The Puppet Maker: DI Jack Brady 5 Page 19

  ‘One hundred per cent, sir. That is Emily Baker. If you wait you’ll get a clearer image.’

  Brady watched. It was hard to see at first as the figure was caught walking up the road that turned off into the care home. But then he saw that she was wearing the same clothes and carrying the same backpack over her shoulder, which Brady assumed contained her camera equipment. Daniels and Kenny had done as instructed and methodically followed her movements on Friday afternoon from Newcastle College to Newcastle train station. She had then surprised them all by catching a train to Morpeth. Her movements had been tracked by CCTV camera walking through the small market town’s centre. The direction she had been heading in was Bluebell Woods.

  ‘I don’t understand why she was going there,’ Brady mused as she continued walking on and then disappeared from sight. The road was a dead end. The only other place she could be heading was the derelict psychiatric hospital through the woods and then across the field. The time was 6:01 p.m.

  ‘It gets better,’ promised Daniels, excited.

  Kenny nodded. ‘Yeah. This is where it gets interesting.’

  Brady looked at them both. Sat there with their arms folded. Proud of themselves. If Brady was honest, he had to admit that the pair had surprised him. They had persevered until they had found something conclusive. He watched the fast-forwarded footage. And waited. Then he saw it. Realised the reason they were so impressed with themselves. It was a shot of Emily Baker coming back down the road, past the residential care home at precisely 10:19 p.m. But she wasn’t alone.

  ‘Freeze it!’ ordered Brady. He stared at the grainy image. She was definitely with a man. He was significantly taller than her which immediately ruled out Ryan Seaman who was five foot three – if that.

  Brady scrutinised the suspect. It was difficult to make any identifying details apart from the fact he was wearing a long coat.

  ‘Can you enhance it?’ Brady asked.

  ‘Yeah. But it’s still not that good,’ Daniels replied.

  Brady waited to make that decision for himself. But Daniels was right. The footage was of the back of the suspect’s head. At no point did he turn round. But what did intrigue Brady was the intimacy between Emily and the suspect. He definitely wasn’t a stranger. It was evident from the way they were chatting in a relaxed manner that they knew each other. If anything, Emily was animated. She was using a lot of hand gesturing as she seemed to be describing something in detail to the suspect.

  But it struck Brady as odd. The intimacy. Emily had no friends. No boyfriend to speak of. Or girlfriend. Harvey and Kodovesky had managed to expedite her mobile phone records. They had the details of all the calls she had made and received. But none were personal. They consisted of companies cold calling or texts alerts about her next phone bill. No other texts. Nothing. She kept herself very much to herself. Brady had also checked out Facebook. She didn’t have a profile. That had surprised him. He had assumed everyone would be on Facebook. Nor did she use Twitter. Whether she had been trolled on Facebook and had left the social site was worth considering.

  ‘Get a copy of this film out to the media. I want her face out there as well as this footage of her with him. For all we know someone might recognise the suspect,’ Brady said.

  ‘She’s definitely missing, then?’

  Brady turned around. Conrad had walked in to the small room. ‘Take a look at this, then decide. Last seen walking away with an unknown man at ten nineteen p.m., Friday evening.’

  Conrad looked mildly surprised at this news. ‘Where?’

  ‘Road leading off from Bluebell Woods. Roughly half a mile down from the old hospital. She and the suspect look to be heading to the lay-by at the bottom of the woods. The exact place where Hannah Stewart’s scent ended. It suggests he drove Hannah there and then, from the scent followed by the dogs, he walked her up through the woods and gained access to St George’s across a field that leads directly to the extensive grounds at the rear of the hospital.’

  Conrad looked at him. ‘And there’s nothing caught on film?’

