Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4

by Danielle Ramsay

  ‘Because I don’t trust her to keep her mouth shut,’ Madley replied. ‘I had to take the precaution of removing what could be a threat to my business and other peoples’ lives.’

  Brady breathed out. He knew that Madley would not give him any more than he had. But at least it explained the sudden disappearance of Chantelle Robertson; nothing more than Madley covering himself.

  From what, though?

  Brady accepted he would probably never find out. It was better that way for both of them.

  ‘How’s Claudia doing?’ Madley asked suddenly.

  The abrupt change in conversation took Brady by surprise.

  ‘I take it, not good,’ Madley said, when Brady failed to answer.

  ‘No . . . she’s fine,’ Brady replied. But it was clear from his voice that she was anything but.

  ‘You were always a lousy liar, Jack. Even as a kid,’ Madley said, the hardness momentarily gone.

  Brady couldn’t help but notice the concern in Madley’s voice. It was a rare occurrence. One that told Brady he should be worried. Whether he liked it or not, he had to face reality. Claudia was far from fine.

  ‘Let’s catch up when I get back, yeah?’ Madley suggested.

  ‘Yeah, sounds good,’ Brady answered, half-heartedly. He knew it would not happen. Gone were the Monday night poker sessions. And the late-night drinking sessions in the Blue Lagoon. Things had changed. Their differing careers more apparent than ever. Madley would always be there if Brady was in trouble. That went without saying. And vice-versa. But other than that, Madley had made it quite clear that Brady was no longer welcome in his newfound milieu. He had worked hard at distancing himself from his rough, crime-ridden background. Madley’s associates were now powerful businessmen and politicians alike, and as such, it went without saying that Brady was not welcome.

  Brady listened to the dull tone, realising that Madley had disconnected the call. He looked around his office. The shadowy glow from the desk lamp gave the room a bleak, soulless, empty feeling. The rain continued to pelt mercilessly at the windowpane. It struck him that he had never felt so alone.

  He got up and stretched his stiff legs. His left one was aching. Again. He limped over to the window and looked out. The dark street was deserted. No surprise. It was cold, miserable and lashing it down. He decided that he would stay for another hour and then he would go home. Pick up an Indian take-out from Spice Junction and a couple of bottles of wine from the Tesco Express on Park View Road in Whitley Bay.

  First, he needed to rethink the Seventies case. He knew that it was crucial. After all, it was no coincidence that De Bernier had been murdered in an identical way to The Joker’s victims. Amelia had made an astute point when she had said that the reason The Joker had stopped killing was not out of choice. He had been prevented from killing. In other words, he had more than likely been locked up. And the answer could be staring him in the face. The files in front of Brady could hold a lead that had somehow been missed. Something so minor, so minuscule that it had fallen below the radar. He trusted his gut. And right now it was telling him to keep looking, to keep poking around until he hit something.

  Despite Brady’s best intentions, it was after 1:00 a.m. before he even realised it. He had found himself completely absorbed in the task at hand. He had gone through all of the case files of the recently released psychiatric patients. Some of it was beyond disturbing. But he hadn’t found anything that stood out. Nothing that he could say tied into the Seventies killings – or the recent murder.

  He was nearly halfway through the paroled serious ex-offenders when something – or someone – stood out. He was an ex-offender who had been paroled two weeks ago and rehomed in Ashley House, a bail hostel in Edwards Road, Whitley Bay. Adrenalised with too much caffeine and newfound optimism, Brady had wanted to call Amelia. Let her know. But he had resisted. The idea that she could still be with someone had stopped him short. He couldn’t call Conrad either. He had made it very clear that he was off-duty. If he was having a tough time personally, then the last thing he needed was his boss calling him into work at all hours. For all Brady knew, the job could be starting to have a negative impact on Conrad’s relationship. Brady decided to deal with it on his own. He trusted his instinct. There was something about this paroled offender’s history that troubled him. He looked up his probation officer: Jonathan Edwards. He would call him in the morning. Let him know he needed to talk to this particular ex-offender. A diagnosed psychopath who had been in and out of psychiatric hospitals and then a significant stint in prison, a parole board had decided to release him two weeks ago. HOLMES 2 hadn’t picked up on this particular offender because his criminal history did not match the Seventies killings. But there was something that had caught Brady’s eye. Something Conrad had said about the killer’s choice of victims. The choice of victims and the way they’d been killed were interlinked in a way Brady had not seen before. It had made him rethink the possibility that this parolee could actually be him – The Joker.

