Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4

by Danielle Ramsay

  ‘What about the playing card left with each victim? I thought you said that the press called him “The Joker” because of it?’

  Brady nodded. Took a moment before he answered her. He needed it. Her air of professional detachment was staring to affect him. It hurt like hell that he had screwed up what had been a friendship between them. But he couldn’t blame Amelia for her behaviour. In fact, she was behaving impeccably. There was no edge to her voice and her demeanour with him was professional but by no means frosty. She was simply getting on with her life. And that included getting on with the job at hand – regardless of Brady.

  ‘The card was something that got out,’ he explained. ‘I don’t know the whys or hows of the old investigation. But the method by which the victims were killed was never disclosed. In particular, the mutilation to the victims’ groins.’

  ‘They were all male?’ Amelia asked.

  ‘Yes. Each one gagged in the same manner.’

  ‘With their own penis?’ she asked, curious. Her words were slow and deliberate, cutting through the room like a knife.

  ‘Yes.’ He knew this crime was atypical, as did Amelia. Usually they dealt with hate crimes against women – not men.

  She didn’t respond. Instead, she watched Brady. Scrutinised him for some kind of reaction.

  He didn’t give her one.

  ‘All right. That’s it for now.’ Brady watched as Daniels and Kenny scraped their chairs back and stood up. Daniels stretched, while Kenny yawned.

  Conrad stood up once they’d left.

  ‘Wait for me in the car, will you?’ Brady asked Conrad.

  He nodded.

  Brady turned to Amelia. She was busy packing her briefcase.

  ‘Can I have a word?’ Brady asked.

  She looked up at him. For the briefest of moments, her professional mask slipped.

  ‘Look . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry,’ Brady begun. It was clumsy and awkward and she knew it. Which made it worse.

  ‘For what?’ she asked casually as she made a point of busying herself with packing her briefcase.

  Brady didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She picked up her briefcase and looked at Brady, waiting.

  ‘If that’s all?’ Her tone was pleasant and non-combative. But it was purely professional. Nothing more.

  Brady nodded weakly. He didn’t know what else he could say.

  He watched as Amelia turned and walked out the room. They had always sparred. That had been part of the attraction. Part of the game they played. But now? This was different. He hadn’t known what to expect when he came back to work. But it definitely wasn’t this. Five months was a long time to be away. And in that time a lot had changed. He thought of Conrad. He had no idea what was going on with him. Or why Daniels and Kenny had thought it acceptable to take the piss out of him. Something had happened while he had been away. He was certain of it. During that time DI Adamson would have been in charge of them. Not good. Definitely not with two impressionable blockheads like Daniels and Kenny. Their attitude stank. Worse than their foul, stale lager breath and bleary bloodshot eyes from a night on the lash.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sunday: 5:38 p.m.

  ‘You OK?’

  Conrad nodded. ‘I’ll live.’

  Brady didn’t mean that and Conrad knew it.

  But Conrad was focused on driving.

  Brady looked out the window as the street lights passed in a blur. They were heading to Heaton to question the victim’s girlfriend – Molly Johansson. They needed as much information on Alexander De Bernier as possible and what better person to ask than his girlfriend? Most murder inquiries would start with the person closest to the victim. Typically, most murders were acts of blind rage committed by someone the victim knew. A moment’s lapsed judgement in a heated argument could end disastrously. But this wasn’t what had happened here. At least, he didn’t think so.

  The murder was too similar to the Seventies murders for Brady to seriously think that the victim’s girlfriend could be responsible. But he needed to talk to her and clarify a few things.

  Conrad pulled off Coast Road and onto Heaton Road. He then turned right onto Heaton Park View.

  ‘Not bad for student accommodation,’ Brady commented as he looked at the large, imposing Victorian houses. Some were detached, others were terraces, but all were in excellent condition, which surprised him.

  Conrad parked up outside 1 Heaton Park View.

  Brady took in the sight. It was an impressive five-bedroom Victorian detached house with an ornate gravel driveway leading up to the front door.

  ‘Parents must be paying for this. Can’t imagine their student loan covering the rent on it.’

