‘Sir? We’ve got to go!’ Conrad insisted, desperation creeping into his voice.
Brady gave her one last look, his dark, normally gentle eyes betraying him. They were filled with anger and a need for revenge.
Then it hit him. The wrist; the skin that had been cut out. He knew what had been there. It was a tattoo. But not any tattoo – this one meant something to him as much as it meant something to her. She had inked into her wrist four letters in large, black, gothic script – NICK.
Nick was Brady’s younger brother, and the woman lying fighting for her pathetic life had loved him once, and, Brady presumed, still did. Few people knew Nick in the North-East. After all, as a teenager he had relocated to London and assumed a new identity: rumoured to have killed a member of another rival street gang, he had disappeared, fast. Brady knew he hadn’t done it; that he had been framed. But it had given Nick no other alternative. He left two people behind that day: Brady and his girlfriend. She would go on to live a life pitted with misery, pain and disappointment. Never quite recovering from Nick’s decision to abandon her so easily, leaving her to rot in the very decay and futile existence that he had run from as hard as he could.
Shit . . . shit . . . shit.
Brady’s head was reeling. The facts sinking in.
It was her. But why? Why the fuck would someone do this to her?
Then Brady got it. He felt winded from the realisation.
Nick . . . This is connected to Nick.
Brady had seen assaults like this before. Henchmen hired to beat up someone close to the person they actually wanted, but for whatever reason could not track down. To prove that they were serious, the hired killer would take something identifiable from the victim. Such as a finger with a recognisable ring. Or an ear with an earring. But this assailant had taken the skin with Nick’s name on. What better way to show that you mean business than someone else’s skin.
One person came to mind and that was Johnny Slaughter. This was his style. An East End London gangster who had a score to settle with Nick.
There was one other person who would know what was going on and that was exactly where Brady was heading.
‘What’s wrong?’ Conrad asked as Brady walked past him.
Brady ignored him and carried on down the corridor. Conrad ran after him, shaken by the sudden change in his boss.
‘Did you recognise her?’ Conrad asked.
‘Look at the state she’s in, Conrad. Not even her own mother would be able to identify her. And before you ask, whoever tried to kill her is not our rapist.’
‘Why remove a piece of her skin then?’
‘Fuck knows! Maybe some crazy bastard read that article plastered all over the Northern Echo’s front page last night and decided to emulate the rapist. But it’s not him. It might have gone unnoticed by you, Conrad, but our serial rapist has a penchant for his victims’ breasts. That isn’t the case here. Also, the removal of the skin is too careless. Then there’s the fact she was attacked in a back alley behind the Ballarat.’
‘Just like the first two rape victims,’ argued Conrad.
Brady shook his head. Ordinarily he would have shot Conrad down for making such a glaring mistake. But he knew he wasn’t up to speed on the first two rape cases. This was his fifth day back on the job and to be fair he had walked straight into a major serial rape case. One where the latest victim had been abducted, raped and mutilated over a period of two days. She had been found on the same morning that Conrad had decided to come back off sick leave. If Conrad had returned hoping to gradually ease back into the job, he had been bitterly mistaken. The station had been thrown into pandemonium with the discovery of Chloe Winters and it had been Conrad’s misfortune to walk straight into it.
‘Not like this, Conrad. Think about it. Both places that the rape victims were attacked were deserted. He knew that there was very little chance that someone would interrupt him. The first victim, nineteen-year-old Sarah Jeffries was attacked eight weeks ago in the early hours of Saturday morning. He stalked her Conrad. Followed her as she made her way home alone. When she reached Whiskey Bends he came up from behind and dragged her into the back alley behind the boarded-up building. No one was around. The rapist guaranteed that by the timing and location.’ Brady paused for a moment.
‘Sir?’
