The Puppet Maker: DI Jack Brady 5

by Danielle Ramsay

  Brady nodded. The events of Thursday evening had hit them all hard.

  ‘But that shit that’s in the papers has wound them up some,’ Harvey added.

  Brady didn’t reply. But he was quietly relieved to hear that he had their support. For a moment he had been worried it might have gone the other way.

  ‘I mean for fuck’s sake! Those scrotes are making out you’re responsible. And you saw him for how long?’ Harvey asked, shaking his head.

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘You’re over-reacting. You couldn’t have done fuck all, Jack. You know that it’s all lies they’ve printed about you, so don’t start thinking anyone here thinks otherwise.’

  ‘Thanks Tom.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. I’m just telling you how it is.’

  Brady gave him a half-hearted smile. ‘Come on then, the briefing starts in fifteen minutes. Reckon we better get there before Gates.’

  Harvey looked at himself in the mirror as he straightened his tie.

  ‘Yeah . . . yeah . . . You look shit hot, Tom. But it’s wasted on Kodovesky. She’s not interested. I’d stick to internet dating if I was you.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ Harvey said as he followed Brady out of the Gents.

  Brady was waiting for the room to fill up. Gates hadn’t shown yet, so the atmosphere was still relaxed and casual. Brady had taken a position against the wall at the back of the large room. Harvey was stood next to him talking his usual crap. Brady was feigning interest while noting who was in the room. Some faces he recognised. Most he didn’t. Under the circumstances support had been called in from all other Area Commands. But they also had detectives from as far afield as the Met who had had more experience in dealing with this kind of situation. After all, this was Whitley Bay: a small, run-down seaside resort that had its fair share of crime but serial killers were something entirely different. The last time Whitley Bay had been thrown into this sort of frenzied panic was the summer of 1977 – when Macintosh had first terrorised the streets of North Tyneside.

  Five minutes had passed and in that time the room had filled up. It was the largest conference room in the building. Now its role was as an Incident Room for a major multiple murder investigation. There must have been over forty officers and detectives; some were sitting, others stood where they could. All focused on DCI Gates who had just walked in. Brady watched his boss stride to the front of the room. He didn’t bother with any pleasantries. Instead, he began by updating the room on the progress so far. But Brady had heard it all before. They had nothing on Macintosh’s whereabouts. Nothing. That was all he needed to know. Not the speculations or theories as to why Macintosh had committed such a heinous, inconceivable crime. The simple fact was that they were still no closer to apprehending him. Or saving the life of a three-year-old girl.

  ‘We know Macintosh stole Jonathan Edwards’ car. We have CCTV footage of him driving through Whitley Bay town centre heading in the direction of the Coast Road on Thursday at 11:02 p.m. We do have more CCTV of him heading South on the A1 and then, six hours later, driving towards Watford. It is believed that Macintosh is now in London. So all our efforts are on narrowing down exactly where in London he is hiding. Consequently I and a few members of the team here will be heading down to London later today. Our problem is that we are running out of time. He has Annabel Edwards. And if we look at past history as a predictor of future behaviour, we have a finite amount of time to find her alive. He took her on late Thursday evening. This is Saturday.’

  No one said a word. But the room bristled with discomfort. Unease. These were facts. Nothing more. Nothing less. But this was a three-year-old girl’s life in Macintosh’s hands – their hands. The feeling of rising panic was palpable. Brady knew that every resource had been used to try to find Macintosh. Anyone who had come into contact with the man in the past thirty-seven years had been tracked down and contacted. Inmates, prison guards, ex-probation officers. Anyone who might have had some kind of relationship with him. Any kind of understanding where he might have absconded to with Annabel Edwards. The result? Nothing.

  Brady was acutely aware that the Met were also looking for Macintosh. The last sighting of the stolen vehicle was early yesterday heading for London. It also explained the two detectives that had been assigned to Whitley Bay from the Met. It was a nationwide police effort. But he was surprised to hear that Gates was going to London. He hoped that he wouldn’t be expected to join him. Brady’s gut feeling was that Macintosh wasn’t in London. That they were wasting time focusing the search on the wrong location.

  ‘Sir?’

