Brady was honest, he needed Rubenfeld as much Rubenfeld needed him.

Brady watched as Rubenfeld threw his cigarette butt away and started to make his way through the crowd.

‘Leaving already?’ asked Brady as he walked towards him.

‘Nah! Looking for you, you tight bastard. You owe me a drink,’ said Rubenfeld as he narrowed his eyes and scratched at his two days’ worth of dark stubble.

‘You call me tight? When was the last time you stood a round?’

‘I’ve heard something that might interest you,’ Rubenfeld began, deliberately ignoring Brady’s question.

‘How about we go somewhere a bit more private then?’

‘Good idea, Jack. I suggest the bar.’

* * *

Brady watched as Rubenfeld knocked back his second whisky chaser.

He knew it always took a couple of drinks to loosen Rubenfeld’s tongue.

They were sitting at a round table by the window. From there Brady could see the bar and watch as people came and went while he waited for Rubenfeld to talk.

‘Another?’ asked Brady.

‘Aye, why not?’ answered Rubenfeld.

Brady expected as much.

He took his wallet out and walked over to the bar.

‘Another pint of Peroni and a double whisky,’ ordered Brady. ‘Throw in a bag of salted nuts as well, would you?’

Brady returned to the table, handing Rubenfeld his drinks and chucking the peanuts his way.

‘Don’t say I never buy you lunch!’

‘Like I said, you’re one tight bastard!’ scorned Rubenfeld as he ripped open the packet.

He took a handful and threw them into his mouth as he looked at Brady.

‘There’s some sinister shit going on, Jack,’ Rubenfeld said as he chewed.

‘Like what?’ asked Brady, pushing his black coffee out the way as he leaned in towards Rubenfeld.

‘Name first,’ demanded Rubenfeld.

‘You’re a shit, do you know that?’ said Brady.

‘Quid pro quo, Jack. You know the score. I’ve a story to finish and it’s missing a couple of details. You tell me, I ring it in so it can go to print, and everyone’s happy. Including my bloody editor – which would make a change!’

‘Melissa Ryecroft,’ answered Brady, knowing that the news was going to be released later that afternoon anyway. He knew the way to loosen Rubenfeld’s tongue and that was to offer him scraps ahead of any press release.

‘And?’ questioned Rubenfeld.

‘Sixteen-year-old local girl. Parents live on the Broadway, Tynemouth end. She went to King’s School sixth form before someone decided to murder her.’

‘Is it right she was decapitated?’

Brady looked surprised.

‘I hear things,’ muttered Rubenfeld through another mouthful of nuts.

Brady nodded.

‘Amongst other things. But at this point that can’t go to print. Understand?’

Rubenfeld ignored Brady.

‘What else?’ he asked.

‘Savagely raped and … and she had a captive bolt pistol shot through her forehead.’

‘Bloody hell, Jack. That’s a first in my book! I thought that kind of shit only happened in films, not for bloody real.’

‘I know …’ muttered Brady.

He was right though, mused Brady. That kind of weird, sadistic shit wasn’t what he expected to find happening in Whitley Bay of all places.

‘Any leads?’ Rubenfeld asked.

‘Do you really think I’m going to tell you?’ Brady said, shaking his head.

Rubenfeld gave out a deep, gurgling laugh.

‘One day, Jack. You just might, one day.’

‘How much have you had to drink?’ mocked Brady.

‘Never enough!’ answered Rubenfeld as he drained his pint of Peroni.

‘What do you reckon it is? A copycat-style murderer?’ questioned Rubenfeld.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Brady.

‘You know that adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s book? That film No Country For Old Men with Javier Bardem as the psychopathic hitman playing havoc with a cattle stun gun?’

Brady nodded. It was an obvious connection. One he had already made.

‘A captive bolt pistol to be precise,’ Brady said as he thought about the hole in Melissa Ryecroft’s severed head.

‘So is it some nutter who watched the film and decided to copy it?’

‘No,’ replied Brady simply.

‘How can you be so sure?’ quizzed Rubenfeld.

Brady shot him a look which said it all.

‘Alright, alright I was just asking, that’s all,’ stated Rubenfeld.

‘You want more details, wait for the press call at 5pm like the rest of the scavengers.’