Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (26 page)

And now Brady had to face going through the files in front of him to try and see something more than the nothing HOLMES 2 had given him. There was something that the specialist police database couldn’t replace and that was when a copper got a hunch. That was why he was preparing to do an all-nighter. He had no choice. He could have given it to any one of the team to go through, but it was too important for him to run the risk of someone screwing up and not seeing something that Brady would consider important. He thought of McKaley. If the old bastard had actually done his job then Brady might not have been in this position. And maybe . . . just maybe De Bernier would not have been found tortured and mutilated. And very dead.

‘So,’ Brady said as he looked at Conrad, ‘what have you brought me? Apart from whatever was left in Sainsbury’s?’ He had already spotted the bag in Conrad’s hand.

Conrad somehow found a space on the desk and placed it down. ‘Chicken and salad and tuna mayonnaise. Threw in a couple of ready salted crisps to add some texture for you.’

‘Thanks,’ Brady muttered. ‘Sounds like shit.’

‘Be grateful I even went out. It’s pouring.’

Brady looked over at the window. It was pitch black and pissing it down. He wondered where the day had gone. He looked at the files on his desk distractedly. He had been hoping that McKaley would have had something, anything, that would help him narrow down his search. Despite Johansson’s allegation, he had to keep his options open until they had evidence. However, the visit to the retired DI had not gone quite as Brady had hoped. It still left a bad taste in his mouth. He was also angry with himself that he had put Conrad in such a humiliating position. And for what? There was no gain. Just the bitter, twisted homophobic rants of an old man who had once had the power to exert his ignorant and cruel prejudices over others.

Brady looked back up at Conrad. ‘OK, we’ve got dinner sorted. Question is, do I have to arm-wrestle you for the chicken salad?’

Suddenly Brady’s phone vibrated. He looked at it and saw it was a text from Claudia. He had tried ringing her earlier but she hadn’t answered. He had assumed that after last night she had spent most of the day sleeping. So he had left her a voicemail simply saying that he was worried about her. That she had scared him last night and she needed to call him back.

He picked up the phone and read her message.

Sorry. Don’t worry I’m fine x

For a moment Brady forgot Conrad was still there. He smiled as relief coursed through him. He felt hopeful. It was a new feeling. One he hadn’t been expecting. But maybe everything would be all right.

‘Sorry, Claudia,’ Brady explained.

Conrad looked uncomfortable at the mention of Claudia’s name. ‘Is she all right?’

‘I think so.’ Brady could feel his eyes starting to smart from the sudden relief. He willed himself not to get emotional. Especially not in front of his deputy.

‘Right,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Your choice. Tuna or chicken?’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I . . . I have some personal problems I need to sort out,’ Conrad apologised. He looked as awkward as he sounded. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes broke away from Brady’s surprised expression. ‘I . . . I was just coming in to update you on what I have so far.’

‘Oh . . . right,’ Brady answered, not quite knowing what to say. He wanted to ask Conrad if everything was all right, but found himself unable to bring the subject up. Conrad looked uncomfortable enough for the both of them. It was clear that he didn’t want to talk about whatever he was going through.

‘I have done a fourteen-hour shift. And, I’ll happily put in eighteen tomorrow but I . . .’ Conrad faltered, unable or unwilling to explain himself.

Brady accepted that the hours he put in were basically unheard of these days. Not that long ago a murder team could continue working the job and claim overtime. Not now. Hours were regulated. What happened to an investigation when you had clocked off was anyone’s guess. The first few days were crucial in any murder investigation. The SIO in particular needed to be on the ball while the killer was still within reach. Every nuance, every potential lead and Brady wanted to know.

‘What about Amelia? Is she still around?’ Brady asked. He could do with all the help he could get to go through these files. If anyone could see something that could be promising, it was her. He also wanted a chance to clear the air with her. Explain what had happened that night when he had left her standing at the bar.

Conrad cleared his throat. ‘She left at exactly six p.m. She waited to hear what updates we had and then went home. Said she’d be back at eight a.m. tomorrow.’

‘What? So I take it I’m the only one who’s still working on this bloody case?’

