Broken Silence (11 page)

To them the murder of a fifteen-year-old girl was newsworthy, meaning it earned them money. And this story was too newsworthy for Brady’s liking. More so when you threw into the mix that within a twenty-five-mile radius they had fourteen hundred registered sex offenders; nineteen of whom had gone to ground. Whether their disappearance was connected to the murder was anyone’s guess. They had God knows how many officers assigned to track the buggers down. But finding them was another matter.

Brady got out of the car and slammed the door. He looked up at the thundering blades overhead. A news helicopter was flying low, too low over the crime scene. Brady looked across at Conrad and gestured up at the helicopter.

Conrad nodded.

‘I’ll sort it, sir,’ he said.

Brady’s headache still hadn’t gone and it now felt as if the rotating blades above were slicing through his skull.

‘And can you check that they’ve actually started carrying out those DNA swabs? The last thing we want is a repeat of the Carter case!’

‘Yes sir,’ answered Conrad as he took out his mobile.

Northumbria Police had screwed up big time on the Megan Carter investigation. They may have come good eventually, but that was down to sheer dumb luck. It had nothing to do with the investigative team; their reaction had been too slow at the time and they’d paid for it. By the time they had got the resources together to take DNA swabs from male residents within a four-mile radius of
where the victim’s raped and strangled body had been found, the murderer had already left the area.

Gates still hadn’t lived that investigation down; no one had, despite the murderer serendipitously being caught three years later. He had been arrested for drinking and driving in another part of the country and a routine DNA swab had been taken. It matched with DNA samples taken from the crime scene and finally resulted in a murder conviction.

Since then, Gates had used every investigation he had been in charge of to try to lay to rest the Carter investigation. Brady knew that Gates needed a speedy outcome with this case, one that would portray Northumbria Police in a favourable light again. If Gates succeeded in doing that, then it might just be enough to get his career rolling again.

Consequently, Brady had immediately ordered a team, which would soon include DS Adamson, to start the laborious task of taking DNA mouth swabs from all adult male residents in West Monkseaton and the surrounding areas. After Adamson had blatantly challenged the assignment Brady had given him, he wanted to remind him what policing was all about and had decided that some good old-fashioned door-to-door enquiries might just do the trick.

But more importantly, Brady needed a suspect or suspects. And if he was going to keep Matthews’ name out of it, he needed it fast.

‘Yeah, Tom? What have you got?’ Brady answered as he left Conrad to sort out the helicopter.

He limped towards the group of journalists and onlookers gathered around the sealed gate that led down to the crime scene. Crowds put him in a bad mood; especially ones filled with sleazy, shameless journalists. Worse still, he really needed a drink. He was starting to get the shakes and couldn’t decide whether it was alcohol poisoning or withdrawal. Either way, he was craving a shot of malt just to settle his nerves.

‘The parents have confirmed the identity of the girl. Sophie Washington. School kid, fifteen years old,’ replied Harvey.

He took out a cigarette and lit it. He’d been quietly hoping it had all been a coincidence and that Matthews had been overreacting.

‘I want you to find out who her friends were and interview them. We need to find out whether they know anything about a current boyfriend or any ex-boyfriends.’

‘I’ll get on that straight away,’ answered Harvey. ‘Do you want me to check out who Sophie Washington was with last night as well?’

‘No … Conrad and I will deal with that,’ replied Brady. ‘I already have a good idea who it might be.’

‘Yeah? Who?’

Brady didn’t answer Harvey. He had other things on his mind.

‘Between you and me, where do you reckon Jimmy would go if he wanted to lie low?’

He’d lost touch with Matthews since he’d been laid up with his gunshot wound and didn’t know where to start looking for him.

‘Shit, Jack! You know Jimmy better than I do! Where else do you think he’d be if he’s not at home with the wife and kid?’

‘Who is she?’ asked Brady, stopping and turning his back to the crowd.

‘Some tart that he met at The Blue Lagoon a few weeks back,’ replied Harvey, his voice slightly distorted over the phone line.

