Blind Alley (13 page)

He cleared his throat again. The dry air in the room catching the back of it.

‘Trina, I’ve brought a photofit of a suspect and I would appreciate it if you could take a look and see if this is the man who attacked you.’

She automatically turned her head away from him. It was clear that she was not going to identify her attacker for fear of reprisals. After all, he had already left her as good as dead.

Brady frowned as he dragged his hand back through his hair again. He assumed that she had read the article in yesterday’s
Northern Echo
, which had named him as the SIO in charge of the serial rape investigation. It was a good ploy. It gave her a credible reason for talking to him instead of DI Bentley. But Brady was certain that this had nothing to do with his investigation. Instead, he believed that he was only here because she had crucial information that could affect Nick.

‘Trina? If you could just look at it for me? Please?’ Brady asked as he held it up for her.

Nothing.

‘Trina?’

‘It’s not him,’ she croaked without looking at it.

Brady noticed the tears sliding out of her bloodshot eye.

‘Take another look. Just to be absolutely certain,’ Brady suggested. His voice was low and gentle as if he were talking to a child.

Trina McGuire shook her head.

‘Trina? Please?’

She turned her head in his direction. Her look was of abject resignation. The feistiness that Trina McGuire was known for was gone, replaced by a depressed acceptance. Whoever had done this to her had kicked out whatever fight she had left.

Brady held the photofit up in front of her in a last-ditch attempt at getting her to look at it. She automatically closed her eye.

‘Trina?’

More tears slid down her battered face.

‘It looks like him. But no . . . it’s not him,’ she answered, her croaky voice barely audible.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He was tall and shaven-headed like the bloke in your photo. But it’s not him.’

‘Trina, are you certain it wasn’t him?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered as she turned her head to the wall.

‘Trina? Can you take another look at his face?’

She refused to look.

‘Can you give me more of a description?’

She shook her head.

‘It was too dark. It happened too fast. He grabbed me from behind. I . . . I . . . couldn’t see . . .’ she faltered.

Brady waited a moment to let her get her thoughts together. He hated doing this to her. She had already been through enough without him interrogating her as if she were the guilty party.

‘Look, Trina . . . I’m really sorry about this. About what happened to you . . .’ Brady was unsure what to say without sounding trite. ‘But I need to know more than you’re telling me. You say that the man who attacked you looks like the suspect in the photofit? Is that correct?’

Trina nodded weakly.

‘But what makes you so certain it wasn’t him?’

‘He was older. Older than the rapist you’re looking for.’

‘How old was he?’

She stared at the ceiling as she thought about it.

‘I dunno? Maybe in his mid-thirties? It was dark. Too dark to really tell.’

Brady wasn’t surprised that she didn’t identify her attacker from the photofit. He was certain that it wasn’t the same man as the one responsible for the series of rapes in Whitley Bay. But what did shock him was that she described her attacker as physically similar to the serial rapist – apart from being older.

‘Trina? Are you absolutely certain that it’s not the same man?’

‘Just go, will you. Leave me alone,’ Trina replied.

Brady waited.

‘Go!’

‘Trina, you asked to see me. Remember? You had something you wanted to tell me?’

‘Yeah? Well I was mistaken. Just leave, will you?’

Brady didn’t understand why she had asked to speak to him if she didn’t want his help.

‘All right, Trina, I’m leaving. OK?’

Brady stood up and picked up the Sony tape recorder. He switched it off. He wasn’t sure what Bentley would make of it. Not that he cared. It looked like they had both lost out here. Neither one of them had anything. Whether Trina McGuire could actually help either of their investigations was another matter.

‘Look, if there’s anything you remember, just ask for me.’

Brady put the recording device in his pocket and turned to leave.

‘He . . . he wanted Nick,’ Trina began.

Brady stopped and turned back.

‘What?’ He realised that she had been waiting for him to turn off the tape before she would talk.

‘He wanted me to tell him where Nick was . . . That’s why he did this to me,’ she said, raising her bandaged wrist.

‘Nick’s name. I had the tattoo done after . . . after . . . You know. Everything he did for me . . . for Nicoletta and the other girls.’

Brady was speechless. He realised that his gut feeling had been right; that her attack had been connected to Nick. But the reality made him feel as if he had been punched in the stomach. He felt physically sick that someone could do this to her because of Nick – his own brother.

He looked at her. He didn’t know what to say. Part of him felt guilty that her attack was connected to his brother. And part of him felt a great sadness at the unrequited love she still clearly felt for Nick. So much so she had ended up at the hands of some maniac who had a score to settle with him. But her loyalty was unquestionable. If she had known where he was, she would never have said. Brady knew that even if he asked her about Nick, she wouldn’t talk.

‘Why? Why hurt you like this?’ Brady asked.

She looked up at him and attempted to speak but nothing came out.

‘Here . . . have some water,’ Brady said, offering her the half-filled tumbler of water on the bedside cabinet.

She nodded gratefully as he gently guided the straw into her lips so she could drink.

When she was finished he put the plastic tumbler back on the bedside cabinet beside the plastic container of lukewarm water. There were no flowers or get well cards on the unit. Not that Brady had expected there to be, but for some reason the starkness still affected him.

‘Trina? What has Nick done for someone to hurt you like this?’

He had no choice but to ask, despite dreading the answer.

She looked at him. She was scared. But Brady didn’t know whether her fear was for Nick’s safety or her own.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what he’s done.’

