Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (27 page)

Madley was the same age as Brady. His frame was slighter than Brady’s, but that meant nothing. Madley could take anyone down – including his hired bodyguard, Gibbs. Madley’s long-standing henchman was an imposing figure with thick, knotted, black and silver dreads and a large diamond drilled into his front tooth. The Afro-Caribbean stood at six foot four and was built like a brick shithouse. Even at forty-six years old, his fists were legendary. That said, Madley would still be able to floor him.

Brady knew that Gibbs and Weasel-Face, Madley’s other henchman, would be behind him. On guard the whole time. It might be a holiday for Madley, but his men were expected to work – regardless of the luxurious setting.

‘So, what do you know about what happened on Saturday night?’ Brady asked. He didn’t expect an answer. At least not a straight one.

‘Isn’t it your job to inform me?’ Madley suggested.

‘Stop pissing around, Martin. I’m serious.’

‘Like I said, you need a holiday, Jack. You sound stressed. Sure you didn’t return to work too soon after what happened to you?’

Brady sighed heavily. He was getting nowhere, fast.

‘So I take it you know nothing about it?’ Brady asked.

‘Why was he killed?’

‘I was hoping you could tell me that.’

‘Difficult, when I was in Spain the night the kid was murdered.’

Brady knew that there was no point in continuing. Even if Madley knew anything, he was clearly not going to talk.

‘Chantelle Robertson?’ Brady asked.

‘What about her?’ His voice was cold.

Brady realised that he had hit a nerve.

‘Bit young for you, don’t you think?’

Madley had never struck Brady as someone interested in having some young glamour girl on his arm. But then again, Madley lived by a different set of rules to Brady.

Madley laughed. It was hard and insincere. ‘I thought you knew me better than that.’

‘Why’s she over there with you then?’

‘Who’s to say she’s here?’

‘Come on, Martin. I’m not stupid, all right? Why is she there and who invited her?’

‘Paul. He’s owed a few days off so I agreed to her flying out. Keeps him busy.’

Paul, AKA Weasel Face: a scrote from the East End of London. Madley kept the wiry, snake-eyed little runt on a tight leash for good reason. He was trouble. It wasn’t the Glock 31 semi-automatic that he carried around under his cheap, synthetic suit. No, it was his small, hungry, darting eyes that warned people off. He was like a coiled spring. Always on the edge, pumped full of adrenalin, waiting for trouble.

Brady couldn’t understand why Madley kept him on. He was a liability. A dangerous one at that. But Madley obviously had his reasons.

‘You seriously expect me to buy that? You don’t allow your staff to fraternise with one another. Never mind shag each other.’

‘He did me a favour. I owed him.’

Brady wasn’t buying it. ‘Don’t fuck me around. ’

Madley laughed. Cold, insincere and menacing. ‘What is it with you, Jack? Always poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.’

‘I’m a copper. That’s what I do.’

‘And I’m a businessman who likes to keep my affairs private.’

‘Bit hard when you have the police crawling all over your hotel,’ Brady answered.

Madley didn’t respond.

‘Look, I’m not a fool. I’ve heard that you have some kind of business providing certain clients with whatever they want. No questions asked.’

‘Maybe you should be more careful who you listen to,’ Madley replied.

‘Maybe you should be more careful who you employ. Did you have to fly her over to make sure she didn’t talk?’

Madley’s silence said it all.

‘I imagine that the murder victim is the least of your problems. But it’s my problem. And right now what troubles me is that there’s no security cameras in your hotel and the one person who checked the murder victim in, and perhaps the last person to see him alive, is sunning herself in your villa, not giving a damn.’ Brady knew that Madley would have cameras hidden throughout the hotel. He was a shrewd businessman. He would be keeping very discreet tabs on the comings and goings at his hotel, especially when dealing with rich and powerful clients. Madley liked to be in control. He also liked to be one step ahead. Would he have security tapes that he could use as leverage if the need ever arose? Without a doubt.

Madley still did not comment.

‘You want to tell me why a limousine pulled up outside your hotel on Saturday night at seven thirty-one? From what we can make out from the CCTV footage along the Promenade, four well-dressed men with overnight bags got out of the limousine and headed towards the entrance of your hotel. Who were they and why were they not checked into the system? I know they went into the hotel because the limousine disappeared and then returned the following morning. The exact same four men can be seen walking from the direction of your hotel entrance and back to the limousine.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Madley answered. There was an unmistakable edge to his voice.

