The masked man had no identifiable traits apart from on his right hand. The hand that put the pistol to the victim’s head. He was wearing a gold signet ring with the emblem ‘N’. And his pinky finger had been mutilated, cut off at the joint. Exactly like the man Melissa Ryecroft had described.
Brady picked up his phone and called the number logged from the text Nick had sent him.
The phone had been disconnected. What more did he expect?
He picked up the brown envelope and shook it, hoping to find a note. But there was nothing.
No number. No contact email address. Nothing.
Brady sighed and placed his head in his hands wondering when he’d next see his brother. If ever.
He put the DVD back in the envelope, opened his drawer and filed it. He would get Jed, Northumbria’s computer forensic officer, to analyse it later. Not that he expected to get much back. But he would have to officially hand it over, claiming it had been handed to him anonymously.
First, there was something he needed to do.
He pulled out the bottle of Scotch that he kept for moments like this one. Not that he ever thought this day would come. He slowly unscrewed the lid and poured himself a liberal measure into his Che Guevara mug.
He then placed the open bottle on his desk.
‘To you, Nick,’ sighed Brady.
He then knocked it back. In one swift move. His throat rasped as the whisky, a Talisker bought by Madley, burnt its way down.
He could feel his eyes stinging. They weren’t smarting from the twelve-year-old single malt. Nor was it because of the note on his desk.
It was the note from Charlie Turner that he had read first, before opening up the package from Nick.
Turner had taken a call from Kate Matthews, Jimmy Matthews’ estranged wife, on Brady’s behalf. The call had come into the station thirty minutes ago at 8:33am.
The note simply stated that Matthews had been found at 6:45am by a prison guard in his cell with a ballpoint pen sticking out of his neck. He was now in a critical condition. Whether he would pull through was debatable.
Brady thought back to his conversation yesterday with Matthews. He had begged Brady to help him get out. Had blackmailed him and then tried to trade the information he had on Ronnie Macmillan. He was desperate. And rightly so, thought Brady. Whether the attack would have happened anyway, given he was a copper banged up with the very prisoners he’d helped put away, or whether word had got out that he’d talked was now a moot point. Either way, he was a dead man. Inside prison or outside. And Matthews had made himself a very dangerous enemy: Madley.
Brady sighed heavily. He hadn’t slept for days. But he wasn’t ready to go home; not yet. Still too pumped with adrenalin.
But he knew full well the reasons why.
It was watching a Lithuanian girl being brutally tortured to death. She had died a horrific, unimaginable death.
He raised the mug one more time.
‘Edita … and to the others still out there,’ Brady whispered.
His phone suddenly buzzed.
It was Amelia.
‘Hi,’ he quietly answered.
‘I just wanted to check how Conrad was doing?’ Amelia replied, her voice filled with concern.
‘He’s good. Or should I say as good as can be expected. It could have been a lot worse,’ sighed Brady.
‘How are you bearing up?’
‘I’m OK,’ Brady replied.
There was a heavy silence. They both knew he was lying.
‘If you want someone to talk to you know where I am,’ offered Amelia breaking the palpable awkwardness.
Brady didn’t answer.
‘Look, I’ve got to go. Let me know if you want to get together for a coffee or maybe a drink, yeah?’ suggested Amelia.
‘Yeah … Thanks,’ muttered Brady.
There was nothing left to say so she hung up.
Brady sighed heavily. He wasn’t ready yet.
But he recognised it was time to move on.
To let go of the past.
Read on for an extract of Danielle Ramsay’s compulsive
debut novel,
She felt sick, really sick.
She moaned as the ground started to swirl in front of her.
‘Oh fuck!’ she slurred as she drunkenly collapsed onto her hands and knees.
Trembling, she waited for the nausea to pass.
Finally certain that she wasn’t going to puke she pulled her long blonde hair back from her face and looked around, but it was too dark to make sense of the rubble and half-fallen walls of the abandoned farmhouse. She suddenly realised that she was alone.
‘You fucking shit!’ she yelled out, angry that he had just left her there in the middle of nowhere.
She waited, but there was no response. The surrounding trees and bushes conspired against her, rustling and creaking, fooling her into believing that someone else was there.
‘Fuck you and your fucking attitude! I hate you! You hear me? I fucking hate you!’ she screamed defiantly. ‘You’re the one with the problem, not me!’
She slumped back onto her knees and stared up at the black starless sky. Everything seemed so pointless. She hated him. She hated him for using her and then just throwing her to one side. She would have to be stupid not to notice that he wasn’t into her any more. She had heard the rumours. Who hadn’t? She knew there were other girls, but she’d hoped that she had meant something to him. She had foolishly believed that he could take her away from her crap life; that he could somehow save her. But now that he had got what he had wanted, he wasn’t interested any more.
She felt a cold wetness on her face and realised she was crying. She wiped her damp cheeks aggressively, angry with herself for feeling like this. Angry that she had let him get to her.
‘I don’t fucking care what you say. I’ll tell whoever I want to about what you’ve done to me. Then you’ll be sorry! You hear me? You’ll be the fucking sorry one, you bastard!’ she threatened, ignoring the tears as they continued to fall.
Exhausted, she attempted to get to her feet. Certain that she could stand she pulled out her mobile phone from the front pocket of her short black denim skirt. She tried to make out whether she had any new messages or calls.
‘Bastard!’ she muttered when she realised she didn’t.
She started to scroll through her phone book looking for his number.
Suddenly she heard footsteps coming up behind her. She smiled, relieved that he’d come back.
She froze as the smile faded from her lips.
‘I … I … didn’t mean the things I said … yeah? I was just really mad with you, that’s all …’ she stuttered as she shook her head.
It took her a second to register what was about to happen. Shocked, she dropped her phone as she numbly staggered backwards as she tried to get away.
In her panic she tripped over and fell to the ground. She grabbed her scarf which was lying beside her and
