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
