‘Roll me a cigarette, will you, Jamie?’
‘Come on, Mol, you don’t smoke,’ Jamie objected.
‘Haven’t you heard, hon? My cheating fucking boyfriend’s been found dead in some cheap hotel in Whitley Bay! Alexander De Bernier, destined for great things, murdered in some sordid hotel room. So yes, I don’t smoke. So fucking what?’ she slurred, her voice raised.
‘OK . . . OK . . . I’ll roll you one.’
Jamie looked at Brady and Conrad and gave them an apologetic shrug. ‘She’s not normally like this. She’s just in shock.’
‘You’re a good mate,’ Brady said, patting Jamie’s shoulder. He walked past him and out into the hallway, followed by Conrad.
‘What did you think?’ Brady asked him once they were in the car.
‘Well, she’s drunk. Not surprising really after the news she’s received.’
‘I don’t mean that. I’m interested in the fact that she was certain he was cheating on her. If the victim’s injuries weren’t so similar to the Seventies murders, I’d be hauling her in for questioning.’
‘You really think she could be capable of killing her own boyfriend?’ Conrad asked, surprised.
‘Her? Yeah. In the right mood, anyone’s capable.’
‘Can’t blame her for being upset, sir. She’s just found out her boyfriend was more than likely meeting someone in a hotel to have sex.’
Brady shook his head. ‘This wasn’t a one-off. This wasn’t the first time De Bernier met someone for sex. This was a regular occurrence. He was having an affair, Conrad. She said as much. Question is, who with?’
Conrad turned the engine on, put his foot on the accelerator and smoothly pulled away.
‘What makes you so sure?’ Conrad asked as he looked at Brady, frowning when he saw Brady’s expression.
‘You all right, sir?’
‘Yeah,’ Brady muttered. But it was a lie. His leg was giving him jip again. He felt in his inner jacket pocket for painkillers. He had had the foresight to bring a bottle. The pain necessitated prescribed painkillers. He flipped the lid off the small bottle, popped two into his mouth then swallowed them back dry. He then leaned back against the headrest. Eyes closed, he waited for the burning white pain to ease. Not that it ever entirely left, but on a good day he could get it down to a dull background noise. Not today. It was the first time since they had pinned and bolted his leg together that he had been so active on it. And he had one hell of a headache. One that seemed to be worsening as the hours slipped by.
Conrad kept quiet.
‘She knows something, Conrad. She bloody knows something.’
‘Do you want me to turn round and go back?’
‘No. Leave her for now. We won’t get anywhere. But I guarantee she’s holding something back. What about the victim’s house?’ Brady asked.
‘Going there now, sir.’
Brady closed his eyes. ‘Good.’
Chapter Fourteen
Sunday: 6:49 p.m.
Brady used his fist to repeatedly bang on the door. He had been knocking for five minutes. Another minute and he would kick the door down. He knew there was someone inside. The thumping music and upstairs bedroom light was a giveaway.
‘Coming! For fuck’s sake, what’s your problem?’ yelled a male voice on the other side as he released the deadlock.
A twenty-something dishevelled-looking man poked his head out from behind the door.
‘Police!’ Brady flashed his warrant card. It was enough. The guy knew they were serious.
Without thinking, he tried to close the door.
Brady threw himself against it, ramming it open.
‘Fucking hell, man!’ the young man protested as he backed away with his hands out in front of him. ‘I haven’t done anything.’
‘Nobody said you had,’ Brady answered as he weighed up the short, scrawny male trembling in front of him, dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts. ‘I heard that student life was hard but I didn’t realise that it meant the choice between beer and clothes.’
‘I was in bed,’ he replied sourly.
‘Explains why it took you so long to answer the door to the police, then.’
The student scratched his head, making his hair even messier. ‘I was up all night. OK? It’s not against the law is it?’
Brady looked at Conrad and shrugged. ‘Depends what you were getting up to, doesn’t it?’
‘We haven’t got any weed here. All right! Talk about a fucking police state!’
