Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 Read online

  About the Author

  Danielle Ramsay is a proud Scot living in a small seaside town in north-east England. Always a storyteller, it was only after pursuing an academic career in literature that she found her place in life and began to write creatively full time after being shortlisted for the CWA Debut Dagger in 2009 and 2010. She is the author of three previous Jack Brady crime novels, Blind Alley, Broken Silence and Vanishing Point.

  Always on the go, always passionate in what she is doing, Danielle fills her days with horse-riding, running and murder by proxy.

  Also by Danielle Ramsay

  Broken Silence

  Vanishing Point

  Blind Alley

  Blood Reckoning

  Danielle Ramsay

  www.mulhollandbooks.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Mulholland Books

  An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  1

  Copyright © Danielle Ramsay 2015

  The right of Danielle Ramsay to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Paperback ISBN 978 1 444 75484 1

  eBook ISBN 978 1 444 75485 8

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  To the memory of Stan Ramsay.

  ‘No mortal can keep a secret. If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore.’

  Sigmund Freud

  Contents

  SATURDAY

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  SUNDAY

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  MONDAY

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  TUESDAY

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  WEDNESDAY

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  THURSDAY

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  FRIDAY

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Acknowledgements

  Blind Alley

  SATURDAY

  Chapter One

  Saturday: 10:26 p.m.

  He checked the time on his mobile. He was starting to get pissed off now. No text – nothing.

  He didn’t want to be here. Shaking his head, he tried to get rid of the doubts that had started to creep in. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was about tonight’s arrangements that made him feel so . . . so uneasy. They’d been meeting like this for months now. Discretion was everything. He more than anyone understood the need for anonymity, but he was still at a loss.

  Why here, of all places?

  He needed a drink. That would calm him down. Maybe it was just the fact that it was a different rendezvous than usual. Not as upmarket as he liked, and definitely not in a location he would have chosen. He was used to boutique hotels like Malmaison on Newcastle’s trendy quayside. This place couldn’t have been more different. It left him bemused. It added to the feeling that something about the set-up was wrong.

  What’s taking you so long?

  The silence was making him nervous. Jumpy even. His mobile suddenly bleeped. He had a text. Relief kicked in. But it was short-lived.

  Shit!

  I’m really sorry. Please ring me. Please. Just give me a chance to make it right x

  It was his girlfriend – again. She had been calling repeatedly, but he hadn’t answered. In this situation silence was the best tactic. He’d tell her that his phone had run out of power. An easy excuse that negated the need for elaborate lies that could trip him up.

  Before he left he had deliberately started an argument. One that quickly escalated. His way of creating an ‘out’ for tonight. Reverse psychology. He had accused her of causing problems in their relationship. Started having a real go at her. Told her to be careful. That she was suffocating him. That she had turned into a controlling, suspicious, psycho bitch.

  Not that he felt good about it. She had every right to be paranoid. The regular late nights and furtive phone calls and texts were more than enough. When questioned about his unexplained absences, he would use the same old corny excuse every time – work. He was nearing the end of his Masters and had repeatedly used the pretext that he was working on his final dissertation. He was focused on his career and knew exactly where he wanted to be in ten years’ time. That took devotion. And not necessarily in the way she imagined.

  He scrolled through his other messages in case he had missed one. Nothing. He had sent a text when he had checked into the hotel. Same as always. But this time there had been no reply. It didn’t make sense. The feeling of unease crept back.

  For fuck’s sake, it’s Saturday night, Alex! What the hell are you doing in some crap seaside hotel waiting . . . waiting for what, exactly?

  The answer wasn’t one he particularly liked.

  SEX – sordid and hard. The kind of sex that costs.

  He checked his mobile again: nothing. He always got a text if there was a hold-up. A slither of fear edged its way in. What if someone had found out?

  Fuck!

  He contemplated texting but decided against it. He knew the rules; apart from when he checked in, texting was out. Suddenly his phone bleeped again. Hopeful, he read the new message.

  Why won’t you answer your phone? Alex please. I love you x

  He felt a sudden stab of shame. It quickly evaporated, replaced by irritation. Right now she was the least of his problems.

