Broken Silence ijb-1

by Danielle Ramsay

  ‘When are you going to take me out for a drink?’ she urged as Ainsworth’s stocky figure closed in on them. ‘I know now isn’t exactly the best time to ask but in this job there never is a good time,’ she added, lightly smiling.

  ‘I’m a little stretched right now,’ he replied apologetically.

  The last thing he wanted to say was that he wasn’t over his wife yet.

  ‘Fielding, what the bloody hell are you playing at?’ barked Ainsworth. ‘Haven’t you shown him yet?’

  ‘No sir,’ she answered.

  ‘Bloody typical. Can’t get any of you lot to do what I ask! If I want something done I have to do it myself,’ Ainsworth complained. ‘Go do something useful for a bloody change.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Fielding replied. ‘See you later,’ she added, as she smiled at Brady before leaving.

  ‘Don’t bother, Jack!’ Ainsworth threatened. ‘She works for me, remember. I want her mind on the job, not you. So forget it.’

  ‘What do you take me for?’ Brady questioned as he shot Ainsworth a look.

  ‘For the dog that you are, Jack.’

  Brady didn’t bother arguing. It was clear Ainsworth had heard the rumours about Claudia leaving him because of his loss of judgement when it had come to DC Simone Henderson. Brady accepted that his failed private life was common knowledge in North Tyneside.

  ‘Right, back to business. This way,’ Ainsworth brusquely added.

  He followed Ainsworth feeling disgusted with himself for losing his head when it had come to a colleague; a junior one at that. It had cost him more than he could ever have imagined.

  ‘This is what I want to show you,’ Ainsworth said turning back to Brady.

  He looked up and realised that Ainsworth had crossed over the dirt track and was now on a grassy bank. It was overgrown with wild bushes that partially obscured the seven-feet-high wooden fence running the length of the farm. Brady noted that the fence separated the row of semi-detached 1930s houses backing onto the farmland.

  He limped over to Ainsworth’s impatient figure and watched as he pulled a clump of wild branches back to reveal a significant gap in the wooden fence, large enough for even Brady to climb through. Brady knelt down and looked through it. A muddy lane led straight out onto Fairfield Drive, the street where the murder victim had lived.

  ‘Shit,’ muttered Brady.

  ‘Footprints found here match the boots that your victim was wearing, confirming that she came in this way. And it seems that she was with someone,’ Ainsworth stated. ‘Whether she met them here or she came with them, I can’t say. But by this point,’ Ainsworth gestured to where they stood, ‘she was definitely not on her own.’

  Brady raised his eyebrow questioningly.

  ‘We got a partial handprint on this side of the fence which matches another handprint we found by the body. And we found what we presume to be male footprints given the size here, identical to prints found at the crime scene,’ Ainsworth explained.

  Brady’s phone started to ring. He pulled it out of his jacket and looked at the number.

  ‘Sorry, I need to take this call,’ Brady apologised as he stood up.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ muttered Ainsworth. ‘Any excuse not to work.’

  Brady shot him a grin before turning away to answer his phone.

  ‘Amelia?’

  ‘You were right about Paul Simmons,’ stated Jenkins.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘He knew it was his step-daughter as soon as he saw the tattoo. Not that he admitted it. He made out he recognised her from her clothes and hair.’

  ‘What was his reaction?’ asked Brady.

  ‘He seemed genuinely shaken.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Are you questioning my judgement?’ asked Jenkins.

  ‘No … yes … maybe,’ replied Brady.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I know it’s not what you expected to hear.’

  ‘On the contrary, it is exactly what I expected,’ stated Brady.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was a cold, simple fact that the first suspects in any child’s murder were the parents.

  Brady looked at Louise Simmons. It may have only been 1.37 pm but he couldn’t blame her for the stiff gin and tonic clutched between white-knuckled, trembling hands. She looked like she needed it. Her face was drawn; haggard lines etched their way from under her glazed, icy blue eyes and around her rigid, thin lips. She had cruelly aged since his first visit.