‘Martin, don’t piss me around. I’m trying to keep you out of this. Remember, someone was murdered in your hotel and we’re still looking for a suspect. If you really want the police turning up on your grounds over in Spain to haul Chantelle Robertson’s arse back here then that’s your call. I can only assume that you’re worried that she’ll talk about whoever those four men were. I’m certain they won’t want their names brought into a murder investigation. Let alone the press getting hold of their identities.’

Brady waited. He knew Madley was mulling this over.

‘All right. But this goes no further,’ Madley finally said.

‘Go on.’

‘You’re right. Four men did turn up. They’re regulars. They pay a high price for anonymity and discretion. They’re not on the hotel system because they want absolute privacy. If their identities got out to the press they would have a lot to lose.’

‘What do they get up to?’

‘None of my business. Or yours.’

‘I don’t believe that you don’t have hidden cameras recording the goings-on in your hotel. You’re a clever man, Martin. I know for a fact you would make sure you had something on them.’

‘That’s none of your business, Jack. Focus on your murder investigation. These men had nothing to do with it. I can personally assure you of that.’

‘Then why not let your receptionist be interviewed?’

‘Because I don’t trust her to keep her mouth shut,’ Madley replied. ‘I had to take the precaution of removing what could be a threat to my business and other peoples’ lives.’

Brady breathed out. He knew that Madley would not give him any more than he had. But at least it explained the sudden disappearance of Chantelle Robertson; nothing more than Madley covering himself.

From what, though?

Brady accepted he would probably never find out. It was better that way for both of them.

‘How’s Claudia doing?’ Madley asked suddenly.

The abrupt change in conversation took Brady by surprise.

‘I take it, not good,’ Madley said, when Brady failed to answer.

‘No . . . she’s fine,’ Brady replied. But it was clear from his voice that she was anything but.

‘You were always a lousy liar, Jack. Even as a kid,’ Madley said, the hardness momentarily gone.

Brady couldn’t help but notice the concern in Madley’s voice. It was a rare occurrence. One that told Brady he should be worried. Whether he liked it or not, he had to face reality. Claudia was far from fine.

‘Let’s catch up when I get back, yeah?’ Madley suggested.

‘Yeah, sounds good,’ Brady answered, half-heartedly. He knew it would not happen. Gone were the Monday night poker sessions. And the late-night drinking sessions in the Blue Lagoon. Things had changed. Their differing careers more apparent than ever. Madley would always be there if Brady was in trouble. That went without saying. And vice-versa. But other than that, Madley had made it quite clear that Brady was no longer welcome in his newfound milieu. He had worked hard at distancing himself from his rough, crime-ridden background. Madley’s associates were now powerful businessmen and politicians alike, and as such, it went without saying that Brady was not welcome.

Brady listened to the dull tone, realising that Madley had disconnected the call. He looked around his office. The shadowy glow from the desk lamp gave the room a bleak, soulless, empty feeling. The rain continued to pelt mercilessly at the windowpane. It struck him that he had never felt so alone.

He got up and stretched his stiff legs. His left one was aching. Again. He limped over to the window and looked out. The dark street was deserted. No surprise. It was cold, miserable and lashing it down. He decided that he would stay for another hour and then he would go home. Pick up an Indian take-out from Spice Junction and a couple of bottles of wine from the Tesco Express on Park View Road in Whitley Bay.

First, he needed to rethink the Seventies case. He knew that it was crucial. After all, it was no coincidence that De Bernier had been murdered in an identical way to The Joker’s victims. Amelia had made an astute point when she had said that the reason The Joker had stopped killing was not out of choice. He had been prevented from killing. In other words, he had more than likely been locked up. And the answer could be staring him in the face. The files in front of Brady could hold a lead that had somehow been missed. Something so minor, so minuscule that it had fallen below the radar. He trusted his gut. And right now it was telling him to keep looking, to keep poking around until he hit something.

Despite Brady’s best intentions, it was after 1:00 a.m. before he even realised it. He had found himself completely absorbed in the task at hand. He had gone through all of the case files of the recently released psychiatric patients. Some of it was beyond disturbing. But he hadn’t found anything that stood out. Nothing that he could say tied into the Seventies killings – or the recent murder.