Brady wasn’t here to do a drugs search. He didn’t have a warrant and had no evidence. Add to that, he didn’t have the time or inclination to even be bothered about the student’s recreational habits. Not when he had a murder victim on his hands.
‘Your housemate, Alexander De Bernier. We want to see his bedroom.’
The student scratched his head again, confused. ‘What?’
‘Alexander De Bernier?’ Brady repeated.
‘Yeah . . . Shit, course I know Alex. But he moved out of here two weeks back. Paid to the end of the lease even though he had four more months to go. Said we could rent his room out if we wanted.’
‘He’s moved out?’ Brady said as he shot Conrad a ‘what the fuck’ look.
‘Yeah. Like I said, two weeks back.’
‘Where?’
‘Christ! I don’t know. Alex and I weren’t close. What about his girlfriend? She’ll know.’
‘Seems she believed he was still living here.’
‘Shit, man! That sucks,’ the guy said. It seemed clear that he thought Alex had met someone else. ‘Why would he fuck around on that, eh?’
‘And he definitely didn’t leave a forwarding address for any mail that might come here?’
‘No.’ He shrugged. ‘Have you tried the uni? They’ll have a record of his new address. Or his parents?’
Brady looked at Conrad. The expression on his face told Brady that both had this address on file.
Fuck!
‘Can we see his bedroom?’
‘Sure. No one’s moved into it yet.’
He started leading them up the stairs when he suddenly stopped and turned back. ‘What’s Alex done anyway?’
Brady looked up at the scrawny young man. ‘He’s been murdered.’
‘Fuck me! You’re not serious?’
‘His bedroom?’ Brady asked, ignoring his question.
He looked around the room. Even empty, it was still a dump. It stank of damp. Not surprising, given the fact it was on the top floor of the old six-bedroom Victorian house. The walls were painted a subtle light blue. It was the only piece of information Brady had about the victim. For this was recent, showing that it had been Alex’s choice – or his attempt at improving the room, not that it did. The paint only added to the overall bleakness. The carpet was a Seventies statement of swirling diarrhoea browns and yellows.
‘Where are you, Alex? Where did you go?’ Brady muttered to himself.
Conrad cleared his throat. He was standing in the doorway. ‘He’s in the morgue, sir.’
‘Hah bloody hah! Since when did you become a stand-up comic?’
Conrad didn’t answer.
‘I want to know where he went when he packed up here. And why he never told his parents or his girlfriend. What was he hiding, Conrad? Eh? What the bloody hell was he hiding?’
Brady sighed. He pushed his hand through his hair as he thought about it. It didn’t make any sense. His eye suddenly caught something wedged between the carpet and the chipped skirting board under the window. He walked over and bent down. It was a business card for a discreet members club in Newcastle. Brady had heard of it, but for obvious reasons had never been. It was an exclusive members-only club for the moneyed in society. Brady turned it over. The back was blank.
Why would you have this card, Alexander?
‘What do the victim’s parents do for a living, Conrad?’
‘Both retired lecturers. Why?’
‘Wealthy?’
‘And from what we’ve learned so far about our victim, he was by no means affluent?’
‘No, sir.’
Brady only had to take a look at the student share that Alexander had been living in for the past eleven months to see that.
‘So tell me, why was he wearing Italian designer clothes? The Gucci watch? He had three hundred quid in his wallet, tucked in beside numerous gold credit cards. Tell me how a Masters’ student could afford all that?’
Conrad shrugged. ‘He’s racked up a lot of debt, sir? Students do that. It’s not unusual for them to get carried away with bank loans and credit cards.’
‘And what would a twenty-two-year-old student be doing with a business card for a members-only club in town?’
‘Can I?’ Conrad asked, curious. Brady handed it over.
Conrad’s eyes gave him away. His face may have been typically impassive, but his eyes showed a flicker of recognition. He quickly attempted to regain control but he was too late.
‘How do you know the club?’
Conrad seemed reluctant to explain.
