She stared at the ceiling as she thought about it.
‘I dunno? Maybe in his mid-thirties? It was dark. Too dark to really tell.’
Brady wasn’t surprised that she didn’t identify her attacker from the photofit. He was certain that it wasn’t the same man as the one responsible for the series of rapes in Whitley Bay. But what did shock him was that she described her attacker as physically similar to the serial rapist – apart from being older.
‘Trina? Are you absolutely certain that it’s not the same man?’
‘Just go, will you. Leave me alone,’ Trina replied.
Brady waited.
‘Go!’
‘Trina, you asked to see me. Remember? You had something you wanted to tell me?’
‘Yeah? Well I was mistaken. Just leave, will you?’
Brady didn’t understand why she had asked to speak to him if she didn’t want his help.
‘All right, Trina, I’m leaving. OK?’
Brady stood up and picked up the Sony tape recorder. He switched it off. He wasn’t sure what Bentley would make of it. Not that he cared. It looked like they had both lost out here. Neither one of them had anything. Whether Trina McGuire could actually help either of their investigations was another matter.
‘Look, if there’s anything you remember, just ask for me.’
Brady put the recording device in his pocket and turned to leave.
‘He . . . he wanted Nick,’ Trina began.
Brady stopped and turned back.
‘What?’ He realised that she had been waiting for him to turn off the tape before she would talk.
‘He wanted me to tell him where Nick was . . . That’s why he did this to me,’ she said, raising her bandaged wrist.
‘Nick’s name. I had the tattoo done after . . . after . . . You know. Everything he did for me . . . for Nicoletta and the other girls.’
Brady was speechless. He realised that his gut feeling had been right; that her attack had been connected to Nick. But the reality made him feel as if he had been punched in the stomach. He felt physically sick that someone could do this to her because of Nick – his own brother.
He looked at her. He didn’t know what to say. Part of him felt guilty that her attack was connected to his brother. And part of him felt a great sadness at the unrequited love she still clearly felt for Nick. So much so she had ended up at the hands of some maniac who had a score to settle with him. But her loyalty was unquestionable. If she had known where he was, she would never have said. Brady knew that even if he asked her about Nick, she wouldn’t talk.
‘Why? Why hurt you like this?’ Brady asked.
She looked up at him and attempted to speak but nothing came out.
‘Here . . . have some water,’ Brady said, offering her the half-filled tumbler of water on the bedside cabinet.
She nodded gratefully as he gently guided the straw into her lips so she could drink.
When she was finished he put the plastic tumbler back on the bedside cabinet beside the plastic container of lukewarm water. There were no flowers or get well cards on the unit. Not that Brady had expected there to be, but for some reason the starkness still affected him.
‘Trina? What has Nick done for someone to hurt you like this?’
He had no choice but to ask, despite dreading the answer.
She looked at him. She was scared. But Brady didn’t know whether her fear was for Nick’s safety or her own.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what he’s done.’
A chill went down Brady’s spine. It was the first honest response he’d had from her.
‘But you’ve got to warn him. Warn him before he gets to him. What he did to me is nothing compared to what he said he would do to Nick.’
Brady nodded. It was the best he could do because he couldn’t guarantee he would be able to warn him. He still couldn’t get hold of him and right now, Brady wasn’t entirely sure whether that meant they’d already found Nick. And if they had . . . then . . . Brady couldn’t bring himself to think about it.
He made a move to leave. He knew he’d run out of time. Bentley was no fool. He would be timing how long Brady had been in there against the length of the recording.
Before he left there was one final question he needed to ask. He needed to be absolutely certain before he walked out.
‘The photofit. Are you absolutely certain this was not the man who attacked you?’
Without looking at him, she nodded.
‘It’s not him.’
‘What about your attacker? Clothes, smell? What about his voice – was he local?’
‘I . . . I don’t know . . . It was dark and . . . I couldn’t see him properly.’
‘Trina?’
She looked at him.
‘Did you know him?’
