Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4

by Danielle Ramsay

  ‘Sir?’ Conrad prompted, breaking Brady’s thoughts.

  ‘I won’t know until I get there.’

  Conrad simply nodded.

  Before Brady knew it, Conrad saw his chance and put his foot to the floor as he swung the Saab out into the oncoming traffic. Tyres screeched to a halt, followed by a cacophony of horns beeping in retaliation.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Conrad said. ‘I had to take my chance, or we would have been there for hours.’

  ‘I’ll live,’ Brady answered. But his leg had kicked off. A reaction to his body being slammed against the passenger door. The pain was a constant reminder that his left leg and right hand were now comprised of metal pins, screws, nails, rods and plates.

  It was at times like this that Brady missed smoking. The hard hit of nicotine would numb the white pain. Even the puckered flesh where the bullet had gone through was on fire. He had been trying to give up before his unfortunate run-in with the Dabkunas brothers’ henchmen. But it was his long stint in hospital that had been the final nail in the coffin for his nicotine addiction. He sorely missed it. Craved the kick that came from the first one of the day. Black coffee and a cigarette – pure hedonism.

  Suddenly, the urge to smoke was overwhelming. Brady clenched his hands. He watched as Conrad drove, politely ignoring the gesticulating drivers who were giving him the ‘V’ sign. Including two elderly blue-rinsed ladies in a Nissan Micra.

  Not that long ago Brady would have found it comical. Would have ribbed Conrad about his so-called advanced police driving technique. Now . . . it just seemed sad. Pathetic. That everyone was in a rush to get somewhere. Anywhere. As long as they didn’t stand still. Stop for too long, then the reality of life – your life – might catch up with you.

  Brady needed a distraction. He turned and looked out at the North Sea. It was a shimmering crystal blue. As was the sky. It was unusually warm for March. It brought with it the allure of summer. Hot and heady days under a blistering sun. At least that was the prognosis for the summer ahead – weather forecasters had predicted a heatwave, reminiscent of the ones that had melted tarmac in the Seventies. The Promenade was crowded. In its heyday, the Victorians had claimed Whitley Bay as a sought-after seaside resort. This followed through into the Fifties and Sixties, even into the Eighties when it was still a family holiday destination. Scots would travel down to Feathers caravan site or the many B&Bs along the seafront during the Dundee fortnight.

  Then it changed. First the Spanish City was pulled down. An outdoors funfair with an old-fashioned wooden rollercoaster, it was a key attraction to families holidaying or the day visitor travelling down from Newcastle. Next, the recession had hit. It was a hard, ugly punch. The small town was left a ghost of its former self. Charity shops dominated the town centre, along with pawnshops and, crucially, bars. South Parade attracted a new type of punter – the stag and hen type. Out for a good weekend in a town that could accommodate their every need. No questions asked.

  Brady’s eyes scanned the Promenade. Couples ambled along, arm in arm, laughing, kissing. Oblivious to whatever abomination had taken place nearby. Kids shrieked as they hurtled round and round in circles. Groups of lads and lasses shouted, vying for attention. Dogs ran barking, excited by the fresh air and the thrill of life.

  He breathed it in, knowing it would be short-lived. On the second floor of Martin Madley’s hotel, an unidentified white male had been murdered.

  From what had been called in, it was a gruesome death. Every murder was brutal – savage. Unfair. But some murders were worse than others.

  And this one happened to be one of those.

  Brady was no fool. He knew that people did the unthinkable. Committed unspeakable acts. And they would do it again. And again. Until people like Brady stopped them.

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday: 2:01 p.m.

  Blue and white police tape cordoned off the road from the seafront bar known as 42nd Street to the residential block of houses on the corner of Brook Street.

  ‘You sorted this?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I wasn’t sure whether you would make it in today. Adamson and DCI Gates are attending a conference at the Met this weekend, so I was left to coordinate.’

  It was a fair comment. Up until twenty minutes ago, Brady hadn’t been so sure he would make it into work.

  Conrad had done a good job. It was clear from the amount of uniforms milling around and unmarked police cars parked up that extra help had been called in from other Area Commands. It wasn’t every day that someone was found murdered in a Whitley Bay hotel – at least, not in this manner.

