The Puppet Maker: DI Jack Brady 5

by Danielle Ramsay

  He had already taken Emily’s statement. Made her relive her abduction by a man she had trusted – her tutor. A man she respected as an artist and lecturer. A man who had suggested that she break into St George’s at night and photograph the building. Then, to her surprise, she had met him walking Henry, his black Labrador, in Bluebell Woods just as she was making her way back down through the fields. He had singled her out. Her background in council care fitted his type. As did her looks. The difference was, she wasn’t the stereotype. She wasn’t living on the streets. She hadn’t turned to drugs, alcohol or prostitution to feed a habit that kept her from facing the harsh reality of her life. A childhood bandied from one foster carer to another. And then a dumping ground of a children’s home until she reached an age where she was not the responsibility of the local authority. Or anyone else’s.

  Brady knew this life all too well. He understood what Emily had survived. After all, he had been separated from his younger brother Nick and placed in countless foster homes across North Tyneside. But he and Nick had been lucky. They had made something of their lives. Brady had had Detective Superintendent O’Donnell looking out for him when he was Emily’s age. O’Donnell had been a DC back then. He had given a damn about a kid who had grown up with every disadvantage that life could throw at him – and more. Now it was Brady’s turn to repay the gesture by looking out for Emily.

  ‘Jack?’ she muttered, yawning.

  Brady leaned in towards her. She was lying on her back with her head tilted in his direction. The distrust had gone from her brown eyes. Now, they were filled with sadness.

  ‘Why didn’t he do to me what he did to the others? The ones whose photos were on the wall . . .’ Her tone was plaintive.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know, Emily. I honestly don’t know why.’

  ‘The last time he visited me, I thought then he was going to do what he had done to her. To . . .’ she shook her head as she tried to blink back the tears.

  ‘Shhh . . .’ Brady consoled.

  She shook her head. ‘No. I can’t stop asking, why me? Why did he let me survive?’

  Brady didn’t have an answer. Or at least one that he wanted to share. He hadn’t told her that if he had not made the connection between the black Volvo 200 and Julian Fraser’s grandparents, then she would never have been found. She would have starved to death down there in that basement secured to that chair.

  And as for Julian Fraser, Brady knew he would not talk, let alone admit to Emily Baker’s abduction and torture. He had said all he had wanted to. It was over. But they had his paintings in custody. He had removed them from both his studio at home and at work and had hidden them in his grandfather’s house in Wooler. Countless macabre paintings that depicted the dehumanising torture of young women – most of whom matched with the murdered victims. And questions, like the one Emily was asking, would have to be left unanswered. Life was arbitrary. Unimaginable acts happened.

  ‘I don’t know why, Emily . . .’ Brady finally answered.

  ‘Those noises I would hear. The ones that used to terrify me. The scratching and banging. That was really his dog?’

  Brady nodded. ‘I believe so. He had locked the dog in the small room that led down to the basement. From the looks of it, the dog had spent hours and hours scratching at that metal door. As for the banging, the dog might have even been throwing his body at the door in desperation. With it being metal, the sound would have boomed around the basement.’

  ‘Henry . . .’

  Brady waited.

  ‘The dog. He’s called Henry. He was in the back of the car. The night he . . .’ Emily closed her eyes.

  ‘Henry’s a good name for a dog,’ Brady said, smiling.

  She opened her eyes again. Then returned the smile. ‘Yeah . . . I reckon it is. What will happen to Henry?’

  Brady shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The PDSA will get him rehomed.’

  She nodded, thoughtful. Sad. ‘Bit like waiting to be adopted then?’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose,’ Brady agreed.

  ‘He’s too old,’ Emily said.

  Brady didn’t understand.

  ‘To be adopted,’ she explained. ‘People like them when they’re cute. Puppies, kittens, babies. You know?’

  Brady knew. A childhood in care taught you some hard facts about life. Not necessarily ones that you wanted to learn.

