Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (22 page)

Jacqueline De Bernier dropped her hand down from her neck and let it rest on top of her husband’s. Something unspoken passed between them. Her swollen, tear-filled eyes remained on Brady.

‘Why do you have his fiancée here?’ Francis De Bernier asked. His tone told Brady he wouldn’t accept anything less than the truth.

‘We want to question her in relation to your son’s murder,’ Brady answered honestly.

Francis De Bernier shook his head as he held Brady’s sympathetic gaze. ‘She didn’t do it. That girl loved Alexander. Adored the ground our boy walked on. As he did her. I suggest that you look further afield for the killer.’

Brady struggled to reply. He sorely wished that Conrad would step in and help him out. But he knew it wouldn’t happen. He was the SIO and as such, it came with the territory that he should be the one to reassure and offer words of comfort to the victim’s parents. Not that he felt like he was doing either.

‘It’s purely a preliminary line of inquiry. Molly Johansson will hopefully be able to help us get an idea of who would want to harm your son.’

Brady noticed Mrs De Bernier visibly wince when he said the word ‘harm’.

‘When you release Molly, please ensure that she is driven to our hotel. I’m sure the poor girl must be in a dreadful state.’

‘I will,’ Brady assured him.
If
he released Molly.

‘Why? Why would someone do that to Alexander? Why?’ Jacqueline De Bernier asked suddenly.

Her voice surprised Brady. It was strong and clear and didn’t seem to belong to the tearful, petite woman sat in front of him.

‘I honestly don’t know. But as soon as we do, you will be the first to be informed.’

‘He was just a young man. And a good one at that. He had his whole life ahead of him. He had big plans. Wanted to be a Member of Parliament. And our boy would have done it.’ Francis De Bernier paused for a moment as he collected himself. ‘We were very proud of him, DI Brady. Very proud. Don’t let us down. Or him.’

With that, he scraped his chair back and stood up before turning to help his wife to stand.

‘Thank you,’ Francis De Bernier said as he stretched his hand out to shake Brady’s.

It was a firm, hard grip. One that told Brady that he sincerely hoped Brady would deliver – for the sake of his wife. And for his own peace of mind.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Monday: 11:51 a.m.

Brady splashed cold water over his face. Repeatedly. He needed to clear his head. His next job was crucial: interviewing the victim’s girlfriend. Brady seriously doubted that the threatening text and her presence in the hotel the night De Bernier was murdered were just coincidence. Dripping wet, he lifted his head and looked at himself in the mirror. He was exhausted, but was all too aware that DCI Gates would be descending on the station with the press biting at his heels. Brady needed to be on the ball for when he finally showed.

The door to the Gents opened. Brady turned to see Harvey walk in, red-faced and flustered.

‘Christ, Jack! Don’t you answer your bloody phone?’

‘Not when I’m in the Gents I don’t,’ Brady answered.

‘Next time, make an exception for me, will you? I’ve been running all over the station looking for you,’ Harvey panted as he bent over slightly to catch his breath.

Brady pulled out a paper towel and dried his face. He scrunched it into a ball and threw it into the bin.

‘Are you not going to ask me what it’s about?’ Harvey asked, looking up. His face was even more flustered.

‘Chantelle Robertson?’

‘How the bloody hell did you know?’ Harvey asked, incredulous.

Brady shrugged. He wasn’t about to tell Harvey that he had had three missed calls from the receptionist he had talked to yesterday at the Royal Hotel. He had returned the call and she’d told him that Chantelle Robertson had rung in sick that morning. Joanne the receptionist had explained to Brady that she had taken great delight in telling her that she was lying. And that she was wanted for questioning by the police. Chantelle had then hung up.

‘She rang her parents this morning and they insisted that she ring me. Seems that it was nothing more than coincidence, her disappearing like that. Some bloke she’s having a fling with had asked her to his villa in Spain for the week. She didn’t want her parents to know about it because he’s married and they would go apeshit if they found out. And she didn’t want work to find out either. Seems she’s screwing the boss,’ Harvey said, winking. ‘Lucky bastard, eh?’

Brady ignored Harvey’s enthusiasm. He did not find the idea of Martin Madley sleeping with a twenty-two-year-old employee all that entertaining.

