Blind Alley

by Danielle Ramsay

  Brady suddenly pulled off the Links Road and headed towards St Mary’s lighthouse. He parked the car and cut the engine.

  Why the fuck here of all places? Why come here?

  But Brady knew the answer.

  When he was a kid, he and Martin and Nick would skip school and spend tireless days down here. They would mess around in the rock pools, on the beach and race along the causeway from the lighthouse to the mainland trying to outrun the incoming tide. Brady had had a dark childhood. His memories of this place were the few happy ones he had.

  So why does being here hurt so much?

  Brady tried to silence his mind by turning his attention to St Mary’s lighthouse. It was now a major tourist attraction for the small seaside resort. It was a leisurely stroll down from Feathers caravan site; still a popular destination with the Scots for their annual fortnight holiday, just as it had been since the fifties. The two council-owned car parks at St Mary’s were positioned to take in the breathtaking curve of beach and cliffs that was Whitley Bay.

  Brady looked straight ahead. The beauty of the place was lost on him. He couldn’t see it.

  He sighed heavily.

  He had never contemplated leaving this place. Until now.

  Maybe it was time for him to get out?

  Brady sat back and thought about everything that had happened. It looked like he could be in line for a promotion. So why didn’t he feel good about it? It was simple. He hadn’t really solved Eddie Jones’ murder or Trina McGuire’s rape. Jake Munroe had effectively handed himself in. Was the end goal really to kill Ronnie Macmillan?

  Brady couldn’t even report what Jimmy Matthews had witnessed. If he did, he would be signing Matthews’s death warrant. And Jimmy Matthews meant a fuck more to him than the likes of Ronnie Macmillan. The gangster had it coming as far as Brady was concerned. As for Jake Munroe, he was already banged up in a maximum security prison. What more could they do?

  He spent the next two hours watching the dots of lights along the curve of the Promenade. He had ignored the cars that pulled in with their headlights flashing. St Mary’s lighthouse was a local dogging spot. Not that the Tourist Information centre listed it as such. But it was well known amongst the locals that St Mary’s and Gosforth park in Gosforth, a sought-after suburb outside Newcastle, catered for the non-dog walkers late at night.

  Brady checked his mobile. It was 11:33 p.m. It was time to call it quits. He turned the engine of his black 1978 Ford Granada 2.8i Ghia. It growled in response. A deep, seductive reassuring noise. The car had been bought as a project. But it was Nick who had restored it, not Brady. Nick had been able to fix things since he was a young child. It had been a shell when they’d bought it nearly eleven years ago, but it was Nick’s time and endurance that had rebuilt it to beyond its former glory.

  At this moment it felt like the only connection he had with Nick was the car. He still couldn’t get hold of him. He was starting to get worried now. After the spree of killings, Brady feared the worst.

  He cast a glance back at St Mary’s lighthouse. It looked serene, ghostly even; pale white against the blackness of the horizon. He put the car in first and pulled away in an attempt to leave his past behind in the rear view mirror.

  Brady found himself back at the station. He couldn’t stomach the idea of going home, where he would be tormented with thoughts about whether Nick was dead or alive. Or worse, being held captive and tortured. He couldn’t exactly turn to Madley. Brady assumed that when Madley had rung to tell him about Ronnie Macmillan, it was his subtle way of telling Brady that Nick was next.

  Brady had his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands as he looked at the files in front of him. Anything to take his mind off what had happened in the past thirty-six hours.

  He sighed.

  Why was he doing this? Gates had pointedly told him to steer clear. That Gates had forgotten about the Lee Harris debacle and so should Brady. In other words, forget him as a suspect. So why could Brady not accept his boss’s advice?

  Because he’s wrong. That’s why.

  Brady picked up his mug and took a mouthful of scotch. It may have been cheap, nasty shit but it did the job. He took another slug before putting the mug down.

  He looked at the files again. It was staring him in the face. He knew it so why couldn’t he see it?

