Blind Alley

by Danielle Ramsay

  Brady started walking off down the corridor. He was losing the day. It was fading fast and he’d got nothing done. He’d spent the last hour chasing down DI Bentley so he could lick his arse. It was on these occasions that Brady hated the job. He’d apologised for trespassing on Bentley’s investigation. And then been forced to listen to Bentley’s crap as he went on and on. Luckily, Conrad had walked in, giving him the perfect excuse to get off the line. The upshot of the conversation was that Brady had agreed to visit Trina McGuire and to divulge everything she said to him. In fact, Bentley had had the bright idea of Brady walking in with a hidden tape recorder. Not that she would notice. Given the extent of her injuries he would be surprised if she could even move, let alone raise her head to look out of the swollen slit that was her good eye. The other one had been operated on to repair the bones that had been ruptured during her attack. The doctor had explained that she had suffered both an orbital frontal bone fracture and a direct orbital floor fracture. In other words, something like a baseball or a fist had been rammed so forcefully into her face that they had been worried she was going to suffer brain damage.

  Brady would find out soon enough how well Trina McGuire was recovering. That was where he was heading – straight to the hospital to interview her. Bentley had assured him he would be there to meet him and, of course, brief him before he went in. And to make sure that he understood how to operate the tape recorder to avoid the obvious – Brady ‘accidentally’ switching it off. Brady hadn’t bothered to go into the rights and wrongs of taping an interview without the interviewee’s consent. He decided to let Bentley figure out the legal implications of that one. The problem was, Brady had to show willing. He had a lot to prove here – primarily that he was not a bent copper on the take from Madley. If there was any doubt in Gates’s mind, or Bentley’s, Brady had to do everything asked of him – he had no choice. If he refused, he could be seen as hiding something. Which of course he was – Madley’s connection with a brother no one knew he had.

  Brady was worried that if Bentley had a surveillance team watching Madley, they’d seen him turning up at the Blue Lagoon that morning. There was nothing Brady could do but wait. It wasn’t as if he had done anything wrong. He hadn’t forewarned Madley about the evidence found at the crime scene that pointed, whether Brady liked it or not, to Madley’s club and ultimately Madley.

  ‘Sir?’ Conrad called out as he tried to catch up.

  ‘Come on, we can’t keep DI Bentley waiting.’

  He had better things to do on a Friday afternoon than be played by Bentley. He had, as Gates had so kindly pointed out, a serial rapist to catch. It was now seven days since his last attack and they were fast approaching the weekend. The rapist had been consistent in his attacks – all three had taken place in the early hours of either a Saturday or a Sunday. The last thing Brady wanted was to get a call in the early hours telling him another woman had been attacked. Or worse, getting the news Monday morning that someone had been reported missing after going out drinking. Considering the rapist’s last attack, where he held his victim for over forty-eight hours, Brady was prepared for this behaviour to be repeated and, if anything, extended. Practice makes perfect. Troublingly, Brady had the distinct feeling that their suspect was still perfecting his MO.

  Brady hadn’t been in the mood for talking. Consequently the short drive to the hospital had been torturous – mainly for Conrad. Brady swung the car into the car park.

  ‘Great!’ Brady said. ‘Fucking great!’

  The car park was typically full.

  ‘Why don’t I wait here until a space becomes available? Then I’ll join you inside,’ Conrad suggested.

  ‘The only reason I’m here is because DI fucking Bentley wants to piss all over me.’

  Conrad didn’t answer. He knew his boss was right. Bentley would be livid on two counts. Brady had walked into Bentley’s investigation without even having the respect to ask first, and to add insult to injury, the victim was refusing to talk to anyone but him.

  Brady breathed in deeply for a few seconds. He needed to calm down. In fact he needed a cigarette but he knew that was not an option. He didn’t have time to smoke and he was supposed to have quit. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible so he could get back to his team. He had a briefing that had been postponed and a team that were sitting around waiting for instructions.