‘Upshot is, she pulled a sickie at work so no one would guess, and left her parents a note saying that she was going away with the girls. Poor lass was beside herself when she heard what had happened.’

Brady leaned back against the sinks and waited for Harvey to finish.

‘She remembered checking in a “John Smith”. Her description matches our victim.’

‘Why did she remember him?’ Brady was curious. ‘John Smith’ had checked in around the same time that the two coach-loads of men on a stag weekend had turned up.

‘Paid cash. And he gave her a tip. Fifty quid.’

‘Why?’ asked Brady, frowning.

‘Why what?’

‘Why did he tip her?’

‘How the fuck would I know, Jack! Maybe he wanted to shag her?’ Harvey suggested.

Brady breathed out slowly. He wondered how the hell Harvey kept his job, let alone had made it to detective sergeant.

‘Is she coming back?’ Brady asked, not holding out much hope since Harvey had been left in charge of Chantelle’s return to the UK.

‘Well . . . I did ask and she got so upset. Said she didn’t have the money to fly back. I did explain that we really needed to take a statement from her . . . but . . . You know I can’t stand it when women cry, Jack. It makes me uncomfortable. So I said it could wait until she got back on Sunday. She told me everything she knew anyway.’

Brady cursed inwardly. ‘Did she say anything about Molly Johansson turning up?’ he asked, ignoring Harvey’s excuses.

‘Yeah . . . yeah she remembered her. Said that Molly came back once the bloke who was working the reception desk with her had left.’

Brady thought of what Carl, Madley’s look-out, had told him. He hadn’t been certain whether Molly had talked to Chantelle Robertson when she was on her own.

‘And?’

‘She showed Chantelle a photo of the victim on her phone. Chantelle said she didn’t say anything but it must’ve been clear that she recognised him. Molly begged Chantelle to ring the room, to tell him that someone was in reception asking for him. Gave her a sob story and the lass fell for it. Like I said, there’s nothing disingenuous about her.’

‘Shit!’ Brady muttered as he ran a hand through his damp hair.

‘What’s the problem? No one answered when she rang and the girlfriend thanked Chantelle and went back into the bar. She didn’t see her after that.’

‘I bet she bloody didn’t.’

‘I don’t understand. What’s the big deal?’

‘I don’t know who is stupider, you or that bloody receptionist! When she called him, the receptionist would have had to key his room number in. Molly Johansson would have known that. Christ, Tom! She would have seen the room number.’

Harvey looked at Brady and shrugged. ‘I’m not a bloody receptionist, am I?’

‘You’re a fucking detective. It’s not rocket science!’ Brady retorted. ‘Jesus Christ!’

He breathed out. Tried to calm himself down. Getting pissed off with Harvey wasn’t going to help matters. ‘You’re a bloody big lummox at times. Do you know that?’ Brady said, the edge gone from his voice. It was his way of apologising for exploding at him.

Harvey shrugged. He still looked aggrieved that Brady had briefly lost it with him.

‘Did you ask if she noticed anyone coming into the hotel after ten that night?’ Brady asked. They knew from the post-mortem that the victim was killed approximately around eleven.

Harvey took a moment to answer. Whether he was choosing his words carefully or actually trying to recall the conversation, Brady couldn’t say.

‘I did, and she said that it was a typically chaotic Saturday night and fairly rowdy because of the stag party that had booked in. She said the bar was really busy and noisy and anyone could have come in through reception and taken the lift or stairs without her noticing.’

‘What about later that evening?’

Harvey shrugged. ‘Same answer.’

‘Do you think she was hiding something?’ Brady asked.

‘No. Her taking off like that was just coincidence, Jack. Nothing more, nothing less,’ Harvey answered. ‘I’m not a fool. Regardless of what you might think, I can still tell when someone’s lying to me.’

Brady kept quiet, even though Harvey’s internet Thai girlfriend came to mind. But that was his choice and he had the right to make a mess of his personal life. His professional one was a separate matter entirely.

In any case, right now, Chantelle Robertson was not his biggest concern. It was the victim’s girlfriend, Molly Johansson.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Monday: 1:41 p.m.

