Free Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 by Danielle Ramsay Page A

the station and send a patrol car down to collect you when you’re good and ready.’
    Brady knew that Conrad wouldn’t let him drive his new sports car – it had the desired effect, and Conrad staggered to his feet. His face paled as the blood rushed from his head to his stomach.
    For a moment Brady was worried he was going to keel over.
    ‘Do you want to lean on me?’
    ‘I’m fine, sir,’ Conrad said through gritted teeth.
    ‘Right. Give me five minutes. I’ll see you at the car,’ Brady instructed.

Chapter Eleven
    Sunday: 3:51 p.m.
    Irritated, she watched as the policeman made his way to reception.
    ‘Yes?’
    He flashed his ID card. ‘Detective Inspector Brady.’
    ‘And?’ she asked, without even giving the ID card a cursory glance.
    ‘I need to see the details logged against room 212.’
    She sighed, then gave him a pained look as if she had better things to do on a Sunday afternoon than help the police with a murder inquiry. It didn’t matter that it had taken place in the hotel where she worked. The fact was, she hadn’t been working when it had happened. So, it wasn’t her problem. And she shouldn’t even be in today. She was covering someone else’s shift as a favour.
    Her long, thick, dyed black hair swished behind her as she turned to the computer. Red painted acrylic nails tapped irritably on the keyboard as she scrolled down.
    ‘Nah. Hasn’t changed since the last time I checked. John Smith. That’s it.’
    ‘No address. Credit card details?’
    She looked at him as if he were stupid. Her thin lips pursed, about to tell him that she’d had enough of this crap. Police officers asking the same question, again and again. As if she was the daft one. They got the same answer every time: John Smith, no address, no credit card, no personal information.
    Joanne hadn’t come into work this morning bargaining on the hotel being overrun with police. Where the fuck was Chantelle when you needed her? This was her fucking mess. Always the same. She’d come in and pick up the pieces from that sloppy cow’s shift. God knows how she held on to a job here. But she knew how. They all did. Chantelle was doing the boss. That’s how her scrawny arse hadn’t been sacked yet. Joanne knew that it wouldn’t last. They never did.
    She looked at him as he cleared his throat.
    ‘Is it practice not to take down the guest’s address?’
    She sighed. Again. Same questions over and over. ‘No.’
    Joanne waited for him to let her get on with her job. A dead body in a hotel wasn’t great for business, but it could be dealt with without causing too much damage. People died all the time. The odds are that an occasional guest’s heart might give out. But a murder was a different story entirely. The hotel had been put in lockdown mode. Hotel guests had decided to check out, to cut their stay short. Who could blame them? But she was the one left trying to keep it all together. Her boss had left for a week’s holiday. Flown somewhere hot, Joanne imagined. Lucky bastard. Her mind automatically thought of Chantelle. Had she gone with him? She wouldn’t put it past that two-faced cow. But she wasn’t booked in for a week’s holiday. Then again, this was Chantelle. Twenty-two years old, and with the attitude that life owed her. She’d no doubt ring in before her shift tomorrow, pretending to be ill again. Nothing about that girl was kosher. Fake tan, fake tits and a botoxed face like a slapped trout to match. And Joanne knew all too well that on her wages you couldn’t afford such niceties.
    She looked at the copper still stood in front of her. Not that he looked much like a copper with that scruffy jacket, black T-shirt and long dark hair. He didn’t look like the detectives she watched on TV. They were clean-shaven and wore suits.
    He refused to move. Despite her scrutiny.
    ‘Look . . . I wasn’t here last night, was I? I just happen to be the fool that’s left picking up the pieces. You want to know