Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (37 page)

Conrad looked at Brady. ‘She knew about the DVDs?’

‘She had accessed her husband’s email account on her laptop. It was taken into custody with the desktop computer when forensics searched the house,’ Brady explained. ‘Don’t ask me how Jed does it, but he managed to find evidence that she had opened up her husband’s emails and watched the films that De Bernier had sent him as a blackmail threat.’

Conrad breathed out. He still looked uncertain.

‘Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of time to ask her questions when we bring her in.’

‘I understand the motive for setting her husband up. But murder? She’s a doctor, sir. She’s taken the Hippocratic Oath.’

‘You do remember the blood tests that came back? That confirmed Alex was HIV positive. We saw in the DVDs that he practised unprotected sex with Smythe and Hughes and others.’

Conrad nodded.

‘The DVDs date back to last October. So the odds are that he will be infected.’

‘Yes,’ Brady answered. ‘So will his wife.’

‘Oh, Christ!’ Conrad muttered.

‘Four weeks ago she had an amniocentesis. She would have had her blood tested and if she was HIV positive it would have shown. What do you think the ramifications would be for her? Aside from the health ones?’

‘Her career would be over.’

Brady nodded. ‘Precisely. She’d have to stop doing surgery because of the risk to her patients.’

‘So, she went after the two men who destroyed her life?’ Conrad asked.

‘Yeah . . . Seems that way. Her revenge on her husband was meticulous. Setting him up for the murder of the young man he loved. She used his car to go the Royal Hotel, knowing CCTV cameras would record the car travelling along the Promenade. She took her husband’s business phone and used it to text the victim because she wanted him implicated. She took his cut-throat razor and used it to mutilate the victim, then washed it and returned it to their bathroom. She knew there would be trace evidence left on the blade. She took his shoe to the crime scene with the intention of leaving one partial footprint.’

Conrad looked at Brady in disbelief. ‘That is remarkably clever,’ he said.

‘The evidence was difficult to find. Intentionally so. To make it appear as if Smythe had cleaned the room after the murder. The minuscule drop of sperm on the sheets planted so that when forensics did find it, it would place Smythe at the crime scene. Even the partial footprint was made to look as if her husband had been very careful not to leave any forensic evidence at the crime scene. As to why . . .’

Brady felt as deflated as Conrad looked. There was no pleasure in any of this – none at all.

‘I assume he had infected her and put their unborn child at risk.’ Brady paused for a moment, imagining her horror when the amniocentesis results came back. She would not have been expecting to find out she was HIV positive. No one would. Brady was aware that a significant portion of the population were unaware that they were HIV positive. For most, the symptoms when first infected were assumed to be a nasty bout of flu. It could be up to ten years before the virus made itself known.

‘Then there was De Bernier,’ Brady continued, as he thought about the motive behind his murder. ‘Do you remember Molly Johansson saying she overheard them arguing? That Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe was threatening that she would destroy his career in politics before it had even properly begun if he did not leave her alone? She had wanted him out of her and her husband’s lives. She had given him a chance to walk away. But he didn’t. So she murdered him. Lured him to the hotel by pretending to be his lover. Requested that he blindfold himself.’

‘So he would not know that it wasn’t Smythe,’ Conrad said.

‘Exactly. Then she bound him, giving her physical power over him. All of this being consensual. The victim had no idea who had walked into the hotel room. Or what was about to happen to him.’

‘That’s the part I still find hard to accept,’ Conrad admitted. ‘What she did to him.’

‘Why? Because she was pregnant or because she was a surgeon?’

‘Both.’

‘Put yourself in her position. This young, arrogant man who had no real interest in her husband, other than what he could get out of the relationship, came along and destroyed her life. Her unborn baby’s life. And what for? Money and power? That’s what he wanted. Malcolm Hughes and Smythe will just be a few on a long list. Who knows how many men Alexander De Bernier unknowingly infected? I’m sure that Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe believed that what she was doing was for the greater good. Permanently preventing him from infecting other men, destroying countless more lives than he already had.’

‘But how did she know about The Joker’s signature?’

