Blind Alley (22 page)

Brady thought about Amelia’s objections regarding Munroe. He understood her problem with his age, but sitting where Brady was sitting, even she wouldn’t be able to ignore the smell of blood on Munroe’s hands and the naked, disturbing lust to hurt set deep in his eyes.

Munroe suddenly swiped at the photographs, knocking them onto the floor.

Neither Brady nor Conrad moved.

‘So, when you worked in London as a hired thug, or should I say bodyguard, who employed you?’ Brady asked.

Munroe scowled at him.

‘Why?’

‘Just making conversation,’ answered Brady.

‘John De Silvio. Why, what the fuck’s it got to do with you?’

Brady immediately recognised the name. John De Silvio was an East End gangster otherwise known as Johnny Slaughter.

‘So, was it De Silvio who recommended you to Madley?’

‘Summat like that.’

Suddenly there was an abrupt knock on the door.

The young officer answered it.

‘Sir?’ she said as she turned back to Brady.

Brady got up. He couldn’t help but notice the look of satisfaction on Munroe’s face.

‘About fucking time, too!’ Munroe complained as he crossed his burly arms. ‘You, what about you get me a cuppa, eh? You lot want to be treating me with some respect now my lawyer’s here.’

Brady had no idea what was going on.

‘I’ll be back in five minutes to resume this interview,’ he said, nodding at Conrad. His eyes automatically glanced up at the camera in the corner of the ceiling, which was filming the interview.

‘Yeah? Is that when I get my fucking apology for wasting my time?’

Brady simply turned and left the room.

DCI Gates stood waiting in the corridor. The look on his harsh face told Brady it was bad news.

‘Can I have a word, Jack?’

Before Brady had a chance to answer, Gates continued. ‘Martin Madley’s lawyer’s here. Seems that on the nights in question, Munroe was working for Madley.’

‘Can he prove it?’ Brady asked. He couldn’t believe it. Since when had Madley stuck his neck out for someone – let alone a hired thug like Munroe?

Gates nodded. He looked as pissed off as Brady felt.

‘Surveillance tapes from the nights in question. On all three nights Munroe is seen on the Blue Lagoon’s security tapes locking up. He then helps out behind the bar cleaning up and knocks off at about four a.m.’

‘You’re not serious?’ Brady asked.

But the expression on Gates’s face told him he was deadly serious.

Brady dragged a hand back through his hair as he tried to digest the information.

‘No . . . no . . . I don’t believe it,’ he muttered, more to himself than his boss.

‘Believe it. I’ve just had to sit through Madley’s lawyer showing me the evidence. Unless Munroe has an identical twin, he physically couldn’t have committed those three rapes, Jack.’

‘They haven’t been rigged, have they?’ Brady asked. He knew Madley was capable of doing that. He had money, which meant he could employ the expertise capable of digitally altering times and dates on security tapes.

‘It’s been sent off to Jed to authenticate,’ Gates said.

Brady felt like he’d been winded.

‘You thought he was responsible?’

‘All the evidence pointed that way. His job, his history of violence and sexual offences, two of which included rape and . . .’ Brady faltered as he shook his head. ‘He even matches the photofit.’

‘That’s not what Dr Jenkins has said,’ Gates stated.

‘Yes, I know,’ answered Brady.

Gates waited, clearly wanting more.

‘Aside from being older, he fits every other aspect of Dr Jenkins’s profile, sir.’

‘Irrelevant now, if he has a watertight alibi, don’t you think?’ Gates pointed out.

Brady kept quiet.

‘Sort this mess out, Jack. And fast. I don’t want any fallout. You understand? We’ve got the press crawling all over us as it is without you making us look incompetent. As soon as Jed authenticates the surveillance footage release him.’

Before Brady could argue, Gates had already turned and started walking away.