  The silence hung heavily in the room. Brady fought the compulsion to get up and throw open the heavy, sumptuous red and gold leaf curtains. The glow from the large Tiffany lamp sat on the ornate antique sideboard failed to penetrate the gloom of the room. Even the coal fire which hissed and spat in the original Edwardian hearth couldn’t take the chill out of the room.

  Brady shifted his feet on the polished wooden floor. In front of him was a wide, old wooden chest that served as a coffee table. A heavy, hardback book on the Impressionists was neatly positioned on the chest, along with a book on contemporary art and another on Art Deco. He carefully placed his coffee on the chest, fearful of disturbing the books on display. Or the large, handmade bowl that was filled with carefully arranged, exotic fruit. Brady now knew that Louise Simmons was an art teacher at a private girls’ school in Jesmond, a sought-after expensive suburb two miles out from the city centre of Newcastle and seven miles inland from Whitley Bay. It explained the books and the eclectic pieces of art work he had noticed covering the walls in the hallway and also in the spacious living room where he was now sat.

  Paul Simmons was an IT manager with Sage business and software services in Newcastle. He looked the part: cold, clinical, uptight, arrogant and egotistical. Brady wondered for a moment what it was that had attracted Louise Simmons to her husband? And more to the point what exactly did they have in common? He imagined that Simmons’ arrogance and attitude might have been attractive to begin with, but wondered whether it was starting to wear thin.

  Brady looked up at the oil painting hanging over the fireplace, and resisted the urge to ask Louise Simmons more about it.

  He suspected the painting was a stunning copy of King Edward’s Bay, an oil painting by F. W. Reaveley, a Tynemouth-born artist who began painting local sea and landscapes from 1891. Brady knew the painting was owned by a private collector, but was sure that the painting above the fireplace couldn’t be the original which was probably worth a small fortune by now.

  Instead of asking more about the painting he turned to look at Paul Simmons who was stood in the large bay window with his hands clenched, jaw rigid, eyes resentfully narrowed as he watched every move Brady made. He did little to hide his disdain at Brady’s return. He wanted Jimmy Matthews here.

  ‘What hope do we have of you lot finding out who … who’s responsible if you’re sat here?’ Simmons suddenly spat.

  ‘We’re doing everything we can, Mr Simmons,’ Brady reasoned.

  ‘Including ransacking her bedroom? Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage?’

  ‘I’ll personally make sure everything is replaced after we’ve finished.’

  ‘You’re damned right you will!’ Simmons replied.

  He shook his head as more footsteps could be heard descending the spiralling wooden stairs. He looked through the gap in the curtains only to see officers carrying out two bagged and sealed computers.

  ‘What the hell are you doing with my computer? I … I need that for work! There are confidential work files on there. The last thing I want is you idiots destroying them! And when exactly do I get them back, eh?’ Simmons asked agitatedly as he ran his fingers through his short hair. ‘Christ! You’re a bunch of bloody idiots, all you’re doing is wasting time! There’s nothing on her computer or mine that’s connected to … to …’ Simmons faltered, unable to finish the sentence.

  Brady didn’t reply. There was nothing he could say that would ease Simmons’ anger. Now wasn’t the time to explain that paedophiles
used the internet to get close to children. Most parents were completely unaware of the dangers. Brady knew the statistics and they weren’t good. One out of every five children using chatrooms had been approached by a sexual predator unbeknown to their parents. Brady couldn’t take a chance. The victim’s computer had to be analysed. And as for Simmons’ computer, it was simply protocol. He was after all the step-father and by default the first suspect in his step-daughter’s murder. Regardless of whether or not he had appeared shaken when he identified her body.

  ‘If you lot had done your job when I first reported her missing then she might still be alive,’ Simmons stated through gritted teeth. His face was flushed, even his temples glowed a furious scarlet. He looked like a man who was about to have a heart attack.

  ‘And don’t take me for an idiot, Detective Inspector. I know you knew something when you first called round.’

  Brady kept quiet. Simmons was looking for a fight and he wasn’t up for accepting the challenge. He knew better than anyone the reason why the standard police procedure was to wait twenty-four hours before seriously acting on a missing persons report. If Sophie Washington had been under ten years old then the police would have acted immediately. However a missing child of Sophie’s age was treated with a dose of cynical pragmatism.

