Conrad was silent for a moment.
‘And you’re absolutely certain Smythe did not murder De Bernier?’
‘One hundred per cent. I looked in the man’s eyes, Conrad. He may be many things, but he’s not a killer.’
Brady steeled himself for his final job – Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe’s interview. He believed she would confess. Why not? She had nothing to lose. She had achieved what she had set out to do. Publicly expose her husband and destroy his political career and good name. The press had already got hold of the sordid affair between the Conservative politician and his junior aide. Someone had tipped them off about his arrest and that he was sexually involved with the victim. Brady knew who the informant had been before he had talked to Rubenfeld. The sordid, sad affair had hit the front page of the Northern Echo that afternoon.
All Rubenfeld would tell him was that the tip-off came from an anonymous female caller. He had also received a copy of a DVD. It had been couriered to him. Brady had contacted the courier direct and the sender’s details matched Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe’s description. Needless to say, the DVD showed explicit scenes of a sexual nature involving Smythe and De Bernier. Brady had wondered at the time why Sarah had not met her husband at the airport. Why she had not been there to support him at the police station. Her absence itself had implicated her.
‘I reckon it’s time we go and bring her in for questioning. Don’t you?’ Brady said as he stood up.
Brady felt the need to bring her in personally. She had refused to leave the family home and had only stayed with friends while forensics were examining the property. He knew that she would have no idea that they would be coming to arrest her. Why would she? After all, her husband’s sordid life had been spread across all the tabloids and repeatedly discussed on the news. Sarah had got what she wanted – her husband’s duplicitous life exposed. And more.
Chapter Forty-Five
Thursday: 2:29 p.m.
Brady banged on the door again.
‘What time is it?’ Brady asked Conrad.
‘Two-thirty, sir,’ Conrad answered.
Brady was exhausted. As was Conrad. No surprise, given the fact that they had worked through the night piecing together Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe’s movements.
‘Maybe she’s having a nap?’ Conrad suggested. ‘She is pregnant.’
Brady shook his head. He had a bad feeling about this. ‘I’m going to take a look around the back and see if I can find a way in.’
‘Sir?’ Conrad asked, surprised. ‘Shouldn’t we just call for backup?’
But Brady didn’t hear him. Or if he did, he was too distracted.
He broke into a run.
Brady found the back of the house. He could see that the kitchen window was open. All he needed to do was climb over the yard wall. He looked around for something to stand on to help give him some leverage to swing himself over. Someone had left a washing machine out for the scrap merchants. Brady dragged it over and pushed it against the wall, climbed onto it and then pulled himself up and over. He jumped down, anticipating the pain before he landed.
‘Fuck!’ he cursed as a bolt of pain exploded in what remained of his left knee. Hobbling, Brady made his way to the open kitchen window. It was large enough for him to squeeze himself through.
‘Sarah? Police! Sarah?’ he shouted when he was finally inside.
Nothing. Brady tried to ignore the disquiet he felt.
‘Sarah? Sarah, it is DI Brady,’ he shouted as he walked into the palatial kitchen. He made his way through to the hallway. Again, nothing.
He checked all the rooms downstairs, knowing that he wouldn’t find her. He then walked to the front door and opened it for Conrad.
‘Nothing downstairs. But her house keys and car keys are on the hall table.’
Conrad didn’t say anything. His sombre expression told Brady he had a bad feeling about this as well.
Brady took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the pain in his leg.
‘Sarah?’ he shouted out again.
Nothing.
He reached the first floor. The door to the master bedroom was wide open.
‘Sarah? It’s DI Jack Brady, Sarah. We need to talk to you.’
He didn’t notice any of the finer details of the house. The antique furniture, oil paintings and highly polished oak floors covered in Persian rugs. All he noticed was the deathly silence that hung in the air.
Something was wrong. The silence screamed at him that something was very wrong.
He turned and looked back at Conrad behind him. Brady nodded at him that he was going into the master bedroom.
He walked in. The ornate four-poster bed was in disarray, sheets and throws pulled back. Scatter cushions and pillows knocked onto the floor. Clothes dumped next to them.
It was then that Brady heard the water.
Drip . . . drip . . . drip . . .
The chilling noise was coming from the en-suite bathroom. Brady walked towards the closed door, dreading what he would find.
‘Sarah?’ he called out as he knocked. But he already knew it was in vain.
He swung the door open and stopped. Paralysed.
‘Oh God . . .’ Brady muttered.
It took him a moment to react. ‘Call paramedics. Now!’ he ordered.
But it would be too late. Sarah’s body lay submerged in the bloodied water in the bath in the centre of the large bathroom. He walked over. Her bloodless grey face looked up at him from underneath the water. Eyes open. Blank. Staring at nothing. He felt sick. For a second it was as if he was looking into Claudia’s pale, lifeless face. Into her dead, accusatory eyes.
No . . . Claudia . . .
In that moment he knew how close he had come to losing her.
Brady swallowed the sob that was strangling the back of his throat. He could feel the tears burning his eyes.
