Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (21 page)

It was DC Kodovesky’s turn to question the forensic pathologist. ‘I don’t understand. Are you saying that this is the same person? The same killer from thirty-seven years ago? How could that even be possible?’

Brady knew he was going to have to call an end to the briefing. The same questions were being raised as the team tried to get their heads around the murder – or murders. They were getting nowhere, and fast. He took a much-needed drink of water. He had a hell of a lot to get through today, once the briefing was over. There were still a few areas he needed to cover. But then the murder team had to get to work. In particular, delving into De Bernier’s personal life. They still didn’t know where he had relocated. Or how he could afford such expensive designer clothes and accessories. Bank accounts had to be accessed to find out what money De Bernier actually had and where he had sourced it. Brady was certain there was more to him than they initially first suspected. He was hoping that the victim’s girlfriend would have some of the answers.

He looked at Kodovesky. In her late twenties, she was one of the youngest members of his team. Her long black hair was always worn scraped back into a tight knotted ponytail. It was a harsh look. But it suited her. Her clothes were professional, yet practical: a black polo neck top, black pinstriped trousers and low-heeled black boots. She never deviated from this dress code. For good reason; the same reason she never wore make-up on the job or a skirt. Kodovesky was making a statement. She was a pragmatist. And as such, she was all too aware that she worked in a male-dominated police force. Women did make it through the ranks. But they were still the rarity; the one example that could be cited to prove that equality existed in a predominately testosterone-fuelled environment. One where the size of your bollocks still counted. The bigger, the better. Consequently, Kodovesky chose to downplay the gender card. Her air of detachment was simply self-preservation. She had a lot to prove, despite being better at the job than most of her male peers.

She was clean-cut and career-obsessed. Two words interested her – fast-tracking. Like Conrad, she did not socialise with other coppers. She kept her head down, did what was asked of her and more, and then went home. Brady could guarantee that she would always be the first one in and the last one out, and admired her dogged tenacity. She knew where she wanted to be, which was giving out orders behind the DCI’s desk.

Amelia looked at Kodovesky and nodded. ‘Good point and one that I’ve been struggling with. The problem we have here is that even though the MO has changed, with a physically different type of victim, and a radically different crime scene choice, the signature is identical,’ she said. She then looked around at the rest of the faces. ‘I’m sure you’re all aware that the modus operandi is the methodology of the crime. Meaning the procedures and rules that the suspect follows. You can see that with the first seven victims the perpetrator was consistent with his type of victim and choice of crime scene. But an MO can evolve over time and change as a result of the suspect’s experience. This can then have an impact on the planning and execution of the crime and even the choice of victim.’ Amelia stopped for a moment, allowing the room to register what she was saying. ‘If this is the same suspect, then it would be a given that he would have evolved and changed over thirty-seven years.’

‘Why now? Why start again?’ Kodovesky asked.

It was a question that was on everyone’s mind. Including Brady’s. He had done nothing but think about it from the moment he walked into the crime scene. But he had already reached a conclusion. He was curious to know whether Amelia had reached the same one.

‘And you say “he”, are you certain the suspect is male? I can understand the Seventies murderer being male . . . but with De Bernier, maybe it was his girlfriend. Especially given the threatening text she sent him,’ Kodovesky said as she looked from Amelia to the crime scene photos of the victims on the whiteboard. ‘Women may commit less than ten per cent of murders but surely that doesn’t rule them out. They’re still driven by the same forces as male murderers. And his girlfriend did have the motive. She also threatened to . . .’ Kodovesky paused, embarrassed to point out the obvious.

Amelia stepped in. ‘To chop his penis off because she suspected he was cheating on her?’

Kodovesky nodded, her cheeks unusually flushed. ‘Yes. There’s the infamous case of Lorena Bobbitt who cut off her husband’s penis because he was abusive and unfaithful. But this is a practice that has been going on for centuries.’

Brady was impressed with what he was hearing. She had actually put some thought into the case.