Where else? Brady mused. It was one of Madley’s nightclubs. Matthews was a hardened regular, as was Brady until he’d buggered his leg. They made their presence felt and Madley kept them drunk. It worked both ways.

‘I don’t suppose you know where she lives?’

‘Hah! You know Jimmy. Likes to keep his private business private if you get my drift? Nah, all I know is that she was blonde with the biggest tits I’ve ever seen! I think her name was Tania but that’s about as much as I know.’

Brady sighed inwardly.

‘Jimmy hasn’t got himself into any bother, has he?’ asked Harvey.

‘No … no, Jimmy’s fine. Just a few problems at home.
You know the shit he gets up to, well let’s just say it’s finally caught up with him,’ Brady answered.

‘Can’t say I’m surprised. I don’t know how the son of a bitch managed to get away with it for so long. I mean, fuck! You remember the time that shit-hot nurse he was screwing gave him the clap? I couldn’t look him in the face without laughing for a week. Especially after he’d said she specialised in highly contagious diseases. She did that all right. And then his wife had to pay a visit to the VD clinic and guess who treats her? The bloody cow that gave Jimmy the clap in the first place!’

‘Yeah, that’s Jimmy for you.’

‘Fucking right it is! He’s one hell of a guy.’

‘He really is. As soon as you have anything regards boyfriends let me know, yeah?’ concluded Brady. ‘Oh yeah, and do me a favour, will you? Take Dr Jenkins with you. She’s the right kind of person to have around when interviewing these kids. She’ll know whether or not they’re hiding something. May as well use her while we’ve got her.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ answered Harvey.

‘And that doesn’t mean you try and shag her, OK?’ warned Brady.

‘I knew it! Me and the lads had bets on whether you were shagging her. Seems I won. You bloody dog, Jack Brady!’ laughed Harvey.

‘You’re one sick bastard,’ replied Brady before disconnecting the call.

Brady threw his cigarette away and started walking towards the crowd.

He nodded at the short, shabby figure making his way towards him. He would recognise that ugly face anywhere.

‘Things must be worse than I thought if they’ve had to
call you in,’ Rubenfeld said in a deep, raspy voice, the result of too much booze.

Brady gave Rubenfeld a pained grin.

He 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 biggest-selling 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 as Rubenfeld needed him.

‘So what are you after?’ Brady asked.

‘Now that would be too easy!’ Rubenfeld replied flashing his small, pincer teeth. He rubbed his two days’ worth of dark stubble as he scrutinised Brady.

‘I’ve heard something that might interest you,’ Rubenfeld began as he lit a cigarette.

He’d caught Brady’s attention.

‘How about we go somewhere a bit more private?’ Brady suggested.

‘One black coffee and …?’ Brady called out to Rubenfeld.

‘A double Scotch,’ grunted Rubenfeld. ‘Well, it’s gone lunchtime,’ he replied in response to Brady’s cynical expression.

‘That’ll be seven pounds ten, mate,’ the bartender said.

Brady handed him a tenner. He then nodded at the bleached blonde cleaner who’d been suspiciously watching
him from the other side of the bar. He made a mental note to get statements taken from whoever was in the pub last night. The Beacon was literally a five-minute walk from the crime scene.

Brady picked the drinks up and limped over to Rubenfeld.

He sat down heavily on the barstool. He was feeling shortchanged; always did when he ran into Rubenfeld. He watched as Rubenfeld did his usual trick and knocked it back in one, swift gulp.

‘Ahh! Now, down to business,’ Rubenfeld replied in a satisfied tone. ‘First, I want to know what really happened,’ he said, leaning in towards Brady. ‘And don’t feed me any of your usual bullshit, Jack.’

‘What’s in it for me?’

Rubenfeld locked his beady eyes on Brady’s.

‘Jimmy,’ he whispered throatily.

It took all of Brady’s willpower not to lean over the small, round table and grab Rubenfeld by his short fat neck and squeeze whatever he knew out of him. But he knew from past experience that it wouldn’t work.

‘Spit it out then,’ rasped Rubenfeld.

‘We’ve got a murder victim. Found in the early hours of this morning,’ Brady began.

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Rubenfeld replied irritably. ‘Bloody hell, Jack. You know better than that.’

