Broken Silence

by Danielle Ramsay

  Brady had been watching Macmillan, a corrupt politician, for the past year. He had recently been elected as Mayor. But the public didn’t realise the kind of man they had representing them. The police and the press were well informed of Macmillan’s dodgy past. Even Rubenfeld, a snitch for a local paper, couldn’t get his razor-sharp teeth into him despite Macmillan having a burglar for a brother and a prostitute for a younger sister. Both had a drugs habit to support and consequently, both had spent time in the station’s holding cells. But neither of Macmillan’s siblings’ illegal transgressions ever made the local paper’s front page.

  And as for Macmillan, Brady knew his hands were dirty; but trying to prove it was another matter. The night Brady had got shot he had been staking out a new drug dealer, who his sources had told him was working for Macmillan. But before Brady could get something on Macmillan, some bastard had blown his cover; literally.

  Brady knew when to keep his mouth shut, more so after Gates had told him in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t interested unless Brady had concrete evidence against the man. And that was the problem with Macmillan, he made sure he socialised with the right kind of people. Even his penchant for prostitutes, the younger the better, was never reported at the station, let alone in any of the papers.

  Rubenfeld knew all about Macmillan’s dirty little ways, but even he couldn’t get anyone interested in exposing the Mayor.

  ‘The greasy git has the right approach. He knows how to stop people talking. Money, Jack. Money! In the right hands you can get away with murder!’ Rubenfeld had grumbled that night in the pub before knocking back his fifth whisky chaser.

  Brady hadn’t been able to resist counting; after all, it was his money that was loosening Rubenfeld’s tongue.

  Brady sighed now as he thought about it. Rubenfeld was right and he knew it; money could buy anything.

  As soon as he opened the door to the Incident Room it hit him. Perfume. It was an intoxicating smell, one that embodied the wearer; expensive, distinctive, desirable, and equally unattainable.

  An attractive, tall, dark-haired woman in her early thirties stood up. Her long, slender body was dressed in a fifties retro-style grey woollen dress. A large buckled belt accentuated her narrow waist and shapely hips, which provocatively swayed as she walked over in her three-inch designer heels.

  She smiled at Brady.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you back so soon,’ Dr Amelia Jenkins coolly greeted.

  Jenkins’ sleek, raven-black razor-cut bob swung back from her prominent cheekbones as she turned to DS Adamson who remained seated at the long conference table.

  ‘Robert has been an excellent replacement,’ she added as she flashed him a smile.

  Brady refrained from saying what was on his mind. The arrogant look on Adamson’s face assured Brady that he hadn’t wasted any time with Jenkins.

  ‘He had a lot to say about you,’ Jenkins continued.

  ‘I’m sure he did,’ Brady said as he looked straight at Adamson.

  Brady couldn’t stomach the guy and he was certain the feeling was mutual. He definitely didn’t like the idea of Adamson and his ex-shrink discussing him. He wanted Adamson out of the way. He could see that Adamson was already starting to make himself quite at home. Next thing, Brady would find him setting up office in his damned room.

  ‘Adamson, I’d like you to accompany Harvey to Rake Lane Hospital with the Simmons so they can ID the body,’ Brady instructed.

  ‘Surely I’m better off working on the investigation here rather than wasting my time acting as a chaperon?’ Adamson asked disdainfully.

  Brady stared at Adamson.

  ‘You’re done here,’ he firmly answered. ‘And Adamson?’

  Adamson looked at Brady contemptuously.

  ‘Don’t ever undervalue the significance of accompanying the next of kin when identifying a murder victim. Their reaction to the victim’s body will be very telling.’

  ‘What exactly do you expect them to do given the fact that her face is unidentifiable?’ sneered Adamson.

  ‘I’m more interested in their reaction to the tattoo,’ replied Brady curtly.

  Brady heard Conrad shift his feet uncomfortably behind him. He couldn’t help but notice that Jenkins was watching his reaction to Adamson with great interest.

