Vanishing Point (30 page)

Brady stared over at the pub wondering exactly what it was that Rubenfeld had for him. The Cluny was located in the Ouseburn area of Newcastle where it shared a former flax spinning mill with local artists, offices and recording studios.

It was well known locally and internationally, and often listed as one of the top 100 world’s best bars. It was a live music venue as well as a pub and a café. Brady couldn’t fault the place. Great music, good beer and appetising food. On an average day, he couldn’t ask for more from life. However, today wasn’t a typical day; it was far from it.

Brady turned to Conrad. ‘Can you chase up Daniels and Kenny? We should know by now whether they’ve found any evidence of anything suspicious around the land and buildings that Ronnie Macmillan’s bought up. And remind them that they’ve to keep their eyes out for a black Jaguar.’

‘Yes, sir,’ nodded Conrad.

‘Any word back on Adamson’s case?’ Brady asked, knowing even as he spoke that it was a dumb question. He knew that he would be the last person to hear of any developments on Simone Henderson’s attack.

‘No, sir,’ Conrad confirmed coolly.

Conrad had talked to Amelia earlier, but if the team had any new information she wasn’t sharing it. Whether it was because she was worried Conrad would report it straight back to his boss, he wasn’t sure. Conrad didn’t like Brady’s unhealthy interest in Adamson’s investigation. Even less so as it was becoming clear that Brady’s mind was torn between his own murder case and something else. Not that Brady would ever admit it, but it was obvious that something or someone had got to him. And Conrad presumed that was why they were parked up outside the Cluny for a meeting with an informant of Brady’s. But whatever information Brady would glean, Conrad was pretty sure he wouldn’t be party to it.

‘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.