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

why all we have is “John Smith” on record, then you need to talk to Chantelle.’
    ‘I wish I could.’
    ‘Yeah? Well, you and me both,’ she said. She looked at Brady as if seeing him for the first time. He was a really good-looking bloke. Tall, dark, edgy – she liked that. But there was something about his eyes. Deep dark brown eyes filled with . . . But before she had a chance of putting her finger on it, the moment was gone. His eyes had assumed a professional hardness. An impenetrability.
    She looked around the reception area to make sure no other members of staff were within earshot, leaned over the desk towards him. ‘Look . . . Between you and me, this happens.’
    ‘Meaning?’ he asked.
    ‘Cash, no questions asked. You pay a premium for it. But if you can afford anonymity, then you get it. I can only assume that this “John Smith” was a no-questions-asked transaction. But verify it first with Chantelle. For all I know she just made a mistake.’
    Joanne resisted the urge to add: Another mistake.
    ‘Where are your surveillance cameras?’
    She looked at the copper. She couldn’t blame him for asking. It was an obvious question.
    ‘We don’t have any cameras. Like I said, some guests want that guarantee. No surveillance cameras and no traceable names or cards. Cash pays for a lot.’
     
    Brady was no fool. Did he really believe that there wouldn’t be a hidden camera recording everything that happened in front of the reception desk – and behind, for that matter? Simple answer – no. Madley trusted no one. Staff, guests or business associates. All the same to him. ‘You’re definitely sure there’s no cameras?’
    She nodded. ‘We’ve asked the boss to install them for our protection. But he keeps promising and nothing happens. I reckon if he had to spend a night checking that lot in,’ she gestured towards the two coaches parked in the front car park, ‘he’d think again.’
    Brady knew all too well about the stag parties that descended on Whitley Bay for the weekend. They were a major headache for uniform and ate up a significant part of the police budget.
    He decided he needed to talk to Carl, the one-eyed Mancunian bartender responsible for the club next door. If Madley wasn’t around, Carl would be the one left in charge. And if Madley had surveillance tape, which Brady believed he would do, he needed it.
    ‘Apart from the stag and hen parties, what kind of guests come here?’
    Joanne chewed her lip as she thought about the question. ‘I dunno. All sorts. Businessmen mainly.’
    Brady nodded. ‘Are they the guests who pay by cash then?’
    ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Only a few. But you can tell that they look . . . you know, important. That they wouldn’t want their wives or the press finding out what they get up to here.’
    ‘Why the press?’
    She paused for a moment before answering. ‘Well . . . let’s just say that there’s been a couple of footballers who have booked a whole floor here for a weekend. Not dead famous, but famous enough, you know? You recognise their faces. And they’ve got the money to throw around. Then you get the type who look like businessmen. Expensively dressed.’
    Brady was stunned. Madley suddenly seemed to have friends in high places; friends that he was taking care to look after. And what better place to give you the anonymity that you needed? A seafront hotel in Whitley Bay. Nothing fancy. Always busy with passing trade from other parts of the country. That in itself gave you anonymity. For this wasn’t the sort of place that locals would book for their wedding day. Not with two coachloads of lads or lasses booked in for a weekend away.
    ‘And they party, these men. Hard. Girls, booze, drugs. Anything they want, they get.’
    Brady nodded. He was intrigued. Was this the case with ‘John Smith’ last night? Did he – victim or killer – know the perks this hotel offered? Cash for anonymity. That