Brady looked down at the bloody mess before him. He could feel his stomach writhing, objecting to the odious smell coming from it.
‘You don’t look so grand, laddie. You want Harold to fetch you the bucket?’ Wolfe asked.
The ‘sick bucket’ was always on stand-by for new coppers or for the particularly gruesome autopsies, where the bodies had been left to fester for weeks, allowing eye-watering bodily gases to build. As was the case with this body. It had been left to cook too long and the unbearable heat had sped up the decomposition process.
Brady swallowed hard. Forced himself to remain in the room. ‘No . . . I’m fine.’
‘Aye, sure you are! You look as green as your laddie behind you,’ Wolfe pointed out. He turned to Harold. ‘Fetch the sick bucket.’
Harold did as instructed.
‘Down there, Harold. I guarantee one of them will end up using it.’ Wolfe wheezed, gesturing towards the two grim-faced detectives.
Brady ignored Wolfe’s snide comment. He was too busy wincing as he looked at the gutted, gruesome thing that was the victim. His ribs had been forced apart and his organs removed. A pool of black blood swilled around in what was left of the empty carcass. It was a shocking sight. And then there was the distinct, unforgettable odour that was putrefaction. Brady had been around the morgue enough to know that once dead, bacteria would escape from the body’s intestinal tract, finding its way into the corpse. It would then begin the process of literally breaking it down. Thirty-six hours after this process had begun, the neck, abdomen, shoulders and the body’s head would begin to turn a discoloured green. This would be followed by bloating – caused by an accumulation of gases produced by the bacteria.
‘How long has he been dead?’ Brady asked as his eyes rested on the victim’s head. Even to Brady’s unskilled eye, the body had considerably bloated.
‘From the body’s rate of cooling, the degree of rigor mortis and the partially undigested food in his stomach, he’d been dead for approximately fourteen hours before he was discovered.’
‘Time of death would be after eleven p.m. then?’ Brady asked.
Wolfe nodded. ‘Roughly. Give or take an hour.’ He paused for a moment as he looked at the body. ‘The reason it looks as if he’s been dead for longer than he has is because the decomposition was exacerbated by intense heat in an airtight room.’
‘Is that bloating on the victim’s face, or has it been caused by strangulation?’ Brady asked. Despite being repulsed, he forced himself to look at the bulging eyes and protruding tongue.
Wolfe shook his head. ‘It’s the gases inside that’s causing the tongue and eyes to bulge forward like that. Like I said, the heat sped up the breakdown of the body. If he had been left there for another twenty-four hours who knows what kind of mess he would have been. We would have been scraping him up off the bed. Not for the fainthearted, that’s for sure. Eh, Conrad?’ Wolfe laughed wheezily as he turned his attention to Brady’s deputy.
Brady looked at Conrad. He was clearly not amused.
But Wolfe was right. If the room had been booked for two nights, instead of one, then the maid would have respected the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door. The body, left to fester for another twenty-four hours, would have literally melted in the heat. Death was not for the fainthearted. It was an ugly, messy affair. And the longer it was left untreated, the uglier it got.
Brady held his breath as he tried not to react. Wolfe had performed most of the autopsy already, which accounted for the nauseating smell. The internal organs still had to be put back into the chest before the deep Y-shaped incision which worked from the shoulders down to the groin could be stitched up and the body put back together. But first the internal organs would have to be individually weighed and documented. The slightest detail noted.
‘Have you established cause of death?’ Brady asked.
‘Well . . . this was an interesting one. You see the damage to the neck?’ Wolfe said as he pointed at the mottled bruising around the victim’s swollen, blackening neck.
Brady nodded stiffly.
