Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (17 page)

‘Since when did you turn so cynical?’ Brady asked.

‘I was born that way.’

Brady resisted the urge to tell Carl what he thought of him. There was one final question. ‘You definitely didn’t give her the room number?’

‘I already said no.’

‘Was there any point when you left the reception area?’

Carl gave it some thought. ‘Yeah, a couple of times. I had to check on the club here. I also got Stu the chef to make me a steak sandwich. So, yeah . . .’

‘Chantelle Robertson was left on her own then?’

Carl sighed, seeing where Brady was taking this.

‘Could she have given the room number to her?’

‘Bit hard if the guest was registered as “John Smith”. Chantelle’s a sweet girl but you’ve got to spell things out for her, if you get my drift.’

‘All right,’ Brady continued, trying to keep his voice level, ‘say Chantelle checked her boyfriend in. So she’d seen him, yeah? He’s a good-looking bloke. Or at least he was. If the girlfriend had a photo on her phone, which I’m sure she would do, and she showed it to her, then Chantelle would recognise him. I’m sure there’s not many blokes who walk in the Royal looking like him. He’d be memorable. Especially to a young woman.’

Carl stared at Brady. ‘Like I said, Chantelle isn’t exceptionally smart.’

‘Thanks for the drink,’ Brady said and then turned and walked towards the front doors.

‘No problem.’

‘Carl?’ Brady said, turning back.

‘Yeah?’

‘Tell your boss I need to speak with him. It’s a matter of course, given what’s happened here. But also tell him I want Chantelle Robertson on a flight back to Newcastle ASAP.’

Carl did not react.

Brady left it. He turned and made his way out of the club.

Once outside he stood for a few moments, letting the chilled spring air cool his temper down. He had bigger problems than his overwhelming desire to go back in there and lay Carl out cold. He needed Molly Johansson brought in for questioning. Three reasons: firstly, she had lied; secondly, she had a motive; thirdly and the most crucial detail of all, she could be placed at the crime scene. Or in the vicinity. It was good enough for Brady to consider her a credible suspect.

What about The Joker? The original killer?

Maybe she knew about the earlier murders? Read old newspaper articles. Found about his signature – the Joker card.

But how the fuck could she know about the way he killed his victims?

Brady thought of the crime scene. The first thing that had struck him was that there hadn’t been a struggle. The victim hadn’t put up a fight. Which meant he had willingly allowed himself to be restrained. It implied that he trusted whoever had bound his hands and legs. He knew them
.

The victim’s girlfriend was clearly upset when Brady had visited her. Angry was a more accurate description. Was it possible that she had suspected her fiancé of having an affair and had followed him last night? Could she have killed him?

Brady attempted to silence the thoughts that hit him like pellets, disabling him.

He wanted Molly Johansson brought in for questioning. Now.

Brady steadied himself. It was too late to interview her tonight. He was too tired to think straight. He couldn’t risk the chance of screwing this up. He would wait until the morning. From the amount she had been knocking back, he knew that she would be in a comatose state right now and he didn’t believe she’d be going anywhere. A patrol car knocking at 6:00 a.m. to bring her in would be good enough.

The majority of the team had already gone home, including Conrad, but a few had stayed to cover the nightshift. Just in case. For a moment Brady was undecided as to what he should do. It was nearly 1:00 a.m. He didn’t want to face Claudia, didn’t have the energy. He knew that she would have been drinking. Would still be drinking. Meaning that she wouldn’t be in a good state – mentally or physically. The beat-up old leather couch under the leaking window in his office seemed really appealing. He desperately needed a few hours’ sleep, just to get his head together. After all, DCI Gates and DI Adamson would be returning later today. He would have a lot of answering to do.

MONDAY

Chapter Eighteen

Monday: 1:39 a.m.

Brady had gone straight home. It was after one in the morning and he was mentally and physically exhausted. He needed a few hours’ sleep and then he would be back at his desk first thing.

He opened the door, hoping that Claudia would be asleep. He was too tired to deal with anything else right now. But she wasn’t. He could hear the mumbling of some Sky arts programme coming from the living room.

