Rubenfeld contemplated Brady as he picked up the small tumbler of whisky. He swirled the contents around before knocking it back in one.
‘I’ve got a story to write up,’ he said, thumping the glass back down.
‘Not so fast,’ Brady replied.
Rubenfeld sighed heavily.
‘Alright … I’m hearing some crazy shit about Macmillan. The Mayor that is,’ Rubenfeld began.
Brady moved closer to Rubenfeld’s foul-smelling body, resisting the urge to ask him when he’d last had a shower, knowing the answer wouldn’t be pleasant. There was a reason why Rubenfeld was permanently single.
‘Seems he wants to expand. Go into business with this Lithuanian Ambassador who’s up at the minute from London. Our paper’s running a feature on his public address at the Civic Centre this afternoon. Load of cods-wallop if you ask me, but this guy has a lot of power and money. He’s highly influential, so consequently everywhere you look, Macmillan’s with him,’ Rubenfeld said as he raised his eyebrows at Brady.
‘That’s it?’ questioned Brady.
‘Alright, you tell me why a Lithuanian Ambassador is walking around with armed security in the bloody North East.’
Brady shook his head, not wanting Rubenfeld to realise that he already had his own suspicions after his chat with Trina McGuire.
‘For fuck’s sake, Jack. Are your brains in your arse or what? Armed security guards who look like Dolph Lundgren for bloody hell’s sake. It’s the North East of England not Beirut!’
Rubenfeld shook his head before taking another slug of whisky. ‘He owns a shipping company. Controls cargo ships that ship all across the world. I’ve heard word from a source that Macmillan wants to be part of it. Wants to be shipping containers between Eastern Europe, and the North East.’
‘Shipping what for fuck’s sake?’ asked Brady.
Rubenfeld raised his eyebrows. ‘You tell me.’
Brady shrugged. ‘Given what his brother Ronnie Macmillan’s involved in, and his taste for jail bait, I’d say it’s either drugs or human trafficking.’
Rubenfeld nodded. ‘Polish food is what Macmillan’s intending on shipping in. Doing a big publicity stunt supporting multi-culturalism and the growing ethnic minority of Polish people in the North East. Polish sausages, pickled cabbage and flat soda bread, supplied at cut-throat prices for all the local supermarkets from Redcar up to Berwick-upon-Tweed.’
‘What else?’ asked Brady, hoping that Rubenfeld had brought more than Polish sausages to the table.
‘How does a Lithuanian ambassador build up a shipping empire that’s worth millions? What’s he shipping, Jack? Because I bet it’s not just Polish bloody sausages!’
‘Why do you say that?’ quizzed Brady, wanting more than Rubenfeld was obviously prepared to give.
‘Because if your shipping line is strictly legal, why walk around with half the Lithuanian military watching your back?’
Brady didn’t reply. The answer was obvious.
‘You want proof, Jack?’ questioned Rubenfeld. ‘Go see for yourself. The Ambassador is guest of honour at a big, swanky dinner hosted by Macmillan tonight at the Grand Hotel. Press are going to be there because from what my source has said, they’re going to launch this new business partnership linking Eastern Europe and the North East of England. Then you’ll see what I mean. Bloody Lithuanian military will be crawling all over the place.’
Brady didn’t say a word.
‘Question is why, Jack?’ Rubenfeld said as he looked him in the eye.
‘What’s this Ambassador’s name?’ asked Brady.
‘Nykantas Vydunas,’ answered Rubenfeld. ‘And from what my source has told me, he has two very dangerous Lithuanian ex-military men involved with him.’
‘Go on.’
‘The Dabkunas brothers. Evil bastards, they are … but no matter what I do, I can’t get anything on them. All you hear is rumours and anecdotal crap. Nothing substantial. At least nothing that I could put into print. And let’s just say that the Dabkunas brothers aren’t interested in providing an armed guard to a container full of pickled cabbage.’
‘Can I talk to your source – off the record, obviously?’ asked Brady.
He needed to get more information on the Dabkunas brothers. And Rubenfeld’s source seemed to know a hell of lot more than Brady or his team could lay their hands on.
Rubenfeld looked Brady straight in the eye. It was a cold, hard look.
‘You look after your affairs and I look after mine. You haven’t talked to me. Understand? I hear things … and that’s the way I want to keep it. I don’t want your lot fishing me out of the Tyne.’
Brady looked at Rubenfeld. If he wasn’t mistaken, despite his hard appearance, the hack looked worried for his personal safety.
Brady looked up at his office door as Conrad walked in.
They’d been back for under an hour and by Brady’s reckoning, Conrad was due at the press call in less than thirty minutes.
‘Have something here that might interest you, sir,’ said Conrad as he walked over to his desk.
Brady felt his stomach knot as Conrad laid his laptop down and opened it up in front of him. He did his best to hide it.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be preparing for the press call?’ he asked.
‘Yes, but I thought you’d want to see this first,’ Conrad said as he pointed at the freeze-framed image that he had brought up on the screen. ‘This is the best Jed could do, but I think you can see their faces clearly enough to be able to release them to the public.’
‘Let’s see,’ replied Brady as he took Conrad’s laptop.
He hoped to God he wasn’t going to see Nick’s face caught on there.
He looked at the image on the screen. It had been taken from the airport CCTV footage at midday on Thursday. Two Eastern European-looking men, identical to those who had been at Rake Lane Hospital, were captured in grainy but inevitable realism, walking with a young girl between them. There was no mistaking it, thought Brady. This was the victim: Melissa Ryecroft.
‘Good work, Conrad,’ Brady said.
‘That’s not all, sir,’ Conrad said. ‘We got an image of the victim getting in their car.’
Brady held his breath as he moved on to the next image. He was hoping against all the odds that he wouldn’t see a grainy shot of Nick caught on Newcastle Airport’s surveillance tape. The last thing he wanted was a picture of his brother plastered across local and national papers and the news.
‘See? It’s clear that it’s Melissa Ryecroft getting into the back of the black Mercedes while one of the men holds the door open for her. Next shot shows both men getting in on either side of her in the back. And then the final one of the car pulling away. Jed has tried his best to get a better shot of the driver but this is as good as it gets,’ explained Conrad as he moved the digitally enhanced, freeze-framed images on until he came to the last one.
Brady clenched his fist under his desk while he tried to look as casual as possible.
If he believed in God, he realised now would be a good time to pray.
The problem was, he didn’t.
He watched as the image on the computer screen jumped to show a blurred shot of the driver.
Brady sighed. Relief.
Conrad interpreted it as disappointment.
‘It was the best shot we could get of him, sir. All that we can make out from his side profile is what looks to be a scar down his left cheek,’ Conrad said as he pointed to the gnarled line inflicted on the driver’s face.
‘You could be right,’ replied Brady. ‘But like you said, it’s hard to make anything out with this shot. Pity it’s so blurred.’
