Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4

by Danielle Ramsay

  ‘But he’s responsible for the others, Conrad. I just need more time to prove it.’

  Brady dropped his head into his hands as he thought about Macintosh. He was still waiting for the lab to come back to him on the blood and semen stains on the T-shirt from one of the Seventies victims. He needed that DNA evidence – now. Macintosh may have been eliminated from the De Bernier’s murder investigation, but as far as Brady was concerned that didn’t stop him being a suspect in the Seventies case. He was certain that the DNA evidence would conclusively tie Macintosh to the original Joker killings. He dragged his head up to find Conrad standing awkward and uneasy in front of his desk.

  ‘You think I’m crazy, don’t you?’

  ‘I . . . I wouldn’t say that,’ Conrad began, ‘it’s just the evidence doesn’t seem that compelling to me. I mean, the murders that Macintosh was charged with at the time were so radically different from the Joker killings that it seems unlikely they were committed by the same person. Unless they had an extreme personality disorder.’

  Brady sighed wearily. He was tired. Too tired to explain to Conrad why Macintosh murdered his psychiatrist, his wife and children in a way that bore no relation to the seven murders that preceded it. Brady knew the reason why McKaley’s team never caught Macintosh. It was because he was too damned clever. The same reason that the police database HOLMES 2 did not see a connection between the murders. Simply because the murders were so radically different. That was what Macintosh had wanted. He did not want any crossover between himself and the Joker killings. That was a part of his identity, his marred psyche, that he did not want known. Brady assumed that he had planned to continue his sadistic killings of young men, if he had not been caught by the police for his psychiatrist’s murder. Brady was also convinced that Macintosh had murdered his psychiatrist because he had realised that he had unintentionally revealed his identity as The Joker. Brady had reread the transcripts – in particular, the last one before the psychiatrist had been murdered. He was certain that it wouldn’t have taken Dr Henry D. Jackson long to have made the connection that his patient was responsible for the local killings. The details of Macintosh’s childhood abuse were too similar to the fate suffered by the seven young men.

  ‘Trust me here, Conrad.’ But it was clear from the look in his eye that he did not. That he couldn’t understand how Brady had come to conclude that Macintosh had killed in such different ways.

  ‘Forgive me for speaking out of turn here,’ Conrad began, ‘but I’ve read his files. The murders were . . .’ he faltered.

  ‘Horrific?’ Brady said.

  Conrad nodded as he sat down across from Brady. ‘I understand the time-frame element. I can see why you think there’s a connection. That the seventh victim was murdered thirty-six hours before Macintosh’s last session with Dr Jackson. Then that evening Macintosh had followed his psychiatrist home and—’ He stopped.

  Brady raised his eyebrows at him. ‘What? Hard to accept that the man we’re releasing back onto the streets of Whitley Bay actually committed such an abhorrent crime? That the handsome, courteous gentleman that we just interviewed, who chatted so casually with you at the end of the interview about your time at Cambridge, could have killed in the way he did?’

  ‘Yes,’ Conrad replied.

  They both knew that Macintosh’s crime had been so shocking that the Joker killings were briefly forgotten by the press.

  Brady nodded. But after Macintosh had butchered his psychiatrist, the Joker killings had stopped. Bang. Right in the midst of a killing frenzy. And why? Because Macintosh had been arrested and charged with the brutal killing of an entire family. In one week, the Joker had murdered two young men, three days apart – showing that his cooling-off period was radically lessening. Then, thirty-six hours later, he had ended his psychiatric treatment for good.

  ‘How did he know I studied at Cambridge?’ Conrad asked, concerned.

  Brady shrugged. ‘Christ knows. Your manner? The way you talk?’

  Conrad looked uneasy.

  ‘Don’t worry. I don’t think he’ll be coming after you,’ Brady said, shaking his head at his deputy. But Conrad’s grim expression told Brady that he didn’t find the idea amusing. And Brady knew why.

