Blind Alley (33 page)

Brady nodded. It all made sense. Apart from the coincidence of it being the same prison that held Ronnie Macmillan.

‘I get it. But why Durham prison?’

‘Munroe’s charged but he’s still awaiting trial. His court case will be heard at Newcastle county courts. After all, his crimes took place here. So what prison is close to Newcastle but offers the maximum level of security for someone like Munroe? Durham.’

Brady sighed as he ran his hand back through his hair. It was a lot to take in. And he was not quite sure whether it was mainly wishful thinking on Matthews’s part.

‘So again, this all comes back to Madley? Yeah?’ Brady asked, still unclear as to why Madley would want Ronnie Macmillan dead.

‘You’re getting there. Yeah. Madley orchestrated this whole thing.’

‘Why?’

‘Remember DC Simone Henderson?’

Matthews didn’t wait for a response. The dark look in Brady’s eyes was enough.

‘She was dumped by Ronnie Macmillan in Madley’s nightclub as retribution for not going into business with him. With Macmillan it wasn’t a question of whether you wanted to do something. If he asked, you did it. Madley really had no choice. So when he refused, Macmillan set him up. Dumped a copper who had been gutted and fuck knows what and then made an anonymous call to the police.’

Matthews waited for Brady to absorb what he had just said. Time was running out and he wanted to make sure that Brady understood the full magnitude of what was going on.

Brady thought back to Friday when he had called in on Madley unannounced. He had two well-heeled businessmen in his office. Both had kept their backs to Brady. But he was sure when one of them stood up and walked over to Gibbs that he recognised him. Albeit from the back. The more Brady thought about it now the more he was certain it was Mayor Macmillan. But why would a politician be sitting in a well-known local gangster’s office? It hadn’t made any sense. Now though? Had Madley and Mayor Macmillan been in this together? Brady knew that Madley was cut-throat and that if he saw an opportunity he would take it. The same could be said of Mayor Macmillan.

Ronnie Macmillan’s his fucking brother though . . .

Brady took a moment to try and accept that someone could want his own brother dead. But then again, this was Mayor Macmillan. He was a rising politician who would do anything to protect his political career. Perhaps Ronnie Macmillan’s death was damage limitation? Who knows if Macmillan was preparing to strike a deal to have his sentence shortened if he talked? He had already been inside for six months. In all likelihood he would have been refused parole every time he’d applied for it. An indefinite life in prison could be a bitter pill to swallow – even for the resolute.

‘So? Convinced?’ Matthews asked with a gleam in his eye.

‘Maybe . . . Or maybe someone else paid Munroe to kill Ronnie Macmillan. Madley wasn’t his only enemy.’

‘For fuck’s sake. What more do you want?’

Brady stood up to leave.

‘Watch your back, Jimmy. And keep that mouth of yours shut. OK?’

‘Fuck you!’

Brady nodded at him. There was nothing he could do for Matthews. He was stuck in this hellhole with too much time on his hands.

‘See you in three weeks,’ Brady said before he turned to leave.

Matthews didn’t respond.

As Brady walked across the room towards the guarded exit something, or to be precise, someone, caught his eye: Jake Munroe. Then he saw who Munroe was talking to. It was Weasel Face. Madley’s right-hand man.

What the fuck? Why would that bastard be here?

Then it hit Brady. They were both from the East End of London. Surely they must have known one another? After all, the criminal world was not that big. There was a high probability that Weasel Face had also worked for Johnny Slaughter. At the time Weasel Face came up to the North-East, Madley had needed protecting, which was why the hired gun was here. Had Johnny Slaughter sent him up to help Madley out? Both gangsters went back together. Slaughter looked out for Madley and vice versa.

But maybe it’s nothing to do with that. Maybe Weasel Face is here on business – Madley’s business. Was he here to make sure Munroe had followed Madley’s instructions and silenced Ronnie Macmillan? At what price? How much had Madley paid Munroe? It must have been a significant figure for a hit man to be prepared to spend time inside.

Brady put his head down and kept walking. He couldn’t be sure if they had seen him. If they had, they hadn’t shown it. The last thing Brady wanted was Munroe knowing that Jimmy Matthews had been talking to him. If he found out, this might be the last time Brady would ever visit Matthews.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Brady had driven around for a couple of hours after his visit with Matthews. He didn’t feel like going home. Nor did he want to go to the station. So he drove. In no particular direction, with no destination in mind. All he could think about was what Matthews had told him. That Madley had set this whole thing up, from Munroe’s attack and rape of Trina McGuire to Eddie Jones’ brutal murder. Munroe had even played the police when he copied details about the serial rapist printed in the
Northern Echo.
But he had tortured Trina for information on Nick. And then for his own sadistic pleasure he had raped her after removing her tattoo of Nick’s name.

It was clever. Brady would give Munroe that.

Then there was Eddie Jones’ attack. Both attacks were filmed by the assailant’s own hand and then uploaded onto YouTube for the world to see. But more significantly, the police. Brady still wondered how much Munroe had been paid. The savage rape and murder were incidental, merely a cruel means to an end. The ultimate plan was to get inside Durham prison so he could kill Ronnie Macmillan. It was so crazy it was almost believable.

Apart from Nick. Why go after Trina for Nick?

This was Brady’s and Nick’s childhood friend. This was Madley. Would Madley really pay someone to torture Trina for information on Nick? Madley had made it very clear that Nick had stitched him up. After all, Ronnie Macmillan may have been behind setting Madley up with the police, but Nick had also played a part in it. So much so, Madley had made it very clear that if Nick ever returned to the North-East he would have him killed. Madley knew that it was nothing personal where Nick was concerned. That he was just doing a job. But it was a moot point. He had betrayed Madley. The reason why didn’t matter.

