Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4

by Danielle Ramsay

  He decided not to reopen old wounds. He had taught himself to stop the self-destructive thoughts. Even when they bombarded his brain he had trained himself to look the other way, to focus on something else.

  Jonathan Edwards: probation officer, thirty-one years old, five foot ten, married with two children and current resident of Whitley Bay. Receding blond hair, short-sighted blue eyes, doughy, pockmarked skin – nothing to write home about. But he was different from the rest. He was hiding something which made him very interesting. Macintosh could smell it on him. It secreted from his pores. Betraying him.

  He had guessed the moment he met him. Whether Edwards knew that he knew didn’t matter. What was important was what he was going to do about it. Inside prison, he was powerless to act. But now he was out.

  Yesterday evening he had wandered the streets of Whitley Bay looking for him. Searching for his new Volvo V40. And he had found it. Along with the four-bedroomed semi-detached house in Queens Road. Exquisite location. Splendid house. Then again, the couple were both professionals. He was sure the Edwards could afford it. He had seen both children. The baby. And Annabel. Petite, with Nordic white-blond hair that cascaded in perfectly formed ringlets. Eyes as bright as shiny black buttons, dominating a perfect porcelain face. He liked her – a lot. She reminded him of her. He had failed then. But now, he had a second chance.

  Chapter Six

  Sunday: 1:39 p.m.

  Brady stood in the doorway, watching her. She was asleep on his couch. Faded patchwork quilt covering her as she slept with her back facing the world, curled up in a foetal position. That had been her tactic for the past five or so months. She had turned her back on the world and on him.

  He crept over, making a mental note to avoid the loose wooden floorboard that protested too loudly if he dared step on it. He placed the fresh black coffee on the floor, at arm’s length away from the couch. Beside it, he laid down the Observer and a plate with a bacon sandwich on it. The two things she would want when she decided to wake up were coffee and the paper. The bacon sandwich was wishful thinking on his part. A longing to return to normality.

  He wasn’t sure if she was really asleep. He knew she pretended, to avoid talking to him. Not wanting to face him, or to deal with what had happened to her – to them – all those months ago. To face the fact that someone had brutally murdered her boyfriend and then come after her. He could only imagine what they had done to her. Claudia had never talked about it. Like him, she had refused counselling at the time. But he was stronger than her. Brady had had a childhood of pain and abuse that had prepared him for a life that could kick the shit out of you and barely leave you breathing. But still, you breathed. Still, you lived. At least, he did. As for Claudia, she simply breathed. It was the living part she had given up. The one thing she could control. Her problem was that she had never really known anything bad. She had never wanted for anything as a child, nor as an adult. Loved and adored by all. Admittedly, he had given her good cause to walk out on their marriage when she did. But apart from that, she had had a blessed life – until now.

  Who could blame her for attempting to block it out? Pretend that it hadn’t happened?

  But he knew that she was drowning in self-denial. That her way of dealing with it – or not – was slowly killing her; and in turn, killing him. Brady sat down carefully on the floor beside her. Careful, for two reasons. He didn’t want to wake her, if she really was asleep. And his body still ached from the violence that had been enacted upon it. His left knee had been shattered beyond comprehension. His right hand and fingers had turned to mash under the weight of a crowbar. Then there was the bullet to his chest that had somehow missed his lung and spared his life.

  He allowed himself this moment as the afternoon sun stabbed through the partially open curtains. He needed it. He needed her. He wanted her back. The old Claudia. The one who would attack him with words that startled him. A constant reminder that she was from a different background and class to him. She was well-educated. He wasn’t. She was everything to him. He was nothing to her. Without her, he was empty. Purposeless. Her refusal to let him in, to let him save her, was killing him.

  He had already saved her once. Trading his life for hers without hesitation. Over five months ago she had been held hostage by two Eastern European gangsters known as the Dabkunas brothers. They had wanted Brady’s brother, Nick. He had infiltrated their organisation and betrayed them. It was simple maths. Someone had to pay. So they had taken Claudia hostage in the hope that Brady would trade. And they were right. Not that he would ever reveal his brother’s whereabouts. Instead, he willingly exchanged his life for his ex-wife. He owed her. He loved her.