  Brady could see from the two large white Mobile Incident vans that Ainsworth and his forensic team were here too.

  Conrad slowed down as the car approached two uniformed officers blocking the entrance into the road.

  Brady buzzed his window down, ignoring the ghoulish crowds jostling one another, too close to the police tape, hoping for news of what had happened. Soon enough journalists and TV crews would be there, shoving microphones under bystanders’ noses in the vague hope of sniffing out a story.

  ‘DS Conrad and DI Brady. SIO in charge of—’ He let it hang. First day back and he was the Senior Investigating Officer in charge of a grisly murder.

  The uniform holding the crime scene log checked them off against the list.

  The log list would stay active until the last person left, which would usually be Ainsworth, the Crime Scene Manager. How long the body would remain at the crime scene was down to Ainsworth and his team. But given the unnatural warmth to the day, Brady imagined they would be working all out to get it bagged up and put on ice. It would be taken to the morgue at Rake Lane hospital where it would wait to be seen by the Home Office pathologist. Brady imagined the post-mortem would be expedited – despite the fact it was a Sunday.

  Brady noticed the officer trying to sneak a look at his right hand. He’d obviously heard it had been obliterated by a crowbar. He didn’t know what the officer was expecting to see. Blood? Gore? A gnarled stump where his hand should be?

  It was going to be one of those days when everyone would be looking for some sign of what had happened to him. It wasn’t just the public that had a ghoulish appetite – police could be the worst buggers of all.

  ‘Finished?’

  ‘Sorry, sir?’ the officer asked. Then he realised what Brady had meant. His face flushed scarlet as he quickly averted his gaze.

  ‘Tell me I’m not going to have this all bloody day, Conrad?’

  ‘People find it hard to believe you’re back so soon after what happened,’ Conrad replied, matter of fact.

  ‘What? I’ve had over five months on the sick. How long do they expect me to take?’ Brady could hear himself starting to sound irascible. He willed himself to swallow it down.

  ‘It’s not so much the physical damage. It’s more the psychological effects. What they did to you and to—’ Conrad couldn’t say it. Claudia’s unspoken name hung in the air between them. A bomb ready to detonate.

  ‘If anyone wants to know, the police shrink said I’m good to go. No Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Zilch.’

  But Brady was lying. His voice had faltered. Cracked.

  Brady had had to undergo psychological evaluation. Same deal as eighteen months earlier, when Dr Amelia Jenkins had tried to get inside his head. Back then he had been shot in the thigh – too close to his balls for comfort – on an undercover drugs bust. But that wasn’t the real reason. Coming round from surgery, Claudia had been there as expected. But the news she had delivered had been completely unexpected. She was divorcing him. She knew he had cheated. Had walked in on him in a compromising position in their bed with a junior colleague, DC Simone Henderson. She had stayed in the hospital long enough to make sure he was compos mentis and then left – for good. No going back or second chances with Claudia. That was what had sent him straight to the bottle for a bleary-eyed, head-pounding six months. During the alcohol-induced haze, Dr Amelia Jenkins,
then the police shrink, had stepped into the rescue. But he had clammed up. Hit the bottle instead. Drowned himself in it.

  But not now. Now he knew the game. He had wanted to come back. Didn’t know who or what he was without the job. Without DI in front of his name, there was no Jack Brady. At least he acknowledged it. So he had walked a tightrope of lies. When asked leading questions, he had answered. And the fifty-something, humourless shrink had seemed satisfied. Brady had ticked all the boxes of normality and conformity – good to go. And so here he was, trying to convince Conrad that he was of sound mind.

  ‘We need to make a move, or the party will be over before we get there.’ A nod to drop the personal talk and get back to what really mattered – the job.

  Conrad waited until the uniformed officers moved the police tape, giving him access. He edged forward slowly, looking for a parking spot amongst the unmarked police vehicles and patrol cars. Finding a spot, in one move he effortlessly reverse-parked.

  Conrad killed the engine and turned to his boss.

  ‘Sir?’

  His eyes unnerved Brady. Cold, dark, impenetrable. Unfamiliar. He knew that Conrad wouldn’t let it go. He could be like that at times; tenacious and bloody minded – as could Brady. He accepted that Conrad had been around him too long.

