Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (36 page)

So why did Brady not feel convinced?

Chapter Forty-Two

Wednesday: 5:39 p.m.

There was a knock at his door and Conrad walked in.

‘Sir, the team want to know when you’re joining them at the Fat Ox.’

Brady considered it for a moment. He knew that he should go. Make an appearance. After all, it was his team’s hard work that helped apprehend De Bernier’s murderer. But he wasn’t in the mood. All he wanted to do was go home and have a drink with Claudia. He hadn’t seen her in days.

He shook his head. ‘Pass on my apologies, Conrad. I’m going home. Claudia will be wondering what the hell has happened to me.’

Conrad’s expression changed. He suddenly looked tense. Too bloody tense.

‘What?’ Brady asked.

‘I . . . I’m sorry, sir—’

Brady suddenly stood up. ‘What the fuck is it?’

‘Claudia . . . She’s not there.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s not at your place. She’s gone.’

Brady’s face darkened as he walked over towards his deputy.

‘Where the fuck is she, if she’s not at mine?’

Conrad considered his options. He didn’t have many.

‘Where the fuck is she?’ Brady asked.

‘She’s . . . she’s at mine, sir. She . . . she needed time to decide what she wanted to do,’ he explained. Conrad dropped his eyes, unable to look at the flash of hurt that crossed Brady’s face. It was quickly replaced by betrayal. Then anger.

‘How long?’

Conrad didn’t answer.

‘How fucking long?’ Brady repeated. ‘If you don’t tell me, I swear I’ll beat it out of you.’

‘Monday. Claudia rang me Monday morning and asked if she could stay with me and . . .’ Conrad paused. ‘I went around after I finished my shift and picked her up later that evening. I’m sorry . . .’

Brady thought back. It seemed like weeks ago. But the last time he had heard from Claudia was Monday night. A simple text saying that she was fine. And he believed it. Stupidly believed it after what she had attempted to do on Sunday night. Just two nights ago – yet so much had happened in those forty-eight hours that he had lost track of time. And seemingly, his personal life.

‘You didn’t think to tell me?’ Brady hissed. ‘That my wife had left me?’

‘Ex-wife, sir,’ Conrad pointed out.

Brady punched the wall. It was the only way he could stop himself ramming his fist into Conrad’s face.

Conrad moved back and waited for Brady to calm down.

‘She said she would call you, sir,’ Conrad tried in an attempt to appease him. ‘Explain what she was doing. I told her that this was between the two of you, that it’s not my business. That I didn’t want to get involved.’

‘Fucking right it’s none of your business!’ Brady replied as he flexed his bruised and scraped hand. But he knew that Conrad and Claudia had been close – once. He had not realised that she had been in contact with Conrad, during the last five months, let alone confided in him. Then again, there was a lot he had not realised.

Conrad waited for Brady to absorb the information and calm down.

‘Sir, she’s not well . . .’

‘Tell me something I don’t know. I’ve been living with her. Remember?’ Brady snapped.

‘I know. But now she needs medical help,’ Conrad said.

‘Says who?’

‘She’s ill. She’s very ill. She needs to be somewhere where she can have access to doctors twenty-four hours. Just in case she . . .’ Conrad faltered. He didn’t need to say it.

‘No!’ shouted Brady. ‘She’s fine! She doesn’t need a shrink and she doesn’t need to be locked up!’

Conrad persisted. ‘Her parents arrived today. I’m sorry. Really I am. They’ve sorted out some country house in Kent that specialises in dealing with patients like Claudia.’

Brady looked at Conrad. His eyes searched his face.

‘Please tell me you didn’t contact her parents?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Conrad said.

Brady felt winded. He could feel the panic rising. Overwhelming him. ‘They haven’t taken her? Not yet? I . . . I need to talk to her first . . .’ he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

Conrad’s expression told Brady that he was already too late. Claudia had already gone.

‘Get out,’ Brady ordered.

Conrad did not move. ‘I want to explain, sir.’

‘You’ve had plenty of time to tell me.’

‘I didn’t know how to,’ Conrad replied.

‘No? Seems like there’s a lot you don’t know how to tell me,’ Brady said.

Conrad didn’t answer.

‘Go on. Get out!’ Brady repeated.

