The Puppet Maker: DI Jack Brady 5

by Danielle Ramsay

  Fuck you, Rubenfeld!

  Brady would not have called Rubenfeld a friend, but he still didn’t expect to be betrayed by him. Yet he knew the hardened hack well enough to know that he would cross anyone if it meant a front page headline and a ticket out of Dodge. To say that Rubenfeld had outstayed his welcome in the North East was an understatement. His unorthodox journalistic ways had earned him some impressive enemies. Rubenfeld and Brady’s relationship had been one of quid pro quo. In other words, he was a snitch when it paid him to be and a tight-lipped bastard when it didn’t. But this . . . Brady shook his head. He knew the score. Rubenfeld, like every other scavenging journalist, wanted to make headline news. Which he had – at Brady’s expense.

  It had happened less than thirty-six hours ago; not that it felt like that. Brady could have sworn it had happened days ago. But then, he had literally worked straight through since the night of the crime, grabbing a couple of hours sleep here and there, as had the rest of the team. He thought of James David Macintosh again . . . he had done nothing but think about him. There was a massive national police hunt for the murderer.

  Macintosh had recently been paroled to Ashley House in Whitley Bay. However, old DNA evidence had conclusively identified him as The Joker – a serial killer from the seventies. One who had gone on a rampage and raped, tortured and gruesomely murdered seven victims. All men. All homosexuals. He had eluded the police for decades, his killing spree suddenly ending in the summer of 1977 as abruptly as it had started. Then he had disappeared. Dropped off the radar. The reason being, it turned out, that he had been incarcerated for a completely unrelated crime.

  At the time of the Joker killings James David Macintosh, a twenty-one-year-old medical student, had voluntarily admitted himself as a private patient into St Nicholas in Gosforth – a psychiatric hospital. Whilst under the care of a Dr Jackson, he had surreptitiously succeeded in terrorising the streets of North Tyneside and Newcastle as The Joker. From what Brady had gleaned from Dr Jackson’s old transcripts of his sessions with Macintosh, it seemed that his patient had inadvertently revealed too much about his abusive father’s homophobic physical attacks. Whether Dr Jackson had made the connection that his young patient was responsible for the sadistic killings, Brady would never know; but clearly Macintosh believed he had said enough to incriminate himself. Enough for him to follow his psychiatrist after work to his leafy suburban home in Jesmond and wait for darkness to fall. Then, he had entered Dr Jackson’s home, carrying an axe, and had savagely murdered him. The doctor’s mutilated body had been found floating in the bath. The worst was yet to come. Macintosh had then tied the psychiatrist’s heavily pregnant wife face-down on their bed and had swung at her. Then he had killed her infant twin sons.

  Brady closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He knew each detail of the seventies case. Every nuance. He had spent the past thirty-six hours trawling through every piece of information they had on him from the original multiple murders trying to figure out where he would have gone. And where he would have taken a three-year-old girl. That question tortured Brady. He knew the statistics. With each passing hour, the chances of finding Annabel Edwards alive were becoming less and less likely. He felt sickened by the knowledge of what Macintosh had done. Of what he was capable of still doing.

  What had seemed an anomaly at the time was Macintosh’s decision to abduct the psychiatrist’s three-year-old daughter, Ellen Jackson. The reason was beyond the original seventies investigative team. As much as it was beyond the current one. For James David Macintosh had repeated history – thirty-seven years on. But this time his choice of victim was Jonathan Edwards, his probation officer. Thirty-six hours ago he had absconded from Ashley House and had entered Edwards’ home. Again with an axe. And again with the intention of obliterating Jonathan Edwards’ skull, before turning his attention to Edwards’ wife and newborn son. His methodology was identical to his seventies killing spree; including the abduction of the Edwards’ daughter.

  Brady had turned up at the crime scene too late. Macintosh had already left, taking with him the Edwards’ three-year-old child. Brady still had no idea where Macintosh had taken her. The first location that was searched was Mill Cottage; a property situated beyond Hartburn village in the wilds of Northumberland. Macintosh had taken Ellen Jackson there. The police had tracked it down in the seventies because the empty property had belonged to his mother.

