Danielle Ramsay - Vanishing Point

‘I bet he’s trying to go in to business with him,’ muttered Brady.

‘For God’s sake, Jack! Don’t be ridiculous. You have the word of a snitch – a questionable one at that – against that of someone like Mayor Macmillan. I know who I’d choose.’

‘That’s what makes us so different,’ replied Brady.

His phone started to beep.

‘Look, get back to me if anything comes up,’ Brady said before disconnecting Claudia.

He expected more of her.

He answered the new call. ‘Brady.’

Rubenfeld’s irritated voice came over the line. ‘Why didn’t you get back to me, Jack? I’ve got better things to do than chasing you up on a Sunday.’

‘Look, yesterday was one hell of a day,’ Brady explained by way of an apology.

‘Save your breath and meet me. This is for your benefit, not mine.’

‘Can’t you just save time and tell me now? I’m up to my neck in it, Rubenfeld.’

‘You and me both,’ answered Rubenfeld. ‘And no, what I have to tell you has to be in person.’

‘Where?’ asked Brady.

He knew that the hardened hack must have some crucial information to be insisting on meeting him.

‘The Cluny at 2:00pm,’ instructed Rubenfeld. ‘Alright?’

‘It’ll have to bloody be alright, won’t it!’ He took a deep breath. ‘Why the Cluny?’

The Cluny was a pub located off the beaten track down under Byker Bridge. It was one of those pubs that you had to know about, which made Brady curious as to why Rubenfeld wanted to meet there.

‘Out the bloody way of prying eyes and ears,’ answered Rubenfeld.

‘What’s this connected with?’ asked Brady, starting to feel uneasy.

‘Everything! Just get your arse in gear!’

Chapter Thirty-Six

Brady dragged heavily on his cigarette as Conrad parked up next to the Cluny in full view of the overhead Byker Bridge. The morning had gone slowly; too slowly. No new developments, nothing. He felt as if the team were chasing their own tails and getting nowhere fast.

Brady stared over at the pub wondering exactly what it was that Rubenfeld had for him. The Cluny was located in the Ouseburn area of Newcastle where it shared a former flax spinning mill with local artists, offices and recording studios.

It was well known locally and internationally, and often listed as one of the top 100 world’s best bars. It was a live music venue as well as a pub and a café. Brady couldn’t fault the place. Great music, good beer and appetising food. On an average day, he couldn’t ask for more from life. However, today wasn’t a typical day; it was far from it.

Brady turned to Conrad. ‘Can you chase up Daniels and Kenny? We should know by now whether they’ve found any evidence of anything suspicious around the land and buildings that Ronnie Macmillan’s bought up. And remind them that they’ve to keep their eyes out for a black Jaguar.’

‘Yes, sir,’ nodded Conrad.

‘Any word back on Adamson’s case?’ Brady asked, knowing even as he spoke that it was a dumb question. He knew that he would be the last person to hear of any developments on Simone Henderson’s attack.

‘No, sir,’ Conrad confirmed coolly.

Conrad had talked to Amelia earlier, but if the team had any new information she wasn’t sharing it. Whether it was because she was worried Conrad would report it straight back to his boss, he wasn’t sure. Conrad didn’t like Brady’s unhealthy interest in Adamson’s investigation. Even less so as it was becoming clear that Brady’s mind was torn between his own murder case and something else. Not that Brady would ever admit it, but it was obvious that something or someone had got to him. And Conrad presumed that was why they were parked up outside the Cluny for a meeting with an informant of Brady’s. But whatever information Brady would glean, Conrad was pretty sure he wouldn’t be party to it.

‘And can you get an update from Harvey?’ asked Brady. ‘We should have heard by now whether any of Melissa Ryecroft’s friends have any information on this Marijuis character. And Conrad, I need you to personally run a check on him and his brother, starting with the Lithuanian authorities. I want to know everything you can find out about them. Exactly what it is they do now, who they work for and why they’re in the North East.’

He was certain that if Harvey had gleaned anything, he would have been in touch immediately. But it was still worth putting a bit of pressure on him.

‘While you’re waiting for me I need you to analyse the CCTV footage that Daniels and Kenny sent us.’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Conrad leaning over and picking up his laptop.

He tried to keep his expression neutral but the last place he wanted to be doing this kind of work was sitting in his car while he multitasked as Brady’s chauffeur. Yet he knew his boss had no choice: forensics were still searching for any traces of evidence left behind with the black bin liner containing the victim’s head. And Brady had made it quite clear that he didn’t trust anyone else to drive him around – something which only increased Conrad’s concern about how far the note left in Brady’s car was causing his boss to spiral to the point where he couldn’t think straight.

‘We’re looking for two Eastern European-looking men being driven around in a black Mercedes with a Lithuanian licence plate,’ stated Brady.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Conrad, his brain racing as he tried to keep track of Brady’s demands.

Brady thought of Daniels and Kenny. They had spent the past morning and early afternoon laboriously going over the airport footage. Neither one had spotted anything unusual. But Brady didn’t accept their findings, which was why Conrad would now have to redo their job.

‘Thanks, Conrad,’ Brady said as he got out the car.

‘The press call, sir? It’s scheduled for 5:00pm,’ questioned Conrad. ‘And it’s now 2:15pm. We’ve still got a lot to do before then.’

‘I need to do this first, Conrad,’ Brady calmly pointed out.

Given the state of his face, Brady had decided that Conrad would be better suited to give the press call about Melissa Ryecroft with Gates.

He shut the car door, putting Conrad’s uptight attitude down to the impossible workload he had just given him. But he’d had no choice. His team were under-funded and under-staffed and, unfortunately for him, Conrad was by far the best officer on his team.

Brady breathed out slowly, trying to get rid of the mounting pressure he felt and looked around for Rubenfeld. He couldn’t see him amongst the smokers tabbing outside. Then he spotted the short, shabby figure standing alone, smoking. He would recognise that ugly mottled face anywhere. The nose in particular which was becoming more bulbous and purple every time he saw him. Rubenfeld was a journalist through and through; he liked to drink and his drinker’s nose was a testament to that.

Not that Rubenfeld cared. All he cared about was his next story and next shot, and not necessarily in that order.

Rubenfeld always wore his shabby black raincoat, regardless of the weather, or the location. Brady couldn’t imagine Rubenfeld without it. Underneath he wore a black linen suit; equally scruffy and in constant need of dry cleaning, mainly because of liquor spills when he’d had one too many. Which in Rubenfeld’s case, was every night. But Rubenfeld had the tolerance of a rhinoceros. The man could drink the hardest men under the table and still remain standing.

Brady watched as Rubenfeld pulled the collar of his raincoat up around his neck. Rubenfeld had never quite acclimatised to the bitter North East weather after coming back from the South and had compromised on a heavy raincoat. Brady admired his pragmatism; this was the North East of England after all, where the temperature rarely rose above 60 degrees during the summer and the rest of the year was spent under a miserable, disgruntled drizzle.