  Brady watched, curious. It was Kodovesky who had just interrupted Gates. She was part of his team. Someone he could rely on to do the job. No questions asked. She was in her late twenties, and as such, was one of the youngest detectives stationed at Whitley Bay.

  ‘I understand that we have CCTV images of the car as far south as Watford. But what if he then turned back and headed North in a circuitous route to elude us? Either in the same car, or a replacement vehicle.’

  ‘Where do you think he would be heading?’ Gates asked, unconvinced.

  ‘Hartburn village, six miles west of Morpeth. What if he returned to the Mill Cottage where he—’

  Brady waited. It was unlike Kodovesky to falter. But then these were exceptional circumstances. The room was packed. Like Brady, Kodovesky would not be familiar with all the faces staring at her. The majority of them, male.

  ‘Where he was arrested in 1977?’ Gates asked.

  Kodovesky nodded.

  To Brady she seemed relieved that Gates had omitted the gruesome nature of why Macintosh had been there.

  ‘The cottage is personal to him. That’s why he took his psychiatrist’s daughter there,’ Kodovesky continued.

  Brady couldn’t help but notice that she couldn’t say the victim’s name. Perhaps because Ellen Jackson had only been three years old. Murders were always bloody. But children were different. The brutality never left you.

  He suddenly caught Dr Amelia Jenkins watching him. Brady imagined that she would be wondering how he was bearing up after his monumental kicking from the press.

  He gave her a slight nod. To let her know he was fine. He then broke her gaze and turned his focus back to Gates.

  ‘And?’ Gates asked Kodovesky. Irritation flashed in his eyes.

  Brady waited. Kodovesky had interrupted Gates. It was clear that he didn’t like that. Especially from such a junior officer. He was a man who liked to feel in control. The problem here was that he wasn’t in control. None of them were. Only Macintosh – for now. Everything about Gates was regimented and exact. His dark hair was cropped short. His face, clean-shaven at all times, regardless of the hours he had put in on the job. Gates kept a tight rein on his feelings, no matter what the situation. But to Brady’s eye, Gates looked under pressure.

  ‘Well sir, the murders were premeditated. That suggests that he would have had plans in place—’

  Gates stopped her mid-sentence. Cold. Incisive. ‘Tell us something we don’t know, DC Kodovesky. Time is of the essence here and we don’t have the luxury of thinking aloud.’

  Brady could feel everyone in the room take an intake of breath. But his junior officer continued, unabated.

  She nodded. ‘I’m sorry, sir. All I wanted to point out was that I think he would have revisited Mill Cottage. With the victim. It was his childhood home. There is something there that compelled him to return in 1977 with his first victim. I think he will repeat this behaviour.’

  ‘We have already searched the premises. It is also under surveillance. He’s not a fool. His face is on the front page of every newspaper.’ Gates paused. His eyes suddenly turned on Brady. He then fixed his irritated gaze back on Kodovesky. ‘On every news channel. So do you really think he would return to his original crime scene?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kodovesky said. Short and succinct.

  Brady had already suggested to Gates in private that Macintosh would return to th
e scene of his original crime. But Gates had batted him off with the same answer. The focus was entirely on London – where his car had last been sighted. But Brady’s feeling was that Macintosh had found somewhere close to Mill Cottage. That there was something that tied him to it. Something that the police knew nothing about.

  ‘I think that we need to narrow the search down to within a ten-mile radius of Mill Cottage, sir. We need to be checking all the properties within that area and to establish whether he is hiding out in a property or outbuilding there.’

  Gates shot her a look. It was enough. Kodovesky had over-stepped the line. Brady could see that. It wasn’t her place to be telling a senior officer how to handle a major murder and abduction investigation.

  ‘Before the start of this briefing I had received conclusive evidence that Macintosh is within the London area. I was about to share these new findings before I was interrupted.’ Gates then turned his attention to the rest of the room. ‘A member of the public reported the car used by Macintosh abandoned at Heathrow Airport’s Terminal Four long stay car park. CCTV footage is now being examined but we know for definite that he hasn’t left the country. He’s still here. In the UK.’

  Suddenly the room was electric. Gates had thrown them some much-needed hope.