‘For fuck’s sake, this is a murder investigation. If you know something about this club, bloody well spit it out!’
Embarrassed, Conrad avoided Brady’s eyes. ‘It is a gentleman’s club like you said, sir. Private members only. Been established for years. Some members’ families have been in the club since it first opened in 1890. Most members are old money. Some nouveau.’
‘And? How do you know it?’ But Brady already knew the answer. He understood why his deputy was stood there wishing the floor would open up and he would disappear into the bowels of student housing hell.
‘I’m a member,’ Conrad answered, his voice barely audible.
‘Right,’ Brady replied. It was all he could think of to say. He wanted to ask the obvious question. How the hell are you a member? But there was a lot about Conrad that he didn’t know. He was sure that the ribbing Conrad had received from Daniels and Kenny was partly to do with this class difference. They were Northern working-class lads and proud of it. They wore it as a badge of honour. Conrad was the opposite of them. His background was something he kept very private. As was his sexuality. But now it seemed that both Daniels and Kenny had taken a keen interest in Conrad’s personal life. And not in a good way.
‘And Alexander De Bernier?’
Conrad looked at Brady. ‘He’s not a member.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sure. He was a bartender there.’
‘What?’
Conrad dropped his eyes. His face was crimson. ‘I’ve been trying to place his face. I was sure it was familiar. And now . . . this card. I realised where I recognised him from.’
‘You kept that bloody quiet!’
Conrad awkwardly shuffled his feet, not sure how to respond. ‘I . . . I hadn’t seen him there for nearly a year. I assumed he had quit.’
Brady dragged his hair back from his face as he absorbed Conrad’s admission.
‘Sir . . .’ Conrad began.
‘Shut up! I’m trying to get my head round this.’
Brady focused momentarily on the Victorian sash window. Droplets of condensation trailed down the glass, pooling onto the mouldy wooden windowsill. Outside, the street lamps threw out a burnished orange haze. The street below was quiet. It was a Sunday night. Most of the students around here would be sobering up after a weekend of drinking and smoking whatever was on offer.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
He couldn’t stop thinking about what Conrad had just admitted.
He needed to still his mind. Stop the panic taking hold. He could feel his guts twisting and knotting. He had to get his head around this and figure out what the fuck he was going to do.
‘Who else knows that you’re a member of this club?’ Brady forced himself to ask. His voice was hoarse. The words were strained.
‘No one.’
‘Daniels and Kenny? DI Adamson?’
‘No.’
‘Then what the fuck was that all about back in the Incident Room? Daniels and Kenny were cockier than usual. Seemed to think they had something on you. Are you sure it’s not this?’ Brady said gesturing at the card.
‘I’m certain,’ Conrad replied, unable to look Brady in the eye.
‘Then what the fuck was it about?’ Brady demanded.
Conrad remained silent. He kept his eyes averted from Brady’s. His face was cold and impenetrable.
Brady didn’t need Conrad to admit it. It was his business what he got up to in his private life. Not that Conrad had ever intimated anything, let alone said anything to him. But he knew, all the same. Had caught snippets of private conversations when Conrad had thought he wasn’t within earshot. Had put two and two together. Not that he had a problem with it. But what hurt was the fact that Conrad now had an opportunity to just come out and say it. He should have known that Brady would support him. That he would back him up against any form of prejudice from other colleagues.
‘You do know that if something is going on at the station and you feel you can’t handle it, you can come to me?’
Brady waited until Conrad felt forced to say something.
‘Nothing is going on.’
Brady looked at him. Conrad’s eyes still avoided Brady’s, his cheeks now flushed a deep crimson.
‘Have it your way, Conrad. But I’m not an idiot. You know something?’ Brady asked, unable to hide his hurt. ‘I’m not the one who has a problem with it. Who you sleep with is your business. But it becomes my business when dickheads like Daniels and Kenny start in on you. It’s your choice as to whether you see that.’