  He couldn’t ignore his gut feeling about Lee Harris. He fitted Amelia Jenkins’s profile, aside from having had no prior convictions. But why did that jar with him? He felt as if Lee Harris was leading the police, or to be more specific, Brady, down a blind alley. He couldn’t put his finger on why he felt Harris was not who he claimed to be.

  Brady looked at the facts in front of him. Hazel Edwards had driven the suspect’s car. Lee Harris was still a suspect in Brady’s eyes – regardless of Gates. The taxi driver had said that Lee Harris told her to park the car on Marine Avenue, outside his flat, and to post the keys through the door when she’d finished her shift. She claimed to have ended her shift half an hour before the CCTV footage had caught the silver Passat pulling up to talk to Chloe Winters. Neither DCI Gates nor DI Adamson had queried this statement. The fact that Lee Harris’ fiancée had given him an alibi was enough. They had simply assumed that Hazel Edwards had got the time wrong. There was no need for another explanation. But if there was one thing Brady had learned in the job, it was not to assume. It was a dangerous tactic.

  Brady thought about it. If Lee Harris hadn’t been in Paris the night of the first attack, Brady would have suggested that he had used Hazel Edwards as a foil. That he had picked up the car keys while his girlfriend was sleeping and sneaked out.

  It’s not possible. He was in Paris that first night. Or was he?

  But Conrad had checked it out.

  Then it hit Brady. Conrad said that he had delegated the job to either Daniels or Kenny. He couldn’t remember which one. Not that it mattered. Both could be equally useless at times.

  What the fuck were you thinking Conrad?

  Brady picked up his mobile. He searched for Conrad’s number and pressed call.

  It took Brady calling twice before Conrad picked up.

  ‘Sir?’ mumbled a bleary voice.

  ‘Conrad, I need you here now!’ ordered Brady.

  ‘Where?’ questioned Conrad, not fully awake.

  Brady heard a voice in the background. He didn’t ask.

  ‘My office.’

  He listened as Conrad covered the mouthpiece and mumbled something.

  ‘Sir? You do know it’s three a.m.?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Nothing. Right, I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ Conrad answered.

  ‘Now would be preferable.’

  Brady hung up.

  He cradled his head in his hands as he thought about the possibility that they had let the suspect slip through their hands.

  Where the fuck did he take you, Chloe?

  It felt as if the answers were slotting slowly into place. Brady could feel it.

  Chloe Winters had said that when she’d been held captive he had raped and tortured her over a period of hours. At some point she had passed out. When she came to he wasn’t there. He didn’t return for what felt like days. She had said that she’d been terrified that she would die in the dark, boarded-up room chained to the floor like an animal. When he finally returned, it was dark again. He had blindfolded her and raped her – repeatedly. That was all she remembered. Her next memory was waking up in hospital.

  Brady sighed heavily. He took another drink as he thought through the facts.

  What stood out was the fact that the suspect had left her for a significant period of time. Abducted on Saturday after 3:00 a.m.; tortured for hours; then he disappears. She’s left. But for how long? Chloe Winters was sure it was for days. But in reality it could only have been forty-eight hours. Because Chloe Winters was found on Monday at 6:10 a.m.

  What was so important that he left her for so long?

  Brady thou
ght about it. His fiancée was ill and had taken a turn for the worse on the Saturday. It was Harris who had called out the emergency doctor. It was obvious he wouldn’t have left Lisa Sanderson, which would account for Chloe Winters being left alone for so long. Brady was sure that Harris hadn’t expected his fiancée to become as ill as she had. The more he ran it through his mind the more convinced he was that Lee Harris had abducted Chloe Winters. He had then left her for a day before returning. He raped and tortured her again until she passed out. Then he dumped her naked body.

  The crucial question was how did he manage to attack the first victim if he was in Paris for the weekend?

  But Brady knew the answer – it was just proving it that was the difficult part. And that was why he had called Conrad in, regardless of the hour.