‘Nothing,’ Brady replied, shaking his head. ‘The second victim, Anna Lewis, was also followed on her way home from a night out in Whitley. He waited five weeks before his second attack. She, like the first victim had taken a familiar short cut home. She had cut through another derelict eyesore – the High Point Hotel on the seafront. This time he had been waiting in the shadows of the empty car park for her. Again, no one was around, Conrad. No late night stragglers, no inquisitive residents. He forced her into the grounds at the back of the boarded-up hotel where he bound and gagged her. This time he took longer with her. Maybe he felt more confident? After all, he had already done it once before and had succeeded in not getting caught. Anna Lewis was subjected to his sexual assault for over an hour. He finished off by carefully removing her right nipple and the surrounding skin. Not the work of a man in a hurry is it, Conrad?’
‘I don’t follow, sir?’
‘Location, Conrad.’ Brady sighed as he looked at him. ‘Think about where the third victim, Chloe Winters, was found.’
‘You mean the alleyway next to that boarded-up building on the sea front?’
‘Yeah, the Avenue pub. Really popular in the eighties. But like Whiskey Bends, it’s been derelict for decades now. Just like the High Point Hotel. All three crime scenes are isolated areas. Deserted. No one goes there. In other words, the ideal location to rape and mutilate someone without getting caught – especially the first two locations. As for the third crime scene behind the Avenue pub, perfect place to dump a body and then disappear.’
The team had already assessed all CCTV footage but were no further forward. Brady assumed from the first two witness statements that the rapist had followed them on foot. Neither of them had reported hearing a car approaching them or driving off after they had been attacked. As for Chloe Winters, Brady was certain he had used a vehicle. How else would he have taken her to wherever he had held her captive for forty-eight hours? And, how could he have dumped her unconscious, naked body on the Monday morning?
Brady turned to Conrad.
‘But the attack last night? No, the Ballarat pub was still open with a few regulars inside, which meant that whoever did this to her didn’t have a lot of time. It’s rushed. Heavy-handed. Exactly like the removal of the skin. Our rapist savours what he does, Conrad. The sick bastard enjoys every inch of their skin in a way unimaginable to me. One thing he does not do is rush. That’s why he chooses derelict and abandoned locations. It gives him time to do what he wants without the fear of being caught. The attack on this woman couldn’t be more different. The alleyway in which she was raped and left for dead was behind the Ballarat pub – a working pub. Christ! The landlord even lives above the premises with two Rottweilers. If I didn’t think it was such a crazy idea I’d suggest he wanted to get caught. No, Conrad. It’s not the same man.’
Conrad didn’t bother arguing with Brady. He’d worked with his boss long enough now to know that when he had a hunch about something he was usually proven right.
Brady reached the ICU’s double doors. He pressed the buzzer to open them. He needed to get out. He felt sick. He hadn’t felt like this since he had feared that Nick was working for the unscrupulous Dabkunas brothers. At the time he had struggled with the belief that his own brother was prepared to jeopardise their relationship, not to mention Brady’s career. That had been six months ago. But the same feeling of dread and foreboding had come back – tenfold. It felt as if a bomb was going to detonate. The question was when?
‘Come on, Conrad, I need a cigarette.’
Conrad dutifully followed Brady through the maze-like, sterile white corridors to the revolving glass doors that led out of Ra
ke Lane.
‘I still want copies of all the reports connected to this attack on my desk ASAP. I don’t care whose bollocks you trample over to get them. For all we know there might be something in there that could be of some help.’
Brady paused as he lit a cigarette. He realised his hands were trembling.
‘Shit!’ he swore after inhaling. It felt good. Too good.
He was trying to give up smoking. Had been for the past five days. It was all part of the reformed Brady. If he was honest he had made a pact with God. Not that he really believed in God, but his Catholic upbringing came in handy on rare occasions. While Conrad had been in surgery, Brady had made a pact that if he managed to pull through and returned to work, he would quit.
