Harvey didn’t answer.
Brady realised that Harvey was genuinely devastated. The disappointment in his eyes said it all. Hughes was a local legend. The press adored him, as did the public. The man was meant to have been happily married to the woman of his dreams for the past ten years and had two young children to show for it. He would bring them to every public event he hosted. They looked like the perfect family. But then, Brady was more aware than most that looks could be deceiving. That there was no such thing as the perfect family. Perfection was an illusion. Something that could not be sustained.
Brady looked at Harvey: ‘What I do want you focusing on is the purchase of that apartment on the quayside. I need to know everything about the transaction. And I mean everything. Someone bought that apartment for him. I want to know who it was. If I’m right, it’s already narrowed down to one of two men. I need you to find out which one.’
Harvey nodded. ‘Will do. As soon as I get something to eat.’
‘I mean now, Tom. I need that information before I risk getting my balls chewed off by Gates for bringing in Hughes for questioning. I need as much as I can get on him first. Clear?’
‘Come on, Jack, have a bloody heart will you? I’ve been working flat out since five a.m.’
Brady didn’t answer. But it was clear from his expression that he was more than serious.
Harvey sighed heavily. He got up and reluctantly walked over to the counter to get himself a sandwich to eat at his desk. He’d have no choice but to head back to his office and start finding out who paid the cash for the apartment.
Conrad waited until Harvey was well out of earshot. ‘Sir,’ he began.
Brady waited, noticing that Conrad’s face had reddened.
‘I wanted to ask you about Claudia. If you’ve heard from her today?’
Brady stared at Conrad, not quite believing what he was hearing. ‘What?’ he asked, confused.
‘Claudia?’ Conrad repeated awkwardly, his voice starting to crack.
‘I know who the hell she is! Christ! Conrad, we’ve got a hundred other things to be doing right now and one of them isn’t talking about my personal life. Understand?’ Brady demanded. He pushed his chair back and stood up.
Conrad cursed inwardly. He realised that it had not been the most opportune moment to bring up his boss’s relationship with Claudia. Inwardly kicking himself, he watched Brady leave the canteen. It had not gone to plan. He just didn’t know how to bring it up. It was clear that Brady was clueless. The problem was, he didn’t want to be the one to tell him. Neither did Conrad want to be around when Brady finally found out. He might have been totally preoccupied with the murder investigation, as was Brady’s way, but at some point he would have to take stock of his personal life. Or at least, what was left of it.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Tuesday: 5:03 p.m.
Brady was starting to feel out of his depth. Worryingly so. The clock was ticking and he had officers scrabbling around trying to piece together Robert Smythe’s relationship with De Bernier. Nearly everyone who had attended the dinner Robert Smythe had been at on the Saturday had been questioned. No one stood out as having cause to hurt De Bernier, let alone murder him; there was no one apart from Smythe who might have sent the text. As for when the MP left the function, no one could say one hundred per cent what the actual time had been. Every person interviewed had been clear that they had not seen the politician after 10:00 p.m., which meant Smythe didn’t actually have a watertight alibi for when the victim had been murdered.
Then there was the problem of Malcolm J. Hughes. It appeared that powerful people were difficult to get hold of – even for the police. Conrad had left multiple messages with varying secretaries and personal assistants, but so far, nothing. The mobile number registered to Hughes had also been disconnected. No surprise really. The victim’s face and news of his sadistic murder was now dominating the news. Brady imagined that Hughes would be scurrying around trying his damnedest to get rid of any evidence that connected him in any way to De Bernier. Brady was still waiting to hear back about who had bought the apartment on the quayside in Newcastle.
