‘And can you get an update from Harvey?’ asked Brady. ‘We should have heard by now whether any of Melissa Ryecroft’s friends have any information on this Marijuis character. And Conrad, I need you to personally run a check on him and his brother, starting with the Lithuanian authorities. I want to know everything you can find out about them. Exactly what it is they do now, who they work for and why they’re in the North East.’
He was certain that if Harvey had gleaned anything, he would have been in touch immediately. But it was still worth putting a bit of pressure on him.
‘While you’re waiting for me I need you to analyse the CCTV footage that Daniels and Kenny sent us.’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Conrad leaning over and picking up his laptop.
He tried to keep his expression neutral but the last place he wanted to be doing this kind of work was sitting in his car while he multitasked as Brady’s chauffeur. Yet he knew his boss had no choice: forensics were still searching for any traces of evidence left behind with the black bin liner containing the victim’s head. And Brady had made it quite clear that he didn’t trust anyone else to drive him around – something which only increased Conrad’s concern about how far the note left in Brady’s car was causing his boss to spiral to the point where he couldn’t think straight.
‘We’re looking for two Eastern European-looking men being driven around in a black Mercedes with a Lithuanian licence plate,’ stated Brady.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Conrad, his brain racing as he tried to keep track of Brady’s demands.
Brady thought of Daniels and Kenny. They had spent the past morning and early afternoon laboriously going over the airport footage. Neither one had spotted anything unusual. But Brady didn’t accept their findings, which was why Conrad would now have to redo their job.
‘Thanks, Conrad,’ Brady said as he got out the car.
‘The press call, sir? It’s scheduled for 5:00pm,’ questioned Conrad. ‘And it’s now 2:15pm. We’ve still got a lot to do before then.’
‘I need to do this first, Conrad,’ Brady calmly pointed out.
Given the state of his face, Brady had decided that Conrad would be better suited to give the press call about Melissa Ryecroft with Gates.
He shut the car door, putting Conrad’s uptight attitude down to the impossible workload he had just given him. But he’d had no choice. His team were under-funded and under-staffed and, unfortunately for him, Conrad was by far the best officer on his team.
Brady breathed out slowly, trying to get rid of the mounting pressure he felt and looked around for Rubenfeld. He couldn’t see him amongst the smokers tabbing outside. Then he spotted the short, shabby figure standing alone, smoking. He would recognise that ugly mottled face anywhere. The nose in particular which was becoming more bulbous and purple every time he saw him. Rubenfeld was a journalist through and through; he liked to drink and his drinker’s nose was a testament to that.
Not that Rubenfeld cared. All he cared about was his next story and next shot, and not necessarily in that order.
Rubenfeld always wore his shabby black raincoat, regardless of the weather, or the location. Brady couldn’t imagine Rubenfeld without it. Underneath he wore a black linen suit; equally scruffy and in constant need of dry cleaning, mainly because of liquor spills when he’d had one too many. Which in Rubenfeld’s case, was every night. But Rubenfeld had the tolerance of a rhinoceros. The man could drink the hardest men under the table and still remain standing.
Brady watched as Rubenfeld pulled the collar of his raincoat up around his neck. Rubenfeld had never quite acclimatised to the bitter North East weather after coming back from the South and had compromised on a heavy raincoat. Brady admired his pragmatism; this was the North East of England after all, where the temperature rarely rose above 60 degrees during the summer and the rest of the year was spent under a miserable, disgruntled drizzle.
Brady couldn’t remember a time when Rubenfeld hadn’t been around. As far as Brady could remember Rubenfeld had always worked for The Northern Echo. It was the bestselling newspaper in the North East and a lot of its sales were down to Rubenfeld. If there was a story to uncover, Rubenfeld was guaranteed to be the first one there. Brady didn’t know how he did it, but he had an uncanny knack of turning up when he was least wanted. But if Brady was honest, he needed Rubenfeld as much Rubenfeld needed him.
Brady watched as Rubenfeld threw his cigarette butt away and started to make his way through the crowd.
