Vanishing Point (12 page)

The difference between Simone Henderson and the story of the headless body was that she was still fighting for her life and they could get a background story; unlike the unidentified girl lying butchered in the morgue.

Paulie handed Brady a polystyrene cup of black coffee. ‘You look like you need this.’

‘Thanks,’ accepted Brady. He reached in his pocket for change.

Paulie shook his head. ‘Do me a favour, will you?’

‘What?’ asked Brady as he took a mouthful of strong Italian coffee.

‘Watch yourself, Jack. There’s shit happening here that you haven’t got a clue about. New people are turning up, trying to take over. Things are changing … Fucking bastards coming in from London, Europe, all thinking they can throw their weight around …’ Paulie faltered.

Brady turned and followed his gaze as a car sidled round into the car park.

‘Look out for him, will you?’ Paulie asked as he stared at the new black Bentley saloon. Its registration plate read ‘MAD 1’.

Brady turned and shot Paulie a quizzical look. If there was one person who didn’t need protecting, it was Martin Madley.

‘Word is some bastard is trying to take him down,’ Paulie explained.

Brady looked at Madley’s new Bentley. Gibbs, his driver who doubled as his henchman, depending on what mood Madley was in, was behind the steering wheel. Once a professional boxer, the 6´4?, forty-five-year-old African Caribbean was still an imposing sight, with the physique of a brick shithouse. His thick, knotted, black dreads, interwoven with strands of silver, now hung down to his shoulders. He looked at Brady and flashed him a menacing smile, making the most of the new diamond set in his left front tooth.

Gibbs didn’t trust Brady and he made no apology in letting him know it. Not that Brady could blame him; he was a copper after all. Behind Gibbs’ black Oakleys, Brady knew his eyes would be cold and predatory.

Beside Gibbs sat a weaselly, sharp-nosed, beady-eyed character. He stared at Brady, refusing to back down. From past experience, Brady knew always to be wary of the thin, sinewy, on-the-edge, wiry types. They were the ones who would have a knife in your neck before you knew it. His small, darting, bloodshot eyes told Brady there was trouble. Brady didn’t need to look at him to know that. The fact that Madley had hired him was evidence enough.

‘Fuck,’ muttered Brady under his breath, unsure of what he was getting into here.

He waited as Gibbs got out of the car and walked to the back passenger door to open it.

A few seconds later, Madley stepped out. He looked composed and dignified in his black Armani sunglasses and black Armani suit. His brown hair was neat as always, but his tanned sharp features and menacing eyes spoke of a cut-throat malevolence. Madley was Brady’s age, a few inches shorter at 5´10?, with a smaller frame. However, Brady had witnessed Madley fight and knew that he could take down even his own man, Gibbs.

Madley liked to look good. His tastes were expensive, compensating for a childhood of desperate poverty. He wore no jewellery apart from an expensive watch, which cost more than Brady’s annual salary. After sharing a childhood in the war-torn streets of the Ridges, they had both chosen a life of crime: Brady fighting it, Madley living it – and clearly profiting from it.

Brady watched with interest as Madley’s new henchman got out of the Bentley. He strutted behind Madley, making a point of adjusting his cheap black version of Madley’s suit for Brady’s benefit. Underneath the Burton suit jacket Brady caught a glimpse of exactly what it was Weasel Face wanted Brady to see. A bulging shoulder holster with a Glock 31 semi-automatic pistol resting underneath the jacket. Brady was under no illusion: the manoeuvre was intentional. And the Glock 31 would be loaded.

Madley nodded at Brady as he approached him.

‘Brought in someone new,’ he said in a smooth, refined voice; the hardened Geordie edge of his childhood years long gone.

‘I can see,’ answered Brady as he glanced towards Weasel Face.

Madley turned to his new employee. ‘Wait for me in the car.’

‘Are you sure, boss?’ questioned the wiry man in a thick Cockney accent as he gave Brady a distrustful glance.

Madley shot him a look.

It was enough for Weasel Face to turn back to the car.

Something wasn’t right if Madley had been forced to hire some trigger from the East End. It was now obvious to Brady that the dumping of Simone Henderson’s mutilated body in his nightclub was no accident.