  Brady leaned back against the wall. He didn’t buy it. He was certain that Macintosh was still in the area and that this was some foil to throw the police off his trail.

  He watched as Gates handed the briefing over to the police forensic psychologist – Dr Amelia Jenkins. She was now at the front of the room. To her side the whiteboard now showed graphic crime scene photographs from both the 1977 family slaying and the recent one. Officers and CID alike stared uneasily at the brutal images next to the psychologist.

  Amelia Jenkins’ dark brown, almond-shaped eyes suddenly rested on Brady, taking him by surprise. They looked puzzled, if not disturbed by what she saw. He watched as she tucked her sleek, black, razor-sharp hair behind her ear as she talked to the room – to him. Her red lipstick was as deep and bold as ever. Tom Ford lipstick. It was an irrelevant detail but one he remembered. Her clothes, sophisticated with a classic retro feel. She was dressed in a three-quarter cut black wool skirt suit; complemented with a pair of black patent leather classic Jimmy Choo heels. Everything about her was still reassuringly the same.

  He watched her. She had turned her gaze back to the room as she continued talking. She was still only in her early thirties, with a career that was going somewhere. She had originally worked for the force as a forensic psychologist. But something had happened. Brady didn’t know what, but it had been enough for her to quit her role and turn to practising clinical psychology. It was Gates who had managed to persuade her to come back. Supposedly as a favour to him. A one-off. That had been nearly eighteen months ago.

  ‘We have confirmation that Macintosh was also the serial killer known as the Joker,’ Amelia said as she briefly turned her attention back to Brady.

  ‘Why the radical difference between the Joker killings and the way he murdered the psychiatrist’s family and his probation officer’s?’

  Brady looked to see who had asked the question. It was someone he didn’t recognise. A white man in his early forties. Tall, muscular and good-looking. His accent indicated that he was from the Met. Brady watched as Amelia nodded at him. Something in her eyes told Brady that she found him attractive. Not that anyone else would notice anything different about her demeanour; she was as cool and professional as ever. But Brady recognised that look. It was the way she had once looked at him. Inquisitive, with a subtle hint of playfulness. He could feel the jealousy, a tight knot in his stomach, start to stir. To awaken. But he had no right to feel anything. Not anymore. He had well and truly fucked that up.

  Amelia broke free and quickly looked back across at Brady. It was awkward. As if she knew what he was thinking.

  ‘We have Dr Jackson’s transcripts from when Macintosh was a patient at St Nicholas’ Psychiatric Hospital. It details the systematic and homophobic abuse that he suffered as a child at the hands of his father. He would make James stand naked in front of him and threaten to cut his penis off. You can see the clear connection between the Joker killings and Macintosh’s abusive childhood?’

  The detective nodded.

  ‘As for the reason he killed his psychiatrist and his family? I assume it was because he had realised he had said too much. That what he had revealed to his doctor would tie him to the Joker killings. The exact details were never revealed to the press. But his psychiatrist would have soon realised that Macintosh could be connected to these seven young men’s murders. The way he killed Dr Jackson and his family typifies the anger and betrayal he felt. These killings were personal. For all we know, maybe he also revealed something incriminating to Jonathan Edwards that he later regretted.’ Amelia paused as she looked at the whiteboard behind her showing photographs from both crime scenes. ‘The extent of the injuries to Dr Jackson’s body, in particular his head and his face, is typical of an emotional attachment to the victim. Macintosh completely eradicated any trace of his victim’s features. And he continued with his attack long after Dr Jackson was dead. As for the torture of his wife . . .’ Amelia faltered as she looked at the graphic scenes of torture documented in the crime scene photos. ‘He despises women. Hates them. An absolute misogynist. He played with her. Enjoyed the power he had over her.’

  Brady tried to block out the mental images of the crime scene he had witnessed first-hand. To stop them blurring into Edwards’ body. His wife’s. Their son’s. But there was no disputing what Amelia had surmised. Macintosh hated women. But why?

  ‘But notice the difference. Her face is left untouched. Unlike her husband’s. His anger was focused on her body and her body alone. He had no personal interest, no attachment to her. She was just sport for him. Part of the pleasure of torturing and killing. A pattern we see evolving in his childhood when he reportedly tortured and killed animals.’

