Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (33 page)

‘Shit, Jack! This is one fucking mess!’ Harvey moaned.

‘Outside,’ Brady ordered. Whatever Harvey had found out, he wanted to hear it in private.

‘Go on,’ Brady instructed, once they’d left the room.

‘First blow is that Sidney Foster has been found.’

Brady looked at Harvey. ‘Where?’

‘In some wooded area not far from Porthtowan.’

Brady realised he was dead. ‘He killed himself?’

Harvey nodded, surprised. ‘How did you know?’

Brady didn’t answer. ‘How did he do it?’

‘Car exhaust fumes. Closed all the windows and gassed himself. It was a car from the late Seventies so . . .’ Harvey shrugged.

Brady knew why. Someone had made an allegation to the local police that he had been abused by Foster from the age of eight. It was enough to destroy his sedate lifestyle and chase him out of the small Cornish village that he had spent thirty years in. Brady imagined that there was more than one victim. That once it got out into the local press more would come forward. It just took one person to break the silence on paedophiles like Foster. Not that Brady could say he felt sorry for him. He saw him as a coward. He had preyed upon young boys who were voiceless and powerless and when he was threatened with exposure he had taken the coward’s way out.

‘What’s the second blow?’ Brady asked.

‘Malcolm J. Hughes.’

Brady waited.

‘He owned the quayside apartment. Purchased it two years back,’ Harvey said.

It came as no surprise. Phone records indicated that whatever relationship Hughes had with De Bernier had begun two years earlier when the victim was working at the gentleman’s club. No surprise that was where he would have been introduced to the entrepreneur and philanthropist. Brady imagined there would be others like Hughes and Smythe – at least in the early days. Not now. It appeared that the victim had become more selective over time. Lucrative business. Or at least it was, until someone had decided to end it for him.

‘Hughes transferred the property into De Bernier’s name two weeks ago,’ Harvey said, shaking his head, not quite believing it. ‘It means what I think it does, right?’

‘Yeah, I believe it does,’ Brady answered.

Harvey looked wounded. Brady accepted that once this got out Harvey wouldn’t be alone in feeling so cheated by Hughes’ behaviour.

‘What now, Jack?’ Harvey asked.

‘You and Kodovesky bring him in for questioning.’

‘You’re not serious, are you? Can’t someone else do it? I . . . I’ve spoken to him, Jack. It would be awkward—’ Harvey stopped.

‘Get a grip, Tom. He’s a suspect. No more, no less. He’s not bloody Gandhi and he doesn’t walk on water. What he does do is fuck around on his missus. Ordinarily, no big deal. But you’re right, it is awkward – for him. Because when the press find out about his bit on the side, then the shit’s going to hit the fan big style.’

‘You really think he was having a sexual relationship with De Bernier?’ Harvey asked, not really wanting the answer.

Brady raised his eyebrows.

‘But you’ve got no evidence. Maybe it’s innocent. Maybe he just liked the kid. You know?’ Harvey suggested, floundering.

‘I can guarantee you that in a few hours I’ll have evidence that Hughes was paying the victim for sex. The apartment, the holidays? The cash in the victim’s bank? Regardless of what you think, Tom, Hughes is not some benevolent benefactor. His relationship with the victim was based on something else entirely.’

‘Has Gates said anything about you bringing him in?’ Harvey questioned.

The look in his eye told Brady that Harvey didn’t want to get it in the neck when he walked into the station with Hughes in tow.

‘Let me worry about Gates, while you concentrate on finding our suspect.’

Harvey nodded reluctantly. ‘What do I say to his wife?’

‘Tell her to get a good divorce lawyer!’

‘I’m serious. Come on, Jack.’

‘So am I . . . Oh for fuck’s sake,’ Brady said, exasperated, when he saw Harvey’s worried expression. ‘Tell her . . . I don’t know. The usual crap. That we need him to help us with our inquiries. Keep it ambiguous. It’s his fucking mess, so he should be the one that does the explaining. After he’s explained it to us first.’

Harvey looked uncomfortable with the prospect of dealing with Hughes’ wife, let alone Hughes himself.

‘Where does he live?’ Brady asked, curious.

‘Darras Hall,’ Harvey replied, dejectedly.

‘Figures.’ It was no surprise that the entrepreneur resided in what was known as millionaire’s paradise, a few miles outside of the idyllic village of Ponteland, Northumberland. There was a reason why most of the players from Newcastle United owned properties there.

