Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (29 page)

‘Because I rang her yesterday. We wanted a statement from her. Remember, sir? Molly Johansson implicated her in his murder? Said that they were having an affair?’

‘I know all that, Conrad,’ Brady snapped, not in the mood for a history lesson. ‘But we have a witness at the hotel she was staying at who verified that she was at dinner on Saturday evening and was in the hotel on Sunday morning, which places her in London on the night of the murder. We have rather more pressing matters at this precise moment than jumping up and running because some politician’s wife has snapped her fingers.’

‘Surgeon. She’s an eminent heart surgeon,’ Conrad reminded him.

The look on Brady’s face told him he did not need reminding.

‘Detective Inspector Brady,’ Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe greeted him as Brady walked into the room, followed by Conrad.

Brady took a seat across the table from her. The room still had a lingering smell of stale vomit from when they had interviewed Molly Johansson yesterday. But now there was also a subtle smell of expensive perfume and skin cream.

It didn’t feel like yesterday to Brady. It felt like weeks ago. So much had happened since.

‘I appreciate you coming in, Mrs Huntingdon-Smythe,’ Brady began.

She shot him a smile of white, perfect teeth. ‘Please, it’s “Ms”, not “Mrs”, but feel free to call me Sarah.’

‘Thank you, Sarah,’ Brady began. ‘My colleague, DS Conrad here, informed you yesterday about the sad news regarding your husband’s political aide?’

‘Yes, tragic,’ she replied.

Brady looked at her. She was a handsome woman in her mid-thirties. Tall, fashionably thin, with an air of refinement about her. Her short black hair was scraped back from her gaunt face. She wore no make-up that he could tell, adding to her overall air of androgyny. She was dressed elegantly and conservatively in a dark grey trouser suit and a light grey wool V-neck jumper under the jacket. Her dark brown eyes were filled with curiosity as she looked at Brady. He imagined that this was the first time she had given a statement to the police. And also, her first experience of a police interview room.

Brady found himself staring at her slender long hands. She wore no jewellery. But what intrigued him was that there was no wedding ring on her finger. A tell-tale white band told him that she had recently removed it.

She caught him looking. Momentarily self-conscious, she placed her right hand over her left one.

‘How long have you been married to your husband?’ Brady asked.

‘Why?’ she replied, her face expressionless.

‘Because Alexander De Bernier’s girlfriend is claiming that you were having a sexual relationship with him.’

She laughed at the suggestion. ‘That’s preposterous!’

‘Why?’

She gave Brady a look which implied he was an imbecile for asking such a question.

‘I have been married to my husband for ten years. In that time I have been nothing but faithful. Have you met Robert?’ she asked, with an edge to her voice.

Brady wasn’t an idiot, despite what she thought. He knew she was trying to intimidate him. But he wasn’t intimidated by anyone; least of all, some jumped-up Conservative politician. Or his wife.

‘No. Not yet,’ Brady answered.

‘Well, when you do you’ll see why I would have no inclination to have a scurrilous affair with my husband’s junior aide. Robert means everything to me.’

Brady wasn’t buying it. The missing wedding ring said it all.

‘Your husband is older than you?’

For a moment Sarah’s cool composure was lost as her eyes flashed with irritation. ‘Yes. I am thirty-five and my husband is fifty-nine. However, I don’t see why the age difference between us could be relevant to a murder inquiry.’

‘I was just curious,’ Brady answered, ignoring her icy glare.

She turned to Conrad. ‘Look, I came here to be of some help. Out of respect, really, for Alexander. I was so shocked by the news . . .’ She faltered as her eyes dropped to her hands.

‘I am sorry, Ms Huntingdon-Smythe. I assure you that we do appreciate you making the time to come in,’ Conrad appeased her.

‘Thank you. At least one of you has good manners.’

‘How well did you know Alexander De Bernier?’ Brady asked, ignoring the jibe.

She turned back to Brady, her face cold and impassive. ‘Not very well. He worked for my husband. Perhaps you should ask him about Alexander?’

‘I plan to, as soon as he gets back from Brussels,’ Brady replied. However, this was something he still had to run past Gates. Robert Smythe was a powerful politician and Brady had to tread very carefully. ‘Do you know why the victim’s girlfriend would suggest that you were having a relationship with him?’

