Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4

by Danielle Ramsay

  She fucking took prescribed painkillers! Washed down with two-thirds of a bottle of scotch. What more do you want?

  Brady blinked back the tears. It was only four tablets. That was all.

  ‘Baby? Can you hear me?’ Brady asked, as he cupped her lolling head in his hands.

  Claudia mumbled something. He could see a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

  ‘Jack?’ she mouthed. It was barely audible. But it was enough. Enough for him not to take her to hospital.

  ‘I’m here now,’ he answered. ‘I’m here with you.’

  Tears slipped down his face as he stroked her pale cheek. He didn’t know what he would do if he lost her. He couldn’t imagine his life without her.

  ‘Come on,’ he finally said. ‘Let’s go sort you out.’

  He scooped her weightless body up in his arms and carried her upstairs to the bathroom.

  He needed to put his fingers down her throat. Force her to vomit the tablets and scotch back up. Just to be sure. Then he would put her in the shower. Cold water would help bring her round. Then coffee. Lots of it. Gone were thoughts of sleep. Or of the ongoing investigation. All Brady had on his mind was Claudia.

  He lay with her in the darkness. Held her to him. Tight. Secure. She was breathing gently. Asleep now. It was after four-thirty in the morning. He had spent the last few hours forcing her to be sick. He had then held her shivering body against his as he sat with her on the floor of the shower cubicle as icy cold water hit them both. Finally she had come back to him – just. Embarrassed. Apologetic. Crying. Pleading that it was an accident. That she hadn’t intended to harm herself. She had had a headache. That was all. She had only taken four tablets.

  Brady hadn’t argued that there had only been four tablets in the bottle to take. The question that tortured him was what if there had been more.

  Exhausted, she had finally fallen asleep. But first, he had made Claudia promise she would never do this again. Even if it was, as she claimed, just an accident.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Monday: 7:30 a.m.

  Brady had showered and changed. He had also downed two cups of unadulterated black coffee. It was as strong as a kick in the bollocks from a mule. And it had the desired effect. He had also taken some painkillers to silence the deafening pounding in his head from lack of sleep and was now at his desk. The early hours felt surreal. Daylight made him question whether Claudia’s overdose attempt had actually happened. It dispelled the fear. The doubts. The recriminations. Brady had lain all night with her on his chest, his arms around her, scared to fall asleep in case she stopped breathing. He was in no doubt that he was responsible for what had happened to Claudia both five months ago and last night.

  He had left Claudia a note. It was honest. In it, he told her that she’d scared the hell out of him. That they had to talk. He needed to know if she needed help. Not just his help. Professional intervention. He couldn’t lose her. He had come close to it. Too close.

  Brady exhaled; slow, deliberate. He had to get his head together. It was his second day back on a major murder investigation. He had to put all thoughts of Claudia to the back of his mind – for now at least.

  A patrol car had been ordered to pick up Molly Johansson at precisely 6:00 a.m. There was a reason that police raids always happened early in the morning. It was the element of surprise. No one expected someone to be kicking their door down at that time of the morning. Nine times out of ten, the suspects would be lying in bed scratching their nads, completely unaware. No time to hide.

  Brady had a briefing scheduled in thirty minutes. The team had been here since 6:00 a.m., prepping themselves for the day ahead. He was eager to get the briefing over with and interview Johansson, who was currently being held in an interview room. She had kicked up a fuss – understandably – but Brady expected no less. He stared at the open files laid out on his desk, steeling himself for the day ahead. He had been renewing his knowledge of the Seventies serial murders. He wanted something to throw on DCI Gates’ desk when he returned. Something that would knock the smug smile off DI Adamson’s face. Other than his fist.

  There was an abrupt knock at the door.

  ‘Yeah?’ Brady called out as he looked up.

  Conrad opened the door and walked in. ‘Brought you something. Reckon that you wouldn’t have eaten last night. Not after spending the evening in the morgue.’ Embarrassed, he placed a greasy paper bag on Brady’s desk. ‘Bacon, two fried eggs in a stottie. Fresh from the canteen.’

