Amelia stepped in. ‘To chop his penis off because she suspected he was cheating on her?’
Kodovesky nodded, her cheeks unusually flushed. ‘Yes. There’s the infamous case of Lorena Bobbitt who cut off her husband’s penis because he was abusive and unfaithful. But this is a practice that has been going on for centuries.’
Brady was impressed with what he was hearing. She had actually put some thought into the case.
‘You’re absolutely right,’ Amelia replied. ‘Lorena Bobbitt was not the first woman and nor will she be the last to cut off an adulterous partner’s straying anatomy. It may surprise you,’ Amelia said as she turned to the rest of the room, ‘that there has been a culture of cutting off penises throughout the centuries. Whether as a punishment for a criminal act or as personal vengeance. It was a practice prevalent in South East Asia. Particularly during the Seventies, when there were over one hundred cases reported of Thai women cutting off their husbands’ penises.’ Amelia paused for a moment.
Brady could see Harvey wincing at what he was hearing. Even Daniels looked grim for once. Then again, monogamy was not a practice Daniels subscribed to.
‘In case any of you were wondering, the reason for this sudden spate of penis mutilations was the same reason that Lorena Bobbitt gave as her defence. They were objecting to their husbands’ practice of keeping a second wife,’ Amelia explained. She looked around at some of the wry smiles from some of the males in the room. ‘This was acceptable in traditional Thai culture but these extra-marital relations were not supported by the law, which enforced monogamy. Some women were not even sentenced. Even Lorena Bobbitt was acquitted. And I’m sure the men in here will want to know that the police found John Bobbitt’s penis and that surgeons managed to successfully reattach it to the extent he went on to become a porn star.’
There was a ripple of laughter around the room. Brady noticed that there were two people who remained taciturn: Conrad and Kodovesky.
Brady waited until the noise gradually died down. It was time to wind it up. But he had one last question.
‘If we are seriously considering that it’s the same suspect, where has he been for thirty-seven years?’ Brady asked, looking directly at Amelia.
She looked at him, not surprised by the question. ‘Prison, or a psychiatric hospital. The first seven murders were committed over a relatively short period during the summer of 1977. Then they stopped as abruptly as they started,’ Amelia answered. ‘So, that means that something stopped him.’
Brady nodded. He looked at the rest of the room. ‘Which means that we need to be considering all recently paroled serious offenders. There are four bail hostels in the North East and we have one right in Whitley Bay – Ashley House.’ Brady turned to Harvey and Kodovesky. ‘I want details on every person in those bail hostels.’
‘Sir,’ Kodovesky answered. There was a keenness in her eye. She had something to work with, which was more than they had when she had first walked in.
‘Same applies to psychiatric hospitals. Not just restricted to this area. I want a list of patients recently released across the UK. If our suspect was in his early twenties when he committed these crimes,’ Brady said as he gestured at the whiteboard, ‘that would make him now in his mid-to-late fifties, which narrows the search down considerably.’
‘There is another possibility, of course. What if this is a copycat?’ Amelia said.
Brady nodded. ‘That makes our search even more time-consuming and difficult,’ he said. But he had already thought about this. He could see from the blank faces in front of him that the rest of the team hadn’t quite caught on to the problem. ‘If this suspect,’ Brady gestured towards the Seventies crime scenes, ‘was detained, which would account for the sudden end to his killing spree, what if he talked to someone? Shared a prison cell or a ward with a like-minded inmate? Someone younger than him perhaps? Someone he shared every intimate detail with. Including even the vintage Waddington Joker cards. What if someone else is now copying the original killer? If that’s the case, we’re in trouble. Without the identity of the original Joker, it makes it virtually impossible to find out who could be copying him. And right now we’re running out of time. The Joker killed his second victim seven days after the first. Today’s Monday. De Bernier was murdered on Saturday. You do the maths.’
Brady left it at that. The heavy silence in the room was claustrophobic as everyone weighed up the enormity of the situation.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Monday: 10:08 a.m.