Brady shrugged and decided to wait it out. It failed.

Rubenfeld stood up and put his shabby black raincoat on.

Regardless of the weather, or the location, Rubenfeld always wore it. Brady couldn’t imagine Rubenfeld without it. Underneath it he wore a black linen suit; equally scruffy and in need of dry cleaning. Brady presumed that 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.

So much for global warming, mused Brady.

‘Yeah, all right,’ he reluctantly muttered. ‘But it better be worth it!’

Rubenfeld sat back down.

Brady looked over at the bartender and caught his eye. ‘Same again,’ he ordered as he raised Rubenfeld’s empty glass.

‘The victim’s just a kid …’ Brady paused as Rubenfeld raised his thick, black eyebrows.

‘A fifteen-year-old schoolgirl to be precise. I’ve just had a positive ID,’ Brady stated, dropping his voice as the bartender approached.

Brady took out another tenner and handed it to the bartender. ‘Keep the change.’

Rubenfeld swiftly drained the glass and then turned his attention back to Brady.

‘Cause of death?’

‘Can’t say until the post-mortem comes back.’

‘Suspects?’

‘Too early,’ Brady answered.

‘Where’s she from?’

‘Here, West Monkseaton,’ Brady answered. ‘Murdered literally yards from her own doorstep.’

‘You’ll be releasing her identity then?’ fired Rubenfeld.

Brady weighed him up; he was one sleazy son of a bitch.

‘Sophie Washington,’ Brady conceded, barely loud enough for Rubenfeld to hear. But he heard it.

Brady had no choice; he needed Rubenfeld on his side.

Rubenfeld rubbed his coarse chin as he considered what Brady had told him.

‘Well, I’m glad I’m not in your shoes just now! Or Jimmy’s come to that,’ he rasped.

‘Why? What’s going on?’

‘That’s what I want to know,’ Rubenfeld replied. ‘Jimmy’s got himself into a bit of bother with Madley. Word has it he’s pissed Madley off big time.’

‘Why? What’s he done?’

He knew then that he should have taken Matthews seriously when he said that Madley was out to get him. Brady had just assumed that Madley didn’t have the balls to touch a copper; maybe he was wrong.

Rubenfeld shook his head.

‘Don’t fuck with me!’

‘Do I look like I’m fucking with you?’ Rubenfeld snapped. He nervously ran his fat fingers through his short, receding black hair.

‘You know what Madley’s capable of, Jack. And I for one don’t want to mess with him.’

Rubenfeld checked his watch.

‘I’ve got to run if I’m going to make this evening’s edition. It’s due to roll in less than an hour.’ He paused, narrowing his distrustful eyes. ‘Come to think of it, where is that tight-arsed bugger, Jimmy? Shouldn’t it be him throwing his weight around, considering the state of your leg?’

‘He’s tied up,’ Brady answered.

Rubenfeld didn’t buy it.

‘Don’t get involved, Jack. Not when it concerns Madley,’ Rubenfeld warned as he stood up.

But that was exactly it, thought Brady. He was involved, and had been, from the moment he’d found Matthews sat in his office.

Brady kept his head down and pushed his way through, ignoring the barrage of questions. The scavenging rats were willing to sink their teeth into anything that moved. With the limp, Brady was too easy a target.

‘DI Brady? I thought you’d retired?’ shouted out one journalist.

Brady ignored the question and bent down under the police tape. They knew him from the shooting. His story had made the headlines for three days running in the local papers. It wasn’t every day that a copper got shot in an undercover drugs bust. Brady kept going. It was easy to block out the frenzied yelling behind him, he only had to think about his next task after revisiting the crime scene; re-interviewing the murdered girl’s parents.

‘Where’s DI Matthews? Rumour has it he’s been taken off the investigation and that you’re his replacement. Is that right, DI Brady?’ a female voice called out. ‘DI Brady? Harriet Jacobs from
The Evening Chronicle
here,’ she added, hoping to make an impact.

Brady didn’t react even though his guts twisted with every word. He kept his back to the crowd and continued walking down the dirt track towards the crime scene.