She had booked a second night at the hotel in the belief that she might spend more time with the police; desperately wanting to look through CCTV from the city. But to even get them to do that themselves would require them to subscribe to the possibility that Franklin hadn’t been alone. She didn’t even bother trying to convince them because she knew that if her team back in Nottingham were disregarding the notion then she had little chance of making them think otherwise. So she returned to her room, via a supermarket where she picked up some supplies, to consider what she had found and plan her next steps.
She hadn’t replied to the text from Claire that she had found that morning. At the time she could not work out what to say but now it simply irked her. The impatience she inferred from Claire’s disingenuous inquiry into how she was, warranted a response that Johnson did not have. To tell her to leave her alone would imply she wasn’t doing anything to catch her brother’s killer. She didn’t want that but, then again, she could hardly share what she was up to. It wasn’t so much that there wasn’t really anything concrete she could reveal, but more fear of what might happen in the future. Johnson knew that attempting to track down Brandt herself was a dangerous game. She hoped that, if successful, she would be able to use the authorities to catch him, but she would not run the risk of losing him again. If that meant she had to take him down herself, then that was what she was prepared to do. Whatever it takes. For McNeil’s sake, she would accept the consequences for acting outside the law but, by the same token, she wouldn’t allow his family to take on any of the culpability. Therefore, she would continue to ignore Claire and thereby keep her family in the dark until it was safe to reveal her actions.
Johnson tried to remove her thoughts from the confrontation with Brandt she so desperately craved, and to focus on the present. Even if she had it wrong and Franklin had been telling the truth in his suicide note, the fact remained Brandt had chosen to do what he did to her and McNeil. Whatever supposed leverage Franklin may have had over him, he hadn’t been standing there with a gun to his head making him sexually assault her. Sometimes life presents us with hard choices and it is only then that we show our true character. Johnson didn’t care there was a possibility that her overall assessment of Brandt’s culpability may be wrong, she wanted him to answer for the choices he had made. Whether that was to bring him to justice in the socially acceptable and legal means, or through humanity’s baser vigilantism, would just depend on how things played out.
Chapter Nineteen
Brandt was surprised how good it felt. It had been freer, and somewhat purer than before; causing any doubts as to the legitimacy of what he was doing to evaporate. Rather than undertake even a fraction of the intense planning that had gone into his deeds back home, he had woken, prepared himself a light breakfast and set out. He headed straight for the new town because he had nothing against the Spanish and wanted to target someone British. It didn’t bother him that it was still quite early, and the majority of the revellers who chose this as a holiday destination would still be sleeping off their excesses from the night before; he needed relative peace if he was going to go about his business undisturbed. Moreover, it wasn’t going to be holidaymakers he was targeting today. He was to kill one of the tens of thousands of ex-pats who had settled in Benidorm. Much as he disliked what Britain had become, he detested these cowards who turned their back on it. They had spent their lives in England claiming every benefit they could get their hands on, only to then sell up their ex-council house, which they had bought on the cheap in the 1980s, for a small fortune, and bugger off to another country to spend their ill-deserved proceeds there – in someone else’s economy. To top it all, they had the temerity to continue to draw their British pension. Whilst Brandt had spent his lifetime trying to make England a better, safer place, they had counted down the days until they could leave it; doing as little as possible before then. If there was one good thing to come out of Brexit it was the hope that it would stop any more of these traitors from being able to come over. If Brandt could do something to cull their numbers in the meantime, then so much the better.
He had heard about many of these people occupying large campsites on the outskirts of town. He had even seen a television programme on them once, called Bargain Loving Brits in the Sun, or some such shit, where wrinkly old UV-damaged crones boasted about how cheap they had bought their mobile home and how much better it was than being stuck in Skegness in the pouring rain. Brandt had switched over, offended; he had spent many a summer holiday in a caravan which his mother had saved bloody hard all year to afford to hire for a week. To have lazy cunts like these turn their noses up at what he had held dear to him as a child was an affront.
Much as he anticipated wreaking some havoc in these dens of the slovenly in the future, it would take more patience than he currently possessed for him to work out where they were and how to get there. It was much easier to head to the parts which he knew already, find a target, and follow them back to their abode. That they might be wealthier and own a house or apartment somewhere did not bother Brandt, for in his eyes they were all cut from the same cloth.
What he had wanted was a woman on her own. Someone young enough that it was less likely her husband had died; rather she had upped sticks and left him in the hope some young, bronzed Spanish waiter would overlook her ravaged face and saggy tits and fuck her into next week with his oily cock. Yes, he could just imagine Susan coming out here for the same reasons. What a joy it would be to bump into her in some back street or other and demonstrate that she may have been able to run but she couldn’t hide.
