Danielle Ramsay: Vanishing Point

Brady ignored Turner and started to make his way to the first floor.

‘Jack?’ Turner called after him. ‘Watch yourself, will you? Gates is out to crucify someone and, given your track record with him lately, you want to make sure it’s not you.’

‘Thanks,’ muttered Brady. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

Brady suddenly halted and turned back. ‘Charlie?’

Turner looked at him.

‘Who’s heading the investigation? Into Simone?’

Brady knew the answer from his silence.

‘Adamson?’

Turner nodded. Brady had expected as much.

‘Jack? Don’t do anything stupid,’ warned Turner.

In all the years he had known Brady, Turner had never seen him react to news this way. Then again, he couldn’t blame him. This was personal to Brady: he had worked closely – too closely some would say – with DC Simone Henderson. And that’s what was troubling Turner.

Brady forced himself to meet Turner’s concerned gaze.

‘Like what?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

Turner resignedly shook his head. ‘I don’t know, bonnie lad. But that’s what worries me.’

Chapter Seven

Brady took a deep breath before entering the first-floor conference room. He had to get himself together. He would be no use to anyone in this state. Especially Simone. He did his best to sneak in. The room was filled with over twenty coppers; a mixture of uniform and CID all crammed in together. The atmosphere was electric. One of their own had been targeted. And this wasn’t some random attack. This was a brutal attempted murder. Brady scanned the room, recognising most of the faces. At least half of them had been called in from other area commands, but Brady knew most from the Sophie Washington murder investigation six months back.

Brady worked his way to the back of the room. His eyes automatically scanned the whiteboard next to Gates who was addressing the room. He held his breath as he took in the photograph of the blackened crimson clotted mess around Simone’s open mouth, an all too vivid contrast against the clean shiny white incident board.

Brady’s eyes then uncomfortably moved across to the images of the nightclub’s gents’ blood-stained floor. With gut-wrenching clarity, he registered that the blood was Simone’s.

Why the Blue Lagoon ?

He didn’t like the answer that kept coming to mind. When she had been stationed at Whitley Bay, she, like the rest of them, would end up having a late night drink in Madley’s club. He remembered that she had seemed too interested in Madley and his whereabouts. When Brady had challenged her, she confided that she had heard that Madley’s nightclub was being used as a front. Brady had laughed it off, telling the over-zealous rookie that every resident in Whitley Bay knew that, never mind the police. He had updated her on Madley’s drug-dealing reputation and that to date he had never been caught. But Simone wasn’t interested in Madley’s drug activities. She had claimed that it was something bigger than that, involving someone more dangerous than Madley. Brady had tried to get more from her, but despite being a rookie she was savvy enough not to hand over everything she knew to a commanding officer who would then take the credit for all her undercover observations.

Brady continued to stare at the photographs, despite feeling sickened by the images. He couldn’t shake the idea that if he had gone over to her last night then she wouldn’t be fighting for her life.

Gates’ voice suddenly caught his attention.

‘I’ve just received an update from the hospital and … it isn’t good. Simone’s out of theatre now, but she’s still not regained consciousness. She’s lost a lot of blood and there was significant internal damage. More than they expected, which has caused some complications. She’s in ICU right now, so all we can do is pray that she pulls through.’

The room was tense.

Gates had everyone’s attention; especially Brady’s.

He was roughly Brady’s height and build, despite being ten years older. Gates’ muscular, toned body was a testament to the hours he put in at the gym. Everything about him was regimented and controlled. Even his aggressively receding dark hair was cropped short, unashamedly exposing his baldness.

Brady wanted to walk. Anywhere was better than being stood there. But he was unable to move. His gaze obsessively returned to the large whiteboard. He tried to focus on the clumps of frenetic scrawl, recognising it as Gates’ handwriting. Anything was better than looking at the gruesome photos of Simone’s injuries or the crime scene.

He suddenly felt someone staring at him. He turned and caught Amelia Jenkins’ eye. She was sitting at the front of the room observing everyone. Brady expected no less from her; after all she was the police psychologist.

As if conscious of his gaze, Amelia adjusted her skirt. She shot him a concerned look and then turned her attention back to Gates.

Brady forced his attention back to the Detective Chief Inspector, who was still speaking.

‘I know that every one of you will give one hundred and ten percent to this case and, given the circumstances, I would expect no less.’

Gates then turned to Adamson and gravely nodded.

Brady watched as Gates sat down and Adamson stepped forward. He couldn’t help but notice Adamson’s arrogant expression. This was exactly what he was born to do; exert his power. Brady waited while he made the most of the situation.

Adamson straightened his thick, dark burgundy tie as he cleared his throat, allowing the tension in the room to build. The air soon became electric as the team waited for Adamson to speak.

Eventually he nodded, acutely aware that he had them. ‘The assailant knew exactly what they were doing when they cut her – otherwise Simone Henderson would already be dead. The incision that was made across her abdomen was carried out by a skilled hand. The knife missed the inferior and superior vena cava which saved her life as these branch out into the femoral artery and vein. If he’d cut any of these major vessels then she would have bled to death in a matter of seconds. The heart pumps about eight litres a minute and given the average adult roughly has four to five litres … well I’m sure you can do the maths. The question we need to ask is why did they want to risk her being found alive?’

Brady was too aware that the room was silent, a few heads shaking. The same thought would be going through everyone’s mind – that even though Simone Henderson was found alive, she’d been left in a condition which guaranteed she would never talk. These were hardened officers used to dealing with the worst possible crime. But this was different. This was one of their own.

‘We know from the forensic evidence that …’ Adamson cleared his throat as he looked back at the gruesome images ‘… that Simone was attacked at another location and then dumped in the toilets.’

Adamson shook his head at the gravity of the attack but Brady couldn’t help but get the feeling that he was loving every minute of this. All eyes on him. Everyone waiting for his next word.

‘You can see that her left breast was also burnt during the attack. And the word ‘PIG’ slashed across the other breast. We’ve run the image through our national database but no matches have come back.’

Brady looked at the image of Simone’s burnt left breast. He could make out the raised mark of the letter ‘N’ that had been burnt deep into the flesh.

Two victims on the same night. Both branded; flesh burnt. Both found yards away from one another. One in a nightclub, savagely cut up, and another headless, washed up on a beach. But even Brady had to admit to himself that the burnt ‘N’ on Simone’s breast bore no similarity to the branding of the scorpion and the letters ‘MD’ found on the murder victim.