Danielle Ramsay - Vanishing Point

He’d discovered that the guy was a hired killer. No surprise there. He had only been out of prison for four months after executing (it was the only word to describe the killing) a client of Johnny Slaughter’s who hadn’t paid his debts. Brady shuddered at the details he had read about the way the bad debtor had been tortured before a gun was put to his right eye and the back of his head blown off. Weasel Face had spent eight years inside and was now out on remand because of good behaviour. Gone were the days, Brady bitterly mused, when life meant life. Instead, scum like Weasel Face could be released back into society in his late thirties with a prosperous career ahead of him in the world of violence and brutality.

‘Where’s Gibbs and the new boy?’ asked Brady, making polite conversation.

Carl gestured towards the ceiling, indicating that they were upstairs with Madley.

Brady was surprised. This wasn’t like Madley. He wasn’t easily scared.

He took a mouthful of coffee realising that this was bigger and nastier than he’d first realised.

Brady then looked at Carl who was still polishing the same glass. But all the time he was watching Brady’s every move. As well as keeping an eye on the doors.

‘Carl? I need to ask some questions.’

Without looking at Brady, the barman stopped polishing and put down the glass. He turned and walked off to the kitchen, returning with fresh limes and a dangerous-looking knife and cutting board.

Brady watched. And waited.

Carl then threw the knife in the air, caught it by the handle and in one fast, furious movement swiftly chopped the limes. Finished, he aggressively stuck the knife’s blade into the board and then looked at Brady.

Brady liked Carl. He just had a way.

Carl shot him a dangerous smile. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘What did Adamson ask you?’

‘Shit is what!’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Why?’

‘Because your boss is in it up to his neck. That’s why.’

Carl didn’t react.

He never did. That was part of what Brady liked about him. He just got on with whatever crap was thrown at him. Including having his eyeball ripped out by a clenched hand punching him with a car key.

‘I told him shit. He asked shit. I told him more shit.’

Brady looked at him and nodded. He expected as much. Carl saw everything that was going on around him. And he would have known that when Weasel Face showed up, things were going to start getting nasty. For all of them.

‘Who was she talking to at the bar, Carl?’ asked Brady.

‘I told him I didn’t see anything,’ Carl replied with a laconic smile. ‘Find it hard enough to keep my eye on the job as it is.’

‘Yeah? But I’m not Adamson,’ replied Brady.

‘I may only have one eye but I’m not blind. You’re still a copper,’ answered Carl, losing the smile.

‘Not tonight I’m not. And not where Madley’s concerned either.’

Carl studied him.

He was only in his early twenties but he had an air about him. One that said that he had seen it all. Even with one eye he was a handsome guy. Never short of female attention. Tall, with tousled curly dark blond hair and an unshaven look to match. Always sharply dressed though. Smart black suit, white open-neck shirt and sharp shoes.

Barman, receptionist and prime look-out – he did it all. Without effort.

Brady watched as he picked up a new, equally clean glass and began methodically polishing it. Without looking Brady in the eye, he started to talk.

‘Visa and Delta were in. Throwing money around. Acting like they owned the place.’

‘Ronnie Macmillan’s boys?’ asked Brady.

‘Yeah, the Macmillan boys. Nasty shits. Think the designer suits and sunglasses and the black Jag mean something. Means shit. They’re still ugly, hired thugs, regardless of the Armani name tag.’

‘Then what happened?’ asked Brady.

‘She comes in. The copper. Stunning looking. Too fucking good for those suited gorillas. Joins them at the bar. They know who she is and it seems that she already knows them. Macmillan’s boys buy a bottle of champagne but they never touch a drop. She drinks maybe four glasses, if that. Then an hour and a half later I notice that her speech has started to slur and her eyes … you know that look? Pupils dilated? Can’t stand up. She wasn’t pissed though. But she was wasted. I reckon when she went to the loos they slipped something in her drink. I see it happening all the time in here.’

Brady knew that Carl’s assumption was right. The lab had found significant traces of Rohypnol, the date rape drug, in Simone’s blood and urine.

‘Why didn’t you do something if you thought she’d been drugged?’ asked Brady, an edge to his voice.

‘I’m paid to serve people not to fucking babysit!’

Brady could hardly get in Carl’s face about this; he was no better. He had seen Simone talking to Macmillan’s suits and walked out. If he had only gone over and asked her what the fuck she was doing with them, then she might not be in intensive care.

‘Did she leave with them?’ he asked.

‘Visa made a call and then ten minutes later they leave. Literally carrying the copper. They walked off down East Parade towards Brook Street.’

Brady shot him a questioning look.

‘I was having a tab break out front,’ Carl explained.

‘Since when has Madley allowed his staff to have breaks? Let alone allow tab out front?’

‘When Madley wants me to keep an eye on a situation. Visa and Delta chucking money around in his club to impress a copper is a situation.’

Brady nodded. He could see that.

‘How did you know she was a copper?’ asked Brady.

‘Just did. Been around you too long. Anyway, I have a thing for faces. Remembered her being in here with you a couple of times.’

Brady winced. That was over a year ago when he had last been in the Blue Lagoon with Simone, then a DC and his junior colleague.

‘What happened next?’ he asked.

‘A black panel van, Mercedes I think, is parked up in the back lane of the Avenue pub. Visa and Delta and the copper approach it and are met by two evil-looking shits dressed in black suits. Ex-military, I’d say.’

Brady frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘You can just tell. They had this edge about them. Real nasty edge.’

‘Did they look Eastern European?’ asked Brady.

‘Yeah … foreign. Dark, dangerous, with a fucking glint in their eye which told you they’d slit you from ear to ear if you looked at them the wrong way.’

The Dabkunas brothers, thought Brady.

‘What about the driver?’

Carl shook his head. ‘Couldn’t see the driver from where I was stood. The van was parked facing the other way.’

‘How did you see all this stood out front?’

‘I was having a tab break. I’m allowed to stretch my legs,’ slowly answered Carl as he started polishing again.

‘What made you follow them?’

‘Madley asks me to do something, I do it. No questions asked.’

‘Can you describe the van?’ asked Brady.

‘Yeah, cost a lot of money. New. Mercedes-Benz black panel van. Tinted windows. You know the type used for carrying cargo?’

‘Yeah,’ Brady replied, getting the idea of what kind of cargo they’d be carrying. ‘Did you get the licence plate at all?’ he asked hopefully.

‘No,’ answered Carl.

Brady raised his eyebrow.

‘It was dark. You do the maths,’ answered Carl, giving Brady a look.

Brady wasn’t sure whether the barman had actually seen the licence plate. But he knew not to push him.

‘Why did they do that to her? Simone?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Carl shrugged.

‘Come on, Carl. You don’t expect me to believe that?’