Brady watched as she turned her head away. But before she did there was no mistaking the fear in her eyes.
There was nothing he could do about it. No amount of persuasion was going to make her talk. Whether she actually knew her attacker was a moot point. If she did, she definitely wasn’t going to say anything. Whether it was fear for her own life or Nick’s, Brady couldn’t say.
The only detail that she did divulge troubled him. Was she playing him? Trying to throw him off the scent of who had actually attacked her? It was an easy out to simply state that her attacker looked similar to the man they were after apart from one crucial detail – his age.
Brady came out of the room and walked straight into Bentley.
He threw the tape recorder at him. Bentley caught it with ease.
‘Enjoy,’ Brady said as he walked straight past him.
‘Did she mention Madley?’
‘It’s all on the tape,’ Brady answered without turning back.
‘Did she ID the photofit?’ Bentley asked.
Brady looked at him, unable to hide his disdain. ‘No.’
‘Pity. I reckon we would’ve made a good team. Maybe she’ll open up to me when I interview her later. I’m pretty good with her sort. She lives by a different set of values. You’ve just got to give her an incentive to make her talk.’
Brady resisted the urge to wipe the smug expression off Bentley’s face. Instead, he turned his back on Bentley to leave. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.
Conrad suddenly appeared at the bottom of the corridor.
‘Thank fuck!’ Brady muttered under his breath.
‘You took your time,’ Brady said when he reached him.
Conrad was about to reply but after seeing Bentley he decided against it. He waited until they had left ICU before talking.
‘Is everything all right, sir?’
‘Couldn’t be better,’ Brady answered.
‘Did she say anything?’
‘It’s not what she said, Conrad. It’s what she didn’t say.’
Conrad frowned at Brady’s cryptic remark. But he knew not to ask what he meant. Brady would tell him in his own time – if at all.
Chapter Fifteen
It was late afternoon. Brady was keenly aware that the day hadn’t unfolded as he had planned. He was now about to go into the briefing that had been scheduled for that morning. He had let go of all thoughts of Madley and his brother, Nick. He had other things on his mind now. But what troubled Brady wasn’t what Trina McGuire had said. It was the look of fear in her eyes that had betrayed her. The question going through his mind was did she know her attacker? And if she did, why wasn’t she talking?
Brady walked into the Incident Room. It was a large bright room that could comfortably hold up to thirty officers if required. Despite the two substantial sash windows, the overhead fluorescent light was switched on to counteract the grey drizzle outside. The daylight had evaporated, replaced by a shadowy bleakness. It was October so what else did Brady expect? A large whiteboard dominated one wall. It was covered in photographs and Brady’s scrawled writing. Desk stations had been set up at one end of the room where
the team were able to sort through whatever information and leads came in. A phone rang out bleakly on one of the desks but the call was lost amongst the light-hearted banter being traded around the table. The team were relaxed – too relaxed in Brady’s mind. They were sitting drinking coffee or water around the large conference table in the centre of the room. As yet, they hadn’t noticed Brady. The atmosphere was casual as talk turned to the weekend and arrangements they had made, or were going to make. No one seemed bothered about the reason they were there. Instead they had already checked out. It was a late Friday afternoon; yet another day had slipped away and they were still no further forward with the investigation.
Brady slammed the door of the Incident Room. The banter immediately ceased. He hadn’t intended to shut it so forcefully but it had the desired effect; he now had everyone’s attention.
‘I’m sorry about the delay,’ Brady apologised as he walked over to the table. ‘I’m sure you all had better things to do than wait around for me.’
The atmosphere in the room suddenly changed. It became awkward and stifling.
Brady caught Dr Amelia Jenkins’s eye. He could tell that she knew something was wrong. After all, she had been his shrink for a while. That had been eighteen months ago when his life had unravelled, plummeting downwards at a breakneck speed. Claudia, his then wife, had caught him in bed with his junior colleague, Simone. Not that he had realised at the time. She had literally walked in and then out of his life. The following night he was shot in the thigh, too close for comfort to his balls, on an undercover drugs bust in North Shields. To say he had issues was putting it mildly. So, he was assigned the police shrink to help him get over the car wreck that his life had become.
