Danielle Ramsay - Vanishing Point

‘Where did they think she’s been since Thursday? I mean, this is Saturday for Christ’s sake.’

‘Parents believed that she’d been staying at a friend’s house. It seems her younger sister’s been covering for her. The missing girl’s called Melissa Ryecroft and unbeknown to her parents she was allegedly approached by a model agency scout on her Facebook wall last Sunday. Said he could get her in front of a top model agency in London if she was prepared to move fast. Said he’d arrange a meeting with them which was supposed to have been scheduled for 10am Friday. He also said he’d meet her in London on the Thursday. All of this was arranged without her parents’ knowledge. They had no idea about this model agency or scout. As I said, they believed she was staying over at a girlfriend’s house. They had no idea what she was getting involved in.’

Brady looked sceptically at Conrad.

‘And they haven’t heard from her since she left for London on Thursday?’

Conrad nodded. ‘The model agency scout doesn’t exist either. But the model agency he said he’s booked in with does exist. However, when Harvey contacted them they hadn’t heard of Melissa and had no meeting booked with either her or some model scout. Seems it was a scam, sir. Models 1 agency said they don’t work with external model scouts. They did say this isn’t unusual and that there’s a lot of people out there scamming money from wannabe models.’

Brady had a bad feeling that this wasn’t about scamming Melissa Ryecroft out of her own money. It was about making money out of her body; and not as a model.

‘Any distinguishing features, or marks on her body?’ Brady asked.

‘Same height and body type. And she’s also had a breast augmentation job.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Sixteen and currently studying at Tynemouth King’s School in their lower sixth form.’

‘Sixteen with fake breasts? How the hell did she pay for those and get legal consent?’

He couldn’t believe the way society was evolving. Reality TV like The X Factor commanded more votes than any government election ever could. People were more than happy to be anaesthetised by TV programmes about reality TV stars rather than face the bigger issues in the real world.

‘King’s is a private school, sir. Means her parents have money. They gave their consent and paid for the breast augmentation as a sixteenth birthday present. Took her abroad on holiday to Budapest allegedly.’

‘What the fuck is the world coming to, Conrad, when parents teach their daughters that all their self-worth is tied up in looking like a bloody porn star?’

‘Parents said she wanted to be a model, sir. Like Jordan, or should I say Katie Price,’ answered Conrad uncomfortably.

‘What happened to kids growing up wanting to be a doctor or a lawyer? Tell me, Conrad, when did being a topless model or a lap dancer become a girl’s ultimate goal in life?’

Conrad didn’t reply.

He knew there was nothing he could say that would snap his boss out of his diatribe about Western society’s ills. He was also well aware that the young, headless woman lying cut open in the morgue had deeply affected Brady. As had Simone Henderson’s attack.

Brady sighed as he stood up, trying not to wince as a searing pain in his ribs kicked off.

‘I need a copy of the parents’ statement on my desk by the time I get back,’ he ordered, clutching his car keys.

‘Don’t you just want me to drive you?’ asked Conrad. ‘You don’t look so good, sir.’

‘I’m fine, Conrad. Just some bruising, that’s all.’

Conrad clearly didn’t believe him.

‘Look, it’s better if you’re not involved,’ replied Brady uneasily.

He wasn’t good at lying; especially where Conrad was concerned.

‘Sir?’

Brady couldn’t look him in the eye. Instead he turned and walked to the door. He opened it and waited for Conrad.

His deputy didn’t move. Brady realised he was clearly waiting for an explanation.

‘Trust me on this, will you? Anyway, I need you to trace this serial number taken from the victim’s silicone implants,’ Brady said, offering the piece of paper that Harold, Wolfe’s assistant, had given him.

‘Why?’

‘It could identify our victim. And I want that information before I talk to the missing girl’s parents. Saves us all a lot of time.’

Conrad reluctantly walked over to him and took the paper.

‘Sir, look … we’ve got the briefing in less than an hour.’

Brady agitatedly rubbed his hand over the coarse stubble on his chin. He felt cornered. But he knew he had no choice. He had to go.

‘This won’t take long. I’ll be back to handle the briefing. Just tell the team the meeting’s been pushed back until 3pm. It gives you time to set up the Incident Room and run a check on that serial number for me. I need to know for certain if the victim is or isn’t the Ryecrofts’ missing daughter before the briefing, Conrad.’

‘Sir?’ objected Conrad. ‘What happens if I need to contact you?’

‘To you, and you alone, I have my mobile. If anyone asks, tell them I’m at lunch,’ ordered Brady as he left the office.

Conrad watched him leave. He had a bad feeling that Brady was independently working on a connection with Simone Henderson’s investigation.

Conrad looked at the paper he had inadvertently crumpled up in his fist. He had work to do and decided that, knowing Brady, he was right: it was better that he didn’t know. All he could do was exactly what Brady had asked – cover for him until he got back.

Chapter Sixteen

Brady parked up and got out of his black 1978 Ford Granada 2.8i Ghia. He looked across at St Mary’s Lighthouse. It looked serene, ghostly even; crumbling white against a backdrop of muted grey and black clouds rolling in from the horizon. The lighthouse had once been a beacon of light shining across the cold, battering North Sea, stretching out as far as the naked eye could see, until it reached a vanishing point.

When he was a kid, he and Martin Madley would skip school, jump on the Metro to Whitley Bay and then walk the length of the beach and over the rocks to get to St Mary’s Lighthouse. With his brother Nick in tow they would spend tireless days wading in the rock pools, exploring St Mary’s Island.

St Mary’s was now a major tourist attraction for the small seaside resort. It was a leisurely stroll down from Feathers caravan site; still a popular destination with the Scots for their annual fortnight holiday, just as it had been since the fifties. The two council-owned car parks at St Mary’s were positioned to take in the breathtaking curve of beach and cliffs that was Whitley Bay. Brady looked at the beach stretched out ahead. This place was in his blood. No matter how much he fought it, he knew he was tied to it. That regardless, he’d never be able to leave.

He watched as early afternoon dog walkers and joggers dominated the white, unblemished sands while birds scavenged the promenades fighting over the previous night’s curried chips, charitably dumped by passing drunks stumbling home.

Brady locked his car and walked over to the grassy bank, breathing in the salty, fresh air. He headed along the path towards the second car park opposite the lighthouse, looking for Madley. He wasn’t there. But Paulie Knickerbocker’s ice-cream van was there waiting for the weekend trade. Brady slowly walked over, aware that his leg was starting to play up again.

He grimly nodded at the thirty-something, smart-looking, dark-haired, second generation Italian hanging out of the hatch watching him with interest.

Paulie nodded at Brady taking in the damage to his face. But he knew not to ask.