Blind Alley

by Danielle Ramsay

  ‘I’m looking for Jake Munroe,’ he answered.

  He had the feeling that Carl had been sent to stall them.

  ‘I’m sorry, he’s not here. I haven’t seen him today. Monday’s his day off,’ Carl replied, his voice and expression as emotionless as ever.

  The fact that two coppers had turned up in the late afternoon looking for one of their bouncers should have elicited more of a reaction. More so when it was Brady, and he had Conrad with him. There was one thing Brady never did, and that was mix business with pleasure. Not once had Brady ever brought the police to Madley’s door. Today was the exception. That in itself should have had Carl asking questions. The fact it didn’t bothered Brady.

  Munroe was here. He could feel it. He could see it in Carl’s eye.

  Brady nodded as he looked past Carl. He was certain he could see movement at the back of the nightclub. He saw a flash of daylight, which suggested someone had just opened the emergency exit door. And Brady was sure that ‘someone’ would be Jake Munroe. Whether he had been hiding out at Madley’s or Madley had promised to protect him, Brady didn’t know – nor did he care. He just had to get hold of the bastard before he disappeared – permanently. He had already let him slip through his hands once. He would be damned if he let it happen a second time.

  ‘By all means come in and wait to see if he shows. But I doubt he will,’ Carl invited, as if on cue.

  Brady turned to Conrad.

  ‘Come on, Munroe’s not here. Let’s go check out the gym he uses.’

  Conrad could see from the dark expression on Brady’s face that something was wrong. He had no idea what had happened. But he had clearly missed something.

  Brady waited until he heard Carl lock the doors behind them. He wanted to appear as casual as possible so as not to alert them to the fact that he knew Munroe had legged it out the back. The crucial question was whether he was doing a runner on foot or in Madley’s Bentley, which was always parked around the back of the club. Brady knew it would be there. After all, it was impossible not to miss Martin Madley when he was standing at the first-floor bay window watching the proceedings below.

  ‘How fast can you run, Conrad?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ answered Conrad.

  ‘Well, you’re about to find out. That bastard Munroe has slipped out the back of the club. You take the right along the Promenade and block off the back lane and I’ll go up Brook Street and block him there.’

  ‘What about assistance?’ Conrad asked.

  He didn’t like the prospect of trying to single-handedly apprehend Jake Munroe. He’d been in the interview room with Brady when Munroe was brought in at the weekend for questioning. He was a big bloke with a lot of muscle. This was muscle that Conrad had watched Munroe using without remorse on Eddie Jones. When he had finished with the drug dealer not even his own mother would have been able to identify him.

  But if Conrad was waiting for a response from Brady it wasn’t going to happen. Brady had already started running – and fast. Conrad steeled himself and then followed his boss’s lead and headed as fast as could in the opposite direction.

  Panting, he ignored his burning lungs as he sprinted round the corner of the Promenade up Ocean View. He then sped as fast as he could along the alley behind the Blue Lagoon nightclub.

  ‘Shit!’ he cursed.

  Brady already had Munroe. Or to be precise, Munroe had Brady.

  Conrad pulled out his radio and somehow managed to call for assistance in between gasping for air. There was so much adrenalin coursing through his body that he couldn’t feel the pain in his shoulder. That would hit him later. His only focus was getting to Brady before Munroe finished him off.

  Munroe didn’t have time to raise his fist again. Conrad came in from behind with a rugby tackle. The force of Conrad’s weight succeeded in throwing the brute off-balance.

  Brady, who was already on the ground, took his chance and kicked out at Munroe’s legs. It was enough. Munroe had no other option. He fell, face down.

  ‘Cuff him!’ ordered Brady as he pulled himself up. ‘Bastard’s under arrest!’

  Conrad didn’t need to be told. He was taking no chances. He already had the cuffs on Munroe and was busy reading him his rights. Not that he had any rights, lying face down in the gutter with Brady’s foot pressed on the back of his thick bald head.

  It took all of Brady’s inner strength not to raise his leg and bring his heavy black boot smashing back down against Munroe’s skull. Brady had to remind himself that was what made them so different. Munroe didn’t know when to stop.