  ‘Maybe I’ll home Henry?’ Emily suggested. Her voice was starting to slur as exhaustion took over.

  ‘Maybe . . .’ Brady replied softly.

  He watched her start to drift off. Her eyes eventually closed. Her breathing finally relaxed. Steady. Slow. Safe.

  In that moment Brady felt an overwhelming sense of peace. Something he had not felt for a long time.

  He headed down the corridor towards his office. He was going to collect his car keys and jacket and go home. He was exhausted. All he wanted to do was crawl into bed and forget. To block out all the sadistic images that kept going through his mind. He had hoped that by finding Emily alive he would exorcise the demons that had been tormenting him. And he had done. But it was brief. And he knew the reason why – Annabel Edwards.

  You failed her . . . You saved another victim. But at her expense.

  The station had breathed a collective sigh of relief. Julian Fraser had been arrested and charged. Emily Baker had been found. It had become a media sensation. Journalists were gorging themselves on the grisly nature of the case. The public’s appetite for gore was insatiable.

  DCI Gates had even called him. He had just returned from London. He had praised Brady for apprehending Fraser, and for finding Emily – alive and physically unharmed. Psychologically was a completely different matter. Brady wondered how long it would take her to get over her abduction. Her torture at the hands of a serial killer. Knowing that at any minute he could kill you. And worse.

  But Gates’ words of commendation were hollow. The underlying fact was that Brady had still fucked up. In the media’s eyes. The public’s eyes. And in Gates’ mind. He might not have articulated it, but Brady could hear it in his voice. His name would always be associated with Macintosh’s. And not in a good way. Gates had asked to see him the following morning at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Whether it was connected to the on-going Macintosh case he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that a three-year-old girl was still missing. The likelihood of finding her alive now was fading – fast.

  Brady knew that whatever leads there had been in London had turned cold. Not that he was surprised. Nor did he feel any satisfaction in being proved right. He just wanted that little girl back. Safe. But as the hours blurred into days, the likelihood of finding her alive was becoming more and more remote. The investigation was again focusing on the North East. The question was, were they too late? It was something that Brady couldn’t bring himself to think about. Not now.

  He needed to go home. But even there he felt a failure. He thought of Claudia. His ex-wife. The woman he had spent the last five months living with trying to make amends. She had been held in a hostage situation. Beaten, tortured and . . . He stopped himself. But it was all his fault. He had been a shit husband. Maybe if she hadn’t left him then none of it would have happened. The abduction. The brutal murder of her boyfriend. But Claudia had left. And she had had every reason to. And now she was gone again. She had admitted herself to a private psychiatric hospital and Brady had no idea where.

  He reached his office. Walked in. He could hear someone running down the corridor. A few seconds later Kodovesky was standing in the open doorway.

  ‘Sir?’ she panted, out of breath.

  Brady turned to her. ‘Kodovesky? What the hell are you still doing here? It’s past midnight?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ she said. Flustered. ‘His mother, sir.’

  ‘Macintosh’s mother?’

  She nodded quickly. ‘Yes. When I did some more research into the name I then found her death certificate. She died this year.’

  Brady sighed. It was another false
lead.

  ‘But I did find out that she had a son from her second marriage. In Australia. You need to talk to him. There’s something his mother had told him before she died.’

  ‘Did he tell you?’

  ‘No. Donald Fitzgerald said he would only talk to whoever was in charge. Wasn’t sure if he even believed it himself. He hadn’t been aware that he had a brother until I talked to him. Once I mentioned James David Macintosh’s name he insisted he talked to you.’

  Brady frowned. ‘Gates is in charge.’

  ‘I . . . I told him you were in charge when I initially talked to him. I didn’t know DCI Gates would be returning from London tonight. But, whatever it is, he said it was urgent. That it related to Annabel’s abduction.’

