Brady rang Emily Baker’s doorbell and as he did so, he wondered how an eighteen-year-old girl coped being left by Social Services to fend for herself, surrounded by hardened ex-prisoners. He had heard accounts of young girls in authority care –some as young as sixteen – being placed in bedsits along the seafront. Left indefinitely to rot. Surrounded by alcoholics, druggies and men looking to make some easy money.
No one answered. He held his finger on the buzzer for over a minute. Still nothing. What did he expect? He was certain that she wasn’t there. He pressed the buzzers for the three other flats. Curtains twitched as unimpressed, scowling faces looked out at him. He slapped his warrant card on the ground-floor window next to him. Right in front of the ugly, broken-nosed occupant’s face.
‘Police!’ Brady shouted. It got a reaction. The kind of response that told Brady that the occupant of the ground-floor flat had recently been inside.
He heard a door slamming and then truculent footsteps.
The door swung open. ‘If that fucking wanker has reported me, I’ll fucking do him!’ snarled the scrawny bloke.
He looked wired. Nervous, antsy and paranoid. Ready to stick a knife in someone’s jugular. He had clearly had his shot of whatever illegal substance had been going cheap that day. Brady noticed the nose ring and the cropped stubble that he had attempted to dye black. A pathetic but failed attempt to look younger than his years. The black – which was more blue – looked bloody unnatural. Brady imagined he thought he looked shit-hot. And maybe he did to some old granny wankered on too many shots on a Friday night in the Bedroom pub in Whitley. But in the Sunday gloom called daylight, he looked nothing more than an old bloke desperately clinging to some semblance of youth.
‘Shut the fuck up or I’ll arrest you,’ Brady ordered. He didn’t have the time or the inclination to even bother explaining his reason for being there. Not to a shitfaced ex-con with ageing issues.
‘Why the fuck would you arrest me? I haven’t fucking done anything!’ he spat as he yanked up his dirty grey jogging bottoms. His long-sleeved white T-shirt was covered in last night’s takeaway and alcohol. It was also mottled with cigarette burns. The burns on his T-shirt matched the cigarette burns between his fingers on his right hand. He was a clear liability where the other occupants and neighbouring residents were concerned. The burns evidence that he would get so shitfaced that he would pass out with a cigarette smouldering between his fingers.
‘Emily Baker. Girl who lives on the first floor?’ Brady asked as he stepped into the dark, dank hallway. It stank. The smell of rotting fish hit first, followed by the acrid undertone of stale piss. The place was a dump. Battered, discarded Whitley Bay Guardian newspapers lay in a pile in the corner of the hallway, alongside other piles of unopened mail. Brady assumed that people moved on without leaving a forwarding address. It was the kind of place that if you somehow managed to get out, you wouldn’t want to broadcast where you’d gone.
The scrawny bloke had stepped back, out of Brady’s way. It wasn’t Brady’s towering physical presence that had made him back down. It was the mention of Emily Baker.
‘Why? What’s wrong with her? I haven’t touched her. I swear!’ he insisted.
‘Did I say you had?’ Brady asked.
The bloke started nervously pulling his top down over his hands as he backed away. ‘I didn’t touch her like . . .’
‘When did you last see her?’ Brady asked walking towards him forcing him even further back into the dark hallway.
He shrugged. The sweat on his forehead glistening. ‘I dunno, like. Friday morning? She left for college at eleven. Bumped into her on my way back from signing on. She had all her equipment with her. Said she was doing photography.’
‘Pretty girl, is she?’
He looked at Brady. Scared. Not sure which way to answer the question. ‘I dunno . . . Yeah . . . No . . .’ He shook his head. Agitated, he started scratching the white stubble on his face.
‘Did you see her come back on Friday?’ Brady asked.
‘Nah.’
It was an automatic reply. No hesitation. Too quick an answer for him to be lying. ‘What about yesterday then?’
‘Nah . . .’ He continued scratching, causing the red and raised skin to bleed slightly. ‘Come to think of it, I haven’t heard her all weekend. Or seen her. She’s right above me. I can even hear her in the bathroom first thing in the morning having a piss!’