Brandt banished dark thoughts of his ex-wife, for if he was to make sure he didn’t find himself in a similar situation as he had at Johnson’s house, he would need to establish that his target was really on her own rather than having gone out without her partner who remained back home. For this he would need to strike up a conversation. Much as Brandt was a solitary person, he had learned the art of putting people at ease. In many an interview of a suspect, he had successfully played the good cop to lull them into providing him with the information he required. He would do the same here and had found the perfect place in which to select his target.
Brandt had avoided the main streets in Benidorm; their proximity to the beach had led to the majority of the bars being set up there. Hence there was CCTV, to keep an eye on their patrons and their propensity for late-night trouble. Things were less guarded just a few roads back and Brandt had stumbled on a large flea market, called a rastro in these parts. Given the quality of the merchandise was such that he couldn’t imagine a single charity shop back home failing to turn their nose up at it, the crowds there were something of a surprise. It would seem that the Brits who had moved out here weren’t so much interested in finding a genuine bargain, but more spending as little of their savings as possible on essential items like clothing so they had more money for their fags and booze, and those ridiculous mobility scooters that so many of them rode around in, irrespective of not having any genuine mobility issues, other than bone idleness.
With so many people to choose from, Brandt decided to concentrate on a stall where he had the greatest chance of showing some kind of knowledge of its contents.
‘They look good, them,’ he said in his best East London accent, put on in case he was overheard by someone else. The fact was the tumbler was of shit quality, and Brandt had drunk many a whisky in his time.
‘Do you think?’ she asked pleasantly, holding it up to the light as though, like inspecting a diamond, she might somehow be able to ascertain the quality of the glass.
‘May I?’ he asked, reaching for its twin and performing the same bizarre routine she had. ‘It’s quite light really,’ he commented whilst lifting it up and down in a mock drinking action. ‘And that’s a good thing,’ he lied. ‘You don’t want your arm to tire and go all limp over the course of an evening.’
She laughed at his deliberately weak attempt at humour. This was a good sign;
an indication that he should continue. ‘Are they a present for someone? Your husband perhaps?’ He kept his tone as light as possible, wanting to appear that he was just making conversation.
‘Just browsing, really.’ Not the response he needed so he didn’t say anything in return but continued to look at her. This was a trick he had learned very early on in his career. If you wanted someone to give more detail, the best way was to allow an awkward silence to descend; they unwittingly found the need to fill it. ‘I don’t have a husband anymore.’
‘Oh, I’m very sorry,’ he replied with false solemnity.
She laughed again. ‘Oh no, he’s not dead or anything. I left that useless son of a bitch back in England.’
Brandt laughed too, and it was genuine. Perfect, he thought. ‘Oh, you live here, do you?’
‘Yes, been here two years now,’ she said, having unconsciously glanced at her watch in that ridiculous way people did as though it somehow acted as a calendar. He could believe it, she had that tell-tale weathered look of a northern European complexion having had too much exposure to the sun. Not that she was unattractive. Premature aging skin aside, she was slim and had warm brown eyes. Her long blonde hair was obviously an over the counter bottle job, but he bet she made more of an effort with her appearance now than she had when she’d been with her husband.
‘Here in Benidorm itself?’
The second-best way to get the information you needed was to essentially repeat the same question but to sufficiently disguise it not to raise suspicion.
‘Yes, I have a little house just up the road there,’ she said pointing north of their position and, crucially, further away from the main part of town.
‘Small world,’ he stated. ‘My wife and I are staying with a friend who lives a little way up there too.’ It was his turn to glance at his watch. ‘Oh blimey, I promised I would be back ages ago; it’s just that I like to get out before the sun gets too hot, you know?’
‘Oh yes, I used to feel the same when I first came out here. You soon get used to the heat, although by July and August even I start to wilt.’
Brandt joined her in laughing at this. ‘Oh well, very nice to meet you,’ he said turning away before facing her once again. ‘I don’t suppose you...?’ He left the question hanging.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, taking the bait.
‘It’s nothing,’ he replied shaking his head. ‘I was going to ask whether you wanted to walk back together, but I wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression,’ he continued sheepishly.
‘Oh no, of course not, as long as you think your wife wouldn’t mind you talking to strange women.’ There was no better way to counteract the potential awkwardness of a request than being overly awkward about it.
‘Ha ha, in fact I bet she would like to meet you sometime.’ He started walking, sure that she would now follow. ‘You see, we’re considering moving out here permanently sometime and, although our friends say it’s fairly easy, we would welcome another perspective. Up here, is it?’ Brandt asked pointing in the same direction she had, using the question to avoid her having to respond to his suggestion they meet again, should she find it too forward.
‘I’d be happy to,’ she said warmly.