  Conrad didn’t answer. Instead he cut the engine and got out of the car.

  Brady watched him. His silence was unnerving. Not that Conrad was one for unnecessary talking, but this was out of character. He got out the car and joined Conrad.

  ‘Bloody nice street,’ Brady said as he looked across at Heaton Park.

  Conrad left Brady to it and made his way to the large, dark green panelled door. He knocked twice. It was heavy, authoritative and commanding.

  Moments later there was a crack in the door. A pale, blotchy, mascara-streaked face peeked out.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Conrad, I rang earlier?’ Conrad introduced himself, flashing his warrant card.

  Brady came up behind him. ‘Detective Inspector Brady.’

  The young woman waited for Brady to show his card before opening the door wide enough to let them in.

  ‘Molly Johansson?’ Brady asked as he walked in.

  She backed away from him and stood against the wall opposite, arms folded across her white baggy T-shirt. At five foot eleven, she was tall and remarkably thin. Bony even, with long straggly blond hair that was tied up, accentuating her gaunt, hollow features. Her blank blue eyes refused to look at Brady and instead focused on her feet. Her toenails were painted a turquoise blue and she wore a silver toe-ring on her left foot.

  ‘Ms Johansson?’ Brady repeated. But it was clear it was her. Her body language and swollen, red-rimmed eyes said enough. ‘I am really sorry about your loss. I can only imagine what you must be going through.’

  Her eyes drifted up to meet his. Not sure of his sentiment. ‘I need a drink.’ Her voice was raspy, with a distinctive South African accent.

  She turned and walked towards the kitchen straight ahead.

  Brady noticed two things about the house. It was massive. The hallway could have acted as a living room in itself. But despite the original features of stained-glass windows, ceiling roses and intricate cornicing, it was most definitely a student house. It was grime-infested. He walked down the tacky-feeling wooden floor into the large kitchen. The brilliant fluorescent light overhead did the place no favours. Dishes were stacked high in the sink. Food-encrusted plates and pans had been discarded across the cluttered worktops. Even more surprising was the empty dishwasher stood with the door wide open. Then there was the rubbish everywhere. Empty cans, half-empty take-out containers and bottles of various sorts littered the worktops and the floor around the overflowing, filthy bin. The place had enough rubbish to fill a landfill. Even the smell that lingered in the kitchen was more akin to a garbage dump on a sweltering hot day. Brady could feel the sole of his boots sticking to the floor, reminiscent of playing in a punk band in his youth, in Mingles Whitley Bay on a Friday night. At least then it was so damned dark, you didn’t know what you were standing on, or drinking out of.

  Brady assumed there was some kind of guerrilla warfare going on in the student house. Someone had obviously forgotten to do their share and it had descended into all-out war.

  Molly’s eyes caught Brady’s. She shrugged it off. ‘Not my mess,’ she said, unapologetic.

  Brady watched as she picked up a dirty wine glass. She then went to the fridge and took out a new bottle of Chardonnay. He noticed her fingers trembling as she tried to unscrew the cap.

 
‘Let me do that?’ Brady offered.

  Defeated, she handed the bottle over. He opened it for her and handed it back.

  Without thanking him, she poured herself a large glass and took a gulp. Some of it dribbled down her chin. Annoyed, she wiped it away.

  ‘Want one?’ Suddenly she seemed aware that they were watching her.

  ‘On duty. Thanks, though,’ Brady answered. Not that he could stomach even a coffee, given the state of the place.

  Conrad’s face said as much. Especially after his run-in with his lunch.

  ‘Do you want to go somewhere more private?’ Brady asked.

  She shook her head, freeing some more long strands of blond hair. Her white-knuckled hand clutched her wine glass as she took another drink. ‘This is as good a place as any.’

  Brady wondered how much she had already drunk. He assumed as soon as the victim’s parents had told her the devastating news she had hit the bottle. The question was, how many bottles had she hit?

  ‘You share this house?’

  She took another gulp as she thought about the question. ‘Why?’ she asked as she looked at him.