‘The victim was choked. The ligature marks are consistent with that of a rope. The injuries on the ankles and the wrists are consistent with rope burns like these . . .’ Wolfe traced his finger over the raw flesh on the victim’s throat. ‘But strangulation wasn’t the cause of death, despite the fact the hyoid bone, the thyroid, and the cricoid cartilages are fractured. The damage clearly indicates that he was asphyxiated. But he was suffocated, not strangled to death. I found small particles of black fibres embedded in the airways and lungs. I’ve sent them off to be analysed, but I guarantee they’ll match the duct tape that was wrapped around his head. It’s consistent with when someone is smothered to death by a cushion or a pillow. Fibre traces always show up in the lungs. Imagine you’re fighting for your life, trying to breathe, it’s only natural that you’ll breathe in loose fibres from the object restricting your airways,’ Wolfe said. ‘I’m sure you came to that conclusion yourself, given the condition the victim was found in.’
Brady nodded. ‘Yeah, but sometimes they fool you.’
‘Hah! Don’t they just,’ Wolfe laughed. It got the better of him and he ended up coughing and spluttering as he tried to steady his breathing. Instead of abating, it worsened.
Worried, Brady watched as his lips started to turn blue. He was bent over now, gasping.
‘You all right, Wolfe?’ Brady didn’t wait for an answer, but walked hurriedly over to him. ‘Shall I call for help?’
Unable to speak, Wolfe shook his head. Embarrassed, he fumbled around his pockets. Brady realised he was searching for his becotide inhaler.
Finding it, Wolfe sucked on it at least six times. Brady was counting. Each time he held his breath to allow the medicine to decrease the inflammation in his lungs.
It was a sobering moment for Brady. He waited, arm on his friend’s back as he remained bent over, attempting to breathe.
‘You’re a silly old fool. You know that?’ Brady chided affectionately once Wolfe had got his breathing under control.
Wolfe shook his head. ‘Other way round,’ he wheezed.
‘You know how many people died last year from asthma attacks?’ Brady said, frowning.
‘What? Are you my doctor all of a sudden?’ Wolfe said, straightening up. Tears mingled with sweat streaked down his jowly, crimson face. He walked over to the sink, pulled out some paper towels from the dispenser and delicately dabbed at his face.
‘Twelve thousand people in 2012. That’s a lot of deaths. Two a day.’
Wolfe stopped dabbing his face and looked at Brady.
‘What’s this? You looking for a new job as a government health advisor?’
Brady shook his head. Partly in irritation, partly affection. ‘I care, you old fool. Someone has to.’
‘Well . . . I’m fine. As you can see. It’s this poor laddie here that you should be focused on. Not me. Poor big bugger. Physically in his prime. Lungs and heart in excellent condition – as you would expect. Other organs were healthy. Apart from the fact they were in an advanced state of autolysis.’
Wolfe’s keen eyes noticed Conrad’s bemused expression. ‘It’s a process of self-digestion. The body’s enzymes begin to go into meltdown after death. Autolysis can be speeded up by extreme heat, as in this case here. Or slowed down by extreme cold.’
Brady smiled at him. But there was a sadness there. Wolfe was deflecting. He had had a serious asthma attack. He knew from old that they were regular occurrences. What worried him was the frequency and severity of these attacks.
‘So, as I was explaining before, this poor laddie was strangled first. He then had his penis hacked off. Quite a messy job. I counted at least twenty cuts and puncture wounds to the groin area. The penis was also significantly damaged. It was covered in stab wounds,’ Wolfe said, staring at the mutilated groin.
‘Intentional?’ Brady asked. It was a rhetorical question. The evidence too damning.
Wolfe looked at Brady as if he had lost his mind. ‘Yes, without a doubt. He wanted to hurt. These stab wounds and punctures occurred before death. I would also hazard a guess that these injuries happened before his penis was sliced off.’
‘He was tortured?’ Brady asked.
‘Exactly,’ Wolfe answered as he stared at the victim. He then looked up at Brady. ‘You do know that these injuries here are consistent with—’ He let the words hang, heavy and ominous.
Brady felt physically sick. And this time it had nothing to do with the repellent smell and physical condition of the body. It was the gut-wrenching reality of what Wolfe had just said. Or to be precise, what he had left unsaid.