  But she was punishing him. He didn’t need to be a psychologist to understand that much. Her boyfriend DCI Davidson had died at the hands of these men and their accomplices. Claudia had lived. Simple roll of the die. But she had taken it personally. And here she was living like a ghost, clinging more and more to the shadows in his house – their old marital home – refusing to leave Brady and yet refusing to acknowledge him. It was a living death. The house, a mental asylum. The two of them, the only inmates. She only stayed with him because he understood. He had been there. So she stayed within reach. Not that he could touch her. But she was there. And slowly and surely, she was poisoning both of them. Worse still, he was willing to take it.

  Her red unruly hair fell in knotted curls across her shoulders and back. It was longer and significantly wilder than it had ever been. Feral, even. Just like her. She had regressed to a state where she could barely cope. Even eating seemed to pain her.

  Brady watched as she breathed in and out. Her shoulders, delicate and fragile, moving ever so slightly. He didn’t know how to fix her. All he could do was watch and wait. And hope.

  Ironically, as she got weaker, he got stronger. With his body crippled, he had had no choice but to work out. Refusing to allow the bastards to defeat him. Physiotherapy had been the start. Then he had joined the YMCA in Shields. The gym was basic and unpretentious. The members worked out – hard. It was North Shields after all. No one had money to throw around or the lifestyle that went with it. The gym was there for one reason only – an out from their shit lives. A quick fix of endorphins; a natural high rather than buying it from the dealer on the street corner outside. Whether they were there with a prescription note after a stroke or they needed to work out their frustrations and disillusions, no one cared or noticed. And that suited Brady. No testosterone-fuelled guerrillas looking to prove themselves or Barbie-doll lookalikes. Just real people, trying to reclaim some control over their otherwise pointless lives.

  Claudia had taken a different approach. She had made the unspoken decision to disappear. Fade into nothing. She now slept through the day – or at least pretended to. At night she danced to the cruel tune of insomnia. He would hear her wandering around from room to room, checking the windows and the doors. Then the white noise of the TV in an attempt to drown out her pain. She would not allow him entry into this netherworld. It was her domain.

  He wanted her back so badly. But he didn’t know how to reach her. He felt like Orpheus. She was his Eurydice. And he had lost her. He had had one chance to get her back. And he had done everything he could. But his Claudia hadn’t come back to him. She was lost somewhere. Slowly and silently drowning in survivor’s guilt.

  He could feel the threat of tears and blinked them back. Not now. Not here. He knew he had to be strong for her. He had a decision to make. He had done nothing but think about it for the past month.

  Brady watched as she gave out a low, wounded moan. More animal than human. He resisted the urge to touch her, to reassure her that she wasn’t alone. But he knew that was the last thing she wanted. Right now she wanted to be on her own. Without him.

  His phone flashed. He read the message. It was time to make the decision.

  One question still plagued him – could he leave her? And if he did, what then?

  Brady realised
that he had been guarding her. Throughout all these days, weeks and months, he had been holding her captive. Scared to let her go. His fear of losing her was as crippling as her fear of what she had lost.

  It was time for him to get his life back on track. For her . . . for Claudia.

  He had left a note for her in the folded-up newspaper. Hoped that she would understand. He looked back down at his BlackBerry. Texted a reply. He had made the decision.

  It was time to move forward.

  Conrad was waiting for him outside. His engine idling. Nervous. Unsure.

  Brady climbed in.

  It was hard not to notice that Conrad had upgraded his Saab.

  ‘Sir.’

  His voice sounded strange to Brady. Unfamiliar.

  ‘How’s tricks?’ It felt awkward. He felt awkward. Brady would never ordinarily come out with such an inane comment. But to be fair, it was his first day back on duty. And if he was brutally honest, he didn’t know how he would cope. Or if he could cope.

  Conrad knew it, which was why he didn’t bother answering him. A non-committal shrug was the best he could offer his boss.

