Vanishing Point Page 10

  Brady reluctantly took the paper with the number on it.

  ‘Sort it. Or …’ Madley let the sentence hang.

  ‘I’ll sort it,’ Brady said.

  But he didn’t know exactly what it was he was sorting.

  He knew Madley wouldn’t go to the police. He’d already proven that. And he had known Madley too long and knew that he wasn’t prone to hyperbole. If he said it could destroy Brady’s career then he was under no illusions; that’s exactly what it could do.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brady unlocked his car door and got in. He reached across to the passenger floor for his laptop. He paused, not really wanting to go through with it. But he had no choice.

  Madley had given him no choice.

  He ripped open the package and took out the unmarked DVD. He laid it on his knee as he rolled a tab. He needed one to steady his nerves.

  His phone started to vibrate in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Christ!’ he cursed, startled. He decided to ignore it.

  He shakily lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. His dark brown eyes narrowed as he looked out the windscreen at the winding bay that was Whitley Bay. In the distance he could just make out the row of Indian, Italian and pizza restaurants and takeouts that littered the stretch of road facing the sea. In between them sat Madley’s nightclub, the Blue Lagoon, and next door, the Royal Hotel. As he did so he unconsciously tightened his grip on the package.

  When he was ready, he pushed the DVD into the laptop and waited.

  The image went from black to a grainy grey empty corridor. Brady fast-forwarded. Then he saw it. A blurry, tall male figure with cropped, short hair carrying something over his shoulder. Something bulky wrapped in what looked to be black plastic, like a bin liner.

  Then Brady saw it. A hand fell from out of the plastic wrapping.

  Brady exhaled, knowing that it had to be Simone’s.

  He watched as the figure went into the gents’. At least a minute or more went by before the man exited again.

  Brady noted that he was wearing a G-Star Raw camouflage jacket. He knew it was G-Star Raw because he recognised the distinctive style.

  But he was at a loss. He didn’t recognise the figure. None of this was making any sense.

  The tall, well-built figure headed down the corridor, passing the camera. As he did so, Brady caught sight of a blurred image of his face.

  He sat for a moment, staring at the face. Not fully registering who he was staring at.

  Then it hit him. It was all the confirmation he needed that he was right about the voice on the 999 call. Cold dread took hold of him. Then sheer panic.

  Brady squeezed his eyes shut, willing the image of the face to disappear.

  He shallowly breathed out, trying to slow his racing heart down. Steadying himself, he opened his eyes hoping that he had been wrong. He had to be wrong.

  But as he stared at the evidence in front of him he realised that everything he had believed in, worked for, had suddenly evaporated. Replaced by an inconceivable fact: he knew the attacker.

  His past had come back to haunt him.

  ‘No!’ shouted Brady as he hit the dashboard in pure rage.

  Brady didn’t need Jed to digitally enhance the image. He already knew who it was – the three-inch scar down the left cheek was a dead giveaway. Then there was the jawline, the nose, those eyes. All unmistakable.

  He was going to throw up.

  Brady quickly opened the car door and bent over and retched. Acrid black coffee hit the ground, burning the back of his throat on its way out. He retched again and again until there was nothing but bile forcing its way up from his empty stomach. He slowly breathed in deeply, trying to steady himself, but the foul, decaying stench that hung in the air was only adding to the urge to retch again. Brady put the rancid smell down to the slurry from the agricultural fields behind the car park being carried over on the slight coastal breeze.

  He could hear his phone vibrating as he clung onto the car door with his head hanging over the ground.

  ‘This can’t be happening. Please God this can’t be happening …’ Brady said to himself. Again and again and again.

  A car slowly drove past, the elderly driver and passenger watching him. They stopped and waited, not sure if he needed help.

  Brady realised he must have looked as bad as he felt.

  It was enough to bring him to his senses. He pulled himself up and slammed the car door shut.