He didn’t waste any time, just headed straight for the aisle. This was the first step. Perhaps the most crucial. He had planned everything meticulously.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ an elderly assistant asked him, suddenly appearing by his side.
James David Macintosh turned slowly to the assistant in the orange B&Q apron. He shook his head. ‘No . . . I know exactly what I’m looking for, thank you.’
Dismissed, the assistant walked off to help another shopper at the end of the aisle.
Macintosh studied the array in front of him. He could feel the excitement stirring in his stomach, slowly awakening . . . A delicious sensation, that made him feel alive.
He smiled as he indulged himself. His mouth watered with anticipation as he chose the one that reminded him of the axe that he had swung repeatedly into his psychiatrist’s skull.
He could feel himself buzzing. The adrenalin building as he relived the skull exploding open. The shock on his face. The realisation as the axe came down. Heavily. Slowly. Beautifully.
He could smell it. Taste it even. The blood. His blood.
He touched the blade, gently, reverently, as he imagined swinging the axe. Bludgeoning his face. His skull . . .
He swallowed. It would be better this time. So much better than before.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Monday: 10:40 a.m.
Brady’s head was still pounding. He had already taken painkillers but they had had no effect. Whether it was dealing with Claudia throughout the early hours of the morning or the stifling atmosphere in the Incident Room, he couldn’t say. But his head felt like it was going to explode from the tension. To make matters worse, he was now sitting in an interview room with Alexander De Bernier’s parents.
To be fair, Conrad was with him. Neither of them wanted to be here. But they had no choice.
The victim’s parents had chosen to ignore the request to wait at the hotel they had been booked into in Newcastle. Brady had told the liaison officers assigned to them that he would visit later this afternoon. However, they’d wanted to come straight to the station instead of checking into the hotel.
He couldn’t blame them. Alexander was their only son. Their only child. And he was gone. Someone had murdered him in a profoundly cruel way. Brady’s main concern was minimising the gruesome details of their son’s death. There was no need to distress them more than necessary.
‘So . . . how? How did he die?’ Francis De Bernier asked. His voice boomed around the room, deep and assertive as he directed this question straight at Brady.
Brady looked at him. It was clear that he wouldn’t take any bullshit. He was a large man – over six foot four – with curly silver hair and a heavily lined face. He was in his early seventies, his wife in her early sixties. Both looked exhausted. The strain of the devastating news had evidently taken its toll. But Francis De Bernier was clearly doing his best to hold it together. To act like he was in charge. Clinging to an old-fashioned sense of manhood. And he was succeeding – just.
Brady swallowed. His throat felt raw and itchy. The dry air in the room wasn’t helping. Nor was the fact that Molly Johansson was in the adjacent interview room waiting for him to question her. It felt wrong to be here offering lame words of comfort to the victim’s parents when he could be solving their son’s death.
‘Well?’ Francis De Bernier asked.
Brady could see his large hands trembling on the table in front of him. He could obviously t
ell that his son’s death had been particularly nasty. Why else would the SIO in charge of the case be stalling?
‘He was suffocated,’ Brady said reluctantly.
‘Oh . . .’ was the only response that came from Jacqueline De Bernier. Her brown watery eyes turned away from Brady to her husband as a thin bony hand fluttered up to her neck.
‘I am so sorry,’ Brady offered. But the words hung pointlessly in the brittle air.
Francis De Bernier’s eyes bore into him. It was clear that he didn’t believe his son had just been suffocated; his sharp eyes told Brady he knew there was more to it than that. But out of respect for his wife he didn’t challenge Brady.
‘What else? What else can you tell us?’ Francis De Bernier continued.
Silent tears were now falling down Jacqueline De Bernier’s pale face. Whatever she felt or wanted to say, she kept it to herself. Her short, white hair was immaculately styled. Her clothes tasteful and chosen with care. She was wearing a black suit with flat black pumps. The only make-up she wore was bright red lipstick.