‘Haven’t you already asked that question?’ she asked haughtily.

‘Yes, but you failed to answer it.’

She gave Brady a hard, cold look. ‘I have no idea why that silly girl would say such a thing. As far as I remember she spent all her time trying to bed my husband.’

Brady didn’t react, despite her best attempt. ‘Does your husband have a habit of sleeping with his junior aides?’ he enquired.

‘What man wouldn’t if it is offered to him on a plate? I am not a fool, detective. Robert is no exception. I am aware of his indiscretions but, aside from that, we have a good marriage. Sometimes one has to compromise for the sake of equilibrium,’ she answered simply.

Brady looked at her. She was an enigma. There was no bitterness or malevolence when she delivered the news that her husband had sexual relations with his interns. The cool, detached manner and her acceptance of the status quo within her marriage was remarkable.

‘Johansson said that she witnessed you and her boyfriend talking intimately—’ Brady was forced to stop as she cut him off.

‘If by “intimately”, you mean Alexander apologising to me for the spectacle that his imbecilic, drunken slut of a girlfriend was making of herself by flirting shamelessly with my husband? Then yes, you could say we were talking “intimately”.’

‘She never mentioned that she was attracted to your husband,’ Brady replied.

‘Infatuated, detective.’

‘Molly Johansson claimed that last Thursday evening she overheard you and the victim arguing in one of your guest bedrooms. Is that correct?’ Brady asked, not expecting an answer. Or at least a straight answer.

‘Yes. That is correct,’ Sarah answered.

Brady could not figure her out. She was composed and dignified, an unmistakable air of imperiousness about her.

‘Can you explain to us what the argument was about?’ Brady asked.

‘Of course. I had a private word with Alexander about his girlfriend’s unacceptable behaviour. I told him in no uncertain terms that I had had enough. That if it did not end, then I would have no choice but to get Robert to sack her, and him. He was understandably upset, but I am afraid that it had gone on long enough.’

Brady nodded. ‘Do you think your husband was sleeping with her?’

She gave Brady a condescending look. ‘I have no idea. If he was, then that is his business. However, Robert understands that there is one thing I cannot abide, and that is public indiscretions of any sort. I may be tolerant of my husband’s foibles but I am no fool.’

Brady could feel the frustration building. He was getting nowhere with her.

‘Is there anything else that you think could be pertinent to our investigation?’ he asked, deciding it was time to end what had fast become a farce.

‘No.’

‘I appreciate you coming in, Ms Huntingdon-Smythe,’ he concluded as he stood up. ‘My colleague DS Conrad will see you out.’

Brady left the interview room, not quite sure what had just happened. He couldn’t place his finger on it but there was something about her that jarred with him. He thought of her accusation that Molly Johansson was trying to bed her husband. But before he had a chance to think it through, he walked into a flustered and out of breath Daniels.

‘Sir? I’ve . . .’ Daniels gasped, trying to get his breath back. ‘You need to take a look at this,’ he said, clutching some papers. ‘It’s to do with Robert Smythe.’

Chapter Thirty-Two

Tuesday: 2:09 p.m.

It took Brady a moment to absorb what Daniels had just said. He felt as if he’d been punched in the guts, by a blow he had not been expecting. ‘Shit! You’re not serious?

Daniels’ face was deadly serious.

Brady looked again at the printout in his hand. He reread the name the phone was registered to, and then the words:
First rule, no talking. Second rule, blindfold yourself. Third rule. Face-down, ready to be bound and gagged.

He shook his head.
How? How the hell could it be?
He looked at Daniels. ‘You’re certain this text came from a phone registered in Robert Smythe’s name?’

‘Yes, sir. But it’s his business phone,’ Daniels replied.

Not that it made a difference to Brady. It had still come from a phone registered to Smythe.

‘And the white Audi R8 that we saw pull into the hotel car park at ten thirty-one is definitely registered to Smythe?’

Daniels nodded. ‘His own private car, sir.’

Brady pushed his hair back from his face as he absorbed the enormity of the situation. ‘Fuck!’

He looked at Conrad. ‘I need to talk to Gates. We need Robert Smythe in custody.’

Conrad nodded but he still looked unsure. ‘Do you think DCI Gates will sanction it?’

