Danielle Ramsay - Broken Silence

He had parked in a dark side street which led down to the quay and got out of the car and waited. He had pimped his soul for what little information he had; the news of two warring drug dealers wanting to sort out territory was enough for him. He saw movement ahead as the men he had followed got out of their car and approached another one. He radioed Conrad and told him that it was going down but before he knew what had hit him, a bullet was lodged in his thigh, too close for comfort to his balls. The shock hit first, then the pain. He felt something; a sticky warm feeling seeping from between his clenched arse cheeks. For a God-fearing moment he thought he had shit himself. Then he realised with great relief that it was blood. Thank fuck was his only thought. He didn’t want anyone back at the station thinking his bowels had bailed out under pressure. Shit like that could never be lived down.

By the time he had realised what had happened it was too late. He had heard a car further up the street screeching as it tried to get away. The gun was never found. He presumed it was an unregistered piece loaned from any one of the enterprising, hardened scum that could easily be found if you looked long enough. Unsurprisingly no one witnessed the shooting. He was under no illusions. This was North Shields quayside late at night. The only witnesses that would have been around would have just as readily pulled the trigger on a plain-clothes copper as the shooter himself.

A huge investigation was ordered by his superiors. After all, one of their detectives had been shot and they had to look as if they gave a damn. His superiors put on a good show of solidarity for the media, but privately they let him know he’d crossed the line once too often and this time they held him responsible for blowing the investigation. The gunshot wound to his leg gave them the ammunition for deriding him as too much of a risk-taker; stating it had only been a matter of time before he or another officer under his command ended up injured, if not dead.

The story that he had been sprung by local drug dealers became widely accepted. As expected, nothing turned up and inevitably the case went cold. Whether his cover had been blown, Brady couldn’t say. He’d crossed enough people in his life to make him realise that any one of them could have had him shot.

Brady looked up at Turner’s concerned, ageing face and gave him a half-smile.

‘I’m not dead yet, so don’t look so happy!’

‘You sure you’re ready to be back?’ asked Turner, unconvinced by Brady’s camaraderie.

‘Doctor wouldn’t have passed me if I wasn’t, now would he? You know what a tight-arsed bugger he can be,’ replied Brady.

‘Well, I can’t argue with you there,’ agreed Turner, smiling as he shook his head. ‘Bit of advice, bonny lad,’ offered Turner as he bent his head towards Brady’s. ‘Get some food down you while you’ve got the chance. It might put a bit of colour back into you.’

‘Thanks, Charlie. Come on, Conrad, I don’t know about you but I’m starving,’ Brady said as he edged past Turner towards the wooden doors behind the reception desk.

Turner shook his head as he watched Brady disappear through the doors, followed by Conrad.

‘Watch your back, Jack,’ advised Turner just loud enough for Conrad to turn and catch his gaze for a few brief seconds.

Chapter Seven

‘Sir?’ prompted Conrad. ‘The briefing will be starting soon.’

‘Relax, will you?’ Brady said as he pushed his empty plate away. ‘You’re starting to make me feel bloody edgy.’

Brady could see that Conrad would rather be anywhere else than sat in the station’s basement canteen. The canteen was a depressing place at the best of times without the flickering overhead fluorescent lights adding to it. But Brady delighted in the greasy smell of fried food and cheap, bitter coffee. He felt most relaxed sat smoking at one of the many outdated sixties red, laminated tables, underneath the cracked basement windows. It always amused him that the basement windows were protected by wrought-iron bars. Who the hell would want to break into a cop shop? he wondered as he stared up at the dismal, bleak attempt at daylight outside.

Not that he could smoke by the windows any more. The new law had turned the building, as was the case with all public service buildings, into a non-smoking environment. Instead, Brady and the rest of the addicts were driven to standing in smoke-filled conspiratorial huddles outside the emergency exit door at the back of the station.

‘Not turning soft on me are you?’ questioned Brady as he turned his attention back to Conrad.

‘No, just have no appetite,’ answered Conrad pushing his uneaten fried breakfast away. The truth was he felt as sick as a dog and couldn’t understand how Brady, after seeing the state of the murder victim, could have just eaten a bacon and fried egg stottie.

Brady watched him. He knew that the state the victim had been left in had gotten to Conrad as much as it had to him. But the difference was Brady had eight years on Conrad and a lifetime in the force working his way up from the bottom. And along the way he had dealt with every imaginable crime possible. This young murder victim was just another statistic. But for Conrad, an Oxbridge graduate fast-tracked through the system, brutal murder victims like this one were still a raw and disturbing experience.

‘Jack!’ a deep voice boomed suddenly from behind.

Brady turned round and grinned lamely.

‘How are you doing?’ thundered Tom Harvey as he landed a large calloused hand on Brady’s shoulder.

‘Great,’ replied Brady.

Harvey pulled out a chair and sat down with a deep sigh.

Brady waited. Harvey wasn’t the kind of Detective Sergeant to waste time with small talk. He was a man in his mid-forties who had been in the force for as long as Brady could remember. There was a time when Brady and Harvey had shared the same rank, but then Brady had been promoted. They had spent too many nights discussing a case over a pint or two to let Brady’s promotion affect their friendship. Harvey was happy to admit that he was too steadfast and plodding to go higher than a DS and had added at the time that he couldn’t deal with the politics that came hand-in-hand with promotion. But then again, neither could Brady which was proving to be a problem.

‘I heard you were due back. But Christ! Talk about timing!’ Harvey said as he caught Brady’s eye. He rubbed his large hand over his clean-shaven jaw as he weighed Brady up. He noticed Conrad shoot him a disapproving look at his familiar tone with a senior officer, so for Conrad’s benefit he loudly added, ‘Sir.’

Brady smiled at Harvey’s heavy-handedness at pretending he was something other than just plain old Jack Brady.

‘What the hell happened to you while I was away?’ Brady asked as he gestured towards Harvey’s dark charcoal suit and dark maroon matching shirt and tie.

‘Just lost a bit of weight, that’s all,’ answered Harvey. ‘It’s worked wonders for my personal life,’ he added with a wink.

Brady couldn’t help but smile. There was a time when Harvey wouldn’t be seen in anything other than khaki chinos, an unbuttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tan brogues, but since Gates had taken over as DCI things had changed.

‘Dora!’ Harvey thundered warmly at the short barrelled woman wiping down the table next to them. ‘Be a pet and get me my usual!’

‘How many times do I have to tell you? Place your order up at the till. I can’t be running around all day after the likes of you,’ she answered in an irate, thick Geordie accent. Her large breasts heaved as she breathed out in exasperation.

Harvey’s eyes sparkled as he playfully winked at her.