Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (11 page)

Amelia looked mildly surprised at this information. ‘You seriously think this could be the same perpetrator?’

Brady could feel Kenny and Daniels watching him.

‘We have to keep our options open. It could be that the original killer has resurfaced or it could be a copycat killer. There is a possible third scenario. That we have a killer who has chosen to murder Alexander De Bernier in the same manner as the Seventies victims to confuse us. To make us believe it’s either the original Joker or a copycat killer.’

Amelia frowned at this suggestion.

‘I honestly don’t know,’ Brady responded. ‘I’m really hoping you can help us on this by narrowing down the potential suspects and giving us a profile to work with. Why was Alexander De Bernier murdered? What was it about him that made him a victim? And then, why was he murdered in this unique way?’

Amelia nodded at Brady. ‘All right. I’ll do my best,’ she answered. ‘Can I have a look at the list of suspects from the original case?’

‘Yeah, Harvey will sort you out with those details. From what we’ve gathered so far the original investigative team didn’t really have much to go on. The team was headed by DI McKaley. At the time, he was crucified by the press for not catching the killer. From what I’ve gathered he’s the only surviving member of the investigative team. The others are all deceased.’

‘Have you told him?’ Amelia asked.

It was an obvious question, and one that Brady would have asked if he had been in her position. What better person to glean information about the Joker killings from than the original SIO? However, it wasn’t that simple.

‘We thought he was also dead, but then it turned out that he’s in a care home in Preston Village, North Shields.’

Amelia looked interested.

Brady shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, he has severe Alzheimer’s. The care home specialises in patients with advanced symptoms of the disease.’

‘Oh . . . I see,’ Amelia answered.

She looked as disappointed as Brady had felt when he had found this out. DI McKaley could have been a very useful source. He hadn’t written off talking to him – not yet. Despite the nurse’s insistence that McKaley point-blank refused visitors.

‘Over the course of the Joker investigation, McKaley brought in four suspects for questioning. They were each detained for a short period but were eventually released without charge. If I’m honest with you, I’ve had a brief look at the case notes and the reasons for bringing them in were fairly tenuous. Out of the four there’s now only one of the original suspects remaining. Two of them are deceased. Harold Walters died a couple of years after he had been released without charge. Suicide,’ Brady explained. ‘Then Roger Sawyer died in the early Eighties. He contracted HIV and then went on to have full-blown AIDS.’

Amelia looked at Brady. ‘Am I guessing that these men were all gay?’

Brady nodded. ‘Each of them had been charged with obscene acts in public toilets.’

Amelia sighed. ‘I understand now why the original investigative team’s reasons for bringing them in were tenuous.’

Brady couldn’t help but notice Amelia shooting Conrad a look of disbelief.

‘The other two suspects?’

‘Martyn Jenkins has cancer. Lung cancer. Prognosis doesn’t look good. From what I’ve been told, he’ll be lucky if he lasts the next twenty-four hours. He’s currently in a hospice in Newcastle.’

‘And the fourth?’ Amelia asked, frowning.

‘Sidney Foster. Left the North East in 1977 after he was released without charge. Can’t say I blame him. He moved around for the next twenty years and from what we’ve gathered he settled down in Cornwall. He’s seventy-one now. I can’t really see him as a likely suspect but we’ve got to follow it through.’

‘Did Sidney Foster have any other priors than obscene acts in public places?’

Brady nodded. ‘He was charged with raping a fifteen-year-old boy in 1977. He was thirty-seven at the time. He was then charged with various sexual offences. All boys under the age of sixteen.’

‘I see,’ Amelia replied. ‘Maybe that’s why he moved around so much? Might be worth questioning him.’

‘Like I said, we’re still trying to track him down,’ Brady said. But he had a gut feeling that Sidney Foster wasn’t their suspect. Even the fact that he had seemingly disappeared did not raise any alarm bells. There was a huge discrepancy between being charged with rape and actually cutting someone’s penis off and choking them to death on it.

‘One element in all of this bothers me,’ Brady admitted. ‘Only the police knew the precise details of the case in the Seventies.’ He wasn’t quite sure what she was thinking. Her eyes were cool and detached as they held his steady gaze.