  ‘Why does he hate women?’ It was the same detective.

  Amelia looked back at him and shrugged. ‘You would have to ask his mother that question. His childhood relationship with her will have influenced his attitude towards women. And from what we see here, I would suggest it was not a particularly healthy mother-son relationship.’

  ‘And the mother? Where is she?’ he asked.

  ‘We don’t know, as yet,’ Amelia replied looking to DCI Gates for confirmation. ‘We understand that the family home in Jesmond was sold and the equity put into an off-shore account. But we have been unable to trace the account or Eileen Macintosh. She disappeared thirty-seven years ago and no one has seen her since.’

  Brady had been looking into the whereabouts of Macintosh’s mother for the past twenty-four hours. But he and the investigative team had found nothing. No trace of her since Macintosh’s arrest in 1977. She had never visited him, nor corresponded with him during the past thirty-seven years of his prison sentence. The likelihood of her showing up now? Zero. The odds were stacked against them. Given Macintosh’s age, there was a chance that she was already dead. She had disappeared after his arrest. If she was still alive, Brady couldn’t blame her for wanting to disappear. Who wouldn’t? The press would have hounded her to her grave if given half the chance. A social leper who had had the misfortune to have a sadistic serial killer as her only child.

  ‘If she’s alive, he will try to find her,’ Brady stated. All eyes turned to him. But he knew he was right. Macintosh would be looking for her. Hunting her down. She wouldn’t be able to hide from him. No matter how hard she tried. After all, she had left him to rot in prison for thirty-seven years with not a word.

  Amelia raised an eyebrow at him. ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘I just am. What he did to Ellen Jackson was different. Her death was an aberration from his typical killings. Yes, his MO as the Joker is radically different to the signature he exhibits with the families he has killed. But the one detail that no o
ne is looking at is the fact that both Dr Jackson and Jonathan Edwards had a relationship with him. He had won their trust. I would even suggest earned their respect.’ Brady paused as he gauged Amelia’s reaction. He wasn’t bothered about the other forty members of the team. It was the police forensic psychologist’s opinion that mattered. And Gates’.

  Intrigued, Amelia nodded for him to continue.

  ‘They must have told Macintosh about their families. The investigation notes from the case recorded that Dr Jackson had a black and white family photograph on his desk. Suggesting that Macintosh would have seen it.’

  Amelia looked at him, as if surprised. ‘Perhaps . . .’

  ‘Maybe this isn’t about Edwards or Jackson. What if we are looking at the wrong motive here? That their murders were simply a means to an end. What if this is about these men’s daughters?’ Brady said as he gestured to the two photographs of the girls on the whiteboard. Both girls looked Nordic. They had long whitish blond hair that hung in ringlets, dark brown eyes and petite, perfect features. ‘If I’m not mistaken, they are virtually identical.’

  Brady caught Conrad’s eye. Brady could see from his expression that Conrad understood what he was suggesting. ‘Dr Jackson wasn’t murdered because Macintosh was scared he had revealed too much to him. I think Macintosh is too clever to accidentally reveal anything other than what he intends. This is about him targeting his psychiatrist to get to the child. That’s why the brutal murder. The anger and rage exhibited is classic overkill. And yes, it’s personal. But not in the way you suggest,’ Brady said as he looked from the crime scene photos back to Amelia.

  ‘How so?’ she asked, curious.

  ‘These family killings are to do with his own family dynamics. Something happened to him as a child. An emotional or physical trigger that set this time bomb of a serial killer off. I’m not saying that he wasn’t already predisposed. But something happened to him that gave him that extra push. Not just to murder . . . ’ Brady shook his head. ‘It’s no coincidence that he slaughtered his probation officer and his psychiatrist. Both male and both in positions of authority over him. Both judging and assessing him. Absolute patriarchal power; just like his father. That’s why he butchered them like that. Destroyed them so they were unidentifiable. Because he was killing his father. Again and again and again.’ Brady stopped. He had said too much. This wasn’t the place. But he knew in his gut that if they didn’t understand Macintosh’s motive for taking Annabel Edwards, then they had no chance of finding her alive.