‘Bet you enjoy that. Don’t you, Johnny?’ Brady replied.
‘How’d you know my name like?’ he asked, scratching furiously at the stubble on his cheek.
‘Your mail’s on the floor. Ground floor Flat 12 A. John Atkinson. But you don’t look like a John so I guessed you’d be a Johnny.’
‘Yeah . . . right . . . yeah . . .’ the bloke answered, confused.
‘OK, just so I’m clear, you haven’t seen or heard from her since Friday late morning?’
‘Yeah . . . that’s what I said, like,’ he answered, eyes darting from Brady to his flat door.
‘If you remember anything, or she comes back, can you give me a call?’ Brady asked him. He handed him a card from his leather jacket. ‘If you see her, tell her to get in touch with me ASAP.’
‘Has she done something then?’ he asked.
‘No, she hasn’t. But someone else has. Remember, call me,’ Brady reminded him.
Johnny stood for a moment, confused. He watched as Brady walked up the stairs to the girl’s flat.
‘You’ll need keys to get in. Landlord’s got a set if you want me to call him?’ Johnny offered.
Brady ignored him and continued walking up the stairs.
‘Are you a real copper or what? ’Cos you don’t look like a copper. You ain’t got no police uniform and if you’re really a detective like it said on your warrant card, why ain’t you wearing a suit?’ Johnny yelled.
Brady blanked him. He reached Emily Baker’s door. He banged on it. Waited. Banged some more. Waited. The lock was simple, a Yale. He pulled out a pick from his jacket. He had taken it from a drawer in his office before he left. Suspected he might need it. He had made it some time ago from a hacksaw blade. It was something that he had learnt growing up on the Ridges. It came in handy from time to time when he mislaid the keys for his car. It was his pride and joy; a black 1978 Ford Granada 2.8i Ghia that had a good old-fashioned key instead of a remote central locking one. The Ford Granada was Brady’s connection to the past – to his younger brother, Nick. The car had been bought as a project for them both to work on. But it was Nick who had turned it around. He focused on the lock. Blocking out thoughts of his brother. Now wasn’t the time to reminisce. He had a job to do. Finding Emily Baker.
Brady didn’t have time to wait for the landlord to show up. He knew that he could enter the property under Section 17 of the 1984 Police and Criminal Evidence Act on the grounds of saving an individual’s life. That was why he was here. He heard the lock release. The door swung open slightly. He put the pick back in his jacket pocket and walked in. He wasn’t worried about Johnny downstairs reporting him for breaking and entering. He reckoned that good old Johnny would have a list of convictions as long as his arm. Not to mention the stash of drugs he was using. The last thing he would want was the police around here.
Brady called out: ‘Police!’ But he already had a feeling that the place was empty. That she had left, as Johnny had said, on Friday at 11 a.m. and not returned since. His next move would be Newcastle College. His problem was that it was the weekend and staff wouldn’t be around until Monday. He decided to check out the flat first and if there were definitely no signs of the teenager, he would get either Daniels or Kenny to get him a contact for one of her tutors. He needed to know whether she had turned up to college on Friday. And if she had, who she had left with.
He walked around the living room. It was basic, but Emily Baker had made it her own. A large photographic canvas dominated the chimney breast above the sixties-style tiled hearth surround and ga
s fire. The photograph was of wilting flowers. A close-up. It was beautiful but disconcerting at the same time. Then Brady realised that the blurred object in the background was a headstone. He leaned in and saw her name at the bottom of the canvas. He realised in that moment that Emily had something about her. She wasn’t some prostitute, or heroin addict. Just some statistic from the care system.
Brady turned and looked around the rest of the living room. It was tidy. Shabby but comfortable. Budget stylish even. Unusual for an eighteen-year-old. If Brady had been expecting plates and mugs littered around the place and ashtrays filled high with tab ends and empty cans, he would have been bitterly disappointed. He walked through into the small kitchen. The window over the sink looked out onto the backyard below which was filled with rubbish, including a sodden, grubby double mattress and a sofa. He cast his eye around the kitchen worktops. For what it was, a seventies throwback, the place was immaculate. He opened the small fridge. It was virtually empty, aside from milk that was now two days out of date and a yoghurt, also past its best. The contents of her fridge exemplified student living. She was broke.
