Danielle Ramsay - Vanishing Point

‘Conrad, you wouldn’t know if a black Mercedes panel van has been making visits to the Ambassador’s hotel, would you?’ Brady thought back to his conversation with Carl, Madley’s bartender, and Nicoletta’s description of the black Mercedes van used to transport the Dabkunas’ girls around.

‘No, sir,’ answered Conrad sounding confused. ‘But I can make enquiries.’

‘Can you also go over the CCTV footage of the Promenade in Whitley Bay from last night? A black Mercedes-Benz panel van pulled out from Brook Street and headed down the Promenade turning up Marine Avenue. The Mercedes was tailing the black Jaguar that we saw Macmillan and his boys in earlier. I want to know where they go. See if you can trace their movements at all. I have a gut feeling that they were heading for Macmillan’s club or maybe one of the disused properties that he’s bought up.’

‘Sir?’ questioned Conrad, realising the job he was being asked to do.

‘Contact me when you have something,’ answered Brady.

‘If this is to do with Simone Henderson’s attack, shouldn’t we take this information to Adamson and Gates, sir?’

‘What do you think, Conrad?’

‘Sir?’ repeated Conrad, unsure.

‘I wouldn’t piss on Adamson if he was on fire. Does that answer your question?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Conrad.

‘The murder of the Lithuanian girl, Melissa Ryecroft’s abduction and Simone’s attack are all connected, Conrad. Trust me on this. Which makes it our investigation now. We’ve just got to prove it and I’ll be dammed if I hand anything over to that bastard and then watch him take the glory.’

‘How do you know, sir? How can you be so certain?’

‘I just know, Conrad.’

Brady hung up.

He drew heavily on his cigarette as he listened to the pulsating music coming from further down East Parade, in the direction of South Parade. The back of the Blue Lagoon nightclub. It was a miserable sight. Bricked walls on either side, beer crates and overflowing bins blocked Brady in. In front of him were two cars. The gleaming, new Bentley was Madley’s and the three-year-old silver BMW was Gibbs’.

Brady drew again on his cigarette. The air was suffocating. Filled with intoxicating smells. The Pizza Cottage, the Indian restaurants and the two Italian restaurants along East Parade were in full battle when it came to the heady aromas spewing from their kitchen extractor fans. Brady’s stomach growled. He realised he hadn’t eaten anything since the bacon stottie he’d had for breakfast that morning. But all he had to do was think of the shit that Nick was caught up in to quell his appetite.

He took one last drag on his cigarette before throwing the smouldering stub away. He had to call Claudia. He needed to make sure that they had searched all of the rooms at Macmillan’s club. Including the cellar and those on the first floor and the attic rooms. He just needed reassurance that nothing had been missed. That there were no traces of blood anywhere, or weapons hidden. In particular the hunting/survival knife that was used to decapitate Edita Aginatas. And that they had definitely found nothing incriminating at the buildings and wasteland that Macmillan now owned. He knew Claudia would be getting ready for the dinner in honour of the Lithuanian Ambassador, held by Mayor Macmillan. But Brady had no choice. He had to be sure.

He scrolled down, found her name and pressed call.

As he did so, he shoved his free hand in his trouser pocket, absent-mindedly fingering his wedding ring.

‘Claudia?’ he questioned when the phone picked up.

‘No,’ came the answer. Simple and to the point.

‘Can I talk to her?’

‘She’s busy.’

Before Brady had a chance to answer the phone went dead. He knew it was Davidson. Recognised the voice. And Davidson clearly knew it was Brady.

Brady stood for a moment holding his BlackBerry. He felt as if he had been kicked in the guts. And if the truth be known, he had. DCI Davidson had made it very clear that Claudia was off-bounds to him.

‘Jack,’ greeted Madley as Brady walked into his spacious first-floor office.

Brady knew straight away that he was pissed off. Who with, he didn’t yet know, but he was certain he was about to find out.

He cast his eye over the huge room. Madley was standing with his back to Brady, staring out of the impressive ceiling-to-floor window. Weasel Face was behind the door, watching Brady’s every move while Gibbs waited by Madley’s side.

The tension in the room was palpable. Brady wasn’t sure what he had walked into, but he knew he didn’t like it. There was an edge, a desperation to hold onto power regardless of the consequences, that Brady could feel clinging to the air. Ronnie Macmillan had gone one step too far with Madley and Brady presumed Madley was now in the throes of working out how to get the bastard back.

Brady should have been worried, but he knew Madley could look after himself. He, after all, had been raised on the hardened streets of the Ridges, just as Brady had. A childhood that set you up for anything that life would throw at you; Ronnie Macmillan and his politician brother being two of them. Even ex-military SAS types like the Dabkunas brothers.

‘Problem?’ questioned Madley, still with his back to Brady.

‘You tell me,’ answered Brady as he walked over to the window trying his best not to limp.

The last thing he wanted was Weasel Face spotting a weakness.

Madley didn’t answer.

‘Boys. Leave us alone,’ ordered Madley.

Madley waited until the door was firmly closed.

‘Matthews …’ Brady began.

Madley looked at him and waited.

‘Ronnie Macmillan’s boys went to see him inside. Wanted a word. They knew he worked for you.’ He watched Madley’s reaction.

Madley’s glinting brown eyes narrowed suspiciously.

They stood in silence for a few moments watching through the window the blood-red explosion that lit up the horizon.

‘Bastard,’ Madley finally said.

There was a tone of finality in that one word. Enough for a cold shiver to go down Brady’s spine.

‘Exactly what did he say?’ Madley questioned.

Brady shrugged.

‘Exactly what?’ repeated Madley.

‘Reckons that my old man was stitched up by two of your boys.’

‘And that’s what Matthews told Macmillan’s boys?’

Brady nodded.

‘Visa and Delta are their names. Seems they took the shit my old man’s been saying seriously.’

‘Fucking bastard. Deserves everything he got.’ There was a malevolent menace in Madley’s voice.

Brady couldn’t disagree with him.

‘And what? Matthews is listening to that piece of snivelling shit?’

‘Matthews wants out,’ answered Brady.

‘Heart fucking bleeds. Bent copper and all, he won’t last long inside.’

Again, a chill went down Brady’s spine.

‘Not only that, Matthews identified a photograph they had of Simone Henderson. The copper found in your toilets early yesterday this morning,’ he added.

Madley’s eyes dangerously narrowed as he absorbed this new information.

‘Martin?’

‘What?’

Brady noted that Madley still wouldn’t look at him. His glinting brown eyes were studying the drunken, high-spirited revellers below with predatory interest. He had the look of a man who was out for the kill. And Brady knew that Nick, amongst others, was a target.

‘Why didn’t you say what’s been going on with Ronnie Macmillan?’ ventured Brady.

Madley’s jaw tightened.

‘Because I can sort this out myself,’ he answered.

‘Doesn’t seem that way to me,’ replied Brady.

‘I wouldn’t worry about me, Jack. I’d say you already have your hands full trying to stop that brother of yours. He’s got himself involved with some bad company. Just like before, but this time he can’t come running to me to sort it.’