Brady suddenly pulled off the Links Road and headed towards St Mary’s lighthouse. He parked the car and cut the engine.

Why the fuck here of all places? Why come here?

But Brady knew the answer.

When he was a kid, he and Martin and Nick would skip school and spend tireless days down here. They would mess around in the rock pools, on the beach and race along the causeway from the lighthouse to the mainland trying to outrun the incoming tide. Brady had had a dark childhood. His memories of this place were the few happy ones he had.

So why does being here hurt so much?

Brady tried to silence his mind by turning his attention to St Mary’s lighthouse. It 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 straight ahead. The beauty of the place was lost on him. He couldn’t see it.

He sighed heavily.

He had never contemplated leaving this place. Until now.

Maybe it was time for him to get out?

Brady sat back and thought about everything that had happened. It looked like he could be in line for a promotion. So why didn’t he feel good about it? It was simple. He hadn’t really solved Eddie Jones’ murder or Trina McGuire’s rape. Jake Munroe had effectively handed himself in. Was the end goal really to kill Ronnie Macmillan?

Brady couldn’t even report what Jimmy Matthews had witnessed. If he did, he would be signing Matthews’s death warrant. And Jimmy Matthews meant a fuck more to him than the likes of Ronnie Macmillan. The gangster had it coming as far as Brady was concerned. As for Jake Munroe, he was already banged up in a maximum security prison. What more could they do?

He spent the next two hours watching the dots of lights along the curve of the Promenade. He had ignored the cars that pulled in with their headlights flashing. St Mary’s lighthouse was a local dogging spot. Not that the Tourist Information centre listed it as such. But it was well known amongst the locals that St Mary’s and Gosforth park in Gosforth, a sought-after suburb outside Newcastle, catered for the non-dog walkers late at night.

Brady checked his mobile. It was 11:33 p.m. It was time to call it quits. He turned the engine of his black 1978 Ford Granada 2.8i Ghia. It growled in response. A deep, seductive reassuring noise. The car had been bought as a project. But it was Nick who had restored it, not Brady. Nick had been able to fix things since he was a young child. It had been a shell when they’d bought it nearly eleven years ago, but it was Nick’s time and endurance that had rebuilt it to beyond its former glory.

At this moment it felt like the only connection he had with Nick was the car. He still couldn’t get hold of him. He was starting to get worried now. After the spree of killings, Brady feared the worst.

He cast a glance back at St Mary’s lighthouse. It looked serene, ghostly even; pale white against the blackness of the horizon. He put the car in first and pulled away in an attempt to leave his past behind in the rear view mirror.

Brady found himself back at the station. He couldn’t stomach the idea of going home, where he would be tormented with thoughts about whether Nick was dead or alive. Or worse, being held captive and tortured. He couldn’t exactly turn to Madley. Brady assumed that when Madley had rung to tell him about Ronnie Macmillan, it was his subtle way of telling Brady that Nick was next.

Brady had his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands as he looked at the files in front of him. Anything to take his mind off what had happened in the past thirty-six hours.

He sighed.

Why was he doing this? Gates had pointedly told him to steer clear. That Gates had forgotten about the Lee Harris debacle and so should Brady. In other words, forget him as a suspect. So why could Brady not accept his boss’s advice?

Because he’s wrong. That’s why.

Brady picked up his mug and took a mouthful of scotch. It may have been cheap, nasty shit but it did the job. He took another slug before putting the mug down.

He looked at the files again. It was staring him in the face. He knew it so why couldn’t he see it?

He couldn’t ignore his gut feeling about Lee Harris. He fitted Amelia Jenkins’s profile, aside from having had no prior convictions. But why did that jar with him? He felt as if Lee Harris was leading the police, or to be more specific, Brady, down a blind alley. He couldn’t put his finger on why he felt Harris was not who he claimed to be.

Brady looked at the facts in front of him. Hazel Edwards had driven the suspect’s car. Lee Harris was still a suspect in Brady’s eyes – regardless of Gates.
The taxi driver had said that Lee Harris told her to park the car on Marine Avenue, outside his flat, and to post the keys through the door when she’d finished her shift. She claimed to have ended her shift half an hour before the CCTV footage had caught the silver Passat pulling up to talk to Chloe Winters. Neither DCI Gates nor DI Adamson had queried this statement. The fact that Lee Harris’ fiancée had given him an alibi was enough. They had simply assumed that Hazel Edwards had got the time wrong. There was no need for another explanation. But if there was one thing Brady had learned in the job, it was not to assume. It was a dangerous tactic.

Brady thought about it. If Lee Harris hadn’t been in Paris the night of the first attack, Brady would have suggested that he had used Hazel Edwards as a foil. That he had picked up the car keys while his girlfriend was sleeping and sneaked out.

It’s not possible. He was in Paris that first night. Or was he?

But Conrad had checked it out.

Then it hit Brady. Conrad said that he had delegated the job to either Daniels or Kenny. He couldn’t remember which one. Not that it mattered. Both could be equally useless at times.

What the fuck were you thinking Conrad?

Brady picked up his mobile. He searched for Conrad’s number and pressed call.

It took Brady calling twice before Conrad picked up.

‘Sir?’ mumbled a bleary voice.

‘Conrad, I need you here now!’ ordered Brady.

‘Where?’ questioned Conrad, not fully awake.

Brady heard a voice in the background. He didn’t ask.

‘My office.’

He listened as Conrad covered the mouthpiece and mumbled something.

‘Sir? You do know it’s three a.m.?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Nothing. Right, I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ Conrad answered.

‘Now would be preferable.’

Brady hung up.