Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (12 page)

‘Because you’ve received some distressing news and I want to make sure that you’re not on your own,’ Brady explained.

‘Yeah? That’s nice of you.’ She took another gulp.

‘Molly . . . You don’t mind if I call you Molly?’ Brady asked.

She shrugged as she reopened the bottle of wine and poured herself another liberal measure. ‘We were going to get married. You know? After uni we were going to get engaged and then in a few years’ time, get married. Alex had it all planned – even the date of our wedding.’

Brady kept quiet. He knew now wasn’t the time to be direct. She would see it as confrontational. Molly was looking for a fight and it didn’t matter who with. It was easier to let her talk her way through it.

‘Why the fuck would he do that? Why?’ she asked as she wiped aggressively at the tears spilling down her reddened cheeks.

Brady looked across at Conrad, who seemed at a loss.

‘You mean, why was he at the Royal Hotel last night?’ Brady ventured.

She stared at him as if he might have the answer.

‘We were hoping you could tell us that.’

She knocked back another large gulp of wine.

‘Molly?’ Brady repeated.

‘I don’t know,’ she answered reluctantly. ‘I don’t know why he was in a hotel last night. I can only imagine.’

‘He didn’t say anything to you?’

She shook her head.

‘When did you last see him?’

She raised her eyes and looked at Brady. ‘Why?’

‘We just need to know Alexander’s whereabouts yesterday. Anyone he met, talked to on the phone. Had arrangements to meet, even.’

Molly Johansson answered. ‘I last saw him sometime yesterday morning.’

Brady could see that she would be seen by some to epitomise a certain type of youthful beauty. Her pale, eggshell skin, her painfully thin body and angular features were very heroin chic. He wouldn’t have been surprised if at the age of fifteen she had been on the front cover of
Vogue
. She had that arrogant haughtiness about her, accompanied by the height and looks. She seemed an equal match for Alexander De Bernier.

‘Did you have a fight?’ Brady asked. His felt there was more to this than she was revealing. She seemed angry. Not at Brady, although he was on the receiving end. She was angry with her boyfriend. And Brady needed to find out why.

Her blank eyes suddenly sparked, then faded. ‘Just the usual . . .’ she shrugged.

‘What’s the usual?’

‘Work. He was committed to his job.’

‘I thought he was studying for a Masters in politics?’ Brady asked.

‘We both are . . .’ she paused, realising.

‘But he worked?’ Brady pushed, not wanting to lose her.

‘Yes. He had an internship with an MP. He wanted to be a politician. His aim was to be in the House of Commons in ten years’ time. And Alex would have done it. People believed in him. He was good. Good at what he did . . .’ She stopped.

‘So the argument was over his commitment to work?’

Molly Johansson gave a half nod. ‘I guess so. I can’t really remember now. It just seems so inconsequential.’ Her voice trailed off as the tears melted down her sculpted cheekbones.

‘Where did he go after he left you?’

‘I don’t know. He stayed over here on Friday night. Then he left in the morning. I assumed he had gone home. But . . . I . . . I honestly don’t know. He never answered my calls, or my texts. I was worried. Rang around all our friends. Nobody had seen or heard from him all of yesterday. And then his parents called me two hours ago to say . . .’ Molly stopped. Looked at Brady, then Conrad, before taking another drink.

‘Did Alexander have any enemies that you know of?’ Brady asked.

Molly laughed. It was as abrupt and sudden as it was cold and bitter. ‘Alex? Fuck no! Everyone loved Alex. He was so charismatic and so fucking good-looking that everyone just adored him.’ As if surprised by her own outburst, she dropped her gaze to her wobbling wine glass.

But not before her eyes betrayed her. Brady had seen the flash of pure anger in them. She was furious with her boyfriend. It didn’t matter that he was dead. Brady wasn’t quite sure exactly what was going on. But one thing he was certain of, she knew more than she was letting on.

‘Who was he doing his internship with?’ Conrad asked.

Molly Johansson turned to Conrad, as if surprised that he was there. She took a slow, deliberate drink before answering. ‘The MP, Robert Smythe. We both worked as interns for him.’

Brady noted that Conrad seemed to recognise the name.

‘Could Alexander have been working for Robert Smythe yesterday?’ Brady asked.