‘You’re absolutely right,’ Amelia replied. ‘Lorena Bobbitt was not the first woman and nor will she be the last to cut off an adulterous partner’s straying anatomy. It may surprise you,’ Amelia said as she turned to the rest of the room, ‘that there has been a culture of cutting off penises throughout the centuries. Whether as a punishment for a criminal act or as personal vengeance. It was a practice prevalent in South East Asia. Particularly during the Seventies, when there were over one hundred cases reported of Thai women cutting off their husbands’ penises.’ Amelia paused for a moment.

Brady could see Harvey wincing at what he was hearing. Even Daniels looked grim for once. Then again, monogamy was not a practice Daniels subscribed to.

‘In case any of you were wondering, the reason for this sudden spate of penis mutilations was the same reason that Lorena Bobbitt gave as her defence. They were objecting to their husbands’ practice of keeping a second wife,’ Amelia explained. She looked around at some of the wry smiles from some of the males in the room. ‘This was acceptable in traditional Thai culture but these extra-marital relations were not supported by the law, which enforced monogamy. Some women were not even sentenced. Even Lorena Bobbitt was acquitted. And I’m sure the men in here will want to know that the police found John Bobbitt’s penis and that surgeons managed to successfully reattach it to the extent he went on to become a porn star.’

There was a ripple of laughter around the room. Brady noticed that there were two people who remained taciturn: Conrad and Kodovesky.

Brady waited until the noise gradually died down. It was time to wind it up. But he had one last question.

‘If we are seriously considering that it’s the same suspect, where has he been for thirty-seven years?’ Brady asked, looking directly at Amelia.

She looked at him, not surprised by the question. ‘Prison, or a psychiatric hospital. The first seven murders were committed over a relatively short period during the summer of 1977. Then they stopped as abruptly as they started,’ Amelia answered. ‘So, that means that something stopped him.’

Brady nodded. He looked at the rest of the room. ‘Which means that we need to be considering all recently paroled serious offenders. There are four bail hostels in the North East and we have one right in Whitley Bay – Ashley House.’ Brady turned to Harvey and Kodovesky. ‘I want details on every person in those bail hostels.’

‘Sir,’ Kodovesky answered. There was a keenness in her eye. She had something to work with, which was more than they had when she had first walked in.

‘Same applies to psychiatric hospitals. Not just restricted to this area. I want a list of patients recently released across the UK. If our suspect was in his early twenties when he committed these crimes,’ Brady said as he gestured at the whiteboard, ‘that would make him now in his mid-to-late fifties, which narrows the search down considerably.’

‘There is another possibility, of course. What if this is a copycat?’ Amelia said.

Brady nodded. ‘That makes our search even more time-consuming and difficult,’ he said. But he had already thought about this. He could see from the blank faces in front of him that the rest of the team hadn’t quite caught on to the problem. ‘If this suspect,’ Brady gestured towards the Seventies crime scenes, ‘was detained, which would account for the sudden end to his killing spree, what if he talked to someone? Shared a prison cell or a ward with a like-minded inmate? Someone younger than him perhaps? Someone he shared every intimate detail with. Including even the vintage Waddington Joker cards. What if someone else is now copying the original killer? If that’s the case, we’re in trouble. Without the identity of the original Joker, it makes it virtually impossible to find out who could be copying him. And right now we’re running out of time. The Joker killed his second victim seven days after the first. Today’s Monday. De Bernier was murdered on Saturday. You do the maths.’

Brady left it at that. The heavy silence in the room was claustrophobic as everyone weighed up the enormity of the situation.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Monday: 10:08 a.m.

He didn’t waste any time, just headed straight for the aisle. This was the first step. Perhaps the most crucial. He had planned everything meticulously.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ an elderly assistant asked him, suddenly appearing by his side.

James David Macintosh turned slowly to the assistant in the orange B&Q apron. He shook his head. ‘No . . . I know exactly what I’m looking for, thank you.’

Dismissed, the assistant walked off to help another shopper at the end of the aisle.

Macintosh studied the array in front of him. He could feel the excitement stirring in his stomach, slowly awakening . . . A delicious sensation, that made him feel alive.

He smiled as he indulged himself. His mouth watered with anticipation as he chose the one that reminded him of the axe that he had swung repeatedly into his psychiatrist’s skull.