  They both felt the strain. It would take time to slip back into their old routine.

  Conrad’s face was tense, jaw locked. Steel-grey eyes set on the road ahead.

  ‘You OK? You look like shit!’

  It broke the ice. This was the Brady they both knew.

  ‘Five months of Adamson.’

  ‘That explains it.’

  DI Adamson was a Class A Wanker. Not just in Brady’s books. Anyone with a grain of common sense knew it. He was grovelling bastard. Especially when it came to DCI Gates. Adamson would do anything to get ahead. Conrad couldn’t stomach him either. Conrad had spent his first two years of training at Ponteland headquarters with Adamson, so knew him of old. But something had happened. Conrad had never told Brady about it, but he knew that it was serious enough for Conrad, once they had graduated, to swear he would have nothing more to do with Adamson.

  Brady watched as Conrad pulled out. He deserved better than working under the likes of Adamson. Conrad was dependable and loyal; everything that Brady aspired to be, but failed, miserably. Conrad had been his deputy for a good few years now. Brady found it difficult – impossible – to work with anyone else. He knew, without it being said, that Conrad felt the same way. It worked. It wasn’t that long ago that Brady thought he had lost Conrad. He had been shot while on duty. Brady still blamed himself. For a brief, agonising moment, he had believed that Conrad was dead.

  Conrad was only in his early thirties and had the potential of making it to chief superintendent. Unlike Brady. At five foot eleven, he was stocky but muscular, clean-shaven, with short blond hair and a handsome enough face when he relaxed – which wasn’t often. His wardrobe was impeccable; dark tailored suits, crisp white shirts, cufflinks, Italian silk ties and expensive handmade English leather brogues. He put Brady to shame. Then there was his background. It couldn’t have been more different from Brady’s. It was as far removed from a run-down, problem council estate as physically possible. Even though he never mentioned his past, Brady knew he had studied at Cambridge. He was part of the police’s fast-tracked postgraduate scheme. Soon enough it would be Conrad kicking Brady around. But not yet.

  What had brought Conrad up to the north-east of England, let alone Whitley Bay, was beyond Brady. Conrad had never offered the information, and he knew not to ask. There was a lot about Conrad that Brady didn’t know. Yet Conrad knew about Brady’s personal life. Who didn’t? His life was a car crash. A hundred-and-twenty-mile car crash at that. It was a write-off. He was terrified that he wouldn’t cut it at work. That after what had happened to him, he had lost his nerve. Brady breathed out. It was all too much.

  He didn’t know what Claudia would do when she realised he wasn’t there. Her only companion. Her only witness to her self-destruction. He realised he was an enabler. Who bought the alcohol she knocked back so readily? Who protected her from the outside world? Brady did. Why? Because he knew he couldn’t live without her. Not again. Rather this than lose her forever. He knew her parents blamed him. Hated him. If they had their way, Claudia would have been in London with them months ago. But he had succeeded at keeping them at a distance.

  But he knew what he had to do. Had known it for some time now. He just didn’t want to face the reality of his situation – her situation – just yet. He was hoping that by some chance of the gods that without him there, the old Claudia would come back. Self-reliant, intelligent, witty, scathing and so goddamned beautiful.

  The irony for Brady was that he dealt with victims of crime on a daily basis. He would interview them, take statements and then he would go to work. He would track the assailants down. If successful, he would close the investigation. Be assigned another case; a new crime. Not that he ever forgot the victims. But they would be replaced. He would move on. They, however, would never move on. Not really. And that was Brady’s problem. He wasn’t used to dealing with the victim after the case was closed. Ordinarily he didn’t have to see the damage left behind. He didn’t want to. For him, it was about resolution. End of story.

  And that was why he was at such a loss with Claudia. Her attackers were dead. Northumbria’s Armed Response Unit had made sure of that. Case closed. But it wasn’t. For her, there was no resolution. Or if there was, she refused to accept it. He didn’t know what she wanted. Didn’t understand why his actions weren’t enough.