  Sophie Washington wasn’t the first teenager to be reported missing and certainly wouldn’t be the last. Typically, kids Sophie’s age would disappear for a night, or at worst a few days. Arguments at home were the common cause for them absconding. However, sometimes parents weren’t so fortunate, sometimes their children never returned home. Brady had dealt with missing kids as young as eleven running off to Manchester or London, only to be swallowed up by the rapidly growing child prostitution market.

  Considering all the possible outcomes, Brady had had to ask some awkward questions, unwelcome questions; ones that Paul Simmons didn’t accept too readily. But what troubled Brady was the picture the Simmons were painting of their daughter. He was having difficulty swallowing it. She was perfect, too perfect. Yet they had waited until 3 am before reporting her missing? It didn’t rest easy with Brady.

  More so when Paul Simmons had no alibi; his wife had gone to bed at 10 pm, which left his actions unaccounted for. And then, six hours later his step-daughter is discovered brutally murdered yards from her own home. Simmons’ lack of an alibi made Brady feel uncomfortable. Statistically, fathers were responsible for the majority of murdered children over the age of eight. Add to that the harsh reality that step-children were 100 times more likely to be murdered by their step-father.

  The modus operandi suggested that Sophie knew her attacker well. The murderer had clearly left his signature; to spend time bludgeoning Sophie’s face beyond recognition was an unnecessary addition to the murder. It reeked of emotional attachment to the victim. Brady had seen it numerous times when called to a murder scene where a woman had been beaten or stabbed to death by her spouse. It was always messy. The spouse would go into overdrive, which led to overkill. Unable to let go of whatever hatred they felt for the victim they would continue to rage long after the victim had stopped breathing.

  ‘Maybe if you spent some time out there rather than in here asking us ridiculous questions you might get your answers!’ snapped Simmons angrily.

  ‘I understand your anger, sir. But as I’ve said these questions have to be asked.’

  ‘What more do you want from us?’ attacked Simmons. ‘Can’t you see the state my wife’s in? This is damned ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but we need all the information you can give us, regardless of how small. Including anything else you can tell us about who Sophie socialised with, whether on the internet or in person,’ replied Brady calmly.

  ‘Why? Surely to God it was a random attack? I mean, why would anyone who knew her want to attack her?’ questioned Simmons, his eyes fixed on Brady.

  ‘I don’t know, which is why I need to ask the questions I’m asking,’ answered Brady.

  Simmons didn’t reply.

  Brady decided to try another tactic; one that was guaranteed to get a reaction.

  ‘Why would Sophie have a tattoo?’

  Simmons froze.

  Brady watched as his face paled.

  ‘I … I don’t know …’ he muttered.

  ‘If I’m getting this right, you’re both telling me that Sophie was a grade A star pupil. That she tutored maths on a Saturday morning at school for Year 6 children and that she was also involved in quite a few extracurricular activities after school?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ answered Simmons stiffly as he narrowed his cold eyes.

  ‘Then why would such a bright, sociable fifteen-year-old decide to get something as rebellious as a tattoo? It just doesn’t fit with the story you’re giving me,’ Brady challenged.

  He could feel the temperature in the room drop as Simmons turned on him.

  ‘You bastard! You have the audacity to question what we’re telling you about our daughter when she’s lying in a morgue because of you lot. If you idiots had taken me seriously when I reported her missing then she might not be dead. So don’t you dare make out we’re somehow guilty.’

  It was a good move. So good Brady felt the punch. Simmons was clearly very adept at avoiding certain questions.

  ‘I apologise if I’ve offended you and your wife. I just need to be absolutely sure that you’re telling me everything you know about Sophie and not some edited version,’ replied Brady, ignoring the fact that his BlackBerry was vibrating.

  ‘I swear I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!’ exploded Simmons.

  ‘Paul?’ Louise Simmons whispered.

  ‘I mean it! No one comes into my house and disrespects Sophie. Get out! Go on! Get out before I throw you out!’ shouted Simmons.

