Danielle Ramsay - Broken Silence

‘I’ll make damned sure Chief Superintendent O’Donnell and the press hear about this!’ he threatened.

He turned accusingly to Conrad.

‘You got me in here on the grounds that this was just an informal chat. Do you even know what time it is? It’s nearly 11 pm for God’s sake!’

‘I’m afraid that the situation has changed somewhat, sir,’ Conrad replied.

‘I’ve already been here an hour. How long are you planning on holding me?’

‘Given the gravity of the investigation, we have the right to detain you for up to twenty-four hours without legal representation,’ Conrad answered.

‘I came here in good faith. If I had known that I was going to be treated as a suspect then I would have brought a lawyer,’ Simmons objected.

Simmons then turned to Brady.

‘And you,’ he said as he narrowed his eyes. ‘Whatever you’ve got better be bloody good or you’ll find yourself out of a job.’

Brady opened the file beside him and pulled out sheets containing printed downloads of the victim’s blog.

‘Doesn’t quite match what you told me this morning. Does it, sir?’

Simmons froze.

He looked at the words and the photographs as he shook his head in dismay.

‘Not only did she drink, she took drugs and had casual sex repeatedly. But then, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, sir?’

‘You bastard,’ Simmons muttered thickly.

‘So what happened then, sir? It’s late, the door bell goes; it’s her. She’s drunk and she’s lost her keys. You start raging and she gets scared?’

‘You’re one fucking sick bastard.’

Brady leaned towards him.

‘What happened next?’ he asked slowly and clearly. ‘What did you do to her to make her run from you?’

Brady paused as he stared at Simmons’ contorted face.

‘And then you found her, didn’t you? Hiding in the farmhouse ruins behind your house? And then … well, we know the rest.’

‘Goddamn you, you sick son of a bitch!’

‘Did she threaten to tell? Was that it?’

Simmons shook his head.

‘No … no … I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Or had you found out that she was having sex with her new boyfriend?’ Brady questioned. ‘I imagine that must have made you furious? Enough to—’

‘I didn’t do it!’

‘No?’ Brady asked, unconvinced. ‘We’ve found the stone that was used in the attack, sir. It’s only a matter of time until the lab finds your fingerprints and DNA.’

Brady scrutinised him.

‘Maybe you will be needing that lawyer after all?’

‘I’m telling you I didn’t murder her!’

‘You were fucking her though, weren’t you?’ Brady asked quietly.

Simmons’ lip trembled.

‘I have a witness, sir, whose statement supports the autopsy findings.’

Simmons’ face drained as his jaw hung slack.

Brady nodded.

‘Extreme trauma and scarring was found in and around the victim’s vagina and perineum. The autopsy states that the trauma is suggestive of sexual abuse presumed to have started as far back as when the victim was eleven.’

Simmons didn’t move.

‘How old was Sophie when you and her mother got together?’

Simmons remained deathly silent, his face pale.

‘Let me remind you, shall I?’ questioned Brady. ‘She was eleven, sir.’

Simmons shook his head.

‘No … no … this is a mistake. I want to see my solicitor.’

‘Interview terminated at 11.07 pm,’ Brady instructed.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

It was giro day in The Fat Ox. Every second Friday of the month and the pub would be heaving from lunchtime straight through to chucking-out time.

‘What’ll it be, Jack?’ a small blonde woman in her late forties yelled over to him.

‘Pint of the usual.’

After the interview with Simmons he needed a drink. He’d left Simmons in one of the holding cells waiting for his solicitor to turn up. Given the fact it was eleven-thirty on a Friday night, Brady reckoned Simmons could find himself sweating for quite a few hours.

He looked around for Conrad but couldn’t see him. They had come to see The Clashed. Not that Brady had particularly wanted to, but he knew they had to check out exactly why the victim had the band’s flyer for the gig that night.

‘Make that two pints and a double Scotch,’ a deep voice grunted from behind.

‘You sleazy bugger! How do you always manage to turn up when I’m at the bar?’ Brady asked, smiling as he turned round. ‘It better be worth it.’

‘Isn’t it always?’ Rubenfeld said as he wiped his sweaty forehead with his fat, sausage fingers.

‘Ahh! You don’t know how much I need this. It’s been a bloody hell of a day!’ Rubenfeld grunted as he knocked back the short.

‘Tell me about it,’ Brady agreed as he took a much-needed drink of his own cold, dripping pint before settling the bill.

‘One for yourself,’ he added as he handed a twenty over. Nowadays a tenner wouldn’t even cover it.

Rubenfeld rubbed his two days’ worth of scraggy stubble as he scowled at Brady.

‘That bitch Harriet Jacobs is after your blood. What have you done to piss her off, Jack? You haven’t tried to shag her, have you? Bloody hell, Jack, when will you learn to keep it in your pants?’ Rubenfeld goaded with a sleazy smile.

‘I don’t know her,’ Brady answered uncomfortably, accepting that his brief affair with DC Simone Henderson would follow him for the rest of his career. That and his infamous days before Claudia as a bit of a player.

Ordinarily Rubenfeld’s comment wouldn’t have bothered him, but this time it had hit a nerve. He still felt disgusted with himself over Sleeping Beauty.

Rubenfeld ran his fat fingers through his short, receding black hair.

‘Well, someone wants you and Jimmy off the force, Jack. If I was you, I’d bloody find out who before it’s too late. I did hear something that might interest you,’ Rubenfeld throatily offered.

‘Yeah?’

‘Word is Madley wants Matthews as good as dead. That’s why he’s disappeared. Matthews may be one hard nut but this time he’s gone too far.’

Brady didn’t react.

Rubenfeld shook his head, aware that Brady knew more than he was letting on.

‘Be careful, Jack. You don’t know who you’re dealing with here.’

Brady didn’t answer.

‘Got to go, people to see and all that crap!’ Rubenfeld swiftly concluded as he drained his pint.

Brady watched as Rubenfeld pushed his way through the crowded pub towards the doors. The Clashed suddenly kicked off, filling the place with angry lyrics. His face darkened as he listened to the singer’s anarchistic words. Why, he questioned, would a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl be interested in a seventies punk tribute band?

‘I fought the law and the law won, I fought the law and the law won,’ screamed the lead singer.

He was no Joe Strummer, but he had energy concluded Brady as he twisted his neck to get a look. But all he could make out was the drummer and bass guitarist through the throbbing crowd.

‘Jack!’ a high-pitched voice trilled out, followed by a burst of excited giggles.

Brady’s stomach turned. That voice was bad news.

‘Jack?’

He turned to see Sleeping Beauty stood before him, self-conscious and girlish. He felt sick as he tried to remember what they had gotten up to in the early hours of that morning.

‘Why didn’t you ring me?’ she asked, a hint of vulnerability in her voice.

Brady cursed himself. In the cold light of sobriety she was definitely only about twenty, if that.

‘Look, something’s come up and …’ Brady began. He broke off when he saw the disbelief spread across her face.