Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4

by Danielle Ramsay

  It came down to victimology. Know the victim, then you know your killer. In the majority of murder cases they were connected. It was up to Brady and his team to find that link. That one small lead which would unravel the reason why a young man had ended up dead in a seaside hotel. Then there was the choice of hotel. Why the Royal? From the moment Brady had heard where the murder victim had been found, he had been trying to keep thoughts of Madley at bay. But it was proving difficult. Was there a connection?

  He didn’t know. Not yet. And he hoped there wasn’t. After all, Brady owed Madley his life. And Claudia’s. He was indebted to him. He knew that much.

  ‘If I didn’t know you, Jack Brady, I would have said you were stalling,’ Ainsworth said, as his small, black beady eyes scrutinised him.

  ‘Come on, then. Show me what you’ve got,’ Brady replied, his tone resolute. He just wanted to get it over with. To get rid of the sour taste in his mouth and the sickly, sweet odour of putrefying meat.

  ‘If you think he smells bad out here, just wait until you meet him. I reckon he’s been cooking in there all night.’

  Brady knew that if Conrad hadn’t told him the seriousness of the situation, then he wouldn’t be here. He wasn’t officially due back until tomorrow. But Conrad had called him. Better that than getting a DI from another Area Command. If Brady hadn’t turned up, Conrad would have had to request DI Bentley’s expertise. And, given Bentley’s conviction that Martin Madley was the drugs baron of the North East, Brady had no choice but to show up. The murder had taken place in Madley’s hotel. Enough ammunition for Bentley to come in with all guns blazing. He would have spun the murder for his own ends. Claiming that Madley’s questionable business dealings had to be linked to the crime. Whether the victim was known or unknown to Madley, Bentley would see to it that there was a connection – no matter how tenuous.

  But there was more to Brady’s return than not wanting Bentley to head the investigation. The details of the murder had disturbed him. Made him start to ask questions. But he had to see for himself first-hand before he jumped to any conclusions. He didn’t want to call DCI Gates unless he had to. His childhood Catholicism had kicked in and he found himself praying that he wouldn’t have to contact Gates. That the similarities of this murder were just a coincidence. Nothing more.

  Before he followed Ainsworth, he turned to Conrad. He knew Ainsworth was right – he was stalling. ‘Reckon you’ll be able to keep your lunch down?’

  Conrad nodded. ‘It’s just the smell getting to me.’

  Brady held his breath, walked in, then stopped – dead. He had no idea if Conrad was behind him or was bent over, throwing up. Because that was what he wanted to do – turn around and vomit.

  In that moment he knew that he’d be contacting Gates. Telling him they had a situation. That he might want to leave the conference in London and return to Whitley Bay.

  Because Brady was certain of one fact: as soon as the press got hold of the details of the murder there would be mass hysteria. Just as there had been in the summer of ’77.

  ‘Aye, not a pretty sight, is he?’ Ainsworth said. ‘And I’m talking about your lad there. If you’re going to spew don’t do it anywhere near my bloody crime scene!’

  It was a good distraction and Brady needed it. He needed a moment to get a handle on the situation. Conrad hadn’t realised just how serious this was, or the ramifications of it. He was too young. That and he hadn’t grown up in the North East. The summer of ’77 had lingered on in most peoples’ minds for years after. Fearful, ever vigilant. Because back then there had been no real resolution. Nobody had been arrested. Instead, he became the bogeyman. The one that would snatch you and . . . Brady stopped himself.

  He had grown up in the Eighties with the horror stories. The scaremongering. The kids that would dare you to say his name out loud. The dare came with a caveat of course. It had to be carried out in the dark, on your own, in the old derelict house where it was rumoured the first victim had been mutilated. Inevitably, the poor kid would be scared shitless. Brady knew. Because he had done it.

  Brady looked at Conrad. If he felt sick, then Conrad definitely looked sick. In fact he looked as if he was going to throw up any second now.

