Broken Silence

by Danielle Ramsay

  Brady gripped the sides of his chair. He couldn’t believe that she couldn’t bring herself to tell him. He tried to get a handle on the situation. The last thing he wanted to do was lose it in front of Gates. But the thought that he really had lost her for good was killing him.

  ‘The only reason I’m telling you, Jack, is because Claudia is refusing to take it.’

  Brady stared at Gates numbly. He knew this job had meant everything to Claudia. ‘Why? Why isn’t she taking it?’

  He couldn’t believe that she was walking away from everything she had fought so hard to achieve. ‘I was hoping you could tell me.’ Brady numbly shook his head.

  He knew the answer, and Gates knew that. There was nothing he could do any more, so he stood up and left.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Charlie, can you do me a favour?’ Brady asked the desk sergeant.

  ‘Aye, bonny lad, as long as there’s a pint in it,’ Turner grinned amiably.

  ‘For you, Charlie, I’ll even stretch to two,’ Brady answered, smiling.

  Brady’s smile disappeared as he glanced around. He’d never seen the station so busy; extra uniforms and CID had been called in from across the region to cope with the murder investigation. Nothing much happened in this seedy, rundown seaside resort, at least not until now. Murders typically didn’t affect the middle classes of Whitley Bay who lived far enough away from the town centre not to be affected by the pubs and clubs that had brought the seaside resort to an all-time low. They led self-satisfied, suburban lives in their exorbitantly-priced properties, completely unaware of the diseased scum that ran the streets at night. He knew of a few notorious gangsters, the local mafia, Madley being one of them, who had no qualms about disposing of a rival in the Tyne. But murders of that sort barely caused a ripple in most decent people’s lives. Whitley Bay was typically known for drunken louts acting lewd and fighting amongst themselves and a few burglars who needed easy cash for drugs. But a brutal murder in tree-lined suburbia was a completely different story.

  ‘So, what’s this favour then?’ Turner asked as he raised his thick, wiry eyebrows at Brady.

  ‘I’ve got a hunch about something,’ Brady confided. ‘But I want it kept quiet.’

  Brady trusted Turner. He belonged to the old school of policing, unlike the new breed who didn’t have a clue about ‘hunches’ or ‘gut feelings'. Instead the new coppers were taught to feed murder details into Holmes 2 and sit back and wait for it to spit out the answer. There was no doubt that the computer system saved invaluable time. It could sift through masses of information in seconds; information that would have once taken twelve detectives at least a week to get through. Brady had lost count of the number of times he had favoured one lead over another because of an inexplicable hunch. But he knew that this time he wasn’t telling the truth. This wasn’t a hunch, but rather Jimmy Matthews’ troubling disclosure that the victim was only fifteen years old.

  Turner had been a desk sergeant at Whitley Bay station long before Brady had joined and knew more than most of the other coppers put together. But as was the case with many of the coppers from the old days, he was rarely given any credit for it. A new breed were coming through the ranks who didn’t drink, didn’t compromise themselves for anyone and certainly didn’t give a damn about the job; it was all about politics and getting to the top without dirtying their hands. The likes of Brady and Turner who still played by the old school ethics were slowly being phased out, replaced by a generation who had no respect for them, and worse, saw them as a walking liability.

  ‘Go on then, bonny lad, what can I do for you?’ Turner questioned.

  ‘I need a printout of females between the ages of fifteen and eighteen reported missing in the North East over the last few weeks.’

  ‘Give me a couple of minutes.’ Turner turned his back on Brady and logged in to the computer. Minutes later he handed over three sheets of printed paper.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Brady, taking the printout. ‘I owe you a pint.’

  ‘I’ve lost count of how many bloody pints you owe me, bonny lad,’ Turner said, shaking his head.

  Brady waited until he reached his office before looking at the information. He sat down at his desk and quickly scanned over the list of names, ages and addresses.

  ‘Naomi Edwards, 17, Wallsend,’ Brady muttered as his eyes scanned down the first page of the printout.