  It wouldn’t be long before she was slurring and not able to see straight. Brady looked up at the kitchen clock. It was 5:49 p.m. But then again, she had good reason to want to get off her face.

  ‘I just want to make sure you’re not on your own tonight,’ Brady answered, his voice gentle, paternalistic.

  ‘And why would that bother you?’

  Brady took a deep breath. He knew Molly was in shock. Right now she was feeling pissed off with the world. And why not? Her boyfriend had been murdered and she now had two coppers she didn’t know from Sherlock wanting to talk to her. And it was clear she was in no mood for talking.

  ‘Because you’ve received some distressing news and I want to make sure that you’re not on your own,’ Brady explained.

  ‘Yeah? That’s nice of you.’ She took another gulp.

  ‘Molly . . . You don’t mind if I call you Molly?’ Brady asked.

  She shrugged as she reopened the bottle of wine and poured herself another liberal measure. ‘We were going to get married. You know? After uni we were going to get engaged and then in a few years’ time, get married. Alex had it all planned – even the date of our wedding.’

  Brady kept quiet. He knew now wasn’t the time to be direct. She would see it as confrontational. Molly was looking for a fight and it didn’t matter who with. It was easier to let her talk her way through it.

  ‘Why the fuck would he do that? Why?’ she asked as she wiped aggressively at the tears spilling down her reddened cheeks.

  Brady looked across at Conrad, who seemed at a loss.

  ‘You mean, why was he at the Royal Hotel last night?’ Brady ventured.

  She stared at him as if he might have the answer.

  ‘We were hoping you could tell us that.’

  She knocked back another large gulp of wine.

  ‘Molly?’ Brady repeated.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered reluctantly. ‘I don’t know why he was in a hotel last night. I can only imagine.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything to you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  She raised her eyes and looked at Brady. ‘Why?’

  ‘We just need to know Alexander’s whereabouts yesterday. Anyone he met, talked to on the phone. Had arrangements to meet, even.’

  Molly Johansson answered. ‘I last saw him sometime yesterday morning.’

  Brady could see that she would be seen by some to epitomise a certain type of youthful beauty. Her pale, eggshell skin, her painfully thin body and angular features were very heroin chic. He wouldn’t have been surprised if at the age of fifteen she had been on the front cover of Vogue. She had that arrogant haughtiness about her, accompanied by the height and looks. She seemed an equal match for Alexander De Bernier.

  ‘Did you have a fight?’ Brady asked. His felt there was more to this than she was revealing. She seemed angry. Not at Brady, although he was on the receiving end. She was angry with her boyfriend. And Brady needed to find out why.

  Her blank eyes suddenly sparked, then faded. ‘Just the usual . . .’ she shrugged.

  ‘What’s the usual?’

  ‘Work. He was committed to his job.’

  ‘I thought he was studying for a Masters in politics?’ Brady asked.

  ‘We both are . . .’ she paused, realising.

  ‘But he worked?’ Brady pushed, not wanting to lose her.

  ‘Yes. He had an internship with an MP. He wanted to be a politician. His aim was to be in the House of Commons in ten years’ time. And Alex would have done it. People believed in him. He was good. Good at what he did . . .’ She stopped.

  ‘So the argument was over his commitment to work?’

  Molly Johansson gave a half nod. ‘I guess so. I can’t really remember now. It just seems so inconsequential.’ Her voice trailed off as the tears melted down her sculpted cheekbones.

  ‘Where did he go after he left you?’

  ‘I don’t know. He stayed over here on Friday night. Then he left in the morning. I assumed he had gone home. But . . . I . . . I honestly don’t know. He never answered my calls, or my texts. I was worried. Rang around all our friends. Nobody had seen or heard from him all of yesterday. And then his parents called me two hours ago to say . . .’ Molly stopped. Looked at Brady, then Conrad, before taking another drink.

  ‘Did Alexander have any enemies that you know of?’ Brady asked.

  Molly laughed. It was as abrupt and sudden as it was cold and bitter. ‘Alex? Fuck no! Everyone loved Alex. He was so charismatic and so fucking good-looking that everyone just adored him.’ As if surprised by her own outburst, she dropped her gaze to her wobbling wine glass.

