Blind Alley (14 page)

Amelia had originally worked with the force as a forensic psychologist. But for some reason she had turned to practising clinical psychology instead. Brady presumed something had shaken her to her core. But Gates knew Amelia from old and had asked her to work on an investigation. Surprisingly, she had agreed. That had been over a year ago and she was still here.

Brady needed to talk to her. Go over Trina McGuire’s reaction to the photofit of the rapist. It didn’t make sense to him and since she was the team’s forensic psychologist he wanted her take on it. But from the evidence he had seen, Trina McGuire’s attack wasn’t the handiwork of their rapist.

Brady watched, momentarily mesmerised, as Amelia tucked her sleek, black, razor-sharp bobbed hair behind her ear. It refused to stay and obstinately fell back against her flushed cheeks. She was only in her early thirties, with a career that was going somewhere – and fast. Added to that, she had a fatal combination of intelligence and uniqueness about her. But that was what scared Brady. He was attracted to Amelia, there was no doubt about that, but at the same time he didn’t want to risk their professional relationship. Or was he making excuses? He wasn’t sure whether it was because he still had feelings for Claudia. Or maybe it was the fear that whenever something good came into his life, he inevitably destroyed it.

Amelia’s dark, almond-shaped eyes studied Brady. She frowned slightly. She knew from the look in his eye that something was wrong. Lately, she had spent a lot of time with him. Whether it was because Conrad had been off on sick leave and she had been an easy replacement, she couldn’t say. However, in that time she’d got to know him quite well. Not as well as she would have liked. But she was still hopeful that he would take her up on the drink she had suggested. That was six months ago and she was still waiting for an answer.

Brady turned from Amelia and looked around the table at the rest of his team. There was only a handful of them. But it was enough. He trusted every one of them.

His eyes fell on Tom Harvey, the oldest member of the team. He was not the kind of Detective Sergeant to waste time with small talk. Still unmarried, despite some desperate attempts, and fast approaching his late forties. He was an average looking, stocky bloke who dressed in a dark M&S suit with a pale blue shirt and matching tie. His light brown hair was cropped short in an attempt to minimise the spreading flecks of grey. His jaw was severely shaven with telling razor nicks. But he was getting old. It was hard not to notice the widening waist-line or the double chin that had developed over the last year. Harvey’s downfall, like a lot of coppers of his generation, was the pub. He liked a pint. Or if Brady was honest, Harvey liked more than one pint. He had an unquenchable thirst and a reputation for always being the last man standing at the end of a night. But Brady had known Harvey for years now and still had a lot of time for him.

His gaze drifted over to DC Kodovesky, who was sitting next to Harvey; she was the youngest member of the group and Harvey’s partner. They made a good team. A fact that still surprised him.

Kodovesky kept herself to herself. Unlike Harvey, she did not socialise with the other coppers. She was the new generation – clean-cut and career obsessed. She came in, did the job and then went home. Always the first one in and the last one out. Brady admired her dedication and determination. She knew where she wanted to be, which was sitting behind the DCI’s desk. Her long black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. She never deviated from this harsh, perfunctory look. It was the same with her clothes. Professional yet practical: a black polo neck top with black pinstriped trousers and low-heeled black boots. In all the time she had been stationed at Whitley Bay, Brady had never known Kodovesky to wear a skirt or make-up. Not that she needed either. But he knew she was making a point. After all, she was a woman in her late twenties trying to make a career for herself in a male-dominated police force. Consequently she had more to prove than her colleagues. Brady assumed this was why she always had an air of detachment about her. It was simply a case of self-preservation in a testosterone-fuelled environment. She had heard about the reason for DC Simone Henderson’s sudden transfer to the Met. They all had. And the last thing Kodovesky wanted was to repeat Henderson’s mistake. Kodovesky was too professional and too aware of the potential repercussions for her career to let herself fall foul of becoming involved with a colleague, especially a senior officer.