  ‘Shit,’ Brady cursed as he turned to the next page and finally the next.

  He read down the list of names until he came to the third one from the bottom.

  ‘Sophie Washington, 15, West Monkseaton …’ Brady faltered.

  How the hell had they missed something as crucial as this? But he knew the answer; the team were looking for a missing female between eighteen to thirty. He couldn’t fault them; even Brady found it difficult to believe what Matthews had told him. To Brady, the victim’s body resembled that of a young woman in her late teens or early twenties, not a girl of fifteen. If it hadn’t been for his conversation with Matthews, Brady wouldn’t have even considered other possibilities so early into the investigation.

  His eyes read the date she had been reported missing. He read the date again to make sure he wasn’t mistaken: three that morning. He then double-checked the location of her parents’ home: West Monkseaton.

  Something like this couldn’t be kept quiet. If the missing fifteen-year-old girl was the murder victim then all hell was going to break loose and that would only be the beginning of it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Shit!’ cursed Brady as he disconnected the phone.

  It had cut straight to Matthews’ voice mail. He checked his watch; 9.47 am. He had no choice but to ring Matthews’ home number.

  No one answered.

  He tried to ignore the fact that Matthews didn’t want to talk.

  He picked up his jacket and limped out of his office to meet Conrad.

  ‘Come on, Conrad. What are you waiting for?’ Brady questioned as he slammed the car door shut.

  He was pissed off and needed someone to take it out on. Unfortunately for Conrad he was the closest target. It was Matthews he wanted to kick, but the problem was he couldn’t get hold of the bugger.

  ‘For you, sir,’ answered Conrad. ‘As usual.’

  Brady smiled. If felt good to be back.

  ‘Actually, Dr Jenkins has asked to join us,’ Conrad stated.

  ‘No? Shit. Why the hell would she want to come with us?’

  ‘Because DCI Gates has assigned her to the investigation, sir,’ replied Conrad carefully.

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ muttered Brady.

  ‘She’s just arrived and caught me as I was leaving. She was adamant about coming with us. Something about you briefing her about the investigation?’

  ‘Shit,’ cursed Brady. ‘Tell you what, Conrad. Just drive, will you? I’ll worry about Dr Jenkins.’

  ‘Whatever you, say, sir,’ answered Conrad. ‘But she won’t be happy.’

  ‘Good, that makes two of us,’ replied Brady.

  ‘I better warn you, sir, she’s not a woman who likes being messed around.’

  ‘Tell me one who does?’ asked Brady, thinking of Claudia.

  ‘Do you mind?’ he asked as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from inside his jacket. There was no question about the fact that he needed one.

  ‘Does it matter if I do?’ Conrad asked as he buzzed down the passenger window.

  ‘Appreciate it.’

  ‘Just don’t get any ash in the car, sir.’

  Brady suddenly realised the car was new. Same model, but brand new.

  ‘Whatever we’re paying you, it’s too much,’ Brady replied as he gestured at the state of the art dashboard.

  He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply making a mental note not to accidentally burn the leather upholstery. He rested his head back against the seat and momentarily closed his eyes as he enjoyed the icy damp air washing over his face. He felt very tir
ed and realised that he had only had a couple of hours’ sleep, if that.

  ‘No word yet on the victim’s identity?’

  ‘No, sir. Few maybes, but nothing concrete,’ answered Conrad.

  Exactly as Brady had expected.

  His phone rang. Without thinking he answered it.

  ‘DI Brady?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I take it I’ve wasted my time?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean. I turn my back for one minute and you conveniently disappear. This is typical of you to run out on me, Jack. However, this isn’t one of our counselling sessions, this is a murder investigation. And it was DCI Gates who requested my expertise, not the other way around.’

  ‘I apologise for not being there to brief you, Dr Jenkins, but I have instructed DS Adamson to show you what we’ve got so far,’ answered Brady evenly.

