Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (8 page)

‘The hotel cleaner.’

‘You’ve told her that she’s not to divulge any details to anyone?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Same with the rest of the hotel staff who were on duty?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I want no details being leaked to the press. Understand? Until we can establish exactly what’s going on, I want as little released as possible,’ Gates instructed him. ‘I’ll finish off here and see you tomorrow. In the meantime, I want to be kept informed of every detail on this case.’

‘Will do, sir,’ Brady answered.

With that, Gates hung up.

Brady stood for a moment as he tried to get his head together. He understood that Gates had to return ASAP, given the magnitude of the situation. However, it still left him feeling as if he could not be trusted to take charge of what would soon become a high-profile murder investigation. One that, if it followed the Seventies pattern, had the potential to become a killing spree.

Chapter Ten

Sunday: 3:40 p.m.

‘Tea. Drink it! I’ve put three sugars in.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered. His tongue felt more akin to an overused litter tray. Small grits of vomit were embedded in his tongue.

He still looked ill, the colour not fully returned to his face. Instead, he had an insipid grey pallor reminiscent of the bleak, drizzle-filled skies that so often clung over the North East.

‘Come on. Drink!’ ordered Brady. ‘I need you on your feet.’

Conrad looked up at him. His head bobbed up and down in a feeble acknowledgement. The last thing he shared at this moment was his boss’s excitement and enthusiasm. This was the old Jack Brady in front of him. He was on to something. The gleam in his eye said it all. Brady wanted to get moving. And fast. The clock was counting down. And as it did, each minute worked against them. But right now, Conrad couldn’t move. His legs wouldn’t take his weight and his stomach was curdling at the prospect of drinking anything.

‘Bloody drink it!’

Conrad weakly acquiesced, swallowing down the sweet, milky liquid.

After his call to Gates ended Brady had gone looking for Conrad, eventually finding him in the entrance lobby, slouched on a chair with his head between his knees. His explanation? Lunch: the prawn salad sandwich had obviously been dodgy. So much so, it had made its way back up.

‘You look like shit, Conrad,’ Brady said with some concern. ‘How about I get someone to drive you home?’

Conrad visibly winced. ‘No, sir, I’ll be fine. Just need a minute or two to clear my head.’

‘Have it your way. But this isn’t the place to be having a hot flush.’

Conrad’s face was clammy, the skin a chalky off-white colour. Not good. Brady shook his head at him. ‘I’m serious. You look like you don’t know whether you’re going to shit yourself or hurl.’

The last thing Brady wanted was Conrad sitting here looking as if he had seen a corpse. The place was buzzing with police: uniform, non-uniform and forensic science officers. Then there were the hotel residents and staff who were milling around the conference room, waiting in turn for the police to talk to them.

Regardless of objections, Brady had not allowed anyone to leave the hotel. Names, addresses had to be given. IDs had to be verified. And then statements taken – no matter how long and laborious the process. The problem the police were up against was that most of the hotel’s residents comprised a stag party – two coachloads of muscle-pumped, lager-fuelled fun. Most were lucky if they even knew their names.

So far, no one had seen or heard anything unusual. That included staff as well as residents. Everyone was tight-lipped. Or at least that was the way it felt. The one person Brady did want to talk to was the receptionist on duty the night before. She had finished her shift at 8:00 a.m. this morning and no one had seen or talked to her since. Brady had tried calling her – no answer. He had sent DC Kodovesky and DS Harvey to her address to bring her in. He could have left it to them to take a statement. But there was too much at stake. As far as Brady was concerned, she might have been the only person to have seen the killer. Whoever checked into room 212 had had to do so through the receptionist. So it was crucial they talked to her.

At this stage, the crime scene was all Brady had to go on. But Ainsworth had given him hope. And he needed it. So far, it had appeared that the murderer had been very careful about leaving any evidence at the crime scene. There were no fingerprints or fibres. Not even hair samples. It was clean. But Ainsworth was dogged and he didn’t give up so easily. He had managed to find a partial footprint that had not been completely brushed over. The killer had proven not to be as vigilant as Ainsworth. The print was from a size ten male shoe. They were now looking for a male perpetrator. No surprise there.

