Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (31 page)

‘There’s definitely no phone record between Hughes and the victim on the night in question?’ Brady asked Conrad.

‘No, sir. The last communication between them was on the Friday, fourteenth March.’

Brady felt as if the investigation was running away from him. Spinning out of control. The problem was not that they didn’t have any suspects. It was the fact that they already had three key suspects; one of whom Brady was about to interview. And now there was a fourth. And two of the suspects who were involved with the victim were powerful men – bringing them in for questioning came at a price. It would make Brady even more enemies than he already had. And there were plenty. If Hughes and Smythe genuinely had nothing to do with De Bernier’s murder, then Brady was running the risk of losing his job over this one. He was acutely aware that neither of these public figures would appreciate the police delving into their personal affairs and kicking up a fuss about their
questionable
relationship with the victim. But it was clear that both these men knew the victim well – perhaps too well. Brady was sure De Bernier was murdered for a specific reason. He wasn’t just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nor was this a copycat killing or The Joker striking again. It was personal.

Brady’s eyes continued scanning over the information until he finally found what he wanted.

‘Is this correct?’ Brady asked, his expression darkening.

Harvey nodded. ‘Yeah, seems De Bernier owns an apartment down on the quayside in Newcastle.’

‘You’re fucking with me, Tom.’

Harvey frowned. ‘No. Did a land registry check against his name and this came back.’

Brady couldn’t believe it. ‘Do you know how much those apartments cost? They start at a quarter of million and then some.’

Harvey didn’t answer.

‘Shit! There’s no way he could afford this. When was it registered in his name?’

‘Two weeks ago, I think,’ Harvey answered.

Brady looked at Conrad. It made perfect sense.

‘Explains why he moved out of his student share, then.’

‘So, what? Is he some kind of high-class rent boy?’ Harvey asked as he looked from Brady to Conrad.

‘At a guess, you could be right. But until we’ve talked to the two men involved, we can’t say.’

‘Fucking hell! Malcolm Hughes – a fucking fag! You wouldn’t know from looking at him, would you?’ Harvey blustered, suddenly shocked at the revelation.

Brady was mindful of Conrad next to him. He could see his clenched jaw out of the corner of his eye.

‘Tom!’ Brady chided.

‘What?’ Harvey asked, frowning. ‘A fucking politician. I can believe that! They all went to those public schools didn’t they? I mean they were educated in the art of bumming! But blimey! Hughes, I can’t believe it. I mean, Christ! He’s a normal bloke. A Geordie. Big Newcastle United fan. Sits in a box up there with the other directors. Shit!’ He rubbed the coarse stubble on his chin as he absorbed this information.

‘Firstly, we don’t know the nature of Hughes’ relationship with the victim. Or even that of Robert Smythe. We have to keep an open mind here and not jump to dangerous conclusions. So whatever you’re thinking, keep it up here,’ Brady said tapping his forehead, ‘because I don’t want to hear it, all right?’

Harvey didn’t answer.

Brady realised that Harvey was genuinely devastated. The disappointment in his eyes said it all. Hughes was a local legend. The press adored him, as did the public. The man was meant to have been happily married to the woman of his dreams for the past ten years and had two young children to show for it. He would bring them to every public event he hosted. They looked like the perfect family. But then, Brady was more aware than most that looks could be deceiving. That there was no such thing as the perfect family. Perfection was an illusion. Something that could not be sustained.

Brady looked at Harvey: ‘What I do want you focusing on is the purchase of that apartment on the quayside. I need to know everything about the transaction. And I mean everything. Someone bought that apartment for him. I want to know who it was. If I’m right, it’s already narrowed down to one of two men. I need you to find out which one.’

Harvey nodded. ‘Will do. As soon as I get something to eat.’

‘I mean now, Tom. I need that information before I risk getting my balls chewed off by Gates for bringing in Hughes for questioning. I need as much as I can get on him first. Clear?’

‘Come on, Jack, have a bloody heart will you? I’ve been working flat out since five a.m.’

Brady didn’t answer. But it was clear from his expression that he was more than serious.

Harvey sighed heavily. He got up and reluctantly walked over to the counter to get himself a sandwich to eat at his desk. He’d have no choice but to head back to his office and start finding out who paid the cash for the apartment.