He was nearly halfway through the paroled serious ex-offenders when something – or someone – stood out. He was an ex-offender who had been paroled two weeks ago and rehomed in Ashley House, a bail hostel in Edwards Road, Whitley Bay. Adrenalised with too much caffeine and newfound optimism, Brady had wanted to call Amelia. Let her know. But he had resisted. The idea that she could still be with someone had stopped him short. He couldn’t call Conrad either. He had made it very clear that he was off-duty. If he was having a tough time personally, then the last thing he needed was his boss calling him into work at all hours. For all Brady knew, the job could be starting to have a negative impact on Conrad’s relationship. Brady decided to deal with it on his own. He trusted his instinct. There was something about this paroled offender’s history that troubled him. He looked up his probation officer: Jonathan Edwards. He would call him in the morning. Let him know he needed to talk to this particular ex-offender. A diagnosed psychopath who had been in and out of psychiatric hospitals and then a significant stint in prison, a parole board had decided to release him two weeks ago. HOLMES 2 hadn’t picked up on this particular offender because his criminal history did not match the Seventies killings. But there was something that had caught Brady’s eye. Something Conrad had said about the killer’s choice of victims. The choice of victims and the way they’d been killed were interlinked in a way Brady had not seen before. It had made him rethink the possibility that this parolee could actually be him –
The Joker
.

TUESDAY

Chapter Thirty

Tuesday: 1:33 a.m.

The house was in darkness when Brady crept in, which had come as a relief. It had meant that Claudia had gone to bed – something that should have struck him as odd. But at the time, he had not even questioned it. Punch-drunk with tiredness, he climbed the stairs. He passed the guest bedroom – now Claudia’s room. The door was closed. Without thinking any more of it, he headed straight for bed.

Four hours later and he was dragged out of unconsciousness by his BlackBerry relentlessly buzzing. He had set the alarm for 5:30 a.m. It was now 5:40 a.m. He had fifteen minutes to get shaved, showered and dressed. And in between that, down two cups of coffee to shake off what felt like a hangover.

Brady stood in the shower, letting ice-cold water hit his body. His mind kept replaying the previous day’s events. He was making sure he hadn’t missed anything. That he had played everything by the book. He had to face DCI Gates this morning and he wanted to go in knowing that he hadn’t fucked up in any way. What troubled him was the MP, Robert Smythe. He knew that Gates would be less than impressed when he heard the news that Brady wanted to interview his wife – then him. But he had no choice. Robert Smythe was the victim’s employer. And his wife had been accused of having an affair with Alex. Even of murdering him.

Brady scrawled a note to Claudia, apologising for getting home so late and with the promise that he would make it up to her. He then left it alongside a coffee on the granite worktop. He had ground Italian coffee beans and left a pot of fresh coffee for when she woke up. He had thought about taking the note and coffee upstairs to the guest room and leaving it next to her, but decided against it. He was sure she wouldn’t thank him for waking her at this hour. And anyway, he was expected at the station.

‘Sir,’ Conrad greeted him as he walked into Brady’s office.

Brady looked up. Conrad looked nervous, as if he was expecting a bollocking.

‘It’s after nine-thirty. You’re late,’ Brady informed him.

‘Er,’ Conrad began, apprehensively.

‘You haven’t hit my bloody car trying to park your Saab, have you?’ Brady demanded. He had opened his window to get some fresh air into his office and had heard someone making a dog’s dinner of attempting to park in the congested street a few minutes before.

His car was his pride and joy; a black 1978 Ford Granada 2.8i Ghia. It was his only connection to his brother Nick and it meant everything to him. Nick was four years younger than him and had relocated out of the North East as soon as he could. He was based in London but worked throughout Europe. Nick was ex-SAS and hired himself out as a bodyguard; at least that was what he told Brady. And it was a story he stuck to – religiously. Brady rarely saw Nick. He had made some powerful enemies in his line of work and as such he kept a low profile. Even his phone calls were becoming more and more sporadic. His excuse was that his type of work made it impossible to maintain regular contact. Brady sorely missed him. But there was nothing he could do. It felt as if he was losing everyone connected to his past life.