Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4

by Danielle Ramsay

  She looked at the copper still stood in front of her. Not that he looked much like a copper with that scruffy jacket, black T-shirt and long dark hair. He didn’t look like the detectives she watched on TV. They were clean-shaven and wore suits.

  He refused to move. Despite her scrutiny.

  ‘Look . . . I wasn’t here last night, was I? I just happen to be the fool that’s left picking up the pieces. You want to know why all we have is “John Smith” on record, then you need to talk to Chantelle.’

  ‘I wish I could.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, you and me both,’ she said. She looked at Brady as if seeing him for the first time. He was a really good-looking bloke. Tall, dark, edgy – she liked that. But there was something about his eyes. Deep dark brown eyes filled with . . . But before she had a chance of putting her finger on it, the moment was gone. His eyes had assumed a professional hardness. An impenetrability.

  She looked around the reception area to make sure no other members of staff were within earshot, leaned over the desk towards him. ‘Look . . . Between you and me, this happens.’

  ‘Meaning?’ he asked.

  ‘Cash, no questions asked. You pay a premium for it. But if you can afford anonymity, then you get it. I can only assume that this “John Smith” was a no-questions-asked transaction. But verify it first with Chantelle. For all I know she just made a mistake.’

  Joanne resisted the urge to add: Another mistake.

  ‘Where are your surveillance cameras?’

  She looked at the copper. She couldn’t blame him for asking. It was an obvious question.

  ‘We don’t have any cameras. Like I said, some guests want that guarantee. No surveillance cameras and no traceable names or cards. Cash pays for a lot.’

  Brady was no fool. Did he really believe that there wouldn’t be a hidden camera recording everything that happened in front of the reception desk – and behind, for that matter? Simple answer – no. Madley trusted no one. Staff, guests or business associates. All the same to him. ‘You’re definitely sure there’s no cameras?’

  She nodded. ‘We’ve asked the boss to install them for our protection. But he keeps promising and nothing happens. I reckon if he had to spend a night checking that lot in,’ she gestured towards the two coaches parked in the front car park, ‘he’d think again.’

  Brady knew all too well about the stag parties that descended on Whitley Bay for the weekend. They were a major headache for uniform and ate up a significant part of the police budget.

  He decided he needed to talk to Carl, the one-eyed Mancunian bartender responsible for the club next door. If Madley wasn’t around, Carl would be the one left in charge. And if Madley had surveillance tape, which Brady believed he would do, he needed it.

  ‘Apart from the stag and hen parties, what kind of guests come here?’

  Joanne chewed her lip as she thought about the question. ‘I dunno. All sorts. Businessmen mainly.’

  Brady nodded. ‘Are they the guests who pay by cash then?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Only a few. But you can tell that they look . . . you know, important. That they wouldn’t want their wives or the press finding out what they get up to here.’

  ‘Why the press?’

  She paused for a moment before answering. ‘Well . . . let’s just say that there’s been a couple of footballers who have booked a whole floor here for a weekend. Not dead famous, but famous enough, you know? You recognise their faces. And they’ve got the money to throw around. Then you get the type who look like businessmen. Expensively dressed.’

  Brady was stunned. Madley suddenly seemed to have friends in high places; friends that he was taking care to look after. And what better place to give you the anonymity that you needed? A seafront hotel in Whitley Bay. Nothing fancy. Always busy with passing trade from other parts of the country. That in itself gave you anonymity. For this wasn’t the sort of place that locals would book for their wedding day. Not with two coachloads of lads or lasses booked in for a weekend away.

  ‘And they party, these men. Hard. Girls, booze, drugs. Anything they want, they get.’

  Brady nodded. He was intrigued. Was this the case with ‘John Smith’ last night? Did he – victim or killer – know the perks this hotel offered? Cash for anonymity. That anything goes – including getting away with murder. Brady thought of the victim’s clothes – Italian and handmade. Expensive taste for a twenty-two-year-old.

  ‘Look, promise me you won’t say anything. What I’ve told you is confidential. All right? I’d get shot if my boss knew I’d said any of this. Especially to a copper.’ She looked worried. Realised too late that she’d let her mouth run.

  ‘Of course. I won’t say a word,’ Brady reassured her. He decided to change direction. ‘Any other way into the hotel?’

  Joanne thought about it for a moment.

  ‘There’s two emergency exits that lead out onto the back alley. One’s through the kitchen though. The staff would have said if someone had come in that way. Nothing gets past the head chef, including a straying guest. The other one is alarmed. It can’t be opened from the outside, only internally. But if anyone did open it, the alarm would go off. Apart from that, the only other way in or out is through the hotel front doors.’

  Brady already knew this. But he just wanted to make certain. After he had finished at the crime scene he had taken a look around the hotel. Checked out all the entrances and exits. He still wasn’t sure whether the victim had checked into the hotel, or the killer. Who had joined who? One of them had checked in and had requested two room cards. Whether it was the victim or the killer, they’d been expecting company.

  ‘Is your boss around?’

  ‘No. He’s away on holiday for a week. Left yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m the last person he would tell.’

