would be the first to admit that there was something about Mayor Macmillan that didn’t sit easy with him. But even he had to concede that sex trafficking was a stretch too far. And as for Matthews’ claims against the local mafia figure, Madley, who was rumoured to be involved in drugs and other such lucrative enterprises, Brady couldn’t take it seriously. Sex trafficking was something that he knew Madley wouldn’t touch. Regardless.
‘Let me worry about why she’s been murdered once we know for certain that she’s been branded.’
Claudia’s only response to Brady’s words was to let out a heavy sigh.
Before he had a chance to say anything else she disconnected the call.
All he could do now was send her the photograph. He watched his phone to make sure that the image had definitely been sent. Satisfied, he put his phone in his jacket.
Now he had to wait. And pray to God that his hunch about the victim being a sex slave was wrong.
Brady steadied himself before opening the doors to the station. He wasn’t sure why he had been handed this investigation. By rights it should have been Adamson called in; lately, he had been Gates’ first choice when it came to anything decent. Whereas Brady was just being thrown the rubbish murders.
So why this one, he mused? And where the hell was Adamson? It wasn’t like that weasel not to sink his teeth into such a high profile crime. Once the press got their greedy, grasping claws into this story, the seaside town of Whitley Bay would make national headlines.
He sighed heavily, accepting that maybe he was starting to get paranoid. The past six months behind a desk would do that to any copper, let alone him.
The air in the building was still rancid. Regardless of how often Nora, the station’s cleaner, swabbed down the Victorian green-tiled hallway, there was always an acrid, lingering dampness that resiliently clung to the walls and floor. That and the stale smell of old piss from one too many drunken louts dragged in to sleep it off in the cells.
The building was old and decrepit. But Brady felt at ease inside its cold, flaking walls and winding, maze-like corridors. His office, with its high, rattling windows and bulky, rust-stained, leaking radiators, felt more comfortable to him than his own home. Which wasn’t surprising given that over the years he had spent most of his waking life at the station. More so now that he couldn’t stomach going home to nothing.
Brady went through the second set of double doors and was greeted by the scraggy, wizened face of the desk sergeant, Charlie Turner. He was a short, rotund, balding man in his early fifties.
‘I better warn you, Jack, all hell’s breaking loose here,’ Turner greeted as he raised his white spidery eyebrows. It made no difference; his small dark eyes were still hidden beneath his sagging, crumpled eyelids.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘So you heard about the stabbing then? Christ! How bad can things get, eh?’
Brady frowned. Apart from Conrad, he hadn’t caught up with anyone yet.
‘What stabbing?’
‘You don’t know, do you?’ Turner replied worriedly. ‘It explains why the DCI has been desperate to talk to you. You do turn your phone on, don’t you, Jack? Because he’s been chasing my hide for the past hour wanting to know as soon as you turn up! And Conrad’s been hanging around waiting for you. I convinced him to get me a coffee just to get him out from under my feet.’
Automatically Brady reached for his phone.
He had forgotten to turn it off silent mode. He’d missed three calls; two from DCI Gates and one from Dr Amelia Jenkins.
Jenkins was the police shrink who, a year ago, had spent the first six weeks after Brady had been shot in the thigh trying to sort his head out. He had insisted all he needed was a couple of bottles of Scotch and a divorce lawyer but she had wanted to try the more professional method. In the end she gave up. She was into the ‘talking cure’ – which had become a problem given Brady’s refusal to talk.
But why she would be calling him at 7:30am was anyone’s guess. He hadn’t seen her since the last investigation they had worked on together, which was over six months ago. Amelia worked with the force as a forensic psychologist. But for some reason she opted out and had turned to practising clinical psychology instead. Brady presumed something had shaken her to her core. Which was why he was so surprised both that Gates had asked her to be part of the investigation and that Amelia had agreed. He knew that Gates had worked with Amelia when she had been a forensic psychologist, which meant he knew she was good. That, and he trusted her, which was why Brady presumed he had requested her assistance.
‘The DCI is out for blood given that one of our own was attacked early this morning in Madley’s nightclub,’ continued Turner.
Brady realised now why Turner was so agitated.
‘Who?’ Brady asked, realising he had been sat behind his desk for too damned long. Once news this crucial would have reached him immediately. Now he was so out of the circuit that it took the watchdog Turner to fill him in on the night’s events.
Then he remembered Conrad. This was obviously what he had wanted to tell him.
‘I’m sorry, Jack … I don’t know how to tell you this …’ Turner uncomfortably began.
‘Who, Charlie? Who was attacked?’ asked Brady, starting to feel uneasy.
‘Henderson,’ Turner quietly replied.
Brady felt as if he had just been punched in the guts. He couldn’t breathe. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the reception desk to steady himself. His head was spinning. All he could think was that it
Brady raised his head and looked at Turner’s concerned face, searching for some sign that he had got it wrong.
‘Simone?’ Brady mumbled, his dark brown eyes begging Turner to tell him he was mistaken.
Turner nodded sadly, unable to repeat her name.
‘What happened to her?’ Brady whispered hoarsely, trying with all his might to ignore the panic that had taken hold of him.
‘That’s it. We don’t know,’ Turner answered quietly. He dropped his gaze, unable to look Brady in the eye. ‘An anonymous emergency call came through shortly after 3am this morning locating an injured DC locked in the gents’ toilets in the Blue Lagoon …’
‘And?’ pushed Brady, already fearing the worst.
Brady now understood why uniform had been stationed outside Madley’s nightclub and the reason the double glass doors into the premises had been sealed off with blue incident tape.
Turner shook his head, still unable to look Brady in the eye.
‘She was found naked … whoever had left her there had …’ Turner faltered, not wanting to say.
‘What? What did they do to her?’ Brady hissed, clenching his fists hard, fearing the worst.
‘Someone took a knife to her stomach and sliced her open … and cut out her tongue.’
‘God no …’ He felt as if he was going to throw up. ‘Is she? Is she still …’ Brady couldn’t bring himself to ask the obvious question.
‘She’s in a critical condition, Jack. As far as I know she’s still in surgery.’
Brady numbly nodded as he dragged a trembling hand through his hair. He was trying his hardest to keep his head together.
‘Why wasn’t I called in for this, Charlie?’ he eventually asked.
Turner shook his head.
‘You know better than me,’ he reluctantly answered.
‘What do you mean?’ Brady asked as shock turned to desperation. ‘Surely Gates will need everyone he can get to work on this?’
‘I know, I know, bonnie lad,’ sympathetically agreed Turner.
‘Why would that stop Gates from letting me work on finding out who … who did this to her?’ Brady asked,