  Macintosh had taken an axe with him when he followed his psychiatrist home to the leafy, expensive suburbs of Jesmond. He had watched and waited. When darkness fell, he had broken in. Then he had set to work. The police who had attended the crime scene had reported that they had never seen anything so bloody and horrific in their time on the force. Dr Jackson’s body had been found floating in a blood bath. His wife had been found in their master bedroom. Her heavily pregnant body had been splayed and then tied face-down to the bed. He had begun by chopping her hands and feet off. That, by comparison to what followed next, was civilised. Brady shuddered at the thought of what he had done to her. Then, the two children. Twin boys. He had killed them with a merciless swing of the axe.

  The three-year-old girl had been the anomaly. For some reason he had taken her – alive. The police had caught him – forty-eight hours later – with the girl. Brady did not even want to think about what Macintosh had done to the child. Needless to say, when the police had tracked him down to a remote cottage in the wilds of Northumberland, they had been too late. A few hours earlier, and then it might have been a different story.

  Macintosh had pleaded insanity.

  Who wouldn’t?

  However, Newcastle County Court had found him sane. Thirty-seven years later, and he had been paroled. This was the part that Brady didn’t understand. It left him feeling nervous.

  ‘I want him under surveillance,’ Brady instructed.

  ‘Who?’ Conrad asked.

  ‘Macintosh.’

  Conrad was visibly taken aback. ‘Why, sir?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘He’s in a bail hostel, under strict curfew.’

  ‘So strict that he broke his parole?’

  Brady accepted that they didn’t have the resources to put him under twenty-four-hour surveillance. But he could not shake the feeling he had about Macintosh. The problem he had was that there was nothing – yet – to substantiate his hunch. But it was the yet that worried him. The look in Macintosh’s eye for that split second had told Brady that his long stint in prison had not rehabilitated him. That he was still a cold-blooded killer. He just hoped for Edwards’ sake that he knew what he was doing, allowing Macintosh to remain on parole. If it had been Brady, he would have had Macintosh back inside without a second’s hesitation. He had broken his parole. Simple. And Brady sure as hell didn’t believe Macintosh’s bullshit about walking to Blyth on the night in question; the same night Alexander De Bernier was murdered. Brady had a bad feeling that Macintosh was preparing to kill – again.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Tuesday: 8:03 p.m.

  Harvey had come looking for Brady. Had found him in the Major Incident Room. His expression had told Brady that it wasn’t good news. At least, not for Malcolm J. Hughes. The sickening disappointment was written all over Harvey’s face. Any thoughts Brady had regarding Macintosh’s release quickly evaporated.

  ‘Shit, Jack! This is one fucking mess!’ Harvey moaned.

  ‘Outside,’ Brady ordered. Whatever Harvey had found out, he wanted to hear it in private.

  ‘Go on,’ Brady instructed, once they’d left the room.

  ‘First blow is that Sidney Foster has been found.’

  Brady looked at Harvey. ‘Where?’

  ‘In some wooded area not far from Porthtowan.’

  Brady realised he was dead. ‘He killed himself?’

  Harvey nodded, surprised. ‘How did you know?’

  Brady didn’t answer. ‘How did he do it?’

  ‘Car exhaust fumes. Closed all the windows and gassed himself. It was a car from the late Seventies so . . .’ Harvey shrugged.

  Brady knew why. Someone had made an allegation to the local police that he had been abused by Foster from the age of eight. It was en
ough to destroy his sedate lifestyle and chase him out of the small Cornish village that he had spent thirty years in. Brady imagined that there was more than one victim. That once it got out into the local press more would come forward. It just took one person to break the silence on paedophiles like Foster. Not that Brady could say he felt sorry for him. He saw him as a coward. He had preyed upon young boys who were voiceless and powerless and when he was threatened with exposure he had taken the coward’s way out.

  ‘What’s the second blow?’ Brady asked.

  ‘Malcolm J. Hughes.’

  Brady waited.

  ‘He owned the quayside apartment. Purchased it two years back,’ Harvey said.

  It came as no surprise. Phone records indicated that whatever relationship Hughes had with De Bernier had begun two years earlier when the victim was working at the gentleman’s club. No surprise that was where he would have been introduced to the entrepreneur and philanthropist. Brady imagined there would be others like Hughes and Smythe – at least in the early days. Not now. It appeared that the victim had become more selective over time. Lucrative business. Or at least it was, until someone had decided to end it for him.