  TUESDAY

  Chapter Thirty

  Tuesday: 1:33 a.m.

  The house was in darkness when Brady crept in, which had come as a relief. It had meant that Claudia had gone to bed – something that should have struck him as odd. But at the time, he had not even questioned it. Punch-drunk with tiredness, he climbed the stairs. He passed the guest bedroom – now Claudia’s room. The door was closed. Without thinking any more of it, he headed straight for bed.

  Four hours later and he was dragged out of unconsciousness by his BlackBerry relentlessly buzzing. He had set the alarm for 5:30 a.m. It was now 5:40 a.m. He had fifteen minutes to get shaved, showered and dressed. And in between that, down two cups of coffee to shake off what felt like a hangover.

  Brady stood in the shower, letting ice-cold water hit his body. His mind kept replaying the previous day’s events. He was making sure he hadn’t missed anything. That he had played everything by the book. He had to face DCI Gates this morning and he wanted to go in knowing that he hadn’t fucked up in any way. What troubled him was the MP, Robert Smythe. He knew that Gates would be less than impressed when he heard the news that Brady wanted to interview his wife – then him. But he had no choice. Robert Smythe was the victim’s employer. And his wife had been accused of having an affair with Alex. Even of murdering him.

  Brady scrawled a note to Claudia, apologising for getting home so late and with the promise that he would make it up to her. He then left it alongside a coffee on the granite worktop. He had ground Italian coffee beans and left a pot of fresh coffee for when she woke up. He had thought about taking the note and coffee upstairs to the guest room and leaving it next to her, but decided against it. He was sure she wouldn’t thank him for waking her at this hour. And anyway, he was expected at the station.

  ‘Sir,’ Conrad greeted him as he walked into Brady’s office.

  Brady looked up. Conrad looked nervous, as if he was expecting a bollocking.

  ‘It’s after nine-thirty. You’re late,’ Brady informed him.

  ‘Er,’ Conrad began, apprehensively.

  ‘You haven’t hit my bloody car trying to park your Saab, have you?’ Brady demanded. He had opened his window to get some fresh air into his office and had heard someone making a dog’s dinner of attempting to park in the congested street a few minutes before.

  His car was his pride and joy; a black 1978 Ford Granada 2.8i Ghia. It was his only connection to his brother Nick and it meant everything to him. Nick was four years younger than him and had relocated out of the North East as soon as he could. He was based in London but worked throughout Europe. Nick was ex-SAS and hired himself out as a bodyguard; at least that was what he told Brady. And it was a story he stuck to – religiously. Brady rarely saw Nick. He had made some powerful enemies in his line of work and as such he kept a low profile. Even his phone calls were becoming more and more sporadic. His excuse was that his type of work made it impossible to maintain regular contact. Brady sorely miss
ed him. But there was nothing he could do. It felt as if he was losing everyone connected to his past life.

  The Ford Granada was Brady’s connection to the past – to his brother. The car had been bought as a project for them both to work on. But it was Nick who had turned it around. He had a flair for fixing things, ever since he was a young kid. It had been nothing but a rusty shell when they had bought it, but now it was a work of art. His younger brother had spent months working on it on the odd weekends, slowly and steadily rebuilding it to beyond its former glory.

  Brady waited for Conrad to say whether he had damaged it.

  ‘No, sir,’ Conrad answered.

  ‘Well, what then? You look like you’re about to tell me that I’ve been bloody sacked or something,’ Brady said, frowning.

  ‘It can wait,’ Conrad replied.