‘Sarah? Sarah . . .’ He was too late. The bath was filled with blood. Her blood. Blood from her slit wrists.
He dropped to his knees and leaned over to carefully lift her head out of the water. He held her tight against his chest, one hand clasped around her damp bloodied hair. Sarah’s body was cold. Too cold. He closed his eyes as the tears slipped down his face at the unjustness of it all. For a moment he felt transported back to Sunday night and Claudia.
What if . . . Oh God, what if . . .
Then there was only the image of Sarah’s lifeless body. Her swollen belly drowned out Claudia. Naked, there was no mistaking that she was with child.
If only . . . If only he’d realised sooner . . .
Chapter Forty-Six
Thursday: 7:16 p.m.
Macintosh had left a message for DI Brady. To others, it would just be a receipt. But Brady would understand.
He had waited until dark. Hidden himself in the Gents toilets in Whitley Bay. He needed to be close. But not too close. Hours he had waited, crouched behind the closed door of a cubicle. He had heard the goings-on. It had made him feel sick. Brought back the images. The memories of the others. But he had resisted making himself known. Doing what he knew was right felt good. It brought him liberation. A momentary lapse from his father’s bullying. That voice, drunk and terrifying. It humiliated and debased him. Ridiculed what felt normal. He calmed himself. Silenced the evil, vindictive words with images of past victims and future victims. Of what he had done and what he was about to do.
He had one hand on the doorbell while the other hand held the axe behind his back. He pressed the bell and listened to the faint chime as footsteps approached. His mind was suddenly filled with images of what was to come. Flashes of the blade. Swift. Slicing. Hacking. Smashing bone. Blood. Flesh. Screaming. He could smell it. Smell them. Hear them. He smiled in preparation.
The feeling was intense. It had consumed him. He had stayed with them. Watched them. Lain down with them. Breathed in their scent. Touched them. Stared into their wide eyes. Then he had left. He had no choice. He needed to get a head start. Ahead of the police. But it w
as Jack Brady he wanted. This was for him. It was his gift. He was certain that when Brady looked at what he had done for him, he would follow. Then they would see.
All he had to do now was wait. He looked in the rear-view mirror at the blur of headlights behind him. She was in the boot of the car. Gagged and tied. No one would ever know she was there.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Thursday: 10:09 p.m.
Brady had managed to grab four hours’ sleep on his office couch. A call from Wolfe woke him up from a deep slumber. He had carried out the autopsy on Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe at his request. Brady had assumed she had killed herself because she was HIV positive, and he’d been correct. Wolfe had accessed her medical records, and blood tests taken in her sixteenth week of pregnancy had exposed the infection. Not that he felt good about being right. Blood had also been taken from the twenty-week-old foetus – her unborn son. He was also HIV positive. She had known about it for the past few weeks, giving her time to plan her revenge.
Brady felt no joy that the investigation was over. Nor that an innocent man would not be sentenced for a murder he had not committed. He just felt an overwhelming sadness at the ugly mess of it all. That it had been so unnecessary. Life could indeed deal some cruel hands. It was up to the individual as to how they played that hand. In Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe’s case, she had played it very close to her heart.
Brady picked up his phone. He thought about calling Claudia’s mobile but decided against it. He didn’t know if she would pick up. Or even if she was allowed to take personal calls. Not that he could phone anyone to find out. He had no idea where her parents had taken her. He had rung them – repeatedly. But to no avail. They simply didn’t answer his calls.
He was distracted by a knock at his door. Conrad walked in.
‘I thought you’d gone home,’ Brady said.
‘I was just leaving when I overheard a call coming in—’
‘Macintosh has gone missing, hasn’t he?’ Brady interrupted.
Conrad swallowed. ‘Yes, sir, I wanted to tell you that he had broken parole. He’s been missing since this morning. He didn’t show up at Ashley House for the seven p.m. curfew. Then one of the key workers searched his room and it was empty. He had taken everything. Apart from this,’ Conrad said, holding out a plastic evidence bag. He handed it to Brady.
It had a receipt in it from B&Q. It was for an axe.
‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ Brady cursed.
He jumped up.
‘Get Jonathan Edwards’ address right now,’ Brady instructed.
‘Why, sir?’ Conrad asked.
‘Because that’s where Macintosh has gone,’ Brady said as he grabbed his coat. ‘Come on, Conrad. Move it!’ He snatched his car keys and ran for the door.
Brady had looked on in horror and disbelief. As soon as the Edwards’ door had been breached by a battering ram, Brady had gone in. He had to. He had to see whether he was too late. He had found them first. Or . . . what was left of them.
Police cars and ambulances now blocked off Queens Road. But it was already over. James David Macintosh had seen to that.
Brady stood outside. He was shaking. But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop the scenes of carnage playing over and over again in his mind.
‘Here, Jack,’ Conrad said, offering him some hot, sweet tea.
Brady nodded numbly. He took the drink and cupped it in trembling hands. Not that he could drink it. His body was shaking uncontrollably. He knew he was in shock. And he knew he had every right to be. What he had witnessed was beyond anything he could ever have imagined.