  ‘Hughes transferred the property into De Bernier’s name two weeks ago,’ Harvey said, shaking his head, not quite believing it. ‘It means what I think it does, right?’

  ‘Yeah, I believe it does,’ Brady answered.

  Harvey looked wounded. Brady accepted that once this got out Harvey wouldn’t be alone in feeling so cheated by Hughes’ behaviour.

  ‘What now, Jack?’ Harvey asked.

  ‘You and Kodovesky bring him in for questioning.’

  ‘You’re not serious, are you? Can’t someone else do it? I . . . I’ve spoken to him, Jack. It would be awkward—’ Harvey stopped.

  ‘Get a grip, Tom. He’s a suspect. No more, no less. He’s not bloody Gandhi and he doesn’t walk on water. What he does do is fuck around on his missus. Ordinarily, no big deal. But you’re right, it is awkward – for him. Because when the press find out about his bit on the side, then the shit’s going to hit the fan big style.’

  ‘You really think he was having a sexual relationship with De Bernier?’ Harvey asked, not really wanting the answer.

  Brady raised his eyebrows.

  ‘But you’ve got no evidence. Maybe it’s innocent. Maybe he just liked the kid. You know?’ Harvey suggested, floundering.

  ‘I can guarantee you that in a few hours I’ll have evidence that Hughes was paying the victim for sex. The apartment, the holidays? The cash in the victim’s bank? Regardless of what you think, Tom, Hughes is not some benevolent benefactor. His relationship with the victim was based on something else entirely.’

  ‘Has Gates said anything about you bringing him in?’ Harvey questioned.

  The look in his eye told Brady that Harvey didn’t want to get it in the neck when he walked into the station with Hughes in tow.

  ‘Let me worry about Gates, while you concentrate on finding our suspect.’

  Harvey nodded reluctantly. ‘What do I say to his wife?’

  ‘Tell her to get a good divorce lawyer!’

  ‘I’m serious. Come on, Jack.’

  ‘So am I . . . Oh for fuck’s sake,’ Brady said, exasperated, when he saw Harvey’s worried expression. ‘Tell her . . . I don’t know. The usual crap. That we need him to help us with our inquiries. Keep it ambiguous. It’s his fucking mess, so he should be the one that does the explaining. After he’s explained it to us first.’

  Harvey looked uncomfortable with the prospect of dealing with Hughes’ wife, let alone Hughes himself.

  ‘Where does he live?’ Brady asked, curious.

  ‘Darras Hall,’ Harvey replied, dejectedly.

  ‘Figures.’ It was no surprise that the entrepreneur resided in what was known as millionaire’s paradise, a few miles outside of the idyllic village of Ponteland, Northumberland. There was a reason why most of the players from Newcastle United owned properties there.

  ‘I suggest you take a drive out there and sit it out. He’ll show up. He has to. He lives there.’

  Harvey looked crestfallen.

  ‘Come on, Tom. Could be worse. You could be ramming down a door in Shields looking for some scrote high on ketamine who wouldn’t think twice about shoving an infected needle into your neck if he got half a chance.’

  Harvey didn’t look convinced.

  Conrad approached them.

  ‘Ready?’ Brady asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Harvey asked.

  ‘The victim’s flat.’

  Forty minutes later, Brady was standing in De Bernier’s luxurious apartment overlooking Newcastle quayside. It looked like some New York warehouse conversion. Huge open-plan rooms, exposed wooden beams and sandblasted brickwork. It was breathtaking. Then there was the pièce de résistance – the enormous floor-to-ceiling wall of glass that overlooked the Tyne river. Below, the bustling quayside was lit from all angles. Straight ahead was a stunning view of the Gateshead Millennium Bridge, lit up in neon blue, arcing gracefully over the Tyne river.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Brady muttered to himself as he took in the majestic views. This took serious money.

  Conrad shot him a questioning look. One that reminded Brady that the victim had paid a high price for this penthouse apartment.

  ‘Right, you start in here and I’ll go search his bedroom.’

  It didn’t take Brady long. ‘Conrad?’ he called out.