Brady was gathering as much information as he could about the victim. He wanted as much as possible before he interviewed Molly Johansson. So far, it was making interesting reading. Troublingly so. Conrad had updated him on the victim’s bank statements. Alexander De Bernier had over two hundred thousand pounds in a high-interest savings account. Brady knew he hadn’t won the lottery, so they needed to know where he had sourced that kind of money. It had been paid into the account over a period of ten months. Cash. In varying amounts. Small payments in the hundreds and a maximum payment of ten grand.

‘What do you think, sir?’ Conrad asked as Brady studied the bank statements.

They had reconvened in his office to go over what they had to date.

Brady looked up at Conrad. His expression said it all. ‘What’s the going rate for a bartender in that gentleman’s club of yours, Conrad?’

‘It wouldn’t explain even a small percentage of the capital he has there,’ Conrad answered.

Brady looked at him. Conrad looked perplexed. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ Conrad replied, ‘there’s something about this that doesn’t feel right.’

‘Tell me something I don’t bloody know!’

‘Do you think he earned it?’ Conrad asked.

‘Doing what, for fuck’s sake? There’s over two hundred grand in this account,’ Brady replied, exasperated. ‘What students do you know earn that kind of cash? Unless he’s a card reader at poker tables I can’t figure out how he’s got this kind of money. And I wouldn’t fancy my chances at the casino in town. If one of the other players, let alone the staff, realised what he was up to, he’d have been found dead in a back alley long before now.’

One thought had hit Brady. Hard. He needed more evidence before he seriously considered it. But it was the only logical explanation he could think of.

‘Seems there’s a lot we still don’t know about De Bernier,’ Brady said as he looked at the figures on the printout.

‘Do you think he could have been murdered because of the money?’

The question did not surprise Brady. He expected no less from Conrad. It was one of the first thoughts that had crossed his mind.

‘What if he was blackmailing someone?’ Conrad asked.

Brady nodded. ‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ he said as he picked up his coffee. He took a slug. It was cold and bitter. He grimaced as he swallowed it down. ‘The problem we have is why he was murdered in an identical way to the Seventies victims. That’s what I’m not getting.’

Conrad didn’t answer him.

‘Come on, let’s get this over with,’ Brady said. ‘Maybe his girlfriend will be able to shed some light on his financial affairs.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

Monday: 2:17 p.m.

Molly Johansson looked as bad as Brady felt. It was clear that she had one hell of a hangover. She looked like shit – she was sweating so much that the stuffy, claustrophobic interview room was becoming unbearable. The room was filled with a nauseating mixture of stale sweat and alcohol. Throw into the mix the rancid vomit splattered on her clothes, and it was understandable why Brady was struggling to concentrate. Not the best working conditions. The room was small and hot. There was no fancy air conditioning in the station. Nor were there any windows in the interview room.

Her bloodshot, puffy eyes darted nervously around the room. Anywhere but at Brady, or Conrad sitting stiffly beside him.

‘I . . . I . . . honestly can’t remember . . .’ she mumbled, eyes looking apprehensively at the camera in the corner of the ceiling.

Brady sat back and folded his arms. It was heading into mid-afternoon. But he had all day if need be. And at this rate, it would take all day. He knew that she would break before he did. And he also knew that he wouldn’t let her go until she talked. The threat she had texted to the victim was a good enough reason not to release her until she had explained herself. Brady was pretty sure she hadn’t killed her boyfriend. That she simply didn’t have it in her. But he wanted her version. That, and he needed to know who she suspected her boyfriend of seeing. Until then, Molly was going nowhere.

Brady’s eyes dropped down to the printed list of the texts Johansson had sent De Bernier. The phone company had confirmed that the texts had been sent from her phone. He looked back up at her. Her blond hair was pulled back into a tight knot emphasising her clammy, pale face. She was dressed in a baggy white T-shirt and grey leggings. Her bony white arms were covered in blotches and angry wheals where she had been scratching and squeezing her skin. Brady had put it down to nerves. Understandable. She had threatened to cut off her boyfriend’s dick the same night someone actually did. Bad luck didn’t even cover it. But Brady didn’t understand her reluctance to talk.

Brady looked over at the duty solicitor. He simply shrugged at him. His way of telling Brady there was nothing he could do. His client simply did not want to talk. That was her privilege. Perhaps not a good idea, given the evidence that had been presented to her. But it was still her choice to sweat it out.