  Brady nodded. He could accept that. Anyone other than Madley and he would have been suspicious. But Madley was too clever to be caught with blood on his hands. It wasn’t his style. Still, Brady couldn’t ignore the fact that a gruesome, mutilated body had turned up in one of Madley’s hotel rooms while he was conveniently out of the country. He would have to do some preliminary checks, such as confirming the flight Madley got on – if he did – and the destination. Did Brady think the murder was connected to Madley? No. But did he think he better cover his own arse and make sure that he looked into every possibility? Hell yes. DI Bentley would be making his own inquiries into Madley. Better that Brady got there first.

  ‘If you hear from your colleague, let her know I need to talk to her. Urgently,’ Brady said as he handed Joanne his card. ‘And if you think of anything that could be relevant, call me.’

  She took the card. But the look on her face told him that she wouldn’t be calling anytime soon. That she’d already told him too much.

  Brady thought about Madley’s check-in system. Cash up front, no questions asked. That could buy a lot. Including murder.

  Brady turned to leave, then turned back. ‘Just so I’m sure about this,’ he paused as he looked towards the stairs. ‘That’s the only way to the first- and second-floor rooms?’

  ‘Yes. And the lifts are over there.’

  Brady turned and looked at them. The two lifts were directly opposite the reception desk.

  ‘No one could get past without you noticing? Correct?’

  ‘In theory,’ she smiled, ‘in practice, no. Try booking in a coachload of drunken blokes. It’s hard enough watching what they’re up to, let alone anyone else who wanders in.’

  Timing was crucial. ‘John Smith’ had checked into room 212 at 8:15 p.m. The two coachloads of guests had turned up at 7:49 p.m. It had taken the receptionist a good hour to check everyone in. Whether she would have had time to even take note of ‘John Smith’ was questionable, given how busy she would have been with the stag party. Brady was also looking into the possibility that the killer could have been another gue
st who had already booked in. At this precise moment he was prepared to consider anything.

  ‘When you say anyone else wandering in . . .’

  ‘We get drunks coming in. Friday and Saturday nights are the worst. Wanting to use the toilets in the lobby or wanting a drink at the bar. Some even think we’re here to order them a taxi home.’

  Brady thought about it. He knew that this would not have been the case here. The crime had been meticulously planned and orchestrated. The killer had brought rope, duct tape and his trademark – the Joker card. This wasn’t some drunk who had wandered in off the street and somehow got past reception and by chance knocked on room 212. That was easily ruled out. But the possibility that the victim had checked in first and that the killer had somehow walked in unseen and joined him in his room later seemed highly probable. Without security tapes it would be impossible to prove whether or not Brady’s hunch was right. His only hope was getting hold of the receptionist on duty.

  ‘Your boss really should get some security cameras put up. Make your job safer.’

  ‘Tell me what I don’t know,’ Joanne said, smiling.

  But it was lost on Brady. He was already heading for the double glass doors, his mind focused on the receptionist from the previous night. They needed to talk to her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sunday: 4:34 p.m.

  Brady had called in his old team. Wanted the reassurance of knowing that he had people he could trust. He didn’t know how this investigation would unfold. That worried him. He wasn’t sure whether they were dealing with the original Joker or a copycat murderer. Both scenarios meant that there would be more victims. There was also the possibility that they were dealing with a suspect who was trying to elude the police. Someone who had set the crime scene up to look as if this was either the original killer or a copycat murderer. But why? And how would they have found out the details of the original crimes?

  Brady dragged a hand through his hair as he looked at his team. DS Harvey and DC Kodovesky were still busy trying to track down the whereabouts of the hotel receptionist. The remaining four were seated around the conference table, waiting for him to speak. Three were CID and the fourth was Northumbria’s police forensic psychologist. They were only a small part of the murder investigation team, but they were at its core. Their roles were crucial when it came to delegating tasks and coordinating the other team members. Brady sorely needed to know that he had people he could rely on; who would follow his instructions without question. At least, that was the team he had left behind five months ago. Whether that had changed remained to be seen.

  The rest of the team were being called in from other Area Commands, CID and uniform alike. But Brady was old school. He liked to know who he was dealing with and if they had an agenda other than working on the murder investigation. He was no fool. A case like this could divide people, each looking for their stake in the end result to secure their own glory. He didn’t have time for that. Not when he was the SIO. And not on a violent and sickening case like this one.

  And then there were the other victims from the Seventies. Murders that had never been solved. No resolution, no closure for the families involved. News of this new murder would bring it all back for them. Questions would be asked, and again, the police would be held accountable. Or to be precise, as the SIO, it would be him in the firing line.

  Brady pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind. He had to. He had to focus on the victim: Alexander De Bernier. It was imperative that Brady knew every minuscule detail there was to know about him. His health, personal history, social habits and personality. This would help the team have a better understanding of what it was about Alexander De Bernier that had made him a victim. Why the offender had chosen him. Brady knew that there would be something about De Bernier that had fulfilled the fantasies and desires of his killer. Understanding that would give them an insight into the offender’s mind. The ultimate goal was to figure out the reasoning behind the perpetrator’s choice of victim in order to determine his next step. Because Brady was convinced that if the old cold case was connected to this recent murder, there would be more. They would have a serial killer on their hands – again.

