Danielle Ramsay - Vanishing Point

‘What is it with you coppers? Always on my back, eh? What? Am I illegally trading now?’ laughed Paulie Knickerbocker. ‘Believe me, officer, the only white stuff I’m selling to kids is ice-cream!’

Brady didn’t laugh. That was enough for Paulie to know something was wrong.

‘Have you seen Martin?’ Brady asked, getting straight to the point.

Paulie frowned. His large, deep black Italian eyes were questioning.

‘Why?’

Brady had known Paulie since St Joseph’s Primary School. As had Madley.

When word had got out amongst the kids that his parents were Italian and ran the ice-cream vans parked up in all weathers outside St Mary’s Lighthouse, Tynemouth Sands and Tynemouth Priory, the nickname ‘Knickerbocker’ came about. And for some reason it had stuck, regardless of the years and Paulie’s two Italian restaurants which were known by his family name, Antonelli.

These restaurants were hugely successful, both located along North Shields quayside. The original was known as ‘Antonelli’s’ and the second one as ‘Antonelli’s 2’. Brady had heard that there was going to be another Antonelli’s opening up in Whitley Bay. The food was good quality Italian, accompanied by simple wine or Peroni. The key to Paulie’s success was not being greedy: he never over-charged his customers, making sure that a good night out could still be a cheap night out. It meant his customers came back again and again, to the extent that it was so busy that they couldn’t guarantee you a table.

Brady knew why Paulie still covered the odd weekend shift in the ice-cream van – he owned a family business, which was over-run with squabbling Italian relatives and inevitably high tempers. That, and the fact that he was also a talented amateur photographer. Something he kept quiet. But he would use a still, brooding afternoon like this one to build on his black and white landscape portfolio, the best of which could be seen on the walls of his restaurants.

And running two restaurants and the family ice-cream business wasn’t all Paulie was known for: he was also the local fence. The vans and the restaurants acted as the ideal cover for such an operation. Paulie had contacts that Brady could only dream of and was always Brady’s first unofficial line of enquiry when a violent burglary had taken place.

Paulie had a strong sense of moral duty which generously extended beyond family and friends. He was happy to fence stolen goods as long as no unnecessary violence was exacted during the robbery. Brady had often laughed about the irony of being a fence with a conscience, but Paulie didn’t see the incongruity of it. His attitude was that you should always act civilised, regardless of what you did for a living. Brady put Paulie’s morality down to being raised a devout Roman Catholic, combined with growing up in the Ridges, where the brutal reality of surviving the streets meant that, at times, Catholic morals had to be temporarily put on hold.

‘This is nothing to do with work, Paulie,’ Brady explained, aware that there was an edge to Paulie’s voice. ‘It’s personal.’

He realised that Paulie had obviously heard about the copper who had been mutilated. Who hadn’t? He had listened to Metro Radio in the car on the way from the station and it had been the only topic of conversation. He had even turned over to BBC Radio Newcastle’s Jonathan Miles morning show only to be confronted by the same discussions. The attack had also reached the national news – given its gruesome nature, Brady wasn’t surprised.

But as for the body washed up on the beach, for some reason it wasn’t quite hitting the headlines Brady had expected. It had been overshadowed by the human interest story of a beautiful young copper at the start of an exceptional career in the Met who had been brutally knifed and unceremoniously dumped, left with her tongue cut out to slowly bleed to death. If it hadn’t been for the anonymous emergency call and the bartender that found her, then they could have been dealing with a murder enquiry.

Brady knew that her photo would already have been uploaded onto Sky and BBC 24-hour news. Simone was young, attractive and talented, and the tragedy of what had happened to her, and the speculation as to why, would sell the news over and over again.

The difference between Simone Henderson and the story of the headless body was that she was still fighting for her life and they could get a background story; unlike the unidentified girl lying butchered in the morgue.

Paulie handed Brady a polystyrene cup of black coffee. ‘You look like you need this.’

‘Thanks,’ accepted Brady. He reached in his pocket for change.

Paulie shook his head. ‘Do me a favour, will you?’

‘What?’ asked Brady as he took a mouthful of strong Italian coffee.

‘Watch yourself, Jack. There’s shit happening here that you haven’t got a clue about. New people are turning up, trying to take over. Things are changing … Fucking bastards coming in from London, Europe, all thinking they can throw their weight around …’ Paulie faltered.

Brady turned and followed his gaze as a car sidled round into the car park.

‘Look out for him, will you?’ Paulie asked as he stared at the new black Bentley saloon. Its registration plate read ‘MAD 1’.

Brady turned and shot Paulie a quizzical look. If there was one person who didn’t need protecting, it was Martin Madley.

‘Word is some bastard is trying to take him down,’ Paulie explained.

Brady looked at Madley’s new Bentley. Gibbs, his driver who doubled as his henchman, depending on what mood Madley was in, was behind the steering wheel. Once a professional boxer, the 6´4?, forty-five-year-old African Caribbean was still an imposing sight, with the physique of a brick shithouse. His thick, knotted, black dreads, interwoven with strands of silver, now hung down to his shoulders. He looked at Brady and flashed him a menacing smile, making the most of the new diamond set in his left front tooth.

Gibbs didn’t trust Brady and he made no apology in letting him know it. Not that Brady could blame him; he was a copper after all. Behind Gibbs’ black Oakleys, Brady knew his eyes would be cold and predatory.

Beside Gibbs sat a weaselly, sharp-nosed, beady-eyed character. He stared at Brady, refusing to back down. From past experience, Brady knew always to be wary of the thin, sinewy, on-the-edge, wiry types. They were the ones who would have a knife in your neck before you knew it. His small, darting, bloodshot eyes told Brady there was trouble. Brady didn’t need to look at him to know that. The fact that Madley had hired him was evidence enough.

‘Fuck,’ muttered Brady under his breath, unsure of what he was getting into here.

He waited as Gibbs got out of the car and walked to the back passenger door to open it.

A few seconds later, Madley stepped out. He looked composed and dignified in his black Armani sunglasses and black Armani suit. His brown hair was neat as always, but his tanned sharp features and menacing eyes spoke of a cut-throat malevolence. Madley was Brady’s age, a few inches shorter at 5´10?, with a smaller frame. However, Brady had witnessed Madley fight and knew that he could take down even his own man, Gibbs.

Madley liked to look good. His tastes were expensive, compensating for a childhood of desperate poverty. He wore no jewellery apart from an expensive watch, which cost more than Brady’s annual salary. After sharing a childhood in the war-torn streets of the Ridges, they had both chosen a life of crime: Brady fighting it, Madley living it – and clearly profiting from it.

Brady watched with interest as Madley’s new henchman got out of the Bentley. He strutted behind Madley, making a point of adjusting his cheap black version of Madley’s suit for Brady’s benefit. Underneath the Burton suit jacket Brady caught a glimpse of exactly what it was Weasel Face wanted Brady to see. A bulging shoulder holster with a Glock 31 semi-automatic pistol resting underneath the jacket. Brady was under no illusion: the manoeuvre was intentional. And the Glock 31 would be loaded.