  Then again what else did he expect from her? She was after all the police shrink; his shrink. That was until he refused to cooperate. He had been forced by Gates to sit in front of her, hour after hour while she watched, waiting for him to break. She had tried to make a big deal of Brady’s childhood but he refused to talk about it. When he did eventually talk, it wasn’t to discuss what had happened, it was only to tell her that he was going to deal with his problems the old-fashioned way; with a bottle of Scotch. That had been over five months ago and he hadn’t seen or heard from her since.

  Brady noticed the sneer on Adamson’s face at the mention of the tattoo due to its intimate location.

  ‘Just do as I’ve instructed otherwise you’ll find yourself removed from this investigation,’ Brady ordered.

  ‘On whose authority?’ challenged Adamson as he clenched his heavy-set square jaw ready for a fight.

  ‘On mine. This is my investigation, regardless of what you think. So either you accept your orders or you go back to North Shields.’

  Adamson’s bright blue eyes blazed with anger, telling Brady that this wasn’t over.

  ‘And you’ll find that DCI Gates will back me up, Adamson. So don’t think he’ll be interested.’

  Brady watched as Adamson’s jaw clenched even tighter but he kept his mouth shut. Adamson straightened his tie before picking up his suit jacket. He looked at Brady.

  ‘Anything else before I leave?’

  ‘Tell Harvey to wait for Dr Jenkins. She’ll be accompanying you.’

  ‘Whatever you say, boss,’ replied Adamson thickly.

  Brady waited until Adamson had left the room before turning to Jenkins.

  ‘Look, Jack. I really wish I could help but …’ Jenkins stopped and apologetically shook her head. ‘I don’t know what good I would do by being present at an identification.’

  ‘I need you there. I wouldn’t trust Adamson answering the bloody phone, let alone accompanying the Simmons to ID their daughter,’ answered Brady.

  ‘Still … I don’t see how me being there helps?’

  ‘The victim was just a kid, a fifteen-year-old kid,’ Brady quietly said. ‘She was choked to death first. And then for some reason, whoever murdered her decided she was too pretty. So her face was bludgeoned beyond human recognition.’ Brady’s eyes drifted over to the explicit photographs of the victim displayed on the whiteboard on the wall in front.

  ‘I will use every resource available to me to get whoever did this to her. And that includes you, Dr Jenkins,’ Brady said as his eyes met hers.

  Jenkins didn’t react but Brady knew he’d hit a nerve. It was a cheap shot but he had no choice. He needed her to be there when the Simmons identified the victim, that was all there was to it. He knew she had a background in criminal psychology. It wasn’t his business to ask her why she opted out and turned to practising clinical psychology instead but he presumed something had shaken her to her core. Which was why he was so surprised that firstly Gates had asked her to be part of the investigation, and secondly, that Jenkins had agreed. He made a mental note to do some homework on Dr Amelia Jenkins to find exactly what had caused her sudden departure from criminology.

  ‘How can you be so sure the victim is their daughter anyway?’ asked Jenkins. ‘Don’t you think that such an elaborate tattoo is unusual for someone her age?’

  Brady stood his ground calmly.

  ‘No, it’s her,’ he quietly insisted. ‘And yes it is unusual, but something about this tells me she wasn’t your typical fifteen-year-old schoolgirl.’

  Jenkins raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t tell me, a hunch?’

  Brady shrugged.

 
‘Something like that.’

  Brady walked over to the table and poured himself a drink of water. He slowly drank the lukewarm liquid conscious that Jenkins was watching him. Finished, he placed the glass down and looked up at her.

  ‘I need you with them when they identify her. In particular I need you to watch Paul Simmons’ reaction.’

  ‘Why can’t you do it if it’s so crucial to the investigation?’

  ‘Because the man doesn’t trust me. He knows that I suspect he’s hiding something. Without me there he’s more likely to let his guard down. I believe he’ll know it’s her, but it will be the tattoo that will convince him.’

  Jenkins shook her head, unsettling her raven-black, sleek bob.