  ‘All I’m trying to do is get a better understanding of who would do this to Sophie. And if that makes you uncomfortable, then I’m sorry,’ Brady apologised.

  ‘Detective Inspector Brady?’ Louise Simmons tremulously said.

  Simmons was staring at his wife, his face contorted with repressed anger.

  ‘I … I didn’t know that Sophie had … had that tattoo … but it doesn’t surprise me,’ nervously stated Louise Simmons, ignoring her husband’s attempt to silence her.

  ‘Why?’ asked Brady.

  ‘Her father, my ex-husband, died last September and … and Sophie never really got over his loss. She … she was never the same after that.’

  ‘How so?’

  Louise Simmons shrugged.

  ‘It’s hard to explain … she just seemed so distant and really angry most of the time … As if she was blaming me for her father’s death somehow … Maybe she got the tattoo as a way of getting back at me? She knew I hated them … and … well …’ She broke off as tears started to flow down her pale cheeks.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Louise,’ snapped Simmons. ‘She was just a typical teenager who was talked into getting that tattoo by her friends, no doubt. You know what peer pressure is like amongst kids. You’re reading too much into it. And if she was so affected by her father’s death then her schoolwork would have suffered. And did it?’

  Louise Simmons shook her head reluctantly.

  ‘No …’ she weakly muttered.

  ‘Exactly! She was a straight-A student who excelled at everything she did. And yes, she could be moody and temperamental but you show me a teenager today who isn’t,’ asserted Simmons. ‘So let’s not waste police time talking about typical teenager behaviour. What counts now is finding out who did this monstrous thing to our Sophie. Yes?’

  Louise Simmons looked up at her husband and nodded nervously.

  ‘You’re right,’ she conceded.

  She then looked at Brady.

  ‘I’m sorry for wasting your time … I … I’m just not thinking straight …’ she whispered.

  ‘Come on,’ said Simmons, calming down. ‘How about I get you a refill?’

  Louise Simmons looked
down at the empty crystal glass cupped in her hands and nodded weakly.

  Simmons took the glass and shot Brady a look which told him the interview was over.

  Brady felt his phone vibrating again. He took it out of his inner jacket pocket and checked the caller.

  ‘I’m really sorry but I’m going to have to take this,’ he said as he looked at Louise Simmons.

  He turned away, ignoring Simmons’ furious glare. ‘Of course. If you need privacy you can take it upstairs,’ Louise Simmons weakly answered. ‘Thanks,’ Brady replied.

  He headed out into the hallway before answering the call.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘About bloody time! I haven’t got all day!’ wheezed a familiar voice.

  ‘Yeah, I was tied up,’ Brady explained.

  ‘Aren’t we all, Jack? Aren’t we all?’ huskily wheezed Wolfe before succumbing to a coughing fit.

  Brady patiently waited until the spluttering subsided to heavy wheezing. Wolfe had asthma. But that wasn’t what caused his wheezing and gut-splitting coughing. He was a heavy smoker and drinker with a rather robust appetite; all combined it led to him being at least five stone overweight. He liked his vices, a little too much.

  ‘What have you got?’ Brady asked Wolfe.

  ‘You’ll have to wait. I’ll be done by two. Meet me at the usual place. And lose the sidekick. He gives me indigestion,’ Wolfe ordered before disconnecting the call.

  Wolfe and Conrad had never seen eye to eye. Wolfe was the best Home Office pathologist in the force; everyone knew it, but everyone also knew he had a drink problem; one that began at lunchtime and could continue through to the next working day. Somehow, the old bugger had developed the tolerance of a rhinoceros. Brady didn’t know how the hell he kept sober, but he did. Even Chief Superintendent O’Donnell was aware of Wolfe’s indiscretion, but chose to ignore it, knowing that he would never be able to replace Wolfe’s unerring skill.

  Conrad on the other hand, found it difficult to listen to Wolfe’s findings over a pie and a pint. He didn’t have the stomach for it. Either for the food or Wolfe’s autopsy reports and definitely not served together.