Blind Alley Page 3

  ‘What aren’t you telling me, Conrad?’

  ‘The victim was raped, sir.’

  The news didn’t surprise Brady – sex workers were at high risk of sexual and physical assault purely by the nature of their job.

  So far, the rapist had only ever attacked in Whitley Bay in the early hours of a Saturday or Sunday morning. And so far, he hadn’t attacked prostitutes.

  ‘And . . .’ Conrad faltered. He knew what would be going through his boss’s mind; that it couldn’t possibly be their suspect. But there was something about the injuries that this victim had sustained that leaped out when Conrad learned the details. He’d made quite a few friends during his police training days; one of them was stationed at North Shields. They still got together for drinks every other week – mainly to gripe about their bosses and the impossible tasks they were asked to perform. Conrad hadn’t needed to update her on the serial rape case. After the third victim, it had made national news. But Conrad had told her the gruesome details that had been held back from the press. His friend contacted Conrad as soon as she could after being called out to the new crime scene. The victim had suffered an unusual wound that was startlingly similar to the one found on the third rape victim. When she told Conrad, he knew it was something he couldn’t ignore.

  ‘Go on,’ Brady prompted.

  ‘From the update I received, it appears as if this new victim was hurt in the same way Chloe Winters was.’

  ‘You’re absolutely certain?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So why didn’t you say so when you first walked in?’

  ‘I was trying to, but . . .’ Conrad faltered.

  Brady wasn’t listening.

  He grabbed his beat-up black leather jacket from the back of his chair and snatched his phone and car keys from the desk before turning to Conrad.

  ‘Come on. What are you waiting for?

  Brady was worried that his deputy had returned to duty too soon after his injury. So he made a point of doing whatever driving was required. Conrad had been off for six months after being shot in the left shoulder during their last major investigation. Despite the months of sick leave, Brady was certain he shouldn’t be back at work. More so when he saw Conrad grimacing in pain when he thought no one was looking.

  Brady hadn’t known whether Conrad was going to make it after he had been shot; let alone ever be fit enough to return to work. No one at the station had been more pleased than him when Conrad had reported for duty that Monday at 7:00 a.m. Conrad was irreplaceable. Something Brady had had no qualms in telling Gates when he tried to assign a replacement. But the last thing Brady wanted was Conrad causing long-lasting damage to himself because he’d returned to duty early. Conrad had an unfailing sense of loyalty to him, and Brady knew that Conrad would have felt obliged to return to work as soon as he could to help catch the serial rapist – especially once he found out what the sick bastard was doing to his victims.

  ‘You ring Harvey and tell him what’s happened. We need a copy of everything North Shields CID have on this case,’ Brady said as he opened the office door.

  ‘Do we have the authority to do that, sir?’ asked Conrad, following Brady out.

  He was worried about protecting his friend. The last thing he wanted was her getting into trouble for disclosing information on one of their cases to another Area Command.

  ‘We do if this woman turns out to have been attacked by the suspect we’re looking for,’ Brady answered. ‘Tell the team we’ll reschedule the briefing for later.’

  His mind was racing. Images of Chloe Winters’ injuries flashed through his head. He’d never seen injuries like that before . . . and he’d prayed he never would again.

  Chapter Six

  Nothing could have prepared Brady for this: nothing. He swallowed hard. He could feel the bile rising up from the back of his throat.

  Conrad was standing by his side looking the way Brady felt. His face was ashen, drained of any blood.

  A machine bleeped irritably in the corner by the patient’s bed. A constant reminder that death was still lingering behind the scenes, waiting. A plastic tube snaked out of the victim’s mouth, held in place by tape as the machine regulated her breathing. It was an understatement to say she was in a bad way.

  Brady tried to hold his breath. He hated the smells in hospitals. Partly the benign antiseptic that clung to the air. But it was the smell of approaching death and festering wounds that made him want to gag.