They chatted amiably for the remainder of their slow walk back to her place. Brandt had expected the excitement to build inside him, but he found himself considering whether he should abandon his plan. Comment about her ex-husband aside, she seemed like a nice lady and he started wondering whether he should genuinely befriend her instead. Maybe some true companionship would give his life a different meaning and she had shown every indication of enjoying his company. He was sure that he could slowly lose the accent he had put on, but abandoning other aspects of his character wouldn’t be so easy. It wasn’t even the fact his villa was nowhere near the direction they were heading in; he had won this woman over by his gentlemanly conduct, to then appear so willing to betray his wife would surely cause alarm and, more than likely, scare her off.
In the end, Brandt reasoned that it was much better to stick to his original plan. He tried to reassure himself that if he had found a connection with the first person he spoke to, then there was every chance, if he decided on a change of approach in the future, he would be able to find someone equally as enchanting. This time he would be conscious of there being an alternate direction for their encounter and, whilst still wanting to put them at ease, wouldn’t say anything that would cause him difficulties should he decide on pursuing a relationship.
Nevertheless, out of respect for the woman who introduced herself as Julie as he pretended to bid her farewell at her door, he would keep it quick and avoid the temptation to sexually assault her despite the stirring in his groin.
‘Goodbye then,’ he called over his shoulder, walking away. As he slipped on his gloves, he could hear the rustling of keys and, as soon as it was accompanied by the sound of the latch opening, he began retracing his steps. She must have noticed him out of the corner of her eye because she did not enter the house but turned to give him a quizzical look.
‘Tell you what, let me give you our address in case you want to pop round for a coffee sometime.’ He was offering her his warmest smile, but he could see the hesitation in her eyes. But now was not the time for indecision. ‘Have you got a pen and paper?’ He continued, hurrying her through the door before she could begin to protest.
‘Look, I’m not sure that…’ She was unable to finish her sentence because Brandt’s hands were suddenly round her throat, squeezing so hard that he wondered if his freshly tanned knuckles had turned white under the gloves.
‘Don’t fight it,’ he whispered as her legs buckled underneath her.
Chapter Twenty
Johnson slept less well that night. Although she had gained the information she had come for, none of it had put her mind at rest. There just seemed nothing to go on and if she were in that situation in her own CID, she would be able to have the team keep working over the evidence until something was revealed. But that wasn’t an option here, so she started packing up, ready to make the long journey back home again. Much as she was frustrated to be leaving without a trail to follow, it was with more irritation that she found she was unable to book herself on a Channel Tunnel train until late in the evening, having originally foregone the additional cost of buying an open ticket.
With the mandatory checkout time looming, she left her car parked at the hotel and took a walk into town to kill a couple of hours. She may have resented being there, but she had to admit the centre of Ghent was attractive with its medieval buildings. Heading towards Gravensteen Castle, as that seemed the main attraction for the small amount of tourism the area received, Johnson stopped off for a coffee on her way. Given her efforts to practice her French had lasted a mere sentence at the police station, she welcomed another opportunity to try the local language. However, the simple process of ordering a coffee and a cake had been a challenge for Johnson, given the scowl provided by the waitress before silently going to prepare her items. With the distinct lack of a warm welcome, Johnson didn’t linger longer than it took to consume her snack and, without even a glance in the waitress’ direction, she counted out the exact change and continued on her journey.
The castle itself was attractive enough and certainly grander than those she had visited in Britain but, after spending a few minutes wandering the battlements and admiring the views, she soon became bored and headed back to her car, lying to herself that she would drive slower than before; more realistically surmising that arriving at the terminal may see her squeezed onto an earlier train. Perhaps flashing her warrant card could aid the process if she implied she was returning from police business which, technically, she was. Suspicious that the refreshments offered at Calais might be a bit more geared towards French tastes than they had been at Folkestone, she decided she would pick up a filled baguette at one of the delicatessens she had passed before. Johnson was still full from breakfast, not to mention her br
ief café stop, but nibbling on it may help to combat the boredom of the journey that lay ahead.
She entered the shop trying to recall whether it was un or une baguette and decided to stick to the more familiar fillings she could remember of jambon, poulet or fromage et salade. It wasn’t so much that the young man decided to respond in his basic English, delivered in his thick accent, but more his exasperated tone that irked Johnson.
‘Is there a problem with my French?’
‘English is better, no?’ he replied slowly, clearly trying to work out the words in his mind as he went.
‘No offence but I think my French is better than your English.’ She tried to add a smile at the end to soften the criticism.
‘My English not good; my French more not good.’
‘Excuse me?’ Johnson was lost now.
He sighed. ‘My English okay. My French bad.’
‘Your French is bad but you’re Belgian, aren’t you?’ Johnson was shocked. Why would you employ someone who couldn’t speak the language? Even before she witnessed the offence in the man’s expression, she realised the mistake she had made. ‘You’re Flemish, aren’t you?’
He replied in a language Johnson didn’t know but sounded to her like Dutch.
‘I’m really sorry,’ she replied honestly.
‘Is okay,’ he shrugged. ‘Many English do same.’
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