Authors: Danielle Ramsay
‘Thirty-six, sir,’ Kodovesky immediately answered.
‘Thirty-six years old. What’s the difference between thirty-six and his mid-to-late twenties?’
‘There’s a big difference, Jack. You can’t make him something he’s not,’ Amelia answered. Her voice was calm and steady as she held Brady’s dark gaze. ‘All three victims categorically stated that he was in his mid-twenties. And given that they are all under twenty-three, to them anyone above thirty would seem old. Not one of them said their assailant was old, or even older than them. They all unknowingly came up with the same age – roughly twenty-five.’
Brady picked up the file in front of him. It contained a printout of all of Jake Munroe’s prior convictions.
‘You’ve read these? All of these? Yeah?’
Amelia nodded.
‘So you know that he has a history of violence and sexual violence. He came from an abusive background, raised by a single mother. She was an alcoholic and a prostitute. There’s a hint that Munroe’s father may have been a John. That Munroe was eventually placed in foster homes for his own safety because he was being sexually abused by some of his mother’s clients. While he was in foster care he was known for torturing animals and abusing the other children in care with him. He was repeatedly relocated to new foster homes because of his behaviour. Not surprisingly, he ended up in a remand centre for teenagers. And that’s us just getting started,’ Brady said, dropping the heavy file on the table for effect.
Amelia shook her head. She resisted the urge to applaud Brady’s performance.
‘Come on. He fits everything you described in your profile. Damaged by his mother, socially deviant as a child and a violent sex offender as an adult. What more do you want? Physically he fits our photofit and he’s in the right location at the right time when these attacks took place. Or is that all coincidence?’ Brady asked.
‘He’s the wrong age. It’s like making a house out of a pack of cards. If one card is out of place the house falls down. Same deal,’ Amelia answered with a tone of finality.
‘Right, people,’ Brady said as he turned his attention to the rest of the team. ‘I appreciate Dr Jenkins’ concern regarding our suspect, as I am sure you do.’ He turned back to her. ‘We’ll keep an open mind when we interview him, Dr Jenkins. Just in case we’re wrong.’
He intended it to appease her. But the sudden flush of her cheeks told Brady she had taken it the wrong way.
Despite her crimson cheeks and the flash of irritation in her eyes she simply nodded, then folded her hands on the table in front of her and waited for the meeting to conclude.
Even she had doubted herself and had spent over an hour evaluating the police files and social services reports. He did tick all of the boxes, apart from his age. If the team had purely been relying on her profile, she would have discounted it. Simply dismissed it as her mistake. After all, Brady was right. What was a couple of years? But this was more than a couple; it could be up to ten years’ difference.
Brady looked at Amelia. She looked really pissed off. He thought about her reservations and understood that she was just playing safe. She was the forensic psychologist for a reason. It was her job to keep them grounded. To make them question everything. Could he be wrong? Brady wouldn’t know until he’d interviewed Munroe. But first they had to arrest him.
‘Conrad, did you get a copy of the taxi drivers working in the area? Both private and with companies?’
‘Most of them,’ answered Conrad. ‘Still got a few to chase up.’
Brady nodded. ‘Hand over what you have so far to Kodovesky and Harvey. I need you with me when I interview Munroe.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered, mildly surprised.
He’d been expecting Brady to choose Amelia. She seemed the obvious choice given her qualifications and background. But then, after their slight disagreement perhaps it wasn’t a good idea for her to be present while Brady interviewed the suspect.
Brady turned to Kodovesky and Harvey. ‘I want you to bring Munroe in.’
‘With pleasure,’ Harvey replied as he pushed his chair back and stood up.
Kodovesky quickly followed.
Brady knew they’d been chomping at the bit from the moment Harvey had informed him of the suspect. They had found Munroe and it was their right to bring him in.
‘When you get back I’ll need the two of you to continue following up this lead about a silver taxi. Trina McGuire mentioned one pulling up shortly before she was attacked and then Chloe Winters made a statement last night saying something similar. What’s the connection? We need to talk to this taxi driver. For all we know he could have seen both offenders without even realising it. It’s crucial we track him down ASAP,’ Brady ordered. He refrained from telling the team that they had to find this taxi driver before DI Bentley. He knew it wouldn’t look professional.