  He was certain that Lee Harris had abducted Chloe Winters. That he had pulled over as witnessed on the CCTV footage and asked her to get in his car. She refused. He then followed her. He took her somewhere isolated. It had to be, otherwise he wouldn’t have taken his chances and left her for hours before returning.

  Brady had wanted to get Lee Harris’ car impounded and forensically examined when he had been brought in for questioning. But his request had been denied by Gates. He had wanted something more conclusive than a hunch of Brady’s before he applied for a warrant. Brady was certain that if there had been any DNA evidence linking Chloe Winters to the car, it would now be gone. Harris wasn’t stupid. He would have had the car thoroughly cleaned inside and out. Whether he would have got rid of all the DNA evidence was a moot point. Brady had no reason to bring him back in. At least not yet. But the maths was simple. The victim had to have been driven somewhere when she had been abducted. And then driven back fifty-odd hours later. The silver Passat saloon was crucial.

  Brady had already run a background check on Lee Harris. He didn’t own any properties, nor did he rent a place to take the victim. A lock-up garage or workshop would have been ideal. But nothing was in Harris’ name. At least, not that Brady could find.

  When Chloe Winters had said that she’d been abducted near Brook Street, just off the Promenade, Brady had ordered all the derelict buildings in the area searched. It made sense. Chloe Winters had described the room that she had been held in as boarded up and derelict. Aside from the suspect she had heard nobody else. No dogs barking, people walking past – nothing. Apart from cars in the distance.

  The old, derelict Avenue pub, which had been a Victorian hotel in its heyday, had been searched. Nothing. Brady had then turned his eye to the High Point Hotel – another eyesore that sat boarded up on the sea front. Again nothing turned up. He had then turned his focus on another building – Whiskey Bends. At least that was what it had been known as in the eighties. Decades later it was just another forgotten carbuncle. It may have been boarded up and whitewashed but it was still a blight on Whitley Bay.

  Brady hadn’t focused on all three discarded buildings by chance. The rapist had attacked each victim in the back lanes behind these derelict pubs. They were the ideal deserted locations. But that was where it ended. None of these buildings had been used by the suspect. So exactly where had he taken Chloe Winters? And why had nobody heard her screams?

  Chapter Forty

  ‘I don’t give a shit whether you wake him up, Conrad. Ring him!’ Brady ordered.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered Conrad.

  Brady left him to it. He went back to his office, slamming the door behind him.

  He needed answers and he didn’t give a damn that it was 3:45 a.m. If one of his team had screwed up then he had a right to know. Brady’s gut told him that that was the case.

  Right now he had his hands full. He was looking up Harry Sanderson’s haulage firm. It was located in the industrial estate on Scotswood Road, Newcastle. It was down by the River Tyne and a stone’s throw away from Elswick council estate – Newcastle’s answer to Beruit.

  It was the ideal place to hold someone.

  If Brady’s hunch was right that was where they should be looking.

  A knock at the door broke him from his thoughts.

  ‘Yeah?’ he called out as he looked up from the computer screen.

  Conrad walked in. The sheepish look on his face told Brady it was bad news.

  ‘Tell me Kenny didn’t screw this up?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s my fault. I should have followed it up.’

  ‘Damn right you should have!’

  ‘Kenny was correct though. Harris did book a two night stay in Paris leaving on the Friday, 30th August at five thirty p.m. and returning Sunday 1st, September at seven p.m.’

  ‘But they didn’t get on the Friday flight, did they?’ Brady asked as he stood up from his desk. He was too agitated to remain seated.

  Conrad shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘Stop saying bloody “sorry” will you?’ Brady exploded.

  He needed to think. His next move had to be by the book. Otherwise Gates would have his bollocks nailed to the wall.

  He looked at Conrad unable to disguise the incredulity he felt. He dragged his hand back through his hair as he thought about the implications. It made no difference.

  ‘This is one monumental fuck-up!’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. I accept full responsibility,’ said Conrad.

  Brady marched over to the window and opened it. He needed some fresh air and he needed to keep his back to Conrad. Otherwise he was in danger of really losing his temper.