  ‘I’ve got five minutes, come on. What is it that you’ve heard? Has Gates said something? Shit! He’s not handing the investigation over to that two-faced, snivelling shit Adamson, is he?’

  Before Conrad had a chance to answer, Brady’s phone rang. ‘Give me a minute, yeah?’

  Conrad nodded and turned to leave.

  Brady waited until he had left the office before answering the call. He couldn’t help noticing that Conrad looked on edge. He made a mental note to have a private word with Conrad later, but he had other more pressing things to worry about now.

  ‘Detective Inspector Jack Brady,’ he answered.

  ‘Hi, it’s Jonathan Edwards, Inspector.’

  ‘Thanks for returning my call so quickly. I appreciate it,’ Brady replied.

  ‘No problem. What can I do for you?’

  Brady mentally prepared himself. There was a good chance his hunch would lead nowhere. But he was prepared to take the risk.

  ‘I’m interested in a recently paroled offender residing at Ashley House,’ Brady began. ‘It’s an ex-offender by the name of James David Macintosh.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Edwards asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Brady answered. ‘I’m sure. Can you confirm his whereabouts on the evening of Saturday, fifteenth March?’ He could feel his blood pounding in his ears as he waited to hear whether or not he was onto something.

  Brady could hear the probation officer breathing out slowly.

  ‘Is this to do with the murder on Saturday in the Royal Hotel?’

  ‘Can you answer my question, please?’ Brady replied.

  ‘Sorry . . . Yes . . . I mean no. No, I can’t confirm his whereabouts. He broke his curfew. He was supposed to sign back in to Ashley House at seven p.m. at the latest. He didn’t return until after midnight.’

  ‘Did he say where he had been?’

  ‘No. All he said was that he had been walking around and hadn’t realised the time.’

  It was enough for Brady. He needed James David Macintosh brought in for questioning.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Tuesday: 12:33 p.m.

  There was a knock at the door, followed by Amelia walking in.

  Brady looked up, surprised.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me about this?’ Amelia asked.

  For the briefest of moments Brady could see the hurt in her eyes.

  ‘I had to run it by Gates first, otherwise I would have done,’ he assured her. But it was a lie. He had been too busy to even think about informing Amelia.

  Brady hadn’t seen Gates, so he had had no choice but to brief him over the phone about Robert and Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe. Then there was James David Macintosh, who had now been brought in and was waiting to be questioned. The investigation had taken a sudden turn with the entrance of Macintosh, and Gates was holding a press conference to appease the media. One that Brady had not been invited to attend. Gates had given him the same old crap as to why Brady shouldn’t be holding it. That his time was too valuable. That Gates needed him actively working the case, not courting the press. Brady couldn’t care less. The last thing he wanted was to be caught up in PR. Or to be the face that the press could demonise if the investigation went belly-up.

  ‘I don’t understand. You seriously believe James David Macintosh could be a suspect?’

  ‘Take a seat and I’ll explain,’ Brady offered, trying his best to be congenial. He realised that he was at fault. He should have contacted Amelia immediately, rather than letting her hear it from Gates.

  Amelia sat down opposite Brady.

  ‘I’m sorry, I should have informed you. Remember you said that the Seventies murderer might have been forced to stop killing? That it wasn’t necessarily voluntary? I spent most of last night going through recently paroled ex-offenders and James David Macintosh jumped out at me.’

  Amelia listened intently, without saying a word.

  ‘Have you had a look at his background?’

  Amelia nodded. ‘Just now.’

  ‘Well, surely you can see why I’ve called him for questioning? He broke his curfew on the same night the victim was murdered. He did not return to Ashley House until after midnight and no one can account for his whereabouts.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that might make you suspicious. But what else do you have?’

  ‘Macintosh has been locked up for thirty-seven years. I don’t believe that it’s a mere coincidence. At the end of the summer of 1977, a serial killer suddenly stopped in the midst of a killing spree. You yourself said that the sudden departure from killing would not be the suspect’s choice. It would have been taken away from him. In other words, he must have found himself locked up. But locked up for an unrelated crime. Otherwise the original investigative team would have made the connection,’ Brady explained.