It seemed that the investigation had turned into a waiting game. The victim’s girlfriend Molly Johansson may have no longer been a suspect but he now had four others: James David Macintosh, currently held in custody waiting to be interviewed; the retired engineer, Sidney Foster, who was still missing; the entrepreneur, Malcolm J. Hughes, and finally the politician, Robert Smythe, who was still in Brussels, booked on a flight back the following morning. Brady could have insisted he returned immediately but the last thing he wanted to do was get heavy-handed. Not with such a high-profile figure. Not that Smythe’s status bothered Brady. It was more the friends he kept – such as Detective Chief Superintendent O’Donnell. Detective Superintendent O’Donnell had apparently talked to Smythe and had the politician’s word that on his return, he would do everything to help the police. The information had had the desired effect – it was a clear warning to Brady to tread very carefully where Smythe was concerned.
Brady was getting ready to interview the only suspect he had in custody: Macintosh.
Brady looked at Jonathan Edwards, the suspect’s probation officer, who had accompanied him to the station. At this point, Macintosh had refused the right to be represented by the duty solicitor. Confident in his innocence. So Edwards had offered to sit in the interview with him.
They were sitting in the interview room waiting for Macintosh to be brought up from the holding cell.
Edwards cleared his throat.
He looked uncomfortable. Brady couldn’t blame him. After all, he would have questions to answer. Mainly why he didn’t report Macintosh when he broke parole.
Edwards might be easily convinced. But it took more to allay Brady’s suspicions than an ex-prisoner’s word that he had ‘lost track of time’.
‘Honestly, I can vouch for James. Apart from breaking his parole this one time, his behaviour has been exemplary,’ Edwards stuttered.
Brady resisted the urge to advise him not to get so easily sucked in by his clients. That the men Edwards dealt with on a regular basis would not think twice about slicing his throat open and watching him die. Brady included Macintosh in that.
Brady did not reply. There was no need. Edwards knew he was in the wrong.
Brady watched as the probation officer nervously pushed his designer glasses back up onto his nose. He was genuinely worried. He had allowed the lines to become blurred. Macintosh was his client and he should have reported him for breaking parole. Simple.
‘You don’t mind if I take my top off? It’s rather stuffy in here,’ Edwards said as he removed his black wool cardigan.
Damp sweat patches had stained under his arms. Whether it was nerves, or the extra weight he was carrying, Brady couldn’t say. Edwards looked remarkably ill at ease. Then again, mused Brady, he did have Edwards’ client in here on suspicion of murdering a student at the weekend. That wouldn’t look good in front of the parole board, or on his CV.
Brady looked up as the door to the interview room opened and Macintosh was brought in. He watched as Macintosh sat down opposite him.
Brady was waiting for Macintosh’s DNA sample and fingerprints to come back. He had not needed to request a sample of either as they already had his details on the database. It was currently being tested against the biological evidence found at the crime scene to see if it was a match. Ainsworth had persevered and somehow had found minuscule traces of semen on the bedding in the hotel room. But the lab were being typically tardy. Brady had paid more to expedite the findings but it didn’t feel as if he were getting value for money. Even though it wasn’t him paying for it out of his own pocket, he still felt it. He had to account for every penny overspent from his ever-decreasing budget. Every uniform and non-uniform officer called in from other area commands to work within the murder investigation team had to be paid. Every decision he made cost money.
Brady
tried not to think about what would happen if Macintosh’s DNA sample came back negative. It meant the suspect would walk. Other than DNA evidence placing him at the crime scene, Brady had nothing on him. He looked across at Macintosh. Relaxed and smiling, Brady was certain about one thing; despite Macintosh’s seemingly agreeable personality, he knew this man was a cold-blooded killer. He didn’t need to read Macintosh’s criminal records, he just felt it lurking behind his disarmingly friendly eyes. It was there, so much so, it was almost palpable.
Brady studied Macintosh. He was not what Brady had expected. But then, murderers never are what you expect them to be. Not in the flesh. He was tall and physically fit. Evidence that he had spent a good amount of time in the prison gym. He still bore a resemblance to his younger self and was still an unnervingly handsome man. He was remarkably calm, unlike his probation officer. Then again, thought Brady, Macintosh had nothing to lose; unlike Edwards, whose decision-making process would be called into account. For he had chosen not to report the fact that his client had broken his parole on the same night as a murder had been committed.
