Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 Page 2

  His mind was caught up on earlier events. Flashes of blood-drenched scenes consumed him. He had savoured every minute detail, stored the images with the others; cataloguing them for when the desire arose to peruse them. The heady aroma of kebabs and curries that dominated the town centre was lost to him – all he could smell was fear; pungent and acrid. He breathed it in.

  He felt calm. The unrest that plagued him for so long had been silenced – temporarily. But it was enough. Until next time.

  For there would definitely be a next time.

  ‘Spare any money, mate?’ the huddled figure suddenly called out at him, hopefully.

  The whining, croaky voice brought him back to the seedy reality of Whitley Bay on a Saturday night.

  ‘Just a quid, eh?’ the old man asked as he weakly held up a trembling hand.

  He turned and looked down at the homeless man.

  Startled, the old man shuffled back away from him and shivered involuntarily, despite the warmth of the dirty old quilt wrapped around his body.

  ‘Sorry mate . . . don’t matter,’ he mumbled as he pressed his body back against the door.

  There was something about those eyes that terrified him. They were devoid of anything. No feeling. No empathy. The homeless man felt like he was staring into the eyes of something that was not human.

  He clung onto the half-full bottle of scotch and waited for him to move on.

  When he did, the old man breathed out slowly, watching as the tall, suited figure crossed over towards Whitley Road. He wasn’t sure who he had just accosted for money, but he knew that he was lucky not to have had his hands smashed to smithereens to prevent him from ever begging again. He had lived on the streets for too long not to recognise the signs. Out here you lived by instinct and wit alone and you learned the hard way who to avoid. And the ones, like the man who had just passed him, who were simply wired differently from the rest of society. Dangerously so. He unscrewed the cap on his scotch and took a much-needed glug. The warm raw liquid slipped effortlessly down the back of his throat, but it did not have the desired numbing effect. He realised his hand was still trembling as he screwed the cap on. And he knew why. It was the man’s eyes. Cold and menacing, with a hunger in them. A hunger to kill.

  The old man scanned Whitley Road for any sign of him, but he was gone. He snatched up the bottle, took another gulp and then wiped his mouth with the back of his blackened, rheumatoid hand. He tucked the bottle safely in an inside pocket and, struggling, staggered to his feet.

  He had a bad feeling – and living on the streets, he had seen enough to know when it was time to disappear.

  SUNDAY

  Chapter Three

  Sunday: 12:09 a.m.

  ‘James? Where the hell have you been?’ Ronnie demanded when Macintosh walked through the door. He was really pissed off. He had been delaying calling the police for the past hour, just on the off-chance that Macintosh showed.

  James David Macintosh smiled apologetically and shrugged. ‘I’m really sorry, Ronnie. I . . . I don’t know what to say. Time just eluded me.’

  ‘You better bloody think of something to say. It’s after midnight for Christ’s sake. You’ve been missing for over five hours! Curfew’s seven p.m. You know that!’ He ran a shaking hand absentmindedly over his shaven head as he gave Macintosh the once-over. He was immaculate, as always. Dressed in a dark charcoal suit, with a crisp white shirt open at the neck. No tie. He was in his late fifties, yet seemed younger and fitter than a lot of blokes in their mid-forties – including Ronnie. He looked as he always did; exceptionally smart, with a professional air about him, one that spoke of a Cambridge education and a career as a doctor. However, James David Macintosh’s career had been cut short. He’d only made it past his third year as a medical student before his personal life got in the way.

  Ronnie watched as Macintosh logged himself in. ‘Make sure you put the time down,’ he ordered.

  Macintosh nodded as he scrawled his signature.

  ‘You been drinking then?’ Ronnie asked, his voice raw with irritation.

  ‘No,’ Macintosh replied as he pushed the log book back towards Ronnie. ‘I don’t drink.’ It was the first time Ronnie had witnessed an edge to Macintosh’s voice – he was ordinarily charming and easy-going. But Ronnie didn’t argue. It was clear that he hadn’t been drinking. He had worked the job long enough to be able to tell when a resident was high from drugs, drunk, or both. Macintosh was neither.