  Whereas Brady did.

  ‘They’re too tight, you fucking shit!’ groaned Munroe as he attempted to raise his head. ‘It’s cutting my fucking wrists in two. And fucking get off my head you bastards! I can’t breathe!’

  Conrad’s response was to give him a hard kick to silence him.

  ‘Looks like my bad behaviour is rubbing off on you,’ Brady said, attempting to give Conrad a wry smile. But his jaw resisted.

  ‘Fuck!’ he cursed as he raised his hand to it. ‘I think that bastard’s tried to break my jaw!’

  Brady tried to move it but the pain made it impossible.

  ‘Give him another fucking kick from me, will you? His balls would be a good place to start!’

  But before Conrad had a chance to see whether Brady was actually serious, back-up arrived, blocking off both ends of the alley.

  Brady took his boot off the suspect’s head and stepped back. He knew it wouldn’t look good. Despite the fact that Brady’s face felt as if it had been rammed repeatedly against an iron girder, he couldn’t be seen roughing Munroe up.

  ‘Fucking typical! Too little too late. Where are the police when you need them, eh?’ Brady joked as sirens screeched and officers scrambled to their aid.

  ‘Thanks by the way,’ Brady said as he took the pack of tissues from Conrad.

  Brady took one out and dabbed at the cut above his eye.

  He looked at Conrad.

  ‘You know? For saving my arse just now. If you hadn’t turned up, fuck knows what would have happened.’

  Conrad didn’t say anything.

  Instead he watched as Munroe was dragged to his feet by two burly officers. Even they struggled between them to get the lout to stop resisting arrest.

  ‘So, where did you learn to tackle someone like that?’ Brady asked.

  ‘Rugby, sir. Played for my school team and then at University,’ Conrad answered as he made a point of watching Munroe.

  Brady knew that Conrad didn’t like to mention his background. Brady had no idea why that was. But then again, Conrad was not the only one who didn’t like to talk about his background. Brady had spent years trying to put as much distance as possible between his present life and his former existence; with one exception – Martin Madley.

  Brady looked at Munroe. What troubled him was that this guy worked for Madley. As if reading Brady’s mind Munroe shot him a menacing smile, or a grimace to be exact. His small eyes were filled with malicious intent.

  ‘This is just the beginning, Jack Brady. Mark my words,’ Munroe shouted out.

  ‘Fuck you!’ Brady replied as he held Munroe’s glare. It made his stomach turn to hear Munroe dare speak his name.

  Brady turned to walk away. He had wasted enough energy on the ugly scrote without listening to any more of Munroe’s bile. There would be plenty of time for that when he interviewed him back at the station.

  ‘You see this? Eh? You see this fucking scar?’ Munroe asked as he attempted to bend his head down. The two officers on either side of him yanked him backwards, bringing his head level with Brady’s.

  Munroe flashed him a cold, insincere smile.

  ‘There’ll be payback, Brady. Fucking payback!’

  Brady gestured to the two officers restraining him to get him out of sight. He had no idea what Munroe was talking about.

  Conrad turned to Brady.

  ‘What did he mean, sir?�
� Conrad asked, frowning.

  Brady shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  Conrad didn’t look convinced. Not that Brady was bothered. He had more important problems than appeasing his deputy. He was worried. Worried that Munroe had something on him. Or on Nick. After all, Johnny Slaughter had accused Nick of fucking him over – as had Madley. Munroe had worked for both men. Coincidence? Brady seriously doubted it.

  ‘Come on. I need to get cleaned up first. Then we’ll see what Munroe has to say about Eddie Jones.’

  Brady automatically looked over at the back of the Blue Lagoon. Madley’s flash Bentley was parked up. He cast his eyes on the personalised number plate: MAD 1.

  Madley was someone not to be messed with. But he’d given Brady no choice.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Eddie Jones’ murder had now taken precedence over the serial rape investigation. Brady had spent the last two hours updating his team and issuing orders. He was going to nail Munroe’s bollocks to the interview chair. But he wanted word back from the lab that Munroe’s boots matched the prints Ainsworth’s team had found. He also needed DNA evidence. Brady was in no doubt that part of Eddie Jones’ face was entrenched in the grooves of Munroe’s size eleven boots. Ordinarily lab reports could take weeks to come through. But Gates had ordered this evidence to be examined ASAP – regardless of expense. Northumbria’s forensic laboratory no longer existed so it wasn’t as if Brady could lean heavily on someone in the force. The work was now outsourced. It was another ingenious way of cutting costs.

