Danielle Ramsay - Vanishing Point

The only thing he was certain about was the fact that he needed to find Nick before someone else did.

He took out his phone.

Trina McGuire was Nick’s girlfriend of old. And apart from Brady and Madley, she was the only other connection Nick had with the North East.

He scrolled down his list of numbers. He knew he had her in there somewhere. He’d had to call her enough times in connection with her wayward son, Shane McGuire. Trina was a lap dancer at the Hole in Wallsend. A place that only the hardened locals would dare visit.

Brady found her number. He pressed call and waited.

‘Yeah?’ croaked a sleepy voice.

‘Trina? It’s Jack,’ answered Brady.

‘Oh fuck! What’s he been up to now, eh? I swear I’ll drown him in the Tyne if he’s been stealing booze again!’

Brady cleared his throat.

‘No, Trina, this has got nothing to do with Shane.’

‘Then why the hell are you calling me at 2:47pm on a Saturday afternoon when I just crawled into bed a few hours ago?’

Brady realised that she must have had a busy night at work. Despite the recession, the sex trade was still going strong.

‘It’s Nick,’ Brady answered. ‘He’s back in the North East.’

‘So? What that’s got to do with me, DI Brady?’

‘I need to get in touch with him.’

‘Hadaway and shite, will you? Do what most people do, give him a call!’

‘He’s gone to ground. And I was hoping he might have got in touch with you.’

Trina was silent.

Brady knew her silence meant that she knew something. She was a woman of many words; too many at times.

‘No …’

‘Come on, Trina.’

Silence again.

‘What is it? What do you know?’

‘Nothing. Alright? I know nothing!’

‘Don’t make me put out a call to get Shane lifted. Maybe he’ll be a bit more forthcoming. Last time I heard he was dealing in coke.’

‘You bastard! I could never figure out how you could be Nick’s brother. At least he’s got principles!’

Brady didn’t answer her. Once he would have agreed that you couldn’t meet a man with more honour and principles than his brother.

‘Look, Trina … please. I’m desperate …’

‘Listen to me, Jack Brady, you stay well away from me and my Shane. Understand?

With that Trina McGuire hung up.

He tried to call her again. The phone rang and then it cut off. He tried a third and fourth time to no avail. She was making it very clear that she had no intention of talking to him.

Brady wearily sighed.

He looked up and down the street. He had every right to be paranoid. Someone was playing with him. Once he was satisfied that no one had followed him, or was watching him, he walked across the road to the station. His biggest fear was that someone had a hold over Nick. That he was being coerced into doing whatever it was he was involved in. Trina was right. Nick had principles. More principles than he himself did.

So he knew that Nick couldn’t have harmed Simone. But then, questioned Brady, troubled, why was it that he’d been caught on Madley’s nightclub surveillance camera carrying her body, wrapped up in black plastic, into the gents’ toilets five minutes before an anonymous call was made to the emergency services?

And despite the attempt at disguising the voice, Brady had recognised it. He had denied it, of course. Argued with himself that it could be anyone with a North East accent. Brady assumed Madley, like himself, had recognised Nick’s voice when Adamson had played him the 999 call. But Madley, being Madley, obviously hadn’t reacted.

That didn’t mean he was protecting Nick. No, Madley was protecting Brady. At least for the time being. Madley wanted Brady to find out exactly what Nick was involved in and why. So Madley could sort it his way without police involvement.

Brady knew that Carl, the one-eyed Mancunian barman who had found Simone Henderson’s body in the gents’, had sent for Madley. Immediately. Carl always looked out for Madley. His loyalty was sealed when Madley had got even on his behalf with the bastard who had punched him in the face with a car key. All because he thought Carl had short-changed him at the bar. Madley had taken the bloke into the cellar and had both his arms broken at the elbow by Gibbs. Effectively making sure he couldn’t even wipe his own arse, let alone take someone’s eye out again.

Carl owed Madley and would do anything he asked. Including discreetly removing the copper from the nightclub and making her someone else’s headache. The last thing Madley wanted was a copper turning up gutted and mutilated in his nightclub. It wasn’t good for business and it wasn’t good for his reputation. Madley didn’t want his competitors, always hungry for the next big job, to know that he’d been set up.

But Nick hadn’t given Carl, or Madley, time to sort it.

The emergency call had come in before Carl had a chance to get Madley. Before he knew it the police had covered the place.

Brady sighed heavily as he walked up the stairs to the station doors. Unsurprisingly, his head was pounding from repeatedly going over everything and getting nowhere.

Before he realised it, he had walked straight into DI Robert Adamson coming out through the wooden doors of the station.

‘You’re the last person I would expect to see here after the stunt you pulled at the hospital!’ Adamson thickly greeted.

Brady shot him a dark look before pushing past.

‘I take it you haven’t seen DCI Gates yet?’

‘What particular aspect of the star sign “prat” were you born under?’ Brady muttered.

‘What did you say?’ demanded Adamson.

Brady turned back and stared at him.

‘I’m going to make sure that you get kicked off the force,’ snarled Adamson. ‘Just wait until the DCI gets a good look at your face. Go on, tell me how you’re going to hold a press call for that washed-up murder of yours? Eh? Not exactly going to instil public confidence in the police if you go about looking like some thug from the Ridges. Oh, I forgot – that’s exactly what you are!’

‘Fuck off!’ replied Brady, turning away.

‘Say that to my face, you wanker!’ shouted Adamson.

Brady clenched his fists and forced himself to walk through the double doors. Otherwise he would end up doing something he would later regret.

Chapter Twenty-One

Brady walked past reception and the desk sergeant and through the door that led into the station.

Still pissed off by his run-in with Adamson, he didn’t see Amelia coming round the corner.

‘I’m sorry,’ he quickly apologised. ‘I didn’t mean to …’

‘What? Walk straight into me?’ replied Amelia irritably. ‘Second time today.’

She bent down and picked up the folder of notes she was carrying.

‘Here, let me help,’ offered Brady, bending down. He winced slightly as his bruised ribs objected.

Amelia heard him moan and looked up from the scattered notes she was hurriedly gathering up off the floor to see Brady uncomfortably crouching down, clutching his right side.

‘Christ, Jack!’ Amelia said. ‘You need to get seen by a doctor.’

‘I’m fine,’ lied Brady. ‘Honest.’

She gave him a hard, unimpressed look before she resumed picking up the sheets of paper.

‘Tell me why I should jeopardise my job so you can run around like some Dirty Harry crusader? What, are you above the law now?’ she asked, refusing to look up.

Brady frowned, unsure why she was so angry.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Think about it!’

Brady suddenly realised that she was talking about the hospital security tapes that he had asked her to get for him. So much had happened he had forgotten what he’d asked her to do – ultimately compromise her job and the investigation she was working on for him.