He stood for a moment trying to compose himself. He now had to go back and terminate the interview. Munroe would be entitled to have a private conversation with Madley’s lawyer, who so happened to be one of the best – and most expensive – in the North-East. But Brady could not get rid of his gut feeling about Munroe. There was something about him; it wasn’t just the look in his eye and his cocky, foul-mouthed attitude. It was something else, but Brady couldn’t put his finger on it. There was one thing he was certain about. Munroe was capable of murder – he had already proven he was capable of rape.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Brady had spent the entire day chasing his own tail – to no avail. The upshot was Munroe had been released without charge. They had nothing on him. The surveillance tapes had come back kosher. Brady had talked to Jed, who had stated categorically that they hadn’t been altered in any way. Brady had taken some persuasion, but Jed had indulged Brady’s refusal to accept it; counteracting every argument until he felt he had no choice but to hang up on him and get on with some ‘real’ work. Madley’s lawyer had also dropped the bombshell that on the three nights in question, Munroe had also driven Madley home after he’d locked up. Apparently both Gibbs and Weasel Face, Madley’s bodyguards and drivers, had been given those nights off. So, not only did Madley provide Munroe with surveillance footage as an alibi, he threw himself in for good measure.

Brady didn’t buy it. But there was nothing he could do. Madley was protecting Munroe, that much was obvious. But why?

He had rung Madley, of course. He wanted to know what was in it for him to risk everything for a hired thug with a history of sexual violence. Brady had never known Madley to willingly get involved with the police. He had too much to hide to want to attract attention to himself. But Madley had refused to take Brady’s calls. So he’d decided to pay the Blue Lagoon a visit. But the doors were locked and the place seemed conveniently deserted.

Brady had then taken a detour to Fusion to talk to Dan Ridgewell. He wanted to check his records to see whether Chloe Winters had been booked in on the same day as Munroe. Simple answer – she had. Brady asked if they’d talked. Ridgewell’s answer had been: ‘Fuck knows. It’s a fucking tattoo studio not a fucking knocking shop, Jack!’

They’d stood outside while Ridgewell had a tab break. Brady had questioned him about Munroe and found out the East London bloke had quite a fierce reputation. No one messed with him. Not even Ridgewell, who had quite a reputation of his own and was built like a New Zealand rugby player. He had turned to Brady with a serious look and said: ‘There’s something in that mad fucker’s eyes which tells you he wouldn’t think twice about slitting your throat from ear to ear if the fucking mood took him.’

Ridgewell went on to advise Brady to steer clear of him. That he was one of Johnny Slaughter’s boys. Or had been. These days he was under the protection of Martin Madley. Brady had refrained from telling him that he already knew. And it was these precise facts that worried him.

After they’d smoked another cigarette and chatted about Newcastle United’s chances this season, Brady had thanked Ridgewell and left. He had headed back to the station hoping that Amelia would have already clocked off. He’d successfully avoided her since Munroe had been released. It was late on a Saturday night and the last thing he needed was Amelia gloating over the fact he had got it so wrong. But there was still something about Munroe that made Brady uncomfortable.

Brady took a gulp of black coffee. It was lukewarm. He sat back in his seat and put his hands behind his head as he looked out the windows. Dusk was settling outside. It unnerved him. Another Saturday night. Had he released a potential murderer and sadistic rapist back onto the streets of Whitley Bay? He couldn’t be sure. It was that knowledge that was chewing him up inside. What had he done? Or, more to the point, what had he failed to do?

Someone knocked at the door, saving Brady from torturing himself with unanswered questions about Madley and Munroe.

‘Yeah?’ Brady called out.

Conrad walked in. He was carrying two unopened sandwiches and a bag of salted crisps.

He threw them at Brady.

‘Dinner, sir,’ he said. ‘All they had left in Sainsbury’s. Chicken salad and tuna mayonnaise.’

Brady gave Conrad a surprised look.

‘What’s this in aid of?’

‘Felt bad about the Chinese last night. And with everything else that’s happened today I knew you’d have forgotten to eat.’