He could feel himself buzzing. The adrenalin building as he relived the skull exploding open. The shock on his face. The realisation as the axe came down. Heavily. Slowly. Beautifully.

He could smell it. Taste it even. The blood.
His blood
.

He touched the blade, gently, reverently, as he imagined swinging the axe. Bludgeoning
his
face.
His skull .
 . .

He swallowed. It would be better this time. So much better than before.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Monday: 10:40 a.m.

Brady’s head was still pounding. He had already taken painkillers but they had had no effect. Whether it was dealing with Claudia throughout the early hours of the morning or the stifling atmosphere in the Incident Room, he couldn’t say. But his head felt like it was going to explode from the tension. To make matters worse, he was now sitting in an interview room with Alexander De Bernier’s parents.

To be fair, Conrad was with him. Neither of them wanted to be here. But they had no choice.

The victim’s parents had chosen to ignore the request to wait at the hotel they had been booked into in Newcastle. Brady had told the liaison officers assigned to them that he would visit later this afternoon. However, they’d wanted to come straight to the station instead of checking into the hotel.

He couldn’t blame them. Alexander was their only son. Their only child. And he was gone. Someone had murdered him in a profoundly cruel way. Brady’s main concern was minimising the gruesome details of their son’s death. There was no need to distress them more than necessary.

‘So . . . how? How did he die?’ Francis De Bernier asked. His voice boomed around the room, deep and assertive as he directed this question straight at Brady.

Brady looked at him. It was clear that he wouldn’t take any bullshit. He was a large man – over six foot four – with curly silver hair and a heavily lined face. He was in his early seventies, his wife in her early sixties. Both looked exhausted. The strain of the devastating news had evidently taken its toll. But Francis De Bernier was clearly doing his best to hold it together. To act like he was in charge. Clinging to an old-fashioned sense of manhood. And he was succeeding – just.

Brady swallowed. His throat felt raw and itchy. The dry air in the room wasn’t helping. Nor was the fact that Molly Johansson was in the adjacent interview room waiting for him to question her. It felt wrong to be here offering lame words of comfort to the victim’s parents when he could be solving their son’s death.

‘Well?’ Francis De Bernier asked.

Brady could see his large hands trembling on the table in front of him. He could obviously tell that his son’s death had been particularly nasty. Why else would the SIO in charge of the case be stalling?

‘He was suffocated,’ Brady said reluctantly.

‘Oh . . .’ was the only response that came from Jacqueline De Bernier. Her brown watery eyes turned away from Brady to her husband as a thin bony hand fluttered up to her neck.

‘I am so sorry,’ Brady offered. But the words hung pointlessly in the brittle air.

Francis De Bernier’s eyes bore into him. It was clear that he didn’t believe his son had just been suffocated; his sharp eyes told Brady he knew there was more to it than that. But out of respect for his wife he didn’t challenge Brady.

‘What else? What else can you tell us?’ Francis De Bernier continued.

Silent tears were now falling down Jacqueline De Bernier’s pale face. Whatever she felt or wanted to say, she kept it to herself. Her short, white hair was immaculately styled. Her clothes tasteful and chosen with care. She was wearing a black suit with flat black pumps. The only make-up she wore was bright red lipstick.

Like his wife, Francis De Bernier was also smartly dressed in a tan linen jacket with a pale blue shirt and tan linen trousers. Dark brown brogues finished the look. But his hair was ragged.

‘At this precise moment, I’m afraid there’s not a lot I can share. But I can assure you that we are doing everything in our power to find whoever did this to your son,’ Brady replied, carefully. Very carefully.

He never liked situations like this. No one did. It was difficult when faced with a murder victim’s grieving loved ones. They knew the victim intimately. Their likes, dislikes. What made them laugh or cry. All Brady and the team had was a body. A decaying body that someone had decided to butcher. Nothing else. They had to build a picture up of who the victim had been in life. But they would never know what he was really like. Nor could they ever feel the pain and anguish that would eat away at the victim’s loved ones. Burying its way deep into their bones, so that every joint ached when they were forced to move on with their lives. To continue existing without them.