The impression marks from the partial shoe print could be crucial physical evidence. A print from a relatively new shoe would only tell them the make, style and size of the item. If the shoe had been worn for a period of time, then it would have what Ainsworth called ‘individualising evidence’. In layman’s terms, it meant that it would be specific to the person who wore the shoe – equal in uniqueness to a fingerprint. Everyone had their own individual gait and over time, shoe prints became individualising evidence as the wearer encountered different types of damage to the sole.

Brady had already discounted the victim’s footwear – unsurprisingly. But what did surprise Brady was the price tag. They were Italian Forzieri black washed leather boots. In other words, designer, which meant expensive. The boots had been found in the hotel room’s basic wardrobe. His designer suit and shirt, both Pal Zileri, were hanging above. His up-to-date iPhone had been left on the bedside cabinet, alongside a Gucci dive watch. It was a limited edition and cost more than Brady could afford. Then there was the victim’s wallet, found in his suit jacket. It contained over three hundred pounds in notes, an array of fancy gold credit cards and, crucially, a driver’s licence. Consequently, robbery had been ruled out.

What worried Brady was that identification was all too easy – the driver’s licence, credit cards. Why leave them? Add the mutilated body into the mix and they had a killer who either thought they were incredibly clever, or just didn’t care. Brady didn’t believe it was the latter. The attention to detail with the body told him as much. If it had been a crime of passion, or as the tabloids would spin, a sex game gone horrifically wrong, then why mutilate the body? It wasn’t as if the killer had panicked. The opposite was true. He had taken time with his victim. Binding him, strangling him and mutilating him. And then . . . Brady shuddered, despite the heat. A horrific way to die – tied up, bleeding, gagged. Choking, spluttering, gasping . . . desperate as the killer wraps the duct tape round again and again. Then, the last detail – the Joker card.

The prancing Jester in bold black outline, coloured blue and red against a white backdrop, filled Brady’s mind. The red lips curled at the corners of the mouth – laughing, sneering. It was this jeering face that bothered him. Because he knew it was the killer’s signature. His unique calling card.

The driver’s licence belonged to the victim. Simple. The photo ID matched the victim’s bloated face. They had a name. An age. An address.

Why you? Why did he choose you?

Something told Brady that this victim was different from the others. From the first seven killed in the Seventies. A gut feeling, a hunch? He couldn’t say. He just knew it. And that worried him. The others were targeted for a specific reason. All a type.

Why change your MO? Unless it’s not really you . . .

‘Come on, Conrad! Seriously, on your feet. Either that, or give me the car keys. I’ll drive myself to the station and send a patrol car down to collect you when you’re good and ready.’

Brady knew that Conrad wouldn’t let him drive his new sports car – it had the desired effect, and Conrad staggered to his feet. His face paled as the blood rushed from his head to his stomach.

For a moment Brady was worried he was going to keel over.

‘Do you want to lean on me?’

‘I’m fine, sir,’ Conrad said through gritted teeth.

‘Right. Give me five minutes. I’ll see you at the car,’ Brady instructed.

Chapter Eleven

Sunday: 3:51 p.m.

Irritated, she watched as the policeman made his way to reception.

‘Yes?’

He flashed his ID card. ‘Detective Inspector Brady.’

‘And?’ she asked, without even giving the ID card a cursory glance.

‘I need to see the details logged against room 212.’

She sighed, then gave him a pained look as if she had better things to do on a Sunday afternoon than help the police with a murder inquiry. It didn’t matter that it had taken place in the hotel where she worked. The fact was, she hadn’t been working when it had happened. So, it wasn’t her problem. And she shouldn’t even be in today. She was covering someone else’s shift as a favour.

Her long, thick, dyed black hair swished behind her as she turned to the computer. Red painted acrylic nails tapped irritably on the keyboard as she scrolled down.

‘Nah. Hasn’t changed since the last time I checked. John Smith. That’s it.’

‘No address. Credit card details?’

