Waiting for Conrad to tell him that everything was OK. That everything was going to be all right. To tell him he could breathe. Could continue to keep breathing.
Behind Brady, sirens shrieked and blue lights flashed as police cars, followed by an ambulance, pulled up the lane. He felt her stir against him. Unsettled. She could feel it. The chaos that was about to ensue. He held her even closer. Didn’t want to let her go. He had saved her – just. Any later and she would have suffocated to death. Macintosh hadn’t touched her. Had not harmed her. She was severely dehydrated. If she hadn’t suffocated, she would have died from organ failure. She had hours left to live.
Why? Why leave her for me to find? Alive?
But he knew the answer. He had made a choice. For Annabel, it had been the right choice. But what about Claudia? He shut his eyes. Forced himself to think of something else. Anything, rather than what might or might not have happened. She was in a private clinic in Rothbury – an expensive one that dealt with depression, eating disorders and alcohol and drug-related addictions. In other words, security would be at a minimum. These were not high-risk patients: either to themselves or to society. The clients had voluntarily checked themselves in after paying a substantial fee for the privilege. Brady was aware that someone as Machiavellian as Macintosh would have no trouble gaining access to the clinic’s grounds, or building.
He opened his eyes and dragged a shaking hand back through his hair as he stared out at the all-consuming blackness. The thoughts assailing him overwhelming. He needed to distract himself. Anything to stop himself from going crazy.
He thought of the air-raid shelter. What he had found. Annabel had not been alone. Another small body had been buried with her. Brady assumed it was Lucy Macintosh’s remains. Brady had no idea whether Wolfe would be able to determine the cause of death. But he was certain the little girl had been murdered.
Had Macintosh lived with this knowledge? Had he been blamed for the death of someone he idolised? Demonised and abused by the very man who murdered her – his own father. Her body buried in the grounds of a disused air-raid shelter. Hidden for years and years. Forgotten. Her death unreported.
He thought of his phone call with Donald Fitzgerald. Eileen Macintosh’s second son. James David Macintosh’s younger half-brother. Of the death bed confession his mother had made. Blighted by guilt. The choices she had made. Like Brady, she had been forced to make choices that had haunted her to the day she died. She had confessed that her husband had told her that their son James had killed his sister. Her husband, a respected officer in the army, had insisted that it could not be reported for fear of the scandal. That James would be taken from them – permanently. So, they upped and left. Locked up Mill Cottage. Locked up their son in St George’s Psychiatric Hospital. But . . .
Ellen Jackson’s injuries came to mind. She had been strangled. Had Macintosh been trying to recreate what happened to his three-year-old sister? Trying to awake a memory. To see whether he had actually killed his sister – accidentally, or otherwise. For he had lived with the tortured belief that he had. His parents had seen to that. Her last words to Donald were that James had never murdered his sister. That she had suspected all along that it was her husband. That she had watched him bury her three-year-old daughter in a disused air-raid shelter at the back of Mill Cottage. That her six-year-old son had witnessed everything. Her husband had chained and padlocked the door of the air-raid shelter so no one would ever find their daughter. Until now . . .
But Eileen Macintosh had told the wrong son. If only she had told James what she had confessed to Donald, then maybe none of this would ever have happened . . .
Brady accepted that he would never actually know. No one would. Only Macintosh.
The same could be said of Fraser. Only he knew why he had committed those atrocious acts. Had Fraser too been trying to recreate something in his past? His biological mother had been lobotomised by the man who had systematically raped her. He had done the same thing to his victims.
Both killers had come from disturbed backgrounds. Childhoods blighted by psychiatric hospitals and dominant, abusive fathers. By mothers who had stood back and witnessed unspeakable horrors. Macintosh’s mother had had her own son committed for an act carried out by her husband. Fraser’s adopted mother had forced him as a child to face the reality of his lineage: a father who abused his position of authority and a mother lobotomised for being what her own parents deemed as sexually deviant.
Had that made them into the psychopaths that they were? Brady would never know the answer to that. What these men had experienced in their childhoods had influenced the choices they had gone on to make in adulthood. But they had chosen to act upon whatever compulsion they felt driven by. It had been their choice. And theirs alone.
His phone rang. He clicked answer. Didn’t say anything. The fear crippling.
Please God . . . Let her be OK.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Held his breath and waited for the words that would change his life. He had made a choice. Now he had to live with it. His hand stroked Annabel’s curly hair as he held her close. It threw him back to Claudia’s wild red curly hair. Her Scottish ancestry. He bit his lip. Waited.
‘Sir . . .’
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
‘We got him. He was shot in the grounds of the hospital. He’s dead . . .’
Brady didn’t respond. He wasn’t interested in Macintosh. All he wanted was to know that Claudia was safe.
He waited.
Then heard the words.
‘Sir? Sir? Are you still there?’
Epilogue
Brady had kept a respectable distance between himself and the mourners. In particular, Claudia’s parents. They had made it clear that he was not welcome. They openly blamed him for their daughter’s death. Her blood was on his hands.