  Brady had tried the number Kodovesky had given him. But no one had answered. He had left a voice message asking him to return his call ASAP. He accepted the time difference could be the reason why he couldn’t get hold of him. There was nothing he could do but try again once he got home.

  As soon as Brady walked through the door and flicked the lights on, he knew. Someone had been inside his house. The unopened mail on the hall table had been moved. Not much. But enough. The answer machine was no longer flashing. Whatever messages he had not bothered to listen to had been erased.

  He walked from room to room. Nothing had been taken. He climbed the stairs. He was trying not to think it.

  Had Claudia come back?

  He glanced across at the bathroom. Nothing unusual. He continued on, heading for the guest room. Nothing. He then turned to the master bedroom.

  Maybe . . .

  He walked towards the closed door. He was certain that he had left it open.

  He reached out for the handle. Stood there for a moment. Unsure. Then he swung the door open. Nothing.

  He breathed out slowly. Shook his head as he stared around the room. Then he saw the frame on the bedside cabinet. The photograph. It had been removed. Replaced.

  He walked over. He didn’t think to protect whatever fingerprints could be on it. He already knew who had been here. The photograph was evidence enough. He picked the frame up. Hands trembling as he stared at the child in the photo – at Annabel’s pale, unresponsive face. Her body awkward, unnatural. She was sitting in a chair, a Victorian-style doll on her lap. The old-fashioned clothes she was wearing were identical to the ones that Ellen Jackson had been found in. Brady took a deep breath in.

  Hands still trembling, he removed the photo from the frame. Macintosh had scrawled something on the back. He read it. It meant nothing to him. He still had no idea where he was. Or where he had hidden Annabel.

  Was he too late?

  His phone suddenly rang. He answered.

  ‘Yes. Detective Inspector Brady . . .’ He listened to the caller.

  It was Donald Fitzgerald. And he gave Brady the answers he needed. It all made sense now. He remembered when he had first visited Mill Cottage. What he had found in the woods.

  Without hesitation, Brady grabbed his keys and jacket and ran.

  He jumped in his car. Turned the engine on. Reversed out from between two other vehicles, swung the car around and sped down the road, driving like his life depended on it. And it did. If he didn’t get to Annabel in time then he would never be able to live with himself.

  He tried to keep his mind clear. Focused on the road. Not on Macintosh. Not on what he could have done. Then it hit. He fumbled around for his phone. Found it. Tried to keep his eye on the road at the same time as calling Conrad.

  He put the phone on speaker and waited for Conrad to pick up.

  Fucking pick up, Conrad! Come on. Come on!

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Where are you?’ Brady demanded, ignoring his question.

  ‘At home. Why?’

  ‘Where’s Claudia?’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Conrad asked, worried.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Harry! Where is Claudia? Is she still in the North East? Tell me she didn’t fucking book into somewhere in Northumberland?’

  Conrad’s silence confirmed his worst fears.

  ‘Fuck!’ yelled Brady as he thumped the steering wheel.

  He had a choice to make. And he had to make it fast. The next decision would affect the rest of his life.

  ‘Where is she Harry? Where the fuck is she?’

  ‘Rothbury. She’s in a hospital in the hills up there.’

  Brady did the maths. Both locations were in the same direction but Rothbury was thirty miles further north.

  He pulled out at the next junction and put his foot on the accelerator and sped north.

  ‘Conrad, I need you to get to Rothbury . . . To Claudia. ASAP. Get as much backup as possible,’ Brady ordered.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Macintosh has gone after Claudia. The bastard’s gone after her.’

  ‘He can’t have done. How would he know where she is?’ Conrad asked.

  ‘For fuck’s sake I don’t know. It’s Macintosh! All I know is that he has been in my house. He took a photograph of Claudia.’

  ‘Is that where you’re heading now?’ Conrad asked.

  ‘No.’ His voice was strained. Strangled.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I need you to get to her. Now!’

