‘Rewind it! I said rewind it, Conrad!’ barked Brady.
He was trying to control the anger coursing through his body as it rewound, aware that all eyes were on him.
Conrad pressed play and waited.
‘We are looking into the possibility that this attack might be connected to a series of sexual attacks that have taken place in Whitley Bay over the last two months. Obviously we are treating this very seriously and are liaising with the investigating team dealing with the previous rapes.’ Bentley paused for effect as he looked straight into the camera.
Brady felt for a moment as if Bentley was looking straight at him. Mocking him.
He cleared his throat before continuing: ‘A silver saloon taxi stopped briefly outside the Ballarat pub. He waited for a minute or so before driving off down Borough Road. This was witnessed by our victim at approximately at ten thirty p.m. yesterday evening. Shortly afterwards she was subjected to a brutal and violent sexual attack in which she has sustained significant injuries. This taxi driver might have seen something that could help with our enquiries and we would appreciate it if he could come forward. If anyone has any information please contact my team at—’
‘All right, switch it off,’ Brady ordered. He had seen more than enough.
Conrad did as instructed.
‘When did you find out about this?’ Brady asked.
He was pissed off. Brady did not like being the last to be informed. More so since he was the SIO in charge of the team.
‘I just got a call five minutes ago about it,’ Conrad answered sheepishly. ‘Otherwise I would have told you in private, sir.’
Brady sat back in his seat. He couldn’t believe what Bentley had just done. He had no authority to make such a statement. Let alone to make it public. He tried to compose himself. He had no choice. He had a team of people sitting here waiting for his take on Bentley’s public territorial pissing.
‘I don’t know what the fuck Bentley is playing at, but our rapist didn’t attack Trina McGuire,’ Brady said. It was an honest statement and he believed it.
But he could tell from the reaction on his team’s faces that they weren’t so sure. Brady had to accept that Bentley was very convincing. He was a charismatic speaker – not that Brady had personally experienced it – and he used his charm arsenal, in particular his expressive, startling, bright blue eyes to great effect. The stylish suit, the strong, trustworthy, handsome features and the deep, slow voice worked a treat. At least it had done on Brady’s team. And if Bentley had convinced them that Trina McGuire had been raped and assaulted by the same person they were supposed to be tracking down, who knows what the public, let alone Brady’s superiors would make of it. In particular, DCI Gates.
Chapter Sixteen
Brady pushed his chair back and stood up. He was too agitated, too wound up to remain seated. He got up and walked over to the whiteboard. Details of all three rape victims were laid out bare. Brady cast his eye over the victims’ oblivious, smiling faces. He then studied the photographs of the crime scenes where the first two girls had been raped.
The first victim, Sarah Jeffries, had recently returned from a three-month trip travelling across Thailand, Indonesia and Australia. She was a petite girl for nineteen with no weight to her. Whether she was naturally underweight or travelling had taken its toll on her body, Brady wasn’t sure. But he knew one thing – she was the ideal first victim. They knew from all three victims’ statements that the rapist was tall, at least six foot, and muscular. Sarah Jeffries’ small-framed body didn’t stand a chance. But if there was one small mercy, at least she was the first victim, which meant that she didn’t suffer the extent of injuries endured by the following victims.
The rapist had seized his opportunity as she had drunkenly made her way home at 3:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning after clubbing in Whitley. For whatever reason she had ended up walking home alone. It was as she had turned up by the boarded-up eighties pub, Whiskey Bends, that he had grabbed her and dragged her into the back alley behind the disused building. It was the ideal location to attack someone – dark and deserted. He had bound, gagged and blindfolded her before raping her. He had then stabbed her nine times in her breasts.
Sarah Jeffries, like Anna Lewis, was certain that she had not heard a car. She was convinced he had followed her on foot and had waited until she was walking past Whiskey Bends before making his presence known.
