He felt her hand brush against his leg as she moved closerinto him. Even though he had his eyes shut, he could feel her staring at him.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right today?’ Jenkins asked gently.
‘Why not?’ he asked as he opened his eyes.
She was staring at him intently.
‘You know why,’ she answered.
Brady shook his head, refusing to even acknowledge what she was talking about.
She had read the files from his childhood, files that had lain untouched for years. Jenkins knew more about his past than anyone else, aside from two people, one of whom was Jimmy Matthews. Even Claudia wasn’t fully aware of his background.
‘Come on, Jack, this is me you’re talking to. Thirty years ago to this exact day you witnessed your mother being murdered. It’s obvious it’s had an effect on you—’
‘Isn’t that meant to be confidential? Doctor-patient crap?’ Brady abruptly interrupted.
‘It’s still confidential,’ answered Jenkins quietly.
‘Yeah, but you’re not my shrink any more,’ Brady replied coldly.
His mouth was dry and he was starting to feel caught out. She had lured him into a false sense of security and then trapped him.
‘I’m not asking as your doctor, I’m asking as your friend.’
‘Is that what you are? A friend?’ Brady sceptically asked.
‘I don’t know …’ she whispered as she stared into his troubled, dark brown eyes.
She searched his eyes, wanting an answer.
Brady suddenly came to his senses and stood up.
She looked at him, confused.
He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. All he knew was that he needed some fresh air. He resisted the urge to grab his coat and just walk out.
‘Jack?’ Jenkins questioned, startled by his sudden reaction.
Brady looked at her and shook his head.
‘I can’t do this,’ he stated, gesturing at the Scotch on the floor beside her.
Jenkins nodded. She knew exactly what Brady was referring to, she didn’t need him to point it out.
‘I need to get some sleep,’ Brady reasoned.
Jenkins stood up and smoothed down her dress.
‘Thanks for the drink,’ she said as she picked up her coat and bag.
Brady watched silently as she put her coat on, wishing there was something more he could say.
‘You sure you’ll be all right on your own?’
He shrugged.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. As Brady’s psychologist, she knew that because of his past he couldn’t handle emotional intimacy. Her dark brown eyes said it all, they both knew that their professional relationship had just crossed the line.
Chapter Forty-Two
Brady pushed his plate away. Ordinarily, a bacon and egg stottie was the only way to kick-start a bad day. But today wasn’t like any other bad day. It was worse, much worse.
He took a mouthful of black, bitter coffee as he looked around the decrepit basement cafeteria. It was long due an overhaul. The red, chipped laminated sixties tables had seen better times, as had Brady. He looked at the barred windows. The grey, drizzling day bleakly called out to him to make a move.
It was only 8.36 am and he felt exhausted. He had had less than three hours’ sleep. Disturbed sleep at that. The old drunk who had accosted him earlier had troubled him more than he wanted to admit. And when he finally did fall into a restless slumber, it was only to be beset by nightmares about the old drunk.
Brady rubbed his tired face. His rough stubble caught him by surprise. He needed to straighten himself out. He knew that at some point he’d be facing Gates, if not the press, and he needed to look halfway decent.
But he couldn’t go home. Not with Kate there.
He had arranged for a patrol car to drive by every halfhour during the night to ward off Madley’s henchmen. But when he had called Kate earlier, she had made it clear that she couldn’t be bought off with a patrol car. She wanted Matthews and was convinced that Brady was protecting him. Brady had tried his best to persuade her that he was as much in the dark about Matthews’ whereabouts as she was, but she wasn’t accepting it.
The conversation had ended badly. Enough for him to want to keep out of her way for a while. He couldn’t blame her for being angry; a lot had happened in the last twenty-four hours and he still had no answers.
Brady always kept a razor and clean clothes at work for unexpected situations like this. As soon as he had finished his coffee his next visit would be to the dilapidated shower rooms hidden in the basement. He had no choice; he stank from the crap he’d been dealing with for the past thirty hours. And there was still more crap to deal with before the day really got going.