  ‘Fucking hell, Conrad. What were you thinking?’

  ‘I wasn’t, sir.’

  ‘At least you’re honest. I’ll give you that.’

  He turned round and looked at his deputy.

  ‘When did they fly?’

  ‘Saturday at ten thirty a.m. They returned on the original flight they booked.’

  Brady nodded. It made perfect sense.

  So why had Lisa Sanderson said that they’d left on the Friday evening? Had she lied to cover Lee Harris? If she had, then she’d duped Brady because during her interview he was certain she was telling the truth.

  ‘Do we know why they didn’t get on the Friday evening flight?’

  ‘They just didn’t show up. However, Lee Harris must have known that in advance because on Thursday evening he booked two single seats flying out on the Saturday.’

  ‘And he didn’t cancel the Friday flights and change them to the Saturday?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he cancel those flights?’

  Conrad didn’t answer. It was obvious.

  ‘Call the team in. I also want some back-up organised. We’re taking a road trip, Conrad. To Scotswood Road. Might need the Armed Response Unit with us though.’

  ‘Sir?’ questioned Conrad.

  ‘I’m bloody joking! How long have you lived in the North-East now? Even you should have heard of Scotswood Road. One of the worst council estates in Newcastle is up by Scotswood.’

  Conrad was still none the wiser.

  ‘Elswick, Conrad. So when you see a sign for Elswick you avoid it all costs. Understand?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir.’

  ‘Little bastards would have your car stripped down to bolts as soon as the traffic lights turned red.’

  Brady turned back and looked out the window.

  The day was just starting to break. It was bleak and miserable with some drizzle; another typical day in the North-East. Brady hoped by the end of it he would have Harris banged up indefinitely.

  ‘Conrad?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I need you to run a check for me on Harris.’

  ‘We’ve already done that,’ Conrad answered, frowning.

  ‘We missed something.’

  ‘But he’s got no prior convictions.’

  ‘My point exactly.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Conrad admitted.

  ‘He has no priors as Lee Harris. But what if he changed his name by deed poll between the ages of sixteen and eighteen?
What then?’

  ‘Wouldn’t we already know?’ asked Conrad. ‘We took a swab from Harris. Surely if he had priors, even under another name, his DNA would be in the system?’

  ‘Depends how old he was when he was arrested. Remember that before 2004 DNA could only be taken from someone charged, not arrested.’ Brady turned away from the window and started pacing the floor.

  ‘How old is Harris?’

  ‘Twenty-seven, sir.’

  ‘In 2004 he would have been eighteen. Say he committed an offence and was arrested before then as a minor? If he wasn’t charged then they wouldn’t have taken his DNA.’

  ‘What if he was arrested after 2004? Surely his DNA would be in the system, regardless of whether he was only arrested and not charged?’

  Brady turned and looked at Conrad. ‘Not necessarily. If he was just arrested there’s a chance his DNA was destroyed. Remember that a large number of DNA profiles have been removed from the database because it was decided that there wasn’t enough room to store profiles of people who’d been arrested but not charged. Either way Conrad, it doesn’t matter whether he was arrested before or after 2004, there’s a reason why his DNA isn’t on the system.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find that Harris isn’t his real name and that he has quite an interesting history. One that his fiancée and her father know nothing about.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered Conrad. He hadn’t thought of that. It had never occurred to him to ask if Harris might have changed his name.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Brady and a team of officers were busy searching Sanderson’s haulage yard. He had gone above Gates directly to DCI O’Donnell. He needed a search warrant granted and didn’t trust Gates to approve the application. O’Donnell was different. He listened. Then he acted without hesitation. Brady knew that he had enough against the suspect to get a warrant issued for his arrest. Even Gates couldn’t deny that. But Brady didn’t want anyone dragging their heels and wasting time. He was acutely aware that Harry Sanderson and Gates played golf together at Tynemouth Golf Club. He was certain that most of the time would have been spent in the club’s bar rather than on the grounds.