  Brady had already blagged his way past the uniform stationed at the door. He knew they didn’t have a lot of time before the detective in charge of the case turned up asking questions. He knew he shouldn’t be here. As did Conrad. At least, not without the appropriate authorisation. But Brady didn’t have time for such polite civilities. He just wanted to discreetly satisfy himself that this victim hadn’t been attacked by the rapist Brady’s team were trying their damnedest to hunt down. After Conrad had mentioned the nature of her injuries, Brady felt they had no choice but to pay a visit. The problem was, he hadn’t expected the victim to be in such a critical state.

  ‘Do they have an identity yet?’ Brady asked.

  He was aware that Conrad had contacts in North Shields police station. Even though they all worked for the same force, each Area Command tended to look out for itself. They had targets to meet, which in effect meant they were in competition with one another. Not that anyone would ever admit it. But Brady knew that the Senior Investigating Officer in charge of this case wouldn’t be happy that he and Conrad were here poking around.

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  Brady nodded.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the victim. Whoever had done this to her had wanted her dead. That much was clear. But why?

  ‘Do me a favour, Conrad, will you? Go and have a chat with the uniform on the door. I want to get a look at this wound to see whether it’s like Chloe Winters’ injuries. The last thing I need is someone walking in.’

  ‘Sir?’ Conrad asked, unsure whether they shouldn’t be getting a doctor or nurse to show them the wound.

  Brady didn’t have to look at Conrad to know that his eyes would be narrowed and his jaw clenched as he struggled with the concept of breaking the rules. Conrad liked to play everything exactly by the book. Brady, on the other hand, was prepared to take risks if he felt the outcome justified it.

  ‘You heard what the doctor said. They don’t know whether or not she’ll regain consciousness, considering the trauma to her head. So, under these circumstances, I’m sure she won’t mind. I suggest we do exactly what we came here to do. To see if this is the same sick bastard we’re after. But looking at the state of her, I’m not so sure it is.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

  ‘This is overkill. Whoever did this to her was angry. Very angry. It smacks of something personal,’ Brady explained.

  He forced himself to look at the swollen, distorted mess that had once been her face. The broken, weeping skin was discoloured, black and purple. It was hard to tell what she should look like. Her nose had been smashed beyond recognition. It was in a cast. As for her eyes, they were buried beneath engorged, weeping flesh that had been sewn together with ugly black stitches.

  Her straw-like, bleached blonde hair was matted with clumps of rust-coloured blood and dirt.

  Brady felt a pang of sadness as he looked at her.

  She was once someone’s daughter . . . maybe still is . . .

  He shook his head. Thoughts of the young women the Dabkunas brothers had held captive and tortured – some to death – suddenly consumed him.

  ‘Sir?’ Conrad’s face was etched with concern as he looked at his boss.

  ‘It’s nothing . . . just . . .’ Brady’s voice faltered. He swallowed. His throat was so dry it felt as if razors were lodged at the back.

  Why the hell was it still affecting him like this?

  But Brady knew the answer. It was simple. They were still out there – the Dabkunas brot
hers. And that meant they would be trafficking other young women. He couldn’t help making the comparison with this poor woman, fighting for her life because some punter or pimp had decided to get heavy with her. Used and abused by all around her, she hadn’t stood a chance. And Brady was well aware of the irony of two coppers standing in this small, private room without authorisation. It was out-and-out mercenary, and the fact that he acknowledged it did not make him feel better about it.

  Brady had already made a judgement call. That was his job. He knew she was a sex worker. The clothes she had been found wearing, now in a Forensics laboratory, said as much. As did the area her body had been dumped in. It was a no-man’s land at night. A stone’s throw away from the Ridges, it was an area of dodgy, unlit street corners and flats above rundown shops. Anyone hanging around that area was looking for trouble. And if not, it sure as hell would find them.

  But Brady had already noticed the tell-tale tracks from heroin or crack cocaine use up and down her badly bruised, stick-thin arms.

  ‘Take a closer look at her, Conrad. She’s a prostitute with a heavy drug addiction. You see her arms? And I don’t mean the fact that she’s severely underweight – I’m talking about the injection marks.’