‘There’s still five other members of the murder team in the Incident Room working through. Or so they said,’ Conrad answered. He realised it wasn’t the answer that Brady wanted.

‘So why didn’t Amelia at least give me an update before she left? I mean, fuck it! She is meant to be the forensic psychologist on this case. And in case nobody’s noticed, we don’t actually have a profile. Or has that passed everyone’s attention? Because that’s why I’m bloody well sat here having to scour through this lot,’ Brady ranted. He slowly breathed in as he tried to control his mounting frustration. Second day back on the job and it felt as if his team were bailing on him. Kenny and Daniels had kept out of his way all day, fearful of a repeat of the bollocking he had given them after the briefing. Harvey and Kodovesky had kept their heads down as well. Brady had no idea what he had done to piss Kodovesky off but he knew Harvey was still smarting from Brady losing it with him over the Chantelle Robertson business.

‘So, why’s our forensic psychologist rushed off? A hot date, is it? Or is she moonlighting for that deadbeat DI Bentley at North Shields?’ Brady asked, assuming the latter.

Conrad’s embarrassed expression said it all.

‘She’s got a date? On a bloody Monday night in the middle of a crucial murder investigation?’ Brady asked, unable to disguise his surprise.

‘From what I gather, sir. Yes.’

‘Fuck me!’

‘No thank you,’ Conrad answered, trying to make light of the situation.

It was lost on Brady. He was still reeling from the fact that Amelia had moved on. What had he expected? To come back five months later and for everything to be as it had been between them before . . . He stopped himself. He didn’t want to think about it. Not again. Then there was Claudia. Their relationship, not that it could be called one, was proof that things could never be the same again.

‘I have that information you requested, sir. But as far as I can see there’s nothing else that we can do tonight. Apart from read through those files,’ Conrad said, attempting to change the subject. He knew mentioning the files was taking a risk. The last thing he wanted was to be taking half of them home with him.

‘You’ve managed to track her down?’ Brady asked.

Conrad nodded. ‘Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe is at a medical conference in London. She travelled down last Friday and returns tomorrow. She was shocked when she heard the news and said that she would be more than happy to help in whatever way she can. She also implied that she didn’t know him that well. She said that he just worked for her husband. Contrary to Johansson’s suspicions, she said that she did not know him in a personal context. But it seems like she couldn’t have killed De Bernier.’

Brady looked at Conrad. ‘How do you know?’

‘She’s staying in the Covent Garden Hotel. I rang the reception desk and they put me through to her room. They also confirmed that on the night of the murder she had dinner at seven p.m. in the hotel restaurant. Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe said that herself when I talked to her.’

Brady nodded. He’d wanted to make sure. If Conrad had rung her on her mobile she could be sitting in her luxury, four-storey Victorian home in Tynemouth claiming to be in London.

‘Covent Garden Hotel. Very nice,’ Brady said.

‘You’ve stayed there, sir?’ Conrad asked, not picking up the subtle sarcasm.

‘I’ve never bloody been, Conrad. I’m a copper on a modest salary. I probably couldn’t even afford afternoon tea there, let alone stay the night. Christ! I can’t even imagine what it costs.’

Conrad answered without thinking: ‘The Covent Garden loft suite would set you back nearly two thousand pounds.’

‘I see,’ Brady muttered. Why did it fail to surprise him?

The colour on Conrad’s face deepened.

Brady couldn’t give a damn what Conrad did in his own time. He knew that he came from a moneyed background. It was a given that he would have stayed in hotels like the Covent Garden. But Brady still didn’t understand why Conrad was in the north of England of all places. Or bloody Whitley Bay. He could understand why he joined the force. He would make detective chief superintendent one day. He was liked from above, and he had connections. Both useful arsenal when climbing the corporate ladder.

‘Husband’s money is it?’ Brady asked, unable to hide the cynicism from his voice.

‘No, sir. She’s a heart surgeon at the Freeman hospital. She’s internationally recognised as an expert in infant heart surgery.’

