Brady shivered in disgust. He hated Whitley Bay; it was a shabby rundown ghost town during the day where empty, dilapidated Victorian buildings bleakly lined the sea front. But at night it became prey to the lowest of scum. Bouncers in dinner jackets and bow ties tried to maintain order as they threatened drunken punters with their small eyes and overweight, thuggish bodies. Bank holiday weekends were the worst. Scum travelled in from miles around in order to drink themselves into oblivion before ending the night by trying to get into someone’s knickers. He had seen it for himself; the gorging, the vomiting and the senseless shags in the back lanes as they drunkenly waited for a taxi to take them home to their other halves. In the morning the promenade would be strewn with half-eaten kebabs and chips covered in curry sauce fought over by scavenging seagulls. Occasionally the odd, shrivelled condom would be left discarded down a side street or on the beach, as readily forgotten as the drunken, fumbling act itself.
Brady pushed open the door that led into the reception area.
‘Bloody hell, Jack!’ exclaimed the desk sergeant as he looked up.
Brady gave a grimace of a smile. He was more than relieved to see Turner on desk duty. He’d had quite a few drinks with the desk sergeant over the years.
‘I heard you weren’t due back until Monday?’ Turner questioned.
‘Yeah, well Gates decided that today was a better day than any,’ Brady replied warmly.
Turner, a short, rotund, balding man in his early fifties, leaned towards Brady.
‘I better warn you, Jack, all hell’s breaking loose here,’ Turner said in a conspiratorial tone.
Brady searched Charlie Turner’s tiny, dark eyes hidden beneath sagging, crumpled eyelids and realised he was being serious.
‘What’s going on?’
‘What? You must have heard about Jimmy Matthews? He was suspended earlier this morning! I expect that’s why you’ve been called in early—’ Turner stopped as the doors behind Brady swung open and then slammed closed. The heavy dull sound reverberated throughout the old building.
The knot in Brady’s stomach tightened. Turner knew that he and Jimmy Matthews went way back. They had both signed up to the force the old-fashioned way and had worked hard, watching each other’s back to get to where they were now: Detective Inspectors.
‘I can’t say any more than I’ve said. But, watch your step, eh? Gates is in no mood for games right now,’ Turner said in a hushed voice before Conrad reached them.
‘So, Harry, how’s it going?’ Turner asked as he nodded at Conrad.
‘Fine, just fine,’ answered Conrad, straightening his tie.
‘It’s going to be one of those days,’ stated Turner as he shook his head. Murders were always bad news; especially when they landed on your doorstep.
‘Sure is,’ agreed Brady, wondering what the hell Matthews had done to be suspended. At least he now knew who it was he had replaced on the murder investigation. The question was why?
A sudden spasm of pain in his left thigh made him flinch.
‘You sure you’re all right there, Jack?’ queried Turner.
‘Yeah, it’s nothing. It comes and goes, that’s all,’ lied Brady as he tried to keep his voice steady.
‘Bloody bastards,’ Turner said in consolation.
Brady wanted to tell Turner to save his pity. He deserved everything he’d got. Maybe if he’d had his wits about him rather than feeling guilty about the previous drunken night with DC Simone Henderson it would never have happened.
The night he had been shot he had been following some low-lifes in North Shields when he had the sudden feeling that someone was tailing him. He didn’t say a word to Conrad or the three other guys in the back-up van a few streets away. He wanted to make sure first. Soon the dealers he had under surveillance were on the move. He shook the fear that he was being tailed, putting it down to paranoia, and made his way down to North Shields quayside. He had an instinct that something big was about to happen; he just hadn’t realised that it was going to happen to him.
He had parked in a dark side street which led down to the quay and got out of the car and waited. He had pimped his soul for what little information he had; the news of two warring drug dealers wanting to sort out territory was enough for him. He saw movement ahead as the men he had followed got out of their car and approached another one. He radioed Conrad and told him that it was going down but before he knew what had hit him, a bullet was lodged in his thigh, too close for comfort to his balls. The shock hit first, then the pain. He felt something; a sticky warm feeling seeping from between his clenched arse cheeks. For a God-fearing moment he thought he had shit himself. Then he realised with great relief that it was blood. Thank fuck was his only thought. He didn’t want anyone back at the station thinking his bowels had bailed out under pressure. Shit like that could never be lived down.
By the time he had realised what had happened it was too late. He had heard a car further up the street screeching as it tried to get away. The gun was never found. He presumed it was an unregistered piece loaned from any one of the enterprising, hardened scum that could easily be found if you looked long enough. Unsurprisingly no one witnessed the shooting. He was under no illusions. This was North Shields quayside late at night. The only witnesses that would have been around would have just as readily pulled the trigger on a plain-clothes copper as the shooter himself.
A huge investigation was ordered by his superiors. After all, one of their detectives had been shot and they had to look as if they gave a damn. His superiors put on a good show of solidarity for the media, but privately they let him know he’d crossed the line once too often and this time they held him responsible for blowing the investigation. The gunshot wound to his leg gave them the ammunition for deriding him as too much of a risk-taker; stating it had only been a matter of time before he or another officer under his command ended up injured, if not dead.
The story that he had been sprung by local drug dealers became widely accepted. As expected, nothing turned up and inevitably the case went cold. Whether his cover had been blown, Brady couldn’t say. He’d crossed enough people in his life to make him realise that any one of them could have had him shot.
Brady looked up at Turner’s concerned, ageing face and gave him a half-smile.
‘I’m not dead yet, so don’t look so happy!’
‘You sure you’re ready to be back?’ asked Turner, unconvinced by Brady’s camaraderie.
‘Doctor wouldn’t have passed me if I wasn’t, now would he? You know what a tight-arsed bugger he can be,’ replied Brady.
‘Well, I can’t argue with you there,’ agreed Turner, smiling as he shook his head. ‘Bit of advice, bonny lad,’ offered Turner as he bent his head towards Brady’s. ‘Get some food down you while you’ve got the chance. It might put a bit of colour back into you.’
‘Thanks, Charlie. Come on, Conrad, I don’t know about you but I’m starving,’ Brady said as he edged past Turner towards the wooden doors behind the reception desk.
Turner shook his head as he watched Brady disappear through the doors, followed by Conrad.
‘Watch your back, Jack,’ advised Turner just loud enough for Conrad to turn and catch his gaze for a few brief seconds.
‘Sir?’ prompted Conrad. ‘The briefing will be starting soon.’
‘Relax, will you?’ Brady said as he pushed his empty plate away. ‘You’re starting to make me feel bloody edgy.’
Brady could see