It was a warning. They wanted her blood on Madley’s hands. The question was why?

‘What’s going on, Martin?’

‘Maybe you should tell me,’ replied Madley as he studied Brady’s swollen, cut face.

Brady ignored the question.

‘I got a call from Jimmy Matthews this morning,’ he said, changing the subject.

Madley looked at him. Brady could see that behind the dark sunglasses his eyes had suspiciously narrowed.

‘Go on,’ Madley instructed.

‘He reckons he’s got something on me. Wants me to go in and talk to him. I think it’s connected to—’

‘Go visit him,’ interrupted Madley, cutting Brady off.

‘The last person I want to visit behind bars is Jimmy,’ objected Brady.

‘Then that’s your choice. But right now Jimmy Matthews isn’t my main concern.’

Brady was about to ask what he meant but Madley’s expression was enough to silence him. He had met Madley on the assumption that they needed to find out exactly what kind of damaging information Matthews could have got hold of, and how to silence him.

Brady’s eyes dropped to Madley’s right hand. He noticed that Madley was holding a package.

‘I’ve kept this back from that shit Adamson. So this is between you and me, Jack,’ Madley said as he handed the brown envelope over. ‘Understand?’

Brady nodded. ‘What is it?’

But he already knew. It was the surveillance footage from the Blue Lagoon, Madley’s nightclub. He realised that Madley must have replaced some crucial footage on the tape. Brady knew that Madley was paranoid about covering his tracks and it came as no surprise that he had the expertise or had someone close to him who could alter his security tapes if the need ever arose.

‘Better you see for yourself.’

‘What did you do?’ he asked.

‘Copied it and then replaced the previous Friday night’s footage after the club had closed. So when your lot got there, the surveillance camera shows nothing unusual. You owe me for this, Jack.’

‘Why? What has this got to do with me?’

Brady was worried. But he made a point of not letting Madley know.

‘Everything.’

Brady looked at Madley’s face. He realised that he was deadly serious.

‘Who is on the tape?’ asked Brady.

‘Watch it,’ answered Madley, his expression dark and menacing. ‘No one fucks with me, Jack. No one.’

‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Brady as he tried to keep his voice steady.

‘Someone we both know well … too well.’

‘Is this to do with Matthews? Is that the reason he’s demanding to see me?’

Madley laughed. It was a cold, hard-edged response. ‘Like I said, he’s the least of my concerns right now. This isn’t Matthews’ style. He hasn’t got the balls.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Martin, stop playing games. Just tell me.’

Madley shook his head. ‘Better you see this for yourself. But I’m not the only one who’s being fucked over here. You don’t sort this then it’s not only my reputation that’s ruined, it’s your career.’

Brady kept quiet. He had no idea who Madley was talking about. The only person who came to mind who would have a score to settle with them both was Jimmy Matthews. And he was locked up in a secure unit for his own protection. Besides, Madley was right. Matthews could be an evil fucker, but even he didn’t have the balls to be involved in something of this magnitude.

‘Here,’ said Madley, thrusting a piece of paper at Brady. ‘I think you’ll need to talk to Johnny Slaughter once you’ve watched the tape.’

Brady reluctantly took the paper with the number on it.

‘Sort it. Or …’ Madley let the sentence hang.

‘I’ll sort it,’ Brady said.

But he didn’t know exactly what it was he was sorting.

He knew Madley wouldn’t go to the police. He’d already proven that. And he had known Madley too long and knew that he wasn’t prone to hyperbole. If he said it could destroy Brady’s career then he was under no illusions; that’s exactly what it could do.

Chapter Seventeen

Brady unlocked his car door and got in. He reached across to the passenger floor for his laptop. He paused, not really wanting to go through with it. But he had no choice.

Madley had given him no choice.

He ripped open the package and took out the unmarked DVD. He laid it on his knee as he rolled a tab. He needed one to steady his nerves.

His phone started to vibrate in his jacket pocket.

‘Christ!’ he cursed, startled. He decided to ignore it.

He shakily lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. His dark brown eyes narrowed as he looked out the windscreen at the winding bay that was Whitley Bay. In the distance he could just make out the row of Indian, Italian and pizza restaurants and takeouts that littered the stretch of road facing the sea. In between them sat Madley’s nightclub, the Blue Lagoon, and next door, the Royal Hotel. As he did so he unconsciously tightened his grip on the package.

