Free Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 by Danielle Ramsay

it to them to take a statement. But there was too much at stake. As far as Brady was concerned, she might have been the only person to have seen the killer. Whoever checked into room 212 had had to do so through the receptionist. So it was crucial they talked to her.
    At this stage, the crime scene was all Brady had to go on. But Ainsworth had given him hope. And he needed it. So far, it had appeared that the murderer had been very careful about leaving any evidence at the crime scene. There were no fingerprints or fibres. Not even hair samples. It was clean. But Ainsworth was dogged and he didn’t give up so easily. He had managed to find a partial footprint that had not been completely brushed over. The killer had proven not to be as vigilant as Ainsworth. The print was from a size ten male shoe. They were now looking for a male perpetrator. No surprise there.
    The impression marks from the partial shoe print could be crucial physical evidence. A print from a relatively new shoe would only tell them the make, style and size of the item. If the shoe had been worn for a period of time, then it would have what Ainsworth called ‘individualising evidence’. In layman’s terms, it meant that it would be specific to the person who wore the shoe – equal in uniqueness to a fingerprint. Everyone had their own individual gait and over time, shoe prints became individualising evidence as the wearer encountered different types of damage to the sole.
    Brady had already discounted the victim’s footwear – unsurprisingly. But what did surprise Brady was the price tag. They were Italian Forzieri black washed leather boots. In other words, designer, which meant expensive. The boots had been found in the hotel room’s basic wardrobe. His designer suit and shirt, both Pal Zileri, were hanging above. His up-to-date iPhone had been left on the bedside cabinet, alongside a Gucci dive watch. It was a limited edition and cost more than Brady could afford. Then there was the victim’s wallet, found in his suit jacket. It contained over three hundred pounds in notes, an array of fancy gold credit cards and, crucially, a driver’s licence. Consequently, robbery had been ruled out.
    What worried Brady was that identification was all too easy – the driver’s licence, credit cards. Why leave them? Add the mutilated body into the mix and they had a killer who either thought they were incredibly clever, or just didn’t care. Brady didn’t believe it was the latter. The attention to detail with the body told him as much. If it had been a crime of passion, or as the tabloids would spin, a sex game gone horrifically wrong, then why mutilate the body? It wasn’t as if the killer had panicked. The opposite was true. He had taken time with his victim. Binding him, strangling him and mutilating him. And then . . . Brady shuddered, despite the heat. A horrific way to die – tied up, bleeding, gagged. Choking, spluttering, gasping . . . desperate as the killer wraps the duct tape round again and again. Then, the last detail – the Joker card.
    The prancing Jester in bold black outline, coloured blue and red against a white backdrop, filled Brady’s mind. The red lips curled at the corners of the mouth – laughing, sneering. It was this jeering face that bothered him. Because he knew it was the killer’s signature. His unique calling card.
    The driver’s licence belonged to the victim. Simple. The photo ID matched the victim’s bloated face. They had a name. An age. An address.
    Why you? Why did he choose you?
    Something told Brady that this victim was different from the others. From the first seven killed in the Seventies. A gut feeling, a hunch? He couldn’t say. He just knew it. And that worried him. The others were targeted for a specific reason. All a type.
    Why change your MO? Unless it’s not really you . . .
    ‘Come on, Conrad! Seriously, on your feet. Either that, or give me the car keys. I’ll drive myself to