Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (30 page)

Brady realised he was checking to see whether Smythe could have an alibi for his whereabouts after he left the dinner. His wife would have been the obvious cover. However, she’d been in London.

‘When did Smythe leave for Brussels?’

‘He took a flight from Newcastle on the morning following the murder.’

Gates breathed out heavily. He looked up at Brady. ‘One thing,’ he began.

Brady looked at him expectantly.

‘This is not to get out. Understand? It’s an extremely delicate situation and until we are absolutely certain Robert Smythe’s involved in De Bernier’s death I want no details released to the press.’

‘Understood, sir.’

Chapter Thirty-Three

Tuesday: 3:14 p.m.

Brady was back in his office. He had instructed Robert Smythe’s secretary that he needed the politician to return home on the next available flight, otherwise he would be going over to arrest him on suspicion of murder.

It had had the desired effect. Smythe was coming back to the UK on a flight early the following morning.

Brady thought of the victim’s parents. Forty-eight hours after the news of their only son’s death and they were holed up in a Newcastle hotel with two family liaison officers: DC Somerfield and DC Leighton. They had reported that the parents had positively identified the victim as their son. Not that there had been any doubt in Brady’s mind. But it was a given that they would have resisted accepting the news. At least until coming face-to-face with the harsh reality in the morgue.

The family liaison officers had told Brady that the press had somehow got hold of the whereabouts of the parents and were now camping outside the hotel in the pursuit of exploiting their grief for the sake of public interest. Or naked voyeurism, to be precise. Gates had thrown the press a few more scraps to keep them happy. But it wasn’t much. Now that the body had been officially identified, the victim’s name had been released. Brady was already anticipating the crank calls they would receive from the public. Sifting through information that typically led them nowhere was one of the hazards of a high-profile murder case like this one. Gates had not released the fact that the victim had been mutilated in an identical manner to the Seventies killings. That in itself would spark a media-induced hysteria, elevating the local crime to national news. The last thing they needed was the press following their every move. Not that it wasn’t already happening on a small scale. But as soon as word leaked out about the disquieting similarity to the Joker case, then all hell would break loose. Old wounds would be reopened, not just for the original victim’s families, but also for the police. Brady thought of McKaley. Some things were better left in the past.

Brady rubbed the stubble on his chin as he thought over their potential suspect – Robert Smythe. Someone who had enough power and influence behind him to force Brady out of a job if he’d got it wrong. But there was no disputing the text that Smythe had sent De Bernier. It clearly suggested that the politician was involved in a sexual relationship with his junior aide. One where the victim trusted the older man to bind and gag him. This wasn’t a typical murder. It had been premeditated – unlike the usual murders that the police dealt with, the result of an argument escalating to murderous levels. The problem for Brady was still the link to the Joker killings.

How? And why?

If Smythe really was responsible, then how would he know details of the original murders that only the investigative team were privy to? It didn’t make any sense. As to why the murder was a copycat killing, Brady felt that this was to confuse the police. To throw them off the scent of the actual killer. But Brady still wanted to know what had happened to the original Joker.

Where are you? Who are you? And why did you suddenly stop killing?

Macintosh came to mind, as well as Sidney Foster – one of the original suspects who was still missing. No one had seen the retired engineer, despite his face being plastered all over the tabloids and across the BBC news. Brady wasn’t sure now whether his disappearance was coincidence. If details of De Bernier’s murder had been released before he disappeared, Brady could have understood it. After all, Foster had been subject to DI McKaley’s form of questioning during the original investigation. It would be no surprise that he would go into hiding, since he would be the obvious suspect. But Sidney Foster had not been sighted for a couple of days before the victim was murdered.
Why not
?

He now had three suspects for the new killing: James David Macintosh, Robert Smythe and Sidney Foster. As to the original killings, James David Macintosh or Sidney Foster were still plausible suspects in Brady’s mind. But which one was responsible for which crimes? Brady readied himself for his next move: questioning the only suspect he had in custody – Macintosh.

‘What did you think of Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe?’ Brady asked.

Conrad shrugged. ‘Difficult to say.’

