Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (38 page)

All he had to do now was wait. He looked in the rear-view mirror at the blur of headlights behind him. She was in the boot of the car. Gagged and tied. No one would ever know she was there.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Thursday: 10:09 p.m.

Brady had managed to grab four hours’ sleep on his office couch. A call from Wolfe woke him up from a deep slumber. He had carried out the autopsy on Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe at his request. Brady had assumed she had killed herself because she was HIV positive, and he’d been correct. Wolfe had accessed her medical records, and blood tests taken in her sixteenth week of pregnancy had exposed the infection. Not that he felt good about being right. Blood had also been taken from the twenty-week-old foetus – her unborn son. He was also HIV positive. She had known about it for the past few weeks, giving her time to plan her revenge.

Brady felt no joy that the investigation was over. Nor that an innocent man would not be sentenced for a murder he had not committed. He just felt an overwhelming sadness at the ugly mess of it all. That it had been so unnecessary. Life could indeed deal some cruel hands. It was up to the individual as to how they played that hand. In Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe’s case, she had played it very close to her heart.

Brady picked up his phone. He thought about calling Claudia’s mobile but decided against it. He didn’t know if she would pick up. Or even if she was allowed to take personal calls. Not that he could phone anyone to find out. He had no idea where her parents had taken her. He had rung them – repeatedly. But to no avail. They simply didn’t answer his calls.

He was distracted by a knock at his door. Conrad walked in.

‘I thought you’d gone home,’ Brady said.

‘I was just leaving when I overheard a call coming in—’

‘Macintosh has gone missing, hasn’t he?’ Brady interrupted.

Conrad swallowed. ‘Yes, sir, I wanted to tell you that he had broken parole. He’s been missing since this morning. He didn’t show up at Ashley House for the seven p.m. curfew. Then one of the key workers searched his room and it was empty. He had taken everything. Apart from this,’ Conrad said, holding out a plastic evidence bag. He handed it to Brady.

It had a receipt in it from B&Q. It was for an axe.

‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ Brady cursed.

He jumped up.

‘Get Jonathan Edwards’ address right now,’ Brady instructed.

‘Why, sir?’ Conrad asked.

‘Because that’s where Macintosh has gone,’ Brady said as he grabbed his coat. ‘Come on, Conrad. Move it!’ He snatched his car keys and ran for the door.

Brady had looked on in horror and disbelief. As soon as the Edwards’ door had been breached by a battering ram, Brady had gone in. He had to. He had to see whether he was too late. He had found them first. Or . . . what was left of them.

Police cars and ambulances now blocked off Queens Road. But it was already over. James David Macintosh had seen to that.

Brady stood outside. He was shaking. But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop the scenes of carnage playing over and over again in his mind.

‘Here, Jack,’ Conrad said, offering him some hot, sweet tea.

Brady nodded numbly. He took the drink and cupped it in trembling hands. Not that he could drink it. His body was shaking uncontrollably. He knew he was in shock. And he knew he had every right to be. What he had witnessed was beyond anything he could ever have imagined.

‘We’ve got to find him,’ he whispered, his voice hoarse.

‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered.

‘You’ve put a call out on Edwards’ car?’

Conrad nodded.

They had to find him. Someone as dangerous and unbalanced as Macintosh would strike again. There was no question about that. The only question was, how soon.

FRIDAY

Chapter Forty-Eight

Friday: 9:03 a.m.

The DNA results from the lab had come back. Brady had forgotten he had paid to have the tests expedited. But they had arrived too late. The lab had managed to get a sample of DNA from the sperm found on the T-shirt of one of the Seventies victims. It did not come as a surprise that it matched Macintosh.

Brady had been right. The paroled ex-offender had been responsible for the Joker killings of the summer of 1977. He had eluded the police in the Seventies and now he had succeeded in eluding Brady.

He couldn’t bring himself to think about it. The bitter fact that Brady had had Macintosh in custody. He could have prevented him from killing Edwards and his wife and son. Their three-year-old daughter Annabel was gone. He had taken her, just as he had taken his psychiatrist’s daughter after he had slain him and the rest of his family.

Where the fuck have you taken her, you sick fucker?

Brady closed his eyes as he thought about where Macintosh could have gone. There was a national police hunt to find him. And Annabel Edwards. To find her alive. He winced as what he had witnessed flooded his mind. His psyche. He could smell them. Their bodies. The blood.

Brady opened his eyes. He didn’t want to see the blood-drenched walls and beds. The house saturated with blood.

Macintosh had brought the axe down on them. Again. And again. And again.

Brady felt sick. Could feel it rising up the back of his throat. He leaned over, grabbed his wastepaper bin and vomited until only bile was left. He sat up, shaking. Eyes watering. He didn’t know whether it was from being sick or from the horrific images that filled his mind. That had contaminated him. That had taken over.

He forced them back. He knew the things he had witnessed would never leave him. They never did. Especially images this horrific and as cruel. They stayed – forever.

Brady thought of James David Macintosh.

Where are you, you sick son of a bitch? Because I’ll find you . . . and if you’ve hurt her . . . If you’ve hurt her the way you hurt the other little girl then I’ll . . .

Brady stood up. Fists clenched. It was time to go. The hours were fast running out. He had vowed that he would hunt Macintosh down. Regardless of how long it took.

Acknowledgements

I am eternally grateful, and always will be, to Jenny Brown.

