Vanishing Point Page 3

  ‘If this is what I think it is, then this could mean she’s not the only one …’

  ‘I know,’ muttered Brady.

  ‘I hope for our sake that you’re wrong, Jack.’

  Brady didn’t reply.

  In the background a male voice complained about her taking too long.

  Brady shoved his hand deep into his pocket and tightly gripped the only object he carried with him everywhere. He could feel the cold metal of his wedding ring digging into the palm of his hand as he thought about the implications of the mark on the victim. And more significantly, the implications of the man who was now sharing his ex-wife’s bed.

  ‘Send me the photo and I’ll start making enquiries my end, alright?’ Claudia instructed.

  ‘Yeah … thanks,’ muttered Brady.

  ‘Jack? You do know if this girl has been trafficked and imprisoned then you’ve got a problem on your hands?’

  ‘I know …’

  ‘Because the question is, why would someone kill her? These women can sell for something like £3,000 to £4,000, if not more. And her earning potential makes her a valuable commodity. And don’t forget how much money these women can make in one day. So why murder her?’

  This was what was worrying Brady. Sex trafficking and sex slavery were growing international crimes; ones that had a stronghold in the UK. He knew the statistics. Claudia had brought her work home often enough for him to be keenly aware of the worrying exponential growth in sex slavery. Girls ranging from as young as eleven up to twenty-five were trafficked from all over Eastern Europe, across the fractured borders of Russia, smuggled through Afghanistan, and even brought in from as far afield as Thailand and China.

  Brady shut his eyes as he massaged his forehead with his other hand. This was exactly what he didn’t want. A body turning up connected to sex trafficking. Not in Whitley Bay of all places. After all, this was just a small seaside resort in the North East of England where organised crime of this level didn’t exist. If it had been a major European capital then Brady would have been more ready to accept such a premise. Even Newcastle he could understand, but not Whitley Bay.

  ‘Unless … unless she was being made an example of?’ Claudia questioned, interrupting his thoughts.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘All I know is what I’ve heard from the women we’ve managed to free. But there are some horrendous stories of coercion and blackmail, Jack.’

  ‘Check out the markings for me first, yeah?’

  He didn’t want to acknowledge that this problem had landed on his doorstep. But he couldn’t ignore what Claudia was suggesting. He had the same gut feeling that someone wanted to make a very public statement with this girl’s body.

  Admittedly, Whitley Bay had a reputation for stag and hen parties and binge drinking. But that was a world removed from organised sex trafficking and sex slavery. Brady thought back to Matthews’ allegations against Madley and Mayor Macmillan. He had been adamant that between them they had a highly profitable sex trafficking and slavery operation. But Brady had put his crazy accusations down to the ramblings of a cornered man who, about to lose everything he had worked for, had decided to bring down as many people with him as he could. Brady would be the first to admit that there was something about Mayor Macmillan that didn’t sit easy with him. But even he had to concede that sex trafficking was a stretch too far. And as for Matthews’ claims against the local mafia figure, Madley, who was rumoured to be involved in drugs and other such lucrative enterprises, Brady couldn’t take it seriously. Sex trafficking was something that he knew Madley wouldn’t touch. Regardless.

  ‘Let me worry about why she’s been murdered once we know for certain that she’s been branded.’

  Claudia’s only response to Brady’s words was to let out a heavy sigh.

  Before he had a chance to say anything else she disconnected the call.

  All he could do now was send her the photograph. He watched his phone to make sure that the image had definitely been sent. Satisfied, he put his phone in his jacket.

  Now he had to wait. And pray to God that his hunch about the victim being a sex slave was wrong.

  Chapter Six

  Brady steadied himself before opening the doors to the station. He wasn’t sure why he had been handed this investigation. By rights it should have been Adamson called in; lately, he had been Gates’ first choice when it came to anything decent. Whereas Brady was just being thrown the rubbish murders.