‘Jack?’ Wolfe began when Brady didn’t respond to his question, ‘you do know about the previous murders? Mind you, I doubt you were even born when they happened. But happen they did. Nasty and brutal. Just like this one. No. Exactly like this one.’
‘Yeah . . .’ Brady croaked. His throat suddenly restricted. ‘I know about them. And I thought this one looked similar to the others.’
‘Not similar. They’re virtually identical. I’ve already had a look at the old pathology reports on the seven victims from 1977.’
‘What about . . . ?’ Brady didn’t need to spell it out.
‘Semen?’ Wolfe asked.
Brady waited.
Wolfe shook his head. ‘That’s the only difference between this and the first seven. Definitely no traces of semen at the back of the victim’s throat, unlike the earlier murders.’
Brady felt like he had been punched. He breathed out slowly. It didn’t make any sense. The murder was practically identical apart from that crucial difference; the murderer had not ejaculated in the victim’s throat prior to gagging him and then binding his head in black duct tape.
Why?
Brady stared at what was left of the victim. Then it hit him. The crucial difference between the Seventies and now was the radical advances in forensic science. Traces of the murderer’s semen on the victim would have been too easy. The police would have had his DNA and if the killer had been charged with any other crimes, they would have had an identity. The man responsible for the Seventies killing spree would be all too aware of the exponential leaps in forensic technology. The same with a copycat killer. The result was the same; it made Brady’s job even more difficult. He had been counting on traces of sperm being recovered from the body.
‘Shit!’ Brady muttered.
‘That’s one word for it, laddie,’ Wolfe said with a raised eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes right now.’
In anticipation, Brady had had the evidence retained from the Seventies cold case sent to the lab. A shirt that one of the victims had been wearing had been contaminated with blood and semen. Brady was hoping that they’d be able to ascertain a DNA sample from the old stains. But he would have to wait. He had been told that it could be at least four days before he heard back, despite the price he was paying to have it expedited.
The police laboratory had long gone. Draconian budget cuts had resulted in all forensic evidence being outsourced to the cheapest private laboratory. In instances like this, there was no one Brady could ring to ask a favour. And definitely not on a Sunday. He had no choice but to wait. The DNA evidence would be crucial. It could lead them to the Seventies murderer, which in turn, could point them in the direction of Alexander De Bernier’s killer. However, Brady wasn’t sure whether they would be able to get anything conclusive from it. All he could do was hope. Wolfe looked at Brady. ‘Mortui vivos docent.’
Brady frowned at him. ‘Tell me how “the dead teach the living” helps me right now?’
‘It’s all there, Jack. On the body. You’ve just got to want to see it,’ Wolfe said as he looked at the victim.
Brady followed Wolfe’s gaze. He stared long and hard at the disembowelled body laid out grotesquely on the slab before him. He wanted to see it. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was, no matter how hard he looked, it didn’t make any sense to him.
Chapter Seventeen
Sunday: 11:08 p.m.
His phone rang. For the briefest of moments he thought it was Claudia returning his call. No one else would ring at this hour. Disappointment told hold when he looked at the caller. It was a mobile number he didn’t recognise.
He clicked ‘answer’ and waited.
‘Detective Inspector Brady?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s Joanne. The receptionist from the Royal Hotel.’
‘I remember.’ Brady leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was fucked. All he wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed. Forget about how shit his first day back had been. Hope that tomorrow would be better. He sighed. ‘It’s late, Joanne. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s what I can do for you. There’s someone who might be able to help you with last night.’ She paused, as if considering whether or not to tell him.
‘Go on,’ Brady said as he held his breath. He was up against a dead end. And that scared him shitless.
‘Well, I’ve heard that Chantelle had some trouble checking in those two coaches of guests last night. They’d got really rowdy and were basically being knobs, if you get my drift. So she called for backup.’
‘Who was that?’ Brady asked.
‘Carl. Bartender who runs Mr Madley’s club next door. He came and worked that shift with her.’