Brady turned back to Conrad. ‘Does Bentley’s team have footage of the car yet?’
Conrad nodded. ‘From what I’ve gathered they have, sir. They’re analysing it now. As soon as I hear anything I’ll let you know.’
Brady had a choice. He could request to see the CCTV footage himself. But then how would he explain his interest in their investigation? He had already blown Bentley off by stating in no uncertain terms that Brady’s investigation wasn’t connected to Trina McGuire’s attack.
Brady decided to let it go. Bringing Jake Munroe in for questioning was the priority. Why was he worrying about a silver taxi in an unrelated case?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Brady looked Munroe straight in the eye. He was an ugly bastard all right, who was lacking not only in looks, but also in basic oral hygiene. Ugly on the inside and ugly on the outside.
‘Fuck you!’ He leered at Brady as if reading his mind.
‘Yeah? I bet you wish you could,’ Brady answered with a smile.
‘You sick fucking bastard!’ retaliated Munroe.
‘Not as sick as you though, Munroe,’ Brady said as he picked up the file in front of him. ‘Let’s have a look at your life shall we?’
Munroe turned and faced the uniformed officer standing guard by the door.
‘Your DI’s a fucking wanker. You know that darling?’
The young woman turned red. But she kept her eyes straight ahead, refusing to look at the suspect.
‘She’s not interested, Munroe. You’re too ugly for her and too stupid,’ Brady said.
‘Fuck you!’ Munroe spat. ‘Where’s the fucking copper who brought me in, eh? The one that’s all legs and tits? Now I wouldn’t mind being interrogated by her!’ Munroe laughed as he sat back and folded his arms.
Brady resisted the urge to inform Munroe that if DC Kodovesky was interviewing him, his balls would have been nailed to the interview desk by now.
‘Conrad, please tell me this next hour isn’t going to be a repetition of the last thirty excruciating minutes, where the suspect uses the same profanity again and again? Tell me that he has a wider vocabulary than these two words?’
Munroe’s response was to smile at Brady.
Brady was aware that he was clearly enjoying wasting their time.
‘Do you recognise any of these young women?’ Brady asked as he pointed to the photographs laid out on the table in front of Munroe.
The suspect bent his head down to have a look.
Brady could clearly see the six-inch gnarled scar running across the centre of his shaven head. It looked as if someone had planted an axe in his skull. Brady assumed that Munroe, whose muscle-bound body, thick-knotted neck and ugly face were intimidating enough by themselves, no doubt shaved his head so the scar was permanently on show.
Munroe raised his head and caught Brady’s eye.
‘Yeah, it’s something, ain’t it?’ Munroe acknowledged, running a large hand over the scar.
As Munroe raised his hand to his head, Brady saw part of a tattoo on Munroe’s lower right arm.
‘What’s the tattoo?’ Brady asked.
‘Black panther coming down my arm. Beautiful piece. Bit like me, eh?’ Munroe said, laughing. He then proceeded to take his jacket off and to undo the cuff of his shirt to show Brady.
It was an intricate piece of art. Only a highly skilled tattoo artist would be able to pull off the shading and textures used to create the effect of the black panther. Brady knew immediately who had done it.
‘Dan Ridgewell’s work?’
Munroe looked at Brady, surprised he recognised the artist.
‘How do you know him?’ Munroe asked as he pulled his shirt sleeve down.
‘There’s only one tattoo artist in the entire North-East who could produce work of that quality.’
Brady cast a glance at Conrad. They had already questioned Dan Ridgewell, about the possibility that one of his clients could be connected to the rapes, after Chloe Winters’ attack. After all, the rapist had removed the tattoo of a wolf’s head from her body. Her tattoo had been inked in the same, distinctive style – black and grey with subtle shading.
‘When did Dan do it?’ Brady asked, trying to be casual.
‘Oh, I dunno. Maybe two months ago?’ Munroe answered, shrugging.