  Brady looked at him, genuinely surprised. He had forgotten this about his deputy – his unique ability to look out for him. To take care of him when he failed to do so himself. And he was right, Brady hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. A lot had happened to get in the way of his appetite. ‘Thanks, Conrad.’

  Grateful, he picked up the greasy bag. ‘Two fried eggs?’ Brady asked, as he took the stottie out the bag.

  ‘Yes, sir. And with runny yolks.’

  Brady broke into a grin. ‘Shit, Conrad! Only you would think of that,’ he said, touched by the sentiment. It may have been a small gesture, but Brady couldn’t remember the last time someone had actually taken time to consider his likes and dislikes. ‘You’ll make someone a good wife one day. You know that?’ Brady joked. But as soon as he had spoken the words, he could see that he had hit a raw nerve. Brady thought back to the conversation in Conrad’s car yesterday evening. It was not what had been said, it was what had not been said.

  Brady shook it off. He hadn’t meant anything by the joke. He took a bite of the stottie, making sure the bag was placed directly below in case of any spillage.

  ‘What time did you get to bed?’ Brady asked between mouthfuls.

  ‘About one-ish. You?’ Conrad asked taking a seat.

  ‘About the same time,’ Brady answered. But it was a lie – and he was sure it showed. It wasn’t the best look for his second day back on the job. Let alone for the day DCI Gates would be marching into his office demanding to know what the fuck Brady was doing about the Joker-style murderer they had on their hands. Gates would want to know if the original killer had resurfaced or if they had a copycat murderer to contend with. Either way, it would mean that the body count would go up. But right now, Brady just wasn’t so sure that they had a serial killer on their hands.

  Admittedly, he’d brought the victim’s girlfriend in for questioning. Was she a suspect? Simple answer – yes. Could she have killed her boyfriend? Again, yes. Jealousy and betrayal were powerful driving forces. Combine them with alcohol, and it could be fatal. But did he really believe she could be responsible? Brady would answer that once he had interviewed her. But it was Molly Johansson that had made him think that this was more about the victim than the Seventies Joker murders. What troubled Brady was, why set the murder scene up to look as if Alexander De Bernier had been killed by the original Joker murderer, or even a copycat killer? Why go to all that effort to try and fool the police? It didn’t make sense to him.

  Unless it was a clever attempt at getting away with murder.

  Brady looked at Conrad. It was clear something was troubling him – but Brady knew if he asked him outright, Conrad would clam up.

  ‘You had a chance to have a look at these?’ Brady said, gesturing at the files on his desk.

  Conrad nodded. ‘Took them to bed with me last night.’

  ‘You need to get out more,’ Brady said, as a smile played at the corners of his lips.

  Conrad didn’t reply. But his reaction told Brady that something wasn’t right. He was being overly sensitive, which wasn’t like Conrad.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ Conrad said. The finality of his tone and his expression made it quite clear that he didn’t want to talk.

  It was clear to Brady that something was wrong.

  ‘So . . .’ Brady began, changing the subject. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. De Bernier is physically very different from the Sevent
ies victims. If it was the same murderer, why change his type? It doesn’t make sense.’

  Brady nodded his agreement through a mouthful of bacon and egg.

  ‘Sir?’ Conrad said, gesturing to his chin.

  ‘Yeah . . . thanks.’ Brady picked up the paper bag and used it to mop up the egg yolk.

  ‘You know the seven young men were roughly the same age as our victim?’

  Brady nodded. ‘Between the ages of nineteen and twenty-two.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad agreed. ‘But there is one other difference with the MO . . .’ Conrad faltered.

  ‘Go on,’ Brady instructed.

  ‘All the earlier victims were gay,’ Conrad stated.