  ‘I’ve cancelled patients to help you with this investigation but if you’re not interested in my expertise then I’d rather know about it than have you waste my time. Which it seems you’re rather good at.’

  ‘I honestly don’t know what’s given you that idea.’

  ‘Cut the bullshit, Jack!’

  ‘Got to go, but we’ll catch up when I get back to the station,’ Brady concluded abruptly before disconnecting the phone.

  ‘Sounds like she’s not too happy with you,’ stated Conrad.

  ‘Yeah? What makes you think that?’ asked Brady as a flicker of a smile played on his lips.

  ‘Take a right, here,’ he instructed as they approached a roundabout.

  ‘Yes sir,’ answered Conrad as he swung over into the right-hand lane.

  ‘At least she’s got Adamson to keep her busy.’

  ‘I’d be careful of Adamson, sir. He’s interested in no one but himself. Let’s say he’s not a team player,’ answered Conrad as he narrowed his steel-grey eyes. ‘Word is he’s after a promotion and he doesn’t care how he gets it, or who he takes it from.’

  ‘I take it you don’t like him?’

  ‘We joined at the same time so I had the misfortune of spending two years with Adamson. When the training was over, I swore I’d never work with him again.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  Brady knew Adamson was a roach, but to have Conrad say it worried him. In all the time he’d worked with Conrad he’d rarely heard him say a bad word against anyone.

  ‘Where to now?’ Conrad asked, after taking the right turn.

  Brady looked out the window and realised they were heading along Seatonville Road. Not far now, he uneasily thought.

  ‘Fairfield Drive, West Monkseaton. Number 18.’

  ‘Can I ask why there, sir?’ Conrad ventured.

  ‘Later. Just let me see if my hunch is right first. The less you know about this, the better,’ Brady answered, not wanting to jeopardise Conrad’s career, as well as his own.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Number 18.

  He walked up the newly paved driveway carefully lined with shrubs and trees. He glanced at the one-year-old dark blue metallic BMW 5 Series saloon parked in front of the electronic white garage doors, passing it to reach the white, wooden porch.

  He took a deep breath before ringing the old-fashioned doorbell. As he waited, he took in the original 1920s ornate stained glass in the front door and below it the antique polished brass lion’s head knocker and letter box.

  Heavy footsteps approached as a man in his late forties opened the door.

  ‘Yes?’ he curtly demanded.

  Brady noted that his overall appearance may have been conservative but it made a statement. He was wearing a casual pale blue Armani jeans stripe shirt and Crombie front pleat dark grey trousers, finished off with black Kurt Geiger shoes. The man obviously liked to look good; nothing brash, but it took money to wear those clothes.

  Brady held up his ID.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I need to ask you a few questions about your daughter, Sophie?’ Brady began.

  He seemed to deliberate over Brady’s words. He may have been clean-shaven with short black hair, respectably peppered with flecks of silver, but behind his black Christian Dior spectacles his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes told another story. Craggy lines spread out from the corners of his eyes as he suspiciously narrowed them.

  Brady waited until he reluctantly held the door open for Brady to walk past him into the stained-glass vestibule. Brady made his way through into the wide hallway conscious of his feet, heavy and resonating on the polished parquet flooring. An antique writing bureau and a burgundy leather chair sat under an impressive wooden spiral staircase. Opposite it was an old oak hall table with a small stained-glass Tiffany lamp and an empty brass letter holder. Above the table, a large, imposing mirror sat, reflecting the wooden staircase as it spiralled up to the first floor.

  He tried not to limp as he made his way down the hallway towards the fresh smell of ground coffee coming from the kitchen. He stopped dead as he caught sight of the forty-something, long-blonde-haired woman anxiously waiting in the kitchen doorway. She tightly pulled her black silk flower kimono around herself as she looked at him. Even though it was well after ten, she still wasn’t dressed. Brady inwardly winced as her dark blue, desolate eyes searched for anything that resembled hope.