She shook her head. More loose strands fell out of the twisted knot of hair. Some fell down on her shoulders, other strands clung resiliently to her damp cheeks, giving her a drunken, dishevelled look. Not that she cared. Brady could see that the last thing she was bothered about was her appearance. She needed a tissue for her face. It bothered him that he didn’t have one to give to her. Tears slid down onto her top lip. As if she read his mind, she swiped at it with the back of her hand, which she then wiped on her black leggings.

‘Why not?’ Brady continued.

‘Smythe was going to Brussels for a political conference. Said he was leaving early this morning and would be away for five days.’

‘And you have no knowledge of why Alexander would be in the Royal Hotel last night?’

Again, Molly shook her head.

‘Nor who he might have been meeting?’

At this, more tears came. ‘I already said so. I don’t know who he was fucking meeting do I! That’s the point. He shouldn’t have been meeting anyone.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Brady said, his voice low. But it was too late.

She glugged back the rest of her wine and then used the heel of her hand to wipe her snotty nose. She then opened the bottle of Chardonnay.

‘Why don’t you let me make you a coffee?’ Brady suggested.

She made a point of pouring a large glass for herself and then turned, glass in hand, to look at Brady.

‘Why don’t you just leave? I’ve told you everything I know. Shouldn’t you be out there catching whoever killed him? Well?’

Brady didn’t answer. But his expression said enough. It was understanding and apologetic.

‘Anyway, here’s to fucking Alex,’ she said as she raised her smeared glass, ignoring Brady. ‘You fucking cheating bastard!’ She gulped back a couple of mouthfuls in an attempt to stop the tears.

‘You OK, Mol?’

Brady turned. A young man was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Twenty-something, with wild, shaggy blond hair with a tinge of red, and a woolly, reddish-brown goatee.

‘Fucking A, Jamie! I’m on my way to getting shit-faced. Oh yeah . . . Meet Inspector Holmes and Watson here,’ she said as she waved her wine glass at them.

‘Detective Inspector Brady and Detective Sergeant Conrad,’ Brady said.

‘Great. Well . . . Jamie Scrafton,’ she said as she jerked her head towards him, ‘he’s one of my housemates.’

‘You staying with her tonight?’ Brady asked him. He was a good-looking bloke with kind eyes.

Jamie nodded. ‘Yeah. I’ll keep an eye on her.’

‘Did you know Alexander well?’ Brady ventured.

‘Nah. Saw him around when he was here with Molly. But that was it. I’m studying architecture and they’re taking politics. Kind of hung out in different places if you get my drift. But he was a really nice guy. Can’t believe someone would do that to him. You know? Like . . . kill him?’

‘Look, if there’s anything you think of, call me. I’ll leave my number for Molly with you as well. Just in case she thinks of anything relevant.’

‘Sure, glad to help, man,’ Jamie said as he took the card with Brady’s contact details on. ‘Really hope you get the bastard who did it.’

Brady nodded at him. ‘Molly?’

She was slouched against the worktop now, her eyes heavy and glazed. Brady couldn’t tell if it was from crying or too much booze.

‘I’ll no doubt need to talk to you again. But in the meantime, if you think of anything, Jamie has my card. OK?’

Whether she heard Brady, he wasn’t sure. But she didn’t answer him.

‘Roll me a cigarette, will you, Jamie?’

‘Come on, Mol, you don’t smoke,’ Jamie objected.

‘Haven’t you heard, hon? My cheating fucking boyfriend’s been found dead in some cheap hotel in Whitley Bay! Alexander De Bernier, destined for great things, murdered in some sordid hotel room. So yes, I don’t smoke. So fucking what?’ she slurred, her voice raised.

‘OK . . . OK . . . I’ll roll you one.’

Jamie looked at Brady and Conrad and gave them an apologetic shrug. ‘She’s not normally like this. She’s just in shock.’

‘You’re a good mate,’ Brady said, patting Jamie’s shoulder. He walked past him and out into the hallway, followed by Conrad.

‘What did you think?’ Brady asked him once they were in the car.

‘Well, she’s drunk. Not surprising really after the news she’s received.’

‘I don’t mean that. I’m interested in the fact that she was certain he was cheating on her. If the victim’s injuries weren’t so similar to the Seventies murders, I’d be hauling her in for questioning.’

‘You really think she could be capable of killing her own boyfriend?’ Conrad asked, surprised.

‘Her? Yeah. In the right mood, anyone’s capable.’

