Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (16 page)

Another concern was Martin Madley’s whereabouts. Brady had confirmed that Madley and two other men had boarded a flight yesterday afternoon at Newcastle Airport. Worryingly, it was to the same destination as Chantelle Robertson. Brady had tried to ring Madley again. Still no response. It wouldn’t have surprised Brady if Madley had a villa in Malaga. But would he be able to trace it? Madley was no fool. He covered his tracks and his assets well. If Madley had some luxurious Spanish retreat, Brady doubted he would actually register it in his own name. Tax evasion being one of many reasons.

Brady thought it was obvious that Chantelle Robertson had flown out to join Madley. But why would Madley want his hotel receptionist with him? Brady had already done the maths. Her flight had been booked at 12:40 p.m., forty minutes after the victim’s body had been discovered by the maid. It wouldn’t have surprised Brady to find out that Madley had been informed before the police. Forty minutes later, Chantelle Robertson was at the airport booking a flight to Malaga.

Coincidence? No.

‘Thanks, Joanne. That’s really helpful.’

‘Yeah, well, I thought you’d want to know.’

And she was right. Brady wanted to know why Carl the bartender had forgotten to mention this when questioned. Brady and his team had spent hours going through all the statements taken from staff and residents alike. All Madley’s staff had been interviewed – apart from Chantelle – including the ones who worked in the Blue Lagoon next door. A photograph of the victim had been shown to everyone questioned. There was a chance that he had been drinking in the club before ending up in the hotel room. Seemingly he hadn’t. But then, apparently, Carl had not been completely truthful with his version of events either.

All thoughts of Claudia and returning home disappeared. There was one place he needed to be, regardless of the time – the Blue Lagoon nightclub. Brady grabbed his coat and phone and left without a word to the rest of the team. He had told them to knock off at midnight unless any significant leads came in. They’d reconvene in the morning at 8:00 a.m. In the meantime, they had his number.

‘Didn’t expect to see you here,’ Brady said.

Carl looked at him.

‘The place is dead,’ Brady clarified. It was an understatement. Then again, uniformed presence next door, accompanied with police tape sealing off the premises, could do that for business.

Carl shrugged. Non-committal. ‘I work when I’m told to work.’

Brady expected no less. Carl was the bartender for the Blue Lagoon nightclub. But in reality, he was Madley’s sentinel. His personal look-out, who watched everything and everyone. He was a barman, receptionist, bouncer and Madley’s most loyal employee. With good reason. The Mancunian bartender had lost his eye working for Madley, the result of a hard punch from a handful of keys hidden in a clenched fist. Some angry, loud-mouthed pisshead had lost his temper and had decided to take it out on the wrong guy. But Madley looked after his own. Carl had received the best private medical care possible, no expense spared. Whether Madley had seen to Carl’s attacker afterwards, Brady couldn’t say for sure. But he had heard that he had been dealt with in a manner befitting his crime.

Brady liked Carl. Liked his attitude. He wasn’t intimidated by anyone – including Brady. Carl may have only been in his early twenties but he had an ease about him that placed him as older than his years. He was a handsome kid. Even after the loss of his eye. Never short of female attention. Tall, physically fit, with tousled curly dark blond hair and designer stubble – throw in the fact that he was always impeccably dressed and it was fair to say he had ‘presence’. And he knew it. He was a young Madley in the making.

‘Coffee?’ Carl said as he walked over to the state-of-the-art stainless steel ECM Heidelberg Barista espresso coffee machine.

‘Rather have a scotch,’ Brady replied. He hadn’t realised how much he needed one until now. It was late. He was tired. And he was no further forward in the case.

Molly Johansson had been no help. And Alexander De Bernier was proving not to be what he had expected. Instead, one word stood out – duplicitous. The alarm bells weren’t ringing in Brady’s head – they were screeching. Then there was the missing link – the receptionist who was on duty last night. Chantelle Robertson.

His head was pounding. His primary concern was that whoever had killed De Bernier would strike again. In the Seventies, The Joker had waited just seven days after he killed his first victim before murdering the second one. By the end of his killing spree his cooling-off period had dropped to less than twenty-four hours. The prospect of this happening again terrified him.

‘Thanks,’ Brady said when Carl put the double measure in front of him. ‘Where’s the boss?’ He knew the answer but he just wanted to make sure that they were reading the same script.