  Brady cleared his throat. He felt uncomfortable. All eyes on him; watching him, waiting for him to say something. Anything. But there was one person in particular who was making him feel nervous, not quite up to the job. Dr Amelia Jenkins. It was the first time he had seen her in five months. They had had a run-in shortly before the Dabkunas brothers had taken him hostage.

  At the time when he had seen Amelia at the station, he’d believed Claudia to be dead. Amelia had been furious with him. And she’d had every right to be. But she had still managed to swallow back whatever bitterness and anger she felt. After all, she may not have shared the sentiment, but she was aware that not only Brady but the rest of Whitley Bay police station were reeling from the news that Claudia was missing, presumed dead.

  Brady and the team had succeeded in ending what had become a ‘runner’. They had a serial rapist on the streets of Whitley Bay and for a time, it seemed as if they would never catch him. But they did – eventually. And when they did, the team, including Amelia, had celebrated by having a few drinks in The Fat Ox pub. There had always been a frisson between them. So that night, after a few drinks, it had seemed perfectly natural for him to accept Amelia’s invite back to hers for a late supper and a bottle of wine. But before he could even make it over to her place Claudia had rung him; sounding desperate, anxious and scared. He had had no choice but to leave. When Amelia had come out of the pub toilets, he was gone. The following day was the last time he had seen her. He hadn’t really spoken. Too much in shock. And now five months later, here she was, waiting for him to speak. Waiting to see how well he could hold it together.

  Brady forced himself to look at her. To acknowledge her. He flinched when he did. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes took him by surprise. They were cool. Reserved. He watched as she deliberately tucked her sleek, black, razor-sharp bobbed hair behind her ear, never once dropping her gaze. But her face was flushed. Whether the room was too hot, or she felt awkward, he couldn’t say. Her red lipstick was deep and bold. Her clothes, sophisticated with a Fifties retro spin. Everything about her was still the same. But she was different.

  Or was it that she was different with him?

  She was still only in her early thirties, with a career that was going somewhere. She had originally worked for the force as a forensic psychologist. But something had happened. Brady didn’t know what, but it had been enough for her to quit her role and turn to practising clinical psychology. It was Gates who had managed to persuade her to come back. Supposedly as a favour to him. A one-off. That had been nearly eighteen months ago.

  Brady took a moment. The way she had looked at him had unnerved him, thrown him off balance.

  ‘I know Conrad’s already briefed you regarding the disturbing similarity between Alexander De Bernier’s murder and the Joker killings carried out during the summer of 1977,’ Brady said, as his eyes turned to his deputy.

  Conrad was still ashen. His mouth, a rigid thin line. His lacklustre eyes were barely focused on Brady. He was clearly ill. But he was refusing to accept it.

  Amelia looked at Conrad. Concern filled her eyes when she realised how pale he looked.

  For a brief second, Brady felt jealous. Jealous of the fact that she cared so much about Conrad. But Brady had hurt her. Badly. What more did he expect? That they could still be friends? But that was the problem. They had never really been friends. They had danced around their attraction to one another. Ignored it, fought it. Until that night when Amelia had decided to take a risk and Brady had thrown it back in her face.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve brought them up to date,’ Conrad answered. He stretched over, picked up a glass and poured himself some lukewarm water from the jug in the centre of the table.

  Brady shot him a questioning look. Enough to let Conrad know he was worried about him.


  He nodded back at Brady. An acknowledgement that he was fine. Or would be.

  ‘Got something stuck at the back of your throat there, Conrad?’ Kenny asked as he tried his damnedest not to smirk. But his deep-set mischievous brown eyes gave him away.

  Ignoring him, Conrad took a drink.

  DC Daniels, his partner, jumped in. ‘Maybe he’s choked-up thinking about the victim? Gagging at the thought of him!’ Daniels said, flashing a knowing grin at Kenny.

  Kenny couldn’t help himself. The smirk he had been holding in suddenly erupted into laughter.

  Conrad’s face remained set. Jaw locked, eyes narrowed and his mouth unsmiling as he stared over at the large whiteboard. Photographs of the crime scene and victim had already been staged. Ready and waiting for them to connect the dots.

  Brady looked at Conrad. Typically, he didn’t rise to the bait. He sighed inwardly. These two idiots were a liability.

  ‘You two keep this up and I’ll personally remove your balls and stuff them in your own gobs if you don’t shut up,’ Brady threatened. He noted the look of silent anger in Amelia’s eyes; she looked more than ready to carry out his threat.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He felt like cuffing them around the ears. But he was worried about what he had just heard. He had been away for five months. A lot could happen in that time. Brady looked back at Conrad. He looked unfazed by the comments.

  Or did he?

  Brady wasn’t sure whether Conrad’s nonchalant air was genuine. There was a crack in his façade. Whether anyone else could see it was another matter. Brady was sure there was more to Daniels’ and Kenny’s comments than sick banter. The look in Conrad’s eyes told him they had got to him. It was personal.