  ‘Spit it out before it chokes you.’

  ‘Claudia . . . I . . . I haven’t seen or spoken to her in some time now.’

  Brady waited.

  ‘I just wanted to check she’s all right. From all accounts she’s not back at work and they don’t seem to know when she’ll return.’

  Brady could feel his temper flaring. Ready to challenge Conrad. Fight first, think later. That had always been his problem. Somehow, he managed to rein it in. But it choked him.

  ‘Jack?’ It was unprecedented for Conrad to use Brady’s first name. But he needed to get through to his boss. He’d heard the talk. The rumours that had spread out like an oil slick, contaminating everything in its wake. Conrad just needed to know from the one person who could tell him that Claudia was all right – was going to be all right. After all, he’d stayed in contact with her when she’d left Brady after his marital indiscretion. Or to be blunt – monumental marital fuck-up. But now she had all but disappeared. In his mind she needed professional help. More than Brady could offer.

  ‘She’s fine.’ Brady sounded like the words choked him. He got out of the car and slammed the door behind him.

  Conrad watched his boss head towards the Royal Hotel. He had presence. Conrad couldn’t knock that. He was unconventional for a copper. And for a Detective Inspector. Six foot two, slender yet muscled, and dark with a permanent five o’clock shadow. Or designer stubble, as some people would call it. But whatever it was, he could pull it off. Women found him attractive. Dangerously so. His swarthy complexion and dark brown eyes spoke of foreign lands far removed from the harsh Ridges where he had grown up. But his clothes were still the same: a beat-up jacket that had seen better days, skinny black jeans and heavy, black leather boots. A dress code that adhered to the old school of policing. The antithesis of the new face of CID. That hadn’t changed. Neither had his attitude. He refused to be compromised. Either by the clothes he wore, or the way he conducted an investigation. Not even DCI Gates could manage to get Brady to do things by the book. His saving grace was the fact that he was good at what he did – at times, too good. And it had cost Brady. Conrad could see that.

  For now there was an unspoken air of melancholy about him.

  Conrad waited until he disappeared from view. His jaw was clenched against the blatant lie that Brady had delivered. It was then he decided to do what he’d been putting off. He needed to call Claudia’s parents. He needed them to know his concerns. Something was wrong. He felt it. But he knew how Brady worked. If he had a problem, he’d keep it to himself. Work through it alone. He was known for his maverick ways. But this was different. This wasn’t some case he could crack. It was personal. Too personal. Brady had lost sight of that. Blinded by loyalty, devotion, and above all guilt.

  Conrad knew that he ran the risk of damaging their relationship. But it was a risk he was prepared to take.

  Chapter Eight

  Sunday: 2:20 p.m.

  The stench was unbearable, even out in the hotel corridor. Brady could feel himself gagging. He and Conrad were dressed in matching Tyvek white forensic suits, blue latex gloves and shoe covers. They were ready to go.

  He waited as two of Ainsworth’s SOCOs came out the room. They avoided Brady’s eyes. Silent, diligent and respectful. Not because the SIO in charge of the investigation had finally arrived. Their reverent air was because of the carnage exacted upon a life in the room behind them. He could see the sweat running down their faces as their hair, damp and matted, clung to their clammy foreheads.

  The heat was intolerable. For some unfathomable reason, the old-fashioned cast-iron radiators were belting out a temperature more suited to conditions in Siberia.

  ‘Has anyone thought to get the heating turned off?’ Brady snapped. He could feel his skin crawling as if red ants were running over his body; prickly and irritating as hell.

  Conrad didn’t have a chance to answer.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think? Nearly two hours I’ve been here sweating my bollocks off. You think I’m bloody stupid? The thermostat’s bloody broken.’

  The response was caustic and familiar. The irritable voice belonged to Ainsworth, the Crime Scene Manager, standing in the doorway of the hotel room looking as if he was about to throttle someone. Probably Brady.

  ‘And you two! Don’t take all day,’ Ainsworth shouted after the two SOCOs who had just left.

  Both officers automatically broke into a fast trot to appease their boss.