  It was hard not to be taken aback by the results of life on the streets. It was cruel, and Brady knew it. The evidence was there in front of him. The team had found it extremely difficult to come up with a ‘type’ that the rapist targeted. But Brady was absolutely certain that this woman in front of him would never have ticked whatever twisted boxes the rapist used. The first thing to strike him was that she was too old; the rapist liked his victims young. They were all in their early twenties and looked like ‘normal’ women, not some fashion designer’s idea of heroin chic. And right then, staring at a skeletal heroin addict, Brady had no understanding how something so sickening could be sold as desirable.

  He breathed out slowly. He was absolutely certain that she hadn’t been attacked by the man they were after. But there was one question going through Brady’s mind: why would she have a similar wound to Chloe Winters? Brady knew the rapist was escalating with every new victim. Chloe Winters was testimony to that worrying fact. But Brady could not convince himself that the serial rapist they were looking for was responsible for the carnage suffered by this victim.

  He stared at her, willing her to wake up and tell them who’d done this to her. But he knew it wasn’t going to happen any time soon, if at all.

  ‘Give me a few moments, will you?’ Brady asked. He wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

  Conrad nodded, relieved to be dismissed.

  Brady waited until Conrad had left the claustrophobic room before walking over to the victim. He felt like a predator. Yet another man on the take.

  He steeled himself as he stood by the head of her bed. Her face was a bloody mess. Distorted beyond human recognition. Whoever had wanted to hurt her had done an excellent job.

  Brady’s eyes drifted down her arm, ignoring the ugly tracks and bruising, towards the gauze dressing that covered the open wound. He knew that she was scheduled for more surgery. She needed a skin graft, but the doctors were waiting to see whether she was going to survive the attack. If not, surgery would be unnecessary.

  Deciding he had no choice but to look, Brady gently pulled back the single sheet covering her lower left arm. He waited, half expecting her to wake up and ask him what the fuck he was doing – but she didn’t stir. He could see the thick wad of dressing covering the inside of her wrist. Preparing himself, he pulled the dressing back.

  He tried not to react to the grisly sight. The entire skin on the inside of her wrist, running four inches up her inner arm, had been removed. Raw flesh, sinewy veins and muscle were left exposed. Brady took out his BlackBerry and photographed the wound. He was well aware that this was against protocol but he had no choice. He needed to make sure this wasn’t the handiwork of their serial rapist, who delighted in removing skin from his victims as keepsakes – or trophies.

  The first rape victim had been lucky – if that was possible. She had been raped and stabbed repeatedly in both breasts. Nothing else. But it was enough. The rapist had grown more confident by the second victim and had removed the right nipple and the skin surrounding it before stabbing both breasts. Neither of the first two victims had tattoos, unlike the third victim. But it was the effects of his cruel, sadistic knife that had left the third victim’s skin looking like a patchwork quilt after the surgeon had cut and grafted skin over the extensive, open wound. Chloe Winters had had an elaborate tattoo, an intricate sketch of a wolf’s head. It had covered her right breast and chest leading up to her neck. This time he had taken time to peel off the entire skin from her breast and across her chest. After the removal of the tattoo he had then repeatedly stabbed what was left of her right breast and had then turned his attention to her left one.

  Brady had seen enough before-and-after photographs of Chloe Winters’ breast for it to be permanently scarred on his mind. He had also paid a visit to Fusion, the tattoo studio she’d used. Brady knew as soon as he saw a picture of the tattoo who the artist was: it took someone highly skilled to design and then tattoo a piece of work as beautiful as the wolf’s head. The tattoo artist was the owner of Fusion – Dan Ridgewell. He was an imposing figure of a bloke, someone clients knew not to mess with – built like a brick shithouse, he kept himself fit by body-building and boxing. However, it was not just his muscle-bound body that would intimidate your average blue-rinse Sainsbury’s shopper, it was the fact that every inch, and that meant every inch, of his hard, muscled body was covered in tattoos. Some good, some not so good. But every one was a testament to life; his life, which by all accounts had been a damned difficult one.