Brady’s eyes glanced over to Conrad, sitting opposite Kodovesky. He was very much the male version of Kodovesky, a few years on. He was clean-cut, handsome and dependable. His life was the job. So much so that Brady worried about him. Conrad kept whatever personal life he had to himself. Brady knew part of it. But that was only because he had worked with Conrad for so long. At times, private calls inevitably ended up being overheard. Brady had picked up a couple of clues about Conrad’s private life. It was enough for him not to ask about it. Better that Conrad came out and told him than to speculate. But there was no one else that Brady would have assigned to him. Conrad was Conrad and in Brady’s eyes he was irreplaceable.

Brady turned to Daniels and Kenny, the other two DCs making up the team. Both in their early thirties. Unlike Conrad and Kodovesky, they were not graduates. Nor were they focused on fast-tracking. The two of them enjoyed the job, but not enough to let it take over their lives. Their talk revolved around three subjects outside work: football, drinking and women. In that exact order. In all the time Brady had known them it had never varied. Not once. They were Geordie blokes and proud of it.

Daniels was well-built at five foot eleven – a testament to long hours at the gym. Good looking in a hard way, with his hair shaved so close to his scalp that you could only just make out that his hair was sandy blonde. He had hazel eyes that were normally filled with mirth, and a strong, determined jaw. Women liked him and he knew it and abused it.

He and Kenny were inseparable: best mates on the job, best mates off. Kenny was tall, with short, curly dark brown hair. His face with his deep-set, mischievous brown eyes was already heavily lined. What he lacked in looks he made up for by being a comedian. Brady would constantly find himself telling Kenny to rein it in. But he knew that Kenny’s macabre sense of humour was his way of dealing with the atrocities that they faced. Not that Kenny was unusual. Brady knew a lot of coppers and scenes of crime officers who wouldn’t miss the opportunity to come out with a sick one-liner at the expense of the deceased. But Brady was in no doubt that being a copper suited Kenny.

As it did every person on the team.

Brady was aware that no one was speaking. The air was tense. Even DC Kenny and DC Daniels were motionless. Both averting their eyes from Brady’s penetrating gaze.

As were DS Harvey and DC Kodovesky.

Even Conrad was studying his coffee.

‘All right. Who’s going to tell me what’s wrong?’

Conrad looked up at Brady.

‘You might want to take a seat,’ Conrad advised.

‘Why?’

‘It’s about Trina McGuire,’ Conrad explained.

The look on Conrad’s face was serious.

Brady took a seat, fearing the worst. ‘Go on,’ he instructed not taking his eyes off Conrad.

‘I think you should watch this first, sir,’ Conrad recommended. ‘I’ve just recorded it.’

He turned and switched on the flat screen TV against the wall.

It took a moment for Brady to register what Conrad wanted him to watch.

‘What the—’ Brady stopped himself short before adding ‘fuck’.

It was Bentley. And he was on the local five o’clock news being interviewed about the attack in North Shields the previous night.

‘What has this got to do with us?’ Brady asked as he turned on Conrad.

‘Just listen,’ Conrad advised. His tone was calm and non-combative, despite the fact that Brady probably looked as if he wanted to punch some sense into him.

‘Turn it up then,’ Brady instructed. Not that he actually wanted to hear to it. But he obviously had no choice.

He listened as Bentley gave a brief about Trina McGuire’s attack. He named the location and the approximate time of the attack. He obviously didn’t disclose the victim’s name. But he did say something that made Brady sit back, winded.

‘Rewind it! I said rewind it, Conrad!’ barked Brady.

He was trying to control the anger coursing through his body as it rewound, aware that all eyes were on him.

Conrad pressed play and waited.

‘We are looking into the possibility that this attack might be connected to a series of sexual attacks that have taken place in Whitley Bay over the last two months. Obviously we are treating this very seriously and are liaising with the investigating team dealing with the previous rapes.’ Bentley paused for effect as he looked straight into the camera.

Brady felt for a moment as if Bentley was looking straight at him. Mocking him.

He cleared his throat before continuing: ‘A silver saloon taxi stopped briefly outside the Ballarat pub. He waited for a minute or so before driving off down Borough Road. This was witnessed by our victim at approximately at ten thirty p.m. yesterday evening. Shortly afterwards she was subjected to a brutal and violent sexual attack in which she has sustained significant injuries. This taxi driver might have seen something that could help with our enquiries and we would appreciate it if he could come forward. If anyone has any information please contact my team at—’

‘All right, switch it off,’ Brady ordered. He had seen more than enough.