‘We’ve got to find him,’ he whispered, his voice hoarse.
‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered.
‘You’ve put a call out on Edwards’ car?’
Conrad nodded.
They had to find him. Someone as dangerous and unbalanced as Macintosh would strike again. There was no question about that. The only question was, how soon.
FRIDAY
Chapter Forty-Eight
Friday: 9:03 a.m.
The DNA results from the lab had come back. Brady had forgotten he had paid to have the tests expedited. But they had arrived too late. The lab had managed to get a sample of DNA from the sperm found on the T-shirt of one of the Seventies victims. It did not come as a surprise that it matched Macintosh.
Brady had been right. The paroled ex-offender had been responsible for the Joker killings of the summer of 1977. He had eluded the police in the Seventies and now he had succeeded in eluding Brady.
He couldn’t bring himself to think about it. The bitter fact that Brady had had Macintosh in custody. He could have prevented him from killing Edwards and his wife and son. Their three-year-old daughter Annabel was gone. He had taken her, just as he had taken his psychiatrist’s daughter after he had slain him and the rest of his family.
Where the fuck have you taken her, you sick fucker?
Brady closed his eyes as he thought about where Macintosh could have gone. There was a national police hunt to find him. And Annabel Edwards. To find her alive. He winced as what he had witnessed flooded his mind. His psyche. He could smell them. Their bodies. The blood.
Brady opened his eyes. He didn’t want to see the blood-drenched walls and beds. The house saturated with blood.
Macintosh had brought the axe down on them. Again. And again. And again.
Brady felt sick. Could feel it rising up the back of his throat. He leaned over, grabbed his wastepaper bin and vomited until only bile was left. He sat up, shaking. Eyes watering. He didn’t know whether it was from being sick or from the horrific images that filled his mind. That had contaminated him. That had taken over.
He forced them back. He knew the things he had witnessed would never leave him. They never did. Especially images this horrific and as cruel. They stayed – forever.
Brady thought of James David Macintosh.
Where are you, you sick son of a bitch? Because I’ll find you . . . and if you’ve hurt her . . . If you’ve hurt her the way you hurt the other little girl then I’ll . . .
Brady stood up. Fists clenched. It was time to go. The hours were fast running out. He had vowed that he would hunt Macintosh down. Regardless of how long it took.
Acknowledgements
I am eternally grateful, and always will be, to Jenny Brown.
Heartfelt thanks to all at Mulholland Books and Hodder & Stoughton for being such an incredible team. Also, a huge thank you to Keshini Naidoo for her expertise.
Finally, I am truly indebted to my editor, Ruth Tross – thank you for being so fantastic.
If you’ve enjoyed BLOOD RECKONING, why not try another Jack Brady book?
Read on for an extract from the gripping BLIND ALLEY, out now.
Chapter One
Thursday, 24th October: 10:23 p.m.
He watched her as she came outside. She couldn’t see him – he had made sure of that. He sat back in the dark and waited. It was the anticipation of what was about to follow that he savoured more than the event itself. He licked his bottom lip. The location was perfect. Run-down and deserted. If anyone heard anything they wouldn’t get involved. People here minded their own business. She couldn’t have chosen a better place for what was about to happen to her. If only she knew . . .
He smiled to himself. He clenched and unclenched his hands as mentally he walked through the various scenarios he had meticulously planned.
Trina McGuire pursed her bright red lips and sucked on her tab as her cold, hard eyes scanned the shadowy street corners. It was second nature for her. A silver saloon car turned slowly off Saville Street West down onto Borough Road, casting its harsh beam over her. Blowing out smoke seductively, she looked in the direction of the driver. The silver car was now parked directly opposite her with the engine idling. The driver’s face was in shadow but she knew he was watching her. Before she had a chance to walk over, he drove off. She was no fool. She was aware that the glare of his headlights had done her no favours. T
he roots of her long, straggly, bleached-blond hair and the uneven fake-tan smears on her arms and legs would be all too visible.
‘Fuck you!’
She was getting too old for this game. And she was cold, despite it being mild for late October. She wrapped her thin, bare arms across her low-cut vest top in an attempt to keep warm.
She rested her back against the wall and listened to the dull thump of U2 on the jukebox inside as she smoked. Anything to calm her nerves. She had never known the streets to be so dark and quiet. Business was virtually non-existent. Even the Ballarat pub was empty apart from the hardcore regulars. She shivered again. She could feel the small, prickly hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She didn’t know what it was, but something felt wrong. Maybe it was just her nerves getting the better of her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her. She glanced up and down the badly lit street. She couldn’t see anyone. Or could she?
‘Fuck this!’ she muttered as she threw away what was left of her cigarette.
She turned on her three-inch red heels, about to go back in.
Before she had a chance to realise what was happening, he had already dragged her into the alley behind the pub where the rubbish bins were kept. A large leather-gloved hand covered her mouth, preventing her from screaming. Panicking, she struggled to get free but it was futile. He had the upper hand. He was at least six foot one and built like a Rottweiler on steroids.
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