  But not before her eyes betrayed her. Brady had seen the flash of pure anger in them. She was furious with her boyfriend. It didn’t matter that he was dead. Brady wasn’t quite sure exactly what was going on. But one thing he was certain of, she knew more than she was letting on.

  ‘Who was he doing his internship with?’ Conrad asked.

  Molly Johansson turned to Conrad, as if surprised that he was there. She took a slow, deliberate drink before answering. ‘The MP, Robert Smythe. We both worked as interns for him.’

  Brady noted that Conrad seemed to recognise the name.

  ‘Could Alexander have been working for Robert Smythe yesterday?’ Brady asked.

  She shook her head. More loose strands fell out of the twisted knot of hair. Some fell down on her shoulders, other strands clung resiliently to her damp cheeks, giving her a drunken, dishevelled look. Not that she cared. Brady could see that the last thing she was bothered about was her appearance. She needed a tissue for her face. It bothered him that he didn’t have one to give to her. Tears slid down onto her top lip. As if she read his mind, she swiped at it with the back of her hand, which she then wiped on her black leggings.

  ‘Why not?’ Brady continued.

  ‘Smythe was going to Brussels for a political conference. Said he was leaving early this morning and would be away for five days.’

  ‘And you have no knowledge of why Alexander would be in the Royal Hotel last night?’

  Again, Molly shook her head.

  ‘Nor who he might have been meeting?’

  At this, more tears came. ‘I already said so. I don’t know who he was fucking meeting do I! That’s the point. He shouldn’t have been meeting anyone.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Brady said, his voice low. But it was too late.

  She glugged back the rest of her wine and then used the heel of her hand to wipe her snotty nose. She then opened the bottle of Chardonnay.

  ‘Why don’t you let me make you a coffee?’ Brady suggested.

  She made a point of pouring a large glass for herself and then turned, glass in hand, to look at Brady.

  ‘Why don’t you just leave? I’ve told you ever
ything I know. Shouldn’t you be out there catching whoever killed him? Well?’

  Brady didn’t answer. But his expression said enough. It was understanding and apologetic.

  ‘Anyway, here’s to fucking Alex,’ she said as she raised her smeared glass, ignoring Brady. ‘You fucking cheating bastard!’ She gulped back a couple of mouthfuls in an attempt to stop the tears.

  ‘You OK, Mol?’

  Brady turned. A young man was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Twenty-something, with wild, shaggy blond hair with a tinge of red, and a woolly, reddish-brown goatee.

  ‘Fucking A, Jamie! I’m on my way to getting shit-faced. Oh yeah . . . Meet Inspector Holmes and Watson here,’ she said as she waved her wine glass at them.

  ‘Detective Inspector Brady and Detective Sergeant Conrad,’ Brady said.

  ‘Great. Well . . . Jamie Scrafton,’ she said as she jerked her head towards him, ‘he’s one of my housemates.’

  ‘You staying with her tonight?’ Brady asked him. He was a good-looking bloke with kind eyes.

  Jamie nodded. ‘Yeah. I’ll keep an eye on her.’

  ‘Did you know Alexander well?’ Brady ventured.

  ‘Nah. Saw him around when he was here with Molly. But that was it. I’m studying architecture and they’re taking politics. Kind of hung out in different places if you get my drift. But he was a really nice guy. Can’t believe someone would do that to him. You know? Like . . . kill him?’

  ‘Look, if there’s anything you think of, call me. I’ll leave my number for Molly with you as well. Just in case she thinks of anything relevant.’

  ‘Sure, glad to help, man,’ Jamie said as he took the card with Brady’s contact details on. ‘Really hope you get the bastard who did it.’

  Brady nodded at him. ‘Molly?’

  She was slouched against the worktop now, her eyes heavy and glazed. Brady couldn’t tell if it was from crying or too much booze.

  ‘I’ll no doubt need to talk to you again. But in the meantime, if you think of anything, Jamie has my card. OK?’

  Whether she heard Brady, he wasn’t sure. But she didn’t answer him.