  ‘Listen, why don’t you check on what’s happening downstairs,’ Brady suggested. It was hard not to hear the commotion below them. He imagined there were a few irate guests wanting to get back to their rooms. The second floor had been cordoned off, for obvious reasons.

  Brady watched Conrad take one last glance at the victim. Curiosity, perhaps, or just downright shock. Then he turned and legged it down the corridor to the nearest toilet.

  ‘Useless bloody bugger. Wants to man up. And you reckon he’ll make Detective Chief Superintendent one day? My hairy arse he will!’

  Brady didn’t respond. He could feel his mouth watering; a tell-tale prelude to being sick. He swallowed. He didn’t want to follow suit. But he could feel the bile, slick and threatening at the back of his throat. In his head he counted to ten. Took a moment to compose himself. Remind himself he could deal with this – had seen worse. Or had he?

  The heat in the room wasn’t helping. He looked at the window. Closed. He had to give Ainsworth and his team their due. Brady only had to have a cursory look at the scene. Get a feel for what had happened. But this was their office. They were the ones responsible for collecting any trace evidence that might have been left behind. Forensic science was developing at a phenomenal rate. The techniques used now meant that getting away with murder would soon be impossible. If Brady found a suspect, then the SOCOs’ findings would be crucial. It was Brady’s job to get them to court – and it was Ainsworth’s job to nail them with the forensic evidence in court.

  The SOCOs would be searching for physical and biological evidence. The physical would come from fingerprints, footprints and fibres left behind by the killer. The biological evidence included bloodstains and DNA. Ainsworth’s acumen and eye for the slightest detail could make all the difference. Blood or fibres might be found; an unintentional calling card left by the killer. Or blood, hair, other biological samples picked up from the body might be on the killer. After all, he had spent time with his victim.

  Everything depended on Ainsworth and his team gathering all the evidence so that Brady could use it. But Brady had to catch the guy first.

  Ainsworth frowned. ‘You all right?’

  Brady nodded. ‘Just the heat getting to me.’

  ‘You sure that’s all it is? Because this looks uncannily like—’ Ainsworth stopped himself. He could not articulate it. He remembered the Seventies well. Unlike Brady, he was old enough to have actually lived through the events of that summer.

  Brady looked at Ainsworth. They both knew it. But neither one wanted to say the name – not yet. Brady tried to clear his head. He needed to be objective. But it was difficult. Especially with the suffocating heat and overwhelming stench.

  The two SOCOs who had left returned with a forensic case. They both looked at Brady, standing there like some gobsmacked new copper. First day on the job and not a clue about how to go about it. It was enough to shake him. Stop him procrastinating.

  Making sure he stepped on the forensic platforms, there to protect any evidence left on the carpet, he crossed over to the king-size bed. Lights had been set up over the victim, illuminating the body to a ghoulish level.

  He could feel Ainsworth watching him. His eyes boring into the back of his neck, making his skin prickle under the intense scrutiny. But he knew that Ainsworth was waiting. Waiting for him to finish his sentence. To say: Yes. It’s him. He’s back.

  Focus. Look for details. Anything . . . rather than this mind-numbing paralysis.

  A sudden thought hit him. It hit hard. Maybe he wasn’t up to the job anymore? Had what happened to him broken him? Brady shook it off. It was first day nerves. That was all. And he had been thrown in at the deep end. He went to take a deep breath to steady himself. Clear his head. But thought better
of it. He blocked out the SOCOs, even Ainsworth, as he set to work.

  He looked at the victim.

  Looked hard and long. Fought the urge to retch. Pushed it down and kept it there.

  Young white male. Early twenties. Six foot to six foot two. Physically fit.

