Danielle Ramsay - Vanishing Point

Brady couldn’t remember a time when Rubenfeld hadn’t been around. As far as Brady could remember Rubenfeld had always worked for The Northern Echo . It was the bestselling newspaper in the North East and a lot of its sales were down to Rubenfeld. If there was a story to uncover, Rubenfeld was guaranteed to be the first one there. Brady didn’t know how he did it, but he had an uncanny knack of turning up when he was least wanted. But if Brady was honest, he needed Rubenfeld as much Rubenfeld needed him.

Brady watched as Rubenfeld threw his cigarette butt away and started to make his way through the crowd.

‘Leaving already?’ asked Brady as he walked towards him.

‘Nah! Looking for you, you tight bastard. You owe me a drink,’ said Rubenfeld as he narrowed his eyes and scratched at his two days’ worth of dark stubble.

‘You call me tight? When was the last time you stood a round?’

‘I’ve heard something that might interest you,’ Rubenfeld began, deliberately ignoring Brady’s question.

‘How about we go somewhere a bit more private then?’

‘Good idea, Jack. I suggest the bar.’

Brady watched as Rubenfeld knocked back his second whisky chaser.

He knew it always took a couple of drinks to loosen Rubenfeld’s tongue.

They were sitting at a round table by the window. From there Brady could see the bar and watch as people came and went while he waited for Rubenfeld to talk.

‘Another?’ asked Brady.

‘Aye, why not?’ answered Rubenfeld.

Brady expected as much.

He took his wallet out and walked over to the bar.

‘Another pint of Peroni and a double whisky,’ ordered Brady. ‘Throw in a bag of salted nuts as well, would you?’

Brady returned to the table, handing Rubenfeld his drinks and chucking the peanuts his way.

‘Don’t say I never buy you lunch!’

‘Like I said, you’re one tight bastard!’ scorned Rubenfeld as he ripped open the packet.

He took a handful and threw them into his mouth as he looked at Brady.

‘There’s some sinister shit going on, Jack,’ Rubenfeld said as he chewed.

‘Like what?’ asked Brady, pushing his black coffee out the way as he leaned in towards Rubenfeld.

‘Name first,’ demanded Rubenfeld.

‘You’re a shit, do you know that?’ said Brady.

‘ Quid pro quo , Jack. You know the score. I’ve a story to finish and it’s missing a couple of details. You tell me, I ring it in so it can go to print, and everyone’s happy. Including my bloody editor – which would make a change!’

‘Melissa Ryecroft,’ answered Brady, knowing that the news was going to be released later that afternoon anyway. He knew the way to loosen Rubenfeld’s tongue and that was to offer him scraps ahead of any press release.

‘And?’ questioned Rubenfeld.

‘Sixteen-year-old local girl. Parents live on the Broadway, Tynemouth end. She went to King’s School sixth form before someone decided to murder her.’

‘Is it right she was decapitated?’

Brady looked surprised.

‘I hear things,’ muttered Rubenfeld through another mouthful of nuts.

Brady nodded.

‘Amongst other things. But at this point that can’t go to print. Understand?’

Rubenfeld ignored Brady.

‘What else?’ he asked.

‘Savagely raped and … and she had a captive bolt pistol shot through her forehead.’

‘Bloody hell, Jack. That’s a first in my book! I thought that kind of shit only happened in films, not for bloody real.’

‘I know …’ muttered Brady.

He was right though, mused Brady. That kind of weird, sadistic shit wasn’t what he expected to find happening in Whitley Bay of all places.

‘Any leads?’ Rubenfeld asked.

‘Do you really think I’m going to tell you?’ Brady said, shaking his head.

Rubenfeld gave out a deep, gurgling laugh.

‘One day, Jack. You just might, one day.’

‘How much have you had to drink?’ mocked Brady.

‘Never enough!’ answered Rubenfeld as he drained his pint of Peroni.

‘What do you reckon it is? A copycat-style murderer?’ questioned Rubenfeld.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Brady.

‘You know that adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s book? That film No Country For Old Men with Javier Bardem as the psychopathic hitman playing havoc with a cattle stun gun?’

Brady nodded. It was an obvious connection. One he had already made.

‘A captive bolt pistol to be precise,’ Brady said as he thought about the hole in Melissa Ryecroft’s severed head.

‘So is it some nutter who watched the film and decided to copy it?’

‘No,’ replied Brady simply.

‘How can you be so sure?’ quizzed Rubenfeld.

Brady shot him a look which said it all.

‘Alright, alright I was just asking, that’s all,’ stated Rubenfeld.

‘You want more details, wait for the press call at 5pm like the rest of the scavengers.’

Rubenfeld contemplated Brady as he picked up the small tumbler of whisky. He swirled the contents around before knocking it back in one.

‘I’ve got a story to write up,’ he said, thumping the glass back down.

‘Not so fast,’ Brady replied.

Rubenfeld sighed heavily.

‘Alright … I’m hearing some crazy shit about Macmillan. The Mayor that is,’ Rubenfeld began.

Brady moved closer to Rubenfeld’s foul-smelling body, resisting the urge to ask him when he’d last had a shower, knowing the answer wouldn’t be pleasant. There was a reason why Rubenfeld was permanently single.

‘Seems he wants to expand. Go into business with this Lithuanian Ambassador who’s up at the minute from London. Our paper’s running a feature on his public address at the Civic Centre this afternoon. Load of cods-wallop if you ask me, but this guy has a lot of power and money. He’s highly influential, so consequently everywhere you look, Macmillan’s with him,’ Rubenfeld said as he raised his eyebrows at Brady.

‘That’s it?’ questioned Brady.

‘Alright, you tell me why a Lithuanian Ambassador is walking around with armed security in the bloody North East.’

Brady shook his head, not wanting Rubenfeld to realise that he already had his own suspicions after his chat with Trina McGuire.

‘For fuck’s sake, Jack. Are your brains in your arse or what? Armed security guards who look like Dolph Lundgren for bloody hell’s sake. It’s the North East of England not Beirut!’

Rubenfeld shook his head before taking another slug of whisky. ‘He owns a shipping company. Controls cargo ships that ship all across the world. I’ve heard word from a source that Macmillan wants to be part of it. Wants to be shipping containers between Eastern Europe, and the North East.’

‘Shipping what for fuck’s sake?’ asked Brady.

Rubenfeld raised his eyebrows. ‘You tell me.’

Brady shrugged. ‘Given what his brother Ronnie Macmillan’s involved in, and his taste for jail bait, I’d say it’s either drugs or human trafficking.’

Rubenfeld nodded. ‘Polish food is what Macmillan’s intending on shipping in. Doing a big publicity stunt supporting multi-culturalism and the growing ethnic minority of Polish people in the North East. Polish sausages, pickled cabbage and flat soda bread, supplied at cut-throat prices for all the local supermarkets from Redcar up to Berwick-upon-Tweed.’

‘What else?’ asked Brady, hoping that Rubenfeld had brought more than Polish sausages to the table.

‘How does a Lithuanian ambassador build up a shipping empire that’s worth millions? What’s he shipping, Jack? Because I bet it’s not just Polish bloody sausages!’

‘Why do you say that?’ quizzed Brady, wanting more than Rubenfeld was obviously prepared to give.