Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (35 page)

He had sent the rest of the team home late last night. Despite protests. They, too, had wanted to stick around. But there was no point. Nothing could be done until they had the suspect in custody. Harvey and Kodovesky had had the privilege of escorting the MP back from Newcastle Airport.

Someone had leaked the imminent arrest to the press. Brady had an idea who, but could not understand why. Now, what should have been a quiet and orderly affair had turned into a feeding frenzy. As soon as Smythe had been arrested, a DNA swab had been taken and had been couriered to the forensic laboratory. Brady was awaiting the results. He had no doubt that they would come back positive, but he just had to wait for the conclusive proof before they charged him with the murder.

‘Ready?’ Brady asked Conrad when he saw him heading towards him. The atmosphere in the station was jubilant. They were close to charging a suspect with the sadistic murder of a young student. But Brady was finding it difficult to partake in the exultant mood.

Conrad nodded.

‘Come on, then.’

Conrad followed his boss down the stairs.

Brady opened the door and they walked into the small room. He nodded at Robert Smythe and then his solicitor, a small-framed, unassuming man in his mid-forties. For some reason, Brady had expected a Barrington equivalent – disdainful, imperious and in your face. But Oscar Stewart was reserved and cooperative – just like his client.

‘Right, let’s get started, shall we?’ Brady suggested, pulling out a chair.

Smythe was adamant about his innocence, despite the indisputable evidence stacked against him. Brady was hoping that the cooling-off period he had had in the holding cells this morning would change his defence. Yet there was something that Brady couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was gnawing at him. All the time.

He could see from Conrad’s expression that he was not the only who was troubled.

‘You understand why you’re here?’ Brady asked.

Smythe nodded.

He was courteous and civil. The antithesis of Hughes. Brady had heard people say that the politician was an extremely charismatic man. They were right. He looked a lot younger than fifty-nine; tall, slim, tanned, with thick blond hair and handsome features. But this wasn’t what had troubled Brady. The sincerity in Smythe’s bright blue eyes unnerved him. There was nothing about this man that smacked of duplicity or greed. Let alone murder. His mood was sedate, if not disconcertingly melancholic. Not because he had been arrested and was waiting to be charged. It seemed that Smythe’s mournful disposition could likely be down to the fact that his lover had been murdered.

Disquiet crept through Brady, making him ask himself if he could have been mistaken. But the evidence reminded him that this could not be the case. And the suspect could be playing him. This was a man who had spent years courting the press. And the public.

Oscar Stewart cleared his throat. ‘Detective, my client has already accepted the evidence you have against him. He would like to state for the record that he did not murder Alexander De Bernier. That he has been set up.’

Brady nodded at the solicitor. He then turned to the politician. ‘Who do you think would want to set you up?’

Smythe looked Brady straight in the eye. ‘I have done nothing but ask myself that same question, Detective Inspector. But I honestly cannot say.’

‘And why would someone murder your political aide?’

He dropped his gaze.

But it was too late. Brady had already seen the wounded expression on his face.

‘Because he meant something to me,’ Smythe said. He looked back up at Brady, his eyes watery. ‘It’s easy to sit there and judge someone’s life, Detective Inspector. Unless you’re caught up in it, it’s difficult to understand the choices one makes.’

‘You mean your affair with the victim?’

It was clear from the look in Smythe’s eye that Brady had touched a nerve.

‘Yes. I mean Alex.’

‘The credit card in the name of R. Smith registered to your address belongs to you?’ Brady asked.

Smythe looked mildly taken aback. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘The transactions detail luxury holidays, designer clothes and watches and even a BMW sports car. I assume you bought these for Alex?’

Smythe nodded.

‘You loved him?’ Brady asked.

Smythe looked away. ‘Yes,’ he mumbled. ‘It just happened. I didn’t mean for it to, but it did. Sometimes life has a way of knocking you off-course. You don’t expect it and before you know it, you can’t get out. No matter how hard you try.’

‘Is that what happened with De Bernier?’

He nodded, staring down at his hands. ‘Something like that.’

‘You wanted out?’ Brady asked.

Smythe raised his head up to Brady. His eyes told him that he was no fool. That he knew that Brady was trying to trip him up.

‘Yes, for the sake of my wife. We . . . we had been trying for a baby for the past five years. And until recently, we had been unsuccessful.’