‘Leaving already?’ asked Brady as he walked towards him.
‘Nah! Looking for you, you tight bastard. You owe me a drink,’ said Rubenfeld as he narrowed his eyes and scratched at his two days’ worth of dark stubble.
‘You call me tight? When was the last time you stood a round?’
‘I’ve heard something that might interest you,’ Rubenfeld began, deliberately ignoring Brady’s question.
‘How about we go somewhere a bit more private then?’
‘Good idea, Jack. I suggest the bar.’
*
Brady watched as Rubenfeld knocked back his second whisky chaser.
He knew it always took a couple of drinks to loosen Rubenfeld’s tongue.
They were sitting at a round table by the window. From there Brady could see the bar and watch as people came and went while he waited for Rubenfeld to talk.
‘Another?’ asked Brady.
‘Aye, why not?’ answered Rubenfeld.
Brady expected as much.
He took his wallet out and walked over to the bar.
‘Another pint of Peroni and a double whisky,’ ordered Brady. ‘Throw in a bag of salted nuts as well, would you?’
Brady returned to the table, handing Rubenfeld his drinks and chucking the peanuts his way.
‘Don’t say I never buy you lunch!’
‘Like I said, you’re one tight bastard!’ scorned Rubenfeld as he ripped open the packet.
He took a handful and threw them into his mouth as he looked at Brady.
‘There’s some sinister shit going on, Jack,’ Rubenfeld said as he chewed.
‘Like what?’ asked Brady, pushing his black coffee out the way as he leaned in towards Rubenfeld.
‘Name first,’ demanded Rubenfeld.
‘You’re a shit, do you know that?’ said Brady.
‘Quid pro quo, Jack. You know the score. I’ve a story to finish and it’s missing a couple of details. You tell me, I ring it in so it can go to print, and everyone’s happy. Including my bloody editor – which would make a change!’
‘Melissa Ryecroft,’ answered Brady, knowing that the news was going to be released later that afternoon anyway. He knew the way to loosen Rubenfeld’s tongue and that was to offer him scraps ahead of any press release.
‘And?’ questioned Rubenfeld.
‘Sixteen-year-old local girl. Parents live on the Broadway, Tynemouth end. She went to King’s School sixth form before someone decided to murder her.’
‘Is it right she was decapitated?’
Brady looked surprised.
‘I hear things,’ muttered Rubenfeld through another mouthful of nuts.
Brady nodded.
‘Amongst other things. But at this point that can’t go to print. Understand?’
Rubenfeld ignored Brady.
‘What else?’ he asked.
‘Savagely raped and … and she had a captive bolt pistol shot through her forehead.’
‘Bloody hell, Jack. That’s a first in my book! I thought that kind of shit only happened in films, not for bloody real.’
‘I know …’ muttered Brady.
He was right though, mused Brady. That kind of weird, sadistic shit wasn’t what he expected to find happening in Whitley Bay of all places.
‘Any leads?’ Rubenfeld asked.
‘Do you really think I’m going to tell you?’ Brady said, shaking his head.
Rubenfeld gave out a deep, gurgling laugh.
‘One day, Jack.
You just might, one day.’
‘How much have you had to drink?’ mocked Brady.
‘Never enough!’ answered Rubenfeld as he drained his pint of Peroni.
‘What do you reckon it is? A copycat-style murderer?’ questioned Rubenfeld.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Brady.
‘You know that adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s book? That film No Country For Old Men with Javier Bardem as the psychopathic hitman playing havoc with a cattle stun gun?’
Brady nodded. It was an obvious connection. One he had already made.
‘A captive bolt pistol to be precise,’ Brady said as he thought about the hole in Melissa Ryecroft’s severed head.
‘So is it some nutter who watched the film and decided to copy it?’
‘No,’ replied Brady simply.
‘How can you be so sure?’ quizzed Rubenfeld.
Brady shot him a look which said it all.
‘Alright, alright I was just asking, that’s all,’ stated Rubenfeld.