  So why this one, he mused? And where the hell was Adamson? It wasn’t like that weasel not to sink his teeth into such a high profile crime. Once the press got their greedy, grasping claws into this story, the seaside town of Whitley Bay would make national headlines.

  He sighed heavily, accepting that maybe he was starting to get paranoid. The past six months behind a desk would do that to any copper, let alone him.

  The air in the building was still rancid. Regardless of how often Nora, the station’s cleaner, swabbed down the Victorian green-tiled hallway, there was always an acrid, lingering dampness that resiliently clung to the walls and floor. That and the stale smell of old piss from one too many drunken louts dragged in to sleep it off in the cells.

  The building was old and decrepit. But Brady felt at ease inside its cold, flaking walls and winding, maze-like corridors. His office, with its high, rattling windows and bulky, rust-stained, leaking radiators, felt more comfortable to him than his own home. Which wasn’t surprising given that over the years he had spent most of his waking life at the station. More so now that he couldn’t stomach going home to nothing.

  Brady went through the second set of double doors and was greeted by the scraggy, wizened face of the desk sergeant, Charlie Turner. He was a short, rotund, balding man in his early fifties.

  ‘I better warn you, Jack, all hell’s breaking loose here,’ Turner greeted as he raised his white spidery eyebrows. It made no difference; his small dark eyes were still hidden beneath his sagging, crumpled eyelids.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘So you heard about the stabbing then? Christ! How bad can things get, eh?’

  Brady frowned. Apart from Conrad, he hadn’t caught up with anyone yet.

  ‘What stabbing?’

  ‘You don’t know, do you?’ Turner replied worriedly. ‘It explains why the DCI has been desperate to talk to you. You do turn your phone on, don’t you, Jack? Because he’s been chasing my hide for the past hour wanting to know as soon as you turn up! And Conrad’s been hanging around waiting for you. I convinced him to get me a coffee just to get him out from under my feet.’

  Automatically Brady reached for his phone.

  He had forgotten to turn it off silent mode. He’d missed three calls; two from DCI Gates and one from Dr Amelia Jenkins.

  Jenkins was the police shrink who, a year ago, had spent the first six weeks after Brady had been shot in the thigh trying to sort his head out. He had insisted all he needed was a couple of bottles of Scotch and a divorce lawyer but she had wanted to try the more professional method. In the end she gave up. She was into the ‘talking cure’ – which had become a problem given Brady’s refusal to talk.

  But why she would be calling him at 7:30am was anyone’s guess. He hadn’t seen her since the last investigation they had worked on together, which was over six months ago. Amelia worked with the force as a forensic psychologist. But for some reason she opted out and had turned to practising clinical psychology instead. Brady presumed something had shaken her to her core. Which was why he was so surprised both that Gates had asked her to be part of the investigation and that Amelia had agreed. He knew that Gates had worked with Amelia when she had been a forensic psychologist, which meant he knew she was good. That, and he trusted her, which was why Brady presumed he had requested her assistance.

  ‘The DCI is out for blood given that one of our own was attacked early this morning in Madley’s nightclub,’ continued Turner.

  Brady realised now why Turner was so
agitated.

  ‘Who?’ Brady asked, realising he had been sat behind his desk for too damned long. Once news this crucial would have reached him immediately. Now he was so out of the circuit that it took the watchdog Turner to fill him in on the night’s events.

  Then he remembered Conrad. This was obviously what he had wanted to tell him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack … I don’t know how to tell you this …’ Turner uncomfortably began.

  ‘Who, Charlie? Who was attacked?’ asked Brady, starting to feel uneasy.

  ‘Henderson,’ Turner quietly replied.

  Brady felt as if he had just been punched in the guts. He couldn’t breathe. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the reception desk to steady himself. His head was spinning. All he could think was that it couldn’t be her. She wasn’t the Henderson Turner was talking about. It had to be someone else. But he already knew it was. After all, he had seen her with his own eyes in Madley’s nightclub. And he had turned and left. Left her alone with two men who, for all he knew, were responsible for … He couldn’t bring himself to think about it.