Brady silently did the maths. Two months ago was when Chloe Winters had gone to Fusion to get her tattoo. What was the possibility of Munroe waiting to get inked while Dan was working on Chloe Winters’ body? Given the intricacy of the art, both clients would have had to make at least three appointments with Dan Ridgewell to complete the tattoos.
‘So, do you recognise any of the young women here?’ Brady asked again, watching Munroe closely for a reaction.
Brady pushed the photograph of Chloe Winters towards him and waited.
Munroe raised his head and looked at Brady, refusing to look. He had been in the game too long and knew exactly what Brady was trying to do.
‘Nah, can’t say I do guv’nor,’ Munroe answered in a thick Cockney accent.
For the brief second that Munroe looked at Chloe Winters’ face, Brady was certain he saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He knew that Munroe may have been ugly but he was far from stupid, regardless of what the pseudoscience, phrenology would have suggested. Developed by the German physician, Franz Joseph Gall in 1796, phrenology became popular in Britain in the nineteenth century. Munroe’s wide face, sloping forehead and beady black eyes fitted perfectly with the pseudoscience’s definition of stupid, untrustworthy, with a predisposition to criminal activities.
‘Pretty girls. Yeah I’d fuck them if they’re on offer. What are they? Tonight’s entertainment, lads, eh?’ Munroe asked, laughing at Brady and Conrad, still refusing to drop his eyes to look at them. ‘I’ve heard about you coppers. Bunch of dirty fuckers you lot. Who was the dirty bugger who asked for sexual favours from prossies in exchange for not banging them up? Worked here didn’t he? I read about it in the local rag. Go on, was it one of you lads? You—’ Munroe turned to Conrad. ‘Bet it was you. Bet you liked taking them up the fucking arse didn’t you? You look the sort. Believe me, I’ve met plenty of your kind! You look all civil and polite sat there in your expensive suit with your posh accent and that look in your eye that you can’t quite disguise. The look that says you’re better than me. Better than this—’ Munroe said grandly waving his arms around at the interview room.
He suddenly leaned in close to Conrad.
‘But I know you. Believe me; I can smell it on you. Have you told your boss? Does he know?’
Conrad didn’t flinch. He didn’t move a muscle despite Munroe’s bad breath and ugly grin.
Brady could tell that he was holding back. Conrad’s taut, clenched expression said it all. But Brady knew Conrad wouldn’t react. He was better than Munroe and he knew it. His problem was, it showed.
‘He hasn’t told you, has he?’ Munroe asked Brady, smiling. ‘Let’s do a trade, you and I. I don’t tell your boss about you and you let me go,’ he suggested.
Again Conrad didn’t react.
Munroe seemed to be enjoying this game at Conrad’s expense. Brady decided it was time to intervene.
‘The photographs, Munroe. Do you recognise any of them?’
‘Nah,’ Munroe said, now eyeballing Brady. ‘Why?’
‘You know why,’ Brady answered, his voice level.
Munroe broke into a leer of a smile.
‘Yeah, but I want to hear what happened to those girls. You know, the ones you said had been raped and tortured? I like a good story. Just make sure you don’t skip the sex scenes.’
Brady didn’t say a word.
‘Ah, but you didn’t tell me, did you guv’nor? But that’s why I’m here, ain’t it? I’m not stupid. I read about this shit in the papers. Were you going to surprise me and hope that I’d break down and confess? Well, fuck you!’
Brady felt sickened by the candid look of pleasure on Munroe’s face. His smile was twisted and cruelly ugly. Fate had dealt him an unkind hand. One that it seemed Munroe had used to his own advantage. His smile was perhaps his most sinister aspect. It was intimidating – intentionally so – but there was also a coldness; a chilling coldness deep in his black eyes. They spoke of a darkness that made the hairs on Brady’s back stand up. It felt as if he was looking at a man who had sold his soul to the devil. However, Munroe, unlike Christopher Marlowe’s Dr Faustus, would not be dragged to hell screaming and fighting. He would be pushing Mephistopheles aside to get there first.