  ‘Bloody slackers! The lot of them. University graduates, my arse. You can keep the lot of them. Bloody nose starts running and they need me to wipe it! What happened to the good old days of policing, eh? When it was normal to go for a drink at the end of your shift. Stuff your namby-pamby therapy. Wouldn’t surprise me if some members of my team put in for counselling after mopping up that poor sod in there!’ Ainsworth stopped as he gestured at the crime scene behind him. ‘Tell me, when did getting bladdered with your colleagues not count as a form of counselling? You could get it off your chest over a couple of pints and a bloody good laugh. Not sniffling into a box of Kleenex tissues saying how bad your job is. Can’t cope, shouldn’t sign up for it. Useless lot of over-educated prissy buggers.’

  Brady did his best not to crack a smile at the short, portly but still formidable figure. Ainsworth was on a roll. But Brady knew he was right. Coppers and SOCOs were both offered counselling if a crime scene was particularly gruesome. To Brady’s knowledge, most got it out their system by adopting a hard, macabre sense of humour and a healthy thirst. But there was a new breed coming through the force. One that didn’t drink. Didn’t socialise after the end of a shift. Instead, they would go home and check their targets and statistics, ready for the next day’s onslaught.

  Brady couldn’t help but notice that Ainsworth looked like a man on the verge of an aneurysm. He was clearly having a bad day. If Brady made light of his diatribe Ainsworth was guaranteed to reach new heights of rage. He was a cantankerous, sour-faced old sod at the best of times, but Brady could see that the unbearable working conditions weren’t helping his mood. Beads of sweat edged down from his receding head of damp, curly, ditchwater-grey hair. He swiped irritably at his forehead with the back of his latex-gloved hand as if besieged by flies, and scowled at Brady as if it was all his fault. Being civil looked like the last thing on his mind.

  Ainsworth claimed his Gaelic roots were the cause of his acerbic tongue. But Brady knew it had nothing to do with his roots, he was just a bad-tempered old get who had succeeded in getting away with it.

  ‘Well, what you waiting for, Jack? A bloody brass band?’ The voice may have been raspy but the words were as sharp as a razor. ‘Mind, warn your lad there
that he might need counselling after he sees this little party piece!’

  Brady gave him a good-humoured smile. ‘And it’s good to be back. Thanks for asking.’ He made a point of ignoring the jibe directed at Conrad, but Ainsworth had clearly just started. His scowl was now fixed on Conrad.

  ‘You up to this, son?’ Ainsworth demanded, his voice laden with scorn.

  Conrad didn’t look so sure. His face had a greyish pallor about it, the blood completely drained. Brady didn’t know whether it was the smell that had caused him to look as if he was about to introduce his lunch to everyone or Ainsworth’s presence. For some unfathomable reason Ainsworth had taken an instant dislike to Conrad the moment he had set eyes on him. A few years on, and he still treated him with the same candid disdain.

  However, Brady put Conrad’s shaky countenance down to the stomach-curdling odour that hung in the air. Even Ainsworth’s snarling was no match. The scent of a dead body was something that could make even the hardest copper retch. Death had an indomitable presence; something you never forgot. Brady knew as soon as he walked into the crime scene that the odour would seep its way into him. His eyes would start watering as it burned its way down into his lungs. The smell would stay with him long after he had left the scene. Every time he breathed, it would hit him. It would place itself, silent and unseen, on and around him; claiming his hair, skin and clothes.

  He could tell even from outside the room that the victim had shit himself. He also smelt the acrid tell-tale stench of urine. Most bodily fluids tended to leak out after death. If it was a particularly nasty case, then the victim would lose control before they died. There was no dignity in death. And for some, no dignity in the type of death they suffered.

  Brady thought of the victim. Deceased; his body bare for all to pick over. Scavengers, hoping to find something, anything that would tie the murderer to the crime scene. It was the inhumanity that got to him. The victim had been chosen. Targeted. Then killed. And now it was the turn of Ainsworth and his team to dehumanise the body. Treat it as evidence. Not get emotional and wonder who he was and how he had arrived at this dead end. No. That was Brady’s job. To speculate. To ask: Who are you? What made you so interesting that someone wanted to kill you?