Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (3 page)

Tonight was just the beginning.

He had to bide his time. A few more days and then . . .

Chapter Four

Sunday: 12:18 p.m.

The cleaner knocked on the door for a third time. No answer. The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign was still hanging on the handle. She double-checked her clipboard. The room was down to be stripped and cleaned ready for the new guests this afternoon.

Irritated that she was behind schedule, she knocked again, louder this time, to be sure they knew she meant business. She had better things to do than wait around for other people to get their act together.

Nothing. If they were still inside then that was their problem. They were supposed to have vacated the room over an hour ago.

She didn’t know what it was – sixth sense – but she knew there was still someone in there. She had seen plenty in this job. If she had been naïve before she started, she certainly wasn’t any more. She’d walked in on couples in various compromising acts. Threesomes. Foursomes. Two men together. Nothing shocked her. After all, this was a stag and hen party destination. They usually had a couple of coachloads every other weekend. It kept her in a job. Busy, but better that than scratting around on the dole.

If she won the lottery, she would quit. No hesitation. No working out her notice. One call to her boss to tell him where to stuff his hotel and the rude dirty buggers who made her life difficult. Then she would get on a plane to Spain. She’d buy some coastal property. Trade Whitley Bay beach for an equivalent in Mallorca, but with sunshine.

A sudden gloom took hold. She shook it off. She’d buy herself a scratch card after work. That would cheer her up. Take her and Harold one step closer to Mallorca. Even just for a holiday. She wasn’t greedy.

Her face lit up at the thought as she swiped her key in the door.

The smell hit her first. It was a hard punch. Her smile fell as the dank, dour odour that accompanied death assaulted her senses.

She had been wrong if she had thought she had seen it all before.

Blood – dark, discoloured – saturated the sheets. Soaked into the mattress. Splattered the wall behind . . . 
him?

She couldn’t be sure. She didn’t want to look. Not again. But for some reason she couldn’t turn away.

It . . . the body. Lifeless. Skin mottled. Ankles tied. Head, faceless. Black, thick tape. Mutilated. Flesh open. Gaping.

Screaming.

The mess. This was wrong. It was so wrong.

Chapter Five

Sunday: 12:21 p.m.

Macintosh forced himself to smile. To look relaxed, despite feeling anything but. He wanted to get up and walk out of this claustrophobic pale blue office with its threadbare beige carpet and stale, desperate air. But he knew he couldn’t. The game had already started and he needed to see it through to the end, no matter how tiresome it was proving. He had to be careful.

But first he had to convince his probation officer not to revoke his parole. He laid his hands out on the table, as a sign that he had nothing to hide. He trusted himself not to give anything away. No nervous tremors or ticks or sweat patches which could suggest he was lying. Ironically, it was Jonathan Edwards’ forehead that was glistening with perspiration. Dark, damp circles also spread out from under the armpits of his black polo shirt. Not surprising; the heat in the small room was unbearable. For some reason the old, antiquated heating system was still sluggishly gurgling its way through the large Victorian pipes that snaked their way around the house.

‘Look, James, this is difficult for me,’ Edwards continued, sighing. He took off his designer glasses and polished them on his polo shirt.

Macintosh looked at him with an expression of embarrassment for all the fuss he was causing. As he did, he couldn’t help but notice that Edwards’ insipid blue eyes were smaller than he expected. His face was unremarkable in every sense of the word. Except for the severe acne scars. Thirty-one years old, five foot ten and overweight. Even his short blond hair had started to thin and recede. Macintosh knew it caused him anguish. It aged him. By the time he was thirty-five he would look well into his fifties. He didn’t have a lot to look forward to. That was why Macintosh had taken such a personal interest in him. Why he was sitting here listening to the bilge coming out of Edwards’ mouth.

He waited while Edwards replaced his glasses. His puffy, red-rimmed eyes spoke of weeks of sleep deprivation.

‘You just walked?’ Edwards continued, frowning.

‘Yes. I know it sounds crazy. I don’t know if I would believe it myself,’ he said.

Edwards waited. It was clear he wanted more.