  ‘So, do you want to tell me where you’ve been for the past five hours?’ he asked. He pushed thoughts of Macintosh’s criminal history to the back of his mind. It wasn’t his concern. Macintosh had returned – in one piece, which was always an added bonus. It was someone else’s problem to figure out whether he should remain on parole.

  Macintosh shrugged apologetically as he looked at Ronnie. His blue eyes held Ronnie’s probing gaze. ‘I simply went for a walk and lost track of time. When I realised how late it was I made my way straight here.’

  Ronnie shook his head. ‘Why, James? You’ve just been paroled. Why fuck it up?’

  ‘You don’t think they’ll put me back, do you?’ Macintosh asked, his eyes filled with concern.

  ‘I dunno. You know what they’re like. Rules are rules and curfew’s one of those rules that you can’t break,’ Ronnie answered, glancing at the monitor on the reception desk. The screen showed various security cameras set up around the grounds of Ashley House.

  Macintosh was more than aware of the surveillance cameras that followed every one of the residents’ movements. The cameras were located in the communal rooms and hallways and around the exterior of the large Victorian building. There was no way in or out without being detected. The reason – twenty paroled serious offenders. All Category Three. Violent, volatile and dangerous, but all having been given a second chance at rehabilitation. Some managed to make the adjustment. Most just blew it, unable to cope with being in charge of their own pathetic, useless lives.

  ‘Is someone out there?’ Macintosh asked as his eyes followed Ronnie’s.

  For a brief moment he wondered if someone had followed him.

  Could someone have recognised me after all this time? It was possible . . .

  Ronnie shook his head. ‘Nah. It’s that damned ginger cat again. Why it can’t shit in its own back garden I don’t know.’ He turned his attention back to Macintosh. ‘Go on. Get upstairs. I’ll let Jonathan know in the morning. It’s his call what happens.’

  Macintosh nodded, grateful that Ronnie was not going to report him. If he did, he would be back inside come Monday. No explanations or apologies. But his probation officer, Jonathan Edwards, was a soft touch. He knew that Jonathan would not want to be the one responsible for returning him to prison. Not after he had been banged up for thirty-seven years. After all, Jonathan had become more to him than his probation officer. Much more.

  ‘Thanks, Ronnie,’ Macintosh said.

  ‘What for?’ Ronnie questioned.

  ‘For not reporting me.’

  ‘Like I said, it’s Jonathan’s call.’

  Macintosh left it at that. He turned and walked out of the office and down the corridor. A flicker of a smile played at the edge of his lips. Everything had gone according to plan. Even Ronnie’s blasé attitude. Ronnie had obviously just been relieved that he had finally shown up, but he didn’t want to know the details. And that had suited Macintosh perfectly. By the time the police were called, it would be too late. He would be gone – for good. And this time, they wouldn’t find him. His eyes shone fervently as he thought of what he had planned.

  Tonight was just the beginning.

  He had to bide his time. A few more days and then . . .

  Chapter Four

  Sunday: 12:18 p.m.

  The cleaner knocked on the door for a third time. No answer. The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign was still hanging on the handle. She double-checked her clipboard. The room was down to be stripped and cleaned ready for the new guests this af
ternoon.

  Irritated that she was behind schedule, she knocked again, louder this time, to be sure they knew she meant business. She had better things to do than wait around for other people to get their act together.

  Nothing. If they were still inside then that was their problem. They were supposed to have vacated the room over an hour ago.

  She didn’t know what it was – sixth sense – but she knew there was still someone in there. She had seen plenty in this job. If she had been naïve before she started, she certainly wasn’t any more. She’d walked in on couples in various compromising acts. Threesomes. Foursomes. Two men together. Nothing shocked her. After all, this was a stag and hen party destination. They usually had a couple of coachloads every other weekend. It kept her in a job. Busy, but better that than scratting around on the dole.

  If she won the lottery, she would quit. No hesitation. No working out her notice. One call to her boss to tell him where to stuff his hotel and the rude dirty buggers who made her life difficult. Then she would get on a plane to Spain. She’d buy some coastal property. Trade Whitley Bay beach for an equivalent in Mallorca, but with sunshine.