Not that Brady disagreed with them. He had made a choice. He had sacrificed Claudia in exchange for Annabel Edwards’ life. He would never know if he could have got to Claudia in time. Maybe that was the point. That he was supposed to try to get to Claudia first. Only to find that by the time he got there, Macintosh had already . . .
Brady could not bring himself to think about what Macintosh had done to Claudia. Too horrific to even comprehend. Maybe that was the point, too. Macintosh had wanted Brady to discover Claudia’s murdered body. At the expense of his sanity. And then Annabel’s tiny body. For she would have suffocated to death.
Brady felt no satisfaction in Macintosh’s death. Instead, he felt cheated. Cheated out of the chance to find out why. Why he had wanted Brady to suffer so. That, and rage. The rage was so intense. He wanted revenge. Wanted Macintosh to experience the pain he felt. His body, every muscle, every thought screamed in agony at the reality of what he had lost. Of what he could not bring back. At what his life was without her.
He blinked back the tears as the anger coursed through his body. Threatening to unhinge him. He focused on the mourners. On the reason he was here.
He watched as Conrad left the mourners stood by the graveside – her grave – and walked towards him. Head down. Brady realised how easy it was to forget that other people felt her loss. That he was not the only one who was being tortured with every breath he took. Thoughts of Claudia assailed him. He was reminded of her everywhere he looked. A constant torment.
‘Hello,’ Conrad greeted him.
Brady didn’t reply. A look was enough.
‘I’m sorry . . .’ Conrad began.
Brady shook his head. He didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to ever hear that word again.
‘Amelia has been asking after you,’ Conrad added, unsure of the right thing to say.
Brady nodded, as he continued to watch the funeral.
‘What are you going to do now?’ Conrad asked.
It was a good question. From the moment he knew he had lost her, he had done nothing else but wonder what he was going to do with his life. He still hadn’t found the answer. All he
knew was that he needed to get away from the North East. To get some distance from everything that had happened. There was only one person he wanted to be around right now. His younger brother, Nick. He knew him. Understood him. After all, they had survived a horrific childhood together. Brady had looked out for Nick. Protected him. And Nick had done the same for Brady.
He turned and looked at Conrad. He knew he would miss him. Had spent too long working with him not to. ‘I need to get my head together. You understand that?’
Conrad didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Brady could see in his eyes that he didn’t want to hear what was coming.
‘I’m thinking of taking a couple of months’ leave.’
‘Where will you go?’ Conrad asked, unable to disguise his concern. Or sadness.
‘Anywhere but here.’
Brady looked over at the mourners. They were starting to disperse. For a second he caught Claudia’s father’s eye.
‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ Brady said. He didn’t want a scene. Not here. He turned and headed towards his car.
‘Sir,’ Conrad called out after him. ‘Keep in touch.’
Brady didn’t answer. He did not want to commit himself – because right now, he was not sure whether he would ever return to the North East again.
Acknowledgements
I would first like to thank my family for all their constant support; especially Janette Youngson and Paula Youngson. Also, Betty Dand and Natalie and Scott Ritchie. Thanks to Eliane and Professor Pete Wilson and Dr Barry Lewis – you have been there for me from the beginning. Thanks also to Clare Usher and Amir Assadi whose skill and expertise enabled me to finish this book. I would like to thank Keshini Naidoo for all her editorial help. Thanks also to Andrew Potts and Jill Potts. Thanks to Suzanne Forsten and Tina Scrafton for their continuous support. A heartfelt thanks to Pamela Letham and Gill Richards for everything they have done for me to ensure that I kept writing and, kept my sanity. Finally, Francesca, Charlotte, Gabriel and Ruby, you are the reason I write – always.
Thanks to my literary agent, Euan Thorneycroft of A.M. Heath to whom I am eternally grateful for all his support and his straight-talking.
Special thanks to all at Mulholland, Hodder & Stoughton for being such an extraordinary team. Finally, I am indebted, as always, to my exceptional editor, Ruth Tross. Thank you – you truly are one of a kind!
If you enjoyed THE PUPPET MAKER why not discover more books in the Jack Brady series
BLIND ALLEY
Three brutal attacks.
One near-fatal beating.
And a deadly score to settle.
BLOOD RECKONING
In the 1970s, a terrifying serial killer stalked the streets of Tynemouth. The press called him the Joker. The crimes stopped – but the man was never caught.
And now he's back.
You've turned the last page.
But it doesn't have to end there . . .
If you're looking for more first-class, action-packed, nail-biting suspense, join us at Facebook.com/MulhollandUncovered for news, competitions, and behind-the-scenes access to Mulholland Books.
For regular updates about our books and authors as well as what's going on in the world of crime and thrillers, follow us on Twitter@MulhollandUK.
There are many more twists to come.
www.mulhollandbooks.co.uk
Table of Contents
About the Author
Title Page
Imprint Page
Dedication
Epigraphs
Contents
Prologue
DAY ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
DAY TWO
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
DAY THREE
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Jack Brady
The Puppet Maker: DI Jack Brady 5 Page 25