Amelia Jenkins had spent the first six weeks after Brady had been shot trying to sort his head out. He had insisted all he needed was a couple of bottles of scotch and a divorce lawyer but she wanted to try the more professional method. In the end she gave up. She was into the ‘talking cure’ – which had become a problem given Brady’s refusal to talk.
Amelia had originally worked with the force as a forensic psychologist. But for some reason she had turned to practising clinical psychology instead. Brady presumed something had shaken her to her core. But Gates knew Amelia from old and had asked her to work on an investigation. Surprisingly, she had agreed. That had been over a year ago and she was still here.
Brady needed to talk to her. Go over Trina McGuire’s reaction to the photofit of the rapist. It didn’t make sense to him and since she was the team’s forensic psychologist he wanted her take on it. But from the evidence he had seen, Trina McGuire’s attack wasn’t the handiwork of their rapist.
Brady watched, momentarily mesmerised, as Amelia tucked her sleek, black, razor-sharp bobbed hair behind her ear. It refused to stay and obstinately fell back against her flushed cheeks. She was only in her early thirties, with a career that was going somewhere – and fast. Added to that, she had a fatal combination of intelligence and uniqueness about her. But that was what scared Brady. He was attracted to Amelia, there was no doubt about that, but at the same time he didn’t want to risk their professional relationship. Or was he making excuses? He wasn’t sure whether it was because he still had feelings for Claudia. Or maybe it was the fear that whenever something good came into his life, he inevitably destroyed it.
Amelia’s dark, almond-shaped eyes studied Brady. She frowned slightly. She knew from the look in his eye that something was wrong. Lately, she had spent a lot of time with him. Whether it was because Conrad had been off on sick leave and she had been an easy replacement, she couldn’t say. However, in that time she’d got to know him quite well. Not as well as she would have liked. But she was still hopeful that he would take her up on the drink she had suggested. That was six months ago and she was still waiting for an answer.
Brady turned from Amelia and looked around the table at the rest of his team. There was only a handful of them. But it was enough. He trusted every one of them.
His eyes fell on Tom Harvey, the oldest member of the team. He was not the kind of Detective Sergeant to waste time with small talk. Still unmarried, despite some desperate attempts, and fast approaching his late forties. He was an average looking, stocky bloke who dressed in a dark M&S suit with a pale blue shirt and matching tie. His light brown hair was cropped short in an attempt to minimise the spreading flecks of grey. His jaw was severely shaven with telling razor nicks. But he was getting old. It was hard not to notice the widening waist-line or the double chin that had developed over the last year. Harvey’s downfall, like a lot of coppers of his generation, was the pub. He liked a pint. Or if Brady was honest, Harvey liked more than one pint. He had an unquenchable thirst and a reputation for always being the last man standing at the end of a night. But Brady had known Harvey for years now and still had a lot of time for him.
His gaze drifted over to DC Kodovesky, who was sitting next to Harvey; she was the youngest member of the group and Harvey’s partner. They made a good team. A fact that still surprised him.
Kodovesky kept herself to herself. Unlike Harvey, she did not socialise with the other coppers. She was the new generation – clean-cut and career obsessed. She came in, did the job and then went home. Always the first one in and the last one out. Brady admired her dedication and determination. She knew where she wanted to be, which was sitting behind the DCI’s desk. Her long black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. She never deviated from this harsh, perfunctory look. It was the same with her clothes. Professional yet practical: a black polo neck top with black pinstriped trousers and low-heeled black boots. In all the time she had been stationed at Whitley Bay, Brady had never known Kodovesky to wear a skirt or make-up. Not that she needed either. But he knew she was making a point. After all, she was a woman in her late twenties trying to make a career for herself in a male-dominated police force. Consequently she had more to prove than her colleagues. Brady assumed this was why she always had an air of detachment about her. It was simply a case of self-preservation in a testosterone-fuelled environment. She had heard about the reason for DC Simone Henderson’s sudden transfer to the Met. They all had. And the last thing Kodovesky wanted was to repeat Henderson’s mistake. Kodovesky was too professional and too aware of the potential repercussions for her career to let herself fall foul of becoming involved with a colleague, especially a senior officer.
