Brady watched as Ainsworth cut through the thick black tape. As did the four forensic officers, fascinated by the proceedings. One, already ahead of the game, was photographing each step. Another, filming.
‘You sure?’ Ainsworth asked, before he pulled the tape back.
‘Yes,’ Brady answered, despite himself. He didn’t want to look, but knew he had to. He had to see whether this was the same killer. He’d figure out how it was possible later.
Paralysed, he watched as Ainsworth ripped off the layer of black shiny tape, exposing the victim’s swollen, bloated face.
‘Fuck! What’s that in his mouth?’ asked one of the SOCOs.
Brady didn’t answer. Neither did Ainsworth.
‘Oh, Christ! Tell me he didn’t choke to death on his own . . .’ The last word was left unsaid. The reality too sickening.
Brady’s stomach felt as if it had hit the ground.
How? How, after thirty-seven years?
Chapter Nine
Sunday: 3:13 p.m.
‘Sir . . .’ Brady began. He still wasn’t quite sure what he was going to tell his boss. He didn’t want to get this one wrong. Not on his first day back. Five months was a long time to be away. A lot of things could happen in that time. Brady was aware that he was not irreplaceable. His sick leave stint had shown him as much. The job had continued – his job. DI Adamson had stepped in and seen to that. He had proven to Gates and the team – his team – that he could do his own job as well as bearing the brunt of Brady’s. Brady wasn’t sure where exactly that left him.
‘What’s so important that it can’t wait until I get back on Friday?’ Gates snapped.
Brady found himself momentarily lost for words. If he had been expecting his boss to ask how his first day back at work was going after being nearly killed five months ago, he would have been bitterly disappointed. But Brady knew Gates well. Well enough to not expect his boss to give two fucks about his physical or mental state. He was back at work. That was enough. If he couldn’t cope, then he shouldn’t have turned up. Gates wasn’t known for niceties where Brady was concerned.
‘Well . . .’ Brady began, unsure of how to begin.
‘For Christ’s sake, Jack. Spit it out! I’ve been dragged out of a seminar for this call, so it better be important.’
Brady knew he had no choice. He just had to say it. ‘Sir, a young white male was found murdered in the Royal Hotel early this afternoon,’ he began.
‘And?’ Gates asked. ‘Tell me that’s not the reason you’ve rung me?’
This was familiar territory for Brady. Gates had never hidden the fact that he didn’t like him. Brady’s method of policing, of allowing his gut feeling to override protocol and yet somehow being proven right, often met with Gates’ disapproval. However, Brady always managed to hit those much-needed targets and that was what counted.
‘No, sir, but . . .’ Brady hesitated.
He could hear Gates sighing on the other end of the phone. He then heard him muttering to someone. The irritation in his tone was evident. Brady assumed it was DI Adamson standing with him.
Fuck it! What did he have to lose? His role as DI was already in question. DI Adamson had seen to that.
‘Do you remember the Joker killings in the Seventies?’
He suddenly had Gates’ attention. ‘What?’
‘The Joker killings. Seven young men, all murdered within a period of two months during the summer of 1977?’
‘I’m acutely aware of the case, Jack.’
Brady knew that he would have been. After all, Gates had just entered the force at the time. But it was clear from Gates’ voice that he was not impressed with Brady bringing up the past. It was evident that he was uncomfortable with even the mention of The Joker. The killer had never been apprehended. In fact, the police hadn’t even come close to catching him. They had suspects, of course, but none of them were remotely credible. Most of them had been dragged in for questioning to make it look as if the police had a handle on the situation – which they hadn’t.
For some inexplicable reason, The Joker had stopped killing after his seventh victim; much to the relief of the police and the public. Or at least, he had stopped murdering in the same manner. Brady was certain that someone with an appetite for sadism and murder like The Joker didn’t just wake up one morning and decide that they had had enough. The drive to kill would have become overwhelming. The question that had been troubling Brady was why he had stopped.
He steeled himself. ‘This murder is identical to the other seven from 1977.’
