Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4

by Danielle Ramsay

  Harvey shrugged. He still looked aggrieved that Brady had briefly lost it with him.

  ‘Did you ask if she noticed anyone coming into the hotel after ten that night?’ Brady asked. They knew from the post-mortem that the victim was killed approximately around eleven.

  Harvey took a moment to answer. Whether he was choosing his words carefully or actually trying to recall the conversation, Brady couldn’t say.

  ‘I did, and she said that it was a typically chaotic Saturday night and fairly rowdy because of the stag party that had booked in. She said the bar was really busy and noisy and anyone could have come in through reception and taken the lift or stairs without her noticing.’

  ‘What about later that evening?’

  Harvey shrugged. ‘Same answer.’

  ‘Do you think she was hiding something?’ Brady asked.

  ‘No. Her taking off like that was just coincidence, Jack. Nothing more, nothing less,’ Harvey answered. ‘I’m not a fool. Regardless of what you might think, I can still tell when someone’s lying to me.’

  Brady kept quiet, even though Harvey’s internet Thai girlfriend came to mind. But that was his choice and he had the right to make a mess of his personal life. His professional one was a separate matter entirely.

  In any case, right now, Chantelle Robertson was not his biggest concern. It was the victim’s girlfriend, Molly Johansson.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Monday: 1:41 p.m.

  Brady was gathering as much information as he could about the victim. He wanted as much as possible before he interviewed Molly Johansson. So far, it was making interesting reading. Troublingly so. Conrad had updated him on the victim’s bank statements. Alexander De Bernier had over two hundred thousand pounds in a high-interest savings account. Brady knew he hadn’t won the lottery, so they needed to know where he had sourced that kind of money. It had been paid into the account over a period of ten months. Cash. In varying amounts. Small payments in the hundreds and a maximum payment of ten grand.

  ‘What do you think, sir?’ Conrad asked as Brady studied the bank statements.

  They had reconvened in his office to go over what they had to date.

  Brady looked up at Conrad. His expression said it all. ‘What’s the going rate for a bartender in that gentleman’s club of yours, Conrad?’

  ‘It wouldn’t explain even a small percentage of the capital he has there,’ Conrad answered.

  Brady looked at him. Conrad looked perplexed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ Conrad replied, ‘there’s something about this that doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t bloody know!’

  ‘Do you think he earned it?’ Conrad asked.

  ‘Doing what, for fuck’s sake? There’s over two hundred grand in this account,’ Brady replied, exasperated. ‘What students do you know earn that kind of cash? Unless he’s a card reader at poker tables I can’t figure out how he’s got this kind of money. And I wouldn’t fancy my chances at the casino in town. If one of the other players, let alone the staff, realised what he was up to, he’d have been found dead in a back alley long before now.’

  One thought had hit Brady. Hard. He needed more evidence before he seriously considered it. But it was the only logical explanation he could think of.

  ‘Seems there’s a lot we still don’t know about De Bernier,’ Brady said as he looked at the figures on the printout.

  ‘Do you think he could have been murdered because of the money?’

  The question did not surprise Brady. He expected no less from Conrad. It was one of the first thoughts that had crossed his mind.

  ‘What if he was blackmailing someone?’ Conrad asked.

  Brady nodded. ‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ he said as he picked up his coffee. He took a slug. It was cold and bitter. He grimaced as he swallowed it down. ‘The problem we have is why he was murdered in an identical way to the Seventies victims. That’s what I’m not getting.’

  Conrad didn’t answer him.

  ‘Come on, let’s get this over with,’ Brady said. ‘Maybe his girlfriend will be able to shed some light on his financial affairs.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Monday: 2:17 p.m.

  Molly Johansson looked as bad as Brady felt. It was clear that she had one hell of a hangover. She looked like shit – she was sweating so much that the stuffy, claustrophobic interview room was becoming unbearable. The room was filled with a nauseating mixture of stale sweat and alcohol. Throw into the mix the rancid vomit splattered on her clothes, and it was understandable why Brady was struggling to concentrate. Not the best working conditions. The room was small and hot. There was no fancy air conditioning in the station. Nor were there any windows in the interview room.