  A sudden gloom took hold. She shook it off. She’d buy herself a scratch card after work. That would cheer her up. Take her and Harold one step closer to Mallorca. Even just for a holiday. She wasn’t greedy.

  Her face lit up at the thought as she swiped her key in the door.

  The smell hit her first. It was a hard punch. Her smile fell as the dank, dour odour that accompanied death assaulted her senses.

  She had been wrong if she had thought she had seen it all before.

  Blood – dark, discoloured – saturated the sheets. Soaked into the mattress. Splattered the wall behind . . . him?

  She couldn’t be sure. She didn’t want to look. Not again. But for some reason she couldn’t turn away.

  It . . . the body. Lifeless. Skin mottled. Ankles tied. Head, faceless. Black, thick tape. Mutilated. Flesh open. Gaping.

  Screaming.

  The mess. This was wrong. It was so wrong.

  Chapter Five

  Sunday: 12:21 p.m.

  Macintosh forced himself to smile. To look relaxed, despite feeling anything but. He wanted to get up and walk out of this claustrophobic pale blue office with its threadbare beige carpet and stale, desperate air. But he knew he couldn’t. The game had already started and he needed to see it through to the end, no matter how tiresome it was proving. He had to be careful.

  But first he had to convince his probation officer not to revoke his parole. He laid his hands out on the table, as a sign that he had nothing to hide. He trusted himself not to give anything away. No nervous tremors or ticks or sweat patches which could suggest he was lying. Ironically, it was Jonathan Edwards’ forehead that was glistening with perspiration. Dark, damp circles also spread out from under the armpits of his black polo shirt. Not surprising; the heat in the small room was unbearable. For some reason the old, antiquated heating system was still sluggishly gurgling its way through the large Victorian pipes that snaked their way around the house.

  ‘Look, James, this is difficult for me,’ Edwards continued, sighing. He took off his designer glasses and polished them on his polo shirt.

  Macintosh looked at him with an expression of embarrassment for all the fuss he was causing. As he did, he couldn’t help but notice that Edwards’ insipid blue eyes were smaller than he expected. His face was unremarkable in every sense of the word. Except for the severe acne scars. Thirty-one years old, five foot ten and overweight. Even his short blond hair had started to thin and recede. Macintosh knew it caused him anguish. It aged him. By the time he was thirty-five he would look well into his fifties. He didn’t have a lot to look forward to. That was why Macintosh had taken such a personal interest in him. Why he was sitting here listening to the bilge coming out of Edwards’ mouth.

  He waited while Edwards replaced his glasses. His puffy, red-rimmed eyes spoke of weeks of sleep deprivation.

  ‘You just walked?’ Edwards continued, frowning.

  ‘Yes. I know it sounds crazy. I don’t know if I would believe it myself,’ he said.

  Edwards waited. It was clear he wanted more.

  Macintosh leaned in towards him: ‘If I’m honest, Jonathan, I’m struggling in here. It’s difficult with the others . . .’ He faltered as his eyes searched Edwards’ face for some kind of understanding.

  It was in that moment that he knew he had him. There was a flicker of understanding. And why not? Edwards knew what kind of men inhabited this bail house. Sick, depraved animals. The lowest of the low. Sex offenders of all kinds: from Tom, the clichéd dirty old man in Room 4 with his penchant for twelve-year-old schoolgirls – preferably in uniform – to the occupant of Room 9 who had been convicted of sexually abusing a three-month-old baby. Then there were the rapists and women abusers. Men who had murdered their wives and girlfriends, or who had left their victims wishing they were dead when they had finished with them. Macintosh knew that there was a panic button on the probation officer’s side of the desk. Press it, and the other four members of staff would come running. Pull it out and the alarm would inform Whitley Bay police that there was a ‘situation’. But Edwards hadn’t flinched when Macintosh moved his body towards him. He had gained his trust. His confidence. Edwards clearly did not associate him with the murderer that he had been.