But at least they had Ellison in custody, albeit still drunk. He had rolled home at 7 am. From what Brady had heard Ellison had got quite a shock when CID showed up.
But Brady was painfully aware that Sleeping Beauty spending the night with Ellison hadn’t exactly helped his judgement. And in the cold light of day he was now wondering whether he had been over-zealous in dragging Ellison in? He already had Gates questioning his decision to bring Simmons in. But Brady knew it was more than male pride where Ellison was concerned. He had a photo and a flyer with his gig circled in red. That and a barmaid stating that she had seen someone of his description with the victim hours before she was murdered.
Brady was now waiting for news on Ellison’s DNA andprints to see whether they matched the forensic evidence found at the crime scene. And he also had Jed, their computer forensics officer, searching Ellison’s laptop and desktop computers that would tie him to the victim.
Brady’s phone rang.
‘Yeah?’ he answered.
‘It’s him all right,’ answered Conrad.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, sir. He definitely has the same tattoo as the victim covering his back.’
‘Thank fuck,’ said Brady, relieved. ‘All right Conrad, as soon as the bugger’s sober let me know.’
Brady disconnected the call. He forced himself to move, aware that it wouldn’t be long before Ellison was clearheaded enough to interview.
‘Who are you trying to impress?’ Harvey laughed as he took in Brady’s clean-shaven face and change of clothes.
For once, Brady was wearing a shirt and a suit. It was the only change of clothes he had at the station in case he suddenly had to give a press conference.
Brady gave him the finger before going into his office.
He knew Harvey was talking about Jenkins. He was sure half the station would have been talking about them by now. It wouldn’t have gone undetected that she had been in his office with him until well after four in the morning.
‘Touched a nerve have I, Jack?’ Harvey called out after him jovially. ‘By the way, you don’t happen to know where Dr Jenkins is, do you?’ he laughed.
Brady slammed his office door shut.
He pulled out his BlackBerry as he limped over to his desk.
He sat down and waited for her to pick up.
‘Amelia?’
‘Yes?’ answered Jenkins.
‘It’s Jack,’ added Brady.
‘I know,’ she answered.
‘Where are you?’ Brady asked.
‘At work,’ she evenly replied.
‘I haven’t seen you around,’ Brady stated.
‘You wouldn’t. I’m in my own office dealing with my own backlog of work.’
‘Is that it? You’re off the investigation?’ Brady asked, trying to hide his disappointment.
‘I wouldn’t have thought you needed me any more. You’ve got Ben Ellison, so there’s nothing more I can do. Anyway, I’ve got a pile of work I need to catch up on.’
‘I see,’ said Brady.
‘Look, Jack… this is… well… it’s becoming difficult… for both of us,’ Jenkins attempted. ‘I think it’s
better this way.’
‘Sure, you’re the doctor,’ answered Brady lamely.
Someone knocked at the door.
‘Got to go,’ Brady said.
‘I’m sure you do,’ answered Jenkins before she disconnected the call.
‘What!’ Brady called out as he eyed yet more paperwork that had surreptitiously made its way to his in-tray.
Conrad walked in.
Brady noted that Conrad looked more refreshed than he did. He presumed Conrad hadn’t tried sleeping three hours on a lumpy, old sofa.
‘Trina McGuire rang wanting a word with you, sir.’
‘Yeah?’ asked Brady, surprised. ‘Why the bloody hell would she want to talk to me? Oh, don’t tell me,’ he muttered. ‘She wants to make an official complaint about bloody Adamson.’
‘Shane McGuire’s in hospital, sir.’
‘What happened?’ Brady asked.
‘That’s what she wants to know,’ answered Conrad.
‘Yeah?’ Brady said as he answered his mobile.
He looked over at the hospital’s main entrance.
Numerous patients were stood outside the revolving door tabbing away. One old guy with gaunt, sunken cheeks and sagging yellowing skin even had a drip attached to his large, bony hand. In between his skeletal fingers he tremulously held a cigarette. His other bony hand was gnarled around a portable oxygen tank. His blue lips sucked greedily at the cigarette, oblivious to the people walking past. He then yanked at the oxygen mask flaccidly hanging around his scrawny, chicken neck before taking another puff.