  Her bloodshot, puffy eyes darted nervously around the room. Anywhere but at Brady, or Conrad sitting stiffly beside him.

  ‘I . . . I . . . honestly can’t remember . . .’ she mumbled, eyes looking apprehensively at the camera in the corner of the ceiling.

  Brady sat back and folded his arms. It was heading into mid-afternoon. But he had all day if need be. And at this rate, it would take all day. He knew that she would break before he did. And he also knew that he wouldn’t let her go until she talked. The threat she had texted to the victim was a good enough reason not to release her until she had explained herself. Brady was pretty sure she hadn’t killed her boyfriend. That she simply didn’t have it in her. But he wanted her version. That, and he needed to know who she suspected her boyfriend of seeing. Until then, Molly was going nowhere.

  Brady’s eyes dropped down to the printed list of the texts Johansson had sent De Bernier. The phone company had confirmed that the texts had been sent from her phone. He looked back up at her. Her blond hair was pulled back into a tight knot emphasising her clammy, pale face. She was dressed in a baggy white T-shirt and grey leggings. Her bony white arms were covered in blotches and angry wheals where she had been scratching and squeezing her skin. Brady had put it down to nerves. Understandable. She had threatened to cut off her boyfriend’s dick the same night someone actually did. Bad luck didn’t even cover it. But Brady didn’t understand her reluctance to talk.

  Brady looked over at the duty solicitor. He simply shrugged at him. His way of telling Brady there was nothing he could do. His client simply did not want to talk. That was her privilege. Perhaps not a good idea, given the evidence that had been presented to her. But it was still her choice to sweat it out.

  Tim Cowan was in his mid-to-late thirties and had worked at the station for the past five years. Brady liked him. Got on with him most of the time. Sometimes the job got in the way. Aside from that, he was a guy that Brady would happily have a pint with. The reason Brady liked him was because he was a realist and the job, as so often was the case, had made him cynical. Spend long enough dealing with the dregs of society, and your view of the world shifts – radically. Tim Cowan was no idealist. He did the job purely for the money. Most of the time he was called in, it was to represent some drug- and alcohol-addled scum who’d decided to rearrange someone’s face simply because they didn’t like the look of it.

  ‘Molly?’ Brady began.

  Startled, she looked up at him with the frenzied eyes of a wild animal backed into a corner.

  ‘You can make this easier on yourself if you just tell me what you know.’

  Molly looked at him as if trying to comprehend what he was saying.

  Conrad coughed. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. He then coughed again. Before he knew it, he was in the midst of a coughing fit.

  It was no surprise. The air was dusty and dry. And rank. Brady could feel it catching in the back of his own throat when he breathed.

  Conrad’s coughing escalated. His face turned puce as he tried and failed to get it under control.

  ‘Go get some water,’ Brady ordered. His head was still pounding and Conrad’s persistent barking wasn’t helping.

  Conrad did a
s he was told, scraped his chair back and left the room.

  Tim Cowan raised his eyebrows at Brady. The look in his hazel eyes suggested he would like to follow suit.

  Brady breathed out. Tried to relax. To not let the cloying air get to him. Nor the reluctance of the suspect to talk. He watched as Tim Cowan started to shuffle the papers in front of him, a clear sign that he was going to ask for the interview to be postponed until he had had another chance to have a talk with his client. Not that Cowan had fared any better than Brady. Apparently she had refused the right to a solicitor. When told that she had to have legal representation, she had refused to even tell him her name.

  Whether she was still drunk, Brady wasn’t sure. However, from the state of her, he wouldn’t be surprised. Or she could still be in shock. After all, it wasn’t every day that you got dragged out of bed by two burly officers and brought in for questioning. Not the morning after you were informed of your boyfriend’s horrific death.

  ‘Look, Molly . . . let’s start again, shall we? Believe me when I say I want to let you go,’ Brady said.