  However, back then when the police had arrived at Mill Cottage the psychiatrist’s three-year-old daughter was already dead. Macintosh had strangled her. That morning’s front page of the Northern Echo came to Brady’s mind. The Northern Echo had done their own research into Macintosh and the seventies murders. Enough for them to go into macabre detail about the killing of Ellen Jackson and the fact that the police had been too late, then as now. A gut feeling had driven Brady to turn up at Jonathan Edwards’ home on Thursday evening. But it had been too little, too late. The media were not the only ones accusing Brady of not doing enough. His own mind tortured him with thoughts of what if? But he knew he had to remain level-headed and focused. There would be plenty of time for recriminations later.

  The Northern Echo journalists weren’t interested in the truth. The fact that Brady had no authority to detain Macintosh longer than he had – let alone press charges against him for a crime he had not committed – did not matter to the press. The truth was lost amidst the media hysteria. It was the principle that a notorious serial killer had been released on parole. Worse still, he had been released from police custody – Brady’s custody – and had then gone on to murder his probation officer and his family.

  It was simple maths. Someone had to be held accountable.

  Brady breathed out slowly as he looked towards his office window. The dusty wooden blinds were still open. The burnished orange glare of the street light below bled in. Soon it would be daylight. Then all hell would break loose.

  Where are you Macintosh? Where are you hiding?

  Brady turned his attention back to his desk. It was covered in files. He had spent the last day and night trawling through every piece of information they had on Macintosh, trying to figure out where he could have gone. And crucially, where he would have taken a three-year-old girl. That question tortured Brady. He knew the statistics. With each passing hour, the chances of finding Annabel Edwards alive were becoming less and less unlikely.

  A dull knock at his office door shook him from his compulsive thoughts.

  He turned his head and called out wearily: ‘Yeah?’

  He wasn’t in the mood for talking.

  The door opened. Conrad walked in. He looked as tired as Brady felt.

  ‘Sir?’

  He was early. Brady assumed that Conrad had seen the front pages of the Saturday papers. They didn’t make good reading. Not if you were DI Jack Brady – or anyone associated with him.

  Conrad cleared his throat. A sign that he was nervous.

  Despite the fact that he looked exhausted, he was still impeccably dressed in a dark tailored suit, a crisp white shirt, cufflinks, an Italian tie and expensive handmade English leather brogues. This was typical of Conrad. He was always professionally attired. Unlike Brady. A beat-up old, black leather jacket that he had for too many years, accompanied with skinny black jeans, black T-shirt and heavy black Caterpillar boots was Brady at his best – and worst.

  ‘May I?’ Conrad asked as he walked over to Brady’s desk and pulled out the chair opposite.

  He was five foot eleven, muscular, with short blond hair; good-looking when he wasn’t looking uptight – which was most of the time. Today was no exception. If anything, Conrad looked even more wound up than usual. His steel grey eyes were narrowed and his square jaw clenched.

  ‘Do I have a choice?’ Brady asked as he watched Conrad sit down.

  ‘Do you know who would have leaked this?’ Conrad asked as he handed Brady a selection of that morning’s newspapers, all leading with the same headline – Brady’s incompetenc
e and Macintosh’s unknown whereabouts.

  Brady looked over the front pages. The tabloids and broadsheets were following the same hysterical rhetoric as the Northern Echo.

  Conrad waited. He wasn’t sure whether Brady was aware of what had been printed about the investigation – about him. But it was his job to make sure his boss was aware. Conrad could see it in Brady’s eyes as he scanned the front pages – the torment and feelings of guilt. Conrad realised that he was taking this personally. Too personally. He clearly felt responsible for the murders. After all, Brady had interviewed Macintosh. Brady had had a hunch that Macintosh was the original Joker, despite evidence to the contrary. But he had refused to give up until he had something conclusive to substantiate his gut feeling. And then it was too late. Once he had confirmation that Macintosh was the seventies Joker, the man had already disappeared with his hostage.