The latest that Brady had heard was that Sarah Jeffries had quit her job as a trainee hairdresser. She was nineteen and terrified. Her life had stopped. Brady hoped that it was only temporary. But he knew that the only way he could help her was to catch the bastard that had destroyed her life.
It was not until the second victim had been attacked five weeks later that they realised they had a serial rapist on the loose. Same MO but the violence had radically escalated. Anna Lewis’ attack had lasted substantially longer and was more brutal than the first. She had been assaulted during the early hours of a Sunday morning as she had been walking along the Promenade towards Cullercoats after a night out celebrating a friend’s birthday in Whitley Bay. By her own admission she had been drunk. Too drunk to realise what was about to happen. It was as she walked through the unused car park of the abandoned High Point Hotel, a short cut home she had taken countless times before, that the rapist had attacked. At 3:30 a.m. he was guaranteed no witnesses. He had overpowered the tall, heavily built twenty-three-year-old and dragged her round to the back of the deserted building. It was in the shadows, hidden from passers-by or prying residents, that he had raped and mutilated her. This time he had not only repeatedly stabbed his victim through both her breasts, he had also taken with him a trophy. A souvenir to remind him of her – her right nipple and the skin surrounding it.
He had left her tied, bound and blindfolded. Bleeding profusely and in shock, she had somehow made her way out from the back of the empty hotel grounds in an attempt to get help. Luckily, an early morning jogger had found her. Once she was discharged from hospital, Anna Lewis’ parents had insisted on her staying with them for the foreseeable future until the police had caught the man responsible. Not that Brady could blame them. They had relocated to the Outer Hebrides to get away from the crime-ridden streets of the North-East. Anna, who had been training as a legal secretary, had chosen to remain behind. Now that choice had been taken from her.
Then there was Chloe Winters. To date she was the third and, if Brady had anything to do with it, the last. He had made a promise to all three victims that he would catch the serial rapist. But it was Chloe Winters who had really affected him. What had happened to her was horrific. Beyond anything he had ever seen. And he never wanted to see anything like it again.
Brady glanced at the photographs of the alley where the third victim had been found. Her unconscious and badly mutilated body had been dumped unceremoniously in the back lane behind the eyesore that was the dilapidated and unused Avenue pub.
Details of each victimology had been scrawled on the board. Nothing tied the three victims together. The first victim was petite with medium length curly blonde hair, the second tall, heavy set with short, spiky black hair. Then there was Chloe Winters, medium height and build with long, straight dark blonde hair. It wasn’t even as if they all had tattoos. Chloe Winters was the only victim to have one. As far as Brady could make out they were not a ‘type’ – all very different from one another. Apart from their age. All three victims were comparatively young. If he did have a ‘type’ then that was it.
They still had no idea where the rapist had held Chloe Winters captive for over forty-eight hours. This troubled Brady. He had somewhere to hide her. She would have screamed out in pain when he tortured her. So why had no one heard anything?
His eyes rested on Winters’ breast where the rapist had carved out her intricate tattoo. It had been a labour of love, leaving a startling outline of a wolf’s head and wide, roaring teeth where her skin should have been. It was sadism, not the personal rag
e and anger that had been meted out against Trina McGuire.
So why had Bentley put his neck on the line by claiming there could be a connection between Brady’s case and Trina McGuire’s? It was clear to even the untrained eye that the same hand wasn’t responsible for removing the skin from Trina McGuire’s wrist. Her attacker had followed to the letter the article written by Rubenfeld. The Northern Echo had reported that the third rape victim had had a tattoo on her body cut out, which had left her requiring extensive skin grafts. But what the article didn’t mention was the fact that the offender had actually spent time cutting out the outline of the wolf’s head and not just hurriedly slicing the skin around the tattoo, which is what had happened to Trina McGuire.
Brady’s thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a cacophony of ringing as Conrad’s mobile rang at the same time as two of the phones on the desks began to screech shrilly.
‘Answer it,’ Brady instructed.
Conrad looked at him. He was unsure which phone Brady wanted silencing.
‘The one in your hand, Conrad.’