Brady hoped for his sake that the portable oxygen tank was switched off. Otherwise, the daft old bugger might end up going a damned sight quicker than he expected.
Fuck, Brady thought. Life can’t get worse than that.
‘Got a message for you, Jack,’ Turner, the desk sergeant, said hesitantly.
‘Spit it out then,’ replied Brady.
‘It’s from Claudia,’ Turner began.
Brady immediately stiffened.
‘And?’
‘She wants you to call her as soon as you can.’
‘Why not call my mobile if she wanted to talk to me?’ questioned Brady.
‘I don’t know, all she wanted me to do was pass the message on,’ Turner explained uncomfortably.
‘I see,’ Brady stiffly replied. ‘Thanks for letting me know, Charlie.’
He sighed heavily as he disconnected the call.
‘Bad news?’ Conrad asked as he set the alarm on his car.
‘I don’t know,’ reflected Brady.
He decided to worry about it later. If it had been that important she would have rung him rather than going through the station.
First he had to see exactly what had happened to Shane McGuire.
Chapter Forty-Three
Someone had done a good job, Brady had to concede.
Shane McGuire was an ugly sight. His face was so swollen and disfigured it was difficult to know whether it was really him.
Tubes protruded from his scrawny arms while multiple wires fed back to various bleeping machines.
Brady wasn’t surprised. He had read McGuire’s medical report and even though he wasn’t a doctor, he recognised enough to know it didn’t look good.
McGuire had four broken ribs, one of which had punctured his right lung. His nose, left arm and right leg were broken, as was his back in two places. His spleen had also been ruptured and he had suffered significant internal bleeding.
McGuire moaned as he tried to open his swollen eyes.
‘Shane pet, Jack Brady’s here. I want you to tell him who did this to you,’ Trina gently asked.
‘Tell him to fuck off. I told you there’s nothing to tell,’ whispered McGuire hoarsely.
‘For fuck’s sake, Shane! Whoever did this tried to kill you!’
‘I told ye, Mam, I didn’t see ‘em,’ moaned McGuire.
‘This is your fault!’ accused Trina McGuire as she spun round on her four-inch stilettos.
‘Look … I’m really sorry about Shane but I don’t see how—’
Trina McGuire cut Brady off.
‘Of course you don’t cos you lot think you can throw your weight around wherever you want, regardless of the consequences for people like me and my Shane!’
‘I’m really sorry that this has happened, but I don’t see the connection,’ Brady replied firmly.
‘Then maybe you should think twice about dragging him off in front of his mates to the police station for questioning, eh? Makes him look like a fuckin’ grass or someit! No surprise he then gets given a beating if they think he’s been talking to you lot!’
‘Look, Mrs McGuire—’
‘Fuck me! Listen to you! Detective Inspector Jack Brady! You wouldn’t think he’d grown up with the likes of me? Would you?’ she asked sarcastically as she turned to Conrad.
Conrad stepped back.
Brady couldn’t blame him. She may have only been five feet four and six stone if that, but she was dangerous.
Trina McGuire threw back her long, glossy blonde hair as she turned her attention back to Brady.
He was unfortunate enough to have known her from a previous life. She had caught his eye, just as she had caught many men’s roving eyes at the time. Growing up she had blossomed into a remarkable beauty, somehow avoiding absorbing the ugly harshness of the Ridges. But now, years later, she epitomised it. She still had a ‘heroin chic’ beauty about her, but even with the liberal make-up, it was fading fast. A poverty-stricken, desperate junkie, who didn’t havea hope in hell of getting out. The best thing she had ever done in her life was lying in a hospital bed with the shit kicked out of him.
‘You’re bloody lucky your brother’s not still around. He’d soon sort you out.’