  Thirty-six hours had passed and there had been no conclusive sightings of Macintosh. The station was packed. Extra officers had been called in from other Area Commands. Every officer had had their holidays and days off suspended. The entire country was gripped, waiting with bated breath for news on the serial killer’s whereabouts and the fate of the victim Macintosh had abducted: petite, pretty, blonde, and three years old. Annabel’s face and Macintosh’s had dominated the papers and news channels. Worse still, the newspapers and TV stations needed someone to crucify. The fact that Macintosh had had the freedom to murder again posed some difficult questions; and in a time of mass hysteria, someone had to pay. And that someone had been Brady. Simply because mistakes had been made and instead of looking higher up the food chain, Brady had been an easy target. A piece of meat to throw at the dogs, to keep them off the people who really were in charge. But they were savvy enough to make sure there was some distance between them and the orders they passed on. Consequently, there was nothing Brady could do about it.

  Conrad had heard from certain sources that there would be an investigation into the handling of James David Macintosh’s release from police custody. Questions needed to be answered. And Brady was the one who was being called into account. Simply because he was good at his job and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought – including his superiors. He was the ideal sacrificial lamb. Too maverick in his ways to be liked from above, despite getting much-needed results. Brady had virtually single-handedly solved Alexander De Bernier’s murder; despite it being a copycat killing designed to foil the police. That crucial fact had now been forgotten. Less than two days later . . .

  The macabre killing of Alexander De Bernier, a twenty-two-year-old politics student, had been identical to the Joker’s seventies murders.

  Brady had not only solved De Bernier’s murder, he had also identified the Joker: a serial killer who had gone on a killing spree which had escalated in the summer of 1977. His target – young, gay men. But it was the fact that he had identified Macintosh as the original Joker that had crucified him. The Northern Echo wasn’t alone in its damnation of Brady. In its denouncement and vilification of him – or to be precise, as the Senior Investigating Officer who had had James David Macintosh within his grasp. The journalists weren’t interested in the truth. Brady had no evidence against Macintosh, and hadn’t been able to detain him any longer. The crucial forensic results proving he was the Joker had come too late to stop him going after Jonathan Edwards and his family. But the facts were lost amidst the media hysteria. It was the principle that a notorious serial killer had been released on parole. Worse still, he had later been released from police custody – Brady’s custody – and had then gone on to murder his probation officer and his family. That had happened on Thursday evening – less than thirty-six hours ago.

  Brady could see from Conrad’s expression that even his deputy was having a hard time accepting the turn of events. The fact that they had had Macintosh in their grasp – in custody – wasn’t worth thinking about.

  Brady sighed. Exhausted, he sat back and ran a hand through his long dark hair. He looked back down at the newspapers in front of him. Contemplated Conrad’s earlier question about who could have leaked the information on the Macintosh case to the press. Information that could be his downfall. He had his suspicions. But nothing conclusive. He looked back up at Conrad. Realised it was better to keep his doubts to himself. ‘No. I have no idea who would have leaked these details.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’ Conrad asked.

  Brady suddenly laughed. ‘Are you serious? There’s nothing I can do. I just have to accept it. They need someone to kick, that’s all there is to it.’

  Conrad frowned. ‘But . . . this isn’t just a kicking, sir. Is it? The national papers are all running with the same story.’

  ‘It’s me the press are holding accountable. Not the police, Conrad.’

  Conrad didn’t say a word.

  Brady knew there was nothing he could say. It was the truth; he was being persecuted by the news channels and the papers. Macintosh’s crime was so heinous, so depraved that the public needed to be reassured that someone had fucked up. That it could have been prevented.

  ‘Maybe if you gave a statement to the press? Explain the fact that you had no grounds to hold Macintosh? That by the time the laboratory results came back it was too late?’

  Brady looked at Conrad. ‘It’s too late. The damage has already been done. The only thing I can do is find that bastard and bring him in.’

  ‘I had an update on my way in, sir. Nothing. They still have no reports on the car he stole. He’s just disappeared.’