Brady had even given up rolling his own cigarettes. He had duped himself into believing it was healthier, when in fact he ended up smoking more. Unlike a pack of cigarettes, you could easily smoke twenty roll-ups in a day without even realising it. And if it had been a particularly stressful day, that number doubled. At least with a pack, Brady knew exactly how much he was smoking. Until now, he hadn’t opened the pack that he had bought on Monday. Admittedly, both his arms were covered in nicotine patches. And his mood had been so dark that most of his team had done their utmost to avoid him.
Conrad was about to tell him that he wasn’t allowed to smoke on hospital grounds, let alone at the entrance, but Brady was already walking away.
Conrad watched his boss. Six foot two, lean with muscle; long dark hair with swarthy skin and a permanent five o’clock shadow, Brady couldn’t have been more different from Conrad if he’d tried. Clean-shaven, short blond hair, an impeccable wardrobe – this summed Conrad up. Dark tailored suits and expensive, handmade English brogues, accompanied with a crisp white shirt, cufflinks and a carefully selected silk tie. Conrad’s appearance counted for something. He was very much the new face of CID. Whereas Brady was still the old school of policing in a beat-up jacket that had seen better days, skinny black jeans, black T-shirt and black leather boots. Conrad admired that about his boss. The fact that he refused to be compromised; whether in the way he looked or how he carried out an investigation, he had conviction.
Conrad knew Brady held the rank of DI because he was damned good at his job. Admittedly, he was unorthodox at times, but he still managed to get there in the end, regardless of the way he looked. And luckily for Brady, he managed to pull off the unkempt, dishevelled, ‘couldn’t give a fuck’ look even as a Detective Inspector.
Conrad inwardly steeled himself. Something told him that he better get back into shape and fast. He was going to need his wits about him; especially now Brady was on to something. What it was, he had no idea. But if he knew his boss, it meant trouble – big time.
Chapter Eight
Brady pulled up as close as he could get to the crime scene.
‘Sir?’ Conrad asked, unsure why they were here. One answer came to mind, and it was one he didn’t like. This was only his fifth day back and things were starting to take a familiar turn for the worse.
‘Two seconds. OK?’
Brady slammed the car door, not giving Conrad a chance to argue.
He headed towards the police tape that sealed off access to the Ballarat pub and the back alley behind it. A large white Mobile Incident van and numerous other vehicles belonging to the forensic officers examining the crime scene blocked off most of the street.
Brady could see that Ainsworth’s team had placed three-inch plastic A-frame evidence markers along the path leading into the alley behind the Ballarat pub. The SOCOs had also placed stepping stones of forensic platforms for the team to walk on. It was Ainsworth’s way of preventing contamination of any evidence that might have been left at the crime scene.
Brady took in the location. It was the ideal place to hurt someone. The alley would have been dark, aided by the overgrown bushes and hedges that separated the entrance of the back lane from the houses that ran down the embankment towards North Shields quayside.
Brady knew that DI Bentley would have instructed officers to bang on all the doors to see if the residents had heard anything. He knew it was a waste of time. Even if someone knew something they wouldn’t talk for fear of repercussions. This was the lower end of North Shields, populated by hardened scum who would have stabbed a dirty needle in your eye before you even realised it.
Brady nodded as he approached the two uniformed officers blocking the entrance into the cordoned-off street.
‘DI Brady,’ he stated.
‘Sir,’ answered one of the officers.
The officers may have been stationed at North Shields but they both recognised Brady as the SIO in charge of the serial rape case. Brady had a certain unconventional look for a copper, let alone one of his rank, that preceded him.
He watched as one of the officers recorded his name in the crime scene log. The log list would stay active until the last person left, which would typically be Ainsworth, the Crime Scene Manager.
Brady knew he had to tread carefully. Word would get out fast that he was sniffing around. The last thing he wanted was trouble – especially not with DI Bentley. He was a hard-faced bugger at the best of times and if he thought Brady was trying to poach one of his cases then it would be all-out war. He guessed that Bentley would be assuming that this assault was linked to the ever-growing drugs problem poisoning the dregs of North Shields. Simple maths: a drug-addicted prostitute found beaten to within an inch of her life. Bentley would no doubt assume that she was assaulted because she owed money to her supplier. But Brady knew different. This had nothing to do with drugs; he was sure of it. Nick was at the forefront of his mind. He was certain that someone had beaten her up to get to him. The question that was torturing Brady, was why? Nick’s connection with her was firmly rooted in the past.