  Brady sat and stared blankly out the windscreen. Minutes went past as he sat there, not seeing the horizon or the North Sea. All he could see was that scar running down the left cheek of the man who had dumped Simone Henderson in the gents’. Every muscle in his body, every sinew was taut. Every nerve on edge; waiting. Not knowing what to think, let alone what to do. All he felt was blinding panic.

  Brady could feel himself starting to hyperventilate. His breathing was coming in short, rapid bursts just as it had done when he’d finally come round in hospital to the knowledge that someone had tried to blow his balls off and that his wife had walked out on him.

  He tried to focus on steadying his breathing. Remembering the technique Amelia had taught him in the hospital to control the panic attacks he had suffered after realising he had lost Claudia for good. He had explained the panic attacks away as a result of being shot and reliving the memory of hearing the handgun go off and simultaneously feeling the impact of the bullet. Amelia had never said as much, but she had known that he wasn’t suffering from post-traumatic stress from being shot. It was the shock of being left by the only person he had loved. Claudia was the one person he had opened up to and he never meant to hurt her, let alone drive her away.

  Brady put his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, trying to breathe slowly. But the face he had recognised on the tape kept tormenting him. He couldn’t shut it out.

  He had to watch it again. Just in case he had made a mistake. In case Madley had made a mistake. It couldn’t be him. It just couldn’t.

  Brady pressed play and then paused the DVD on the close-up of the figure’s face. But there it was, the three-inch, gnarled scar down his left cheek.

  Brady stared at the image desperately trying to convince himself he was mistaken. But the longer he stared, the more certain he became that it really was him.

  He looked at his phone. With shaking hands he started to key in a mobile number. He knew it from memory. He had never stored it in the phone just in case it fell into the wrong hands.

  ‘Come on!’ shouted Brady when he keyed in the wrong number.

  His hands were shaking uncontrollably. He tried to breathe slowly, deliberately, in an attempt to steady his nerves. He keyed the numbers in again and pressed call.

  He listened as the phone rang and rang.

  ‘Pick up… . pick up!’ urged Brady.

  Eventually it cut to an automated voicemail. He disconnected the call and started keying in a London landline number.

  He waited. The dial tone was dead. The phone had obviously been disconnected.

  ‘No … no …’ he muttered, his hands trembling as he cut the dead tone.

  He didn’t know what to do next. It took him a minute to realise that he had no choice but to follow Madley’s advice.

  He took out the piece of paper that Madley had given him. On it a mobile phone number was scribbled.

  Brady keyed it into his phone and waited.

  ‘What?’ came the sharp answer.

  ‘Johnny?’ answered Brady. ‘It’s Brady … Jack Brady.’

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ Slaughter demanded. ‘And who gave you my fucking number?’ His hoarse voice had a heavy, thick East London accent. It was a voice that carried with it an air of sinister threat.

  Slaughter didn’t want anyone getting close to him and used his brother, Billy, as a front man. There was a good reason why Billy was known amongst his friends and enemies as ‘Slash’. Anyone who came into contact with Billy never again crossed
Johnny Slaughter.

  ‘Madley gave it to me,’ answered Brady.

  He was certain there wouldn’t be any ramifications for Madley. He knew Slaughter and Madley looked out for one another. Madley took care of business if Slaughter ever needed it in the North East and the same applied with Slaughter in London.

  ‘And why the fuck would he do that?’

  Brady steeled himself. ‘I need to know where Nick is.’

  ‘And how would I know where he is?’

  ‘Madley reckoned you’d know. That’s why he gave me your number. He’s in trouble, Johnny. Serious trouble and I need to find him before the police get him … or worse.’

  ‘Are you having a laugh or what?’

  ‘You know what I mean, Johnny. I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t serious.’

  ‘You should keep a better eye on him. You being a copper an’ all!’

  ‘I can’t get hold of him. He’s not answering his mobile and his landline’s been disconnected.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me. He’s no doubt on the run!’

  ‘From who? You?’