James David Macintosh studied DI Brady studying him. He knew that the detective didn’t like him. Could see it in his eyes.
‘So there’s nothing else you would like to tell me about Saturday night?’ Brady asked.
Macintosh smiled as he shook his head. The smile was false. He knew that Brady could see it. He was shrewder than most. Most definitely not a fool like Edwards. He had been so easily duped. Persuaded that he was a redeemed man. But Brady was different. He liked the DI.
Macintosh laid his hands out on the table. Relaxed. Confident, but not arrogant. He had nothing to hide. His shirt was open, giving him a casual but professional look. He knew that he looked good for his age. He was nearly sixty but looked as if he had just hit his fifties. Life had been good to him inside. He had spent thirty-seven years in Frankland Prison, Durham, a facility housing some of the UK’s most high-profile and dangerous criminals.
Recently a long-term inmate there had been murdered by his cellmate. His murderer had found out that he was a convicted paedophile and had decided to mete out his own form of justice. He had waited until after midnight before sitting on his cellmate’s chest and slicing his neck open with a shiv – a homemade scalpel made from plastic cutlery and a razor blade. Then he had gouged the man’s eyes out. Satisfied that justice had been carried out, he had gone back to sleep.
Macintosh knew this character well. He had found him distasteful and unimaginative. Unlike him. He smiled as he thought of what he had done to his psychiatrist. He had swung the axe repeatedly into his skull until his brains had covered the blade. The walls. The floor. And the bath. His features gone. Hacked into bloodied pieces. He had left his psychiatrist in the bath. Floating in the water where he had found him bathing. The only difference was that the water was red.
‘I’m really sorry, DI Brady,’ Macintosh said slowly. ‘As I’ve already explained, I went for a walk and somehow lost track of the time. When I realised how late it actually was I returned and apologised to Ronnie, the key worker who was on duty that night. That was just after midnight. It was stupid of me, I know. I was just finding it so difficult coping with some of the other residents in Ashley House. It can be quite difficult at times, despite the likes of Jonathan’s intervention,’ he said, turning to Edwards and smiling appreciatively.
He turned back to Brady. The smile had gone. ‘I really wish I could have been more helpful. I understand how difficult it must be, an investigation of this magnitude,’ he said as his eyes held Brady’s gaze. Macintosh smiled again in an attempt to disarm him. But he could see that it hadn’t worked.
He tried again. ‘But I’m sure that you’ll find whoever did this to that young man. What was his name again?’ Macintosh’s voice quivered just for a moment as he tried to hold in his anger. Furious did not come close. He did not like being accused of something he had not done. His murders had been beautiful. They had purpose. His victims meant something to him. And they knew it. He let them know it.
‘Alexander De Bernier,’ Brady answered.
Macintosh nodded. But it meant nothing to him. He stared at DI Brady, trying to glean something. Anything. But his face was unreadable. ‘I suppose you can’t tell me what happened to the victim, can you?’ he asked. His mouth watered as images flashed through his mind of what he had done to his young men. Beautiful young men.
‘No, I am not at liberty to say. Unless you already know?’ Brady challenged him.
Macintosh smiled indulgently. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea what happened to . . . this Alexander De Bernier.’
‘What about the series of murders that took place here in 1977?’ Brady asked, as he held Macintosh’s gaze.
Macintosh shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you are talking about, DI Brady? Do you, Jonathan?’ There was no anger or irritation in his voice, simply puzzlement. He was good. He knew he was good. Because he knew exactly what the detective was talking about. After all, he had chosen each of the victims. Carefully, deliberately. He had taken them and enjoyed them. Then . . . then he had destroyed them so they would never touch him again.
‘Seven men were killed during the summer of 1977. I’m surprised that you don’t remember? It was all over the news. The press nicknamed him The Joker at the time,’ Brady explained.