‘You want more details, wait for the press call at 5pm like the rest of the scavengers.’
Rubenfeld contemplated Brady as he picked up the small tumbler of whisky. He swirled the contents around before knocking it back in one.
‘I’ve got a story to write up,’ he said, thumping the glass back down.
‘Not so fast,’ Brady replied.
Rubenfeld sighed heavily.
‘Alright … I’m hearing some crazy shit about Macmillan. The Mayor that is,’ Rubenfeld began.
Brady moved closer to Rubenfeld’s foul-smelling body, resisting the urge to ask him when he’d last had a shower, knowing the answer wouldn’t be pleasant. There was a reason why Rubenfeld was permanently single.
‘Seems he wants to expand. Go into business with this Lithuanian Ambassador who’s up at the minute from London. Our paper’s running a feature on his public address at the Civic Centre this afternoon. Load of cods-wallop if you ask me, but this guy has a lot of power and money. He’s highly influential, so consequently everywhere you look, Macmillan’s with him,’ Rubenfeld said as he raised his eyebrows at Brady.
‘That’s it?’ questioned Brady.
‘Alright, you tell me why a Lithuanian Ambassador is walking around with armed security in the bloody North East.’
Brady shook his head, not wanting Rubenfeld to realise that he already had his own suspicions after his chat with Trina McGuire.
‘For fuck’s sake, Jack. Are your brains in your arse or what? Armed security guards who look like Dolph Lundgren for bloody hell’s sake. It’s the North East of England not Beirut!’
Rubenfeld shook his head before taking another slug of whisky. ‘He owns a shipping company. Controls cargo ships that ship all across the world. I’ve heard word from a source that Macmillan wants to be part of it. Wants to be shipping containers between Eastern Europe, and the North East.’
‘Shipping what for fuck’s sake?’ asked Brady.
Rubenfeld raised his eyebrows. ‘You tell me.’
Brady shrugged. ‘Given what his brother Ronnie Macmillan’s involved in, and his taste for jail bait, I’d say it’s either drugs or human trafficking.’
Rubenfeld nodded. ‘Polish food is what Macmillan’s intending on shipping in. Doing a big publicity stunt supporting multi-culturalism and the growing ethnic minority of Polish people in the North East. Polish sausages, pickled cabbage and flat soda bread, supplied at cut-throat prices for all the local supermarkets from Redcar up to Berwick-upon-Tweed.’
‘What else?’ asked Brady, hoping that Rubenfeld had brought more than Polish sausages to the table.
‘How does a Lithuanian ambassador build up a shipping empire that’s worth millions? What’s he shipping, Jack? Because I bet it’s not just Polish bloody sausages!’
‘Why do you say that?’ quizzed Brady, wanting more than Rubenfeld was obviously prepared to give.
‘Because if your shipping line is strictly legal, why walk around with half the Lithuanian military watching your back?’
Brady didn’t reply. The answer was obvious.
‘You want proof, Jack?’ questioned Rubenfeld. ‘Go see for yourself. The Ambassador is guest of honour at a big, swanky dinner hosted by Macmillan tonight at the Grand Hotel. Press are going to be there because from what my source has said, they’re going to launch this new business partnership linking Eastern Europe and the North East of England. Then you’ll see what I mean. Bloody Lithuanian military will be crawling all over the place.’
Brady didn’t say a word.
‘Question is why, Jack?’ Rubenfeld said as he looked him in the eye.
‘What’s this Ambassador’s name?’ asked Brady.
‘Nykantas Vydunas,’ answered Rubenfeld. ‘And from what my source has told me, he has two very dangerous Lithuanian ex-military men involved with him.’
‘Go on.’
‘The Dabkunas brothers. Evil bastards, they are … but no matter what I do, I can’t get anything on them. All you hear is rumours and anecdotal crap. Nothing substantial. At least nothing that I could put into print. And let’s just say that the Dabkunas brothers aren’t interested in providing an armed guard to a container full of pickled cabbage.’