  Brady hazarded a guess that he had been dead for over twelve hours. Once dead, the body would immediately start turning cold – known as algor mortis or the death chill. He knew that with each hour the body temperature dropped by 1.5 degrees until it reached room temperature. Not that he was an expert. But he had spent too long listening to Wolfe, the Home Office pathologist, and some of his jargon had actually sunk in. Blood had already pooled in the victim’s back and the back of the legs. This meant that liver mortis had set in. The parts of the body in direct contact with the bed had a distinctive bluish-purple discoloration caused by hypostasis, the accumulation of blood due to gravity. This in itself suggested that the victim had died at the scene and in this position. Rigor mortis, or stiffening of the body, sets in about two to six hours after death. After twenty-four hours the stiffness dissipates. To be certain, Brady touched the victim’s leg.

  Cold. Stiff. Very dead.

  The victim was still in a state of rigor mortis, which confirmed in his mind he’d been murdered somewhere between Saturday evening and the early hours of Sunday morning. But he would need a pathologist to determine a time of death. Not that they could give the precise time, but it would be good enough.

  He assumed the pathologist had already attended the scene and called time of death. As Ainsworth had pointed out in his usual acerbic way, Brady had shown up late.

  He focused back on the victim, ignoring the snatches of conversation floating around him as the SOCOs continued with their jobs. To them, death was an everyday occurrence. They simply broke it down; dissected it into bodily secretions: prints, hairs, skin tissue and clothing fabric. They would then add their own gallows humour into the mix. It made the impact of death, the gruesome, ugly thing it was, easier to look at. Brady was certain he heard one of the SOCOs joke about the victim. About his gruesome injuries. Ghoulish speculations were now being bandied around; each one worse than the previous sick suggestion. Small ripples of laughter hit him like poisonous darts. He wanted to turn and tell them all to shut up. But he knew he was over-reacting. He blocked out the casual banter tossed so easily between them. Once over the gruesome shock of the murder, it was just another day to them. Another crime scene. Another murdered body. But the identity of this body would hit someone. Hard. Their life or lives would never be the same again. Because the killer hadn’t just murdered the man on the bed – they had tortured him. Rope had been used. Hands bound behind his back. Ankles tied together.

  Brady looked for any evidence that showed the victim had fought his assailant. That he had been overpowered and subsequently tied up. It would have taken a lot to overpower him. But Brady could see nothing that told him that he had been tied up against his will.

  Had he willingly allowed himself to be restrained?

  Brady put the thought to the back of his mind. It didn’t make any sense at this point.

  He noted the ligature damage around the victim’s severely mottled and swollen throat. It looked to him as if the marks were consistent with rope burns. He wasn’t sure. But he had been asphyxiated. Brady would have to wait for the autopsy report to know whether that was the cause of death. He already knew from the other injury that the assailant had wanted him to suffer. Had wanted him to understand exactly what was happening to him. Had wanted to torture him. Both physically and psychologically.

  Just like the others . . . No. He wouldn’t entertain it. Not yet.

  Brady could see that strangling the victim to death wouldn’t have been enough. It hadn’t been the end goal. It wasn’t what this murder was about.

  He let his eyes move up from the bloated, bruised throat to the head – black, faceless. Duct tape had been wound around the head. This was how he had died. Smothered to death.

  Don’t jump to conclusions.

  As if on cue, Ainsworth spoke. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  Brady nodded. He couldn’t stop himself. It was the first thing he’d thought when he saw the victim.

  His eyes drifted down to the carnage on the victim’s body. The carnage below the midriff. To the mutilated groin. Blood covered the mattress. The carpet. The body. Even the wall behind.

  Brady assumed that the victim’s penis had been fully erect when it had been cut off. The blood loss accounted for that. Erect, it guaranteed blood flow. Even after the engorged member had been hacked off. However, there was no ‘projected blood’ as Ainsworth would call it, here: the result of an artery being cut and the heart continuing to pump roughly eight litres a minute. An adult had between four to five litres of blood. The maths was simple; you bled out in less than forty seconds. This wasn’t the case here. The blood supplied to the groin came from small arteries that fed down from the abdomen. Consequently the blood loss was significant but he could have survived the mutilation. Others had.

  Shit!