  ‘If he knows what’s good for him, he will be! Nick stopped working for me a month back. Got involved with those Eastern European bastards who are coming over here and taking all our bloody money!’

  It didn’t sound like Nick. At least, not the Nick he knew.

  ‘Are you sure?’ questioned Brady.

  ‘Too right I am. I saw him myself at Heathrow with two Eastern European Lithuaks!’

  ‘What was he doing?’ demanded Brady, knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer.

  ‘What do you think he was doing?’

  ‘I don’t know …’ pushed Brady.

  ‘Trading in goods is what. Him and his new Lithuak mates. Presumably waiting for what they’ve paid for to come off the plane and then they start trading with the other Lithuak shits who hang around there. Just come back from Spain and I run straight into your Judas of a brother. Bloody didn’t know where to look!’

  ‘Are they dealing in drugs?’ Brady asked.

  He was silently hoping that was what the answer was going to be.

  ‘What didn’t you hear? I said he was in with some Lithuaks! Do you reckon they’re moral like us? Hell no! They’re evil shits. Dirty money is what they deal in. They bring in girls. Eastern European girls from back home, and they sell the poor buggers for the highest price as soon as they’re through customs.’

  ‘Shit!’ muttered Brady.

  ‘Yeah, that’s one word for it. I wouldn’t touch that trade if my life depended on it. I’ve got standards. And sadly, I thought Nick had too!’

  With that, Johnny Slaughter hung up, leaving Brady worried. The last person he wanted hunting Nick down was Billy ‘Slash’ Slaughter.

  He decided to call Nick again. He had no choice but to leave a voicemail.

  He waited while the phone connected. It rang and rang before cutting to voicemail.

  ‘Nick? What the fuck are you doing? Call me, as soon as you get this. I’ll help you, OK? Whatever it takes, Nick, I’ll get you out of this …’

  Brady stopped. He didn’t know what else to say so he hung up.

  How he was going to help him, he didn’t know. But he was certain about one thing – he’d cross the line to save his brother. Regardless of his career. And that included not letting Madley’s new boy use him as target practice, nor giving Billy Slash-Slaughter the chance to redesign his face.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Brady thought long and hard about ringing Madley.

  But he had no other option.

  ‘Martin?’

  ‘What did you find out?’ Madley asked, getting straight to the point.

  ‘Slaughter said that Nick stopped working for him a month back. That he’s got involved with some Eastern European guys.’

  ‘Did he give you any names?’

  Brady noticed he didn’t sound surprised.

  Either Madley had already talked to Slaughter about Nick or … he was holding back on him.

  Brady hoped it wasn’t the latter.

  ‘No … called them Lithuaks though.’

  ‘Means nothing,’ Madley replied.

  Brady couldn’t ignore the fact that there was an edge to Madley’s voice.

  ‘Martin?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’d tell me if something was wrong, yeah?’

  ‘You’re a fucking copper, Jack! Or have you forgotten that? A copper whose brother has just tried to stitch me up.’

  Brady kept his mouth shut. He couldn’t deny it.

  ‘Do you know how long that wanker Adamson questioned me for this morning? Two fucking hours! Two hours out of my life! If it hadn’t been for Rogers turning up, I reckon the wanker would have tried to nail the fucking copper’s attack on me!’

  Madley was more than furious.

  Brady knew he had to act fast and find Nick before he did.

  ‘Do you know how much that stunt cost me?’ Before Brady could answer, Madley told him. ‘Too fucking much!’

  Brady knew Rogers was one of the best lawyers in the North East, which was why Madley employed him.

  ‘You find him, you hear? And you make him talk. Make him talk before I get my hands on him. Understand?’

  ‘Tell me something, who wants you out, Madley?’ asked Brady.

  ‘Why don’t you stick with what you do for a living and leave me to get on with what I do?’ Madley said quietly, with an air of threat.

  ‘It’s a little bit late for that, don’t you think, given one of ours is caught up in the middle of it?’ replied Brady.

