Blind Alley (29 page)

‘You’re definitely sure about that?’ Gates asked as he scrutinised Brady. He had had enough fuck-ups these past forty-eight hours to last him a lifetime.

‘One hundred per cent. I recognise the six-inch scar on his scalp. Then there’s the black panther tattoo down his right arm, sir. Jed’s managed to digitally enhance two clear images of both traits,’ Brady answered.

He had printed them out and brought them to Gates.

For some reason whoever had filmed the beating hadn’t taken great care to protect Munroe’s identity. Munroe had worn a scarf around his ugly brute of a face. But his tattooed arm and his scarred skull were evidence enough to convict him.

There had been a lot of blood spilt at the crime scene. Enough for Forensics to have found bloodied prints. It seemed that the assailant had walked away with traces of blood and human tissue on the soles of his shoes.

Brady had a bad feeling about all of this. Jake Munroe wasn’t stupid, despite his looks. He was clever and cunning. So why set himself up? Or had someone else set him up? If so who? Had the person who had filmed the brutal attack uploaded it on to YouTube and then sent Brady a link without Munroe’s knowledge? But Munroe had people watching out for him. In particular, Madley.

Brady couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking into a trap.

That Munroe was simply the bait.

Gates cast his eyes over the images.

‘All right. I’ll go with you on this one. Bring him in,’ Gates ordered.

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Brady. He refrained from adding ‘again’, certain that it would not go down too well. Maybe if they hadn’t released Munroe on Saturday, Eddie Jones wouldn’t be lying with half his brain missing.

‘By the way, a call came in from Rake Lane. Eddie Jones has died from the trauma to his brain. He never regained consciousness.’ Gates’s delivery was matter-of-fact. No emotion.

Brady didn’t expect anything less. Eddie Jones had become a serious problem for Gates. Now someone had taken care of him and saved the police a job.

Not that Brady felt anything either. However, he didn’t think that anyone deserved to die such a brutal death – not even Jones.

‘You’re looking at a murder investigation now.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Brady answered. No surprise there, he thought. Especially considering the name of the film on YouTube. The word ‘murderer’ was a dead giveaway.

‘Find Jake Munroe before he disappears for good.’

Brady did not need any more encouragement. He turned and left.

Chapter Thirty-Three

‘Keep your mouth shut and just follow my lead. OK?’ Brady said as he switched his car engine off.

‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered dutifully.

He wasn’t looking forward to arresting Jake Munroe. And he was definitely not looking forward to doing it on Madley’s premises.

‘You sure we don’t need back-up?’ Conrad asked.

His face may have been blank but his eyes told Brady that he was worried.

‘I know Madley, Conrad. He wouldn’t take kindly to an Armed Response Unit kicking his door down. I’m sure that DCI Davidson would be willing to bring in his unit and show us how it’s done but I think I’ll give it a miss.’

Conrad looked at Brady, not quite believing him.

‘You’re serious, sir? It’s just us?’

‘Do I look like I’m taking the piss?’ Brady questioned.

‘No, sir,’ answered Conrad.

Brady noted that Conrad didn’t look too good.

He understood Conrad’s reservations; Madley had quite a reputation. Most of it smacked of urban legend. But Brady had to concede that Madley was someone you did not mess with. Even he was worried about how Madley would handle him turning up to arrest one of his employees. Especially when Madley had marched into a police station armed with the best lawyer that money could buy to get Munroe released. That had been forty-eight hours ago. A lot had happened in that time.

Brady banged on the glass door of the Blue Lagoon. He could have gone in heavy-handed but that wasn’t his style. They had already checked out Jake Munroe’s flat on Edwards Road in Whitley Bay. Brady had gone armed with a search warrant that entitled him to kick the door down when Munroe failed to answer. They might not have found Munroe in the one-bedroom flat but they did find the boots that he’d used, wrapped in a black bin-liner ready to be thrown out. To Brady’s eye they looked identical to the boots that had obliterated Jones’ face. It had been a vicious, sickening attack.

