Broken Silence (8 page)

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ muttered Brady.

‘She’s just arrived and caught me as I was leaving. She was adamant about coming with us. Something about you briefing her about the investigation?’

‘Shit,’ cursed Brady. ‘Tell you what, Conrad. Just drive, will you? I’ll worry about Dr Jenkins.’

‘Whatever you, say, sir,’ answered Conrad. ‘But she won’t be happy.’

‘Good, that makes two of us,’ replied Brady.

‘I better warn you, sir, she’s not a woman who likes being messed around.’

‘Tell me one who does?’ asked Brady, thinking of Claudia.

‘Do you mind?’ he asked as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from inside his jacket. There was no question about the fact that he needed one.

‘Does it matter if I do?’ Conrad asked as he buzzed down the passenger window.

‘Appreciate it.’

‘Just don’t get any ash in the car, sir.’

Brady suddenly realised the car was new. Same model, but brand new.

‘Whatever we’re paying you, it’s too much,’ Brady replied as he gestured at the state of the art dashboard.

He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply making a mental note not to accidentally burn the leather upholstery. He rested his head back against the seat and momentarily closed his eyes as he enjoyed the icy damp air washing over his face. He felt very tired and realised that he had only had a couple of hours’ sleep, if that.

‘No word yet on the victim’s identity?’

‘No, sir. Few maybes, but nothing concrete,’ answered Conrad.

Exactly as Brady had expected.

His phone rang. Without thinking he answered it.

‘DI Brady?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I take it I’ve wasted my time?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You know exactly what I mean. I turn my back for one minute and you conveniently disappear. This is typical of you to run out on me, Jack. However, this isn’t one of our counselling sessions, this is a murder investigation. And it was DCI Gates who requested my expertise, not the other way around.’

‘I apologise for not being there to brief you, Dr Jenkins, but I have instructed DS Adamson to show you what we’ve got so far,’ answered Brady evenly.

‘I’ve cancelled patients to help you with this investigation but if you’re not interested in my expertise then I’d rather know about it than have you waste my time. Which it seems you’re rather good at.’

‘I honestly don’t know what’s given you that idea.’

‘Cut the bullshit, Jack!’

‘Got to go, but we’ll catch up when I get back to the station,’ Brady concluded abruptly before disconnecting the phone.

‘Sounds like she’s not too happy with you,’ stated Conrad.

‘Yeah? What makes you think that?’ asked Brady as a flicker of a smile played on his lips.

‘Take a right, here,’ he instructed as they approached a roundabout.

‘Yes sir,’ answered Conrad as he swung over into the right-hand lane.

‘At least she’s got Adamson to keep her busy.’

‘I’d be careful of Adamson, sir. He’s interested in no one but himself. Let’s say he’s not a team player,’ answered Conrad as he narrowed his steel-grey eyes. ‘Word is he’s after a promotion and he doesn’t care how he gets it, or who he takes it from.’

‘I take it you don’t like him?’

‘We joined at the same time so I had the misfortune of spending two years with Adamson. When the training was over, I swore I’d never work with him again.’

‘That bad?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

Brady knew Adamson was a roach, but to have Conrad say it worried him. In all the time he’d worked with Conrad he’d rarely heard him say a bad word against anyone.

‘Where to now?’ Conrad asked, after taking the right turn.

Brady looked out the window and realised they were heading along Seatonville Road. Not far now, he uneasily thought.

‘Fairfield Drive, West Monkseaton. Number 18.’

‘Can I ask why there, sir?’ Conrad ventured.

‘Later. Just let me see if my hunch is right first. The less you know about this, the better,’ Brady answered, not wanting to jeopardise Conrad’s career, as well as his own.

Number 18.

He walked up the newly paved driveway carefully lined with shrubs and trees. He glanced at the one-year-old dark blue metallic BMW 5 Series saloon parked in front of the electronic white garage doors, passing it to reach the white, wooden porch.

He took a deep breath before ringing the old-fashioned doorbell. As he waited, he took in the original 1920s ornate stained glass in the front door and below it the antique polished brass lion’s head knocker and letter box.

Heavy footsteps approached as a man in his late forties opened the door.

‘Yes?’ he curtly demanded.