Heartfelt thanks to all at Mulholland Books and Hodder & Stoughton for being such an incredible team. Also, a huge thank you to Keshini Naidoo for her expertise.

Finally, I am truly indebted to my editor, Ruth Tross – thank you for being so fantastic.

If you’ve enjoyed BLOOD RECKONING, why not try another Jack Brady book?

Read on for an extract from the gripping BLIND ALLEY, out now.

Chapter One

Thursday, 24th October: 10:23 p.m.

He watched her as she came outside. She couldn’t see him – he had made sure of that. He sat back in the dark and waited. It was the anticipation of what was about to follow that he savoured more than the event itself. He licked his bottom lip. The location was perfect. Run-down and deserted. If anyone heard anything they wouldn’t get involved. People here minded their own business. She couldn’t have chosen a better place for what was about to happen to her.
If only she knew . . .

He smiled to himself. He clenched and unclenched his hands as mentally he walked through the various scenarios he had meticulously planned.

Trina McGuire pursed her bright red lips and sucked on her tab as her cold, hard eyes scanned the shadowy street corners. It was second nature for her. A silver saloon car turned slowly off Saville Street West down onto Borough Road, casting its harsh beam over her. Blowing out smoke seductively, she looked in the direction of the driver. The silver car was now parked directly opposite her with the engine idling. The driver’s face was in shadow but she knew he was watching her. Before she had a chance to walk over, he drove off. She was no fool. She was aware that the glare of his headlights had done her no favours. The roots of her long, straggly, bleached-blond hair and the uneven fake-tan smears on her arms and legs would be all too visible.

‘Fuck you!’

She was getting too old for this game. And she was cold, despite it being mild for late October. She wrapped her thin, bare arms across her low-cut vest top in an attempt to keep warm.

She rested her back against the wall and listened to the dull thump of U2 on the jukebox inside as she smoked. Anything to calm her nerves. She had never known the streets to be so dark and quiet. Business was virtually non-existent. Even the Ballarat pub was empty apart from the hardcore regulars. She shivered again. She could feel the small, prickly hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She didn’t know what it was, but something felt wrong. Maybe it was just her nerves getting the better of her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her. She glanced up and down the badly lit street. She couldn’t see anyone.
Or could she?

‘Fuck this!’ she muttered as she threw away what was left of her cigarette.

She turned on her three-inch red heels, about to go back in.

Before she had a chance to realise what was happening, he had already dragged her into the alley behind the pub where the rubbish bins were kept. A large leather-gloved hand covered her mouth, preventing her from screaming. Panicking, she struggled to get free but it was futile. He had the upper hand. He was at least six foot one and built like a Rottweiler on steroids.

Suddenly his other hand was tearing at her vest top. He found her breasts and started twisting and pulling at them roughly.

She felt physically sick. She wanted to vomit as his hand mauled her. But she knew that no matter what he did to her she had to keep focused. Her mind was racing. She was trying to process what was happening to her and at the same time trying to figure out how to get free.

Was he a punter? No . . . no. She’d been roughed up before but this was different.
He
was different . . .

Then it hit her. The news. It had been all over the news. There was a rapist in the area.
Shit! Shit! Shit! How could she have been so stupid?

The police had put up photofits of the bloke throughout the local pubs. There was even one pinned by the toilets in the Ballarat. He had attacked three women in the past two months. And from what she’d read in the local paper that evening, the third one had been hurt pretty badly – enough for the poor cow to need reconstructive surgery.

Shit . . . shit . . . shit . . .

Tortured thoughts tore through her mind.

She was confused. She was sure he had only struck in Whitley Bay. She had been relaxed about the story because this was North Shields. How wrong could she have been?

She had to get away from him. Fight . . . Anything to stop him hurting her . . .

She used all her strength to prise his hand from over her mouth. Her long manicured nails snapped and split as she scratched and tore to no avail at the gloved hand. If she could scream it might be enough to scare him off. Desperate, she took her chance and bit as hard as she could through the leather to the flesh underneath.

His reaction was sudden and swift. He raised his knee and rammed it as hard as he could into the small of her back to make her let go.

It had the desired effect.

She was too winded to realise what was about to happen.

The first blow was a surprise. It split her nose clean open. She heard the sickening sound of snapping bones as his fist connected with her face, followed by the hissing of escaping air and blood. She was stunned. She had no chance of protecting herself against what was to follow.

The second punch was harder than the first. It smashed into her face with such force that her left eye socket imploded. Her head snapped violently backwards as her teeth ricocheted off her bottom lip, bursting it open like a swollen dam. Her legs gave way beneath her as everything went black.

Minutes passed as she lay on the ground, her body consumed with a blinding agony. Nothing made sense. All she knew was that she hurt so badly she was certain she would die. Slowly, the hazy fog started to lift. She remembered that she’d been attacked. He had dragged her into the perilously black alley behind the pub. She was aware that she was lying on something cold and hard – the ground. She must have collapsed after he’d punched her.

She could feel the panic overwhelming her.

She looked around in the darkness for him.

Where are you, you bastard? Where the fuck are you?

Her left eye had swollen shut and her right eye was nothing more than a slit. But it was enough to see the glow of a cigarette in the blackness by the large waste bins.

She realised with sickening clarity it was him. That he hadn’t finished with her – not yet.

‘Where is he?’ he asked, throwing his cigarette butt away.

His voice was seamless and flat, devoid of any emotion.