When he was ready, he pushed the DVD into the laptop and waited.

The image went from black to a grainy grey empty corridor. Brady fast-forwarded. Then he saw it. A blurry, tall male figure with cropped, short hair carrying something over his shoulder. Something bulky wrapped in what looked to be black plastic, like a bin liner.

Then Brady saw it. A hand fell from out of the plastic wrapping.

Brady exhaled, knowing that it had to be Simone’s.

He watched as the figure went into the gents’. At least a minute or more went by before the man exited again.

Brady noted that he was wearing a G-Star Raw camouflage jacket. He knew it was G-Star Raw because he recognised the distinctive style.

But he was at a loss. He didn’t recognise the figure. None of this was making any sense.

The tall, well-built figure headed down the corridor, passing the camera. As he did so, Brady caught sight of a blurred image of his face.

He sat for a moment, staring at the face. Not fully registering who he was staring at.

Then it hit him. It was all the confirmation he needed that he was right about the voice on the 999 call. Cold dread took hold of him. Then sheer panic.

Brady squeezed his eyes shut, willing the image of the face to disappear.

He shallowly breathed out, trying to slow his racing heart down. Steadying himself, he opened his eyes hoping that he had been wrong. He had to be wrong.

But as he stared at the evidence in front of him he realised that everything he had believed in, worked for, had suddenly evaporated. Replaced by an inconceivable fact: he knew the attacker.

His past had come back to haunt him.

‘No!’ shouted Brady as he hit the dashboard in pure rage.

Brady didn’t need Jed to digitally enhance the image. He already knew who it was – the three-inch scar down the left cheek was a dead giveaway. Then there was the jawline, the nose, those eyes. All unmistakable.

He was going to throw up.

Brady quickly opened the car door and bent over and retched. Acrid black coffee hit the ground, burning the back of his throat on its way out. He retched again and again until there was nothing but bile forcing its way up from his empty stomach. He slowly breathed in deeply, trying to steady himself, but the foul, decaying stench that hung in the air was only adding to the urge to retch again. Brady put the rancid smell down to the slurry from the agricultural fields behind the car park being carried over on the slight coastal breeze.

He could hear his phone vibrating as he clung onto the car door with his head hanging over the ground.

‘This can’t be happening. Please God this can’t be happening …’ Brady said to himself. Again and again and again.

A car slowly drove past, the elderly driver and passenger watching him. They stopped and waited, not sure if he needed help.

Brady realised he must have looked as bad as he felt.

It was enough to bring him to his senses. He pulled himself up and slammed the car door shut.

Brady sat and stared blankly out the windscreen. Minutes went past as he sat there, not seeing the horizon or the North Sea. All he could see was that scar running down the left cheek of the man who had dumped Simone Henderson in the gents’. Every muscle in his body, every sinew was taut. Every nerve on edge; waiting. Not knowing what to think, let alone what to do. All he felt was blinding panic.

Brady could feel himself starting to hyperventilate. His breathing was coming in short, rapid bursts just as it had done when he’d finally come round in hospital to the knowledge that someone had tried to blow his balls off and that his wife had walked out on him.

He tried to focus on steadying his breathing. Remembering the technique Amelia had taught him in the hospital to control the panic attacks he had suffered after realising he had lost Claudia for good. He had explained the panic attacks away as a result of being shot and reliving the memory of hearing the handgun go off and simultaneously feeling the impact of the bullet. Amelia had never said as much, but she had known that he wasn’t suffering from post-traumatic stress from being shot. It was the shock of being left by the only person he had loved. Claudia was the one person he had opened up to and he never meant to hurt her, let alone drive her away.

Brady put his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, trying to breathe slowly. But the face he had recognised on the tape kept tormenting him. He couldn’t shut it out.

He had to watch it again. Just in case he had made a mistake. In case Madley had made a mistake. It couldn’t be him. It just couldn’t.

Brady pressed play and then paused the DVD on the close-up of the figure’s face. But there it was, the three-inch, gnarled scar down his left cheek.