‘She’s a surgeon, Conrad. How difficult would it be for her to get hold of the pathology reports from the first seven victims? Not that difficult. Not if you are as focused and determined as her. At the time, the autopsies were carried out at the Freeman hospital. The same hospital she works at now. It was something Wolfe said when he was carrying out De Bernier’s autopsy, that he had accessed the reports on the Seventies victims. Made me wonder how easy it would be to access this material if you’re in the profession.’

‘But why The Joker? Why copy him?’

Brady had spent most of the early hours asking himself why Sarah had attempted to fool the police first by framing her husband, and then by setting up a murder scene to make it appear as if the original Seventies killer had returned.

‘Good question. Hopefully she’ll be able to give you a satisfying answer when we interview her. I personally think she did it because the Seventies killings were so shocking. A copycat murder would be a hit with the media. That was what she wanted. Her husband publicly denounced. Did she think we would consider that Robert Smythe could also be responsible for the first killings? Maybe . . . But I am more certain that she believed that she had come up with the perfect plan to frame her husband for his lover’s cruel death.’

Conrad was silent for a moment.

‘And you’re absolutely certain Smythe did not murder De Bernier?’

‘One hundred per cent. I looked in the man’s eyes, Conrad. He may be many things, but he’s not a killer.’

Brady steeled himself for his final job – Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe’s interview. He believed she would confess. Why not? She had nothing to lose. She had achieved what she had set out to do. Publicly expose her husband and destroy his political career and good name. The press had already got hold of the sordid affair between the Conservative politician and his junior aide. Someone had tipped them off about his arrest and that he was sexually involved with the victim. Brady knew who the informant had been before he had talked to Rubenfeld. The sordid, sad affair had hit the front page of the
Northern Echo
that afternoon.

All Rubenfeld would tell him was that the tip-off came from an anonymous female caller. He had also received a copy of a DVD. It had been couriered to him. Brady had contacted the courier direct and the sender’s details matched Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe’s description. Needless to say, the DVD showed explicit scenes of a sexual nature involving Smythe and De Bernier. Brady had wondered at the time why Sarah had not met her husband at the airport. Why she had not been there to support him at the police station. Her absence itself had implicated her.

‘I reckon it’s time we go and bring her in for questioning. Don’t you?’ Brady said as he stood up.

Brady felt the need to bring her in personally. She had refused to leave the family home and had only stayed with friends while forensics were examining the property. He knew that she would have no idea that they would be coming to arrest her. Why would she? After all, her husband’s sordid life had been spread across all the tabloids and repeatedly discussed on the news. Sarah had got what she wanted – her husband’s duplicitous life exposed. And more.

Chapter Forty-Five

Thursday: 2:29 p.m.

Brady banged on the door again.

‘What time is it?’ Brady asked Conrad.

‘Two-thirty, sir,’ Conrad answered.

Brady was exhausted. As was Conrad. No surprise, given the fact that they had worked through the night piecing together Sarah Huntingdon-Smythe’s movements.

‘Maybe she’s having a nap?’ Conrad suggested. ‘She is pregnant.’

Brady shook his head. He had a bad feeling about this. ‘I’m going to take a look around the back and see if I can find a way in.’

‘Sir?’ Conrad asked, surprised. ‘Shouldn’t we just call for backup?’

But Brady didn’t hear him. Or if he did, he was too distracted.

He broke into a run.

Brady found the back of the house. He could see that the kitchen window was open. All he needed to do was climb over the yard wall. He looked around for something to stand on to help give him some leverage to swing himself over. Someone had left a washing machine out for the scrap merchants. Brady dragged it over and pushed it against the wall, climbed onto it and then pulled himself up and over. He jumped down, anticipating the pain before he landed.

‘Fuck!’ he cursed as a bolt of pain exploded in what remained of his left knee. Hobbling, Brady made his way to the open kitchen window. It was large enough for him to squeeze himself through.

‘Sarah? Police! Sarah?’ he shouted when he was finally inside.

Nothing. Brady tried to ignore the disquiet he felt.

‘Sarah? Sarah, it is DI Brady,’ he shouted as he walked into the palatial kitchen. He made his way through to the hallway. Again, nothing.