  Brady was also waiting for word back from Jed. They had Munroe’s mobile phone and Brady needed to know whether the footage had been filmed on it and if so, whether he’d used it to upload the film. Jed also had Munroe’s computer to examine.

  ‘Sir?’ Conrad said as he stuck his head round the door.

  Brady looked up from his desk. He had been familiarising himself with Munroe’s police reports. If he was honest, he was searching for something, anything, that could explain Munroe’s threat. Whether the threat was from Madley or Johnny Slaughter, Brady had no idea. But he knew he couldn’t bring this up in the interview.

  ‘Dora in the canteen gave me this for you,’ Conrad said as he walked over to Brady’s desk. He was holding a bag of ice wrapped in one of the canteen’s tea towels.

  ‘How the hell did she know what had happened?’ Brady asked as he took the ice pack.

  He placed it against the left side of his jaw. For some reason Munroe had taken exception to that side of Brady’s face. ‘Fuck!’ he cursed under his breath at the pain.

  ‘You ought to get that seen to, sir,’ Conrad suggested as he looked at Brady’s bruised and swollen face. But it was the jaw that worried him. It had taken quite a few blows.

  ‘Which part?’ Brady questioned, attempting to laugh. He quickly regretted it. ‘Fuck, that hurts!’

  ‘My point, sir. I can take you up to A&E if you want? We’ve got time before the interview.’

  ‘Do I look like I’ve got four hours to waste hanging around some Jeremy Kyle-style waiting room while half the scrotes who’ve been drinking all weekend drag themselves in to have an emergency liver transplant and shards of broken glass removed from their eyeballs?’

  Conrad had forgotten that it was Monday. The weekend had passed in a blur. Half the population would have spent last night drinking in Tynemouth Front Street and down Whitley Bay’s South Parade and the Promenade. It was a local tradition to get as bladdered as possible and sustain it over a period of three nights. Whatever happened in between would be stitched up or pumped out at Rake Lane hospital.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve taken worse,’ Brady assured Conrad.

  However, even after a couple of prescription painkillers that he had saved from when he’d been recovering from the gunshot wound to his leg, it still hurt to move his jaw. The cut above his eye had eased. Brady had spent some time cleaning himself up in the station’s Gents. Not the ideal place to deal with open wounds but it was better than nothing. It had stopped bleeding. That was good enough for Brady.

  After the knocks and blows he’d received from his old man when he was growing up, Munroe’s fist in his face was nothing more than an embarrassment.

  But Brady’s face was the least of his problems right now. He had something bigger and uglier to worry about – interviewing Jake Munroe.

  Brady’s mobile began to vibrate. He picked it up half-expecting another anonymous email from ‘a concerned friend’. But this was not an email. Someone was calling him.

  ‘Conrad, give me ten minutes?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered.

  ‘And chase up that bloody lab, will you? Gates has paid through the nose for them to expedite that evidence. Tell them I needed it yesterday!’

  Conrad nodded and then turned and headed for the door.

  Brady waited until the door was closed before answering the call.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’

  ‘Come on, Jack. After what I gave you, this is how you talk to me?’

  ‘What? A scathing front page attack inciting public hysteria?’

  Rubenfeld laughed. It was a deep, throaty, gurgling laugh.

  Brady cut the line.

  ‘Fuck you!’ he muttered.

  His phone started buzzing again. Rubenfeld.

  ‘Come on, Jack? What’s your problem?’

  ‘You!’ Brady answered.

  He was about to hang up but Rubenfeld knew how to keep Brady interested.

  ‘What did you think of the “YouTube Murderer” then?’

  ‘What?’ Brady asked as his mind raced to think how Rubenfeld could have possibly got hold of this information.

