parents’ statement on my desk by the time I get back,’ he ordered, clutching his car keys.
‘Don’t you just want me to drive you?’ asked Conrad. ‘You don’t look so good, sir.’
‘I’m fine, Conrad. Just some bruising, that’s all.’
Conrad clearly didn’t believe him.
‘Look, it’s better if you’re not involved,’ replied Brady uneasily.
He wasn’t good at lying; especially where Conrad was concerned.
‘Sir?’
Brady couldn’t look him in the eye. Instead he turned and walked to the door. He opened it and waited for Conrad.
His deputy didn’t move. Brady realised he was clearly waiting for an explanation.
‘Trust me on this, will you? Anyway, I need you to trace this serial number taken from the victim’s silicone implants,’ Brady said, offering the piece of paper that Harold, Wolfe’s assistant, had given him.
‘Why?’
‘It could identify our victim. And I want that information before I talk to the missing girl’s parents. Saves us all a lot of time.’
Conrad reluctantly walked over to him and took the paper.
‘Sir, look … we’ve got the briefing in less than an hour.’
Brady agitatedly rubbed his hand over the coarse stubble on his chin. He felt cornered. But he knew he had no choice. He had to go.
‘This won’t take long. I’ll be back to handle the briefing. Just tell the team the meeting’s been pushed back until 3pm. It gives you time to set up the Incident Room and run a check on that serial number for me. I need to know for certain if the victim is or isn’t the Ryecrofts’ missing daughter before the briefing, Conrad.’
‘Sir?’ objected Conrad. ‘What happens if I need to contact you?’
‘To you, and you alone, I have my mobile. If anyone asks, tell them I’m at lunch,’ ordered Brady as he left the office.
Conrad watched him leave. He had a bad feeling that Brady was independently working on a connection with Simone Henderson’s investigation.
Conrad looked at the paper he had inadvertently crumpled up in his fist. He had work to do and decided that, knowing Brady, he was right: it was better that he didn’t know. All he could do was exactly what Brady had asked – cover for him until he got back.
Chapter Sixteen
Brady parked up and got out of his black 1978 Ford Granada 2.8i Ghia. He looked across at St Mary’s Lighthouse. It looked serene, ghostly even; crumbling white against a backdrop of muted grey and black clouds rolling in from the horizon. The lighthouse had once been a beacon of light shining across the cold, battering North Sea, stretching out as far as the naked eye could see, until it reached a vanishing point.
When he was a kid, he and Martin Madley would skip school, jump on the Metro to Whitley Bay and then walk the length of the beach and over the rocks to get to St Mary’s Lighthouse. With his brother Nick in tow they would spend tireless days wading in the rock pools, exploring St Mary’s Island.
St Mary’s was now a major tourist attraction for the small seaside resort. It was a leisurely stroll down from Feathers caravan site; still a popular destination with the Scots for their annual fortnight holiday, just as it had been since the fifties. The two council-owned car parks at St Mary’s were positioned to take in the breathtaking curve of beach and cliffs that was Whitley Bay. Brady looked at the beach stretched out ahead. This place was in his blood. No matter how much he fought it, he knew he was tied to it. That regardless, he’d never be able to leave.
He watched as early afternoon dog walkers and joggers dominated the white, unblemished sands while birds scavenged the promenades fighting over the previous night’s curried chips, charitably dumped by passing drunks stumbling home.
Brady locked his car and walked over to the grassy bank, breathing in the salty, fresh air. He headed along the path towards the second car park opposite the lighthouse, looking for Madley. He wasn’t there. But Paulie
‘Don’t you just want me to drive you?’ asked Conrad. ‘You don’t look so good, sir.’
‘I’m fine, Conrad. Just some bruising, that’s all.’
Conrad clearly didn’t believe him.
‘Look, it’s better if you’re not involved,’ replied Brady uneasily.
He wasn’t good at lying; especially where Conrad was concerned.
‘Sir?’
Brady couldn’t look him in the eye. Instead he turned and walked to the door. He opened it and waited for Conrad.
His deputy didn’t move. Brady realised he was clearly waiting for an explanation.
‘Trust me on this, will you? Anyway, I need you to trace this serial number taken from the victim’s silicone implants,’ Brady said, offering the piece of paper that Harold, Wolfe’s assistant, had given him.
‘Why?’
‘It could identify our victim. And I want that information before I talk to the missing girl’s parents. Saves us all a lot of time.’
Conrad reluctantly walked over to him and took the paper.
‘Sir, look … we’ve got the briefing in less than an hour.’
Brady agitatedly rubbed his hand over the coarse stubble on his chin. He felt cornered. But he knew he had no choice. He had to go.
‘This won’t take long. I’ll be back to handle the briefing. Just tell the team the meeting’s been pushed back until 3pm. It gives you time to set up the Incident Room and run a check on that serial number for me. I need to know for certain if the victim is or isn’t the Ryecrofts’ missing daughter before the briefing, Conrad.’
‘Sir?’ objected Conrad. ‘What happens if I need to contact you?’
‘To you, and you alone, I have my mobile. If anyone asks, tell them I’m at lunch,’ ordered Brady as he left the office.
Conrad watched him leave. He had a bad feeling that Brady was independently working on a connection with Simone Henderson’s investigation.
Conrad looked at the paper he had inadvertently crumpled up in his fist. He had work to do and decided that, knowing Brady, he was right: it was better that he didn’t know. All he could do was exactly what Brady had asked – cover for him until he got back.
Chapter Sixteen
Brady parked up and got out of his black 1978 Ford Granada 2.8i Ghia. He looked across at St Mary’s Lighthouse. It looked serene, ghostly even; crumbling white against a backdrop of muted grey and black clouds rolling in from the horizon. The lighthouse had once been a beacon of light shining across the cold, battering North Sea, stretching out as far as the naked eye could see, until it reached a vanishing point.
When he was a kid, he and Martin Madley would skip school, jump on the Metro to Whitley Bay and then walk the length of the beach and over the rocks to get to St Mary’s Lighthouse. With his brother Nick in tow they would spend tireless days wading in the rock pools, exploring St Mary’s Island.
St Mary’s was now a major tourist attraction for the small seaside resort. It was a leisurely stroll down from Feathers caravan site; still a popular destination with the Scots for their annual fortnight holiday, just as it had been since the fifties. The two council-owned car parks at St Mary’s were positioned to take in the breathtaking curve of beach and cliffs that was Whitley Bay. Brady looked at the beach stretched out ahead. This place was in his blood. No matter how much he fought it, he knew he was tied to it. That regardless, he’d never be able to leave.
He watched as early afternoon dog walkers and joggers dominated the white, unblemished sands while birds scavenged the promenades fighting over the previous night’s curried chips, charitably dumped by passing drunks stumbling home.
Brady locked his car and walked over to the grassy bank, breathing in the salty, fresh air. He headed along the path towards the second car park opposite the lighthouse, looking for Madley. He wasn’t there. But Paulie
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