Conrad looked at him. His jaw was clenched, his eyes narrowed and filled with indignation. It was rare to see Conrad angry. But he looked as if he wanted to knock seven bells of shit out of Brady.
‘I didn’t say you had a problem with “it”, sir,’ Conrad replied, his voice thick with derision. ‘Now if you wouldn’t mind, I’d rather drop the subject.’
Brady held Conrad’s hostile gaze. He was tempted to push him. Hard. To just get it out there. Acknowledge it and move on. But he knew from the look in Conrad’s eyes that he had already gone too far. It was obvious that Conrad wasn’t ready to disclose his personal life – especially not to him. Whether Conrad liked it or not, Brady had known for some time. But if Conrad wanted to keep things on a professional footing then that was fine with him. He decided to let him fight his own battles with the Daniels and Kennys of this world. That was his choice. Conrad had made that perfectly clear.
Brady walked out of the room, then turned and looked back. Conrad hadn’t moved. He was still standing in the room with his back to the door, rigid, with clenched hands by his side. ‘I trust you on this, Conrad. But—’ Brady paused, waiting for a reaction. Nothing. ‘If you’ve lied to me. If you actually know the victim in a personal capacity . . .’ He left it unsaid. Brady then turned and left the suffocating, damp, cold room. Conrad remained there: back straight, head held high, fists balled, trying his damnedest to keep it together.
Chapter Fifteen
Sunday: 7:38 p.m.
‘What do you mean she’s gone?’ Brady exploded.
‘Just what I said. Look, Jack, it’s not my fault.’
‘I didn’t say it bloody was, did I?’ he snapped. But he felt like telling DS Tom Harvey that it was his bloody fault. And then some.
Brady sighed as he massaged his temples. Why could nothing be bloody straightforward? It felt like he’d never left the job, or his team. His desk was as overrun with inconsequential crap as ever. An in-tray that was in a permanent state of disarray. Files and papers toppled over one another, spilling onto his large wooden desk. He couldn’t quite figure out how, on his first day back, he had such a backlog of paperwork waiting for him. He picked up his red Che Guevara mug and took a hit of much-needed caffeine. He would have preferred
a cigarette. He winced. The coffee was cold. He wanted that cigarette.
‘Jack? You still there?’ Harvey asked when Brady made no attempt to talk to him.
Brady resisted the urge to disconnect. It would have been petulant. He was better than that. But he was struggling to be civil. Conrad had not spoken to him on the drive back to the station. Brady realised that he might have pushed him too hard. And now he had Harvey on the phone telling him his investigation had come to a sudden and abrupt halt.
‘Where else would I be? I’m not the one on a fucking plane to fuck knows where!’ Brady growled.
His head was pounding. The painkillers he had knocked back had made no difference. The smell of the victim’s body cooking in that infernal heat had kicked it off. And the news that Harvey had just delivered was the punch that left him feeling as if someone had taken a baseball bat to his head.
Harvey held his tongue. Waited a moment before he took a chance. ‘Look, how were we to know that she would disappear?’
‘Oh, let me think. It’s your job to be suspicious?’
‘Jack—’
Brady cut him off. He didn’t have time for excuses. ‘Her parents are certain that she’s taken her passport?’
‘Yes.’
‘But she didn’t say where she was going?’
‘No. From their reckoning she must have got home from work this morning, packed a bag, took her passport and left. They were out. Didn’t return from an overnight stay at a hotel until late afternoon. At some wedding they said.’
‘That’s it? That’s all we have?’
‘Well, she left them a note saying she was going on holiday for a week with the girls and that she’d be back next Sunday.’
‘And what good’s a bloody note, eh? Shall I pass that onto DCI Gates? It’s OK, sir. Don’t worry we haven’t got the key bloody witness in our murder inquiry. Yes, the murder inquiry that’s going to send the press into a feeding frenzy. No. But what we do have is a note to her parents, kindly telling them she’s fucked off on bloody holiday! He’ll have my balls nailed to my desk as soon as he finds out.’
Brady breathed out, exhausted. Rant over.
Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 Page 10