She looked at him as if he were stupid. Her thin lips pursed, about to tell him that she’d had enough of this crap. Police officers asking the same question, again and again. As if she was the daft one. They got the same answer every time: John Smith, no address, no credit card, no personal information.

Joanne hadn’t come into work this morning bargaining on the hotel being overrun with police. Where the fuck was Chantelle when you needed her? This was her fucking mess. Always the same. She’d come in and pick up the pieces from that sloppy cow’s shift. God knows how she held on to a job here. But she knew how. They all did. Chantelle was doing the boss. That’s how her scrawny arse hadn’t been sacked yet. Joanne knew that it wouldn’t last. They never did.

She looked at him as he cleared his throat.

‘Is it practice not to take down the guest’s address?’

She sighed. Again. Same questions over and over. ‘No.’

Joanne waited for him to let her get on with her job. A dead body in a hotel wasn’t great for business, but it could be dealt with without causing too much damage. People died all the time. The odds are that an occasional guest’s heart might give out. But a murder was a different story entirely. The hotel had been put in lockdown mode. Hotel guests had decided to check out, to cut their stay short. Who could blame them? But she was the one left trying to keep it all together. Her boss had left for a week’s holiday. Flown somewhere hot, Joanne imagined. Lucky bastard. Her mind automatically thought of Chantelle. Had she gone with him? She wouldn’t put it past that two-faced cow. But she wasn’t booked in for a week’s holiday. Then again, this was Chantelle. Twenty-two years old, and with the attitude that life owed her. She’d no doubt ring in before her shift tomorrow, pretending to be ill again. Nothing about that girl was kosher. Fake tan, fake tits and a botoxed face like a slapped trout to match. And Joanne knew all too well that on her wages you couldn’t afford such niceties.

She looked at the copper still stood in front of her. Not that he looked much like a copper with that scruffy jacket, black T-shirt and long dark hair. He didn’t look like the detectives she watched on TV. They were clean-shaven and wore suits.

He refused to move. Despite her scrutiny.

‘Look . . . I wasn’t here last night, was I? I just happen to be the fool that’s left picking up the pieces. You want to know why all we have is “John Smith” on record, then you need to talk to Chantelle.’

‘I wish I could.’

‘Yeah? Well, you and me both,’ she said. She looked at Brady as if seeing him for the first time. He was a really good-looking bloke. Tall, dark, edgy – she liked that. But there was something about his eyes. Deep dark brown eyes filled with . . . But before she had a chance of putting her finger on it, the moment was gone. His eyes had assumed a professional hardness. An impenetrability.

She looked around the reception area to make sure no other members of staff were within earshot, leaned over the desk towards him. ‘Look . . . Between you and me, this happens.’

‘Meaning?’ he asked.

‘Cash, no questions asked. You pay a premium for it. But if you can afford anonymity, then you get it. I can only assume that this “John Smith” was a no-questions-asked transaction. But verify it first with Chantelle. For all I know she just made a mistake.’

Joanne resisted the urge to add:
Another mistake.

‘Where are your surveillance cameras?’

She looked at the copper. She couldn’t blame him for asking. It was an obvious question.

‘We don’t have any cameras. Like I said, some guests want that guarantee. No surveillance cameras and no traceable names or cards. Cash pays for a lot.’

Brady was no fool. Did he really believe that there wouldn’t be a hidden camera recording everything that happened in front of the reception desk – and behind, for that matter? Simple answer – no. Madley trusted no one. Staff, guests or business associates. All the same to him. ‘You’re definitely sure there’s no cameras?’

She nodded. ‘We’ve asked the boss to install them for our protection. But he keeps promising and nothing happens. I reckon if he had to spend a night checking that lot in,’ she gestured towards the two coaches parked in the front car park, ‘he’d think again.’

Brady knew all too well about the stag parties that descended on Whitley Bay for the weekend. They were a major headache for uniform and ate up a significant part of the police budget.

He decided he needed to talk to Carl, the one-eyed Mancunian bartender responsible for the club next door. If Madley wasn’t around, Carl would be the one left in charge. And if Madley had surveillance tape, which Brady believed he would do, he needed it.

‘Apart from the stag and hen parties, what kind of guests come here?’