  She looked at him. Her eyes filled with uncertainty. Unsure of whether he was trying to trick her.

  Brady continued, his voice low, trusting, ‘But first you need to help me understand. You see, there’s things about your boyfriend that we still don’t quite get.’

  When Brady had requested the victim’s bank and credit card statements he had hoped that he had changed his personal details. But he hadn’t, which meant they still did not know his new address. Frustratingly, neither did his girlfriend. Brady needed to know exactly what kind of life De Bernier led. Clearly, it was one that had placed him in the hands of a sadistic murderer.

  Brady looked at Molly in front of him. Painfully thin and terribly nauseous. The dark circles under her darting eyes added to her air of overall malaise. Her limp T-shirt had started to cling to her. The damp patches under her armpits had deepened. She was terrified. Of what? Brady had no idea. He thought back to last night. The change in Johansson was remarkable.

  ‘All right,’ Brady continued, ‘you said you had an argument with the victim on Saturday morning? Is that correct?’

  She nodded. Barely.

  ‘And that’s why he never returned any of your calls and texts? Because of the argument?’

  Again she nodded.

  ‘What was the argument about?’

  She looked at him wearily and shrugged. ‘I . . . don’t remember . . .’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Brady fired back.

  She looked stung.

  ‘I don’t believe you, because of all these texts you sent him,’ Brady stated, shoving the printed sheet towards her.

  Molly refused to look at them. Brady knew why – because she remembered texting every single word.

  ‘If you can’t remember, take a look,’ Brady insisted.

  Still she refused.

  ‘What’s wrong? Don’t want to be reminded of what you sent?’ Brady asked. He suddenly leaned in close. ‘Doesn’t look good, does it? All those threats? Not now they’ve been carried out!’

  Molly looked as if Brady had just slapped her. Wide-eyed, she stared at him, trying to gauge whether he was serious.

  Brady ignored the polite rap on the door. He was too busy trying not to lose his temper with the petulant young madam sat in front of him who had the misfortune to believe that she was somehow immune from being charged.

  ‘I’m not messing around here, Molly. I’ve dealt with worse than you. If you want to wait this out, then go for it. But I’ll charge you with the murder of your boyfriend,’ Brady threatened her, just as a surprised-looking Conrad walked back into the interview room.

  He sat back down quietly.

  ‘You’ve got nothing on me,’ she answered. Her voice was suddenly defiant.

  ‘What about the last text you sent the victim? Sent at ten forty-five p.m., shortly before he was murdered. Remember what you said?’ Brady asked. But he didn’t give her a chance to answer. ‘I do. You said, quote: “Fucking bastard. I know where you are and who you’re with. I’m in the bar downstairs waiting to cut your cheating dick off!” ’

  She shook her head. ‘So? I was angry. That’s not a crime. We’d had an argument. That’s all.’

  ‘You see, that’s where you’re wrong. That argument gave you a motive to kill him,’ Brady pointed out calmly. He waited a moment to allow her to absorb the magnitude of her situation.

  She shrugged. ‘I thought he was seeing someone else. That’s why I sent that text. Nothing was meant by it. Not really—’

  Brady didn’t give her a chance to continue. He’d had enough bullshit. ‘Then tell me why you were at the Royal Hotel on the night in question?’

  She shook her head. ‘I . . . I wasn’t . . .’

  First lie. Brady knew that it was hard enough when you were telling the truth to be consistent; to be able to relay the events in the same way each time. But when a suspect starts lying it is almost impossible to get all of the details to match the previous version. Molly Johansson had just started to talk and she was already inventing. As soon as she opened her mouth, out came the first lie. All he’d have to do was sit back and wait to hear something change when he asked her to retell the story again and again. There’d be a subtle change; something different would come into play. It was all about waiting. About giving the suspect enough rope to let them hang themselves.

  But Brady didn’t have time to play mind games. He knew she was lying. Had the evidence to substantiate it.