  ‘But the operative word here, Jack, is “unrelated”,’ Amelia replied.

  Brady nodded. He understood why she was finding it difficult to see Macintosh as a suspect. ‘I know. But let’s start with his childhood. Raised in Jesmond to a father who was in the army. From all accounts he was a patriarchal bully who regularly beat his wife and child. He was a heavy drinker, which fuelled his insufferable rages. From a very early age James started exhibiting signs of social deviance. He was repeatedly reprimanded at school for misbehaving. One account is recorded of him urinating into a milk bottle and drinking it in front of his shocked classmates and teacher.’

  ‘I still don’t see the connection,’ Amelia cut in.

  ‘I was building up to it. Pointing out how his background ties in with your profile. That he tortured animals as a child. Progressively got worse the older he got. Threw both his pet guinea pigs onto a bonfire he had built – alive. His father died of a sudden heart attack when he was fourteen years old and that was when his violence and depravity escalated. He replaced his father and began terrorising his mother.’

  ‘But he was at Cambridge University when the Seventies murders occurred. He was living there, not in the North East.’

  Brady nodded in agreement. ‘But he spent most of 1973 in St Nicholas psychiatric hospital in Gosforth where one doctor diagnosed him as a psychopath. He missed the first year of his degree and had to start a year later. His psychiatrist at the time had said that he was an exceptionally intelligent young man with the propensity to become a killer.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Amelia replied, still not convinced.

  ‘And when you say he left the area, that’s not quite true. At the beginning of the summer of 1977 when he was coming to the end of his third year, Macintosh voluntarily admitted himself back into St Nicholas, stating that: “He felt peculiar and could not trust himself around the other students. The male students.” He was diagnosed by his new psychiatrist as battling with homosexual urges. Distressed by his attraction to the same sex, he was one of twenty-nine patients studied in the UK who underwent homosexual aversion therapy. In other words, he willingly received electric shock treatment.’ Brady paused for a moment as he shook his head. ‘The conclusion of these studies were damning. The fact that they defined same sex attraction as an illness, one that could be treated by electric shock therapy to get rid
of homosexual desires, understandably had a negative long-term impact on the individuals who took part. Including Macintosh.’ Brady stopped talking.

  The whole idea of what Macintosh and other patients suffered at the hands of these so-called doctors made him feel physically sick.

  ‘The most common treatment from the early 1960s to late 1970s was behavioural aversion therapy with electric shocks. In electric shock aversion therapy, shocks were administered while the patient watched photographs of men and women in varying stages of undress. The aim was to encourage avoidance of the shock by moving to photographs of the opposite sex. It was hoped that arousal to same sex photographs would reduce, while relief arising from shock avoidance would increase interest in the opposite sex. Each treatment lasted about thirty minutes. We know from Macintosh’s medical records that he also regularly received ECT which was more commonly used for treatment of severe mental illnesses, including, as in the case of Macintosh, homosexuality.’ Brady paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. The idea of an electric current being passed through someone’s brain to produce an epileptic fit – hence the name, electroconvulsive – because they had homosexual desires was anathema to him. ‘It has been known to leave patients with short-term and in some cases long-term memory loss. Some patients also claimed that their personalities had changed for the worse and the outcome of the treatment was disturbing.’

  Amelia waited, curious to see where Brady was going with his theory.

  ‘Finally, he was also subject to discussions of the evils of homosexuality. Quite a lot for a twenty-two year old to experience.’

  ‘I’m not disagreeing with you, Jack. But I honestly can’t see where you’re taking this.’

  ‘All right, he underwent all this treatment because he was gay. Why? Because he didn’t want to be gay. Understandable, given his background, which was discussed in detail in sessions he had during his time at St Nicholas.’ Brady knew that Amelia hadn’t read the transcripts from these sessions, because they had not been included in Macintosh’s medical and criminal records. These transcripts were private conversations between Macintosh and his psychiatrist.