Danielle Ramsay - Vanishing Point

‘I know, you already said. So what’s the problem?’ demanded Brady.

A deathly wheezing silence.

‘Wolfe?’ Brady shouted.

‘I … didn’t notice because of all the damage from the gang-rape. Add to that the severe scarring from the endometriosis she suffered made it really difficult to tell. But when I had a closer examination I realised … I had a feeling I’d missed something, you see.’

‘What the fuck did you miss?’ Brady spat as his body broke out into a sweat.

‘Endometriosis makes it very difficult to get pregnant …’

‘You said she’d had an abortion. That, despite trauma you could make out that she had had a botched abortion. So what are you saying?’ questioned Brady angrily.

Wolfe didn’t answer him.

‘What? She’d never had an abortion, is that it?’ demanded Brady, trying to get a grip on the situation.

‘No, Jack. She’d had an abortion alright. But that wasn’t the first time she’d been pregnant. Her uterus shows evidence that she’d already carried a foetus to full-term.’

‘Wolfe? God no …’ muttered Brady.

‘I know …’ he conceded.

‘Fuck!’ cursed Brady as he tried to think through the implications of what Wolfe had just told him

‘But it could still be her, surely?’

‘I’m sorry, Jack. No. It’s not possible,’ answered Wolfe.

‘Why not?’ insisted Brady. ‘Who knows what the Ryecrofts are covering up about their daughter?’

Silence.

‘Wolfe?’

‘I’ve already contacted Melissa Ryecroft’s GP surgery and requested her medical records. I had to be sure. She isn’t the victim … Melissa Ryecroft has had an abortion. But … she has never given birth.’

‘What happened if she gave birth without telling anyone? Some pregnant teenage girls have been known to hide their pregnancy and then give birth alone, without medical intervention,’ pleaded Brady, desperation breaking into his voice

The only thought going through his mind was that Brian Ryecroft had positively identified the body as that of his missing daughter.

‘Listen to me, Jack. The body that I carried out the autopsy on is not Melissa Ryecroft,’ answered Wolfe. His tone was reluctant but definitive.

‘But her father positively identified the body,’ stated Brady.

‘Jack, you saw the state of the victim’s head. The amount of knife wounds to the victim’s face made it difficult to tell.’

Brady sighed heavily, wondering if the weekend could get any worse.

‘Tell me the head definitely belongs to the body.’

‘I already confirmed that earlier. What kind of an idiot do you take me for, Jack?’

Brady didn’t know, but he was certain he was about to find out.

‘Go on,’ he finally conceded, accepting the worst. They – or should he say Wolfe – had fucked up big style.

He already knew who it was lying decapitated in the morgue. The missing fingers … the evidence the victim had had a baby. His hunch had been right.

‘I rang the clinic in Budapest and demanded to talk to Dr Sabinas Bugas, the director of the clinic. I didn’t believe that they couldn’t keep a record of their patients and the serial numbers on the silicone implants they use. By law they have to, and if they don’t they can get closed down. By all accounts that clinic runs a highly lucrative trade in plastic surgery. Their main clients are UK women looking for a cheap, quick fix and a holiday. But they also get Eastern Europeans paying for plastic surgery. Wanting to buy into the Hollywood ideal,’ explained Wolfe. He paused for a moment to get his breath.

Brady waited.

It was like waiting to be punched in the guts. You know the blow’s coming and you know no matter how much you prepare yourself, it’s still going to hurt.

‘Anyway,’ continued Wolfe. ‘I threatened Dr Bugas that we’d take court proceedings against them for withholding evidence. I didn’t need to explain that the public image of the clinic would be so damaged that they’d end up losing most of their business. You know why they say they don’t have the records, don’t you?’

‘No,’ answered Brady in a muted voice.

He wasn’t interested in the reasons behind the clinic withholding a patient’s details. He was more interested in the identity of the patient.

‘They’re scared of litigation from their UK patients because of poor quality surgery and secondary infections. That kind of thing.’

Brady was silent for a moment.

Then he struck. His patience gone.

‘Wolfe, just tell me!’

Silence.

Brady waited.

‘The serial number in the silicone implants that I removed were implanted in an seventeen-year-old female named Edita Aginatas from a village in Lithuania called Raseiniai.’

Brady tried to steady himself.

He thought of Nicoletta.

He then thought of Edita Aginatas’ baby and what would happen to her now. And then of what had been done to Edita. Exactly as Nicoletta had said, she had disappeared. Her body savagely and sadistically raped and mutilated and a captive bolt pistol put to her head.

Brady swallowed. His eyes burning.

Tiredness, he thought. That’s all. He didn’t have the luxury to get emotional.

So Melissa Ryecroft was still missing.

And now Nicoletta.

That had to be the focus now.

He knew exactly who had Nicoletta: the Dabkunas brothers.

And Nick.

Brady had to contact Conrad before the press call went ahead. That was, if it already hadn’t started.

He needed Melissa Ryecroft’s details released. He needed the digitally enhanced images of her getting into the black Mercedes with the Dabkunas brothers shown on local and national television. And he needed to call Rubenfeld before his leading story went to print. And the worst part of all, the part that was really needling his spinal cord, was that he needed to make that call to Melissa Ryecroft’s parents. He needed to tell them that he had fucked up. He had really fucked up big time.

Brady was anxiously waiting for Claudia to answer her phone and hoped that she hadn’t already left for the Lithuanian Ambassador’s swanky dinner at the Grand Hotel. It was now 6:17pm and there was a good chance she would be too preoccupied to talk to him.

He slowly breathed out, trying to steady himself.

In the event the press call had gone ahead at 6:00pm instead of 5:00pm, thus giving Gates enough time to collate the new information. Allegedly Gates was impressed that Brady had managed to forewarn them before they had gone public with the incorrect details on the investigation.

Brady wondered what would happen to Wolfe. It was a huge fuck-up. The first of its kind. Brady was worried: worried that Wolfe’s liquid breakfasts and lunches were starting to take their toll on the Home Office pathologist. There would be an investigation and questions would have to be answered. Hopefully, Wolfe would get away with it this time. But what about the next time? Because Brady was certain there was going to be a next time. And if not, a time in the future would no doubt be waiting for him in the flat-bottomed transparent base of an empty bottle of Scotch. Reality had a way of catching up with you; a truth all too apparent to Brady at this particular moment in time.

‘Claudia?’ Brady said with relief when she eventually picked up her phone.

‘Sorry, Jack. I’m really sorry. We found nothing. The girls that were in the club were all UK citizens and they were kosher.’

‘What about the other premises that he owns?’

But he knew the answer would be the same. Daniels and Kenny had already reported back to him that there was nothing suspect about any of the properties or land that Ronnie Macmillan had acquired.