‘Spain. Golfing holiday.’

Brady nodded. He’d heard exactly the same from the receptionist. Not the destination, just the holiday part. But Brady needed to talk to Madley. He just needed to make sure that Madley hadn’t pissed off any business associates. It wasn’t that long ago that an undercover copper had been dumped, mutilated and bleeding out, in the Gents of the Blue Lagoon. It had transpired that Madley had made a serious enemy of some powerful people. They’d wanted him to join forces with them, or alternatively, let them buy him out. Madley had refused, not liking the ‘business’ they dealt in. Human trafficking and sex slavery to be precise. The price? A copper left for dead as a warning in his place of business, bringing with it the police.

‘What’s your take on what happened next door?’

For the briefest of moments, Carl looked thrown by the question. ‘I dunno. You tell me. You’re the copper.’

Brady stared at him, trying to glean whether he really knew anything. That was the reason he was here. Hoping that Carl would throw him some scraps of information. Anything. If there was one person who would have noticed something unusual, out of character, it was Carl.

‘Where were you last night?’

Carl looked amused. ‘What? I’m a suspect now?’

‘I assume you’re looking after things while Madley’s away.’

Carl shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

Brady persisted. ‘What hours did you work yesterday?’

‘The graveyard shift,’ Carl answered.

‘Very droll. I just need to know if you saw anything. Or anyone acting suspiciously.’

‘I’ve already told your lot. I didn’t see anything.’

Brady nodded. Took a mouthful of scotch. He savoured the burning in his mouth as it slid down the back of his throat. It wasn’t a single malt. It was a blend; scratchy and raw. Nonetheless, he appreciated the numbing sensation that followed the brash taste.

He considered his options. He needed information. And he knew Carl, despite his pretence, was holding something back. The problem was that Carl could be an obstinate bastard at times.

Two more swigs and the scotch was gone. Brady placed the glass down on the bar and looked Carl in the eye. ‘Let me level with you. A serious crime took place in the Royal. At a guess, it happened late last night or in the early hours of this morning.’ Brady lowered his voice as he continued. ‘One person checked into that room: John Smith.’

Carl waited.

One theory was that the victim had checked into room 212 under a pseudonym. Another was that it was his killer who had checked in. Brady was looking into both. ‘But two people were there. One left the room alive. That’s the one I’m interested in.’

‘I can see why,’ Carl replied.

‘You worked the hotel front of desk last night. Why?’

It took Carl a moment to answer – as if he was distracted, or thinking of a reply. ‘You lot know what trouble we get down here on weekends. Our clients tend to be stag and hen parties by the coachload. They come from all over the place. Birmingham, Glasgow – you name it. And they come looking for one thing. To escape. Get drunk, get laid and then get out of Dodge. But at times they can be too much for the receptionists that work here. Sexual harassment and all that. So Mr Madley asked me to look into it.’

Brady nodded. It was a good enough answer. Plausible even. And it matched with what he had already been told.

‘What about Gibbs and that wiry little runt from the East End that your boss is so fond of?’

‘They’re both accompanying Mr Madley.’

Madley had assumed that the ‘heavies’ Gibbs and Weasel Face were with Madley. It matched with the flight bookings to Spain yesterday afternoon. And if he had them with him, he meant business.

He knew Carl was lying about the front desk situation. Something else was going on. But he wasn’t here to find out what. Brady was only interested in finding De Bernier’s killer.

‘You know I still can’t get hold of the receptionist on duty last night?’

Carl didn’t look too surprised.

‘By all accounts she took a flight to Malaga early this afternoon.’

Carl didn’t react.

‘Did she mention it to you last night?’

‘No.’

‘Seems odd, don’t you think? The flight was booked around midday. I wonder why she would suddenly decide to go to Spain. By all accounts, her parents had no idea. She came home, got her passport, packed a suitcase and she’s gone. No explanation. Nothing. And she’s scheduled to be back in at work for eight tomorrow morning.’

Carl shrugged. ‘She never mentioned it to me. Maybe she’d had enough of Whitley Bay? Opted for the sunshine instead.’

Brady waited. It was clear that Carl was not going to offer anything else on the subject. He took out a photograph of the victim. Slid it across the bar towards Carl. Watched as he picked it up.

