Broken Silence

by Danielle Ramsay

  ‘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.

  Brady looked out of the large window. Below him was the Simmons’ long back garden. And just beyond it, the crime scene. Trees and overgrown bushes hid most of the farmhouse ruins but Brady could still make out the white-clad SOCOs. He sighed heavily and turned round. He was stood in one of the two double back bedrooms. But this wasn’t just any room, Brady suddenly realised. This was Sophie’s room. The room’s heady aroma was claustrophobic; a sickly combination of perfume and deodorant, it was all that was left of Sophie Washington.

  Brady had excused himself a few minutes earlier, stating that he needed to take a call. He wanted to be out of earshot of the Simmons and the other officers as soon as he realised it was Wolfe calling and had found his way upstairs into Sophie’s room.

  He looked around at the teenage chaos. Posters of bands and other crap covered the walls, reminding Brady that he was getting old. The double bed and the large chest of wooden drawers and bedside cabinets were covered in make-up, perfume, nail varnish, clothes, CDs; the sprawling paraphernalia was endless. The door to the walk-in closet had been left wide open and Brady could see from where he was standing that clothes and shoes lay scattered in much the same disarray as in her room. A large mirror stood in the corner, lost in a disarray of clothes, some of which were tossed over the mirror or dumped on the polished wooden floor. Wherever she was going last night, the last thing she had on her mind was homework.

  He wasn’t surprised that Sophie had a state-of-the-art forty-inch flat-screen HD television mounted on her wall or that she had every electronic gadget you could imagine scattered around. She was an only child after all, and one whose father had committed suicide and whose mother had remarried a man who Brady’s gut feeling was telling him, she didn’t actually like. The room smacked of guilt. Everywhere around him, from the fancy flat-screen TV to the expensive clothes, jewellery and make-up carelessly thrown about, suggested that Sophie’s affections were being bought.

  His eyes were soon drawn to the crammed notice board above the empty computer desk. He limped over to it. It was a colourful mosaic of different sized photographs. It took Brady a minute to realise that the girl staring back at him from most of the shots was the victim. But the girl he was looking at definitely didn’t match the innocent girl her parents had just described. Nor the school photo they had first shown him.

  In many of the photographs she was wearing heavy make-up and skimpy clothes; too skimpy in his opinion for an eighteen-year-old, never mind a fifteen-year-old girl. One group shot looked as if the victim and her friends were downing shots before heading out clubbing. What threw Brady was the fact that they all looked old enough to be knocking back spirits.

  ‘Fuck me,’ he muttered.

  Brady swallowed hard. One photograph grabbed his attention. The victim was stood next to a man in his early twenties. Brady couldn’t help but notice the way she was looking at him. That and the fact she had an arm wrapped around him while one hand playfully attempted to pull his face towards hers. Brady had had enough life experience to know that this looked far from innocent.

  Without a second thought, he pulled it off the notice board and placed it in his pocket. As he did something fluttered to the floor. Wincing, he gingerly bent down and picked it up. It was flyer for a local band; The Clashed. He looked at the list of dates and the venues. They were due to play at The Fat Ox in Whitley Bay tonight. Why, Brady questioned, would a fifteen-year-old have a flyer advertising gigs held in pubs? And more importantly, why was tonight’s gig circled in red?

  Brady discreetly put the flyer in his pocket along with the photo.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  Brady turned. It was Simmons.

  ‘Just wanted to have a look at the view of the farmland from the back of the house,’ Brady answered casually. He wondered just how long Simmons had been standing by the door.

  ‘You might find it helpful if you actually looked out the window, Detective Inspector,’ Simmons stated coldly.

  ‘Sophie seemed like a popular girl,’ Brady stated, as he jerked his head at the montage of photos.

  ‘I thought I’d asked you to leave,’ challenged Simmons, ignoring Brady’s comment.

  ‘Those photos of Sophie and her friends, didn’t they bother you and your wife?’

  ‘Get out! You hear me? Get out of her bedroom!’

  ‘If I wasn’t mistaken, I’d say you were obstructing this investigation. You do want Sophie’s murderer caught?’ Brady questioned as he stared at Simmons’ flushed face.

  ‘What kind of question is that?’

  ‘The kind that tells you I’m suspicious,’ replied Brady evenly.

  He then headed towards the panelled wooden door.

  ‘Be warned, sir, sooner or later I’ll find out whatever it is that you’re not telling me.’

  ‘Get out!’ hissed Simmons.

  Brady turned and left.

  What he had seen was enough to worry him. The photographs of the victim and her murdered body blurred the fact that Sophie Washington was still only a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl. Even Brady would have found it difficult as a hardened copper to single her and her friends out as underage drinkers in any one of Whitley Bay’s nightclubs. Something didn’t add up.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Conrad started up the engine.

  Brady waited until he had lit a cigarette before he said anything.

  ‘I want you to see what you can dig up on Simmons,’ instructed Brady.