  He waited for a response.

  Nothing.

  ‘Listen to me, Martin, Adamson won’t let this go. Paulie reckons you’ve got competition, that someone’s leaning on you. If that’s the case do you want Adamson sticking you with a copper’s brutal mutilation? Because I promise you, that’s exactly what’s going to happen unless you talk to me.’

  Brady listened as the line went dead.

  Madley’s silence said it all. The problem was, he wasn’t going to make it easy for Brady. He’d have to do some work to find out exactly who wanted Madley out, and why.

  He dragged his hand back through his hair, catching his reflection in the rear view mirror. He looked like he’d had the crap beaten out of him. Which he had.

  Then something caught his eye. Something on the back seat.

  It was a black bin liner.

  Brady quickly spun round.

  He suddenly realised that there was something wrong. There was a heavy, foul smell in the air. He had initially thought it was coming from outside the car. He now realised it was coming from the black bin liner behind him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  He yanked open the door and retched. The contents in the black bin liner gave him no choice.

  His stomach kept heaving, even though there was nothing there to force out. Once he was certain that he wasn’t going to retch again, he shut the car door.

  He had to get his head together. He needed to make a call. At the end of the day he was still a copper. He had no choice but to call in the SOCOs. It was a crime scene. There was a victim. And if Nick was involved … Well, he’d deal with that later.

  He should have parked the car where he could see it. Not that he would have ever expected someone to break into his car and leave behind a black bin liner filled with human remains.

  Picking up his phone he saw he had two missed calls. One from Conrad and one from Claudia.

  He scrolled through his phone until he found the number he needed. He pressed call and waited. He needed to talk to the head SOCO.

  ‘Ainsworth? It’s Jack.’

  ‘This has to be serious for you to be calling me,’ Ainsworth replied.

  Brady steeled himself.

  ‘It is …’

  ‘Spit it out then, lad. I haven’t got all day!’

  ‘Evidence was left in my car.’

  ‘What evidence?’ que
stioned Ainsworth.

  ‘A black bin liner containing what I believe to be the murder victim’s head and … a note …’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ spluttered Ainsworth.

  ‘Ainsworth? Can we keep this between me and you for now? Just until I can figure out what’s going on?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s going on, lad, someone’s fucking with you. And that someone is serious.’

  ‘Tell me something new,’ muttered Brady as he looked up at the dark, overcast sky.

  ‘Right, where the bloody hell is your car?’ demanded Ainsworth.

  ‘At St Mary’s Lighthouse,’ answered Brady.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing there?’

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ answered Brady.

  ‘Aye, knowing you, Jack, you’ll be right about that. Alright, we’ll be there soon.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Brady hung up then scrolled down his phonebook and found Wolfe’s number. He pressed call.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ answered Wolfe.

  ‘The head’s turned up,’ answered Brady.

  ‘That was bloody quick work, laddie,’ answered Wolfe. ‘Where was it?’ he questioned, realising from Brady’s silence that he was being serious.

  ‘In my car,’ replied Brady.

  ‘Oh shit,’ wheezed Wolfe.

  Brady sighed heavily. ‘Are you still at the morgue?’

  ‘Where else would I be?’

  ‘The pub?’ replied Brady.

  ‘Aye, but not in the middle of the afternoon, Jack.’

  ‘Ainsworth will have it sent over as soon as he’s finished,’ Brady replied before disconnecting the call.

  He got out the car, slamming the door shut. He resisted the urge to start kicking it. Pounding it with all the pent-up fury he felt towards his brother. He wanted to destroy it. Destroy everything and anything that connected Brady to Nick.

  The car had been bought as a project, one that he and Nick had worked on. Nick had a gift. He had always been able to fix things ever since he was a young child. He had a knack of making something out of nothing, which was exactly what he had done with the car. It had been a shell when they had bought it ten years ago, but Nick had spent months working on it on the odd weekends, patiently rebuilding it to beyond its former glory.