  Brady raised his head and looked at Turner’s concerned face, searching for some sign that he had got it wrong.

  ‘Simone?’ Brady mumbled, his dark brown eyes begging Turner to tell him he was mistaken.

  Turner nodded sadly, unable to repeat her name.

  ‘What happened to her?’ Brady whispered hoarsely, trying with all his might to ignore the panic that had taken hold of him.

  ‘That’s it. We don’t know,’ Turner answered quietly. He dropped his gaze, unable to look Brady in the eye. ‘An anonymous emergency call came through shortly after 3am this morning locating an injured DC locked in the gents’ toilets in the Blue Lagoon …’

  ‘And?’ pushed Brady, already fearing the worst.

  Brady now understood why uniform had been stationed outside Madley’s nightclub and the reason the double glass doors into the premises had been sealed off with blue incident tape.

  Turner shook his head, still unable to look Brady in the eye.

  ‘She was found naked … whoever had left her there had …’ Turner faltered, not wanting to say.

  ‘What? What did they do to her?’ Brady hissed, clenching his fists hard, fearing the worst.

  ‘Someone took a knife to her stomach and sliced her open … and cut out her tongue.’

  ‘God no …’ He felt as if he was going to throw up. ‘Is she? Is she still …’ Brady couldn’t bring himself to ask the obvious question.

  ‘She’s in a critical condition, Jack. As far as I know she’s still in surgery.’

  Brady numbly nodded as he dragged a trembling hand through his hair. He was trying his hardest to keep his head together.

  ‘Why wasn’t I called in for this, Charlie?’ he eventually asked.

  Turner shook his head.

  ‘You know better than me,’ he reluctantly answered.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Brady asked as shock turned to desperation. ‘Surely Gates will need everyone he can get to work on this?’

  ‘I know, I know, bonnie lad,’ sympathetically agreed Turner.

  ‘Why would that stop Gates from letting me work on finding out who … who did this to her?’ Brady asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Even you can understand why Gates doesn’t want you involved. Especially now he’s got Claudia back working for the force again. She may not be a duty solicitor here any more, but she’s doing a fine job with that sex trafficking project of hers in Newcastle. A lot of really good PR’s coming out of that for Northumbria Police and that’s down to her,’ explained Turner gently.

  Brady said nothing.

  Turner shook his head. ‘Come on, Jack. You know Gates was furious with you when she suddenly left for London. And then the next thing, there was Simone requesting an immediate transfer out of here. I’m surprised you didn’t end up in uniform.’

  Brady knew that Gates had a soft spot for Claudia. Who didn’t? When Claudia suddenly quit the North East, Gates had found it difficult to replace her. She was damned good at her job and sorely missed by everyone; including Brady.

  ‘You’ve got too much invested, Jack. Sooner or later it clouds the judgement.’

  ‘Gates? Where is he?’ demanded Brady.

  ‘He’s in the first-floor conference room. It’s set up as an Incident Room. You should still find him there,’ Turner replied. ‘But if I was you I’d stay out of the way for now. Let him deal with the briefing on Simone’s attempted murder and then talk to him afterwards. The last person they’re going to want walking into that room is you.’

  Brady ignored Turner and started to make his way to the first floor.

  ‘Jack?’ Turner called after him. ‘Watch yourself, will you? Gates is out to crucify someone and, given your track record with him lately, you want to make sure it’s not you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ muttered Brady. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  Brady suddenly halted and turned back. ‘Charlie?’

  Turner looked at him.

  ‘Who’s heading the investigation? Into Simone?’

  Brady knew the answer from his silence.

  ‘Adamson?’

  Turner nodded. Brady had expected as much.

  ‘Jack? Don’t do anything stupid,’ warned Turner.

  In all the years he had known Brady, Turner had never seen him react to news this way. Then again, he couldn’t blame him. This was personal to Brady: he had worked closely – too closely some would say – with DC Simone Henderson. And that’s what was troubling Turner.