  ‘All right, you park up and join me. But be as quick as you can, I don’t trust myself to keep my mouth shut.’

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as possible, sir,’ Conrad answered.

  Without another word, Brady switched the engine off and got out the car.

  Conrad knew Brady was being serious. That he really was worried in case he said something out of line. It was stating the obvious to say that his boss was stressed.

  Brady hadn’t told Conrad what Gates had said, but his silence spoke volumes. That and the fact that he was now doing someone else’s bidding. That wasn’t like Brady. Whatever trouble he was in must be serious for him to be suddenly following orders. More so, when it was someone of the same rank giving them.

  But Conrad knew that it had to be connected to Gates’s talk with Brady. Before his boss had returned to the station, Gates had hauled Conrad into his office demanding to know his whereabouts. Conrad hadn’t needed to feign ignorance to protect his boss. He genuinely had no idea where he’d gone. All he knew was that it was connected to the sexually assaulted, beaten woman in Rake Lane hospital. Not that he said this to Gates. Conrad knew where his loyalties lay and that was firmly with his boss. There had been times, countless times if he was honest, when he had questioned his boss’s unorthodox approach. But now Conrad knew to just leave him to it. Brady always delivered. Not necessarily in the way that his superiors would approve of, but he always came through – until now.

  Gates had questioned, or to be more accurate, interrogated Conrad about the serial rape case and exactly where they were with it. But Conrad was well aware that Gates was indirectly asking whether Brady was up to the job any more. Two months was a long time for the investigating team to have no concrete leads. This was the reason Conrad had come back a month earlier than recommended. He’d heard rumours about Brady’s performance – or lack of it. DI Adamson was doing a great spin job of running Brady into the ground. Throwing questions around as to why Brady had made no headway with the case. He had managed to infiltrate and bring down an international sex-trafficking ring, yet he couldn’t find a rapist terrorising the streets of Whitley Bay. But Conrad knew, as did Adamson, that the Northumbrian force was scheduled for further cuts. Conrad kept his ear to the ground. Adamson, who had a cut-throat attitude to climbing the corporate ladder, had already been promoted from DS to DI, walking straight into Jimmy Matthews’s office. It was no surprise. He was Gates’s blue-eyed boy; he could do no wrong. So when it came to the choice of downsizing the number of senior officers at Whitley Bay station, Conrad was absolutely certain that Gates would back Adamson. When it came down to the wire, Whitley Bay did not need two Detective Inspectors.

  Brady’s success in intercepting the sex-trafficking operation and the conviction of Ronnie Macmillan was yesterday’s news. What mattered now was that Brady was failing to deliver on a case that affected local people. This was not an unseen crime involving foreign women and girls who didn’t even speak English. Instead, this was personal – it targeted the very people who paid their taxes and rightly expected the police to keep them safe in return. And Brady was failing them. The Northern Echo had done a good job of stirring up public fear. Britain had become a blame culture. And at this precise moment Brady was being blamed for failing to protect the streets of Whitley Bay.

  Conrad slid across from the passenger seat into the driver’s. He switched the engine on, kicked it into gear and sat ready to pounce as soon as a space became free. He caught sight of Brady as he reached the hospital’s main entrance. He looked like a man walking to his death. In his hand he clutched a file, whic
h held a photofit of the Whitley Bay rapist. But they both knew that it was not about Trina McGuire recognising him and helping with their investigation. It was about her furthering Bentley’s career. Conrad watched, feeling responsible. If only he hadn’t taken the news about the attack to Brady then his boss wouldn’t be in this position. He should have known better. He knew Brady better than anyone, knew exactly how he would react. How had he not anticipated that it would go so wrong? Maybe he had come back too soon.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Brady forced a smile as he approached DI Bentley. Bentley on the other hand did not even pretend to be civil.

  He was clearly pissed off.