Gates didn’t say anything. But his silence said enough. Brady kept quiet.
‘You’re certain?’ Gates finally asked.
Brady could hear the scepticism in his voice. Not that he could blame him. Even he was struggling to accept it – and he had seen it with his own eyes. ‘Yes, sir. Hands and feet were bound with rope.’
‘Gagged?’
‘With his own penis,’ Brady replied.
Gates did not reply. Brady did not need to see his face to know that it would be hard and inscrutable as he weighed up the magnitude of what he was being told. No one, aside from the investigating team and the police pathologist, knew the details of the case. The mutilation was deemed too awful to be released to the public. Not even the victims’ families were aware of the precise nature of their loved ones’ death. They had been fed as little information as possible to avoid the details being leaked to the press. And yet here they were, thirty-seven years later, with a victim murdered in exactly the same manner.
And that was what was troubling Brady. He couldn’t get his head around the improbability of The Joker suddenly returning. Or of it being a copycat killing.
He sighed heavily before continuing. ‘His severed penis had been stuffed into his mouth and his head had been bound with black duct tape. Identical to the Seventies victims.’
‘What about—’ Gates began.
Brady beat him to it. He knew exactly what he was going to ask. The exact same question had plagued him when he first saw the victim.
‘Joker card pressed between the victim’s palms. The card is from a 1960s Waddington deck, sir.’
‘The same as before?’
‘Identical.’
Brady could hear Gates breathing out at the enormity of the situation as he weighed up what to do.
‘What’s your feeling on this? Copycat? Or . . .’ Gates left the question unfinished. Like Brady, unable to accept the prospect that the serial killer had resurfaced after all this time.
‘I don’t know,’ Brady answered honestly. ‘If it is The Joker, then the question is why now, after all this time? And if it isn’t, then how would someone have found out the details of the original case?’
Brady had wondered if it could be someone within the police. He had to; it was a possibility. He knew that right now his boss would be plagued with the same thoughts.
‘I assume that you’re already collating information on the original suspects?’
‘Yes, sir. The team’s busy tracking them down.’
‘Good,’ Gates answered. ‘Who found the victim?’
‘The hotel cleaner.’
‘You’ve told her that she’s not to divulge any details to anyone?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Same with the rest of the hotel staff who were on duty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I want no details being leaked to the press. Understand? Until we can establish exactly what’s going on, I want as little released as possible,’ Gates instructed him. ‘I’ll finish off here and see you tomorrow. In the meantime, I want to be kept informed of every detail on this case.’
‘Will do, sir,’ Brady answered.
With that, Gates hung up.
Brady stood for a moment as he tried to get his head together. He understood that Gates had to return ASAP, given the magnitude of the situation. However, it still left him feeling as if he could not be trusted to take charge of what would s
oon become a high-profile murder investigation. One that, if it followed the Seventies pattern, had the potential to become a killing spree.
Chapter Ten
Sunday: 3:40 p.m.
‘Tea. Drink it! I’ve put three sugars in.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered. His tongue felt more akin to an overused litter tray. Small grits of vomit were embedded in his tongue.
He still looked ill, the colour not fully returned to his face. Instead, he had an insipid grey pallor reminiscent of the bleak, drizzle-filled skies that so often clung over the North East.
‘Come on. Drink!’ ordered Brady. ‘I need you on your feet.’
Conrad looked up at him. His head bobbed up and down in a feeble acknowledgement. The last thing he shared at this moment was his boss’s excitement and enthusiasm. This was the old Jack Brady in front of him. He was on to something. The gleam in his eye said it all. Brady wanted to get moving. And fast. The clock was counting down. And as it did, each minute worked against them. But right now, Conrad couldn’t move. His legs wouldn’t take his weight and his stomach was curdling at the prospect of drinking anything.
‘Bloody drink it!’
Conrad weakly acquiesced, swallowing down the sweet, milky liquid.