  ‘How the fuck does someone disappear with a three-year-old kid?’

  Conrad shook his head.

  ‘I’ll find him, Conrad . . . No matter what happens, I’ll find him.’ Brady clenched his fists. ‘And in the meantime I don’t give a shit what the media throws at me. They need someone to blame, so it may as well be me. I don’t give a fuck what they print.’

  ‘I just wanted to make sure you were aware of what had been printed before the briefing later.’

  ‘Yeah . . . thanks for letting me know.’

  Conrad nodded and stood up. ‘If I were you I’d try and get a few more hours’ sleep before the briefing. And a shower and a change of clothes might be advisable.’

  Brady didn’t have the energy or the inclination to tell Conrad to fuck off. That it wasn’t his place to be telling a senior officer to sort himself out. He already knew he looked like shit. He felt like shit! But he knew that Conrad was looking out for him. His way of damage limitation. But being dressed in a designer Italian suit wouldn’t help Brady where his boss DCI Gates was concerned. Brady still had to hear Gates’ take on that morning’s headlines.

  He watched as Conrad headed for the door.

  ‘Harry?

  Conrad stopped. He turned around.

  ‘Do you think we’ll get him?’ Brady asked. ‘You know . . . before . . .’ He left it unsaid. The words were too difficult to utter.

  Conrad looked at him. ‘I . . . don’t know, sir. All we can do is our best.’

  ‘And what if our best isn’t good enough?’ Brady asked.

  Conrad did not answer.

  Brady waited. He needed more. But it was clear Conrad wasn’t going to give him more.

  ‘Briefing’s at eleven.’

  Conrad nodded and walked out.

  Brady watched Conrad leave. His deputy was right. He could do with a few hours’ sleep before the briefing. He needed to have his wits about him. More now than ever.

  Brady lay on his back with his hands behind his head, staring blankly at the ceiling. The office was in shadow. Outside the day was emerging. Bleak, grey and pissed off.

  He forced his eyes closed. He needed to sleep. Had no choice. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to function. But . . .

  James David Macintosh.

  Whenever he closed his eyes, the serial killer’s face haunted him. Somehow Macintosh had evaded the police and the public. His face and crimes had gone viral. The world wa
s now watching the events unfolding in Whitley Bay.

  Brady sighed heavily. He was exhausted; both physically and mentally. He tried to block him from his mind. He had to.

  Eventually he started to feel drowsy. Relief coursed through his tired body as he felt himself drifting. All external noise – traffic in the street below, distant phones ringing, hurried footsteps and hushed voices – faded into a serene blackness.

  Suddenly his heart was racing. Threatening to rupture. His mouth dry. Fear held him tight, restricting his breathing. Brady sat bolt upright. Panting, short, shallow gulps of air.

  Shit!

  His hands were trembling. He desperately needed a drink. But the stabbing bursts of daylight through his Venetian blinds brought him to his senses.

  Saturday. It’s Saturday morning. Shit . . . She’s been gone since Thursday evening.

  He rubbed his tired face. He just wanted it to be over. But he knew it wouldn’t end. Not until . . .

  Until you find the girl. That is . . . if she isn’t already dead.

  Chapter Three

  Saturday 10:05 a.m.

  Shut up! Just shut the fuck up or I’ll kill you!

  ‘Help? Please . . . I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing . . . Please help me?’ she whispered, desperate. ‘Just talk to me? Please? I hate the dark and . . . I . . . I . . .’ She faltered.

  Stop talking! Just STOP!

  ‘Help!’ she hoarsely shouted. ‘HELP!’

  ‘Shut up! Just shut up, will you?’ she finally hissed from the blackness, venomous and deadly.

  ‘Who are you? I . . . I need help . . . He . . . he . . .’ she stopped.

  I don’t care. I don’t fucking care what he’s done to you. Just stop talking to me.

  ‘Talk to me? Please?’ she pleaded.

  ‘Shut up! He’ll hear you. Don’t you get that, you stupid bitch!’ she spat.