‘Can’t blame her for being upset, sir. She’s just found out her boyfriend was more than likely meeting someone in a hotel to have sex.’

Brady shook his head. ‘This wasn’t a one-off. This wasn’t the first time De Bernier met someone for sex. This was a regular occurrence. He was having an affair, Conrad. She said as much. Question is, who with?’

Conrad turned the engine on, put his foot on the accelerator and smoothly pulled away.

‘What makes you so sure?’ Conrad asked as he looked at Brady, frowning when he saw Brady’s expression.

‘You all right, sir?’

‘Yeah,’ Brady muttered. But it was a lie. His leg was giving him jip again. He felt in his inner jacket pocket for painkillers. He had had the foresight to bring a bottle. The pain necessitated prescribed painkillers. He flipped the lid off the small bottle, popped two into his mouth then swallowed them back dry. He then leaned back against the headrest. Eyes closed, he waited for the burning white pain to ease. Not that it ever entirely left, but on a good day he could get it down to a dull background noise. Not today. It was the first time since they had pinned and bolted his leg together that he had been so active on it. And he had one hell of a headache. One that seemed to be worsening as the hours slipped by.

Conrad kept quiet.

‘She knows something, Conrad. She bloody knows something.’

‘Do you want me to turn round and go back?’

‘No. Leave her for now. We won’t get anywhere. But I guarantee she’s holding something back. What about the victim’s house?’ Brady asked.

‘Going there now, sir.’

Brady closed his eyes. ‘Good.’

Chapter Fourteen

Sunday: 6:49 p.m.

Brady used his fist to repeatedly bang on the door. He had been knocking for five minutes. Another minute and he would kick the door down. He knew there was someone inside. The thumping music and upstairs bedroom light was a giveaway.

‘Coming! For fuck’s sake, what’s your problem?’ yelled a male voice on the other side as he released the deadlock.

A twenty-something dishevelled-looking man poked his head out from behind the door.

‘Police!’ Brady flashed his warrant card. It was enough. The guy knew they were serious.

Without thinking, he tried to close the door.

Brady threw himself against it, ramming it open.

‘Fucking hell, man!’ the young man protested as he backed away with his hands out in front of him. ‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘Nobody said you had,’ Brady answered as he weighed up the short, scrawny male trembling in front of him, dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts. ‘I heard that student life was hard but I didn’t realise that it meant the choice between beer and clothes.’

‘I was in bed,’ he replied sourly.

‘Explains why it took you so long to answer the door to the police, then.’

The student scratched his head, making his hair even messier. ‘I was up all night. OK? It’s not against the law is it?’

Brady looked at Conrad and shrugged. ‘Depends what you were getting up to, doesn’t it?’

‘We haven’t got any weed here. All right! Talk about a fucking police state!’

Brady wasn’t here to do a drugs search. He didn’t have a warrant and had no evidence. Add to that, he didn’t have the time or inclination to even be bothered about the student’s recreational habits. Not when he had a murder victim on his hands.

‘Your housemate, Alexander De Bernier. We want to see his bedroom.’

The student scratched his head again, confused. ‘What?’

‘Alexander De Bernier?’ Brady repeated.

‘Yeah . . . Shit, course I know Alex. But he moved out of here two weeks back. Paid to the end of the lease even though he had four more months to go. Said we could rent his room out if we wanted.’

‘He’s moved out?’ Brady said as he shot Conrad a ‘what the fuck’ look.

‘Yeah. Like I said, two weeks back.’

‘Where?’

‘Christ! I don’t know. Alex and I weren’t close. What about his girlfriend? She’ll know.’

‘Seems she believed he was still living here.’

‘Shit, man! That sucks,’ the guy said. It seemed clear that he thought Alex had met someone else. ‘Why would he fuck around on that, eh?’

‘And he definitely didn’t leave a forwarding address for any mail that might come here?’

‘No.’ He shrugged. ‘Have you tried the uni? They’ll have a record of his new address. Or his parents?’

Brady looked at Conrad. The expression on his face told Brady that both had this address on file.

Fuck!

‘Can we see his bedroom?’

‘Sure. No one’s moved into it yet.’

He started leading them up the stairs when he suddenly stopped and turned back. ‘What’s Alex done anyway?’

Brady looked up at the scrawny young man. ‘He’s been murdered.’

‘Fuck me! You’re not serious?’

‘His bedroom?’ Brady asked, ignoring his question.