  Brady forced himself to meet Turner’s concerned gaze.

  ‘Like what?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

  Turner resignedly shook his head. ‘I don’t know, bonnie lad. But that’s what worries me.’

  Chapter Seven

  Brady took a deep breath before entering the first-floor conference room. He had to get himself together. He would be no use to anyone in this state. Especially Simone. He did his best to sneak in. The room was filled with over twenty coppers; a mixture of uniform and CID all crammed in together. The atmosphere was electric. One of their own had been targeted. And this wasn’t some random attack. This was a brutal attempted murder. Brady scanned the room, recognising most of the faces. At least half of them had been called in from other area commands, but Brady knew most from the Sophie Washington murder investigation six months back.

  Brady worked his way to the back of the room. His eyes automatically scanned the whiteboard next to Gates who was addressing the room. He held his breath as he took in the photograph of the blackened crimson clotted mess around Simone’s open mouth, an all too vivid contrast against the clean shiny white incident board.

  Brady’s eyes then uncomfortably moved across to the images of the nightclub’s gents’ blood-stained floor. With gut-wrenching clarity, he registered that the blood was Simone’s.

  Why the Blue Lagoon?

  He didn’t like the answer that kept coming to mind. When she had been stationed at Whitley Bay, she, like the rest of them, would end up having a late night drink in Madley’s club. He remembered that she had seemed too interested in Madley and his whereabouts. When Brady had challenged her, she confided that she had heard that Madley’s nightclub was being used as a front. Brady had laughed it off, telling the over-zealous rookie that every resident in Whitley Bay knew that, never mind the police. He had updated her on Madley’s drug-dealing reputation and that to date he had never been caught. But Simone wasn’t interested in Madley’s drug activities. She had claimed that it was something bigger than that, involving someone more dangerous than Madley. Brady had tried to get more from her, but despite being a rookie she was savvy enough not to hand over everything she knew to a commanding officer who would then take the credit for all her undercover observations.

  Brady continued to stare at the photographs, despite feeling sickened by the images. He couldn’t shake the idea that if he had gone over to he
r last night then she wouldn’t be fighting for her life.

  Gates’ voice suddenly caught his attention.

  ‘I’ve just received an update from the hospital and … it isn’t good. Simone’s out of theatre now, but she’s still not regained consciousness. She’s lost a lot of blood and there was significant internal damage. More than they expected, which has caused some complications. She’s in ICU right now, so all we can do is pray that she pulls through.’

  The room was tense.

  Gates had everyone’s attention; especially Brady’s.

  He was roughly Brady’s height and build, despite being ten years older. Gates’ muscular, toned body was a testament to the hours he put in at the gym. Everything about him was regimented and controlled. Even his aggressively receding dark hair was cropped short, unashamedly exposing his baldness.

  Brady wanted to walk. Anywhere was better than being stood there. But he was unable to move. His gaze obsessively returned to the large whiteboard. He tried to focus on the clumps of frenetic scrawl, recognising it as Gates’ handwriting. Anything was better than looking at the gruesome photos of Simone’s injuries or the crime scene.

  He suddenly felt someone staring at him. He turned and caught Amelia Jenkins’ eye. She was sitting at the front of the room observing everyone. Brady expected no less from her; after all she was the police psychologist.

  As if conscious of his gaze, Amelia adjusted her skirt. She shot him a concerned look and then turned her attention back to Gates.

  Brady forced his attention back to the Detective Chief Inspector, who was still speaking.

  ‘I know that every one of you will give one hundred and ten percent to this case and, given the circumstances, I would expect no less.’

  Gates then turned to Adamson and gravely nodded.

  Brady watched as Gates sat down and Adamson stepped forward. He couldn’t help but notice Adamson’s arrogant expression. This was exactly what he was born to do; exert his power. Brady waited while he made the most of the situation.