  Brady took in the spotless interior of Conrad’s Saab. The leather seats. The immaculate dashboard. The low, seductive growl of the sports car as it accelerated. Anything to block out the thoughts tormenting him.

  ‘So . . . New promotion?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Conrad answered, bemused. Then it hit him. ‘The car?’

  ‘What do you think, Sherlock? How the fuck can you afford this on a DS’s salary?’

  ‘It’s not new. 2006 model, sir.’

  ‘Right! That explains it then. A 2006 Aero X Concept Saab must cost . . . What, exactly?’

  Conrad shrugged. ‘Enough.’

  Brady was aware that the 2006 Aero X had not gone into mass production. He could only assume that Conrad had somehow got his hands on one of the rare prototypes. ‘You a bent copper all of a sudden?’

  Conrad didn’t reply. Instead he focused on driving.

  But Brady knew he had got to him. His set jaw said it all.

  Conrad never disclosed his private life to anyone. Not even to Brady. No matter how much Brady goaded him, he knew that Conrad would not explain himself.

  A minute passed in silence behind a gridlock of traffic. Conrad hadn’t even managed to turn the car in the right direction towards Whitley Bay. The roads were heaving both ways. Sunday afternoon drivers with nothing better to do than crawl by the coast.

  Brady lived on the periphery of Cullercoats – a small boating village and acclaimed artists’ retreat. It was an idyllic refuge with old-fashioned tea rooms, ice-cream parlours and trendy bistros. His house was a five-bedroomed Victorian terrace in a sought-after location, Southcliff; a cliff with a single row of houses that jutted out over Brown’s Bay. He both hated and loved it simultaneously. It had been Claudia’s choice. Now he was left living in it. He had been planning on selling up before his run-in with the Dabkunas brothers. Now that Claudia had moved back in, Brady had let the idea of selling it slip. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen.

  Conrad was the first to break the awkward lull. ‘What do you think of it, sir?’

  Brady gave the sports car another consideration. ‘Yeah. Can’t go wrong with metallic silver. Good conservative choice.’

  ‘The Royal Hotel?’

  Brady remained silent. Non-committal.

  A call had come in over an hour ago. The Royal Hotel was where they were heading. The place was familiar to Brady. Too familiar, some might say. As was the owner – Martin Madley. Childhood friend and the man Brady owed his life to. But it wasn’t just his life; he
was indebted to Madley for saving Claudia too, and Nicoletta, a sex-trafficked woman enslaved by the Dabkunas brothers. She had been in protective custody and somehow the Eastern European gangsters had managed to kidnap her again. It was Martin Madley who had saved the day. Not that he had received any recognition for it. That was his way. Everything he did was under the radar.

  For one good reason – Madley was rumoured to be a notorious gangster. The police had been after him for years but he was elusive. It was believed by the likes of North Shields CID’s DI Bentley that he was the drugs baron and mafia lord of the North East. Not that he had any evidence. On the contrary, Madley was clean. He owned the Blue Lagoon nightclub and the Royal Hotel adjacent to it, as well as most of the bars in Whitley Bay and a few nightclubs in Newcastle. He was expanding. Buying up properties and converting them. Brady had lost track of what he did and didn’t own. Not that Brady was interested. Madley kept himself out of trouble. That was as much information as Brady wanted. That, and he was a loyal friend. Whatever doubts Brady might have had – given the fact he was a copper – he had chosen to ignore them. Brady owed him. It was that simple.

  He had known Madley since their childhood together in the war-torn, crime-infested streets of the Ridges. Located on the edge of North Shields, it was a no-man’s land. A place that mercilessly sucked you dry and spat you back out into the vermin-ridden back lanes. Any aspirations were stolen by heroin, alcohol and a life of petty crime. Never knowing where the next meal was coming from after the dole cheque had run out. That had been Brady’s upbringing. That was, until his old man had ended up doing time. It was Madley who had looked out for Brady and Nick. After all, there was no one else. A string of foster homes across North Tyneside, a mother six feet under and an old man doing time for putting her there. Without Madley, Brady wouldn’t be here.