  ‘Take a look at these,’ Brady said as he pointed to a collection of homemade DVDs. ‘I found them hidden under the flooring in that walk-in wardrobe,’ he said, indicating a room large enough to be another bedroom.

  ‘How did you know he’d have something hidden?’ Conrad asked.

  ‘Because this guy was smart. He played people. He got what he wanted out of them. Holidays, cars and this penthouse apartment. You have to ask yourself what De Bernier offered in return. Sex, sure. But would that in itself have been enough to have banked over two hundred grand in a savings account? I reckon the holidays and the sports car were gifts. Expensive gifts at that. But this place?’ Brady said, looking around him. ‘No. I think he changed the rules of the game. And in order to do so, he needed to have something on these men. If it was me? I’d secretly film them, making damned sure their faces were identifiable. He could sit on those films and let the value increase until he decided to cash in his assets.’

  Brady walked over to the DVD player. ‘Reckon these might give us an idea as to how De Bernier made his money,’ he said, thinking of the entrepreneur who had signed the apartment over to the victim.

  ‘Do you think he could have been blackmailing Hughes?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Brady shrugged. ‘We’ll have to ask him when we get back to the station.’

  Brady put one of the films in and pressed play.

  ‘Fuck! That looks painful,’ Brady winced, as he watched the victim engaging in various sex acts with an unidentifiable older male.

  After a few minutes he fast-forwarded the film. Then suddenly paused it. ‘Shit!’ He turned to Conrad.

  It was clear Conrad recognised him too. He looked as shocked as Brady felt.

  ‘We need forensics here. I want the place searched. I need Jed to analyse whatever material we have on the victim’s laptop and desktop computer,’ Brady said, as he absorbed the magnitude of what they had just found. ‘Christ, Conrad! I had a feeling that this could be the case. But to actually see it . . .’

  Conrad looked worried. ‘You know this could cause a lot of damage if it got into the wrong hands?’

  ‘Already has,’ Brady said, stopping the film and taking it out of the DVD player.

  He put another DVD in and fast-forwarded it. ‘Fuck!’ He cursed again when he recognised the man having sex with the victim. He paused on the image of his face. There was no question as to his identity.

  Brady turned to Conrad and breathed
out heavily. ‘Reckon Harvey’s going to need a drink tonight after he’s witnessed this.’

  Brady stopped the DVD. He had no choice but to take these findings to Gates. He knew that his boss wouldn’t be happy with what he had found. Not at all.

  ‘Reckon I’ve got the perfect job for Daniels and Kenny tonight,’ Brady said.

  ‘Sir?’ Conrad asked, unsure of what he meant. But he realised as soon as he saw the mischievous look in Brady’s eye.

  ‘It will take hours to go through these DVDs,’ Brady said, trying hard not to grin at the thought of the two most sexist blokes in the station having to sit through hours of hardcore gay porn.

  But it was crucial that the films were analysed. Brady was certain that they were behind the victim’s newly acquired assets.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Tuesday: 9:52 p.m.

  Brady was preparing himself for his interview with Malcolm J. Hughes. Harvey and Kodovesky had brought him in while he and Conrad had been searching the victim’s apartment. It seemed that Hughes had heard the news about De Bernier, and had been expecting the police – not that he acknowledged the countless calls that had been made to his secretary and PA. He had told his wife that the victim was a bartender at the gentleman’s club he belonged to, and as a member he needed to give the police whatever information he knew about the victim. It was bullshit. But his wife bought it.

  The station was buzzing at the news that Hughes had been brought in for questioning. That, and the evidence on film of his sexual relationship with the victim. However, Brady’s summoning of Hughes had also attracted Gates’ attention, who was on the warpath. Brady had managed to keep his head down and out of firing range. But he knew that couldn’t last forever.

  Brady was now waiting on news from Jed, the police forensic computer analyst. He wanted this information before he interviewed Hughes. But he was being made to sweat. Budgets had been radically slashed, resulting in their only full-time computer geek inundated with work. Jed had heard it all. SIOs would dump software on him and expect a miracle overnight. It didn’t happen. It couldn’t. There were not enough hours in the day for Jed to even get close to managing his workload.