A chill went down Brady’s spine. It was the first honest response he’d had from her.

‘But you’ve got to warn him. Warn him before he gets to him. What he did to me is nothing compared to what he said he would do to Nick.’

Brady nodded. It was the best he could do because he couldn’t guarantee he would be able to warn him. He still couldn’t get hold of him and right now, Brady wasn’t entirely sure whether that meant they’d already found Nick. And if they had . . . then . . . Brady couldn’t bring himself to think about it.

He made a move to leave. He knew he’d run out of time. Bentley was no fool. He would be timing how long Brady had been in there against the length of the recording.

Before he left there was one final question he needed to ask. He needed to be absolutely certain before he walked out.

‘The photofit. Are you absolutely certain this was not the man who attacked you?’

Without looking at him, she nodded.

‘It’s not him.’

‘What about your attacker? Clothes, smell? What about his voice – was he local?’

‘I . . . I don’t know . . . It was dark and . . . I couldn’t see him properly.’

‘Trina?’

She looked at him.

‘Did you know him?’

Brady watched as she turned her head away. But before she did there was no mistaking the fear in her eyes.

There was nothing he could do about it. No amount of persuasion was going to make her talk. Whether she actually knew her attacker was a moot point. If she did, she definitely wasn’t going to say anything. Whether it was fear for her own life or Nick’s, Brady couldn’t say.

The only detail that she did divulge troubled him. Was she playing him? Trying to throw him off the scent of who had actually attacked her? It was an easy out to simply state that her attacker looked similar to the man they were after apart from one crucial detail – his age.

Brady came out of the room and walked straight into Bentley.

He threw the tape recorder at him. Bentley caught it with ease.

‘Enjoy,’ Brady said as he walked straight past him.

‘Did she mention Madley?’

‘It’s all on the tape,’ Brady answered without turning back.

‘Did she ID the photofit?’ Bentley asked.

Brady looked at him, unable to hide his disdain. ‘No.’

‘Pity. I reckon we would’ve made a good team. Maybe she’ll open up to me when I interview her later. I’m pretty good with her sort. She lives by a different set of values. You’ve just got to give her an incentive to make her talk.’

Brady resisted the urge to wipe the smug expression off Bentley’s face. Instead, he turned his back on Bentley to leave. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.

Conrad suddenly appeared at the bottom of the corridor.

‘Thank fuck!’ Brady muttered under his breath.

‘You took your time,’ Brady said when he reached him.

Conrad was about to reply but after seeing Bentley he decided against it. He waited until they had left ICU before talking.

‘Is everything all right, sir?’

‘Couldn’t be better,’ Brady answered.

‘Did she say anything?’

‘It’s not what she said, Conrad. It’s what she didn’t say.’

Conrad frowned at Brady’s cryptic remark. But he knew not to ask what he meant. Brady would tell him in his own time – if at all.

Chapter Fifteen

It was late afternoon. Brady was keenly aware that the day hadn’t unfolded as he had planned. He was now about to go into the briefing that had been scheduled for that morning. He had let go of all thoughts of Madley and his brother, Nick. He had other things on his mind now. But what troubled Brady wasn’t what Trina McGuire had said. It was the look of fear in her eyes that had betrayed her. The question going through his mind was did she know her attacker? And if she did, why wasn’t she talking?

Brady walked into the Incident Room. It was a large bright room that could comfortably hold up to thirty officers if required. Despite the two substantial sash windows, the overhead fluorescent light was switched on to counteract the grey drizzle outside. The daylight had evaporated, replaced by a shadowy bleakness. It was October so what else did Brady expect? A large whiteboard dominated one wall. It was covered in photographs and Brady’s scrawled writing. Desk stations had been set up at one end of the room where the team were able to sort through whatever information and leads came in. A phone rang out bleakly on one of the desks but the call was lost amongst the light-hearted banter being traded around the table. The team were relaxed – too relaxed in Brady’s mind. They were sitting drinking coffee or water around the large conference table in the centre of the room. As yet, they hadn’t noticed Brady. The atmosphere was casual as talk turned to the weekend and arrangements they had made, or were going to make. No one seemed bothered about the reason they were there. Instead they had already checked out. It was a late Friday afternoon; yet another day had slipped away and they were still no further forward with the investigation.

Brady slammed the door of the Incident Room. The banter immediately ceased. He hadn’t intended to shut it so forcefully but it had the desired effect; he now had everyone’s attention.

‘I’m sorry about the delay,’ Brady apologised as he walked over to the table. ‘I’m sure you all had better things to do than wait around for me.’

The atmosphere in the room suddenly changed. It became awkward and stifling.

Brady caught Dr Amelia Jenkins’s eye. He could tell that she knew something was wrong. After all, she had been his shrink for a while. That had been eighteen months ago when his life had unravelled, plummeting downwards at a breakneck speed. Claudia, his then wife, had caught him in bed with his junior colleague, Simone. Not that he had realised at the time. She had literally walked in and then out of his life. The following night he was shot in the thigh, too close for comfort to his balls, on an undercover drugs bust in North Shields. To say he had issues was putting it mildly. So, he was assigned the police shrink to help him get over the car wreck that his life had become.

Amelia Jenkins had spent the first six weeks after Brady had been shot trying to sort his head out. He had insisted all he needed was a couple of bottles of scotch and a divorce lawyer but she wanted to try the more professional method. In the end she gave up. She was into the ‘talking cure’ – which had become a problem given Brady’s refusal to talk.