Brady had bagged the evidence and taken it with him for Forensics to examine. He passed on instructions for the rest of Munroe’s flat to be searched and for his computer to be brought in for Jed to analyse.

‘You all right, Conrad?’ Brady asked as he turned and looked at Conrad’s pale face.

‘Someone’s coming, sir,’ Conrad answered.

Brady turned back to the double glass doors of the nightclub.

One-eyed Carl unlocked the doors.

‘DI Brady, is there a problem?’

‘I’m looking for Jake Munroe,’ he answered.

He had the feeling that Carl had been sent to stall them.

‘I’m sorry, he’s not here. I haven’t seen him today. Monday’s his day off,’ Carl replied, his voice and expression as emotionless as ever.

The fact that two coppers had turned up in the late afternoon looking for one of their bouncers should have elicited more of a reaction. More so when it was Brady, and he had Conrad with him. There was one thing Brady never did, and that was mix business with pleasure. Not once had Brady ever brought the police to Madley’s door. Today was the exception. That in itself should have had Carl asking questions. The fact it didn’t bothered Brady.

Munroe was here. He could feel it. He could see it in Carl’s eye.

Brady nodded as he looked past Carl. He was certain he could see movement at the back of the nightclub. He saw a flash of daylight, which suggested someone had just opened the emergency exit door. And Brady was sure that ‘someone’ would be Jake Munroe. Whether he had been hiding out at Madley’s or Madley had promised to protect him, Brady didn’t know – nor did he care. He just had to get hold of the bastard before he disappeared – permanently. He had already let him slip through his hands once. He would be damned if he let it happen a second time.

‘By all means come in and wait to see if he shows. But I doubt he will,’ Carl invited, as if on cue.

Brady turned to Conrad.

‘Come on, Munroe’s not here. Let’s go check out the gym he uses.’

Conrad could see from the dark expression on Brady’s face that something was wrong. He had no idea what had happened. But he had clearly missed something.

Brady waited until he heard Carl lock the doors behind them. He wanted to appear as casual as possible so as not to alert them to the fact that he knew Munroe had legged it out the back. The crucial question was whether he was doing a runner on foot or in Madley’s Bentley, which was always parked around the back of the club. Brady knew it would be there. After all, it was impossible not to miss Martin Madley when he was standing at the first-floor bay window watching the proceedings below.

‘How fast can you run, Conrad?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ answered Conrad.

‘Well, you’re about to find out. That bastard Munroe has slipped out the back of the club. You take the right along the Promenade and block off the back lane and I’ll go up Brook Street and block him there.’

‘What about assistance?’ Conrad asked.

He didn’t like the prospect of trying to single-handedly apprehend Jake Munroe. He’d been in the interview room with Brady when Munroe was brought in at the weekend for questioning. He was a big bloke with a lot of muscle. This was muscle that Conrad had watched Munroe using without remorse on Eddie Jones. When he had finished with the drug dealer not even his own mother would have been able to identify him.

But if Conrad was waiting for a response from Brady it wasn’t going to happen. Brady had already started running – and fast. Conrad steeled himself and then followed his boss’s lead and headed as fast as could in the opposite direction.

Panting, he ignored his burning lungs as he sprinted round the corner of the Promenade up Ocean View. He then sped as fast as he could along the alley behind the Blue Lagoon nightclub.

‘Shit!’ he cursed.

Brady already had Munroe. Or to be precise, Munroe had Brady.

Conrad pulled out his radio and somehow managed to call for assistance in between gasping for air. There was so much adrenalin coursing through his body that he couldn’t feel the pain in his shoulder. That would hit him later. His only focus was getting to Brady before Munroe finished him off.

Munroe didn’t have time to raise his fist again. Conrad came in from behind with a rugby tackle. The force of Conrad’s weight succeeded in throwing the brute off-balance.