He breathed in deeply as he mentally prepared himself.

‘Hey,’ he said as he walked into the living room.

She didn’t even look up at him.

‘I haven’t woken you, have I?’ Brady said softly as he knelt down beside her.

She was lying on the sofa, staring blankly at the flickering TV screen.

‘Claudia?’ Brady whispered as he stroked the unruly curls back off her forehead.

It was unusually clammy.

‘Claudia?’ Brady asked again as he gently tilted her face towards him.

Her dull, lacklustre eyes stared back without any recognition.

Then he noticed something lying on the wooden floor beside her limp, outstretched arm.

He didn’t need to pick up the small plastic bottle to know that it was empty. Alongside it was a bottle of single malt. Two-thirds gone.

Shit! Shit! How many? How many tablets were left?

Brady tried to remember when he had last taken some. He breathed out. Tried to stop himself panicking.

Fucking remember!

Then it came to him. Four. There would have only been four left. He had picked up the repeat prescription on Saturday morning and still had the bottle in his jacket pocket.

Thank fuck . . .

He had been careless. He hadn’t thought. Hadn’t realised she would go through his things looking for his prescription painkillers. If she had taken the full bottle . . .

Stop it! She didn’t. She’s fine . 
. . 
But if she had . . . she would be dead.

‘Claudia?’ Brady asked, scared.

Nothing. Her eyes were lifeless. Her frail body slack and limp.

He pressed his lips against her forehead and then held her against his chest as he tried to figure out what to do. He could take her to hospital to have her stomach pumped but then she would be on suicide watch. The doctors would intervene. Check her medical history. Find out what had happened to her five months ago. Her parents would be notified. Claudia wouldn’t want that. She would hate him if this got out. It was just a desperate attempt at scaring him. That was all. He had left her for the first time in five months. What did he expect? She had panicked. Brady should have come home earlier. Or at least, he should have checked up on her.

She fucking took prescribed painkillers! Washed down with two-thirds of a bottle of scotch. What more do you want?

Brady blinked back the tears. It was only four tablets. That was all.

‘Baby? Can you hear me?’ Brady asked, as he cupped her lolling head in his hands.

Claudia mumbled something. He could see a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

‘Jack?’ she mouthed. It was barely audible. But it was enough. Enough for him not to take her to hospital.

‘I’m here now,’ he answered. ‘I’m here with you.’

Tears slipped down his face as he stroked her pale cheek. He didn’t know what he would do if he lost her. He couldn’t imagine his life without her.

‘Come on,’ he finally said. ‘Let’s go sort you out.’

He scooped her weightless body up in his arms and carried her upstairs to the bathroom.

He needed to put his fingers down her throat. Force her to vomit the tablets and scotch back up. Just to be sure. Then he would put her in the shower. Cold water would help bring her round. Then coffee. Lots of it. Gone were thoughts of sleep. Or of the ongoing investigation. All Brady had on his mind was Claudia.

He lay with her in the darkness. Held her to him. Tight. Secure. She was breathing gently. Asleep now. It was after four-thirty in the morning. He had spent the last few hours forcing her to be sick. He had then held her shivering body against his as he sat with her on the floor of the shower cubicle as icy cold water hit them both. Finally she had come back to him – just. Embarrassed. Apologetic. Crying. Pleading that it was an accident. That she hadn’t intended to harm herself. She had had a headache. That was all. She had only taken four tablets.

Brady hadn’t argued that there had only been four tablets in the bottle to take. The question that tortured him was what if there had been more.

Exhausted, she had finally fallen asleep. But first, he had made Claudia promise she would never do this again. Even if it was, as she claimed, just an accident.

Chapter Nineteen

Monday: 7:30 a.m.

Brady had showered and changed. He had also downed two cups of unadulterated black coffee. It was as strong as a kick in the bollocks from a mule. And it had the desired effect. He had also taken some painkillers to silence the deafening pounding in his head from lack of sleep and was now at his desk. The early hours felt surreal. Daylight made him question whether Claudia’s overdose attempt had actually happened. It dispelled the fear. The doubts. The recriminations. Brady had lain all night with her on his chest, his arms around her, scared to fall asleep in case she stopped breathing. He was in no doubt that he was responsible for what had happened to Claudia both five months ago and last night.

