Vanishing Point ijb-2

by Danielle Ramsay

  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.

  ‘Same deal – nothing,’ answered Claudia. ‘He’s clean, Jack.’

  Brady sighed. He had expecting as much but still hadn’t wanted to hear it.

  ‘Okay, thanks,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘The victim?’ Claudia questioned.

  ‘It’s not Melissa Ryecroft. She’s still missing. Whether that’s giving her parents any comfort, who knows? They’ve seen the footage of her being led into a black Mercedes and being driven off.’

  Brady didn’t want to think back to the conversation he had with Brian Ryecroft after Wolfe’s admission.

  ‘I know … I can’t imagine what they’re going through,’ said Claudia.

  ‘No … neither can I,’ answered Brady.

  ‘The two men? Are they the Dabkunas brothers?’ questioned Claudia.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  He had too much to lose by sharing the information he had gleaned. He knew at this stage of the investigation, Claudia would take it to Gates and Adamson. She would have no choice given the fact that the two men seen abducting Melissa Ryecroft in the CCTV footage were the same two caught on surveillance camera at Rake Lane Hospital asking after Simone Henderson, and then later following Brady and Conrad as they left the hospital car park.

  ‘Jack?’ questioned Claudia. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Everything,’ he answered quietly.

  He hung up.

  Brady stood up and put his jacket on. He’d had a call from Ainsworth saying that his car was ready to be collected. And given what he was going to be doing later that evening, he would need it. He needed to make sure that Conrad was busy – too busy to come looking for him. He knew from the way Conrad had been acting around him, questioning his judgement calls, that he had to do this alone. That, and the fact that he needed to make damn sure that no one knew about Nick. He was determined to bring down the Dabkunas brothers and their sick, twisted, lucrative enterprise.

  And he would make damned sure that Nick was as far away from the North East as possible when it happened.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Brady parked down a side street next to the abandoned eyesore that was th
e Avenue Pub. He looked across at the calm North Sea. It was a dirty grey colour. Reminiscent of the sky overhead. He rolled a cigarette as he steeled himself for what was to come next.

  He had got out the station just in time. Turner, the desk sergeant, had rung him to tell him to watch out, that Adamson was searching the station for him in relation to Simone Henderson’s attack.

  ‘Reckons there are questions need answering, Jack,’ Turner had said. ‘Told him you were tied up on a joint murder and missing person investigation. Wasn’t interested. Reckoned it would be the last case you’d ever work on. Arrogant bugger that he is!’

  Brady appreciated Turner’s loyalty. He had been around for years. But that didn’t buy him any respect from the young blood coming through. They saw him as an old fool, too close to retiring age to be of any use to anybody. But Brady knew better than that.

  He had left Conrad at the station researching Nykantas Vydunas, the Lithuanian Ambassador. Conrad wasn’t overly impressed; not least because Brady wouldn’t tell him why he was so interested in him. Brady had kept it to the point and stated, ‘Mayor Macmillan.’

  He had also left Conrad the job of finding out what they didn’t already know about Ronnie Macmillan. The local drugs dealer-cum-gangster was becoming too powerful, too fast. And Brady wanted to know why. Brady was certain that his politician brother was pulling the strings, but he needed proof, and quickly.

  He also needed to make sure that Conrad’s hands were full. Too full for him to bother Brady tonight.

  Kenny and Daniels were now chasing up various leads from Melissa Ryecroft’s friends on Marijuis Dabkunas, her boyfriend. Including re-examining her Facebook page, her blog and her Twitter account for anything that would give them a lead on Marijuis and his brother. Whether anything would come of it, Brady seriously doubted.

  And as for Harvey and Kodovesky, Brady had them staked out by the Hole. Just on the off-chance that Macmillan and his suits, Visa and Delta, turned up. Hopefully, he thought, with Nicoletta.

  And then there was Claudia to think about. She would be attending the dinner at the Grand Hotel in honour of the Lithuanian Ambassador. As would Chief Superintendent O’Donnell and maybe even DCI Gates. Brady knew he would have to keep a low profile when he turned up there. The last thing he wanted was Claudia getting involved. Or his superiors. At least not until he got Nick out of the frame.

  Brady put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it with his red refillable lighter. It reminded him of Claudia’s hair.

  He dragged heavily. He knew he had to kick the habit before the habit kicked him hard; hard enough to land him in the morgue.

  He exited the car and looked up and down the street before locking the door. He had every right to be paranoid after what had happened to him over the past few days. He walked across Brook Street, heading for the Promenade.

  Loud raucous shouts and laddish banter greeted him before he turned the corner onto East Parade.

  ‘Bloody stag parties,’ he muttered, dragging on his cigarette.

  Business was looking good for Madley, noted Brady. He could see why it was such an attractive prospect for Ronnie Macmillan. Coachloads of young men with a disposable income on a weekend away. Weighed down with cash and a burning desire to spend it on a good time: alcohol, coke and a ride between the sheets. If Ronnie Macmillan opened up a lap dancing club adjacent to a hotel, he could cater for every stag party’s needs and desires in one place.

  Brady ignored the jeers as the lads, ranging from their early twenties to thirties, playfully jostled one another as a mobile phone showing some lewd footage was passed around. Brady knew that the emergency services would have their hands full later on. Faces glassed, broken noses and bust ribs … as the night progressed the list of injuries would go on.

  He walked past them and up to the Blue Lagoon. The doors were locked, as expected. The place didn’t open until 10:00pm. Brady banged on the doors.

  He could see the barman, One-Eyed Carl, sorting out the bar. He looked up and saw Brady. He then picked up the phone and made a call.

  Brady knew who he was calling; Carl was loyal to Madley. Always watching his back. Brady could see Carl’s mouth move as he spoke to his boss. Then he hung up the phone, picked up the keys from behind the bar and walked over.

  ‘You’re early,’ stated Carl as he locked the doors behind Brady.

  He had his eye on the two coachloads of trouble parked up next door. The last thing he needed was them thinking this place was already open.

  He followed Brady back to the bar.

  ‘Can I get you something?’ he asked as he picked up a tea towel and started polishing a perfectly clean pint glass.

  ‘Coffee would be good,’ answered Brady. ‘Black, no sugar.’

  What he would give for a pint or a shot of Scotch. But he knew that he needed a clear head. Especially later on.

  Carl gave him a look of disbelief. He knew Brady liked to drink. Served him most weekends.

  ‘Still at work,’ explained Brady. ‘And I’ve fucked off my boss enough today without him having another reason to sack me.’

  Carl nodded and went over to the coffee filter machine. He poured Brady a steaming black coffee and brought it over.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Brady.

  Carl gave him a questioning look.

  ‘Madley’s waiting for you,’ he reminded.

  ‘Let me drink my coffee first. Madley won’t be going anywhere.’

  He could now understand why Madley had brought in armed help from London. He had put Weasel Face’s profile into the central database and come up with some unsavoury details. Madley’s new henchman had unnerved him when he had seen him at the lighthouse yesterday. Enough for Brady to want to do some digging.

  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.’