Like his wife, Francis De Bernier was also smartly dressed in a tan linen jacket with a pale blue shirt and tan linen trousers. Dark brown brogues finished the look. But his hair was ragged.
‘At this precise moment, I’m afraid there’s not a lot I can share. But I can assure you that we are doing everything in our power to find whoever did this to your son,’ Brady replied, carefully. Very carefully.
He never liked situations like this. No one did. It was difficult when faced with a murder victim’s grieving loved ones. They knew the victim intimately. Their likes, dislikes. What made them laugh or cry. All Brady and the team had was a body. A decaying body that someone had decided to butcher. Nothing else. They had to build a picture up of who the victim had been in life. But they would never know what he was really like. Nor could they ever feel the pain and anguish that would eat away at the victim’s loved ones. Burying its way deep into their bones, so that every joint ached when they were forced to move on with their lives. To continue existing without them.
Jacqueline De Bernier dropped her hand down from her neck and let it rest on top of her husband’s. Something unspoken passed between them. Her swollen, tear-filled eyes remained on Brady.
‘Why do you have his fiancée here?’ Francis De Bernier asked. His tone told Brady he wouldn’t accept anything less than the truth.
‘We want to question her in relation to your son’s murder,’ Brady answered honestly.
Francis De Bernier shook his head as he held Brady’s sympathetic gaze. ‘She didn’t do it. That girl loved Alexander. Adored the ground our boy walked on. As he did her. I suggest that you look further afield for the killer.’
Brady struggled to reply. He sorely wished that Conrad would step in and help him out. But he knew it wouldn’t happen. He was the SIO and as such, it came with the territory that he should be the one to reassure and offer words of comfort to the victim’s parents. Not that he felt like he was doing either.
‘It’s purely a preliminary line of inquiry. Molly Johansson will hopefully be able to help us get an idea of who would want to harm your son.’
Brady noticed Mrs De Bernier visibly wince when he said the word ‘harm’.
‘When you release Molly, please ensure that she is driven to our hotel. I’m sure the poor girl must be in a dreadful state.’
‘I will,’ Brady assured him. If he released Molly.
‘Why? Why would someone do that to Alexander? Why?’ Jacqueline De Bernier asked suddenly.
Her voice surprised Brady. It was strong and clear and didn’t seem to belong to the tearful, petite woman sat in front of him.
‘I honestly don’t know. But as soon as we do, you will be the first to be informed.’
‘He was just a young man. And a good one at that. He had his whole life ahead of him. He had big plans. Wanted to be a Member of Parliament. And our boy would have done it.’ Francis De Bernier paused for a moment as he collected himself. ‘We were very proud of him, DI Brady. Very proud. Don’t let us down. Or him.’
With that, he scraped his chair back and stood up before turning to help his wife to stand.
‘Thank you,’ Francis De Bernier said as he stretched his hand out to shake Brady’s.
It was a firm, hard grip. One that told Brady that he sincerely hoped Brady would deliver – for the sake of his wife. And for his own peace of mind.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Monday: 11:51 a.m.
Brady splashed cold water over his face. Repeatedly. He needed to clear his head. His next job was crucial: interviewing the victim’s girlfriend. Brady seriously doubted that the threatening text and her presence in the hotel the night De Bernier was murdered were just coincidence. Dripping wet, he lifted his head and looked at himself in the mirror. He was exhausted, but was all too aware that DCI Gates would be descending on the station with the press biting at his heels. Brady needed to be on the ball for when he finally showed.
The door to the Gents opened. Brady turned to see Harvey walk in, red-faced and flustered.
‘Christ, Jack! Don’t you answer your bloody phone?’
‘Not when I’m in the Gents I don’t,’ Brady answered.
‘Next time, make an exception for me, will you? I’ve been running all over the station looking for you,’ Harvey panted as he bent over slightly to catch his breath.
Brady pulled out a paper towel and dried his face. He scrunched it into a ball and threw it into the bin.
‘Are you not going to ask me what it’s about?’ Harvey asked, looking up. His face was even more flustered.