Or was it?
Brady watched as the white-clad figure of Ainsworth, the Crime Scene Manager, walked over. He had worked with Ainsworth on numerous cases. He was a short, portly, cantankerous man with a receding head of curly grey hair and a large, jowly face that had been ravaged by too many years on the job. He also had an infamous, fiery temper, which he defended as a legacy of his Gaelic roots. Despite his biting tongue, Brady would be the first to admit he was fond of Ainsworth. Some of the Crime Scene Managers he had worked with made it quite clear that they didn’t like coppers near their crime scene – regardless of whether they were Senior Investigating Officers.
Brady had heard talk that Ainsworth was due to retire soon and hoped this wasn’t the case. He had a dark, sick sense of humour; though it was hard to tell he had one at all during his daily rants at whoever had got in his way. Despite his reputation for being irascible, he was damned good at his job. Nothing excited Ainsworth more than a call in the early hours telling him his team were needed to attend a suspicious death. But he wasn’t that different from the rest of them. Whenever a call came in, anyone in the job would be lying if they didn’t admit to feeling the same surge of excitement and anticipation at what lay ahead. The only exception was when a suspicious death involved a child. In those situations every copper felt a sense of dread. Regardless of how often you dealt with a serious crime like that, you never got used to it.
‘You’ll be needing a suit before you trample all over my crime scene, Jack,’ Ainsworth greeted him in his usual brusque manner. ‘Help yourself. There’s plenty in the van over there.’
‘Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. I just wanted a word.’ This was Bentley’s crime scene and the last thing Brady wanted to be accused of was pissing over another man’s investigation.
‘All right, then. I assume, knowing you the way I do, Jack, that Bentley has no idea that you’re here?’
Brady ran his hand through his dark hair uncomfortably as he looked across at two young female SOCOs walking out from the cordoned-off alleyway. Both pulled down their white face masks to talk freely. One of them was carrying a plastic evidence bag. She held it away from her body as she laugh
ed at something her colleague had said. Her bright green eyes sparkled with mischief as she said something in response. Brady recognised her immediately as Fielding, a new recruit on Ainsworth’s team. She was the new breed of SOCO, a recent graduate from Teesside University. Basically, they were cheap to employ. Cheaper than a copper who had been in the force for years and had specialised in photography, like Ainsworth. It wouldn’t be long before he retired, and he was doing what he could to train up the graduates so he could leave the force knowing they’d be capable of continuing in his absence.
Brady wondered what they were laughing about. And what was in the evidence bag. That was the real reason he was here. He wanted to know what Ainsworth and his team had found – if anything.
Fielding turned, as if conscious of Brady watching her. Surprised that he was there, her face suddenly flushed.
Brady had run into Fielding on an investigation a year earlier. She had made it quite clear that she wanted more than a professional relationship – even insisting Brady took her number so he could call her. It never happened. The investigation Brady had been in charge of got in the way. That and his unresolved feelings for his ex-wife, Claudia.
Fielding held Brady’s eye for a moment then turned back to her colleague, acting as if she didn’t know him.
Brady breathed out slowly.
‘No good looking at them, Jack. My SOCOs are off-limits where you’re concerned. Last thing I want is my staff transferring because of you,’ Ainsworth joked light-heartedly. He instantly realised what he had said; but it was too late.
If it had been another bloke, Brady would have laid him out flat. But this was Ainsworth and Brady knew he’d simply let his mouth run before putting his brain into gear. Ainsworth might have had one hell of a temper when someone was screwing up the job, but the last thing he could be accused of was being callous – at least not where Brady was concerned.
Blind Alley Page 4