  Despite the flattened nose and inked skin, Dan Ridgewell was a good-looking bloke. Admittedly in a thuggish kind of way. But he had a charm about him that young women couldn’t resist. Whether it was his intense dark brown eyes, or his thick black hair, naturally tanned skin and roguishly handsome features, or his easy-going manner, something worked in his favour. And from the ex-wives and girlfriends dotted around the country, maybe a little too well.

  Brady had soon found out that there was more to Dan Ridgewell than his threatening, tattooed body. That he actually had an A-Level in literature and a penchant for philosophy; an enthusiasm that he tended not to share with the majority of his clients, who were barely literate. Second and third generations on benefits with no hope of a job – at least not one that was legitimate. They were blighted by the location of their birth: North Shields. Home to high unemployment, teenage pregnancies, drugs and inevitably crime. Brady knew it well. After all, it was where he was born. But he’d been lucky. He’d managed to crawl out of the rat-infested alleys and had put as much distance as he could between himself and the crime-ridden streets he once called home.

  Brady had asked Dan Ridgewell if he knew anyone who had a tattoo fetish to the extent of actually removing them. Dan had laughed, until he realised Brady was deadly serious. He reminded Brady that he was in the job of putting ink into someone’s skin, not removing it. But he did concede that ‘we get all kinds of dicks in here. It’s hard to know which ones really are nutters, like, compared to the ones who make out they are, if you get my drift.’

  Brady had encountered some of Fusion’s clientele and at times found the hardcore misogynistic comments so easily thrown between the blokes shameful. But as Dan had pointed out when Brady raised this, it didn’t make them rapists.

  Brady carefully replaced the gauze dressing over the ugly wound. He had seen enough. The serial rapist they were after had a breast fetish. However, this victim’s breasts had not been mutilated. Nor was the removal of the skin on her wrist as clean and professional as the damage suffered by the second and third rape victims. On Chloe Winters’ body, the assailant had shown the depths of his skill. What had surprised Brady and the team – one of the few details that hadn’t been disclosed in yesterday evenin
g’s Northern Echo – was that her tattoo had been carefully cut out, leaving behind an odd, startling effect. It would have taken time for the rapist to do it. But from what Chloe Winters had told the police, she had spent forty-eight hours held hostage, chained to a concrete floor. She had no memory of being released. It was a taxi driver who had found the unconscious, naked girl lying in a back lane and called the ambulance and police. When Chloe came to, she had no idea how she’d ended up there, or, more crucially, where she had been raped and tortured.

  Chapter Seven

  A knock at the door startled Brady. It was swiftly followed by Conrad sticking his head from behind the door.

  ‘Sir? We’ve got to make a move.’

  Brady nodded.

  ‘Yeah . . . I’m coming, Conrad.’

  Just then something caught his eye. Something he had missed before. Brady bent down and gently swept her matted hair back out of the way. He could see it now. The two small, faded tear droplets that had been inked onto her neck below the left ear using good old-fashioned biro. Crude and lacking finesse, they had stood the test of time. She had ironically predicted her future – one filled with lousy decisions and painful repercussions.

  Brady felt winded as he stared at her. He took time now to look at the horrific injuries she had sustained. Her face had been obliterated. Whether she would get some skilled plastic surgeon to put it back together again, Brady seriously doubted. After all, she was just some throwaway prostitute. Someone who had ended up with the wrong punter in the wrong alley, at the wrong time of night.

  It all made sense now. The straw-like bleached blonde hair. The fake-tanned skin, the scrawny body covered in tracks – deep, permanent scarring from heavy needle usage.

  ‘Sir!’ Conrad hissed, his face strained with urgency.

  Brady didn’t respond. He couldn’t look at Conrad until he got himself together. He needed to get a handle on the situation before he told Conrad and the SIO in charge of the investigation that he knew her. That he could formally identify her.