Vanishing Point (3 page)

‘No clothes, no jewellery, no plastic. No formal identification. Her fingers and head hacked off …’

He suddenly realised something was wrong. Her breasts looked unnatural. The skin looked too stretched, too taut. He carefully lifted one of her large breasts and looked at the skin underneath.

‘Sir?’ Conrad, asked, curious.

‘Fake, Conrad. See the scar tissue underneath where she was opened up to insert the breast implants?’

He was well aware of the statistics when it came to young women and anorexia and wondered if the victim was another casualty of society’s body fascism.

Brady let his eyes drift slowly down to her flat navel and then further to her perfectly smooth, waxed groin. Yet another testament to the ubiquitous influence of the porn industry; that and the fake breasts, he mused.

‘We don’t deliver on this one, Conrad, Gates will make damned sure that by the end of the year I’ll be begging for my P45.’

Brady shook his head. There was no way he would be able to cope stuck behind a desk for another six months. He’d go stir crazy; even the threat of being demoted to uniform and walking the drug-ridden streets of Blyth was better than pushing pens for the rest of his days.

He sighed heavily as he questioned his chances of solving this murder. His guts kicked off, telling him it didn’t look promising.

‘Let’s take a look at her back and see if there’s any identifiable marks,’ suggested Brady.

‘Are you sure, sir?’

‘Ainsworth’s finished with her, Conrad, so moving her now won’t make any difference.’

Conrad wasn’t so sure. He knew that Ainsworth, the head SOCO, had a ferocious temper and hated anyone messing with his crime scene. But he kept quiet, accepting that Brady knew what he was doing. He watched as Brady carefully rolled the body onto its stomach.

The victim’s back and legs were covered in bruises. Brady had expected as much, but there was something else which took him by surprise.

‘Look at this,’ he muttered to Conrad as he pointed out the distinctive mark at the bottom of her spine.

Conrad nodded, puzzled.

‘What do you think it is?’ Brady asked as he gently touched the newly puckered, burnt flesh with a white latex gloved finger, lightly tracing the shape of the mark. It was two inches in diameter and seemed to be a scorpion. Below it were the bold letters, ‘MD’.

‘I don’t know, sir. It doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before.’

Brady took out his BlackBerry and photographed the burnt flesh.

He didn’t like what was coming to mind and knew that Gates would like it even less.

He stood up and turned to Conrad.

‘Let’s see what Wolfe has to say. He is carrying out the autopsy?’

‘I believe so, sir.’

‘Good, that’s something then.’

They were going to need all the help they could get with this case. And he trusted Wolfe. He was a cantankerous old bugger who drank too much, but he knew his job. He was the best Home Office pathologist the force had ever had, and they’d had a few. Even Chief Superintendent O’Donnell was aware of Wolfe’s foibles, but since he was the best pathologist around, everyone turned a blind eye.

‘Come on, let’s get out of here. I think we could both do with some fresh air.’

Chapter Five

‘So why didn’t the DCI ring me himself?’ Brady quizzed once they were outside.

He already knew that something wasn’t right.

‘He’s busy,’ Conrad replied uneasily.

Brady raised his eyebrows.

‘He’s dealing with another incident that happened last night,’ answered Conrad.

‘What? Involving Madley’s nightclub?’ asked Brady.

‘Yes, sir.’

That came as no surprise to Brady. He had noted the police tape sealing off the premises and the two uniforms stationed by the entrance as he had crossed the road heading for the beach that morning, and had assumed it was another early morning drugs raid. The nightclub belonged to Martin Madley, reputed to be the boss of the local mafia. Not that the police could ever finger Madley. It was rumoured that his main business was drugs. But right now Madley was the least of Brady’s concerns. He’d leave that to Gates.

‘Sir,’ Conrad said, trying his best to hide the apprehension in his voice. He was acutely aware that Brady still didn’t have any idea about what had happened in Madley’s nightclub. ‘We need to talk … before we go back to the station.’

‘Can it wait?’ said Brady distractedly.

He had only one thing on his mind right now and that was the mark burnt into the victim’s flesh. There was one person he needed to talk to and he needed to do it immediately.