Brady, who was already on the ground, took his chance and kicked out at Munroe’s legs. It was enough. Munroe had no other option. He fell, face down.

‘Cuff him!’ ordered Brady as he pulled himself up. ‘Bastard’s under arrest!’

Conrad didn’t need to be told. He was taking no chances. He already had the cuffs on Munroe and was busy reading him his rights. Not that he had any rights, lying face down in the gutter with Brady’s foot pressed on the back of his thick bald head.

It took all of Brady’s inner strength not to raise his leg and bring his heavy black boot smashing back down against Munroe’s skull. Brady had to remind himself that was what made them so different. Munroe didn’t know when to stop.

Whereas Brady did.

‘They’re too tight, you fucking shit!’ groaned Munroe as he attempted to raise his head. ‘It’s cutting my fucking wrists in two. And fucking get off my head you bastards! I can’t breathe!’

Conrad’s response was to give him a hard kick to silence him.

‘Looks like my bad behaviour is rubbing off on you,’ Brady said, attempting to give Conrad a wry smile. But his jaw resisted.

‘Fuck!’ he cursed as he raised his hand to it. ‘I think that bastard’s tried to break my jaw!’

Brady tried to move it but the pain made it impossible.

‘Give him another fucking kick from me, will you? His balls would be a good place to start!’

But before Conrad had a chance to see whether Brady was actually serious, back-up arrived, blocking off both ends of the alley.

Brady took his boot off the suspect’s head and stepped back. He knew it wouldn’t look good. Despite the fact that Brady’s face felt as if it had been rammed repeatedly against an iron girder, he couldn’t be seen roughing Munroe up.

‘Fucking typical! Too little too late. Where are the police when you need them, eh?’ Brady joked as sirens screeched and officers scrambled to their aid.

‘Thanks by the way,’ Brady said as he took the pack of tissues from Conrad.

Brady took one out and dabbed at the cut above his eye.

He looked at Conrad.

‘You know? For saving my arse just now. If you hadn’t turned up, fuck knows what would have happened.’

Conrad didn’t say anything.

Instead he watched as Munroe was dragged to his feet by two burly officers. Even they struggled between them to get the lout to stop resisting arrest.

‘So, where did you learn to tackle someone like that?’ Brady asked.

‘Rugby, sir. Played for my school team and then at University,’ Conrad answered as he made a point of watching Munroe.

Brady knew that Conrad didn’t like to mention his background. Brady had no idea why that was. But then again, Conrad was not the only one who didn’t like to talk about his background. Brady had spent years trying to put as much distance as possible between his present life and his former existence; with one exception – Martin Madley.

Brady looked at Munroe. What troubled him was that this guy worked for Madley. As if reading Brady’s mind Munroe shot him a menacing smile, or a grimace to be exact. His small eyes were filled with malicious intent.

‘This is just the beginning, Jack Brady. Mark my words,’ Munroe shouted out.

‘Fuck you!’ Brady replied as he held Munroe’s glare. It made his stomach turn to hear Munroe dare speak his name.

Brady turned to walk away. He had wasted enough energy on the ugly scrote without listening to any more of Munroe’s bile. There would be plenty of time for that when he interviewed him back at the station.

‘You see this? Eh? You see this fucking scar?’ Munroe asked as he attempted to bend his head down. The two officers on either side of him yanked him backwards, bringing his head level with Brady’s.

Munroe flashed him a cold, insincere smile.

‘There’ll be payback, Brady. Fucking payback!’

Brady gestured to the two officers restraining him to get him out of sight. He had no idea what Munroe was talking about.

Conrad turned to Brady.

‘What did he mean, sir?’ Conrad asked, frowning.

Brady shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

Conrad didn’t look convinced. Not that Brady was bothered. He had more important problems than appeasing his deputy. He was worried. Worried that Munroe had something on him. Or on Nick. After all, Johnny Slaughter had accused Nick of fucking him over – as had Madley. Munroe had worked for both men. Coincidence? Brady seriously doubted it.