  Brady looked at Bentley. He’d seen him countless times before and had made a point of avoiding him. The man was in his mid-forties and surprisingly good looking – something he was known to use to his advantage. He was precisely the same height as Brady. But that was where the similarities ended. Bentley’s cropped, sandy-coloured hair was rapidly receding but it somehow added to his strong cheek-bones and jaw-line. However, it was his startlingly light blue eyes that caught people’s attention. They had a profound intensity about them; as if they could see straight into your soul. Bentley made a point of pulling down the crisp, white cuffs of his shirt. He was impeccably dressed and he knew it. He was a man with taste – expensive tastes. His dark suit had been tailored and it looked the part. He was used to being treated with respect. And he wore clothes befitting a man of his rank. It was clear from his dismissive glance at Brady’s attire that he couldn’t understand how Brady had made it into the police, let alone to Detective Inspector.

  ‘Why you, Brady?’ Bentley asked. His voice was deep and deliberate. ‘Why the fuck would she want to talk to you?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Don’t fuck around with me.’ His delivery was slow and threatening.

  The uniform guarding Trina McGuire’s private room made a point of staring rigidly at the blank wall ahead. But his young face was flushed with embarrassment.

  Brady resisted saying anything. Better that than saying something he would regret.

  Where the fuck are you, Conrad?

  He needed Conrad here. His deputy was good at these situations, unlike Brady.

  ‘She does know that you want the conversation recorded? Otherwise, I’m not sure this is entirely legal.’

  Bentley looked for a moment as if he was going to grab Brady and throw him back against the wall. It was clear that he wasn’t used to being challenged. Least of all by someone like Brady. But Bentley reined it in.

  ‘I don’t give a shit what you think. I don’t trust you, Brady. And I certainly don’t trust you to tell me what it is she’ll only tell you. The fact she can’t say it to either myself or a member of my team makes me highly suspicious.’

  ‘Maybe she’s asked to talk to me because she knows I’m not some judgemental, career-obsessed copper who wouldn’t piss on her if she was on fire,’ Brady said. ‘Trina McGuire is more than just a beat-up prostitute. Far more than that.’

  ‘My heart bleeds. What are you, her fucking probation officer?’

  Brady resisted telling Bentley to go fuck himself. But unfortunately, the ‘fuck you’ look in his eyes spoke volumes.

  ‘Unless you want me to report you to your boss for obstructing a major drugs investigation, one that’s been approved by Detective Chief Superintendent O’Donnell himself, I suggest you do what I ask,’ Bentley advised in a relaxed tone, letting Brady know that he had him over a barrel.

  Without a word, Brady took the small Sony tape machine and turned and walked down the corridor to Trina McGuire’s room. Better that, than smacking Bentley in the teeth.

  ‘Sir,’ the young uniform said, immediately stepping out of Brady’s way.

  He didn’t need to have witnessed the altercation between the two senior officers to know that Brady was ready to punch someone and he wanted to make sure he was well and truly out of shot.

  Brady braced himself. He needed to get rid of the anger he felt at Bentley’s bully-boy tactics before he went in to see Trina McGuire. He knocked tentatively on the door before opening it. She was clearly not in a position to answer but he at least wanted her to know that someone was walking in.

  ‘It’s DI Brady, Jack Brady,’ he greeted her as he closed the door behind him. His voice was low and respectful.

  She didn’t respond.

  Brady’s fingers nervously gripped the recording device he was holding. In his other hand he held the file with the photofit of the serial rapist. The only thing going through his mind was that this whole Bentley set-up was farcical. He couldn’t believe he was actually doing this, but then he had no choice.

  But the last thing he wanted was for her to talk. Not if she was going to implicate anyone close to him. He would rather have that information off-the-record and deal with it in his own way. Apart from Chief Superintendent O’Donnell, no one on the job knew that he had a brother. Let alone a brother who was an ex-SAS private bodyguard. Brady was certain that Trina wanted to disclose some information about Nick. He knew she would do anything to protect him – including asking to talk to Brady. He needed to know what kind of trouble Nick was in first, then he would figure out what to do.