  ‘I’ve got a reliable witness that places you there. Drunk, hysterical – you walked into reception demanding to know which room your cheating boyfriend was in. Sound familiar? They wouldn’t tell you, so you took off to the toilets to sort yourself out. You then went into the hotel bar and waited. Waited for what exactly?’

  The look in her eyes told Brady he had her. Molly crossed her arms in front of herself, her nails anxiously digging into the flesh.

  ‘What happened? Did you confront him? Did you carry out your threat? Did you cut his penis off as a punishment for screwing around on you?’

  ‘No . . . Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘I’m not the stupid one here, Molly. I’m not the one whose boyfriend was found—’

  ‘Sir!’ interjected Conrad.

  It worked. It had stopped Brady from adding ‘with his penis stuffed down his throat’.

  He breathed out slowly. He needed to get a grip. He had come dangerously close to losing his temper and, perhaps, losing the case. Details of the mutilation had not been released. And Brady had made a point of not informing the victim’s parents. Some things were better left unsaid. There was also the possibility that it would be leaked to the press. The last thing the police wanted was a public frenzy – not again.

  Molly Johansson looked at Brady with red-rimmed watery eyes. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand as she waited for him to finish whatever he was going to say.

  Instead, he pushed the box of tissues he had brought in her direction.

  She took one. Blew her nose. Another to wipe her tear-filled eyes.

  ‘Ready?’ Brady asked. ‘Because if you don’t talk I’ll have no choice but to charge you with your boyfriend’s murder.’

  Not that he had any intention of doing any such thing. But it had the desired effect.

  Molly nodded, defeated.

  Brady imagined that last night after he and Conrad had left she had gone on a self-pitying bender. Two blows had hit her hard. The first was that her boyfriend, soon-to-be fiancé, was screwing someone else. The second, that his infidelity had got him killed.

  ‘Right, I want you to explain to me what happened on Saturday. How did you know Alex was going to be at the hotel in question?’

  She looked at Brady. There was no resistance or defiance in her eyes. Instead, she had the look of someone whose fate was sealed.

  ‘Am I in trouble?’ she asked, biting her bottom lip. Tears started to well up a
gain. Spilling silently down her face.

  Brady ignored the tears. ‘Depends on what you tell me.’

  Molly took a breath. And then she began, her voice unsteady, eyes focused on nothing in particular. ‘I knew he was seeing someone . . .’ She paused, chewing her lip, then looked at Brady. ‘You can tell. We’d argue about it and he’d claim I was paranoid. Messed up in the head and the like . . .’ she shook her head as more tears welled up. ‘But I loved him. You know? I just hoped it would pass. That he’d just get it out of his system. I mean, she’s like twice my age.’ She stopped and reached for another tissue to wipe her nose.

  Brady decided to just let her talk. To get it all out. She was going nowhere. Neither was he.

  ‘I knew he was meeting her that night. He started the argument. Thought I was stupid. That I didn’t realise that he was trying to pick a fight to give him an out. We were meant to be going to a party that night. It was that morning when he checked his phone that his attitude changed. I knew he had a text. Even though he acted like he hadn’t. I asked him who he was texting when he thought I wasn’t looking and he gave me his usual answer of “no one”. I knew he was lying, so when he went to get a shower I had a look. I knew something was up. He was too cagey and off-hand with me. He always locked his phone but I had watched him enough times to figure out the password. But when I accessed it, he’d obviously deleted the text he’d had and the one he sent. There were a couple of numbers on his phone that had no contact details. I assumed they were other girls he had been seeing. Or ex-girlfriends,’ she said resignedly.

  Brady was still waiting for this information from the mobile phone company. He was expecting something on his desk by the end of the day. The team were also busy tracking down friends and students on De Bernier’s Masters course in case they knew something that might help. But so far, it seemed that despite the victim being popular and well-liked, nobody actually knew much about his personal life. They knew he had a girlfriend and shared a student house in Heaton. After that, they had no idea about him; not the money, his old job as a bartender at the gentleman’s club, or where he had moved to two weeks prior to his murder.