‘Your wife’s pregnant?’

‘Yes, twenty weeks. Not that you could tell with Sarah. She’s not showing yet.’

Brady took a moment to absorb this news. Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe had not mentioned it when he had interviewed her. Nor did she look pregnant. Not that he would know what to expect at that stage of pregnancy.

Smythe saw the flicker of doubt cross Brady’s face. ‘I was there at the twelve-week scan. I saw him.’

‘Him?’ Brady asked, curious. He didn’t know a lot about pregnancy but he knew that twelve weeks was too early to be able to tell the sex.

‘At sixteen weeks Sarah had an amniocentesis,’ Smythe explained.

Brady was none the wiser.

‘A needle is inserted into the uterus so tests can be carried out for conditions such as Down’s syndrome. It can also tell the sex of the baby. That’s how I know we are having a boy.’

‘So, let me get this straight, if your wife wasn’t pregnant you would have left her for De Bernier?’

‘I seriously contemplated it, if that’s what you want to know,’ Smythe answered.

‘What about your political career? Surely such a decision would have dire ramifications for your public persona?’

‘Yes. You’re right. But I had no intention of going public with my relationship with Alex,’ he answered, his voice tinged with sadness.

Brady thought about the email that had been sent to Smythe. The blackmail threats and the film.

‘Why would your lover threaten to publicly expose your relationship then?’

Brady watched as Smythe wiped his mouth with a trembling hand. He looked at Brady, eyes filled with regret.

Regret for what?

Brady wasn’t sure.

‘Alex wanted me to leave Sarah. When I explained that I couldn’t, not now that she was pregnant, it changed things between us. He got angry when he realised that I was serious. That he couldn’t change my mind. So he lashed out. Tried to hurt me. Threatened me about going public about our relationship, unless I helped his career.’ He shook his head. ‘I . . . I never got a chance to talk to him about it.’

‘So you didn’t meet him as the victim had requested on the Saturday night?’

‘No. I ignored the email. I decided the best thing to do was let Alex cool down. He could be like that. Hot-headed and impulsive. I had been planning on talking to him when I came back from Brussels. But . . .’ Smythe shook his head at the realisation it was too late.

‘What about the fact that our computer analyst found a reply to the email, arranging to meet him at the Royal Hotel the night he was murdered?’

Robert Smythe looked genuinely taken aback. ‘How? I don’t understand. I definitely did not reply to it.’

Brady watched him. He was convincing. If the evidence wasn’t stacked so high against him, Brady would have said he was innocent. That someone had, as his solicitor claimed, set Smythe up. But from where Brady was sitting, he could not see how that was possible.

‘You understand that the evidence against you is incriminating?’

Smythe nodded as he ran a shaky hand through his hair. His eyes on Brady. ‘I know . . .’

‘Can you explain it?’

‘No,’ he answered simply.

‘We have CCTV footage of your white Audi sports car pulling into the hotel at precisely ten thirty-one p.m. It is believed that the victim was murdered sometime after eleven p.m.’

Smythe shook his head, surprised. ‘That can’t be. Someone must have stolen my car.’

‘You really expect us to believe that?’ Brady asked, frowning. It all seemed too incredible.

‘Yes,’ he whispered.

‘Then why did we find your car parked in your garage if someone had stolen it?’

‘Maybe . . . maybe they drove it back afterwards?’

‘What? After they murdered Alexander De Bernier? So, for the record, you believe someone stole your car from your garage without you realising. And then returned it. Again without your knowledge. Yet you claim to have been at home?’

Smythe looked at Brady, his eyes filled with defeat. ‘I . . . I don’t know. All I can tell you is that I didn’t drive my car to the Royal Hotel on Saturday night.’

‘How could a car thief break into a garage that can only be accessed by a remote controlled electric garage door?’

‘I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know how they did it. But someone must have broken in and stolen my car.’

‘And then returned it.’

Smythe shook his head. ‘I . . . I don’t know . . .’

‘The text that was sent from your business phone. Quote: “First rule, no talking. Second rule, blindfold yourself. Third rule, face-down, ready to be bound and gagged.” How do you explain that?’

Smythe winced when he heard the text.

For a moment, Brady was uncertain. Smythe’s reaction seemed to imply it was the first time he had heard the text.

‘I . . . I didn’t send it. Someone must have used my phone.’