Conrad did as ordered.

THURSDAY

Chapter Forty-Three

Thursday: 12:17 a.m.

Brady couldn’t face going home, the reality of it too much for him. So he had stayed at work.

He had been sitting at his desk for the past hour. It was now after midnight and the last thing he felt like doing was sleeping. He was too wired. Too raw. He needed something to distract himself. Anything to stop himself thinking about Claudia. About the fact that she had left him. That . . . that Conrad had been party to it. Had known about it since Monday.

Fuck . . . fuck . . . fuck!

Brady took another hit of scotch in an attempt to silence the tortured thoughts racing through his mind. He had solved De Bernier’s sadistic murder. But at what cost to his personal life? His wife had gone. Left him. Alone –
again.

He thought of Conrad. The betrayal he felt was overwhelming. He took another drink. An attempt at numbing the hurt.

His eyes fell on the files in front of him. Something was still gnawing away at him. Chewing him up inside. He wanted to ignore it. Dispel the doubts with the facts of the case. But he couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried, he could not silence the uncertainty that he felt. He was certain that Smythe was innocent. But how? And why?

Who would want to set you up, Robert? Who had a motive so powerful that they were prepared to torture and kill a young man in the style of The Joker and then frame you for it?

It was then that it hit Brady. He thought of the press gathered like vultures at Newcastle Airport waiting for their next meal. As soon as Smythe had appeared under arrest, the media had gone wild. Someone had told them. That person had wanted him publically persecuted and vilified.

Brady knew who it was. All he had to do was prove it.

He needed to go over the CCTV footage again. And he needed more of it.

He picked up his phone. He had no choice. He had to call Conrad.

‘Conrad?’

‘Sir,’ Conrad replied uncomfortably.

‘I need you back at the station.’

‘Give me thirty minutes and I’ll be there,’ answered Conrad without question.

Brady disconnected the call. He needed to talk to the hotel to get access to their security tapes. Then he would know for certain if his hunch was right.

He searched through his phone for Wolfe’s number.

‘Laddie, do you know what time it is?’ Wolfe answered, disgruntled.

‘Sorry, but I need to run something past you,’ Brady explained.

‘Go on,’ Wolfe wheezed.

Brady could hear him lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply as he waited. Brady could almost taste the cigarette himself. An overwhelming desire to have one consumed him.

‘I think the trace of semen that was found on the sheets at the crime scene was planted,’ Brady said.

‘Interesting,’ Wolfe replied. ‘But how?’

‘That’s what I’m hoping you could tell me.’

Brady listened as Wolfe sucked on his cigarette as he contemplated the question.

‘Collect it and freeze it until you want to use it, I guess,’ Wolfe answered.

‘Yeah . . . that’s what I thought. Thanks.’

Eleven hours later and Brady had the evidence in front of him. He had studied the CCTV footage again. And again. There was no disputing it.

There was a knock at his door.

‘Yeah?’ Brady called out. He knew it would be Conrad. He had turned up at the station after midnight and had worked doggedly since then, trying to help Brady piece together Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe’s movements.

The door opened. Conrad walked in. He still couldn’t quite look Brady in the eye.

‘Did you talk to the member of staff who said that she was at dinner that night?’ Brady asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered as he walked towards Brady’s desk. ‘He apologised profusely. He had made a mistake. They were incredibly busy that night. She had a reservation with a group of other diners from the medical conference she was attending at the hotel but she wasn’t at the dinner with the rest.’

Brady sighed heavily. He knew this would be the case. But he just needed it verified. After all, he had seen her climbing into her metallic blue Mercedes-Benz in the underground hotel car park in London and driving away at 3:01 p.m. It was indisputable.

‘But she was seen in the Covent Garden Hotel the following morning?’

Conrad nodded. ‘Yes, for breakfast at nine a.m. in the dining hall. She ate with four other colleagues attending the medical conference.’

It came as no surprise to Brady. It had taken her six and a half hours to drive from London to Tynemouth. Then another five and a half for the return journey. At 9:38 p.m. the car could be seen passing through the Tyne Tunnel. Then at 12:34 a.m. the same vehicle went back through, heading for the A1 South back to London. A close-up shot of the driver confirmed it was Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe – the politician’s wife. The car was also registered in her name.