‘I suggest you take a drive out there and sit it out. He’ll show up. He has to. He lives there.’

Harvey looked crestfallen.

‘Come on, Tom. Could be worse. You could be ramming down a door in Shields looking for some scrote high on ketamine who wouldn’t think twice about shoving an infected needle into your neck if he got half a chance.’

Harvey didn’t look convinced.

Conrad approached them.

‘Ready?’ Brady asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered.

‘Where are you off to?’ Harvey asked.

‘The victim’s flat.’

Forty minutes later, Brady was standing in De Bernier’s luxurious apartment overlooking Newcastle quayside. It looked like some New York warehouse conversion. Huge open-plan rooms, exposed wooden beams and sandblasted brickwork. It was breathtaking. Then there was the pièce de résistance – the enormous floor-to-ceiling wall of glass that overlooked the Tyne river. Below, the bustling quayside was lit from all angles. Straight ahead was a stunning view of the Gateshead Millennium Bridge, lit up in neon blue, arcing gracefully over the Tyne river.

‘Bloody hell!’ Brady muttered to himself as he took in the majestic views. This took serious money.

Conrad shot him a questioning look. One that reminded Brady that the victim had paid a high price for this penthouse apartment.

‘Right, you start in here and I’ll go search his bedroom.’

It didn’t take Brady long. ‘Conrad?’ he called out.

‘Take a look at these,’ Brady said as he pointed to a collection of homemade DVDs. ‘I found them hidden under the flooring in that walk-in wardrobe,’ he said, indicating a room large enough to be another bedroom.

‘How did you know he’d have something hidden?’ Conrad asked.

‘Because this guy was smart. He played people. He got what he wanted out of them. Holidays, cars and this penthouse apartment. You have to ask yourself what De Bernier offered in return. Sex, sure. But would that in itself have been enough to have banked over two hundred grand in a savings account? I reckon the holidays and the sports car were gifts. Expensive gifts at that. But this place?’ Brady said, looking around him. ‘No. I think he changed the rules of the game. And in order to do so, he needed to have something on these men. If it was me? I’d secretly film them, making damned sure their faces were identifiable. He could sit on those films and let the value increase until he decided to cash in his assets.’

Brady walked over to the DVD player. ‘Reckon these might give us an idea as to how De Bernier made his money,’ he said, thinking of the entrepreneur who had signed the apartment over to the victim.

‘Do you think he could have been blackmailing Hughes?’

‘I don’t know,’ Brady shrugged. ‘We’ll have to ask him when we get back to the station.’

Brady put one of the films in and pressed play.

‘Fuck! That looks painful,’ Brady winced, as he watched the victim engaging in various sex acts with an unidentifiable older male.

After a few minutes he fast-forwarded the film. Then suddenly paused it. ‘Shit!’ He turned to Conrad.

It was clear Conrad recognised him too. He looked as shocked as Brady felt.

‘We need forensics here. I want the place searched. I need Jed to analyse whatever material we have on the victim’s laptop and desktop computer,’ Brady said, as he absorbed the magnitude of what they had just found. ‘Christ, Conrad! I had a feeling that this could be the case. But to actually see it . . .’

Conrad looked worried. ‘You know this could cause a lot of damage if it got into the wrong hands?’

‘Already has,’ Brady said, stopping the film and taking it out of the DVD player.

He put another DVD in and fast-forwarded it. ‘Fuck!’ He cursed again when he recognised the man having sex with the victim. He paused on the image of his face. There was no question as to his identity.

Brady turned to Conrad and breathed out heavily. ‘Reckon Harvey’s going to need a drink tonight after he’s witnessed this.’

Brady stopped the DVD. He had no choice but to take these findings to Gates. He knew that his boss wouldn’t be happy with what he had found. Not at all.

‘Reckon I’ve got the perfect job for Daniels and Kenny tonight,’ Brady said.

‘Sir?’ Conrad asked, unsure of what he meant. But he realised as soon as he saw the mischievous look in Brady’s eye.

‘It will take hours to go through these DVDs,’ Brady said, trying hard not to grin at the thought of the two most sexist blokes in the station having to sit through hours of hardcore gay porn.

But it was crucial that the films were analysed. Brady was certain that they were behind the victim’s newly acquired assets.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Tuesday: 9:52 p.m.

