Danielle Ramsay - Vanishing Point

‘If you need help you can have Kenny and Daniels,’ he stated, getting back to the real issue.

‘Oh, you have to be kidding me. Bloody Laurel and Hardy? I don’t think so!’

‘Take it or leave it.’

‘What about Anna Kodovesky? I’m sure she’d be more help in one hour than those two knuckleheads would be in a whole week working with me.’

Brady thought about it.

‘Alright,’ he conceded.

Kodovesky was good at her job and she kept her mouth shut.

Daniels and Kenny were responsible for most of the sick jokes that did the rounds at the station. Additionally, neither of them knew when to keep quiet. And in a case as delicate as this, Brady needed discretion.

‘Thanks,’ said Claudia.

‘Yeah,’ muttered Brady suddenly standing up and walking towards the door.

‘Where are you going?’ Claudia asked.

‘Gates’s office. He wants to see me,’ he bluntly answered.

‘Jack?’ questioned Claudia, worried.

Brady walked out his office, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter Thirty-One

Brady breathed in deeply as he looked at himself in the mirror in the gents’.

He was still shaking from his run-in with his boss, DCI Gates. He had requested a meeting to supposedly get an update on the murder investigation. But it had soon become apparent that Gates was more interested in giving Brady a kicking to add to the one he had already had from Frank Henderson.

The upshot was Gates wanted a ‘case management review’ with Brady on Monday morning to decide what action he was going to take against him in relation to Henderson and Adamson’s separate complaints. And also to discuss reassigning Conrad to Adamson.

Brady still felt winded. He and Conrad were a team. He couldn’t imagine having another DS. Brady didn’t work well with a partner. Everyone knew that. No one better than Gates. But somehow, he and Conrad had just managed to find a way of working together. Whether Conrad realised it or not, Brady couldn’t imagine not having Conrad there. Conrad was irreplaceable.

And then there was the report that Gates had demanded by Monday. He wanted to know exactly how the murder victim’s head had ended up in his car and what precisely he had been doing at St Mary’s Lighthouse.

Brady bent over the washbasin and turned the cold tap on, trying to block out the image of what he had found in the black bin liner. He cupped his hands together and filled them with running water before dousing his throbbing face. It was still a mess. He didn’t know how the hell he could give a press call to the public tomorrow looking as if he was the one who needed to spend a night in the cells. Another salient point made by Gates.

Brady suddenly straightened up when he heard the door open. He swung round, praying that it wasn’t Adamson. Now wasn’t the time to explain why Simone Henderson had mentioned to her flatmate that she was coming back up to the North East to meet with Brady. While he now knew that it had been his ex-wife Simone had been talking about, the information afforded him little consolation, given the fact he had no choice but to keep silent and accept the outcome.

‘Bloody hell, bonnie lad! I’ve been hunting everywhere for you,’ puffed Turner, out of breath.

Brady shot him a quizzical look. ‘Aren’t you meant to be clocking off? Your shift finished at 8pm, Charlie.’

Turner shook his scraggy head. He looked troubled. His small beady eyes barely visible beneath the sagging eyelids.

‘What? What’s wrong?’ he asked as he walked over to his old friend.

‘Just left the station and was about to get in my car and this kid came at me out of nowhere. Thrust this at me. Said it was for you and it was urgent,’ he said, holding his trembling hand out.

Brady took it. It was a blank envelope but he could feel something inside.

‘Where did he go?’ asked Brady, trying to keep his voice level despite the rising panic.

‘Disappeared before I could say anything,’ answered Turner, his voice still shaky. ‘Legged it down the back lane behind the station.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘I dunno … short, scrawny kid with a hoodie pulled down so I couldn’t make out his face. Said he’d been paid a tenner to take it into the station but didn’t have the nerve so waited for someone to come out …’ Turner faltered and sighed as he looked at Brady.

Brady didn’t say a word.

‘I’m too old for this game, Jack. Too bloody old,’ muttered Turner.

Brady rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on, Charlie. You’ll still be here when I’m long gone,’ he consoled.

Turner looked up at Brady, doubting his words.

It was then that Brady realised how frail and old Turner actually was without the protection of his uniform and front desk.

‘Charlie … don’t mention this to anyone. Let’s keep this between us, yeah?’

Turner nodded.

Brady gripped Turner’s shoulder, surprised that this kid had shaken Turner to this extent. He had been a copper for over thirty years and had dealt with more than his fair share of crime. Brady put his loss of nerve down to Simone’s attack. Everyone at the station was feeling jittery. Watching their back. Nobody more so than Brady, he mused bitterly.

‘He did what he was paid to do. Trust me, he’s not coming back,’ he reassured.

Turner’s shoulders suddenly slumped forward. He raised his eyes up to meet Brady’s.

‘What are you involved in, Jack?’ Turner asked as he nervously licked the spit from his thin lips.

He’d been in the game too long not to know that kids wearing hoodies didn’t make a point of hanging around police stations waiting to hand a note over to a copper.

Brady shook his head.

‘It’s nothing,’ he answered.

Turner sighed heavily and walked out, leaving Brady with his own troubles.

Brady closed his office door and automatically went over to the window and looked out. It was approaching 9pm and it was already dark. The hazy orange glow of the street lights cast shadows up and down the street.

Was he still being watched? He wasn’t sure.

‘Shit!’ he cursed to himself, angry at his own paranoia.

But who could blame him? He had seen the irrefutable proof on the hospital grounds security tape that he had been followed. And then they had watched and waited for an opportune moment to dump the victim’s head in the back of his car along with a note. A message clearly meant for him.

He walked away from the window and resignedly sat down at his desk. He steeled himself before opening the envelope. Inside was a handwritten note. Immediately, he recognised the distinctive swirling letters.

It was from Nick. It had to be.

He held his breath as he read the words:

You’re losing your head Jack. You’re not thinking straight. You need to see an old friend to find out about N. You maybe need to look at their trademark – or TM in short.

N

Brady held his head in his hands as he tried to steady his breathing. His heart was racing as adrenalin coursed through his veins.

Then it hit him.

The note left with the severed head wasn’t from the Eastern European brothers. Or the Nietzschean Brotherhood; it was also from Nick.

It was a warning, not a death threat.

Nick was warning him not to lose his head. Which was exactly what he was starting to do. And now his brother had sent a second note, stating the obvious. It meant he was watching him. Watching his every move.

Brady remembered that the ‘N’ had been printed in blood in the first note – the victim’s blood, taken from a signet ring. Was that Nick’s way of telling him that the Nietzschean Brotherhood were involved? That this was bigger than just some sex trafficked girl washed up on Whitley Bay beach?