After his call to Gates ended Brady had gone looking for Conrad, eventually finding him in the entrance lobby, slouched on a chair with his head between his knees. His explanation? Lunch: the prawn salad sandwich had obviously been dodgy. So much so, it had made its way back up.
‘You look like shit, Conrad,’ Brady said with some concern. ‘How about I get someone to drive you home?’
Conrad visibly winced. ‘No, sir, I’ll be fine. Just need a minute or two to clear my head.’
‘Have it your way. But this isn’t the place to be having a hot flush.’
Conrad’s face was clammy, the skin a chalky off-white colour. Not good. Brady shook his head at him. ‘I’m serious. You look like you don’t know whether you’re going to shit yourself or hurl.’
The last thing Brady wanted was Conrad sitting here looking as if he had seen a corpse. The place was buzzing with police: uniform, non-uniform and forensic science officers. Then there were the hotel residents and staff who were milling around the conference room, waiting in turn for the police to talk to them.
Regardless of objections, Brady had not allowed anyone to leave the hotel. Names, addresses had to be given. IDs had to be verified. And then statements taken – no matter how long and laborious the process. The problem the police were up against was that most of the hotel’s residents comprised a stag party – two coachloads of muscle-pumped, lager-fuelled fun. Most were lucky if they even knew their names.
So far, no one had seen or heard anything unusual. That included staff as well as residents. Everyone was tight-lipped. Or at least that was the way it felt. The one person Brady did want to talk to was the receptionist on duty the night before. She had finished her shift at 8:00 a.m. this morning and no one had seen or talked to her since. Brady had tried calling her – no answer. He had sent DC Kodovesky and DS Harvey to her address to bring her in. He could have left it to them to take a statement. But there was too much at stake. As far as Brady was concerned, she might have been the only person to have seen the killer. Whoever checked into room 212 had had to do so through the receptionist. So it was crucial they talked to her.
At this stage, the crime scene was all Brady had to go on. But Ainsworth had given him hope. And he needed it. So far, it had appeared that the murderer had been very careful about leaving any evidence at the crime scene. There were no fingerprints or fibres. Not even hair samples. It was clean. But Ainsworth was dogged and he didn’t give up so easily. He had managed to find a partial footprint that had not been completely brushed over. The killer had proven not to be as vigilant as Ainsworth. The print was from a size ten male shoe. They were now looking for a male perpetrator. No surprise there.
The impression marks from the partial shoe print could be crucial physical evidence. A print from a relatively new shoe would only tell them the make, style and size of the item. If the shoe had been worn for a period of time, then it would have what Ainsworth called ‘individualising evidence’. In layman’s terms, it meant that it would be specific to the person who wore the shoe – equal in uniqueness to a fingerprint. Everyone had their own individual gait and over time, shoe prints became individualising evidence as the wearer encountered different types of damage to the sole.
Brady had already discounted the victim’s footwear – unsurprisingly. But what did surprise Brady was the price tag. They were Italian Forzieri black washed leather boots. In other words, designer, which meant expensive. The boots had been found in the hotel room’s basic wardrobe. His designer suit and shirt, both Pal Zileri, were hanging above. His up-to-date iPhone had been left on the bedside cabinet, alongside a Gucci dive watch. It was a limited edition and cost more than Brady could afford. Then there was the victim’s wallet, found in his suit jacket. It contained over three hundred pounds in notes, an array of fancy gold credit cards and, crucially, a driver’s licence. Consequently, robbery had been ruled out.
What worried Brady was that identification was all too easy – the driver’s licence, credit cards. Why leave them? Add the mutilated body into the mix and they had a killer who either thought they were incredibly clever, or just didn’t care. Brady didn’t believe it was the latter. The attention to detail with the body told him as much. If it had been a crime of passion, or as the tabloids would spin, a sex game gone horrifically wrong, then why mutilate the body? It wasn’t as if the killer had panicked. The opposite was true. He had taken time with his victim. Binding him, strangling him and mutilating him. And then . . . Brady shuddered, despite the heat. A horrific way to die – tied up, bleeding, gagged. Choking, spluttering, gasping . . . desperate as the killer wraps the duct tape round again and again. Then, the last detail – the Joker card.