‘Chantelle Robertson?’
‘How the bloody hell did you know?’ Harvey asked, incredulous.
Brady shrugged. He wasn’t about to tell Harvey that he had had three missed calls from the receptionist he had talked to yesterday at the Royal Hotel. He had returned the call and she’d told him that Chantelle Robertson had rung in sick that morning. Joanne the receptionist had explained to Brady that she had taken great delight in telling her that she was lying. And that she was wanted for questioning by the police. Chantelle had then hung up.
‘She rang her parents this morning and they insisted that she ring me. Seems that it was nothing more than coincidence, her disappearing like that. Some bloke she’s having a fling with had asked her to his villa in Spain for the week. She didn’t want her parents to know about it because he’s married and they would go apeshit if they found out. And she didn’t want work to find out either. Seems she’s screwing the boss,’ Harvey said, winking. ‘Lucky bastard, eh?’
Brady ignored Harvey’s enthusiasm. He did not find the idea of Martin Madley sleeping with a twenty-two-year-old employee all that entertaining.
‘Upshot is, she pulled a sickie at work so no one would guess, and left her parents a note saying that she was going away with the girls. Poor lass was beside herself when she heard what had happened.’
Brady leaned back against the sinks and waited for Harvey to finish.
‘She remembered checking in a “John Smith”. Her description matches our victim.’
‘Why did she remember him?’ Brady was curious. ‘John Smith’ had checked in around the same time that the two coach-loads of men on a stag weekend had turned up.
‘Paid cash. And he gave her a tip. Fifty quid.’
‘Why?’ asked Brady, frowning.
‘Why what?’
‘Why did he tip her?’
‘How the fuck would I know, Jack! Maybe he wanted to shag her?’ Harvey suggested.
Brady breathed out slowly. He wondered how the hell Harvey kept his job, let alone had made it to detective sergeant.
‘Is she coming back?’ Brady asked, not holding out much hope since Harvey had been left in charge of Chantelle’s return to the UK.
‘Well . . . I did ask and she got so upset. Said she didn’t have the money to fly back. I did explain that we really needed to take a statement from her . . .
but . . . You know I can’t stand it when women cry, Jack. It makes me uncomfortable. So I said it could wait until she got back on Sunday. She told me everything she knew anyway.’
Brady cursed inwardly. ‘Did she say anything about Molly Johansson turning up?’ he asked, ignoring Harvey’s excuses.
‘Yeah . . . yeah she remembered her. Said that Molly came back once the bloke who was working the reception desk with her had left.’
Brady thought of what Carl, Madley’s look-out, had told him. He hadn’t been certain whether Molly had talked to Chantelle Robertson when she was on her own.
‘And?’
‘She showed Chantelle a photo of the victim on her phone. Chantelle said she didn’t say anything but it must’ve been clear that she recognised him. Molly begged Chantelle to ring the room, to tell him that someone was in reception asking for him. Gave her a sob story and the lass fell for it. Like I said, there’s nothing disingenuous about her.’
‘Shit!’ Brady muttered as he ran a hand through his damp hair.
‘What’s the problem? No one answered when she rang and the girlfriend thanked Chantelle and went back into the bar. She didn’t see her after that.’
‘I bet she bloody didn’t.’
‘I don’t understand. What’s the big deal?’
‘I don’t know who is stupider, you or that bloody receptionist! When she called him, the receptionist would have had to key his room number in. Molly Johansson would have known that. Christ, Tom! She would have seen the room number.’
Harvey looked at Brady and shrugged. ‘I’m not a bloody receptionist, am I?’
‘You’re a fucking detective. It’s not rocket science!’ Brady retorted. ‘Jesus Christ!’
He breathed out. Tried to calm himself down. Getting pissed off with Harvey wasn’t going to help matters. ‘You’re a bloody big lummox at times. Do you know that?’ Brady said, the edge gone from his voice. It was his way of apologising for exploding at him.
Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 Page 17