‘When?’ asked Brady. ‘At this dinner you were at the night De Bernier was murdered? The Grand Hotel, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes . . . Yes. A political event. I was there. My secretary and others can vouch for that.’

‘We’ve already talked to them. But the problem I have here is the time-frame. I have witnesses who say you left at nine-fifty p.m. Your car was seen pulling into the Royal at ten thirty-one p.m. The same time the said text was sent. Then the victim was murdered sometime shortly after. But you have no alibi. No witnesses from nine-fifty p.m. to corroborate your story that you went home and went to bed because you were travelling early the following morning.’

Smythe sighed heavily. He looked genuinely scared. He ran a hand over his face as he thought about it. Finally he answered. ‘My wife was in London at a medical conference. Ordinarily she would have been at home. But no, I have no one who can verify my whereabouts.’

Brady nodded. He didn’t know what else to say. He caught sight of Conrad out of the corner of his eye. He looked as uncomfortable and uneasy with this interview as Brady felt. Either Smythe was an extraordinary actor, or he was genuinely innocent. If the latter were the case, how could that be physically possible?

Brady needed to be certain. He opened the file in front of him and took out photographs of the crime scene.

Slowly and deliberately he placed them down in front of the politician.

Smythe looked down and then quickly averted his gaze. ‘I . . . can’t . . . I . . .’ He faltered, unable to speak. His hand covered his mouth.

For a moment Brady was certain that Smythe was going to throw up.

Oscar Stewart intervened: ‘Can my client have a moment to collect himself, please?’

‘Sure,’ Brady replied. Ordinarily he would have kept pushing the suspect. The end goal was to get a written confession. But Brady knew that with Smythe this would not be the case. He came over as a man of integrity. He would not sign a confession to a crime he was insisting he did not commit.

Chapter Forty-One

Wednesday: 11:39 a.m.

Brady had gone down to the basement cafeteria to get a coffee. The suspect wasn’t the only one who needed to clear his head. He had intended to suspend the interview for ten minutes. Thirty minutes later and he was steeling himself for what was to follow. He had no choice but to charge Smythe with the murder of Alexander De Bernier.

‘The lab results are conclusive,’ Brady repeated for the third time.

But Smythe was not buying it.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said, his voice tremulous.

‘The traces of sperm found on the bed sheets in the hotel room match with your DNA sample. The partial shoe print at the crime scene matches the sole of one of your shoes that we found at your home . . .’ Brady paused as he shook his head. The forensic evidence was damning. ‘The cut-throat razor used to mutilate the victim’s groin. To cut off his penis? That was found in your bathroom. It had been cleaned, but the forensic lab were still able to find traces of the victim’s blood on the blade.’

Smythe just stared at Brady, refusing to believe what he was hearing.

‘Do you want me to continue?’ Brady asked.

‘Honestly, I did not murder Alex. I didn’t do it. You believe me, don’t you?’ Smythe asked, his voice desperate.

‘I’m sorry . . .’ Brady said as he shook his head.

The mood in the station was palpable. Everyone was breathing a collective sigh of relief. Gates included. He had even sought Brady out to commend him on the outcome of the investigation. And to pass on Detective Superintendent O’Donnell’s praises. Gates had seemingly forgotten that he had seriously doubted Brady’s suspicions regarding the MP.

But for some reason Brady did not share in the elation. The team were planning a piss-up in the Fat Ox later to celebrate. Within a short time, they had got a result. Nobody could have guessed that the Conservative politician had murdered his political aide, also his lover, because he was blackmailing him over sex tapes. He had everything to lose. His marriage, his unborn son and his political career. The choice seemed obvious. To get rid of the threat to his status quo.

But there was one problem. Smythe needed to murder his lover in a way that would not implicate him. The Joker killings from the Seventies must have seemed an ideal cover. Brady still had no idea how Smythe knew the details from the original murders. He accepted that perhaps he never would. And as for the Joker card: vintage Sixties Waddington playing cards could be bought on eBay. And it seemed that was the case with Smythe. His desktop computer had been handed over to Jed. It hadn’t taken him long to search through the computer’s history. He had found an eBay account in Smythe’s name and the most recent transaction – a 1960s Waddington deck. The case was tied up so tight that Smythe would have no chance when he went to trial; despite his protests that he was innocent. Everything pointed to him. His compelling pleas of innocence were just the act of a psychopath.