Brady double-checked to make sure there were no notes or letters lying around. Anything that would give him an idea of why she had disappeared. But there was nothing. He then made his way to her bedroom. It was pretty much the same as the rest of the flat. Run-down and damp. But again, she had made it hers. A single bed was positioned against the wall with a battered bed cabinet and lamp on one side. He noticed that she had left a book half read. It was the only book he had spotted in the flat. He went over and picked it up. It was Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. He wondered whether she was reading it because the acclaimed and notoriously reclusive writer had been in the news lately. He skimmed through the opening pages to see whether it had been a signed gift from someone. It wasn’t. He put it down and looked around. The room was tidy. No clothes thrown down in a hurry. No struggle suggestive of being forced out the flat against her will. Nothing. Even the bed had been made. He pulled open the cabinet drawer. It was filled with expected paraphernalia. Nail polishes, lipsticks, cheap jewellery. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He walked over and opened her wardrobe. She didn’t have many clothes, but what she did have had been arranged neatly. He glanced down at the black Vans trainers on the floor of the wardrobe. He then moved to the chest of drawers under the window. Pulled open the drawers. Underwear, knickers and bras. The next drawer down had one pair of short linen pyjamas. Three pairs of black socks lay neatly arranged beside them. The bottom drawer was empty. He turned and took in the room. What struck him as odd about the flat and in particular her bedroom, was that there was nothing of her here. Not that he had expected to find anything from her childhood. There were no tacky stuffed toys or other sentimental paraphernalia. After all, she had spent her childhood shunted from one foster carer to another until she had eventually ended up in a residential children’s home. However, what did surprise him was the fact there were no personal items – not really. No photographs – not even recent ones.
The only item that she did have was an acoustic guitar in the corner of the room. It was maybe worth sixty quid, if that. He shook his head. He had no idea who Emily Baker was or what she looked like. Apart from the fact that she was a talented photographer. Ironic given the fact that apart from the canvas in the living room there were no other photographs in the flat. He had expected to find a laptop. There wasn’t one. He assumed she would have taken it into college. He glanced back across at the bed. Crouched down on the floor. Looked underneath. Nothing apart from clumps of hair and dust. He went over and lifted the mattress. Nothing. Then he noticed her phone charger – an iPhone – left plugged into the socket down by the bedside cabinet. He was now certain that something had happened to her. That she was missing – and not through choice. Otherwise, she would have taken her phone charger.
He checked the bathroom. Her toothbrush, make-up bag and deodorant were still there. Undisturbed. He felt the bristles of the toothbrush. Dry. As were the towels. From the look of them, neither the sink or shower had been used for a few days.
He had no choice but to chase up one of her tutors at Newcastle College. He needed a photograph of Emily and he needed her last known whereabouts. He walked out the flat making sure the door was locked behind him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something had happened to this girl. That it was no coincidence that Hannah had said her name repeatedly. But what had also made him feel uneasy was the fact that he recognised a bit of himself in her. The lack of personal items – of family photographs and childhood memorabilia – had hit a chord. The flat belonged to someone who been institutionalised. Someone raised in care with nothing to really call their own. No identity. No past – aside from an ugly, violent one better left alone. But what had jarred was the intense feeling of isolation. There was no indication of any friends in Emily Baker’s life. She seemed very much alone. And that worried him. If he was right, then there was no one in her life to know whether she had gone missing. Aside from the ex-inmate in the flat below, whose interest in the teenager was unhealthy but didn’t place him high on Brady’s suspect list. He made a mental note to get Harvey to bring him for questioning all the same. First, he had to establish that the girl was definitely missing. For that, he needed her mobile number.
He took his phone out as he walked towards his car. He scrolled down until he reached DC Daniels. Then pressed call.