  He got up off the bed and walked over to the window, trying to shake his darkening mood. The hotel room was pitifully pedestrian. Magnolia walls, beige carpet and cheap brown MDF furniture. It didn’t even have a mini-bar. The view did little to improve his spirits. It was dominated by a black expanse of sea. Bleak and miserable. Directly below was the Pro
menade, illuminated by a hazy yellow glow which added to the seediness of the place. Explosions of drunken laughter and taunts drifted up to the second floor.

  It was a Saturday night – what else did he expect?

  He watched as a group of loud-mouthed pissheads lurched past towards the lure of the gaudy lights and pulsating music that spoke of girls with glazed eyes, fake tans and even faker smiles. They all shared one discernible trait – young men looking for a good time. Regardless of the cost. Getting pissed and laid, in that order. Didn’t matter whether that included a night sobering up in the police cells. It was all part of the weekend. It would inevitably end with them getting in someone’s face. Fighting or shagging amounted to pretty much the same thing; they were too fucked to care. That was all they aspired to, unlike him. He had plans. Big plans. Tonight was just another step towards securing his career.

  Alexander De Bernier looked at his stark reflection against the blackness of the night outside. He was naked – as instructed. Twenty-two years old and in his prime; six foot two, muscular, broad-shouldered, with well-defined abs leading down to a narrow waist and then . . . He looked down at himself. Pleasingly well-endowed, to say the least. He’d first realised his luck in the communal showers at his all-boys school. His deep, dark brown eyes lingered over his reflection. He smiled.

  He had a lot to be proud of and he was damned sure he wasn’t going to put it to waste. He had often been accused of suffering from ‘only child syndrome’ – selfish, opinionated, egotistical and hugely narcissistic. But he would be the first to agree that he was all of the above.

  And he detested being kept waiting.

  As if on cue, the low, deep growl of an approaching car interrupted his thoughts. He watched as the white Audi R8 sports car pulled into the car park below.

  Seconds later, a text arrived. Excitement coursed through him. He knew the game. Knew what was expected. But tonight was going to be different. He needed to talk. Straighten out what was in it for him. By now he would have expected more from these clandestine meetings. Sex first, of course. Then they would discuss his burgeoning career. After all, why have powerful contacts like this one and not use it?

  He walked over to the king-size bed and picked up his phone.

  FIRST RULE – NO TALKING

  SECOND RULE – BLINDFOLD YOURSELF

  THIRD RULE – FACE-DOWN READY TO BE BOUND AND GAGGED

  He hesitated. This was a new trait, one he didn’t recognise. He had always been in control. The one who dominated.

  But this was . . .

  He dispelled the thoughts hurtling through his mind.

  You’re being ridiculous. What’s the worst that could happen?

  He didn’t have time to analyse the new rules. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint. He needed to get ready. He looked around the bland hotel room for a blindfold, spotted his tie hanging in the open wardrobe. Good enough.

  He didn’t have to bother leaving the hotel door ajar. He had left the duplicate room key card hidden as usual. Discretion was crucial. Both of them had too much to lose.

  He had done as instructed. He was blindfolded, prostrate on the bed with his arms obediently clasped behind his back – the willing victim.

  His breath quickened when he heard the door open.

  He instantly recognised the cologne; expensive and subtle. He liked the older man’s taste. It spoke of money and power – everything that Alex coveted. He could feel the excitement stirring within him, reaching down to his loins, and shifted his weight slightly to accommodate his growing hardness.

  He resisted the urge to speak or pull the blindfold down and turn round. He so wanted to see the look on the older man’s face at the sight spread before him. But he remained perfectly still. He was good at obeying orders. For now.

  Silence.

  The urge to move was starting to become intolerable, but he fought it. Still nothing. He reassured himself that the older man was simply enjoying this new game. He was certain that he was appreciating Alex’s honed body in front of him. He was obediently waiting . . . waiting to be taken.

  Filled with anticipation, he held his breath as he heard the other man move towards the bed. He felt his ankles being bound together by rope – then his hands. The bindings around his wrists were twisted tight. Too tight. He could feel the rope burning his flesh.

  Shit!

  His girlfriend came to mind.

  He had one rule – no physical marks on his body.

  Before he had a chance to object, his head was roughly jerked back and his mouth gagged with duct tape.

  What the . . . ?

  The duct tape was wound firmly over his mouth and around the back of his head.

