Danielle Ramsay - Broken Silence

‘If you’ve got a problem working with her, then just say. I can take you off this investigation and hand it over to someone else, Jack. I know for a fact that DS Adamson would be perfectly happy being partnered with Jenkins.’

‘No sir, I have no problem working with Dr Jenkins. I’m sure she’ll prove to be invaluable,’ replied Brady, resisting the urge to tell Gates exactly what he thought.

‘Good, pleased we’ve cleared that up. Jenkins should be arriving here in the next half hour. I’d appreciate you being around to brief her.’

‘Actually sir, there’s a couple of leads I need to check out as soon as possible,’ Brady replied uneasily. ‘I’ll make sure DS Harvey is around for when she arrives.’

‘If you can’t do it personally then I’d rather Adamson filled in Jenkins,’ replied Gates. ‘No disrespect to Harvey but I believe Adamson would be a better choice.’

Brady didn’t answer. He knew Gates was playing the old graduate card; as if that made Adamson a better copper. Harvey had worked his way through the force just like Brady, from the bottom up. No formal education, no favours, just long hours and hard graft.

‘Obviously, this is your call,’ Gates said as he waited for Brady’s agreement.

Brady shifted slightly. Gates had him over a barrel. It wasn’t his call, Gates had left him in no doubt.

‘I’ll instruct Adamson to brief Jenkins when she arrives,’ conceded Brady, standing up.

‘Before you go, Jack, I wondered if I could have a word with you? Off the record?’ Gates asked, gesturing for Brady to sit back down.

Brady’s mouth felt dry. He had no idea what was coming. Only that it had to be bad for Gates to be delivering it.

‘It’s about Claudia,’ Gates began.

Brady waited, barely breathing.

‘I’m sure you already know that O’Donnell’s sanctioned Claudia’s proposal?’

Brady numbly shook his head. He hadn’t even realised the post had been given the go-ahead.

‘O’Donnell somehow managed to get support from the Home Office for Claudia’s proposition which opened up the extra funding needed to make it viable.’

Brady felt as if Gates had punched him. He couldn’t believe Claudia hadn’t told him. It had taken her eighteen months, from suggesting the need for a groundbreaking new legal advisory position that would work to coordinate the activities of Northumbria Police and the UK Human Trafficking Centre in Sheffield, to getting it off the ground. Claudia had ideas of her own which ultimately included setting up a Human Trafficking Centre in Newcastle equal to Sheffield’s.

This was close to her heart. At times, Brady thought too close. As a lawyer, Claudia had worked endless, unpaid hours representing women and children who were effectively human slaves illegally trafficked from Eastern Europe or Africa into the North East of England. She was interested in the legal quandary these women and children found themselves in once extricated from sex slavery; illegal immigrants fearful they would be forced back into slavery on their return home; that or murdered. She had championed a few cases so far, succeeding in securing the victims the right to seek asylum in Britain. But she had also lost more than she had won, powerless to prevent these women and children ending back up where they had begun their lives as sex slaves.

Brady gripped the sides of his chair. He couldn’t believe that she couldn’t bring herself to tell him. He tried to get a handle on the situation. The last thing he wanted to do was lose it in front of Gates. But the thought that he really had lost her for good was killing him.

‘The only reason I’m telling you, Jack, is because Claudia is refusing to take it.’

Brady stared at Gates numbly. He knew this job had meant everything to Claudia. ‘Why? Why isn’t she taking it?’

He couldn’t believe that she was walking away from everything she had fought so hard to achieve. ‘I was hoping you could tell me.’ Brady numbly shook his head.

He knew the answer, and Gates knew that. There was nothing he could do any more, so he stood up and left.

Chapter Twelve

‘Charlie, can you do me a favour?’ Brady asked the desk sergeant.

‘Aye, bonny lad, as long as there’s a pint in it,’ Turner grinned amiably.

‘For you, Charlie, I’ll even stretch to two,’ Brady answered, smiling.

Brady’s smile disappeared as he glanced around. He’d never seen the station so busy; extra uniforms and CID had been called in from across the region to cope with the murder investigation. Nothing much happened in this seedy, rundown seaside resort, at least not until now. Murders typically didn’t affect the middle classes of Whitley Bay who lived far enough away from the town centre not to be affected by the pubs and clubs that had brought the seaside resort to an all-time low. They led self-satisfied, suburban lives in their exorbitantly-priced properties, completely unaware of the diseased scum that ran the streets at night. He knew of a few notorious gangsters, the local mafia, Madley being one of them, who had no qualms about disposing of a rival in the Tyne. But murders of that sort barely caused a ripple in most decent people’s lives. Whitley Bay was typically known for drunken louts acting lewd and fighting amongst themselves and a few burglars who needed easy cash for drugs. But a brutal murder in tree-lined suburbia was a completely different story.

‘So, what’s this favour then?’ Turner asked as he raised his thick, wiry eyebrows at Brady.

‘I’ve got a hunch about something,’ Brady confided. ‘But I want it kept quiet.’

Brady trusted Turner. He belonged to the old school of policing, unlike the new breed who didn’t have a clue about ‘hunches’ or ‘gut feelings'. Instead the new coppers were taught to feed murder details into Holmes 2 and sit back and wait for it to spit out the answer. There was no doubt that the computer system saved invaluable time. It could sift through masses of information in seconds; information that would have once taken twelve detectives at least a week to get through. Brady had lost count of the number of times he had favoured one lead over another because of an inexplicable hunch. But he knew that this time he wasn’t telling the truth. This wasn’t a hunch, but rather Jimmy Matthews’ troubling disclosure that the victim was only fifteen years old.

Turner had been a desk sergeant at Whitley Bay station long before Brady had joined and knew more than most of the other coppers put together. But as was the case with many of the coppers from the old days, he was rarely given any credit for it. A new breed were coming through the ranks who didn’t drink, didn’t compromise themselves for anyone and certainly didn’t give a damn about the job; it was all about politics and getting to the top without dirtying their hands. The likes of Brady and Turner who still played by the old school ethics were slowly being phased out, replaced by a generation who had no respect for them, and worse, saw them as a walking liability.

‘Go on then, bonny lad, what can I do for you?’ Turner questioned.

‘I need a printout of females between the ages of fifteen and eighteen reported missing in the North East over the last few weeks.’

‘Give me a couple of minutes.’ Turner turned his back on Brady and logged in to the computer. Minutes later he handed over three sheets of printed paper.

‘Thanks,’ said Brady, taking the printout. ‘I owe you a pint.’

‘I’ve lost count of how many bloody pints you owe me, bonny lad,’ Turner said, shaking his head.

Brady waited until he reached his office before looking at the information. He sat down at his desk and quickly scanned over the list of names, ages and addresses.