The prancing Jester in bold black outline, coloured blue and red against a white backdrop, filled Brady’s mind. The red lips curled at the corners of the mouth – laughing, sneering. It was this jeering face that bothered him. Because he knew it was the killer’s signature. His unique calling card.
The driver’s licence belonged to the victim. Simple. The photo ID matched the victim’s bloated face. They had a name. An age. An address.
Why you? Why did he choose you?
Something told Brady that this victim was different from the others. From the first seven killed in the Seventies. A gut feeling, a hunch? He couldn’t say. He just knew it. And that worried him. The others were targeted for a specific reason. All a type.
Why change your MO? Unless it’s not really you . . .
‘Come on, Conrad! Seriously, on your feet. Either that, or give me the car keys. I’ll drive myself to the station and send a patrol car down to collect you when you’re good and ready.’
Brady knew that Conrad wouldn’t let him drive his new sports car – it had the desired effect, and Conrad staggered to his feet. His face paled as the blood rushed from his head to his stomach.
For a moment Brady was worried he was going to keel over.
‘Do you want to lean on me?’
‘I’m fine, sir,’ Conrad said through gritted teeth.
‘Right. Give me five minutes. I’ll see you at the car,’ Brady instructed.
Chapter Eleven
Sunday: 3:51 p.m.
Irritated, she watched as the policeman made his way to reception.
‘Yes?’
He flashed his ID card. ‘Detective Inspector Brady.’
‘And?’ she asked, without even giving the ID card a cursory glance.
‘I need to see the details logged against room 212.’
She sighed, then gave him a pained look as if she had better things to do on a Sunday afternoon than help the police with a murder inquiry. It didn’t matter that it had taken place in the hotel where she worked. The fact was, she hadn’t been wor
king when it had happened. So, it wasn’t her problem. And she shouldn’t even be in today. She was covering someone else’s shift as a favour.
Her long, thick, dyed black hair swished behind her as she turned to the computer. Red painted acrylic nails tapped irritably on the keyboard as she scrolled down.
‘Nah. Hasn’t changed since the last time I checked. John Smith. That’s it.’
‘No address. Credit card details?’
She looked at him as if he were stupid. Her thin lips pursed, about to tell him that she’d had enough of this crap. Police officers asking the same question, again and again. As if she was the daft one. They got the same answer every time: John Smith, no address, no credit card, no personal information.
Joanne hadn’t come into work this morning bargaining on the hotel being overrun with police. Where the fuck was Chantelle when you needed her? This was her fucking mess. Always the same. She’d come in and pick up the pieces from that sloppy cow’s shift. God knows how she held on to a job here. But she knew how. They all did. Chantelle was doing the boss. That’s how her scrawny arse hadn’t been sacked yet. Joanne knew that it wouldn’t last. They never did.
She looked at him as he cleared his throat.
‘Is it practice not to take down the guest’s address?’
She sighed. Again. Same questions over and over. ‘No.’
Joanne waited for him to let her get on with her job. A dead body in a hotel wasn’t great for business, but it could be dealt with without causing too much damage. People died all the time. The odds are that an occasional guest’s heart might give out. But a murder was a different story entirely. The hotel had been put in lockdown mode. Hotel guests had decided to check out, to cut their stay short. Who could blame them? But she was the one left trying to keep it all together. Her boss had left for a week’s holiday. Flown somewhere hot, Joanne imagined. Lucky bastard. Her mind automatically thought of Chantelle. Had she gone with him? She wouldn’t put it past that two-faced cow. But she wasn’t booked in for a week’s holiday. Then again, this was Chantelle. Twenty-two years old, and with the attitude that life owed her. She’d no doubt ring in before her shift tomorrow, pretending to be ill again. Nothing about that girl was kosher. Fake tan, fake tits and a botoxed face like a slapped trout to match. And Joanne knew all too well that on her wages you couldn’t afford such niceties.
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