  Brady fought the urge to leave. Her hair, the shape of her face seemed uncannily familiar. He deliberated apologising for wasting their time. He could hand the task to some other poor sod. But, he knew he couldn’t do that. For Matthews’ sake he had to see this through to the end.

  ‘Here you go,’ Simmons said as he thrust the photograph he had just taken off the Smeg fridge at Brady.

  Brady was sat with Mrs Simmons at the large wooden table positioned in the centre of the spacious kitchen. Both had cups of black, unadulterated coffee. The only difference was Brady had politely drunk most of his, whereas Mrs Simmons’ remained untouched.

  ‘Thanks,’ Brady replied as he looked at the school mugshot. ‘Pretty girl.’

  Simmons didn’t answer. He didn’t sit down either.

  Brady followed Simmons’ eye as he distractedly stared through the double-glazed doors that led out onto the patio area and the south-facing lawn.

  When Conrad had pulled into Fairfield Drive, Brady had grimly noted that the Simmons’ house backed onto the abandoned farmland. He now realised that the eight-feet-high wooden fence at the bottom of the long garden was all that separated them from what was now a crime scene.

  ‘So, let me get this straight. Sophie left here at 5.30 pm to go to Evie Matthews’ house—’ Brady began.

  ‘Didn’t I already say that?’ Simmons snapped as he turned and caught Brady’s eye. ‘For God’s sake! We’ve already been over this, Evie is her best friend. She’s always going over to the Matthews’ house. Those two are inseparable.’

  Brady nodded, surprised by this revelation. Matthews had failed to tell him that Sophie Washington was his daughter’s best friend. What was troubling Brady was why Matthews had withheld such vital information.

  He looked back at the photograph. He couldn’t dispute it; the long, blonde hair exactly matched the victim’s.

  ‘What time did you try calling her mobile?’

  ‘About 2.40 am,’ Simmons answered irritably as he ran his hand through his short hair.

  ‘That late?’

  ‘I must have fallen asleep in front of the TV. When I woke up it was 2.30. Louise had already gone to bed and so I naturally presumed Sophie had come home. It wasn’t until I went upstairs that I realised she wasn’t back.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Simmons quickly.

  Too quickly, thought Brady, noticing that Simmons shot his wife a look to silence her.

  Brady turned to Louise Simmons.

  She looked up at her husband nervously and then stiffly nodded in agreement with him.

  ‘Could she have
run off then?’ Brady tentatively asked.

  Simmons shot Brady an exasperated look.

  ‘What I mean is was there any reason for her to stay away? An argument say, or a disagreement about a boyfriend or something?’

  ‘No! Sophie had no reason to run away and … as for boyfriends … Christ! She’s only fifteen! She’s more interested in being with her friends than boys.’

  ‘What about staying the night at a friend’s house?’

  ‘Don’t you think we’d know? We already told your people where she went and that she left there at 10 pm!’

  ‘I am sorry about this, Mr Simmons, but these are standard questions I have to ask,’ apologised Brady.

  ‘Well, just hurry up and get on with it, then. The quicker you finish the sooner you can be out there looking for our daughter.’

  ‘Of course,’ Brady replied sympathetically.

  ‘Can you tell me what Sophie was wearing last night?’ Brady asked as he turned and looked at Louise Simmons.

  ‘A black denim skirt and a T-shirt,’ quietly answered Louise Simmons. ‘Oh yes, and Ugg boots.’

  ‘Anything else?’ quietly questioned Brady.

  She shook her head, forcing back tears.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh … she was wearing a black scarf …’ she whispered, biting her lip.

  Silent tears trailed down her face as she looked at the school photograph lying on the kitchen table.

  Brady acknowledged uncomfortably that Sophie’s clothes matched the clothes found on the victim.

  ‘Does Sophie have any tattoos or body piercings that you know of?’ Brady gently asked.

  ‘Why do you want to know all this?’ exploded Simmons suddenly.