‘Two coffees, one black and one with milk,’ Brady ordered as he handed over the correct change. ‘Do you want something to eat?’ he asked Conrad.

Conrad shook his head as he looked at the paltry leftovers from the lunchtime rush.

They were in the basement cafeteria, taking a fifteen-minute break before interviewing James David Macintosh. Brady was in dire need of caffeine. Lunchtime had come and long gone, along with his appetite.

‘Thanks,’ Brady said as he absentmindedly picked the coffees up. He handed the milky one to Conrad.

‘Tell me, that story about Molly Johansson flirting with her husband, do you believe her?’ Brady asked as they headed towards the cracked, red laminated table by the window.

‘Why not?’ Conrad asked.

‘I’m not doubting her when she says that her husband has his “indiscretions”, as she called them. I just—’ Brady stopped himself before he said it. He knew it sounded ludicrous.

‘What, sir?’ Conrad asked, frowning.

Brady pulled out a chair and sat down. He looked up at the barred window. The day outside was typically grey and overcast. It did nothing to lift his mood.

‘Sir?’ Conrad repeated.

He shook his head. ‘Nothing about the outcome of this investigation would surprise me, Conrad. Nothing.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Brady saw Harvey come into the canteen. He was clearly looking for him.

‘Jack,’ Harvey said when he strode over. His dark M&S suit was immaculate, as was the shirt, though his bloated, blotchy face told a different story. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. But, apart from that, he looked remarkably pleased with himself.

Brady could see the disapproval on Conrad’s face. Whether it was Harvey’s sudden intrusion, or his over-familiarity with a senior ranking officer that rankled, Brady couldn’t say.

‘What the hell happened to you?’ Brady asked, frowning.

Harvey shook his head. ‘Worked until one a.m. on this,’ he gestured at the file in his hand. ‘Then back in at five a.m.’

‘What is it?’

Harvey pulled out a chair and collapsed. ‘I need a strong coffee and a full English if anyone’s going over to order,’ he said, looking straight at Conrad.

Conrad didn’t bite.

‘I have two minutes before I interview Macintosh. Tell me what you’ve found out and not what you’re about to put in your stomach,’ Brady said, too tired for Harvey’s bullshitting.

‘Shit, Jack! You think I wanted to work like some lackey? No. But I did it,’ Harvey answered.

Brady could feel the frustration building. But he kept it in check and waited.

‘There you go,’ Harvey said throwing the file down on the table. ‘See for yourself.’

Brady opened it up. It was details of the victim’s recent travel. He quickly looked over the three-page document. It didn’t take long for him to do the sums. ‘Fuck,’ Brady muttered.

‘My sentiments exactly,’ Harvey replied.

Brady passed the file to Conrad.

‘Holidays to the Caribbean, Dubai and Thailand. Skiing trips to Aspen. What student do you know who could afford all that?’ Brady asked. But it was a rhetorical question. The answers were clearly printed out in black and white. ‘All paid for by other people’s credit cards.’

Brady shook his head as he turned and looked at Harvey. He was impressed. He couldn’t believe that Harvey had managed to pull this off. Maybe he had misjudged him. Brady was aware that the Chantelle Robertson fuck-up would have hit him hard. Or more likely, it was the verbal punch from Brady that had shaken him. Whatever it was, Brady wasn’t complaining. ‘How did you get this?’

Harvey shrugged casually. ‘I worked a paper trail. That’s all.’

Brady could understand why Harvey would question the extravagant and luxurious holidays. But putting together a comprehensive list of who had accompanied Alex on trips as well as who paid for them was another matter entirely.

For a moment Brady thought Conrad was going to be civil towards Harvey. Even compliment him for his hard-earned endeavours. He didn’t. Harvey may have been of the same rank as Conrad but that was where the similarity ended.

‘Sir,’ Conrad said. ‘These two names.’

Brady looked at him. Conrad’s expression worried him. His eyes were narrowed as he looked back down at the document in his hand. His jaw was clenched, lips set in a thin line. Something was clearly wrong.

Brady gave him a quizzical look. He had not had a chance to scrutinise the information yet. ‘Go on.’

‘Robert Smythe is here.’

‘Where?’ Brady asked.