Macintosh knew that the detective was studying him for anything that would give him away. A look in his eye. An involuntary twitch or tapping of the hand. But he was better than that. He had read Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung and the rest. He understood psychology better than DI Brady could ever have imagined.
‘Again, I’m sorry to disappoint you, DI Brady. I have no memory from that time. You see, during that year I was a patient in a psychiatric ward where I was given electroconvulsive therapy for severe depression. Some suffer memory loss as a result. I, sadly, am one of those unfortunates.’
‘Convenient, don’t you think?’ Brady asked.
Macintosh remained poised and relaxed as he gave Brady a disarming smile. But inside, he could feel the anger rising. He didn’t like being challenged. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘It’s a shame you don’t remember, because it appears that he’s come back,’ Brady replied.
As soon as he said it, Macintosh understood what he meant. His blue eyes narrowed and turned cold. An involuntary, automatic reaction to hearing something he didn’t like. Jack Brady suddenly reminded him of his psychiatrist. He had betrayed him. Caught him out. Just like the detective was attempting to here. But it wouldn’t work. Not a second time. He had confided in his psychiatrist about his father.
His nasty fucking bastard of a father who had repeatedly threatened to cut off his cock and shove it down his throat if he didn’t do what he was told. Bastard! Bastard! Fucking old, evil bastard. He had taken a knife to him. To his cock. Stroked it, caressed it with a knife and cut it. Again and again . . . while he screamed and screamed.
When he had shared this information, he had forgotten that his killings were all over the news. ‘The Joker’, as the press had coined him. He liked it. It fitted. But in that moment when he revealed his deepest, darkest memories to Dr Jackson, he realised he had said too much. He had seen it in his eyes. The realisation, followed by horror. Then fear. Fleeting, but there all the same. So he had broken into his office and had read his follow-up notes on the session. Dr Jackson had predicted that he was in no doubt that Macintosh was a psychopath who would kill. The psychiatrist would never have believed what would happen next – that he and his family would be the target of his rage.
Macintosh smiled as he looked at the detective. He was imagining what it would be like to hurt him. And those close to him.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Tuesday: 7:09 p.m.
‘Shit!’ Brady cursed. He didn’t know why he was so surprised. He already knew that the lab results would come back negative. The forensic evidence recovered at the hotel room by Ainsworth
and his team did not match Macintosh’s DNA. Macintosh had told him in his own way that De Bernier had not died at his hands – but that he had killed the seven young men in the summer of 1977. Then he had abruptly stopped, because he had gone on to kill his psychiatrist and was subsequently locked up. Macintosh was clever. He had covered his tracks well.
‘But we’ll have to release him,’ Conrad said.
Brady looked at Conrad. He knew they had no choice.
The DNA evidence also eliminated Sidney Foster – the suspect from the original case. His DNA was still on file from when he had been convicted of rape. Three convictions; the most recent less than a decade ago. He was still missing. Not that Brady cared. After all, he was no longer a suspect.
But it was not just Macintosh’s DNA that did not match; neither did his shoes. The partial print had come from a size ten and Macintosh was a size twelve. Brady had nothing on him. Apart from the uneasy feeling that he had been looking into the eyes of a killer.
For all the good it had done him, he had gone to Gates after the interview and asked him if they could extend the time they held Macintosh until Brady had secured a warrant to search his room at Ashley House. Just in case there was something there that could tie him to the first seven murders. A trophy that he had kept from one of the victims: letters, diaries, drawings – anything that connected him. But Gates had out and out refused, still furious over the fact that Brady was pursuing two distinguished public figures as credible suspects. No matter what Brady had said, it had no effect. Gates would not listen to reason. They had nothing on Macintosh. Brady’s gut feeling, as Gates had pointed out in no uncertain terms, was not enough to hold him. So Macintosh would walk.
‘Look sir, it’s not as if he was responsible for Alexander De Bernier’s murder,’ Conrad pointed out.
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