‘Don’t recognise him.’

‘Look again.’

Carl made a play of scrutinising the photograph of the victim, then shook his head. ‘No. Definitely didn’t see him.’

The photograph would be on all the front pages tomorrow morning and across the news headlines, even though Brady had tried his best to stop the speculation. He’d followed Gates’ orders and kept his mouth shut. Fed the press the usual crap, that the police were busy investigating a suspicious death. That if the public had seen anything suspicious or had any relevant information to contact the police. The details of the murder had been vague, but word would get out. No matter how hard Brady tried to keep the press at a distance, they had a way of sniffing out a story. He had already had Rubenfeld, a hard-nosed hack with the
Northern Echo
 – and Brady’s snitch when there was something in it for him – on the phone. Brady could hear him salivating at the thought of a front page story. Brady wasn’t throwing him any scraps. He couldn’t. The reason was simple: the headlines would incite public hysteria. He thought of the press cuttings he had read from the Seventies murder cases. The press had dined out on The Joker for years afterwards. He had never been caught. No resolution. No punishment meted out. Nothing. He had just disappeared.

Until now
.

‘Look, Carl,’ Brady paused, ‘you’ve got a choice. Give me something, then I’ll back off. Don’t, then I’ll keep coming back. And each time, I’ll bring backup to re-interview every member of staff. Then I’ll pick apart the hotel next door, this nightclub and your boss’s offices upstairs. I know that Madley won’t be best pleased to have the police poking around. Not when all you have to do is tell me what you know.’

It was clear from Carl’s expression that he didn’t like being threatened. Who did? But Brady had no choice. Carl knew something. He had to. Otherwise, why was Brady standing here?

Carl nodded. His expression was cold, eyes hard as nails as he stared at Brady. ‘All right.’

‘Go on,’ Brady instructed.

‘Some girl came in after half ten. Drunk and hysterical. She had a taxi waiting for her outside.’

‘What did she look like?’ Brady asked, not wanting to jump to conclusions. But he already had a good idea who Carl was talking about.

‘Tall, thin, blonde. Good-looking, if her face wasn’t so messed up from crying. She had mascara running down her cheeks and smeared lipstick across one cheek. Not a good look. Her accent wasn’t from around here. Sounded South African.’

Brady recognised the description: Molly Johansson.

‘Why had she turned up?’

‘Claimed her boyfriend was in the hotel. That she knew he was here. She wanted us to check our records. See what room he was in so she could “chop his cheating balls off!” Her words. Verbatim.’

Brady resisted the urge to grab hold of Carl’s suit jacket and shout in his face that he was a fucking idiot for not mentioning it earlier. Somehow he reined it in. ‘What did you do?’

‘I told her to go home and sober up. That we weren’t in the business of revealing the identity of our clients. Regardless of whether they claimed to be the wife, the girlfriend or the boss. That client confidentiality matters.’

‘Did she do as you asked?’

‘What do you think? She refused to leave. Said that she’d wait for him at the hotel bar. That he would have to leave at some point. I said that we didn’t want a scene and she assured me there wouldn’t be one.’

‘You didn’t see her leave?’

‘No. The taxi left. She went and paid it. Came back in and went to the toilets. Sorted her face out and then headed for the bar. Last time I checked, she’d gone. I imagine she’d given up waiting and ordered a taxi.’

‘What time was it when you noticed that she had gone?’

Carl shrugged. ‘Before midnight.’

Brady couldn’t hide the incredulity he felt.

‘What?’ Carl asked.

‘You didn’t think that was significant in any way?’ Brady did his best to keep his voice controlled. It was proving difficult.

‘She was some young, drunk, girl mouthing off that her boyfriend was in one of our rooms screwing someone else. How does that figure in a murder investigation?’

Brady shook his head. ‘For a smart bloke, you can be exceptionally fucking stupid!’

‘Do you know how many fights I have to sort out? Girls claiming their boyfriend’s just shagged some lass in the toilets over there?’ Carl gestured towards the Gents. ‘Loads. Take the hotel next door. People come here wanting privacy. If they want to bang someone else other than their missus, that’s their prerogative. It’s not for me or you to moralise. Life’s shit. Straight up. So if people want to fuck around, have a shag-fest right under my nose, I look the other way. Not my business. That’s what I’m paid to do. ’