  He walked over to her.

  The tubes had been removed from her throat, which was a good sign. But her face was a brutal mess. It looked worse than it had when he’d seen her earlier with Conrad.

  Brady sat down in the visitor’s chair by the head of the bed. He dragged his hand back through his hair nervously as he looked at her. She appeared to be asleep. But he couldn’t be too sure as one of her eyes was hidden behind bandages and given the puffiness of the other one, it was difficult to tell whether she could even see.

  He cleared his throat before speaking: ‘Trina, it’s DI Jack Brady. I was told that you wanted to talk to me about who did this to you?’

  She moaned slightly in response as she attempted to turn her head. He realised that she could see him – just.

  He placed the recording device down on the bedside cabinet. She caught sight of it, which was Brady’s intention. If Bentley wanted their conversation recorded then so be it. But Brady was not going to hide it from her.

  He took a minute to compose himself. He didn’t know what to say to her. He knew that the last thing she would want was his pity. She still had some pride. But she was in a desperate state and it killed him to have to be the one to witness it. He was grateful that Nick was not here to see it – or Nicoletta. He didn’t know what she would make of the woman who effectively risked her own life to save her lying in intensive care beaten to within an inch of her life. Trina McGuire had had a cruel life that had failed to deliver anything but misery and pain. She had been used and abused by everyone and the last thing Brady wanted to do was add to the list.

  He cleared his throat again. The dry air in the room catching the back of it.

  ‘Trina, I’ve brought a photofit of a suspect and I would appreciate it if you could take a look and see if this is the man who attacked you.’

  She automatically turned her head away from him. It was clear that she was not going to identify her attacker for fear of reprisals. After all, he had already left her as good as dead.

  Brady frowned as he dragged his hand back through his hair again. He assumed that she had read the article in yesterday’s Northern Echo, which had named him as the SIO in charge of the serial rape investigation. It was a good ploy. It gave her a credible reason for talking to him instead of DI Bentley. But Brady was certain that this had nothing to do with his investigation. Instead, he believed that he was only here because she had crucial information that could affect Nick.

  ‘Trina? If you could just look at it for me? Please?’ Brady asked as he held it up for her.

  Nothing.

  ‘Trina?’

  ‘It’s not him,’ she croaked without looking at it.

  Brady noticed the tears sliding out of her bloodshot eye.<
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  ‘Take another look. Just to be absolutely certain,’ Brady suggested. His voice was low and gentle as if he were talking to a child.

  Trina McGuire shook her head.

  ‘Trina? Please?’

  She turned her head in his direction. Her look was of abject resignation. The feistiness that Trina McGuire was known for was gone, replaced by a depressed acceptance. Whoever had done this to her had kicked out whatever fight she had left.

  Brady held the photofit up in front of her in a last-ditch attempt at getting her to look at it. She automatically closed her eye.

  ‘Trina?’

  More tears slid down her battered face.

  ‘It looks like him. But no . . . it’s not him,’ she answered, her croaky voice barely audible.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He was tall and shaven-headed like the bloke in your photo. But it’s not him.’

  ‘Trina, are you certain it wasn’t him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered as she turned her head to the wall.

  ‘Trina? Can you take another look at his face?’

  She refused to look.

  ‘Can you give me more of a description?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘It was too dark. It happened too fast. He grabbed me from behind. I . . . I . . . couldn’t see . . .’ she faltered.

  Brady waited a moment to let her get her thoughts together. He hated doing this to her. She had already been through enough without him interrogating her as if she were the guilty party.

  ‘Look, Trina . . . I’m really sorry about this. About what happened to you . . .’ Brady was unsure what to say without sounding trite. ‘But I need to know more than you’re telling me. You say that the man who attacked you looks like the suspect in the photofit? Is that correct?’

  Trina nodded weakly.

  ‘But what makes you so certain it wasn’t him?’

  ‘He was older. Older than the rapist you’re looking for.’

  ‘How old was he?’