He then turned to Kenny and Daniels. ‘You two, take those calls. Whoever it is, tell them you’ll get back to them later and bloody get those phones redirected through to the front desk. You should know to do that when we have a briefing.’
‘Sorry sir,’ Kenny answered as he scrambled to his feet.
He was quickly followed by Daniels who hared over to his desk.
Brady dragged a hand back through his hair. His head felt as if it was going to explode. The headache from earlier that morning had returned with a vengeance as his mind struggled with the implications of Bentley’s public revelation.
Had Trina McGuire identified her attacker from the photofit they had of the Whitley Bay rapist? If so, why hadn’t she identified him when Brady showed her the image? It didn’t make sense. None of this made any sense.
Brady watched Conrad’s expression become taut as he listened to the voice on the other end of his phone.
‘Yes, sir,’ he answered. ‘No, sir. Yes . . . Yes, let me see if I can get hold of him.’ He put his phone on mute before turning to Brady.
‘Sir? It’s Bentley.’
‘Tell him I’m busy. If he wanted to talk to me he should have done it before he decided to tell the world we don’t know what the fuck we are doing!’
Kodovesky and Harvey suddenly busied themselves with various files in front of them. Even Amelia made a point of checking her emails on her phone.
Conrad’s jaw was clenched tight as he looked at Brady.
‘Sir?’ he asked.
‘Actually, give me the phone,’ Brady said. ‘I’ll do it myself!’
Conrad resisted the order. The last thing he wanted was for Brady to lose his head and consequently his job. This was exactly what Bentley wanted. Brady had walked all over Bentley’s investigation and now it was payback.
‘Phone. Now!’
‘I don’t think—’
‘I’m not asking you to think, Conrad. I am asking you to do as I ordered.’
Brady put out his hand for the phone.
Conrad reluctantly handed it over.
‘How do I work this bloody thing?’
‘You press that button there, sir. Takes it off mute,’ Conrad instructed as he shot Amelia Jenkins a look that implied he needed her to intervene before Brady did something he would regret.
‘Jack? Let me deal with this,’ Amelia suggested.
Brady’s face said it all.
‘Please? I need to request all the forensic reports and statements anyway. And I am the forensic psychologist on this investigation so if DI Bentley has any questions concerning our offender I’m sure I can be of assistance. And equally, I think it would be a good idea if I give him my opinion on Trina McGuire’s attacker.’
‘A little bit late for that, don’t you think?’ Brady pointed out, unable to keep the caustic tone out of his voice.
‘Maybe not. At least, let me try,’ she said, getting up from the table and walking over to him.
Brady resisted but he could see from her expression that Amelia was not going to back down. Dr Amelia Jenkins had a way of getting to him. She had a knack of looking too deeply into his eyes and searching – for what, he didn’t know. But she was doing that now. That was partly why he had never looked directly at her when they had had their shrink sessions eighteen months before.
‘Jack?’ she prompted. Her brown eyes held his stubborn gaze.
‘Fine. Do it your way.’
He handed the phone over.
Her dark red lips broke into a smile. ‘Thanks.’
She turned her back on Brady and headed for the door.
He watched her as she walked away from him. She was wearing one of his favourite outfits – a light-grey cashmere fifties-style dress. She wore it with a thick black belt that accentuated her narrow waist and full hips. Even her black high heels had been chosen with care to perfect her look.
‘Yes. Hello, DI Bentley? This is Dr Jenkins.’ She paused as she listened to his response. ‘No. I’m afraid that DI Brady is tied up right now. But I’m really pleased I’ve got the chance to talk to you . . . Yes . . . Yes—’ Amelia’s charming, professional voice disappeared as she walked out into the corridor.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Conrad apologised once Amelia had closed the door to the room.
‘Forget it, Conrad.’
‘No, I should have known about the turn Bentley’s investigation had taken before he went to the press.’
Brady gave him a half-hearted smile.