Chapter Sixteen
Sunday: 2:38 pm
Daniels had managed to source Emily’s mobile number. And her social worker’s contact details. Quicker than Brady had expected. He called the mobile. But the phone had been switched off, adding to the overwhelming feeling that something was wrong.
He then rang the first contact number he had for her social worker. It went to voicemail. He tried the second one. He was in luck. Sandra Campbell answered.
‘Hi, Sandra? Detective Inspector Jack Brady here. Apologies for calling you on a Sunday but it concerns a client of yours. Emily Baker.’
‘Is she all right?’
Brady could hear the muted concern in her voice and wondered whether her colleague Siobhan Reardon had talked to her about Hannah Stewart.
‘That’s what I am trying to find out,’ Brady answered, honestly. He didn’t see any point in pretending otherwise.
‘Have you checked her flat?’ she asked.
‘Yes. She hasn’t been seen there since late Friday morning. And I’ve tried ringing her mobile but it’s switched off.’
‘Oh . . . Maybe she has gone off for the weekend with friends?’ Sandra suggested. But she didn’t sound that convinced.
‘That’s why I am ringing you. What do you know about her personal life?’
Brady watched a young man get out of a car next to his while he waited for a response.
‘Well . . . I’ve been her social worker since she was nine. She was placed into emergency care at the age of two. Sadly, she remained in care from then on. Her mother, who was just sixteen at the time, had spent most of her life in care herself and found herself pregnant at fourteen. She was given as much support as the system could offer but . . .’
Brady waited. He knew that whatever support that had been well-intentionally meted out had not been enough. No surprise really. So, Emily Baker’s mother herself was a victim of the system.
‘I’m sorry. I’m just hoping that she’s all right. Her phone is definitely switched off?’
‘Yes,’ Brady answered.
‘That’s really unusual for Emily. She always answers her phone. You see, I set her up in her first flat in Whitley Bay. I saw her get her A-levels and then, I was the first person she contacted when she got accepted into college . . . Whenever I’ve rung her she’s always answered my calls. But if I’m honest it has been a few months since I talked to Emily. You see, she is no longer within North Tyneside Council’s care . . .’ Sandra Campbell faltered.
‘I know this must be difficult,’ Brady sy
mpathised. ‘But I don’t know if anything has actually happened to Emily. I just need to verify her whereabouts.’
‘Yes . . . of course. I . . . well there’s not a lot I can tell you . . .’
‘What about any family?’
‘No. She had no immediate family.’
‘Her mother?’
‘Died of an overdose when Emily was four years old.’
‘I see,’ answered Brady. ‘What about the biological father?’
‘Unknown.’
‘Any stepfathers?’ Brady already knew that her mother had had a boyfriend at the time of Emily’s removal from her care. That he had significantly abused the two-year-old on her sixteen-year-old mother’s watch.
‘Yes. Give me a minute, will you? I need to double check.’
‘Sure.’ Brady gave her three minutes, to be precise.
‘Sorry about that,’ she apologised when she finally returned. ‘Mark Sadler was his name. He was forty at the time of his conviction. So that would make him fifty-six now. He had been living on the Meadowell estate before he was arrested and charged with abusing Emily.’
Brady knew it well. It was the council estate he had grown up in. Known as the Ridges then. Located on the outskirts of North Shields, it was an infamous rundown estate that had had its fair share of problems. Some more public than others, such as riots in the early nineties.
‘Thanks,’ Brady said. He would check the name out. ‘Do you know if he had any recent contact with Emily?’
‘I don’t believe so. At least not when she was in the care of North Tyneside. When she left, I can’t say for certain, but I highly doubt it. Unless he somehow tracked her down but I can’t see why he would. Or more to the point, why Emily would even agree to see him. I mean, what he did to her then was unimaginable. I’m surprised she survived some of the injuries if I’m honest with you. If it hadn’t been for a neighbour reporting her mother and boyfriend for an unrelated crime— God! It’s just not worth thinking about.’
The Puppet Maker: DI Jack Brady 5 Page 16
