Broken Silence. Danielle Ramsay

       Chapter Twelve

      ‘Charlie, can you do me a favour?’ Brady asked the desk sergeant.

      ‘Aye, bonny lad, as long as there’s a pint in it,’ Turner grinned amiably.

      ‘For you, Charlie, I’ll even stretch to two,’ Brady answered, smiling.

      Brady’s smile disappeared as he glanced around. He’d never seen the station so busy; extra uniforms and CID had been called in from across the region to cope with the murder investigation. Nothing much happened in this seedy, rundown seaside resort, at least not until now. Murders typically didn’t affect the middle classes of Whitley Bay who lived far enough away from the town centre not to be affected by the pubs and clubs that had brought the seaside resort to an all-time low. They led self-satisfied, suburban lives in their exorbitantly-priced properties, completely unaware of the diseased scum that ran the streets at night. He knew of a few notorious gangsters, the local mafia, Madley being one of them, who had no qualms about disposing of a rival in the Tyne. But murders of that sort barely caused a ripple in most decent people’s lives. Whitley Bay was typically known for drunken louts acting lewd and fighting amongst themselves and a few burglars who needed easy cash for drugs. But a brutal murder in tree-lined suburbia was a completely different story.

      ‘So, what’s this favour then?’ Turner asked as he raised his thick, wiry eyebrows at Brady.

      ‘I’ve got a hunch about something,’ Brady confided. ‘But I want it kept quiet.’

      Brady trusted Turner. He belonged to the old school of policing, unlike the new breed who didn’t have a clue about ‘hunches’ or ‘gut feelings'. Instead the new coppers were taught to feed murder details into Holmes 2 and sit back and wait for it to spit out the answer. There was no doubt that the computer system saved invaluable time. It could sift through masses of information in seconds; information that would have once taken twelve detectives at least a week to get through. Brady had lost count of the number of times he had favoured one lead over another because of an inexplicable hunch. But he knew that this time he wasn’t telling the truth. This wasn’t a hunch, but rather Jimmy Matthews’ troubling disclosure that the victim was only fifteen years old.

      Turner had been a desk sergeant at Whitley Bay station long before Brady had joined and knew more than most of the other coppers put together. But as was the case with many of the coppers from the old days, he was rarely given any credit for it. A new breed were coming through the ranks who didn’t drink, didn’t compromise themselves for anyone and certainly didn’t give a damn about the job; it was all about politics and getting to the top without dirtying their hands. The likes of Brady and Turner who still played by the old school ethics were slowly being phased out, replaced by a generation who had no respect for them, and worse, saw them as a walking liability.

      ‘Go on then, bonny lad, what can I do for you?’ Turner questioned.

      ‘I need a printout of females between the ages of fifteen and eighteen reported missing in the North East over the last few weeks.’

      ‘Give me a couple of minutes.’ Turner turned his back on Brady and logged in to the computer. Minutes later he handed over three sheets of printed paper.

      ‘Thanks,’ said Brady, taking the printout. ‘I owe you a pint.’

      ‘I’ve lost count of how many bloody pints you owe me, bonny lad,’ Turner said, shaking his head.

      Brady waited until he reached his office before looking at the information. He sat down at his desk and quickly scanned over the list of names, ages and addresses.

      ‘Naomi Edwards, 17, Wallsend,’ Brady muttered as his eyes scanned down the first page of the printout.

      ‘Shit,’ Brady cursed as he turned to the next page and finally the next.

      He read down the list of names until he came to the third one from the bottom.

      ‘Sophie Washington, 15, West Monkseaton …’ Brady faltered.

      How the hell had they missed something as crucial as this? But he knew the answer; the team were looking for a missing female between eighteen to thirty. He couldn’t fault them; even Brady found it difficult to believe what Matthews had told him. To Brady, the victim’s body resembled that of a young woman in her late teens or early twenties, not a girl of fifteen. If it hadn’t been for his conversation with Matthews, Brady wouldn’t have even considered other possibilities so early into the investigation.

       His eyes read the date she had been reported missing. He read the date again to make sure he wasn’t mistaken: three that morning. He then double-checked the location of her parents’ home: West Monkseaton.

      Something like this couldn’t be kept quiet. If the missing fifteen-year-old girl was the murder victim then all hell was going to break loose and that would only be the beginning of it.