‘What about the playing card left with each victim? I thought you said that the press called him “The Joker” because of it?’

Brady nodded. Took a moment before he answered her. He needed it. Her air of professional detachment was staring to affect him. It hurt like hell that he had screwed up what had been a friendship between them. But he couldn’t blame Amelia for her behaviour. In fact, she was behaving impeccably. There was no edge to her voice and her demeanour with him was professional but by no means frosty. She was simply getting on with her life. And that included getting on with the job at hand – regardless of Brady.

‘The card was something that got out,’ he explained. ‘I don’t know the whys or hows of the old investigation. But the method by which the victims were killed was never disclosed. In particular, the mutilation to the victims’ groins.’

‘They were all male?’ Amelia asked.

‘Yes. Each one gagged in the same manner.’

‘With their own penis?’ she asked, curious. Her words were slow and deliberate, cutting through the room like a knife.

‘Yes.’ He knew this crime was atypical, as did Amelia. Usually they dealt with hate crimes against women – not men.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she watched Brady. Scrutinised him for some kind of reaction.

He didn’t give her one.

‘All right. That’s it for now.’ Brady watched as Daniels and Kenny scraped their chairs back and stood up. Daniels stretched, while Kenny yawned.

Conrad stood up once they’d left.

‘Wait for me in the car, will you?’ Brady asked Conrad.

He nodded.

Brady turned to Amelia. She was busy packing her briefcase.

‘Can I have a word?’ Brady asked.

She looked up at him. For the briefest of moments, her professional mask slipped.

‘Look . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry,’ Brady begun. It was clumsy and awkward and she knew it. Which made it worse.

‘For what?’ she asked casually as she made a point of busying herself with packing her briefcase.

Brady didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She picked up her briefcase and looked at Brady, waiting.

‘If that’s all?’ Her tone was pleasant and non-combative. But it was purely professional. Nothing more.

Brady nodded weakly. He didn’t know what else he could say.

He watched as Amelia turned and walked out the room. They had always sparred. That had been part of the attraction. Part of the game they played. But now? This was different. He hadn’t known what to expect when he came back to work. But it definitely wasn’t this. Five months was a long time to be away. And in that time a lot had changed. He thought of Conrad. He had no idea what was going on with him. Or why Daniels and Kenny had thought it acceptable to take the piss out of him. Something had happened while he had been away. He was certain of it. During that time DI Adamson would have been in charge of them. Not good. Definitely not with two impressionable blockheads like Daniels and Kenny. Their attitude stank. Worse than their foul, stale lager breath and bleary bloodshot eyes from a night on the lash.

Chapter Thirteen

Sunday: 5:38 p.m.

‘You OK?’

Conrad nodded. ‘I’ll live.’

Brady didn’t mean that and Conrad knew it.

But Conrad was focused on driving.

Brady looked out the window as the street lights passed in a blur. They were heading to Heaton to question the victim’s girlfriend – Molly Johansson. They needed as much information on Alexander De Bernier as possible and what better person to ask than his girlfriend? Most murder inquiries would start with the person closest to the victim. Typically, most murders were acts of blind rage committed by someone the victim knew. A moment’s lapsed judgement in a heated argument could end disastrously. But this wasn’t what had happened here. At least, he didn’t think so.

The murder was too similar to the Seventies murders for Brady to seriously think that the victim’s girlfriend could be responsible. But he needed to talk to her and clarify a few things.

Conrad pulled off Coast Road and onto Heaton Road. He then turned right onto Heaton Park View.

‘Not bad for student accommodation,’ Brady commented as he looked at the large, imposing Victorian houses. Some were detached, others were terraces, but all were in excellent condition, which surprised him.

Conrad parked up outside 1 Heaton Park View.

Brady took in the sight. It was an impressive five-bedroom Victorian detached house with an ornate gravel driveway leading up to the front door.

‘Parents must be paying for this. Can’t imagine their student loan covering the rent on it.’

Conrad didn’t answer. Instead he cut the engine and got out of the car.

Brady watched him. His silence was unnerving. Not that Conrad was one for unnecessary talking, but this was out of character. He got out the car and joined Conrad.

‘Bloody nice street,’ Brady said as he looked across at Heaton Park.