Brady was preparing himself for his interview with Malcolm J. Hughes. Harvey and Kodovesky had brought him in while he and Conrad had been searching the victim’s apartment. It seemed that Hughes had heard the news about De Bernier, and had been expecting the police – not that he acknowledged the countless calls that had been made to his secretary and PA. He had told his wife that the victim was a bartender at the gentleman’s club he belonged to, and as a member he needed to give the police whatever information he knew about the victim. It was bullshit. But his wife bought it.

The station was buzzing at the news that Hughes had been brought in for questioning. That, and the evidence on film of his sexual relationship with the victim. However, Brady’s summoning of Hughes had also attracted Gates’ attention, who was on the warpath. Brady had managed to keep his head down and out of firing range. But he knew that couldn’t last forever.

Brady was now waiting on news from Jed, the police forensic computer analyst. He wanted this information before he interviewed Hughes. But he was being made to sweat. Budgets had been radically slashed, resulting in their only full-time computer geek inundated with work. Jed had heard it all. SIOs would dump software on him and expect a miracle overnight. It didn’t happen. It couldn’t. There were not enough hours in the day for Jed to even get close to managing his workload.

Brady had cajoled Jed into looking at De Bernier’s laptop. He firmly believed there would be something incriminating on the hardware and Jed was the only person he knew who could find it – and fast. The victim had not struck Brady as a computer geek. He did not believe De Bernier would have any encrypted files on his laptop. Brady was simply looking for some emails. Messages that he assumed would have been deleted for fear of the victim’s girlfriend gaining access into his private email account. Not that Brady could blame him for being paranoid. Molly Johansson had admitted that she regularly checked the victim’s phone if it was left lying around, on the off-chance she would find an incriminating text or email proving he was having an affair. To be fair to her in turn, she had not been unfounded in her suspicions. The victim’s homemade DVD collection had shown that – not that Brady would be telling her about it. Some things were better left unsaid. Unless the press got hold of it.

Brady still had Rubenfeld, the hard-nosed hack and snitch, chasing him for a story. Something to head the front page of the
Northern Echo.
Brady had refused to take his calls and Rubenfeld was starting to get pissy about it. Not a good move, because at some point Brady would need him. Ordinarily he kept Rubenfeld sweet, but the nature of the investigation and the high public profile of the two main suspects had forced him to stonewall the journalist.

Brady’s BlackBerry rang.

‘Did you find it?’ he asked, his voice tense.

Jed sighed. ‘Yeah. I found it all right. You owe me, Jack. Again.’

‘Fuck!’ Brady exhaled, relief coursing through him. ‘Anything, name it and it’s yours.’

Jed laughed. ‘You couldn’t afford it!’

‘Who did he send it to?’ Brady asked, as he leaned his elbows on his desk and massaged his temple. He had expected this. It was true to form.

‘Some politician. Robert Smythe. Sound familiar?’ Jed asked.

‘Yeah,’ Brady answered, breathing slowly out.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He had expected it, but the reality still hit him hard.

‘What did it say?’ It was a rhetorical question because Brady already knew the answer.

‘Let’s see . . . Looks like he’s blackmailing this guy over some films he’s made. Yeah . . . From what he saying here, they’re fairly incriminating.’

‘Sounds about right,’ Brady answered. ‘What’s he asking for?’

‘Wanted to meet up and discuss “options” regarding his political career,’ Jed replied.

‘When?’ Brady asked. The answer was crucial.

‘When what? The email was sent?’ Jed asked. ‘Thursday, thirteenth March at nine oh-seven a.m.’

‘No. When did he want to meet up?’

‘Saturday evening just gone. Says here that he wanted to meet up at a hotel.’

Brady breathed out. ‘Shit!’

‘Hey, don’t feel the need to thank me for busting my balls to retrieve this for you,’ Jed replied.

‘Yeah, thanks, mate. I really do owe you one. Can you send it to me?’

‘Sure. You want me to go through what else he might have on here?’

‘If you can, that would be great. But right now, that email is all that I want.’

As Brady disconnected the call there was a loud knock at the door.

‘Yeah?’ he called out as he leaned back in his chair. He was exhausted. It felt like he had been getting nowhere and suddenly . . . Brady rubbed his tired face with the palms of his hands. He suddenly realised that he hadn’t eaten for hours. But at least they had got somewhere. And soon he would have Robert Smythe on UK soil, preferably handcuffed.