  Admittedly it had gone viral. But as yet, the public didn’t know that the police had the offender in custody. DCI Gates was still arranging the Press Call. As the Senior Investigating Officer in charge of the investigation, it should have been Brady’s Press Call. However, no amount of make-up could hide the mess that was his face. Gates had been quite sympathetic regarding Brady’s injuries. After all, he had sustained them apprehending a suspect. But Gates had explained in no uncertain terms that the state of Brady’s face would do more harm than good when it came to public confidence. Considering the dire outcome of the rape investigation, Gates wanted to use Munroe’s arrest as a decoy. The press had been baying for blood for some time now. They had a serial rapist on the streets and so far, the police had no concrete leads. Gates was now going to do some damage control and throw them Jake Munroe.

  It could work.

  So what the fuck did Rubenfeld want from him?

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Brady replied.

  ‘I sent it to you, Jack. I thought you would have realised by now.’

  ‘So why be cryptic with the “concerned friend” crap? You’re only concerned about who’s buying the next round.’

  ‘Had to be careful. I can’t use my work or personal email. So I sent it to you from one of those anonymous pay-as-you-go email accounts. There’s a place in Northumberland Street in Newcastle if you ever need to use one,’ Rubenfeld replied.

  Brady wasn’t interested in how Rubenfeld got his grubby hands on the footage or why he was acting as if MI5 were watching him. Nothing surprised him where Rubenfeld was concerned. Rubenfeld was always out for what he get could; either the big scoop that would make him, or the next best thing – alcohol and lots of it. If he had stepped on someone’s toes on the way, that was his problem. Not Brady’s.

  ‘Thanks, but that was yesterday’s news. No longer relevant,’ Brady replied. It was cutting and to the point.

  ‘Not so, my friend. I have something else that you might want. It’s connected to the attack on that prossie on Thursday night?’

  Brady didn’t reply. How the hell had he found out that the victim was a prostitute? Brady decided he was better off not knowing.

  ‘Why don’t you inform DI Bentley of what you have? Surely you know he’s the SIO in charge of that
investigation? You have your ear to the ground and your nose in the shit!’

  ‘Come on, Jack. That article last Thursday didn’t hurt your feelings did it? I thought you were made of tougher stuff than that,’ Rubenfeld stated.

  ‘Like I said, try Bentley.’

  ‘Bentley’s a fucking arse and you know it!’

  Brady listened as Rubenfeld took a much-needed drink. He assumed he was in the pub. Exactly where Brady would have been if he had a choice.

  ‘Come on, it’s getting late and I’ve still got a hell of a lot to get through before the day disappears on me.’

  ‘All right, Jack. I hear you. Look, I’m sending you a little something. You’ll make better use of it than Bentley. That bloke doesn’t know his arse from his elbow!’

  ‘What do you get out of this?’ Brady asked before Rubenfeld hung up.

  ‘The biggest story of my career and a one-way ticket out of this shithole.’

  With that, Rubenfeld was gone.

  Brady placed his mobile phone down on the desk.

  He didn’t have the time or inclination for Rubenfeld’s games. He had a murder suspect to interview.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  But Brady didn’t get very far. In fact, he didn’t even manage to get up from his desk before another email came in. Again from ‘a concerned friend’ – Rubenfeld.

  He reluctantly opened the email. Again there was a web link. The title of this one was ‘YouTube Rapist’.

  Brady braced himself for the worst. He clicked on the link and waited. He watched in disgust and repulsion as the film proved to be very much in keeping with its title.

  He could feel his stomach contracting at the sadistic, violent scene being played out in front of him. Despite every inch of his body wanting to turn away, he forced himself to watch it to the end. This was personal. Too personal.

  When it had finished he had no choice but to make his way to the Gents. Checking it was empty, he locked himself in a cubicle and proceeded to vomit up whatever contents he had in his stomach until there was nothing left but gut-wrenching bile. He waited a moment, body bent over the cracked bowl to make sure he’d got it out of his system. Tears were burning his eyes. He put it down to the force of the vomit coming up his throat rather than admitting the truth; that it hurt. It hurt so bad that he wanted to punch something – someone. He wanted to keep punching until the pain stopped.