It wasn’t the answer he expected. Maybe he was getting too old and cynical. It wasn’t like him to automatically assume a woman did not have her own money behind her. Claudia was an excellent example. When they had been married, she was the high earner. It jarred that he could make such a presumption. But to be fair, he would be the first to admit he had his prejudices. Mainly about politicians. Or to be accurate, right-wing politicians. He was old-school Labour. Not that there was such a party anymore. New Labour had seen to that. Brady also had an innate dislike of the privileged set. Perhaps it was because he had had to fight so hard to get where he was in his life. No background or education to speak of, and no money to buy in favours. And he definitely didn’t like them together. Politics and money were a dangerous combination.

He would talk to Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe tomorrow when she got back from London. It was better face-to-face than over the phone. Conrad had already alerted her to the situation. And as he pointed out, she was in London when the victim was murdered. Distance itself ruled her out, regardless of Molly Johansson’s belief that she had been with the victim that night. But Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe had known the victim, even though she claimed she didn’t. Molly Johansson had overheard her having a heated conversation with him, one that included threatening to destroy his burgeoning career in politics. This interested Brady – a lot.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Monday: 9:39 p.m.

There was still a mountain of files to get through. He took a slug of lukewarm coffee. It wasn’t great, but it would do. It had enough of a kick to wake him up. He had to go through every released inmate’s record in front of him. Just in case. On the off-chance that their killer was there. He couldn’t sit back and wait to talk to Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe in the hope that, despite the problem of her location on the night of the murder, she was De Bernier’s killer. However, Brady still needed to talk to her. He would have to inform Gates tomorrow morning. He knew it would be tricky. Her husband Robert Smythe was not only a prominent politician, he was also a powerful businessman who had connections everywhere – including within the police. He knew that he would have to tread carefully. Even more so, considering he would have to interview him as well. Alexander De Bernier had been Robert’s junior political aide, after all.

There was a sudden knock at his door.

‘It’s open.’ He looked up, surprised to see Daniels stood there.

‘I’ve gone through the CCTV footage from that night, sir. I think you might want to see what I’ve found.’

‘See?’ Daniels asked, pointing at the screen in the viewing room.

‘Yeah. Just. Rewind and freeze it, will you?’

Brady stared at the grainy image. He turned to Daniels. ‘The time’s ten thirty-one p.m. Alexander De Bernier was murdered shortly after that. I want to know who the Audi is registered to, ASAP.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Daniels answered. Only part of the licence plate was visible, which would make his job time-consuming. But he was all too aware that his boss was not in the mood for details. All he wanted was the information.

Brady had also made a mental note of the limousine pulling up outside the hotel at 7:31 p.m. on Saturday night. Four well-dressed men had got out the limo, each with an overnight bag. Brady had watched as they headed in the direction of the hotel entrance. The limousine had then pulled away. Brady had scrutinised the hotel’s check-in list and he knew that four men had not checked in at around that time. He made Daniels fast-forward the tape to the following morning. At 11:31 a.m. the same limousine pulled up outside the hotel and sat idling until the four men it had dropped off returned.

Brady had left Daniels with the task of finding the owner of the Audi R8 while he went back to his office. He needed to make a phone call. One that had to be done in private.

It was now 10:37 p.m. It would be 11:37 p.m. in Spain. He had no choice but to ring Madley – again.

He was surprised when Madley answered.

‘Yeah?’

‘I assumed you were dead,’ Brady said.

‘I’m on holiday, Jack. You should try it sometime.’

‘I wish I could. Unfortunately, I’m trying to clean up a mess that was left behind in one of your hotel rooms.’

‘Shame. You’d like it out here. Sun, sea and ice-cold beer. It would do you the world of good, getting away from that job.’

‘Is that an invite?’ Brady asked. He knew the answer. The last person Martin Madley would want in his luxury villa was a copper. It didn’t matter that Brady was a friend, a childhood friend at that, he was still working for the opposition.

‘No.’ The delivery had an unmistakable edge to it.

Brady imagined Madley sitting in some exclusive restaurant somewhere. Dressed impeccably, as always. Dark Armani suit, crisp white shirt casually left open at the neck, and handmade Italian shoes. He would have a whisky, twenty-year-old single malt at that, in his left hand, every so often swirling the golden liquid around in the crystal tumbler as he spoke. His dark eyes, menacing and dangerously intelligent, would be watching for trouble.