  After all, he wasn’t like the other paroled offenders. People liked him. They trusted him.

  They allowed him to tie them up and gag them and . . .

  Macintosh held back his smile as he savoured the feeling of control that he’d had over his victims. All willing participants in their own torture – and ultimately, their own murders.

  ‘Look . . . I know it’s tough. You were inside for thirty-seven years. It’s a lot to expect you to come out and just fit back into society. Not after so long,’ Edwards replied.

  Macintosh nodded. He understood better than his probation officer could ever imagine.

  ‘What can I do to make the transition easier for you?’

  ‘Exactly what you’re doing now. Rather than assuming the worst, you’re taking the time to listen to me. To help me . . .’ Macintosh paused.

  Edwards smiled reassuringly at him. ‘And that’s what I’m here for. The last thing I want is you being returned to prison. So, all you did was walk about last night? You didn’t meet up with anyone? Talk to anyone?’

  Macintosh shook his head. He made a point of looking contrite. An acknowledgement that he had been foolish. Reckless even, and that he would never make the same mistake twice.

  ‘OK. I’ll tell you what we’ll do, let’s arrange a meeting at my office on Monday and we’ll talk about it further then,’ Edwards suggested.

  ‘Thanks, Jonathan. I really appreciate it,’ Macintosh replied, his voice filled with gratitude.

  ‘No problem. And look, the next time it’s really getting to you, call me. That’s what I’m here for.’

  Macintosh nodded. ‘I’m really sorry for disturbing your Sunday with your family.’

  Edwards stood up to go. ‘Just make sure you don’t break the curfew again.’

  ‘I won’t. I promise,’ Macintosh said as he stood up. He stuck his hand out to shake Edwards’, and his probation officer obliged without thinking. ‘You can trust me.’

  Edwards smiled at him. ‘I know I can, James. I wouldn’t be here on my day off if I didn’t.’

  Macintosh knew he looked more professional than his probation officer. His exceptionally handsome face and benign manner fooled people. They found it difficult to believe that someone so good-looking and affable was capable of committing the atrocities that had got him locked up in a maximum-security prison for thirty-seven years.

  Macintosh knew that Edwards saw him as a decent human being with the misfortune to be living in a bail hostel with nineteen paroled serious offenders. After all, Edwards was a nice bloke. A man who believed in his job. He sincerely wanted to
help Macintosh rehabilitate back into society. To give him a second chance. And that was precisely what Macintosh wanted too.

  Macintosh stood at his pitiful bedroom window. It was an original Victorian one, which may have looked charming but was far from practical. Not only did the cold air find its way in, but so did the rain. The result was black, ugly mould covering the damp, high walls. He was worried that if he didn’t get out in time the spores would burrow their way into his lungs and under his skin. He had complained to Ronnie and the other key workers, but nobody listened. He was expected to be grateful that he had a bedroom of his own – regardless of how small and basic it was. And dirty. Even though it had been repainted, tell-tale signs of the previous residents clung persistently to the room. That smell. It still lingered, despite his attempts to get rid of it.

  He tried to block out all thoughts of the men who had inhabited this room before him. Debased animals who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as him, let alone lie in the same bed. It drove Macintosh insane to think of them lying there.

  He heard a door slam and looked down as Edwards started his metallic blue Volvo V40. It was a family car. Edwards was very much a family man. Two children under the age of three. Macintosh liked his probation officer. Enough to take an interest in his personal life.

  He had a faultless memory. Every droplet of information that Edwards had casually let out had been caught by him. He had memorised it and then extracted more – carefully, so as not to attract suspicion. Edwards had been more than willing on occasion to digress and discuss his personal life. Not that he had ever been really aware of it. Macintosh had a way of ingratiating himself, gaining enough trust to exact small details that seemed nothing at the time. But when you placed them all together, the result was breathtaking. It was someone’s life.

  Edwards interested him. Reminded Macintosh of his first kill. The ones afterwards had paled into insignificance. Nothing could ever match the high he had first felt. He had tried. Tried to rediscover that all-consuming feeling of euphoria that had immortalised him. But nothing had come close.