Conrad waited until Harvey was well out of earshot. ‘Sir,’ he began.

Brady waited, noticing that Conrad’s face had reddened.

‘I wanted to ask you about Claudia. If you’ve heard from her today?’

Brady stared at Conrad, not quite believing what he was hearing. ‘What?’ he asked, confused.

‘Claudia?’ Conrad repeated awkwardly, his voice starting to crack.

‘I know who the hell she is! Christ! Conrad, we’ve got a hundred other things to be doing right now and one of them isn’t talking about my personal life. Understand?’ Brady demanded. He pushed his chair back and stood up.

Conrad cursed inwardly. He realised that it had not been the most opportune moment to bring up his boss’s relationship with Claudia. Inwardly kicking himself, he watched Brady leave the canteen. It had not gone to plan. He just didn’t know how to bring it up. It was clear that Brady was clueless. The problem was, he didn’t want to be the one to tell him. Neither did Conrad want to be around when Brady finally found out. He might have been totally preoccupied with the murder investigation, as was Brady’s way, but at some point he would have to take stock of his personal life. Or at least, what was left of it.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Tuesday: 5:03 p.m.

Brady was starting to feel out of his depth. Worryingly so. The clock was ticking and he had officers scrabbling around trying to piece together Robert Smythe’s relationship with De Bernier. Nearly everyone who had attended the dinner Robert Smythe had been at on the Saturday had been questioned. No one stood out as having cause to hurt De Bernier, let alone murder him; there was no one apart from Smythe who might have sent the text. As for when the MP left the function, no one could say one hundred per cent what the actual time had been. Every person interviewed had been clear that they had not seen the politician after 10:00 p.m., which meant Smythe didn’t actually have a watertight alibi for when the victim had been murdered.

Then there was the problem of Malcolm J. Hughes. It appeared that powerful people were difficult to get hold of – even for the police. Conrad had left multiple messages with varying secretaries and personal assistants, but so far, nothing. The mobile number registered to Hughes had also been disconnected. No surprise really. The victim’s face and news of his sadistic murder was now dominating the news. Brady imagined that Hughes would be scurrying around trying his damnedest to get rid of any evidence that connected him in any way to De Bernier. Brady was still waiting to hear back about who had bought the apartment on the quayside in Newcastle.

It seemed that the investigation had turned into a waiting game. The victim’s girlfriend Molly Johansson may have no longer been a suspect but he now had four others: James David Macintosh, currently held in custody waiting to be interviewed; the retired engineer, Sidney Foster, who was still missing; the entrepreneur, Malcolm J. Hughes, and finally the politician, Robert Smythe, who was still in Brussels, booked on a flight back the following morning. Brady could have insisted he returned immediately but the last thing he wanted to do was get heavy-handed. Not with such a high-profile figure. Not that Smythe’s status bothered Brady. It was more the friends he kept – such as Detective Chief Superintendent O’Donnell. Detective Superintendent O’Donnell had apparently talked to Smythe and had the politician’s word that on his return, he would do everything to help the police. The information had had the desired effect – it was a clear warning to Brady to tread very carefully where Smythe was concerned.

Brady was getting ready to interview the only suspect he had in custody: Macintosh.

Brady looked at Jonathan Edwards, the suspect’s probation officer, who had accompanied him to the station. At this point, Macintosh had refused the right to be represented by the duty solicitor. Confident in his innocence. So Edwards had offered to sit in the interview with him.

They were sitting in the interview room waiting for Macintosh to be brought up from the holding cell.

Edwards cleared his throat.

He looked uncomfortable. Brady couldn’t blame him. After all, he would have questions to answer. Mainly why he didn’t report Macintosh when he broke parole.

Edwards might be easily convinced. But it took more to allay Brady’s suspicions than an ex-prisoner’s word that he had ‘lost track of time’.

‘Honestly, I can vouch for James. Apart from breaking his parole this one time, his behaviour has been exemplary,’ Edwards stuttered.

Brady resisted the urge to advise him not to get so easily sucked in by his clients. That the men Edwards dealt with on a regular basis would not think twice about slicing his throat open and watching him die. Brady included Macintosh in that.