Brady noted that his overall appearance may have been conservative but it made a statement. He was wearing a casual pale blue Armani jeans stripe shirt and Crombie front pleat dark grey trousers, finished off with black Kurt Geiger shoes. The man obviously liked to look good; nothing brash, but it took money to wear those clothes.

Brady held up his ID.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I need to ask you a few questions about your daughter, Sophie?’ Brady began.

He seemed to deliberate over Brady’s words. He may have been clean-shaven with short black hair, respectably peppered with flecks of silver, but behind his black Christian Dior spectacles his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes told another story. Craggy lines spread out from the corners of his eyes as he suspiciously narrowed them.

Brady waited until he reluctantly held the door open for Brady to walk past him into the stained-glass vestibule. Brady made his way through into the wide hallway conscious of his feet, heavy and resonating on the polished parquet flooring. An antique writing bureau and a burgundy leather chair sat under an impressive wooden spiral staircase. Opposite it was an old oak hall table with a small stained-glass Tiffany lamp and an empty brass letter holder. Above the table, a large, imposing mirror sat, reflecting the wooden staircase as it spiralled up to the first floor.

He tried not to limp as he made his way down the hallway towards the fresh smell of ground coffee coming from the kitchen. He stopped dead as he caught sight of the forty-something, long-blonde-haired woman anxiously waiting in the kitchen doorway. She tightly pulled her black silk flower kimono around herself as she looked at him. Even though it was well after ten, she still wasn’t dressed. Brady inwardly winced as her dark blue, desolate eyes searched for anything that resembled hope.

Brady fought the urge to leave. Her hair, the shape of her face seemed uncannily familiar. He deliberated apologising for wasting their time. He could hand the task to some other poor sod. But, he knew he couldn’t
do that. For Matthews’ sake he had to see this through to the end.

‘Here you go,’ Simmons said as he thrust the photograph he had just taken off the Smeg fridge at Brady.

Brady was sat with Mrs Simmons at the large wooden table positioned in the centre of the spacious kitchen. Both had cups of black, unadulterated coffee. The only difference was Brady had politely drunk most of his, whereas Mrs Simmons’ remained untouched.

‘Thanks,’ Brady replied as he looked at the school mugshot. ‘Pretty girl.’

Simmons didn’t answer. He didn’t sit down either.

Brady followed Simmons’ eye as he distractedly stared through the double-glazed doors that led out onto the patio area and the south-facing lawn.

When Conrad had pulled into Fairfield Drive, Brady had grimly noted that the Simmons’ house backed onto the abandoned farmland. He now realised that the eight-feet-high wooden fence at the bottom of the long garden was all that separated them from what was now a crime scene.

‘So, let me get this straight. Sophie left here at 5.30 pm to go to Evie Matthews’ house—’ Brady began.

‘Didn’t I already say that?’ Simmons snapped as he turned and caught Brady’s eye. ‘For God’s sake! We’ve already been over this, Evie is her best friend. She’s always going over to the Matthews’ house. Those two are inseparable.’

Brady nodded, surprised by this revelation. Matthews had failed to tell him that Sophie Washington was his
daughter’s best friend. What was troubling Brady was why Matthews had withheld such vital information.

He looked back at the photograph. He couldn’t dispute it; the long, blonde hair exactly matched the victim’s.

‘What time did you try calling her mobile?’

‘About 2.40 am,’ Simmons answered irritably as he ran his hand through his short hair.

‘That late?’

‘I must have fallen asleep in front of the TV. When I woke up it was 2.30. Louise had already gone to bed and so I naturally presumed Sophie had come home. It wasn’t until I went upstairs that I realised she wasn’t back.’

‘Is that unusual?’

‘Yes,’ answered Simmons quickly.

Too quickly, thought Brady, noticing that Simmons shot his wife a look to silence her.

Brady turned to Louise Simmons.

She looked up at her husband nervously and then stiffly nodded in agreement with him.

‘Could she have run off then?’ Brady tentatively asked.

Simmons shot Brady an exasperated look.

‘What I mean is was there any reason for her to stay away? An argument say, or a disagreement about a boyfriend or something?’

‘No! Sophie had no reason to run away and … as for boyfriends … Christ! She’s only fifteen! She’s more interested in being with her friends than boys.’