‘What makes you think I might be hungry now?’ Brady asked, ripping open one of the sandwiches. ‘By the way, much appreciated,’ he said before taking a large bite.

Conrad was right. He’d been too busy beating himself up over Munroe’s release to think about food. His hunger surprised him.

‘I’ve got some news that might put a smile on your face.’

‘Go on,’ Brady said through a mouthful of chicken salad sandwich. He gestured for Conrad to pull up a seat.

Conrad did as instructed and sat down in front of Brady’s cluttered desk. Rarely had he seen it cleared.

‘The CCTV footage of the silver car. It was a Mercedes Benz C-Class saloon.’

Brady nodded.

‘He’s a driver. But not a taxi driver. Name’s John Summerfield. He’s Mayor Macmillan’s driver.’

‘What?’ spluttered Brady, nearly choking on a piece of malted bread.

‘Yes.’

‘What the fuck is Mayor Macmillan doing in those parts on a Thursday evening, or should we not be asking that question?’

‘Well, allegedly the mayor wasn’t in the car. John Summerfield had decided to take a drive and found himself in that part of North Shields.’

‘What, looking for sex?’

‘By all accounts. It’s taken Bentley some time to get this out of him.’

‘So, I take it he didn’t come forward with the information?’

Conrad shook his head.

‘No, sir. They managed to trace the car from a partial registration they got on the CCTV. They were certain it was the car that Trina McGuire had seen – the time on the footage matched the time she said she saw it.’

Brady couldn’t help but smile at this news. Mayor Macmillan’s driver scouring the streets looking for sex. His smile broadened as he wondered whether Macmillan was actually in the back, hidden behind tinted glass. Nothing would have surprised him where Macmillan was concerned. Brady had given up watching him. He was a corrupt politician with an equally corrupt gangster brother banged up in Durham prison. He had been elected and re-elected as Mayor of North Tyneside. But the public didn’t realise the kind of man they had representing them. The police and press were well informed of Macmillan’s questionable past. Even Rubenfeld, the snitch who had written the damning piece on Brady’s failure to apprehend the Whitley Bay rapist, couldn’t sink his teeth into Macmillan, despite the fact he had a gangster for a brother and a prostitute for a sister. Macmillan had put a great deal of distance between his political career and the criminal element that were his family.

The problem Brady had with Macmillan was that he socialised with the right kind of people. Powerful people. Even his penchant for prostitutes, the younger the better, was never reported to the police, let alone in any of the papers.

Mayor Macmillan had even foiled Rubenfeld, who was a hardened hack. There were countless front-page spreads that Rubenfeld could have done on Macmillan aside from one slight problem – no editor would touch it.

‘The greasy git has the right approach. He knows how to stop people talking. Money, Jack. Money!’ Rubenfeld had often grumbled over one too many pints followed by countless whisky chasers. Most of the time at Brady’s expense.

Brady knew that Rubenfeld was right. Macmillan had protection. Whether he paid for it or not, Brady had no idea. But there were quite a few powerful North-East businessmen, and even high-ranking police officers like Detective Superintendent O’Donnell, who weren’t afraid to be seen publicly with him.

‘And Bentley? What’s his take on this?’

‘Well, you know how it goes with Macmillan. There’s nothing he can do. From what I’ve gathered, word came down from the top to not pursue it any further. That Mayor Macmillan’s driver was in the wrong area at the wrong time. In other words, he got lost.’

‘You’re serious?’ Brady spluttered.

Conrad nodded.

‘What’s his driver look like?’

‘Short, fat and bald.’

‘One out of three isn’t bad, Conrad,’ Brady said with a wry smile.

‘He’s definitely not our rapist, sir,’ Conrad answered. ‘If you saw him, you’d know what I mean. Guy would have a heart attack if his pulse got above forty.’

‘Does Bentley think he could be connected to McGuire’s attack?’

Conrad shook his head. ‘They’ve got nothing on him.’

‘Poor sod. I bet he’s married. Yeah?’

‘Yes,’ Conrad answered.