Conrad didn’t answer him but his expression was enough for Brady to know something was troubling him.

‘Meet me back at the station. Then we’ll talk,’ assured Brady. ‘Just let me sort this out first. Alright?’

‘Yes, sir. But I need to speak with you as soon as you get back.’

‘Yeah, no problem. Just give me five minutes,’ Brady replied absent-mindedly. The last thing he wanted to do was make that call, but he had no choice.

Conrad nodded, realising that now perhaps wasn’t the best time. Not that there was a right time for what he had to tell Brady.

He reluctantly turned and walked across the beach back to the steps leading up to the lower promenade. He shoved his hands deep in his trouser pockets as he tried to figure out how to handle the fact that Brady still didn’t have a clue. The problem was, Conrad didn’t know how Brady would handle the news. He didn’t want to be the one to tell him, but perversely, he would rather it came from him than someone back at the station. In particular, someone like DI Adamson, who would take great relish in throwing it in Brady’s face.

Conrad decided the best thing to do was get back to the station and wait for Brady. He had no choice.

*

Brady watched Conrad leave. He had a bad feeling about that look in Conrad’s eyes. It couldn’t be good news.

But it would have to wait. Right now he had bigger problems to worry about.

He needed to make that call. And then he’d have to face the rest of the team back at the station. All hell would have broken loose there. It wasn’t every day that a girl’s body washed up on the shores of Whitley Bay. Never mind a headless one.

He hoped to God that somewhere, someone would be missing the victim. The problem he had was finding that someone. The odds at this moment were stacked high against her.

Brady sighed heavily he searched his jacket for his pouch of Golden Virginia tobacco. He then took a sheet of Rizla paper and placed some tobacco in the paper with a filter before delicately rolling it tight. He lit it with trembling fingers as he closed his eyes and allowed the smoke to clear the decaying, sickening air from his lungs. He inhaled deeply a couple more times until it was enough to quell the desire to retch. He had tried to give up smoking and had failed, swapping chemical-filled cigarettes for roll-ups. It was an easy cop out. Too easy.

He cast his eyes up at the sky. The day was already changing. The angry, crimson ball of sun was nowhere to be seen, blanketed instead by the heavy, mournful, gunmetal-grey clouds rolling in off the horizon.

It was an all too familiar sky. The North East of England was well known for its continuous grey drizzle, regardless of the seasons. The only difference was the temperature. Brady found he was either freezing his bollocks off during the winter months when the Arctic winds whipped in from the North Sea, bringing snow and treacherous plummeting sub-zero temperatures, or sweating during the humid summer months. But hot or freezing cold, there always seemed to be grey drizzle. Regardless, Brady loved the place. It was in his blood. He knew that no matter what, he’d never leave the North East.

Brady took his BlackBerry out. He needed to make a call. One that he didn’t want to make.

He scrolled through the names listed until he came to the one he wanted. Reluctantly he pressed call and then waited. And waited. And waited until she eventually picked up.

‘For God’s sake! It’s not even seven o’clock on a Saturday morning! This better be good!’ finally answered a familiar voice.

Brady could hear a man’s deep voice in the background asking who was on the phone. A man’s voice that Brady recognised.

‘Who do you think would call at this time?’ came the muffled answer as she covered the mouthpiece.

‘Claudia?’ interrupted Brady, trying to control his voice.

He had heard the rumours but hadn’t wanted to believe them. Now he had no choice.

‘This is work,’ he stated. ‘Nothing else.’

He heard her sigh heavily. ‘Go on …’

‘A girl’s headless body has washed up onto Whitley Bay beach.’

‘Alright … but what’s that got to do with me? You know my job profile. I deal with sex trafficking victims, Jack. Remember?’

‘I know,’ answered Brady, taken aback by the coldness in her voice. ‘But this isn’t just any murder victim. She has some odd markings at the base of her spine.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well … there’s a scorpion and below that two initials: MD. But these aren’t tattoos, the marks look as if they’ve been burnt on to her skin. As if …’ Brady faltered as Claudia quickly cut in.