‘Conrad, you’ve just got back from sick leave for Christ’s sake. This is my problem. All right? I’ve just got to figure out how to deal with it – without losing my temper!’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Conrad, relieved that there was no bad feeling between them. He still felt responsible for suggesting to Brady that there could be a connection between Bentley’s rape victim and their case. He agreed with Brady that? Trina McGuire’s attack only bore a crude resemblance to their serial rapist’s handiwork. There were too many inconsistencies for it to be the same offender. He was now worried that Bentley was just out to cause trouble for Brady. After all, hadn’t Brady walked into Bentley’s case without authorisation? Maybe this was Bentley’s way of paying Brady back.
Chapter Seventeen
It was Amelia Jenkins who broke the silence.
‘That’s sorted. DI Bentley will be sending everything he has on Trina McGuire’s case ASAP,’ she said as she came back into the room.
It took her by surprise that no one was talking.
She gave Brady a questioning look.
He ignored it.
Amelia sat back down opposite him.
‘Did he say what led him to believe that Trina McGuire’s attack could be connected to ours?’ Brady asked, curtailing the cynicism in his voice.
Amelia nodded, surprised by his cold, interrogative tone. ‘Same MO,’ she answered as casually as possible.
‘Says who?’ Brady said, unable to keep the incredulity from his voice.
‘Bentley.’
‘That about sums it up then.’
‘He did say that he tried calling you this afternoon to run this past you but couldn’t get hold of you,’ Amelia said. ‘He was profoundly apologetic about you hearing about this second-hand so to speak.’
Brady’s expression told her he didn’t buy it – not for one second. He knew she was trying to smooth things over between him and Bentley. But it was too late for that.
‘Did Bentley say if McGuire positively identified her attacker from the photofit of our rapist?’ Brady asked.
He needed to know what Trina’s game was – if any.
‘I did ask him that,’ Amelia replied, refusing to drop eye contact with him. Despite the unusual sternness in his eyes. ‘He said Trina McGuire stated that her attacker looked similar to the suspect in the photofit.’
‘And that was good enough for Bentley to go on the news and sugge
st that she’s been raped by the same man who’s attacked three women in Whitley Bay?’
‘That, and the MO,’ Amelia reminded him. ‘But remember, Bentley never actually committed himself. He just said there’s a possibility it could be the same offender.’
‘Yeah, how could I forget that crucial detail? Maybe the same way Bentley crucially forgot our serial rapist’s MO. Whatever fancy way Bentley tries to dress it up, Trina McGuire’s injuries are very different from the ones sustained by our three victims.’
He knew he was being belligerent, but he couldn’t help himself.
So, Bentley, what the fuck happened to pinning Trina McGuire’s attack on Madley?
Brady couldn’t figure it out. He knew he was being played. But to what end?
Amelia studied him.
As did the rest of the team. The spat between the forensic psychologist and their boss had not gone unnoticed.
‘Why are you so convinced it’s not the same offender?’ Amelia asked.
Her voice was as level and calm as always. Nothing seemed to unnerve her. Not even witnessing Brady acting in this way.
‘How long have you got?’ Brady asked as he looked her in the eye.
She held his gaze, her eyes filled with genuine concern.
Brady wasn’t sure whether the concern was for him or the team. Nobody knew at that moment whether the case would suddenly be assigned to Bentley’s team at North Shields station. After all, he had been the one to make a very public press release.
‘All night, if need be,’ Amelia answered. And she meant it.
She turned to the rest of the team. ‘I don’t know what the rest of you think, but I’m prepared to work through this until we have something more conclusive.’
No one voiced an objection, but Brady was certain that inwardly they would be cursing the sudden loss of their Friday night. Their shift was supposed to end at 6:00 p.m. Exactly the time the briefing was scheduled to conclude. Not that Brady would have been clocking off then. He already had plans to stay most of the night to go over the victim statements and forensic reports to see if he’d missed anything. But the difference was that he was the acting officer and as such, it was expected that he put in over and above the hours detailed in his contract.
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