Conrad left Brady to it and made his way to the large, dark green panelled door. He knocked twice. It was heavy, authoritative and commanding.

Moments later there was a crack in the door. A pale, blotchy, mascara-streaked face peeked out.

‘Detective Sergeant Conrad, I rang earlier?’ Conrad introduced himself, flashing his warrant card.

Brady came up behind him. ‘Detective Inspector Brady.’

The young woman waited for Brady to show his card before opening the door wide enough to let them in.

‘Molly Johansson?’ Brady asked as he walked in.

She backed away from him and stood against the wall opposite, arms folded across her white baggy T-shirt. At five foot eleven, she was tall and remarkably thin. Bony even, with long straggly blond hair that was tied up, accentuating her gaunt, hollow features. Her blank blue eyes refused to look at Brady and instead focused on her feet. Her toenails were painted a turquoise blue and she wore a silver toe-ring on her left foot.

‘Ms Johansson?’ Brady repeated. But it was clear it was her. Her body language and swollen, red-rimmed eyes said enough. ‘I am really sorry about your loss. I can only imagine what you must be going through.’

Her eyes drifted up to meet his. Not sure of his sentiment. ‘I need a drink.’ Her voice was raspy, with a distinctive South African accent.

She turned and walked towards the kitchen straight ahead.

Brady noticed two things about the house. It was massive. The hallway could have acted as a living room in itself. But despite the original features of stained-glass windows, ceiling roses and intricate cornicing, it was most definitely a student house. It was grime-infested. He walked down the tacky-feeling wooden floor into the large kitchen. The brilliant fluorescent light overhead did the place no favours. Dishes were stacked high in the sink. Food-encrusted plates and pans had been discarded across the cluttered worktops. Even more surprising was the empty dishwasher stood with the door wide open. Then there was the rubbish everywhere. Empty cans, half-empty take-out containers and bottles of various sorts littered the worktops and the floor around the overflowing, filthy bin. The place had enough rubbish to fill a landfill. Even the smell that lingered in the kitchen was more akin to a garbage dump on a sweltering hot day. Brady could feel the sole of his boots sticking to the floor, reminiscent of playing in a punk band in his youth, in Mingles Whitley Bay on a Friday night. At least then it was so damned dark, you didn’t know what you were standing on, or drinking out of.

Brady assumed there was some kind of guerrilla warfare going on in the student house. Someone had obviously forgotten to do their share and it had descended into all-out war.

Molly’s eyes caught Brady’s. She shrugged it off. ‘Not my mess,’ she said, unapologetic.

Brady watched as she picked up a dirty wine glass. She then went to the fridge and took out a new bottle of Chardonnay. He noticed her fingers trembling as she tried to unscrew the cap.

‘Let me do that?’ Brady offered.

Defeated, she handed the bottle over. He opened it for her and handed it back.

Without thanking him, she poured herself a large glass and took a gulp. Some of it dribbled down her chin. Annoyed, she wiped it away.

‘Want one?’ Suddenly she seemed aware that they were watching her.

‘On duty. Thanks, though,’ Brady answered. Not that he could stomach even a coffee, given the state of the place.

Conrad’s face said as much. Especially after his run-in with his lunch.

‘Do you want to go somewhere more private?’ Brady asked.

She shook her head, freeing some more long strands of blond hair. Her white-knuckled hand clutched her wine glass as she took another drink. ‘This is as good a place as any.’

Brady wondered how much she had already drunk. He assumed as soon as the victim’s parents had told her the devastating news she had hit the bottle. The question was, how many bottles had she hit?

‘You share this house?’

She took another gulp as she thought about the question. ‘Why?’ she asked as she looked at him.

It wouldn’t be long before she was slurring and not able to see straight. Brady looked up at the kitchen clock. It was 5:49 p.m. But then again, she had good reason to want to get off her face.

‘I just want to make sure you’re not on your own tonight,’ Brady answered, his voice gentle, paternalistic.

‘And why would that bother you?’

Brady took a deep breath. He knew Molly was in shock. Right now she was feeling pissed off with the world. And why not? Her boyfriend had been murdered and she now had two coppers she didn’t know from Sherlock wanting to talk to her. And it was clear she was in no mood for talking.