‘What about staying the night at a friend’s house?’

‘Don’t you think we’d know? We already told your people where she went and that she left there at 10 pm!’

‘I am sorry about this, Mr Simmons, but these are standard questions I have to ask,’ apologised Brady.

‘Well, just hurry up and get on with it, then. The quicker you finish the sooner you can be out there looking for our daughter.’

‘Of course,’ Brady replied sympathetically.

‘Can you tell me what Sophie was wearing last night?’ Brady asked as he turned and looked at Louise Simmons.

‘A black denim skirt and a T-shirt,’ quietly answered Louise Simmons. ‘Oh yes, and Ugg boots.’

‘Anything else?’ quietly questioned Brady.

She shook her head, forcing back tears.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh … she was wearing a black scarf …’ she whispered, biting her lip.

Silent tears trailed down her face as she looked at the school photograph lying on the kitchen table.

Brady acknowledged uncomfortably that Sophie’s clothes matched the clothes found on the victim.

‘Does Sophie have any tattoos or body piercings that you know of?’ Brady gently asked.

‘Why do you want to know all this?’ exploded Simmons suddenly.

‘No particular reason. Like I said, Mr Simmons, these are standard questions,’ Brady calmly replied.

He looked at Louise Simmons.

She numbly shook her head.

‘No … no, she had nothing like that … she’s just a fifteen-year-old girl, Detective Brady.’

Simmons turned his face away from his wife uncomfortably.

‘Sir?’ prompted Brady, realising that Simmons knew something.

‘Sir, does Sophie have a tattoo?’ Brady repeated.

Simmons avoided Brady’s eyes.

‘Like my wife said, she’s just a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl.’

It didn’t take a psychologist to know that he was lying. Brady was certain that Simmons was hiding the fact that he knew about the jade dragon tattoo and the belly button piercing. But why keep quiet?

‘Are you sure, sir?’ persisted Brady.

‘Why? What do you know? What is it that you’re not telling us?’ Simmons retaliated, turning the heat back onto Brady.

‘Just procedure, sir,’ Brady replied as he stood up to go.'I’ll run some checks back at the station. And as soon as I have any news I’ll be in touch,’ he said as he turned to Louise Simmons.

Tearful, she nodded as she looked up at Brady, still hopeful that he could bring her daughter home, alive. The mascara from the day before was smeared under her dark blue eyes and her long blonde hair hung dishevelled and uncombed. Brady was uncomfortably aware of the striking similarity between mother and daughter.

He noted with interest that Simmons who was irritably waiting for him to leave was very together, especially compared to his wife.

Brady tried his best to give Louise Simmons a reassuring look before turning and leaving the kitchen.

Simmons followed and cornered Brady once he’d reached the front door.

‘You know something, don’t you?’

‘No sir,’ Brady replied evenly.

‘You’re lying,’ Simmons hissed, not wanting his wife to overhear.

‘I’m really sorry. I understand this must be very difficult for you.’

‘The hell you do!’

Brady didn’t answer.

‘You want to tell me what’s going on at Potter’s Farm?’

‘Sorry?’ Brady questioned, trying his best not to let his unease show.

‘Your lot are out there. Have been for the past few hours. The farm’s been sealed off and you’ve got police officers crawling all over the place.’

‘I’m afraid that’s confidential, sir.’

‘I’m not an idiot, Detective Inspector Brady. If something’s happened to … to Sophie …’ Simmons stopped himself short.

‘Like I said, let me get back to the station and see what I can find out,’ Brady offered.

Brady waited until he heard the door closing behind him before he took out his mobile to ring the station. He needed to arrange for two family liaison officers to come out after uniform had delivered the fatal blow. He was no good when it came to dealing with people’s grief. He was good at causing it, according to his ex-wife, but when it came to dealing with it, he was always the first one out the door. He aggressively kicked a stone and watched as it rolled along the pavement towards the Saab.

‘Tom? Yeah, it’s Jack. I’ve got a new development regarding the murdered girl.’ Brady looked back at the house.

It was a comfortable, four-bedroom semi-detached, in a quiet, respectable neighbourhood. Yet, less than a hundred metres away a horrific murder had been committed.

Brady gave the details he needed to and then cut the call. He walked over to the Saab and climbed in.