Danielle Ramsay - Vanishing Point

Brady had always had a thing for Trina. When she was younger that was – not the woman she had become. Social determinism at its worst, he thought sadly.

She’d been a real beauty then. Like Brady, Nick and Madley, Trina had grown up in the ugly harshness of the Ridges; a run-down housing estate which was a no-go area for police and non-residents. Infamous for the riots in 1991 when community buildings had been burnt to the ground and shops looted in protest at the deaths of two local youths killed while driving a stolen car pursued by police. Suggestions by the boys’ friends that the police had forced the vehicle off the road triggered the spark that saw the riots go up against a prolific background of social deprivation and crippling poverty. Riot police and the fire services had gone in, backed up by the police helicopter, only to be pelted by stones as a stronghold of at least 400 people held together as a community, fighting the shit lives they’d been dealt through the reign of middle- and upper-class terror meted out by Thatcher and her henchmen.

Brady looked at Trina McGuire. She had lost that delicate, remarkable beauty that had so set her apart in the Ridges. But years later, she epitomised everything about the sorry place. She might have still had that ‘heroin chic’ beauty about her, but even with the heavy black eyeliner and mascara, it was fading fast. A poverty-stricken, desperate junkie, who didn’t have a hope in hell of getting out.

‘You’re bloody lucky your brother’s not still around, Jack,’ Trina warned him.

‘That’s the point,’ replied Brady softly. ‘He’s back.’

‘I told you, I’ve got nothing to say,’ hissed Trina, not wanting to bring attention to herself.

‘Look, the last place I want to be is here on a Saturday night hassling you, alright? But Nick told me to come,’ explained Brady.

‘You having a laugh or what?’ she scornfully replied.

Brady shook his head. The look on his face deadly serious.

‘How do I know you’re not lying then?’ she cynically questioned.

Brady reluctantly took the note out from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to her.

Brady knew she instantly recognised the handwriting from the look on her face.

She quickly composed herself and handed the note back.

‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,’ she said. But her eyes betrayed her. She looked scared … very scared.

Brady replaced the note in his pocket and tried not to let his imagination run away with him. He had never seen Trina McGuire fazed, let alone scared. Clearly, she knew something about Nick and realised that he must be in deep trouble to have sent Brady here.

He suddenly caught sight of the bartender out of the corner of his eye. He was on the phone again. Observing Brady and talking quietly.

Too quietly for Brady’s liking.

The name ‘Ronnie’ had rung alarm bells.

How many Ronnies were there in Wallsend who had a hand in the sex industry?

Only one, thought Brady. It could only be Ronnie Macmillan.

Brady turned his attention back to Trina McGuire who had obviously carefully considered the contents of the note. She didn’t look too happy with the situation.

‘Right, you … five minutes, but it’ll cost you!’ she ordered, hand stretched out.

Brady knew her well enough to know that it was an act to cover herself.

‘Take it out your expenses! I have a job to do and bills to pay. But you pull any stunts like that sick bastard Adamson and I’ll make sure Davy takes care of you good and proper like!’

Brady knew from Dr Amelia Jenkins that DCI Gates’ ‘golden boy’ Adamson had allegedly compromised his status as a copper on an earlier investigation by attempting to force Trina McGuire to perform a sexual act on him. He had threatened to bring her in for questioning if she didn’t follow through with his demands. Amelia, who had been assigned the same investigation, had walked in and found Adamson in a compromising position with Trina McGuire pinned against the wall. Since Adamson had been thwarted before his demands had been met, Amelia hadn’t reported the incident. She had confided in Brady, unsure of what to do about what she had witnessed. But Brady had heard enough rumours about Adamson not to have been surprised by Amelia’s disclosure.

Brady had heard nothing more about it, and had assumed that Amelia had decided to keep quiet, ultimately realising that corruption in a male-dominated force, aligned with deep-rooted sexism, was a powerful institution to single-handedly fight. He also knew that Trina would not have substantiated Amelia’s story. Trina McGuire had her own way of getting even with creeps like Adamson; ones that didn’t involve the police.

‘I’m nothing like Adamson. You of all people should know that!’ Brady replied sharply.

Trina looked at him.

‘You’re a copper aren’t you? All the same as far as I’m concerned,’ she scornfully replied.

Brady didn’t bother retaliating. In her eyes he was a traitor; always would be.

He watched as she nervously glanced over at the bartender. He was obviously the look-out guy. Watching all the comings and goings. Anything odd, or not quite right got reported to the boss who was no doubt sitting upstairs in his office wanking over porn. Or his bank statement. Same difference, thought Brady.

‘Yeah, yeah. I’m good for it,’ Brady said as he took out his wallet.

He handed over three £20 notes.

She snatched them, counted and gestured for more.

He gave her two more.

‘I expect some private time for that,’ Brady said.

‘Like I said, five minutes,’ repeated Trina.

She then looked at the bartender who had just finished with the call.

‘Bacardi and Coke. Make it a double and he’s paying,’ Trina said as she gestured at Brady.

Trina’s eyes darted over towards the bottom booth. Three of the men were now clapping and shouting at something the lap dancer was doing to their friend.

‘And one for Nicoletta. She’ll need it after they’re through with her,’ Trina commented ruefully.

Brady was about to object but decided to keep quiet; he was just relieved that Trina hadn’t had him thrown out.

‘Twenty quid,’ said the bartender placing both drinks down on the bar.

‘ How much?’ queried Brady sceptically.

‘You heard. Twenty quid or I call security.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ answered Brady as Davy, the hired muscle shot him a look. He threw a twenty onto the bar. ‘Keep the change,’ he muttered as he picked up the drinks and walked over to the booth where Trina had sat down.

‘Five minutes, starting now,’ Trina said taking her drink.

‘Nick,’ Brady began. ‘He’s back.’

‘So?’

‘I can’t get hold of him,’ Brady answered. ‘And for some reason he’s pointed me to you.’

She didn’t reply.

‘Listen, Trina, this is serious. Alright? It’s not a game!’ Brady hissed at her, keeping his voice low.

She made a point of casually checking out her long, polished nails.

‘Look … I don’t know if you’ve heard but we’ve got a copper critically ill in hospital and a sixteen-year-old girl is lying sadistically murdered in the morgue.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘Everything. Because I reckon Nick’s been to see you.’

Trina visibly flinched, losing the hard edge that she needed to survive in the underworld she inhabited.

‘For Christ’s sake, Trina, he’s in trouble! Understand? It’s his brother you’re talking to now, not a copper. And by the end of today I reckon I’ll be out of a job anyway.’

She took a long, slow drink as she deliberated whether to talk.

‘Come on, Trina! Do you think I want to be here? You read the note. You know as well as I do that he wrote it. I need to know what it means,’ insisted Brady, trying, but failing to keep the desperation out of his voice.