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘I guarantee that Louise Simmons will not recognise the body. She will reluctantly acknowledge that the clothes and hair are similar but she will deny that it is her daughter because her daughter does not have her belly button pierced, let alone a jade dragon tattoo tucked discreetly below her navel. No one wants to accept that their child is dead. No one more so than Louise Simmons.’

  ‘What do you mean? What makes Louise Simmons so different from any other bereaved mother?’

  ‘Because she feels guilty, that’s why. She knew something was going on in her daughter’s life, something profoundly damaging. But she never did anything about it. Instead she ignored the doubts, choosing to believe that her daughter’s destructive behaviour was more to do with her ex-husband’s, Sophie’s father’s suicide over a year ago.’

  ‘All very insightful, Jack. I’m impressed. Tell me, is this another hunch of yours?’

  ‘No,’ answered Brady. ‘I just did some research on the victim’s father. Alex Washington jumped off the Tyne Bridge last year. It seems he suffered from clinical depression, coupled with stress from work and whatever crap was going on in his personal life. I guarantee that Louise Simmons believed that Sophie wasn’t handling her father’s death that well and that was why she was so uncommunicative; staying out late and doing God knows what shit teenagers do nowadays. Including getting a tattoo.’

  Jenkins smiled at him.

  ‘You sound old.’

  ‘I am old,’ replied Brady.

  Jenkins held his gaze long enough for him to briefly forget that Conrad was still in the room.

  Embarrassed he cleared his throat and turned to look at the whiteboard.

  ‘Paul Simmons will definitely know by the tattoo that the body lying in that morgue is his step-daughter,’ Brady asserted.

  Jenkins frowned at Brady.

  ‘That’s an odd statement. You know what you’re suggesting?’

  ‘Trust me, luring people into a false sense of security while you’re actually analysing their every move is what you’re good at,’ he answered as he turned to face her.

  She smiled at him slowly.

  ‘Is that what you think I did to you?’ she asked as she swept her hair back off her high cheekbones.

  Brady smiled faintly as he shook his head, noticing for the first time her striking scarlet-coloured lips. For a moment the intense colour reminded him of Claudia’s obsession with Chanel lipstick.

  ‘I don’t want to waste time talking about me while we have a murder victim turning very cold in the morgue.’

  ‘A typical “Jack Brady” response,’ Jenkins coolly answered.

  Brady shrugged.

  She turned and collected her things then headed for the door. She paused and looked back at Brady.

  ‘At least I get a straight answer from DS Adamson.’

  ‘But straight answers don’t interest you, do they?’ Jenkins stared at Brady, her expression saying it all, before turning and leaving.

  ‘Always got to have the last word, sir,’ stated Conrad. ‘What gives you that idea?’ asked Brady.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brady had asked Conrad to drive him back to the crime scene. It was after one in the afternoon and time was running out for them. But he needed to have another look around; this time in daylight.

  There was something about the murder that was niggling him. He had to wait for the post-mortem report from Wolfe, but from what he had seen at the crime scene the victim hadn’t appeared to have sustained sexual injuries. Instead, her murder hinted at something darker and more sinister; that she had known her killer.

  His phone started to ring. For a brief moment he thought it might be Matthews.

  Realising who it was, he cleared his throat before answering.

  ‘Yes sir?’

  ‘Any developments?’ questioned Gates.

  ‘No sir,’ answered Brady.

  ‘Damn. What about the post-mortem? Do we know if the murder victim was raped?’

  ‘No sir, Wolfe hasn’t verified that yet. As soon as I hear from him I’ll let you know.’

  Brady inhaled deeply on what was left of his cigarette. Without thinking he stubbed it out in the spotless ashtray.

  Conrad didn’t say a word, but Brady could hear his jaw grinding.

  ‘So, are you going to tell me how you figured out the identity of the victim?’

  He foolishly hadn’t been expecting that question.

  ‘I just wanted to cover every possibility, sir,’ Brady lied. ‘Which was why I decided to widen the search by lowering the age range.’

