Danielle Ramsay - Vanishing Point

The question was, who was he working for and why?

Brady knew two things: Nick would never cross someone close to him. That included Madley. Like Brady, Nick had never forgotten his allegiance to Madley. Growing up in the war-torn Ridges did that to you. Madley was his friend, as much as he was Brady’s. Admittedly, Nick’s contact with Madley was infrequent given the fact he had left the North East, but he still made a point of seeing him whenever he returned. And, just as Trina McGuire had said, Nick had morals. He was a man of principle. A man who Brady was certain would never touch something as heinous as sex trafficking.

Brady breathed deeply, trying his damnedest to keep himself together as he moved onto the next set of images.

They were freeze-framed close-ups of the two men who had gone to Rake Lane’s reception desk asking about Simone Henderson.

They were good-looking men, albeit dark and dangerous. From what Brady could make out, they looked like brothers, in their late twenties to early thirties. They both shared the same dark eyes and straight nose, and their chiselled cheekbones were identical. Both had coarse black stubble that blended in with the brutally short number one haircuts they sported. There was definitely no doubt in Brady’s mind that they were the men he had seen on the CCTV footage wearing the rings.

Brady jumped onto the next photograph.

He sighed heavily.

He was right. Jed had digitally enhanced the partial CCTV image of the licence plate. There was no mistaking the car’s country of origin was Lithuania.

He moved onto the next image.

An enlarged photograph of the platinum signet ring with the letter ‘N’ as an emblem.

It was similar to the ‘N’ branded on Simone.

And identical to the ‘N’ signed on the note he had received earlier.

The note left with the head in his car.

Signed was the wrong word, mused Brady: it had been embossed onto the paper.

In blood.

Brady jumped from photograph still to photograph still. One thing he was aware of was their ethnicity. Their dark looks and olive skin suggested an Eastern European background. Not only that, thought Brady, they both looked ex-military. The expensive black pinstriped Yves Saint Laurent suits couldn’t disguise the fact that there was a menacing air about them. No amount of money could disguise that.

‘Who the hell are you involved with?’ Brady said aloud. ‘And why are you involving me?’

He moved onto the photograph of the black Mercedes driver.

There was no doubting it.

The same man in Madley’s nightclub was also the driver of the black Merc.

‘Nick?’ questioned Brady as he looked at the blurred, grainy image of his brother’s taut, expressionless face.

But there was a determination about him. A coldness that Brady didn’t recognise.

No one on the force knew Brady had a brother. It was something he had kept quiet. He hadn’t even discussed Nick with Claudia. She knew he existed. But that was as far as it went. She had never met him. Nor had she ever seen a photograph of him.

As far as Claudia was concerned, Brady had lost touch with his brother when they had been placed in separate foster homes as young children.

Brady had made a point of never talking about his past. Claudia had accepted this without any questions. She knew that his mother had died a brutal death. And that his father had served time in Durham Gaol for the murder.

Reading the court records had been enough for Claudia. She knew not to ask any more. Nick’s name had come up, but Claudia had resisted questioning Brady.

There were no photographs of Nick. None had been taken of him or Brady as children. And if they had, they had been permanently lost when they had been shunted from one foster home to another. And as an adult, Nick had refused to have his photograph taken. As far as Brady could tell, Nick lived off the grid. Nothing tied him to the state. No bank accounts, no mortgage, no council tax, no electoral vote.

Nothing.

If Nick had a passport and driving licence, Brady was certain they would be fake; he knew that the right kind of money could buy you anything. Including a new identity.

Brady stared at the close-up of Nick. No one would recognise him as Brady’s brother – apart from Madley. And no amount of data cross-referencing would bring him up. He just didn’t exist in the police database. Hadn’t ever been caught. He was too clever for that, thought Brady. And he had never got involved with serious organised crime.

Until now.

Brady was desperately clinging onto the fact that someone had a hold over Nick. That they had him by the balls and he had no choice. Brady studied Nick’s watchful, intelligent eyes as they looked over in the direction of the hospital emergency doors.

He was waiting for me, noted Brady.

Why?

To follow me and leave a severed head and note in my car.

It was a cold, unwanted answer. But it was a fact that Brady couldn’t dispute.

Brady’s guts had told him it was a warning.

The question was, did it come from his brother?

The words on the note came to mind.

Cut from newsprint and glued on. Apart from the signed ‘N’ which had been imprinted in blood. And if Brady was right, it was from the platinum signet ring on the Eastern European’s right hand.

He took out his BlackBerry phone and looked at the photograph he’d taken of the note.

A loud rap at the door made him jump.

‘Yeah?’ shouted Brady, abruptly closing his laptop.

Conrad walked in.

‘The family liaison officer has taken Mr Ryecroft to the morgue to ID the body, sir’ he said. ‘We should know for definite in the next half an hour whether it’s Melissa Ryecroft.’

‘Good,’ replied Brady, relieved it bought him time. ‘Anything else?’

‘Ainsworth said your car will be ready when it’s ready.’

Brady sighed heavily.

‘His words, not mine, sir,’ explained Conrad apologetically.

Brady nodded. He’d expected such a response from Ainsworth. Especially if Conrad was doing the asking. Brady didn’t know what it was about Conrad that riled Ainsworth so much, but the cantankerous old bugger treated Conrad the way he treated uniform. And to say he treated uniform like a bunch of incapable idiots was putting it mildly.

‘I’ve just seen the pictures of the head, sir, and … the note …’

Brady looked at Conrad, waiting for him to say something.

He didn’t.

‘If that’s all …’ Brady said.

Conrad didn’t move.

Brady realised that he looked uneasy. His face was a little too strained, his jaw too tight; even for Conrad.

‘What does it mean, sir?’ asked Conrad worriedly.

‘I wish I knew …’ muttered Brady.

He nervously dragged his hand through his hair, desperate not to have this conversation.

Conrad looked at his boss. He looked a mess. And it wasn’t just that he’d been beaten up by Frank Henderson. There was something else wrong. Conrad could see it in his eyes.

‘Sir?’ tentatively began Conrad, not knowing how to say what he was thinking. ‘Do you think it was a threat?’

It hadn’t even occurred to Brady. Instead, he’d thought Nick was sending him a warning. But for his own good.

Now Brady considered Conrad’s question.

Could Nick be working for someone who wanted to hurt Brady? But why would his own brother be doing this to him? Brady didn’t have the answer and that worried him.

And if Brady was to go by the look on Conrad’s face, then he should be worried.

Brady could picture the smudged black words as if the note was right in front of him:

KEEP YOUR HEAD JACK OR YOU COULD BE NEXT – ‘N’

‘Who’s “N”, sir?’ asked Conrad.