Danielle Ramsay - Vanishing Point

But now … Brady didn’t want to think about it.

He started to roll a tab as Conrad pulled up outside the station.

Brady’s mind was twisting and turning like an animal caught in a snare trap.

He couldn’t get rid of the thought of Nicoletta being driven away in the Jag. He was praying that Nick wasn’t somehow involved with Ronnie Macmillan. If Macmillan was now in business with the Eastern European Dabkunas brothers, as Trina and Nicoletta had claimed, he was hoping against the odds that Nick wasn’t involved. But he already knew, by Trina’s own admission, that his brother had been at the lap dancing club looking for the missing Lithuanian girl, Edita Aginatas. And then there was the information Nicoletta had given him about the man with the scar down his cheek who was working with the Dabkunas brothers. The man who had helped find Edita and drove her to her fate.

The one thing he was certain of, he had to talk to Madley. The nightclub owner had contacts with all the criminal elements throughout the North East, including Ronnie Macmillan. If anyone knew what was going on, it would be Madley. Maybe he would have an idea about where Ronnie Macmillan would take Nicoletta.

However, all that would have to wait. Brady had already tried Madley’s mobile and it was switched off. He had then rung the Blue Lagoon to see if he was there, but no one knew his whereabouts; or at least they weren’t prepared to tell him. Brady decided that he would pay him a surprise visit tomorrow. Hopefully, then he might get some much needed answers about Madley’s criminal nemesis, Ronnie Macmillan.

First thing in the morning he would also have to call Jimmy Matthews. Matthews had made it quite clear that Ronnie Macmillan and his boys had been in to pay him a visit. Brady needed to know exactly what Matthews knew and what game he was playing.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Exhausted, Brady collapsed on the beaten-up leather couch in his office. He rested his head in his hands as he thought over the events of that day.

Conrad cleared his throat.

Brady opened his bloodshot eyes and looked up at him.

His deputy was standing in front of him holding two mugs. He offered Brady the red and white Che Guevara one.

‘You look like you need it, sir,’ Conrad said.

Brady gratefully took it and watched as Conrad slowly sat down next to him.

‘Any sign of that Jag yet?’ asked Brady, already knowing the answer.

‘No, sir. It’s just disappeared. And as of yet, it hasn’t returned back to The Ship.’

Brady nodded.

‘It won’t,’ he muttered, accepting that would be the last thing the men would do.

He took a slow mouthful of the Talisker single malt, savouring the burning sensation. He sat back and waited for it to kick in.

‘Go home, Conrad,’ Brady muttered, as he rested his head back and closed his eyes. ‘The rest of the team have left. You should too. Get some sleep and be back for 7am.’

Brady had relieved the rest of the team. It was late and they wouldn’t be much use to him sleep-deprived. He just hoped that this new day would bring them closer to apprehending Melissa Ryecroft’s killers. But Brady had nothing concrete.

His mind kept replaying the image of the Jag as it stealthily pulled past them. The only question going through his mind was whether it really had been Macmillan in the back with Nicoletta. He couldn’t be certain, but he couldn’t ignore his gut feeling. Why, he mused, would Macmillan have a copper brutally butchered? It didn’t add up.

Conrad didn’t say a word. Instead he looked at the shallow contents of his mug.

‘Conrad?’ Brady questioned, opening his eyes and turning to him.

‘I reckon you could do with some company, sir,’ he quietly suggested.

‘I’m not good company right now,’ answered Brady honestly, sighing.

Conrad looked at his boss. He looked desperate. He didn’t know what it was that was troubling him, aside from the obvious.

‘Sir?’ carefully began Conrad.

Brady took another much needed drink. It rasped the back of his throat as it slid down.

‘Who is your informant?’

Brady dejectedly shook his head.

‘You see, I can’t quite figure out how you knew to go The Ship.’

‘Better that way, Conrad,’ answered Brady flatly.

‘And I don’t understand why the Dabkunas brothers – if it is them – left Melissa Ryecroft’s head in your car.’

Brady didn’t answer him.

‘Sir? Why are they targeting you? Why the note? It doesn’t make sense.’ quizzed Conrad as he leaned forward.

‘You and me both,’ hoarsely whispered Brady.

His eyes were stinging. He put it down to the burning malt and not the fact that his whole body was ravaged with fear. Dread at what could be happening to Nicoletta. And horror at the knowledge that his own brother was a part of it; willing or not, he was still involved.

‘Go home, Conrad,’ instructed Brady. ‘Things will be clearer in the morning. For both of us.’

He needed to be alone. He couldn’t think straight, least of all with Conrad beside him, worry lines etched across his face.

‘If you want to talk, you know where I am,’ offered Conrad, standing up.

He walked over and placed his untouched mug of malt on Brady’s crowded desk. He noticed the uneaten Chinese food that been left from earlier and hoped that Brady would see sense and eat something. Conrad didn’t like leaving him in this state, but he knew he had no alternative. Brady was right, he needed to get his head down. And hopefully his boss would do the same. He was certain that they would have a long day ahead of them tomorrow.

Before leaving, he glanced back at Brady once more. His head was back and his eyes were closed. But the last thing he looked was peaceful. His countenance was that of a tortured man. Tortured by what?

Brady breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Conrad leave, gently closing his office door behind him. He stood up and walked over to the filing cabinet. Instead of pouring himself another measure of malt, he carried the bottle back over to the couch. Before sitting down, he looked out the window. The street was dark. Nobody was about. It didn’t make him feel any easier. He still felt as if he was being watched; his every move scrutinised.

He let go of the dusty Venetian blind and lay down on the couch. He brought the bottle of Talisker to his lips and swallowed; anything to get rid of the torment he was feeling.

He then sighed heavily as he rested the bottle on his chest. He was scared, and he was even more scared to admit it.

All that kept going through his head was, why St Mary’s Lighthouse? Why plant the victim’s head with a note in his car there of all places? Nick knew him, and he knew that if he was planning on talking to Madley that would be where he’d do it. All three of them played there as kids. Nick, four years his and Madley’s junior, would wildly run around, jumping in between the rocks, or just sit, mesmerised by the white Victorian lighthouse against the backdrop of the violent, brooding North Sea. The lighthouse had been Nick’s favourite haunt as a kid. And even as an adult. If Nick ever returned, it would be the second place he would visit after their mother’s grave at Whitley Bay cemetery positioned just off the top of the access road to the lighthouse.

Brady knew Nick was trying to tell him something by leaving the black bin liner with Melissa Ryecroft’s remains inside. But the question was what?

Brady forced back the tears that were starting to burn his eyes. He refused to believe his brother was willingly involved with such a heinous crime. He knew in all probability that Edita was already dead. He had been a copper too long and knew the statistics too well to convince himself that they would find her alive. He closed his eyes, tormented by the knowledge that he had unwittingly endangered Nicoletta’s life and that she might suffer the same fate as her friend Edita because he had made her talk.