Vanishing Point. Danielle Ramsay

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.

      ‘Let me worry about why she’s been murdered once we know for certain that she’s been branded.’

      Claudia’s