He checked all the rooms downstairs, knowing that he wouldn’t find her. He then walked to the front door and opened it for Conrad.

‘Nothing downstairs. But her house keys and car keys are on the hall table.’

Conrad didn’t say anything. His sombre expression told Brady he had a bad feeling about this as well.

Brady took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the pain in his leg.

‘Sarah?’ he shouted out again.

Nothing.

He reached the first floor. The door to the master bedroom was wide open.

‘Sarah? It’s DI Jack Brady, Sarah. We need to talk to you.’

He didn’t notice any of the finer details of the house. The antique furniture, oil paintings and highly polished oak floors covered in Persian rugs. All he noticed was the deathly silence that hung in the air.

Something was wrong. The silence screamed at him that something was very wrong.

He turned and looked back at Conrad behind him. Brady nodded at him that he was going into the master bedroom.

He walked in. The ornate four-poster bed was in disarray, sheets and throws pulled back. Scatter cushions and pillows knocked onto the floor. Clothes dumped next to them.

It was then that Brady heard the water.

Drip . . . drip . . . drip . . .

The chilling noise was coming from the en-suite bathroom. Brady walked towards the closed door, dreading what he would find.

‘Sarah?’ he called out as he knocked. But he already knew it was in vain.

He swung the door open and stopped. Paralysed.

‘Oh God . . .’ Brady muttered.

It took him a moment to react. ‘Call paramedics. Now!’ he ordered.

But it would be too late. Sarah’s body lay submerged in the bloodied water in the bath in the centre of the large bathroom. He walked over. Her bloodless grey face looked up at him from underneath the water. Eyes open. Blank. Staring at nothing. He felt sick. For a second it was as if he was looking into Claudia’s pale, lifeless face. Into her dead, accusatory eyes.

No . . . Claudia .
 . .

In that moment he knew how close he had come to losing her.

Brady swallowed the sob that was strangling the back of his throat. He could feel the tears burning his eyes.

‘Sarah? Sarah . . .’ He was too late. The bath was filled with blood. Her blood. Blood from her slit wrists.

He dropped to his knees and leaned over to carefully lift her head out of the water. He held her tight against his chest, one hand clasped around her damp bloodied hair. Sarah’s body was cold. Too cold. He closed his eyes as the tears slipped down his face at the unjustness of it all. For a moment he felt transported back to Sunday night and Claudia.

What if . . . Oh God, what if . . .

Then there was only the image of Sarah’s lifeless body. Her swollen belly drowned out Claudia. Naked, there was no mistaking that she was with child.

If only . . . If only he’d realised sooner . . .

Chapter Forty-Six

Thursday: 7:16 p.m.

Macintosh had left a message for DI Brady. To others, it would just be a receipt. But Brady would understand.

He had waited until dark. Hidden himself in the Gents toilets in Whitley Bay. He needed to be close. But not too close. Hours he had waited, crouched behind the closed door of a cubicle. He had heard the goings-on. It had made him feel sick. Brought back the images. The memories of the others. But he had resisted making himself known. Doing what he knew was right felt good. It brought him liberation. A momentary lapse from his father’s bullying. That voice, drunk and terrifying. It humiliated and debased him. Ridiculed what felt normal. He calmed himself. Silenced the evil, vindictive words with images of past victims and future victims. Of what he had done and what he was about to do.

He had one hand on the doorbell while the other hand held the axe behind his back. He pressed the bell and listened to the faint chime as footsteps approached. His mind was suddenly filled with images of what was to come. Flashes of the blade. Swift. Slicing. Hacking. Smashing bone. Blood. Flesh. Screaming. He could smell it. Smell them. Hear them. He smiled in preparation.

The feeling was intense. It had consumed him. He had stayed with them. Watched them. Lain down with them. Breathed in their scent. Touched them. Stared into their wide eyes. Then he had left. He had no choice. He needed to get a head start. Ahead of the police. But it was Jack Brady he wanted. This was for him. It was his gift. He was certain that when Brady looked at what he had done for him, he would follow. Then they would see.