  This was too full-on. Too extreme for a sex game. The older man had never shown any interest in sadism before. Alex hoped that he was just getting excited, too enthusiastic with his newfound dominance. But that didn’t mean he was just going to lie here and accept it. He attempted to protest but all that he managed was a frustrated muffled sound. Alex shook his head. He needed him to know that he wasn’t comfortable with this.

  But his stifled objections were ignored.

  Alex could feel panic stirring in his stomach and tried to keep calm, to reassure himself it was nothing more than a game. The other man was much older and physically weaker than him. And crucially, he had more to lose than Alex – a lot more. If he went too far, then Alex had enough to destroy him.

  But that didn’t quell the disquiet he felt. This wasn’t what he had agreed to. He twisted his wrists in an attempt to loosen the knots, but the more he pulled against it, the deeper the rope cut into his flesh.

  He tried to scream in anger and frustration. Nothing. His shouts were deadened by the tape.

  Alex wanted this to end. Now.

  Every inch of him was telling him that he should do something – anything. He struggled in desperation. It didn’t work. His hands felt sticky from his exertions and he realised it was blood. The rope was slicing into his wrists. Now furious, instinct made him attempt to shout out. But again, nothing.

  You fucking old cunt! I’ll have you once this is over!

  He thrashed his body around. It was futile.

  Fuck . . . fuck . . . fuck!

  Something was wrong. Very wrong. Alex tried not to panic but he was gagged, bound and blinded. Unable to move or talk. He was completely at the other man’s mercy. But why? Why was he doing this to him?

  My wrists are fucking bleeding, you bastard!

  Alex was suddenly winded as a heavy weight crushed his lower back. Enraged, he realised the man had straddled him.

  He hadn’t anticipated the next move – the rope against his throat. Deceitful and totally unexpected. Blood pummelled through his veins and roared in his ears as the rope dug deep into his skin.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  An unexpected pleasurable sensation shot like an electric current to his groin as more pressure was applied. It was a few moments before his sexual excitement dissipated, replaced by pure alarm.

  It’s tight . . . too fucking tight . . .

  Shit! I can’t breathe . . .

  His legs jerked as the rope squeezed even harder, ramming his Adam’s apple up towards his skull. He struggled to stay conscious as the blood vessels in his eyes ruptured, releasing an explosion of white flecks.

  Fuck . . . fuck . . . fuck . . .

  The rope twisted even tighter. He couldn’t think straight. Nothing made sense. The deafening shriek of his body dulled his sense of reality. All he was aware of was burning – as if petrol had been doused down his throat and then set alight.

  Alex felt himself slipping into unconsciousness and welcomed it.

  Seconds . . . or was it minutes later? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that the black nothingness had been replaced by crippling pain.

  His head was yanked back and the duct tape ripped off. He gasped air. Slow, shallow and raspy snatches of air. But it was enough.

  He trie
d to make his mind play catch up, but his thoughts were dulled by the blackness that had temporarily taken him.

  Without warning, he was rolled onto his back.

  Shit!

  Something cold and metallic touched his face, teasingly. It took him a few moments to realise that it was a knife. He felt the chill of the blade as it traced its way up his cheek until it reached the makeshift blindfold covering his eyes. A second later, and he was squinting in surprise at the sudden glare of light.

  He didn’t have time to understand.

  His brain felt sluggish, his body in too much pain for him to make sense of anything.

  He felt a firm hand around him – massaging . . . squeezing . . . trying to make him hard. His body didn’t feel like his own. It felt numb. Paralysed, he watched, tried to blink back the tears. He felt pathetic. He was pathetic. It all made sense. He could see that now.

  You stupid bastard, Alex . . . You fucking stupid bastard . . .

  He felt the cold tip of the blade as it seared his flesh. It took his damaged senses a moment to comprehend. His eyes widened in terror.

  Fuck! No . . . Not that . . . Anything but that . . .

  Chapter Two

  Saturday: 11:52 p.m.

  The cool air was a welcome relief as he walked through the streets of Whitley Bay. He smiled as he indulged himself in memories. He had waited so long. Too long. Delight played on the corners of his lips. He did not register the old, homeless man huddled in the doorway of the B&M store, speaking gibberish as he clutched a bottle of something lethal. He was inconsequential. As were the taxis speeding towards the bars and clubs along South Parade and the Promenade, and the drunken people lurching across the road, laughing and singing.