‘Shit, Conrad! He’s got no other choice. Has he?’

‘Sir,’ Brady greeted Gates as he walked into his office.

Gates looked up from his desk.

Brady noted that he didn’t look in the mood for surprises.

He was roughly the same height and build as Brady, but he was physically fitter despite the ten-year age difference. He worked out religiously. He was a man who liked to feel in control. Everything about him was regimented and exact. His dark hair was cropped short. His face, clean-shaven at all times, regardless of the hours he had put in on the job. Gates kept a tight rein on his feelings, no matter what the situation was. But Brady wasn’t sure how he was going to handle this news.

‘Sir, we’ve now got information back on the victim’s phone.’

Gates gestured for Brady to take a seat, his heavily lined, pockmarked face as dispassionate as ever.

Brady did as instructed. It gave him a moment to prepare himself for the next blow he was about to deliver. He knew for a fact that Gates would not be expecting this – no one would.

‘A text was sent to the victim’s phone at ten thirty-two p.m. Here it is,’ Brady said as he handed over the sheet of paper with the text printed on it.

‘Shit!’ He looked up at Brady. ‘Is this correct?’

‘Yes, sir,’ confirmed Brady.

Gates sighed heavily as he reread the words:

First rule, no talking. Second rule, blindfold yourself. Third rule. Face-down, ready to be bound and gagged.

‘The other text explains how the murderer gained access to the victim’s room, sir.’

Gates looked at the text that Alexander De Bernier had sent at 8:39 p.m. ‘212 vase?’ Gates read out.

‘The victim’s room number was 212 and on the second floor I noticed a large, ornate Chinese vase. I assume De Bernier placed the duplicate room key card under the vase. That text went to the same number that sent the instructions of what the victim had to do.’

Gates shook his head as he reread both messages. He then looked up at Brady. ‘Do you know who sent the texts?’

Brady nodded. Apprehensive.

‘Well?’ Gates snapped.

‘Robert Smythe, sir. The politician,’ he added. Not that he needed to. There was only one Robert Smythe.

It took Gates a moment to absorb what Brady had just said. ‘You’re absolutely certain?’ he asked, his voice filled with disbelief.

‘Yes, sir. It’s from his business phone.’

‘Have you talked to his secretary?’

Brady nodded. ‘She confirmed that on the night of De Bernier’s murder Robert Smythe was at a political dinner.’

‘I see,’ Gates replied as he clasped his hands together. It was clear from the look in his eyes that he did not for one second believe that the politician could be responsible for the murder.

Brady sighed inwardly. The worst was yet to come. ‘But she did say that he left sometime between nine p.m. and ten p.m.’

Gates frowned. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, sir, she was adamant that anyone could have picked up her employer’s business phone. That he had a habit of leaving it unattended.’

Gates nodded, relief etched on his face. It was evident that he did not want to make an enemy out of Robert Smythe or affect his chances of promotion.

‘But . . .’ Brady paused as he readied himself. ‘His white Audi R8 was spotted on CCTV camera pulling off from the Promenade and into the Royal Hotel car park.’

‘What time was this?’ Gates asked abruptly.

‘Precisely ten thirty-one p.m.’

‘And this is definitely on the night he attended a political dinner?’

‘Yes, sir. But as I said, his secretary and other witnesses have said that no one saw him after ten p.m. The political dinner was held at the Grand in Tynemouth. A five-minute drive from Whitley Bay. At ten thirty-one his car pulls up outside the hotel where De Bernier is waiting and at ten thirty-two a text is sent from Smythe’s business phone instructing the victim to blindfold himself.’

Gates sat back as he weighed up this new information. ‘I take it Robert Smythe’s still in Brussels?’

‘Yes. He’s due back home on Thursday.’

Gates narrowed his eyes as he looked at Brady. ‘We need him to return to the UK ASAP.’

‘Sir,’ Brady said as he pushed his chair back and stood up.

‘You interviewed his wife, I take it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did she mention any of this?’

‘No, sir. Not at all. She was at a medical conference in London on the night of the dinner and De Bernier’s murder. She hasn’t seen Smythe since she left on Friday morning for London. Witnesses have placed her at the hotel on both the evening in question and the following morning.’

Gates nodded. Disappointed.