  He realised that he was getting himself in deeper and deeper. Only a fool would believe that Matthews hadn’t recognised her. Not with the way he had reacted when he saw her body. And definitely not once it became public knowledge that the victim had allegedly spent the hours leading up to her murder with Jimmy Matthews’ daughter, Evie. At least that was what the Simmons believed. They were adamant Sophie had gone to Evie Matthews’ home on the night she was murdered. Brady didn’t even want to think about the possibility of someone having seen Matthews driving the victim home.

  The last thing he wanted was Gates realising he was hiding something.

  ‘And what about DI Matthews? Have you heard from him?’

  ‘No sir. Why? Is there a problem?’ Brady asked as casually as he could.

  ‘You tell me.’

  Brady didn’t reply.

  ‘As soon as you hear anything I want to know. Understand?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ answered Brady as he looked out at the approaching crime scene.

  He put his phone away as Conrad pulled in as best he could. Cars and vans blocked the road and even the pavements. Brady looked towards the gate that led down to the crime scene and watched journalists scurrying like rats over one another to get the best shot of the farmland and the crumbling farmhouse.

  To them the murder of a fifteen-year-old girl was newsworthy, meaning it earned them money. And this story was too newsworthy for Brady’s liking. More so when you threw into the mix that within a twenty-five-mile radius they had fourteen hundred registered sex offenders; nineteen of whom had gone to ground. Whether their disappearance was connected to the murder was anyone’s guess. They had God knows how many officers assigned to track the buggers down. But finding them was another matter.

  Brady got out of the car and slammed the door. He looked up at the thundering blades overhead. A news helicopter was flying low, too low over the crime scene. Brady looked across at Conrad and gestured up at the helicopter.

  Conrad nodded.

  ‘I’ll sort it, sir,’ he said.

  Brady’s headache still hadn’t gone and it now felt as if the rotating blades above were slicing through his skull.

  ‘And can you check that they’ve actually started carrying out those DNA swabs? The last thing we want is a repeat of the Carter case!’

  ‘Yes sir,’ answered Conrad as he took out his mobile.

  Northumbria Police had screwed up big time on the Megan Carter investigation. They may have come good eventually, but that was down to sheer dumb luck. It had nothing to do with the investigative team; their reaction had been too slow at the time and they’d paid for it. By the time they had got t
he resources together to take DNA swabs from male residents within a four-mile radius of where the victim’s raped and strangled body had been found, the murderer had already left the area.

  Gates still hadn’t lived that investigation down; no one had, despite the murderer serendipitously being caught three years later. He had been arrested for drinking and driving in another part of the country and a routine DNA swab had been taken. It matched with DNA samples taken from the crime scene and finally resulted in a murder conviction.

  Since then, Gates had used every investigation he had been in charge of to try to lay to rest the Carter investigation. Brady knew that Gates needed a speedy outcome with this case, one that would portray Northumbria Police in a favourable light again. If Gates succeeded in doing that, then it might just be enough to get his career rolling again.

  Consequently, Brady had immediately ordered a team, which would soon include DS Adamson, to start the laborious task of taking DNA mouth swabs from all adult male residents in West Monkseaton and the surrounding areas. After Adamson had blatantly challenged the assignment Brady had given him, he wanted to remind him what policing was all about and had decided that some good old-fashioned door-to-door enquiries might just do the trick.

  But more importantly, Brady needed a suspect or suspects. And if he was going to keep Matthews’ name out of it, he needed it fast.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Yeah, Tom? What have you got?’ Brady answered as he left Conrad to sort out the helicopter.

  He limped towards the group of journalists and onlookers gathered around the sealed gate that led down to the crime scene. Crowds put him in a bad mood; especially ones filled with sleazy, shameless journalists. Worse still, he really needed a drink. He was starting to get the shakes and couldn’t decide whether it was alcohol poisoning or withdrawal. Either way, he was craving a shot of malt just to settle his nerves.

  ‘The parents have confirmed the identity of the girl. Sophie Washington. School kid, fifteen years old,’ replied Harvey.

  He took out a cigarette and lit it. He’d been quietly hoping it had all been a coincidence and that Matthews had been overreacting.