Brady kept quiet. He knew they had once been an item and that she blamed Brady for him leaving the North East and ultimately her, behind. But that was years ago. He had gone to London to get away from the fact that Brady was a copper. Not that Brady could blame him. He was secretly relieved that his brother had made that decision, otherwise it would have been Brady who would have had to put some distance between them.
‘Shane?’ Brady said, deciding it was time to leave.
The last thing he wanted was Trina McGuire bringing up the past: his past. Not in front of Conrad.
‘Listen, if you decide you want to talk, just let me know. Here’s my number, yeah?’
‘Fuck off will ye? And take yer fuckin’ number with ye?’ said McGuire, thickly.
Brady ignored him and left his business card on the kid’s bedside table.
‘Take care,’ Brady said, looking at Trina McGuire.
‘Save it, Jack. We both know you don’t mean it,’ she replied. ‘And you tell that little shit Adamson that his days are numbered. No one treats me like a piece of fuckin’ shit. Especially not a copper!’
Chapter Forty-Four
‘Who’s the lucky woman then?’ asked Conrad as he pulled out of the hospital car park.
‘No one you know,’ Brady replied quietly.
He looked down at the wilting bunch. The hospital gift shop wasn’t exactly Interflora, but it was the best he could do considering the circumstances.
‘Do you mind driving to Whitley Bay Cemetery first? There’s something I need to do,’ Brady asked softly as he avoided looking at Conrad.
‘Sure,’ answered Conrad, suddenly feeling like an idiot.
They drove along in concentrated silence.
Conrad felt too uncomfortable to make small talk. Not that it mattered. Brady was too preoccupied to even realise.
Brady looked out at the bleak, depressing coastline. The brooding, dirty-grey sea looked as unwelcoming as ever. He watched as dog walkers braved the constant drizzle and the North East winds whipping in from the Arctic.
Conrad pulled in behind the row of solemn cars parked outside the cemetery gates.
‘I’ll wait here, shall I?’ suggested Conrad.
&nbs
p; ‘Yeah, I won’t be long,’ answered Brady.
‘Take as long as you like, sir,’ replied Conrad.
‘Thanks,’ Brady said appreciatively before closing the car door.
He pulled his beat-up leather jacket tight around his body in a miserable attempt to ward off the sub-zero freezing wind and rain. He looked across towards St Mary’s lighthouse. The tall, white Victorian structure bleakly held out against the blackening sky while the sea raged at the battered rock on which it stood.
He let his gaze drift over to Feather’s caravan site which sat on the remote edge of Whitley Bay with unblemished views of the lighthouse and the sea on one side and wild fields and open countryside on the other. Who in their right mind would come to blustery, miserable Whitley Bay? questioned Brady. But the caravan site was popular. Who with, Brady had no idea, but it was the last standing testimony that Whitley Bay had once been a lively family holiday resort and not the binge drinking paradise and gang fighting haven it had now become.
The caravan park and the miniature golf course were all that was left, everything else had gone. The bucket and spade shops with lettered rock and candy floss had long since been boarded up. As had the amusement arcades and finally, the Spanish City fairground. A primary school had ironically replaced the ‘Corkscrew’ roller coaster, along with the ghost train and waltzers that had lurched and twisted as kids, himself included, had shrieked in stomach-churning delight.
Brady turned the collar of his jacket up against the stabbing rain and headed through the black wrought-iron gates of the cemetery. He nodded dolefully at the undertaker sat grim and irritable behind the wheel of his loaded hearse. Ahead of him a funeral had overrun. Like life, even in deathnothing was ever straightforward, Brady mused as he walked past, head down.
He turned off, avoiding the straggling mourners coming out of the chapel, and limped along the familiar row of headstones and cherubs. Brady counted his steps as he had done as a child. He reached twenty and stopped dead. Someone had got there before him.
An extravagant bouquet of white orchid lilies stood out amidst the sea of grey stone. Brady sucked in. He knew who had beaten him to it and had at the same time unwittingly outdone him. Embarrassed, Brady looked down at the cheerless hospital flowers in his hand. He thought the better of chucking them and instead, painfully knelt down and placed them on the ground in front of the headstone.
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