‘Can I talk to your source – off the record, obviously?’ asked Brady.
He needed to get more information on the Dabkunas brothers. And Rubenfeld’s source seemed to know a hell of lot more than Brady or his team could lay their hands on.
Rubenfeld looked Brady straight in the eye. It was a cold, hard look.
‘You look after your affairs and I look after mine. You haven’t talked to me. Understand? I hear things … and that’s the way I want to keep it. I don’t want your lot fishing me out of the Tyne.’
Brady looked at Rubenfeld. If he wasn’t mistaken, despite his hard appearance, the hack looked worried for his personal safety.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Brady looked up at his office door as Conrad walked in.
They’d been back for under an hour and by Brady’s reckoning, Conrad was due at the press call in less than thirty minutes.
‘Have something here that might interest you, sir,’ said Conrad as he walked over to his desk.
Brady felt his stomach knot as Conrad laid his laptop down and opened it up in front of him. He did his best to hide it.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be preparing for the press call?’ he asked.
‘Yes, but I thought you’d want to see this first,’ Conrad said as he pointed at the freeze-framed image that he had brought up on the screen. ‘This is the best Jed could do, but I think you can see their faces clearly enough to be able to release them to the public.’
‘Let’s see,’ replied Brady as he took Conrad’s laptop.
He hoped to God he wasn’t going to see Nick’s face caught on there.
He looked at the image on the screen. It had been taken from the airport CCTV footage at midday on Thursday. Two Eastern European-looking men, identical to those who had been at Rake Lane Hospital, were captured in grainy but inevitable realism, walking with a young girl between them. There was no mistaking it, thought Brady. This was the victim: Melissa Ryecroft.
‘Good work, Conrad,’ Brady said.
‘That’s not all, sir,’ Conrad said. ‘We got an image of the victim getting in their car.’
Brady held his breath as he moved on to the next image. He was hoping against all the odds that he wouldn’t see a grainy shot of Nick caught on Newcastle Airport’s surveillance tape. The last thing he wanted was a picture of his brother plastered across local and national papers and the news.
‘See? It’s clear that it’s Melissa Ryecroft getting into the back of the black Mercedes while one of the men holds the door open for her. Next shot shows both men getting in on either side of her in the back. And then the final one of the car pulling away. Jed has tried his best to get a better shot of the driver but this is as good as it gets,’ explained Conrad as he moved the dig
itally enhanced, freeze-framed images on until he came to the last one.
Brady clenched his fist under his desk while he tried to look as casual as possible.
If he believed in God, he realised now would be a good time to pray.
The problem was, he didn’t.
He watched as the image on the computer screen jumped to show a blurred shot of the driver.
Brady sighed. Relief.
Conrad interpreted it as disappointment.
‘It was the best shot we could get of him, sir. All that we can make out from his side profile is what looks to be a scar down his left cheek,’ Conrad said as he pointed to the gnarled line inflicted on the driver’s face.
‘You could be right,’ replied Brady. ‘But like you said, it’s hard to make anything out with this shot. Pity it’s so blurred.’
Conrad looked at Brady, frowning slightly.
‘Couldn’t we release it using the scar as an identifiable trait, sir?’ asked Conrad.
‘If it is a scar,’ replied Brady. ‘It’s such a poor image, I’d hate to commit myself to something that I’m not 100 percent sure about.’
Brady studied the freeze-framed image. There was no doubting it. The face on the digitally enhanced picture was definitely that of his brother, Nick. He was equally certain that the other two men had to be the Dabkunas brothers, Marijuis and Mykolas.
‘Alright, release the images we have of these two. But discount the one of the driver,’ ordered Brady.
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Conrad, surprised.
Brady made a point of ignoring Conrad’s questioning tone.
Conrad realised he had overstepped the mark by tacitly questioning his superior’s decision. ‘What do you think, sir?’ he asked, attempting to fill in the awkward silence. ‘That one of them is this Marijuis boyfriend that Melissa Ryecroft was seeing?’
Vanishing Point Page 24