Brady thought about what he had found on tape. If it had not been for the doubts that kept tormenting him over Smythe’s guilt, then he would never have suspected that his wife could have set him up. Without a reason to be suspicious, he would never have looked. Never have scratched beneath the surface to see what ugly truth lay waiting.

CCTV cameras had followed her Mercedes-Benz down Coast Road. She had parked it in Tynemouth Front Street. On foot, she was caught on surveillance camera leaving Front Street in the direction of her home in Priors Terrace.

When Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe had arrived home on the night of the murder, she had waited for her husband to come in and leave, as he always did, his keys and business phone on the hallway table. Unbeknownst to him, she had then texted De Bernier, setting in motion the events of that fateful night. She had been the one who had replied to Alexander’s blackmail threat, and had already made the arrangements. She had then deleted the email. Jed had found it. It also explained why Smythe had been adamant he had no knowledge of the email, or the arrangements to meet the victim at the Royal hotel.

Why her? Why suspect the accused’s wife?

But it had seemed obvious to Brady. Robert Smythe had said his wife was pregnant and yet the forensics team searching the house had found female contraceptives in her toiletry bag. That was what had got Brady thinking. That little detail. At the time he hadn’t even questioned it. But last night it had hit him – what if?

‘It was the female condoms or femidoms that Ainsworth’s team found. Why would she be using them if she was pregnant? She was quite clear to us when we interviewed her that she didn’t cheat. That she was faithful. So why the contraception?’

Conrad waited for Brady to give him the answer.

‘She must have inserted one before having sex with Robert as a means of keeping her husband’s sperm. She then froze it until the opportunity arose to plant it on the victim.’

‘How can you be certain, sir?’ Conrad asked.

‘The lab have come back. They said that they had found unusually high traces of spermicide in the traces of sperm found on the sheets.’

‘Maybe Smythe wore a condom? Maybe he didn’t want to leave biological evidence?’ Conrad suggested.

‘And what? It broke?’ Brady replied shaking his head. ‘I admit, I had thought that. So I asked the lab to examine the sperm for any form of damage.’

Conrad frowned.

‘To see if it had been frozen,’ Brady explained. ‘I was right. The lab said that some of the sperm had been damaged, consistent with having been frozen and then defrosted.’

‘Why?’ Conrad asked. ‘Why would she do it? She’s an eminent heart surgeon. And she’s pregnant. Why risk all she had?’

‘Because she had already lost everything. There was nothing left,’ Brady answered, unable to hide the sadness he felt.

Proving Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe’s part in De Bernier’s murder had left Brady feeling profoundly empty. Lives had been destroyed. And for what?

Chapter Forty-Four

Thursday: 11:31 a.m.

Conrad frowned. None of it made sense to him. Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe had everything. Even without her husband, she was still the leading surgeon in her field. And she was expecting a baby. As far as Conrad could make out, she had everything to lose and nothing to gain.

‘But why set her husband up? Apart from the obvious, that he was having an affair.’

‘Not just having an affair,’ Brady pointed out. ‘It wasn’t another woman. She could compete with that. This was a young man. Imagine how humiliated she must have felt. She admitted to us that her husband had his “indiscretions”. I assumed that she accepted those if they were with women. But the public shame and embarrassment if the press found out he was sleeping with men . . .’

Conrad looked uneasy at this statement. Brady realised he had hit a raw nerve. He quickly continued: ‘And it wasn’t just sex. Robert had fallen in love with Alex. She must have found out about the holidays, the money and the expensive gifts that we traced back to the politician’s bank account.’

‘All right, I can accept all that. But why set him up for murder? That’s extreme, don’t you think? For a woman with so much to lose?’

Brady shook his head. ‘That’s where you’re wrong.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘She had already lost everything. Including her husband. Do you really think a baby would have kept him there? Playing happy families? Smythe would have eventually left her for a man. Whether it was De Bernier or someone else. He had been living a lie. He married her to have the right look in the public eye. The problem was, she had had no idea. Not until she confronted De Bernier with her suspicions. And then she had had a rude awakening. I’m sure the victim would have left her with no doubts about her husband’s true sexuality. Think of the content of those DVDs.’