  Brady considered Conrad’s comment as he wiped the remnants of the stottie onto the paper bag before screwing it up and throwing it into the wastepaper bin. It was one he had considered himself. But from the statements taken at the time and the reports about the victims’ lifestyles, nothing definitive stood out to say these young men were definitely gay. If anything, the original case notes detailed the victims as typical young men who had been drinking in town and had somehow been picked up by The Joker and driven to the remote locations, where they were then murdered and left until found by dog walkers and joggers.

  ‘How so? Admittedly, all seven victims had traces of sperm in their mouths and at the back of their throats. But that doesn’t make it consensual, or make these men gay. I know McKaley’s suspects were gay but as for the victims . . .’

  He could feel his headache starting to ratchet up a gear. It was too early in the morning to be having this conversation. And if he was brutally honest, he could not see where Conrad was going with it. ‘Explain to me what you saw that I didn’t that suggested the Seventies victims led a high-risk lifestyle? If they were gay and had been picked up by the Joker for casual sex, then surely McKaley would have released a statement warning the public that there was a murderer targeting young, gay men looking for sex?’

  Conrad did not answer.

  ‘Conrad?’ Brady was starting to get irate. Conrad’s reluctance to speak was not helping the dull, nauseating pain in his head. ‘Is this to do with the victim? You admitted that you recognised him from this gentleman’s club in Newcastle. Is there more to it than that?’ he asked, worried.

  Brady could feel the bacon and egg curdling in his stomach. If he was honest, he didn’t want to know the answer. He had tried his damnedest to downplay what Conrad had admitted yesterday – that he recognised the victim. But why hadn’t he informed Brady at the outset? The victim’s photo driver’s licence was recent. Surely Conrad would have recognised him from that? For some reason it was the business card for the members-only gentleman’s club that had sparked that cognitive leap. Not that Conrad had voluntarily admitted it. The flicker of recognition when he saw the card was what had given him away.

  Conrad frowned at his boss. His eyes flashed with mild irritation that Brady could even ask the question. ‘No. I just recognised him as a bartender there. I’ve never even talked to him.’

  Brady sat back. He weighed up what Conrad had just told him. He had one choice – accept it. Otherwise he would have to take Conrad off the investigation; and that in itself would ignite speculation, creating a fire of controversy that would run wild throughout the station. And from what Brady had witnessed, there was already enough speculation about Conrad on the job to last him a lifetime. The upshot was, Brady trusted him. Always had. But there was one question going through his mind: had Conrad only told him this detail because Brady would have eventually found out? It was a given that they would look into every aspect of De Bernier’s life – including his jobs. Would Conrad be on a members list for the club? Undoubtedly, yes. Conrad had had no choice but to divulge this personal information before the team got their hands on it. Brady would have to carefully consider how he would play this hand. His loyalty was to Conrad and if that meant excluding his name from the list of members that the team would be privy to, then Brady had no other option.

  Brady stared hard at his deputy. It was getting to 7:34 a.m. ‘Go on. Tell me what DI McKaley missed at the time. And make it fast. I’ve got a briefing to give and I also have one hell of a headache that you happen to be making a damned sight worse. Get to the point.’

  ‘It was where these victims were picked up, sir,’ Conrad explained.

  Brady was none the wiser. ‘I don’t understand. What did I miss? I know there’s the Pink Triangle in Newcastle but these victims were not found anywhere near there.’ He leaned forward. ‘Look, the first thing I questioned was the common denominator between these victims. They were all murdered in different locations. DI McKaley states in each murder report that he believed the victims had been picked up as they were making their way home from a night out in town. That he believed they had been offered a lift and then . . .’ Brady faltered, ‘well . . . you know the rest.’

  ‘May I?’ Conrad questioned as he gestured towards the rest of the files.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Brady said. He watched as Conrad placed each of the seven victims’ crime scene photos in front of him.

  ‘This victim, Derek Thompson, was found close by Byker Bridge. On one of the secluded paths leading off from it. Ideal location, because there’s lots of cover there. Overgrown bushes to hide behind,’ Conrad paused and looked at Brady to see if he was getting his drift. ‘But McKaley never made an issue of the locations. Apart from the obvious, that they were ideal places to take someone and murder them without being interrupted.’

