Read Online Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 by Danielle Ramsay - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Danielle Ramsay
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told her that she’s not to divulge any details to anyone?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Same with the rest of the hotel staff who were on duty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I want no details being leaked to the press. Understand? Until we can establish exactly what’s going on, I want as little released as possible,’ Gates instructed him. ‘I’ll finish off here and see you tomorrow. In the meantime, I want to be kept informed of every detail on this case.’
‘Will do, sir,’ Brady answered.
With that, Gates hung up.
Brady stood for a moment as he tried to get his head together. He understood that Gates had to return ASAP, given the magnitude of the situation. However, it still left him feeling as if he could not be trusted to take charge of what would soon become a high-profile murder investigation. One that, if it followed the Seventies pattern, had the potential to become a killing spree.
Chapter Ten
Sunday: 3:40 p.m.
‘Tea. Drink it! I’ve put three sugars in.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered. His tongue felt more akin to an overused litter tray. Small grits of vomit were embedded in his tongue.
He still looked ill, the colour not fully returned to his face. Instead, he had an insipid grey pallor reminiscent of the bleak, drizzle-filled skies that so often clung over the North East.
‘Come on. Drink!’ ordered Brady. ‘I need you on your feet.’
Conrad looked up at him. His head bobbed up and down in a feeble acknowledgement. The last thing he shared at this moment was his boss’s excitement and enthusiasm. This was the old Jack Brady in front of him. He was on to something. The gleam in his eye said it all. Brady wanted to get moving. And fast. The clock was counting down. And as it did, each minute worked against them. But right now, Conrad couldn’t move. His legs wouldn’t take his weight and his stomach was curdling at the prospect of drinking anything.
‘Bloody drink it!’
Conrad weakly acquiesced, swallowing down the sweet, milky liquid.
After his call to Gates ended Brady had gone looking for Conrad, eventually finding him in the entrance lobby, slouched on a chair with his head between his knees. His explanation? Lunch: the prawn salad sandwich had obviously been dodgy. So much so, it had made its way back up.
‘You look like shit, Conrad,’ Brady said with some concern. ‘How about I get someone to drive you home?’
Conrad visibly winced. ‘No, sir, I’ll be fine. Just need a minute or two to clear my head.’
‘Have it your way. But this isn’t the place to be having a hot flush.’
Conrad’s face was clammy, the skin a chalky off-white colour. Not good. Brady shook his head at him. ‘I’m serious. You look like you don’t know whether you’re going to shit yourself or hurl.’
The last thing Brady wanted was Conrad sitting here looking as if he had seen a corpse. The place was buzzing with police: uniform, non-uniform and forensic science officers. Then there were the hotel residents and staff who were milling around the conference room, waiting in turn for the police to talk to them.
Regardless of objections, Brady had not allowed anyone to leave the hotel. Names, addresses had to be given. IDs had to be verified. And then statements taken – no matter how long and laborious the process. The problem the police were up against was that most of the hotel’s residents comprised a stag party – two coachloads of muscle-pumped, lager-fuelled fun. Most were lucky if they even knew their names.
So far, no one had seen or heard anything unusual. That included staff as well as residents. Everyone was tight-lipped. Or at least that was the way it felt. The one person Brady did want to talk to was the receptionist on duty the night before. She had finished her shift at 8:00 a.m. this morning and no one had seen or talked to her since. Brady had tried calling her – no answer. He had sent DC Kodovesky and DS Harvey to her address to bring her in. He could have left
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Same with the rest of the hotel staff who were on duty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I want no details being leaked to the press. Understand? Until we can establish exactly what’s going on, I want as little released as possible,’ Gates instructed him. ‘I’ll finish off here and see you tomorrow. In the meantime, I want to be kept informed of every detail on this case.’
‘Will do, sir,’ Brady answered.
With that, Gates hung up.
Brady stood for a moment as he tried to get his head together. He understood that Gates had to return ASAP, given the magnitude of the situation. However, it still left him feeling as if he could not be trusted to take charge of what would soon become a high-profile murder investigation. One that, if it followed the Seventies pattern, had the potential to become a killing spree.
Chapter Ten
Sunday: 3:40 p.m.
‘Tea. Drink it! I’ve put three sugars in.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered. His tongue felt more akin to an overused litter tray. Small grits of vomit were embedded in his tongue.
He still looked ill, the colour not fully returned to his face. Instead, he had an insipid grey pallor reminiscent of the bleak, drizzle-filled skies that so often clung over the North East.
‘Come on. Drink!’ ordered Brady. ‘I need you on your feet.’
Conrad looked up at him. His head bobbed up and down in a feeble acknowledgement. The last thing he shared at this moment was his boss’s excitement and enthusiasm. This was the old Jack Brady in front of him. He was on to something. The gleam in his eye said it all. Brady wanted to get moving. And fast. The clock was counting down. And as it did, each minute worked against them. But right now, Conrad couldn’t move. His legs wouldn’t take his weight and his stomach was curdling at the prospect of drinking anything.
‘Bloody drink it!’
Conrad weakly acquiesced, swallowing down the sweet, milky liquid.
After his call to Gates ended Brady had gone looking for Conrad, eventually finding him in the entrance lobby, slouched on a chair with his head between his knees. His explanation? Lunch: the prawn salad sandwich had obviously been dodgy. So much so, it had made its way back up.
‘You look like shit, Conrad,’ Brady said with some concern. ‘How about I get someone to drive you home?’
Conrad visibly winced. ‘No, sir, I’ll be fine. Just need a minute or two to clear my head.’
‘Have it your way. But this isn’t the place to be having a hot flush.’
Conrad’s face was clammy, the skin a chalky off-white colour. Not good. Brady shook his head at him. ‘I’m serious. You look like you don’t know whether you’re going to shit yourself or hurl.’
The last thing Brady wanted was Conrad sitting here looking as if he had seen a corpse. The place was buzzing with police: uniform, non-uniform and forensic science officers. Then there were the hotel residents and staff who were milling around the conference room, waiting in turn for the police to talk to them.
Regardless of objections, Brady had not allowed anyone to leave the hotel. Names, addresses had to be given. IDs had to be verified. And then statements taken – no matter how long and laborious the process. The problem the police were up against was that most of the hotel’s residents comprised a stag party – two coachloads of muscle-pumped, lager-fuelled fun. Most were lucky if they even knew their names.
So far, no one had seen or heard anything unusual. That included staff as well as residents. Everyone was tight-lipped. Or at least that was the way it felt. The one person Brady did want to talk to was the receptionist on duty the night before. She had finished her shift at 8:00 a.m. this morning and no one had seen or talked to her since. Brady had tried calling her – no answer. He had sent DC Kodovesky and DS Harvey to her address to bring her in. He could have left
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