Conrad did as instructed.

‘When did you find out about this?’ Brady asked.

He was pissed off. Brady did not like being the last to be informed. More so since he was the SIO in charge of the team.

‘I just got a call five minutes ago about it,’ Conrad answered sheepishly. ‘Otherwise I would have told you in private, sir.’

Brady sat back in his seat. He couldn’t believe what Bentley had just done. He had no authority to make such a statement. Let alone to make it public. He tried to compose himself. He had no choice. He had a team of people sitting here waiting for his take on Bentley’s public territorial pissing.

‘I don’t know what the fuck Bentley is playing at, but our rapist didn’t attack Trina McGuire,’ Brady said. It was an honest statement and he believed it.

But he could tell from the reaction on his team’s faces that they weren’t so sure. Brady had to accept that Bentley was very convincing. He was a charismatic speaker – not that Brady had personally experienced it – and he used his charm arsenal, in particular his expressive, startling, bright blue eyes to great effect. The stylish suit, the strong, trustworthy, handsome features and the deep, slow voice worked a treat. At least it had done on Brady’s team. And if Bentley had convinced them that Trina McGuire had been raped and assaulted by the same person they were supposed to be tracking down, who knows what the public, let alone Brady’s superiors would make of it. In particular, DCI Gates.

Chapter Sixteen

Brady pushed his chair back and stood up. He was too agitated, too wound up to remain seated. He got up and walked over to the whiteboard. Details of all three rape victims were laid out bare. Brady cast his eye over the victims’ oblivious, smiling faces. He then studied the photographs of the crime scenes where the first two girls had been raped.

The first victim, Sarah Jeffries, had recently returned from a three-month trip travelling across Thailand, Indonesia and Australia. She was a petite girl for nineteen with no weight to her. Whether she was naturally underweight or travelling had taken its toll on her body, Brady wasn’t sure. But he knew one thing – she was the ideal first victim. They knew from all three victims’ statements that the rapist was tall, at least six foot, and muscular. Sarah Jeffries’ small-framed body didn’t stand a chance. But if there was one small mercy, at least she was the first victim, which meant that she didn’t suffer the extent of injuries endured by the following victims.

The rapist had seized his opportunity as she had drunkenly made her way home at 3:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning after clubbing in Whitley. For whatever reason she had ended up walking home alone. It was as she had turned up by the boarded-up eighties pub, Whiskey Bends, that he had grabbed her and dragged her into the back alley behind the disused building. It was the ideal location to attack someone – dark and deserted. He had bound, gagged and blindfolded her before raping her. He had then stabbed her nine times in her breasts.

Sarah Jeffries, like Anna Lewis, was certain that she had not heard a car. She was convinced he had followed her on foot and had waited until she was walking past Whiskey Bends before making his presence known.

The latest that Brady had heard was that Sarah Jeffries had quit her job as a trainee hairdresser. She was nineteen and terrified. Her life had stopped. Brady hoped that it was only temporary. But he knew that the only way he could help her was to catch the bastard that had destroyed her life.

It was not until the second victim had been attacked five weeks later that they realised they had a serial rapist on the loose. Same MO but the violence had radically escalated. Anna Lewis’ attack had lasted substantially longer and was more brutal than the first. She had been assaulted during the early hours of a Sunday morning as she had been walking along the Promenade towards Cullercoats after a night out celebrating a friend’s birthday in Whitley Bay. By her own admission she had been drunk. Too drunk to realise what was about to happen. It was as she walked through the unused car park of the abandoned High Point Hotel, a short cut home she had taken countless times before, that the rapist had attacked. At 3:30 a.m. he was guaranteed no witnesses. He had overpowered the tall, heavily built twenty-three-year-old and dragged her round to the back of the deserted building. It was in the shadows, hidden from passers-by or prying residents, that he had raped and mutilated her. This time he had not only repeatedly stabbed his victim through both her breasts, he had also taken with him a trophy. A souvenir to remind him of her – her right nipple and the skin surrounding it.