  Brady waited, still unsure.

  ‘This victim here, William Humphries? Found in Leazes Park. Again, nothing was made of the area where the body was found.’

  Brady still wasn’t certain that he understood what Conrad was getting at.

  Conrad’s face flushed scarlet. ‘All these locations are well-known gay cruising areas, sir. They’re very popular now and I’m sure they would have been as popular in the Seventies.’

  Brady sat back. He was silent for a moment. ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘Yes. One hundred per cent,’ Conrad answered as his face coloured even more.

  Brady was about to ask how he knew but stopped himself. Conrad looked pained enough as it was without Brady making the situation worse for him. It was Conrad’s business. Brady had made it clear that if he wanted to discuss anything that he was there for him.

  ‘All right. So your theory is that the unknown suspect cruised these areas? He knew that gay men would be there and he effectively hunted them? Picks up a young man who fits his type and goes off somewhere more private and . . .’ Brady stopped. He didn’t need to repeat what he had done to his victims. They had both spent long enough looking at pictures of the mutilated bodies the killer had left at the crime scenes. ‘So why the hell wouldn’t McKaley and his team have known that at the time? Why didn’t he acknowledge that the victims were gay? That gay men were being targeted?’

  ‘Firstly, the murderer didn’t go off somewhere more private. They were picked up by the killer exactly where they were murdered. They would have been there looking for sex. They wouldn’t have been picked up as they made their way home after a night out in Newcastle as McKaley suggests.’

  Brady was surprised at Conrad’s assertion. It didn’t make sense to him. ‘So, why did McKaley choose to ignore such crucial evidence?’

  ‘Do you really want my honest opinion?’ Conrad asked.

  ‘Go on,’ Brady instructed.

  ‘From what I’ve heard, McKaley was an extreme homophobe. He wanted promotion and thought this case would bring him it. But he didn’t want his name or reputation tarnished by heading a serial murder investigation into the mutilation of gay men. He presented the victims to the press and public as young heterosexual men targeted by some perverted homosexual. Gives it a better spin for the media, rather than young gay men looking for casual sex who end up murdered as a consequence. The press and the public wouldn’t care about the victims. Not back then. It’s
only recently that there has been a change in the public and media’s attitude towards gay people. And there’s still a huge amount of intolerance out there.’

  Brady frowned. ‘Where the hell did you hear all that about McKaley?’

  ‘Let’s just say he had a really nasty reputation when it came to gay men. He beat one of the gay suspects to within an inch of his life. Nobody did anything to stop him. And there were at least four witnesses.’

  ‘Christ, Conrad! Are you sure you’ve got your facts straight on this? McKaley worked right here. People I worked with in the past worked with McKaley. You’re not suggesting that they covered up for him?’

  ‘It happened in one of the holding cells in the basement,’ Conrad answered factually, ignoring Brady’s question.

  The look in his eye told Brady that he was serious – deadly serious. ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘Martyn Jenkins, one of the men arrested back then. A call came in from his niece late last night. He was really distressed and wanted to talk to us. Before . . . before it was too late. He recognised Sidney Foster’s name on the ten o’clock news last night. Put two and two together when he saw the report on De Bernier’s murder.’

  Brady was incredulous. ‘I was told by his doctor that he couldn’t be interviewed because he was critically ill. That he had a very limited time left.’

  Conrad nodded. ‘That’s correct. I talked to his niece at around ten forty-five last night. She insisted it was urgent. That he wanted to talk to the police ASAP. She said he was worried that he didn’t have long and he needed someone to listen to him. By all accounts he was very distressed so I went straight there and stayed with him until he fell asleep at twelve-thirty. Then I went home and reread all of McKaley’s files on the Joker case.’

  Brady ran a hand back through his hair in disbelief. ‘Why didn’t you think to tell me?’