  Brady cut the call. Threw the phone down. Thumped his fist against the steering wheel again. Anything to take the raging pain that consumed him, that squeezed and squeezed the air out of his lungs.

  Fuck it! Keep it together. For her. You’ve got to keep it together for her. Otherwise . . .

  Macintosh had given him a choice. He had chosen.

  He thought of the photograph of Annabel. Sitting stiffly in a chair, dressed up in an old dress. In her hands, an identical doll to the one Brady had found in the old suitcase in the eaves of Mill Cottage. On the back of the Polaroid, Macintosh had written something. For Brady. After all, this was personal.

  Look at you, sullen in yielding, brutal in your rage – you will go too far. It’s perfect justice: natures like yours are hardest on themselves.

  Macintosh was taunting him.

  He had to make a choice. Macintosh had seen to that. And it was one that he knew he would struggle to ever accept.

  He willed the Armed Response Unit to get to Rothbury. Conrad could warn Claudia. Warn the staff. He hoped to God he wasn’t too late – that they weren’t too late.

  He continued. Speeding in and out of traffic. Heading towards Annabel. Had he made the right choice? He didn’t know. Wouldn’t know until he got there. He ignored the panic. Tried to. Blocked the guilt. The ‘what ifs’ that were trying to unhinge him. He had to keep focused. Not let Macintosh beat him.

  But he understood now. He understood the quote – ‘natures like yours are hardest on themselves’.

  Whatever choice he had made, the outcome would destroy him. Slowly but surely. Macintosh would make certain of that.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Monday: 11:37 p.m.

  Brady raced up the dark, secluded overgrown drive. Braked. Got out the car, leaving the headlights on. He opened the boot and grabbed the bolt cutters he had thrown in. He picked up the torch. Then he ran. Ignored the boarded-up cottage. Already knew no one would be inside. What he was looking for was in the woods. Knew in his gut that Macintosh had been – and gone.

  He ran through the long grass and weeds round to the back garden and then as fast as he could to the woods. He needed to find her alive.

  Then Claudia. He would drive to Rothbury. Hold her. Kiss her. Tell how much he goddamn loved her. Whisper that he would never let her go. Never again.

  He found it. The steps down to the bunker. Someone had been here. The wild foliage, the climbing ivy had been ripped. Torn as someone had forced the metal door open. Someone – Macintosh. Then they had locked it behind them.

  But the rusted padlock remained in place. Brady cut it open, then dragged the resisting door back. A dank, musty smell of earth and decaying leaves hit him. The air was
heavy. The room, black.

  ‘Annabel? Can you hear me? Annabel!’

  He shone the torch into the dark space. He had been right, it was an old air-raid shelter. Ten foot by ten foot. Enough. His eyes scanned the room. For signs. Anything that told him she was here. It was filled with debris. Wooden chairs. Shelves stacked with tins of outdated food. Newspapers. Books. Candles. He knew she had to be here. Had to be . . .

  ‘Annabel?’ he called out as he stabbed at the darkness with the torch.

  Then he realised. In the corner. Someone had been here. Someone – Macintosh – had left a handful of bluebells on top of a small mound of freshly dug-up soil. Brady ran over and started digging with his hands at the disturbed earth. The dirt was loose. The hole in the ground shallow. Then he felt something. A blanket. Something was wrapped inside.

  Shit!

  He dug his hands into the dirt and scooped out the blanket and its wrapped contents. There was barely any weight to it. Just enough for it to be the body of a very young child. He laid it gently in front of him and unfolded the wool blanket. As he did so a lock of blond hair fell out. Knew then, it was her. Macintosh had buried her.

  Oh God please . . . please . . .

  He felt numb. His mind blank. Hands trembling, he pulled the remaining blanket away.

  Brady sat in his car. An ambulance had been dispatched. He could hear it in the distance, along with backup.

  He had wrapped her in his jacket, was holding her tight against his chest. Her curly knotted blonde head lay still against his thundering heart. He sat there. Numb. Waiting.