‘She’s been branded,’ interrupted Claudia.

Brady waited.

‘Can you send me the photos of the markings?’ she finally asked.

‘Sure, I’ll send it to your mobile after this call,’ answered Brady, relieved that she was interested.

But he was no fool. This was work, and this was exactly the kind of thing that Claudia was involved in.

Branding was about registering ownership in the dark world of sex trafficking and sex slavery. And given that Claudia was involved with one of the first projects in the UK where the police and the Home Office worked in conjunction to free imprisoned women and occasionally children – mainly illegal immigrants – from brothels and houses where they were held hostage as sex slaves, he needed to know whether she recognised the brand left on the body.

Once the women were freed by the specialist police team, Claudia then worked hand in hand with the Poppy Project who offered the victims support and accommodation, providing specialist legal back-up to secure the illegally trafficked women rights to stay in the country. Claudia had told Brady enough tragic accounts of young women freed from sex slavery only to be forcibly sent back to their country of origin, straight back into the hands of the organised criminals who enslaved them in the first place.

‘If this is what I think it is, then this could mean she’s not the only one …’

‘I know,’ muttered Brady.

‘I hope for our sake that you’re wrong, Jack.’

Brady didn’t reply.

In the background a male voice complained about her taking too long.

Brady shoved his hand deep into his pocket and tightly gripped the only object he carried with him everywhere. He could feel the cold metal of his wedding ring digging into the palm of his hand as he thought about the implications of the mark on the victim. And more significantly, the implications of the man who was now sharing his ex-wife’s bed.

‘Send me the photo and I’ll start making enquiries my end, alright?’ Claudia instructed.

‘Yeah … thanks,’ muttered Brady.

‘Jack? You do know if this girl has been trafficked and imprisoned then you’ve got a problem on your hands?’

‘I know …’

‘Because the question is, why would someone kill her? These women can sell for something like £3,000 to £4,000, if not more. And her earning potential makes her a valuable commodity. And don’t forget how much money these women can make in one day. So why murder her?’

This was what was worrying Brady. Sex trafficking and sex slavery were growing international crimes; ones that had a stronghold in the UK. He knew the statistics. Claudia had brought her work home often enough for him to be keenly aware of the worrying exponential growth in sex slavery. Girls ranging from as young as eleven up to twenty-five were trafficked from all over Eastern Europe, across the fractured borders of Russia, smuggled through Afghanistan, and even brought in from as far afield as Thailand and China.

Brady shut his eyes as he massaged his forehead with his other hand. This was exactly what he didn’t want. A body turning up connected to sex trafficking. Not in Whitley Bay of all places. After all, this was just a small seaside resort in the North East of England where organised crime of this level didn’t exist. If it had been a major European capital then Brady would have been more ready to accept such a premise. Even Newcastle he could understand, but not Whitley Bay.

‘Unless … unless she was being made an example of?’ Claudia questioned, interrupting his thoughts.

‘Meaning?’

‘All I know is what I’ve heard from the women we’ve managed to free. But there are some horrendous stories of coercion and blackmail, Jack.’

‘Check out the markings for me first, yeah?’

He didn’t want to acknowledge that this problem had landed on his doorstep. But he couldn’t ignore what Claudia was suggesting. He had the same gut feeling that someone wanted to make a very public statement with this girl’s body.

Admittedly, Whitley Bay had a reputation for stag and hen parties and binge drinking. But that was a world removed from organised sex trafficking and sex slavery. Brady thought back to Matthews’ allegations against Madley and Mayor Macmillan. He had been adamant that between them they had a highly profitable sex trafficking and slavery operation. But Brady had put his crazy accusations down to the ramblings of a cornered man who, about to lose everything he had worked for, had decided to bring down as many people with him as he could. Brady would be the first to admit that there was something about Mayor Macmillan that didn’t sit easy with him. But even he had to concede that sex trafficking was a stretch too far. And as for Matthews’ claims against the local mafia figure, Madley, who was rumoured to be involved in drugs and other such lucrative enterprises, Brady couldn’t take it seriously. Sex trafficking was something that he knew Madley wouldn’t touch. Regardless.