  Looking at the exposed tissue and flesh where the penis should have been made Brady’s stomach contract. His testicles shrivelled up even more – if that were possible – at the gruesome unnaturalness of it. The retching sensation was threatening to return. He understood that this was what had driven Conrad from the crime scene to bury his head in a toilet bowl.

  Was it a bloke thing? He didn’t know. But he was certain that every man in the room felt the same abject horror. His attention returned to the black shape that was the head. ‘Has the pathologist been?’

  ‘An hour back. Called out of a meeting for this,’ Ainsworth answered. ‘Wasn’t best pleased.’

  Brady knew exactly who Ainsworth was talking about – Wolfe. And the meeting would have been his lunchtime pint, or two, followed by a whisky chaser in the Stuffed Dog.

  ‘And you’ve got all the photographs of the body in situ?’

  ‘And film.’

  ‘Wolfe got a good look at him?’

  ‘I gather so,’ Ainsworth answered.

  Brady nodded.

  Ainsworth’s eyes were sharp as an eagle’s. He knew where Brady was going with his questions.

  ‘Can you help me turn him over?’

  ‘You really think—’

  Brady cut him off. ‘I don’t know.’

  If this really is him . . . Then . . .

  Brady couldn’t think straight. First, he had to check the body – the hands.

  Together, they rolled the heavy, stiff body over. Brady looked at the hands tied behind his back. He could see that the victim had struggled. Had tried to undo the knots. His wrists were bruised and the flesh had been cut open from rope burns.

  No surprise. The panic, let alone pain . . . Brady stopped himself.

  He tried to block out thoughts of his own pain. His panic when he had been tied to a chair and tortured. His rage when they had thrown her at his feet. Dragged and kicked like a dog. Beaten, and so terribly damaged. He didn’t recognise her. Not at first. Not his Claudia. And he knew that they were going to kill her. Then they would kill him.

  ‘Is it there?’ Ainsworth asked, his rough voice sounding excited.

  Brady nodded. He could feel the sweat building up on his forehead.

  He could see it – just. Pressed between the victim’s palms. Hands trembling, Brady somehow managed to extricate it from the victim’s grasp.

  Suddenly everything in the room faded. Brady couldn’t hear Ainsworth repeating the same question. Or the comments from the SOCOs, curious about what they were looking for – and why.

  It felt as if his heart had stopped. But the rapid pounding in his ears told him it had gone into overdrive. Adrenalised by shock.

  Fucking shit . . . shit . . .

  Brady stared at it. It was a playing card. But it was no ordinary card. It was from a Waddington’s deck of cards. Vintage – 1960s. The Joker card
.

  This was HIS signature. His trademark. His personal touch.

  Then there was the torture he carried out on his victims. It had never deviated from one victim to another. Always the same. Even now.

  The Modus Operandi – the methodology of the crime – was different. But the signature was the same. The Joker card. The disfigurement – details too gruesome to have ever been released to the press. No one knew. No one – apart from the police and the killer.

  ‘Bloody hell, Jack! I . . . I kept thinking it. But . . . I mean, how? How could it be possible?’

  Brady didn’t comment. He didn’t know how. It just was.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  Brady nodded. He tried to swallow, but failed. His mouth was too dry.

  He’d read up about this case. Seven victims in a matter of months. The killing frenzy had taken place during one of the hottest summers ever recorded. The victims – all male – had been mutilated and then left to bloat in the suffocating heat. The crime scene photographs had nearly made him sick.

  The tabloids had called the killer The Joker. That was the only detail about the case that had ever been released to the public. The genital mutilation – never. Too horrifying for the public. It had been the 1970s after all. The appetite for visceral details had not existed. Unlike now.

  Brady looked at Ainsworth. He had no choice. Fuck protocol.

  ‘We need to remove the tape.’

  Ainsworth’s eyes darted to the body.

  Brady could see that Ainsworth was equally familiar with the Seventies murders. He, like Brady, knew the reason the killer had bound the victim’s head in this manner. The final trademark of the Seventies killer – if it was him – would be under the duct tape.