‘R. Smith, sir,’ Conrad stated.

Brady frowned at him. As did Harvey.

‘I assume it’s the alias he uses on his credit card and bank details,’ Conrad explained warily.

‘Why?’ Harvey asked, clearly not convinced.

‘Because it gives him anonymity. I imagine he would feel more secure conducting his financial affairs that way.’

Harvey looked at Conrad as if he were barking mad.

‘He doesn’t necessarily want to advertise that he’s a politician. People may not know what he looks like, but they would recognise the name. How many Smythes do you know around here?’ Conrad asked Harvey.

Harvey shrugged. ‘I can’t say.’

‘Well, R. Smith is definitely Robert Smythe. I checked up on the politician’s address earlier and it matches with this one,’ Conrad explained. ‘Eight Priors Terrace, Tynemouth.’

Brady took the document from Conrad and scanned down the list of names that the credit cards were registered in. He was not surprised to see R. Smith’s name listed. His transactions were the most recent. Luxury stays in Dubai, Aspen and numerous weekend trips to Kinloch Lodge in Skye and Kinfauns Castle Hotel in Perthshire.

Brady sighed, the meaning of Conrad’s revelation starting to dawn on him. ‘The other name here?’ he asked, looking at Harvey.

It was lost on Harvey. Brady turned to Conrad. He nodded tensely, understanding what Brady was getting at.

Brady cursed. ‘Tell me that this isn’t the Malcolm J. Hughes I think it is?’

Conrad’s expression said it all.

Brady could see from the information that Harvey had collated that the victim had had no reason to work since he gave up his bar job in the exclusive members club a year before. Since then he had had two very wealthy men funding his luxurious lifestyle. But why? An answer came to mind. One that he didn’t like. One that was connected to the text sent from Robert Smythe’s business phone. A text that clearly stated that the victim was involved in a sexual relationship – a sadomasochistic one at that. Not that Brady had a problem with it. As far as he was concerned, two consenting adults they could do what the fuck they liked. But not when it came to murder.

‘Sir . . .’ Conrad faltered, not wanting to be the one to deliver the next piece of damning news.

Brady looked at him. It was clear he wanted to say something, but was unsure of Brady’s reaction.

‘There was another number that had been in regular contact with the victim’s phone. The phone company came back with the details earlier. I didn’t think it was significant at the time, thought it was just connected to De Bernier’s role as a political aide for Smythe, but now I realise that it could be important.’

‘Go on,’ Brady instructed.

‘The number has been traced to a Malcolm J. Hughes.’

Brady knew Malcolm J. Hughes. Not personally, but he knew of him. Everyone did. As a well-known philanthropist and a local hero, he was constantly in the press. It was down to a generous donation from Hughes that a much-needed hospice had remained open in Newcastle. He was one of the most prominent businessmen in the North East, with a chain of successful hotels throughout the UK and he had shares in more companies than Brady could imagine. But he was a Geordie born and bred who had made good. And Hughes was proud to let it be known that he gave back to the community.

‘So what is his phone number doing on some twenty-two year old’s mobile phone?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Conrad answered.

But the look in his eye was enough. It told Brady that he was thinking the same thing. Brady sighed heavily. He was starting to feel nervous. He didn’t like where this could be leading. Malcolm J. Hughes was a powerful figure. The media adored him, as did the public. Brady would have to tread very carefully.

‘We need to talk to him,’ Brady after some consideration.

‘Sir?’ Conrad said, clearly uncomfortable with the implications.

‘We need him to explain why he’s been in regular contact with a twenty-two-year-old student and crucially, why the hell he’s been taking the victim on luxurious holidays to the Caribbean and fuck knows wherever else. I know he’s a philanthropist but this smacks of something other than philanthropy.’

Brady turned to Harvey, who been listening. ‘I assume Hughes used his private jet for these excursions with De Bernier?’

Harvey looked at Brady. ‘I’ll check into it.’

‘Shit!’ Brady muttered to himself. He picked up the sheets of paper again. His eyes darted over the information, looking for something, anything that would give him more cause for bringing Malcolm J. Hughes in. Not that he didn’t have enough already. But it wasn’t exactly incriminating.