Brady breathed out as he absorbed the information. He had already had feedback from Harvey and Kodovesky regarding Chantelle Robertson’s sudden departure. She had boarded a Thomson flight at Newcastle Airport bound for Malaga at 15:30 p.m. It had landed three hours later. Harvey and Kodovesky had been just too late. Otherwise, she would have been held by airport security. The Spanish police had been notified that she was wanted for questioning, but they had no idea where she had gone once she had landed. She had booked a return flight. No accommodation. And Brady did not have the luxury of time to wait around until she decided to show up at Newcastle Airport next Sunday. That was, if she did decide to come back. Right now, Brady was sceptical. He had no idea why she had disappeared. Her story of going on holiday with the girls had been fabricated. Nor had she been booked on the flight with a potential boyfriend. She had bought her ticket at the airport, and as far as Harvey and Kodovesky could tell, she had travelled alone. Brady could request the airport’s security footage to see if she had company, but right now, he hadn’t decided whether to expend time and energy looking through security tapes. The murder team were already stretched.
Another concern was Martin Madley’s whereabouts. Brady had confirmed that Madley and two other men had boarded a flight yesterday afternoon at Newcastle Airport. Worryingly, it was to the same destination as Chantelle Robertson. Brady had tried to ring Madley again. Still no response. It wouldn’t have surprised Brady if Madley had a villa in Malaga. But would he be able to trace it? Madley was no fool. He covered his tracks and his assets well. If Madley had some luxurious Spanish retreat, Brady doubted he would actually register it in his own name. Tax evasion being one of many reasons.
Brady thought it was obvious that Chantelle Robertson had flown out to join Madley. But why would Madley want his hotel receptionist with him? Brady had already done the maths. Her flight had been booked at 12:40 p.m., forty minutes after the victim’s body had been discovered by the maid. It wouldn’t have surprised Brady to find out that Madley had been informed before the police. Forty minutes later, Chantelle Robertson was at the airport booking a flight to Malaga.
Coincidence? No.
‘Thanks, Joanne. That’s really helpful.’
‘Yeah, well, I thought you’d want to know.’
And she was right. Brady wanted to know why Carl the bartender had forgotten to mention this when questioned. Brady and his team had spent hours going through all the statements taken from staff and residents alike. All Madley’s staff had been interviewed – apart from Chantelle – including the ones who worked in the Blue Lag
oon next door. A photograph of the victim had been shown to everyone questioned. There was a chance that he had been drinking in the club before ending up in the hotel room. Seemingly he hadn’t. But then, apparently, Carl had not been completely truthful with his version of events either.
All thoughts of Claudia and returning home disappeared. There was one place he needed to be, regardless of the time – the Blue Lagoon nightclub. Brady grabbed his coat and phone and left without a word to the rest of the team. He had told them to knock off at midnight unless any significant leads came in. They’d reconvene in the morning at 8:00 a.m. In the meantime, they had his number.
‘Didn’t expect to see you here,’ Brady said.
Carl looked at him.
‘The place is dead,’ Brady clarified. It was an understatement. Then again, uniformed presence next door, accompanied with police tape sealing off the premises, could do that for business.
Carl shrugged. Non-committal. ‘I work when I’m told to work.’
Brady expected no less. Carl was the bartender for the Blue Lagoon nightclub. But in reality, he was Madley’s sentinel. His personal look-out, who watched everything and everyone. He was a barman, receptionist, bouncer and Madley’s most loyal employee. With good reason. The Mancunian bartender had lost his eye working for Madley, the result of a hard punch from a handful of keys hidden in a clenched fist. Some angry, loud-mouthed pisshead had lost his temper and had decided to take it out on the wrong guy. But Madley looked after his own. Carl had received the best private medical care possible, no expense spared. Whether Madley had seen to Carl’s attacker afterwards, Brady couldn’t say for sure. But he had heard that he had been dealt with in a manner befitting his crime.
Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 Page 12