He had left Claudia a note. It was honest. In it, he told her that she’d scared the hell out of him. That they had to talk. He needed to know if she needed help. Not just his help. Professional intervention. He couldn’t lose her. He had come close to it. Too close.

Brady exhaled; slow, deliberate. He had to get his head together. It was his second day back on a major murder investigation. He had to put all thoughts of Claudia to the back of his mind – for now at least.

A patrol car had been ordered to pick up Molly Johansson at precisely 6:00 a.m. There was a reason that police raids always happened early in the morning. It was the element of surprise. No one expected someone to be kicking their door down at that time of the morning. Nine times out of ten, the suspects would be lying in bed scratching their nads, completely unaware. No time to hide.

Brady had a briefing scheduled in thirty minutes. The team had been here since 6:00 a.m., prepping themselves for the day ahead. He was eager to get the briefing over with and interview Johansson, who was currently being held in an interview room. She had kicked up a fuss – understandably – but Brady expected no less. He stared at the open files laid out on his desk, steeling himself for the day ahead. He had been renewing his knowledge of the Seventies serial murders. He wanted something to throw on DCI Gates’ desk when he returned. Something that would knock the smug smile off DI Adamson’s face. Other than his fist.

There was an abrupt knock at the door.

‘Yeah?’ Brady called out as he looked up.

Conrad opened the door and walked in. ‘Brought you something. Reckon that you wouldn’t have eaten last night. Not after spending the evening in the morgue.’ Embarrassed, he placed a greasy paper bag on Brady’s desk. ‘Bacon, two fried eggs in a stottie. Fresh from the canteen.’

Brady looked at him, genuinely surprised. He had forgotten this about his deputy – his unique ability to look out for him. To take care of him when he failed to do so himself. And he was right, Brady hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. A lot had happened to get in the way of his appetite. ‘Thanks, Conrad.’

Grateful, he picked up the greasy bag. ‘Two fried eggs?’ Brady asked, as he took the stottie out the bag.

‘Yes, sir. And with runny yolks.’

Brady broke into a grin. ‘Shit, Conrad! Only you would think of that,’ he said, touched by the sentiment. It may have been a small gesture, but Brady couldn’t remember the last time someone had actually taken time to consider his likes and dislikes. ‘You’ll make someone a good wife one day. You know that?’ Brady joked. But as soon as he had spoken the words, he could see that he had hit a raw nerve. Brady thought back to the conversation in Conrad’s car yesterday evening. It was not what had been said, it was what had
not
been said.

Brady shook it off. He hadn’t meant anything by the joke. He took a bite of the stottie, making sure the bag was placed directly below in case of any spillage.

‘What time did you get to bed?’ Brady asked between mouthfuls.

‘About one-ish. You?’ Conrad asked taking a seat.

‘About the same time,’ Brady answered. But it was a lie – and he was sure it showed. It wasn’t the best look for his second day back on the job. Let alone for the day DCI Gates would be marching into his office demanding to know what the fuck Brady was doing about the Joker-style murderer they had on their hands. Gates would want to know if the original killer had resurfaced or if they had a copycat murderer to contend with. Either way, it would mean that the body count would go up. But right now, Brady just wasn’t so sure that they had a serial killer on their hands.

Admittedly, he’d brought the victim’s girlfriend in for questioning. Was she a suspect? Simple answer – yes. Could she have killed her boyfriend? Again, yes. Jealousy and betrayal were powerful driving forces. Combine them with alcohol, and it could be fatal. But did he really believe she could be responsible? Brady would answer that once he had interviewed her. But it was Molly Johansson that had made him think that this was more about the victim than the Seventies Joker murders. What troubled Brady was, why set the murder scene up to look as if Alexander De Bernier had been killed by the original Joker murderer, or even a copycat killer? Why go to all that effort to try and fool the police? It didn’t make sense to him.