Macintosh leaned in towards him: ‘If I’m honest, Jonathan, I’m struggling in here. It’s difficult with the others . . .’ He faltered as his eyes searched Edwards’ face for some kind of understanding.

It was in that moment that he knew he had him. There was a flicker of understanding. And why not? Edwards knew what kind of men inhabited this bail house. Sick, depraved animals. The lowest of the low. Sex offenders of all kinds: from Tom, the clichéd dirty old man in Room 4 with his penchant for twelve-year-old schoolgirls – preferably in uniform – to the occupant of Room 9 who had been convicted of sexually abusing a three-month-old baby. Then there were the rapists and women abusers. Men who had murdered their wives and girlfriends, or who had left their victims wishing they were dead when they had finished with them. Macintosh knew that there was a panic button on the probation officer’s side of the desk. Press it, and the other four members of staff would come running. Pull it out and the alarm would inform Whitley Bay police that there was a ‘situation’. But Edwards hadn’t flinched when Macintosh moved his body towards him. He had gained his trust. His confidence. Edwards clearly did not associate him with the murderer that he had been.

After all, he wasn’t like the other paroled offenders. People liked him. They trusted him.

They allowed him to tie them up and gag them and . . .

Macintosh held back his smile as he savoured the feeling of control that he’d had over his victims. All willing participants in their own torture – and ultimately, their own murders.

‘Look . . . I know it’s tough. You were inside for thirty-seven years. It’s a lot to expect you to come out and just fit back into society. Not after so long,’ Edwards replied.

Macintosh nodded. He understood better than his probation officer could ever imagine.

‘What can I do to make the transition easier for you?’

‘Exactly what you’re doing now. Rather than assuming the worst, you’re taking the time to listen to me. To help me . . .’ Macintosh paused.

Edwards smiled reassuringly at him. ‘And that’s what I’m here for. The last thing I want is you being returned to prison. So, all you did was walk about last night? You didn’t meet up with anyone? Talk to anyone?’

Macintosh shook his head. He made a point of looking contrite. An acknowledgement that he had been foolish. Reckless even, and that he would never make the same mistake twice.

‘OK. I’ll tell you what we’ll do, let’s arrange a meeting at my office on Monday and we’ll talk about it further then,’ Edwards suggested.

‘Thanks, Jonathan. I really appreciate it,’ Macintosh replied, his voice filled with gratitude.

‘No problem. And look, the next time it’s really getting to you, call me. That’s what I’m here for.’

Macintosh nodded. ‘I’m really sorry for disturbing your Sunday with your family.’

Edwards stood up to go. ‘Just make sure you don’t break the curfew again.’

‘I won’t. I promise,’ Macintosh said as he stood up. He stuck his hand out to shake Edwards’, and his probation officer obliged without thinking. ‘You can trust me.’

Edwards smiled at him. ‘I know I can, James. I wouldn’t be here on my day off if I didn’t.’

Macintosh knew he looked more professional than his probation officer. His exceptionally handsome face and benign manner fooled people. They found it difficult to believe that someone so good-looking and affable was capable of committing the atrocities that had got him locked up in a maximum-security prison for thirty-seven years.

Macintosh knew that Edwards saw him as a decent human being with the misfortune to be living in a bail hostel with nineteen paroled serious offenders. After all, Edwards was a nice bloke. A man who believed in his job. He sincerely wanted to help Macintosh rehabilitate back into society. To give him a second chance. And that was precisely what Macintosh wanted too.

Macintosh stood at his pitiful bedroom window. It was an original Victorian one, which may have looked charming but was far from practical. Not only did the cold air find its way in, but so did the rain. The result was black, ugly mould covering the damp, high walls. He was worried that if he didn’t get out in time the spores would burrow their way into his lungs and under his skin. He had complained to Ronnie and the other key workers, but nobody listened. He was expected to be grateful that he had a bedroom of his own – regardless of how small and basic it was. And dirty. Even though it had been repainted, tell-tale signs of the previous residents clung persistently to the room. That smell. It still lingered, despite his attempts to get rid of it.

He tried to block out all thoughts of the men who had inhabited this room before him. Debased animals who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as him, let alone lie in the same bed. It drove Macintosh insane to think of them lying there.