  ‘Yes sir,’ answered Conrad.

  The more he thought about it, the more the Simmons’ statement about the victim didn’t ring true. The evidence he’d taken from her notice board was testimony to that. Coupled with the tattoo, it wasn’t looking good.

  He slowly smoked his cigarette as he thought about Simmons’ motive. Brady had a gut feeling about Simmons, one he couldn’t shake. But he needed Wolfe’s autopsy report to confirm if his hunch was right. Until then, he had no choice but to keep it to himself.

  ‘What about the victim’s mother?’ Conrad asked.

  Brady shook his head.

  ‘No, we don’t have to bother with her,’ answered Brady.

  He massaged his forehead as he thought over what she had said.

  ‘She went to bed at 10 pm, the next thing she knew was Paul Simmons waking her to say Sophie was missing,’ Brady stated.

  Conrad looked at him, surprised.

  ‘Didn’t you notice how many gins she knocked back while we were there?’

  ‘Surely that’s simply the ordeal of formally identifying her murder
ed daughter?’ Conrad suggested.

  ‘I take it you didn’t see the amount of wine and gin bottles she had stacked in their recycling box then?’ Brady stated.

  Conrad shook his head as he concentrated on the traffic.

  ‘If Sophie had come home after she had gone to bed she wouldn’t have heard a thing. It seems that Louise Simmons had checked out of her daughter’s life. The question is, why?’ Brady asked.

  Conrad shrugged.

  ‘Louise Simmons knew something was going wrong in her daughter’s life but she chose to hide behind a fog of alcohol,’ Brady concluded.

  ‘You think, sir?’ Conrad asked, frowning.

  ‘I guarantee it.’

  Conrad drove along in silence for a minute before turning to Brady.

  ‘Could Sophie have heard something when she got home? From her bedroom?’

  ‘Like what? Kids messing about?’

  Conrad nodded.

  ‘It’s possible. I checked out her bedroom and from the window you can make out the crime scene.’

  ‘Could she have heard some of the kids who hang out down there screaming or something and she went down and checked it out, worried that someone was being attacked?’ questioned Conrad.

  ‘Maybe, but that’s too easy, Conrad,’ answered Brady. ‘Whoever killed Sophie knew her. This wasn’t a random attack, I’m certain of it.’

  Conrad turned and looked at him curiously.

  Brady shook his head.

  ‘Overkill, Conrad. If she had just been sexually assaulted, then murdered, I agree it could be anyone. Whoever killed her, knew her. She met someone that night, Conrad. Our job is to find out who.’

  ‘How can you be certain she met someone?’

  ‘I guarantee that she returned home. When she got there, someone contacted her or maybe it was prearranged. Either way, she met this person at the bottom of the lane next to her house. There’s an opening in the fence there which leads straight out onto the farmland.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Ainsworth, Conrad. The man’s a genius. He found male hand and footprints at the fence matching prints found at the murder scene. He also found Sophie Washington’s footprints leading from the lane out onto the farmland. So we know she went that way, our problem is finding out who met her.’

  ‘Maybe Harvey and Jenkins will have come up with something?’ Conrad suggested.

  ‘Maybe,’ muttered Brady as he thought over the likelihood of it being an ex-boyfriend or even a current one. The evidence Brady had found in her bedroom clearly showed that Sophie Washington, contrary to her parents’ opinion, had a keen interest in underage drinking and boys.

  ‘Maybe the kids who hang about on the farm are the ones we need to be talking to. Question is, how the hell do you get them to come forward? And even if they did, who’s to say they witnessed anything? It’s so dark there, that even stood by what was left of that bonfire, a body thirty feet away would have been impossible to see.’

  Brady pulled out his mobile and checked to see if he had any messages. Nothing. He had secretly been hoping that Claudia might have tried to contact him. But she hadn’t. What did he expect? he resignedly mused.

  He reluctantly acknowledged that he now needed a statement from Jimmy Matthews’ daughter. Only then could they start to build up a picture of the events that had led to the victim’s attack.

  ‘Thought you were giving up?’ Conrad asked as he narrowed his eyes at the ash that had blown over what had started out at the beginning of the day as a spotless dashboard.

  ‘Sorry,’ Brady muttered as he attempted to appease Conrad’s tense face by brushing the ash off the dashboard.

  He turned and looked out of the passenger window while Conrad silently concentrated on the traffic ahead.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Conrad asked.

  ‘Talk to whoever knew the victim best and hope that they don’t bullshit us.’

  ‘I take it we’re starting with Matthews’ daughter then since the Simmons claimed she was Sophie’s best friend?’ Conrad asked as he turned to Brady.

  ‘Seems we have no choice,’ Brady answered quietly.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘Wait for me here,’ Brady ordered as they pulled into the large, sprawling driveway.