Brady did not reply. There was no need. Edwards knew he was in the wrong.

Brady watched as the probation officer nervously pushed his designer glasses back up onto his nose. He was genuinely worried. He had allowed the lines to become blurred. Macintosh was his client and he should have reported him for breaking parole. Simple.

‘You don’t mind if I take my top off? It’s rather stuffy in here,’ Edwards said as he removed his black wool cardigan.

Damp sweat patches had stained under his arms. Whether it was nerves, or the extra weight he was carrying, Brady couldn’t say. Edwards looked remarkably ill at ease. Then again, mused Brady, he did have Edwards’ client in here on suspicion of murdering a student at the weekend. That wouldn’t look good in front of the parole board, or on his CV.

Brady looked up as the door to the interview room opened and Macintosh was brought in. He watched as Macintosh sat down opposite him.

Brady was waiting for Macintosh’s DNA sample and fingerprints to come back. He had not needed to request a sample of either as they already had his details on the database. It was currently being tested against the biological evidence found at the crime scene to see if it was a match. Ainsworth had persevered and somehow had found minuscule traces of semen on the bedding in the hotel room. But the lab were being typically tardy. Brady had paid more to expedite the findings but it didn’t feel as if he were getting value for money. Even though it wasn’t him paying for it out of his own pocket, he still felt it. He had to account for every penny overspent from his ever-decreasing budget. Every uniform and non-uniform officer called in from other area commands to work within the murder investigation team had to be paid. Every decision he made cost money.

Brady tried not to think about what would happen if Macintosh’s DNA sample came back negative. It meant the suspect would walk. Other than DNA evidence placing him at the crime scene, Brady had nothing on him. He looked across at Macintosh. Relaxed and smiling, Brady was certain about one thing; despite Macintosh’s seemingly agreeable personality, he knew this man was a cold-blooded killer. He didn’t need to read Macintosh’s criminal records, he just felt it lurking behind his disarmingly friendly eyes. It was there, so much so, it was almost palpable.

Brady studied Macintosh. He was not what Brady had expected. But then, murderers never are what you expect them to be. Not in the flesh. He was tall and physically fit. Evidence that he had spent a good amount of time in the prison gym. He still bore a resemblance to his younger self and was still an unnervingly handsome man. He was remarkably calm, unlike his probation officer. Then again, thought Brady, Macintosh had nothing to lose; unlike Edwards, whose decision-making process would be called into account. For he had chosen not to report the fact that his client had broken his parole on the same night as a murder had been committed.

James David Macintosh studied DI Brady studying him. He knew that the detective didn’t like him. Could see it in his eyes.

‘So there’s nothing else you would like to tell me about Saturday night?’ Brady asked.

Macintosh smiled as he shook his head. The smile was false. He knew that Brady could see it. He was shrewder than most. Most definitely not a fool like Edwards. He had been so easily duped. Persuaded that he was a redeemed man. But Brady was different. He liked the DI.

Macintosh laid his hands out on the table. Relaxed. Confident, but not arrogant. He had nothing to hide. His shirt was open, giving him a casual but professional look. He knew that he looked good for his age. He was nearly sixty but looked as if he had just hit his fifties. Life had been good to him inside. He had spent thirty-seven years in Frankland Prison, Durham, a facility housing some of the UK’s most high-profile and dangerous criminals.

Recently a long-term inmate there had been murdered by his cellmate. His murderer had found out that he was a convicted paedophile and had decided to mete out his own form of justice. He had waited until after midnight before sitting on his cellmate’s chest and slicing his neck open with a shiv – a homemade scalpel made from plastic cutlery and a razor blade. Then he had gouged the man’s eyes out. Satisfied that justice had been carried out, he had gone back to sleep.

Macintosh knew this character well. He had found him distasteful and unimaginative. Unlike him. He smiled as he thought of what he had done to his psychiatrist. He had swung the axe repeatedly into his skull until his brains had covered the blade. The walls. The floor. And the bath. His features gone. Hacked into bloodied pieces. He had left his psychiatrist in the bath. Floating in the water where he had found him bathing. The only difference was that the water was red.