He heard a door slam and looked down as Edwards started his metallic blue Volvo V40. It was a family car. Edwards was very much a family man. Two children under the age of three. Macintosh liked his probation officer. Enough to take an interest in his personal life.

He had a faultless memory. Every droplet of information that Edwards had casually let out had been caught by him. He had memorised it and then extracted more – carefully, so as not to attract suspicion. Edwards had been more than willing on occasion to digress and discuss his personal life. Not that he had ever been really aware of it. Macintosh had a way of ingratiating himself, gaining enough trust to exact small details that seemed nothing at the time. But when you placed them all together, the result was breathtaking. It was someone’s life.

Edwards interested him. Reminded Macintosh of his first kill. The ones afterwards had paled into insignificance. Nothing could ever match the high he had first felt. He had tried. Tried to rediscover that all-consuming feeling of euphoria that had immortalised him. But nothing had come close.

He decided not to reopen old wounds. He had taught himself to stop the self-destructive thoughts. Even when they bombarded his brain he had trained himself to look the other way, to focus on something else.

Jonathan Edwards: probation officer, thirty-one years old, five foot ten, married with two children and current resident of Whitley Bay. Receding blond hair, short-sighted blue eyes, doughy, pockmarked skin – nothing to write home about. But he was different from the rest. He was hiding something which made him very interesting. Macintosh
could smell it on him. It secreted from his pores. Betraying him.

He had guessed the moment he met him. Whether Edwards knew that he knew didn’t matter. What was important was what he was going to do about it. Inside prison, he was powerless to act. But now he was out.

Yesterday evening he had wandered the streets of Whitley Bay looking for him. Searching for his new Volvo V40. And he had found it. Along with the four-bedroomed semi-detached house in Queens Road. Exquisite location. Splendid house. Then again, the couple were both professionals. He was sure the Edwards could afford it. He had seen both children. The baby. And Annabel. Petite, with Nordic white-blond hair that cascaded in perfectly formed ringlets. Eyes as bright as shiny black buttons, dominating a perfect porcelain face. He liked her – a lot. She reminded him of
her
. He had failed then. But now, he had a second chance.

Chapter Six

Sunday: 1:39 p.m.

Brady stood in the doorway, watching her. She was asleep on his couch. Faded patchwork quilt covering her as she slept with her back facing the world, curled up in a foetal position. That had been her tactic for the past five or so months. She had turned her back on the world and on him.

He crept over, making a mental note to avoid the loose wooden floorboard that protested too loudly if he dared step on it. He placed the fresh black coffee on the floor, at arm’s length away from the couch. Beside it, he laid down the
Observer
and a plate with a bacon sandwich on it. The two things she would want when she decided to wake up were coffee and the paper. The bacon sandwich was wishful thinking on his part. A longing to return to normality.

He wasn’t sure if she was really asleep. He knew she pretended, to avoid talking to him. Not wanting to face him, or to deal with what had happened to her – to them – all those months ago. To face the fact that someone had brutally murdered her boyfriend and then come after her. He could only imagine what they had done to her. Claudia had never talked about it. Like him, she had refused counselling at the time. But he was stronger than her. Brady had had a childhood of pain and abuse that had prepared him for a life that could kick the shit out of you and barely leave you breathing. But still, you breathed. Still, you lived. At least, he did. As for Claudia, she simply breathed. It was the living part she had given up. The one thing she could control. Her problem was that she had never really known anything bad. She had never wanted for anything as a child, nor as an adult. Loved and adored by all. Admittedly, he had given her good cause to walk out on their marriage when she did. But apart from that, she had had a blessed life – until now.

Who could blame her for attempting to block it out? Pretend that it hadn’t happened?

But he knew that she was drowning in self-denial. That her way of dealing with it – or not – was slowly killing her; and in turn, killing him. Brady sat down carefully on the floor beside her. Careful, for two reasons. He didn’t want to wake her, if she really was asleep. And his body still ached from the violence that had been enacted upon it. His left knee had been shattered beyond comprehension. His right hand and fingers had turned to mash under the weight of a crowbar. Then there was the bullet to his chest that had somehow missed his lung and spared his life.