Brady’s eyes glanced over to Conrad, sitting opposite Kodovesky. He was very much the male version of Kodovesky, a few years on. He was clean-cut, handsome and dependable. His life was the job. So much so that Brady worried about him. Conrad kept whatever personal life he had to himself. Brady knew part of it. But that was only because he had worked with Conrad for so long. At times, private calls inevitably ended up being overheard. Brady had picked up a couple of clues about Conrad’s private life. It was enough for him not to ask about it. Better that Conrad came out and told him than to speculate. But there was no one else that Brady would have assigned to him. Conrad was Conrad and in Brady’s eyes he was irreplaceable.
Brady turned to Daniels and Kenny, the other two DCs making up the team. Both in their early thirties. Unlike Conrad and Kodovesky, they were not graduates. Nor were they focused on fast-tracking. The two of them enjoyed the job, but not enough to let it take over their lives. Their talk revolved around three subjects outside work: football, drinking and women. In that exact order. In all the time Brady had known them it had never varied. Not once. They were Geordie blokes and proud of it.
Daniels was well-built at five foot eleven – a testament to long hours at the gym. Good looking in a hard way, with his hair shaved so close to his scalp that you could only just make out that his hair was sandy blonde. He had hazel eyes that were normally filled with mirth, and a strong, determined jaw. Women liked him and he knew it and abused it.
He and Kenny were inseparable: best mates on the job, best mates off. Kenny was tall, with short, curly dark brown hair. His face with his de
ep-set, mischievous brown eyes was already heavily lined. What he lacked in looks he made up for by being a comedian. Brady would constantly find himself telling Kenny to rein it in. But he knew that Kenny’s macabre sense of humour was his way of dealing with the atrocities that they faced. Not that Kenny was unusual. Brady knew a lot of coppers and scenes of crime officers who wouldn’t miss the opportunity to come out with a sick one-liner at the expense of the deceased. But Brady was in no doubt that being a copper suited Kenny.
As it did every person on the team.
Brady was aware that no one was speaking. The air was tense. Even DC Kenny and DC Daniels were motionless. Both averting their eyes from Brady’s penetrating gaze.
As were DS Harvey and DC Kodovesky.
Even Conrad was studying his coffee.
‘All right. Who’s going to tell me what’s wrong?’
Conrad looked up at Brady.
‘You might want to take a seat,’ Conrad advised.
‘Why?’
‘It’s about Trina McGuire,’ Conrad explained.
The look on Conrad’s face was serious.
Brady took a seat, fearing the worst. ‘Go on,’ he instructed not taking his eyes off Conrad.
‘I think you should watch this first, sir,’ Conrad recommended. ‘I’ve just recorded it.’
He turned and switched on the flat screen TV against the wall.
It took a moment for Brady to register what Conrad wanted him to watch.
‘What the—’ Brady stopped himself short before adding ‘fuck’.
It was Bentley. And he was on the local five o’clock news being interviewed about the attack in North Shields the previous night.
‘What has this got to do with us?’ Brady asked as he turned on Conrad.
‘Just listen,’ Conrad advised. His tone was calm and non-combative, despite the fact that Brady probably looked as if he wanted to punch some sense into him.
‘Turn it up then,’ Brady instructed. Not that he actually wanted to hear to it. But he obviously had no choice.
He listened as Bentley gave a brief about Trina McGuire’s attack. He named the location and the approximate time of the attack. He obviously didn’t disclose the victim’s name. But he did say something that made Brady sit back, winded.
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