  But Conrad was too busy staring at the imposing eighteenth-century vicarage that was Matthews’ home. Brady suddenly realised what Conrad must be thinking, more so since it was situated in Earsdon village. Ordinary people like them couldn’t afford one of the huge sandstone houses that dominated the quiet, picturesque village, ironically only a few miles out from Whitley Bay. But Conrad wasn’t the only one thinking it. Brady couldn’t get the question out of his head. How the hell could a copper like Matthews afford this? Madley’s name uncomfortably came to mind. But Brady knew Matthews well enough to know that he was straight when it really mattered. He certainly took liberties; didn’t they all? However, Brady was certain that Matthews couldn’t be bought; or he used to be.

  His phone call earlier had left him with too many questions. So much so, he didn’t want Conrad around when he talked to Matthews. He needed to get out of Matthews exactly what it was he had stolen from Madley. And to see if there was any way he could minimise what had happened by returning whatever it was he had taken. Brady’s mind was literally spinning as to what it could be. Money, drugs or proof of overseas accounts. That was the real reason Brady was there. He very much doubted that Evie Matthews would be home; after all it was a school day. But someone was home, he was certain of that. The first thing he noted as they pulled into the driveway was that Matthews’ car was missing. Instead a gleaming, new 4 x 4 Land Rover was parked outside the double garage.

  ‘I reckon this is going to be difficult enough for Matthews’ kid, without the two of us interviewing her,’ Brady stated.

  ‘That’s fine, sir, I’ve got a few calls I need to follow up anyway,’ answered Conrad. This was DI Matthews’ home and the last thing Conrad wanted to do was poke around in his private life.

  ‘Can you give Jenkins a call and see what they’ve got so far?’

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

  Brady reluctantly got out of the car. He’d not seen Matthews outside of work in over a year. Admittedly, they still drank together at the end of a shift but the conversation always revolved around the job. It wasn’t personal. Whereas Brady’s private life was a shambles, Matthews appeared to be doing very well for himself; new cars, designer Italian suits and now this big, fancy property in the exclusive village of Earsdon.

  Brady hated to admit it, but he had a bad feeling about Matthews’ sudden acquired wealth.

  He wished he could have sent Conrad in, but knew it wasn’t an option. This was his problem. Whatever trouble Matthews had got himself into, it was Brady’s job to get him out of it. It was simple; he still owed him.

  ‘What the fuck have you been getting up to, Jimmy?’ wondered Brady, as he limped up the white gravel driveway towards the double wooden front doors.

  He steeled himself, before ringing the bell. He didn’t know what to expect.

  The door opened.

  ‘Jack? What’s going on? Where’s Jimmy?’

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me?’

  He wasn’t sure whether she would slam the door in his face or invite him in. She did neither. Brady followed her through the ornately tiled hallway to the large modern country kitchen at the back of the house. He couldn’t help but notice the fashionable red Aga and the very sleek and very expensive kitchen units and appliances. Even the stone slabs on the floor looked as if they cost more than a couple of months’ salary.

  ‘That’s right, you haven’t seen this place?’ she replied as casually as she could. But the strain in her voice was evident.

  ‘Do you want some?’ she asked, holding up a stainless steel coffee pot.

  ‘Please,’ Brady answered.

  ‘Black, no sugar?’

  ‘Yeah,’ r
eplied Brady as he pulled out a chair and sat down at the large farmhouse kitchen table.

  ‘Nice car in the driveway. Yours?’ Brady asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Do you mind?’ Brady asked as he took out his cigarettes and lighter and laid them on the table.

  She shook her head as she placed Brady’s coffee in front of him and then walked over and opened the French doors.

  ‘Nice,’ Brady commented as he nodded at the sizeable secluded walled garden.

  ‘You get used to it after a while.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Brady questioned. That was something he was certainly never going to be able to put to the test. He could barely afford the mortgage on his own place, especially now that Claudia had left.

  ‘Directly behind the garden there’s a field that we’re renting for the horses,’ Kate added.

  ‘Yeah?’ he answered, ignoring the creeping worry about where the money was coming from for the upkeep of horses.

  He’d forgotten Kate’s passion was horses. Always had been since he’d known her from the age of seventeen. Her mother lived in a sprawling country house outside of Morpeth and in the early seventies was a celebrated Olympic Show Jumper. She then married and had Kate, who had literally learned to ride before she could walk. Kate had been destined for greatness when it came to riding, even Badminton had been mooted. She was an all-rounder. Great at dressage, show-jumping and cross-country. That was until she met Brady.

  She had been rebellious in her youth and had rejected her boarding school upbringing for the edgy, dangerous punks who frequented the carpet-sodden dive in Whitley Bay called Mingles on a Friday night. A regular occurrence was skinheads travelling down from Newcastle looking for trouble. They would force their way into the club, drunk and ready for a fight. It was during one of these bloodthirsty punch-ups that Brady had spotted Kate pinned against the wall looking on in horror as the wannabe punk next to her had a glass smashed into his face by a skinhead. Brady had grabbed her and managed to get her out before the same skinhead decided to rearrange her very privileged, pretty face.