  ‘No. Absolutely nothing. Bluebell Woods backs onto a field and beyond that the grounds at the rear of the hospital. There are no security cameras at the back of the hospital. I’ve had all the security footage scrutinised and it is possible to get in that way without being detected. Also, there is a barbed wired fence at the edge of the woods leading into the field that has been cut for easy access. We’ve found multiple footprints there but we did get a match of the size eleven prints that Ainsworth’s team found at the crime scene. I would say that the suspect parked his car at the lay-by at the bottom of the woods on Saturday evening and then walked up with Hannah across the field, gaining access to the rear of the hospital.’

  Brady didn’t need to say anymore. He could see from Conrad’s reaction that he now realised that Brady’s suspicion about Emily being abducted was fast becoming a reality. The question that concerned Brady now was who had taken her. He was certain it was the same man who had murdered the twelve young women found in the old furnace in the old hospital’s basement. And who had lobotomised Hannah and left her, locked inside with the other victims, to share the same fate.

  Brady realised the crucial role that Emily’s abduction now played in solving these macabre killings. None of the victims they’d been able to identify had had registered phones, including Hannah. They were not active on Facebook or any other social media site. It was no surprise, given their homeless status. If Emily Baker had been abducted by the same killer, then the man caught on the CCTV footage was the suspect who had gone unnoticed for twenty or so years – until now. There was a chance that Emily had met him at the hospital.

  Brady doubted it was prearranged. Otherwise he would have expected to see some communication between them. But there were no texts, phone calls or emails. Nothing. Which led him to suspect that she had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He suspected that the perpetrator had been revisiting his collection of victims on the Friday evening. He knew for definite that Hannah had been left on the Saturday evening. The doctors’ opinion was that Hannah had been lobotomised approximately a few hours before she was found by Brady. That would mean that her captor had left her there sometime on the Saturday evening, under the cover of darkness. Forensics had also established that she had not been lobotomised at the crime scene; she had been mutilated somewhere else. That tied in with Brady’s theory that it would make her more amenable. More compliant. So when he came to walking her through the woods to join his other collection of women hidden away, she would not try to escape. Or shout for help.

  Brady thought of Emily. Had she just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Coincidence? But Brady didn’t believe in coincidences. There was one element which stood out. Emily knew her abductor. Brady hoped that they would identify the suspect and find her in time. Before . . . He stopped himself. Couldn’t let himself think about it. Not yet.

  Time was eluding them. Fast. The news of the serial killer was now overshadowing James David Macintosh’s murders and the abduction of Annabel Edwards. That worried Brady. Macintosh wouldn’t want to share the media spotlight; let alone have it stolen. But the media were fickle when it came to news coverage. Unfortunately, the aptly named Puppet Maker and the sadistic nature of the injuries he inflicted upon his victims had created a media circus.

  His worst fear had been realised. The CCTV footage of the missing teenager walking along the woods down from the old psychiatric hospital with an unknown male convinced him that they now had a fourteenth victim – Emily Baker. Also, that the unidentified suspect walking down the isolated road alongside her had abducted her. If he was the serial killer they were trying to apprehend, then the odds were stacked heavily against her. The media attention could drive the suspect to kill her to avoid being caught. And they still had no idea about the identity of her abductor.

  Camera crews and journalists from around the world had set themselves up outside the old psychiatric hospital, unable t
o get enough footage of the crime scene. They were also camped outside Whitley Bay police station in a bid to glean more information on the case. But the police had nothing to offer them. Or to be precise, Brady had nothing.

  DNA evidence had been retrieved from the victims’ clothing and hair and it did not match the security guard’s DNA sample. Neither did it match with the other three guards employed by the same security company, or Ryan Seaman. Not that it came as much of a surprise. Brady’s team, which consisted of whoever Gates could spare, were doing their utmost to go through everyone and anyone associated with the hospital. There was a backlist of employees who had worked for the security company since the hospital closed in 1995. Slowly but surely, each person was being ticked off. But it just wasn’t enough.

  Brady ran a hand back through his hair. Frustrated. He looked around the room. There were only a handful of them: Harvey, Kodovesky, Daniels and Kenny. Conrad was on his way. The one person missing from the team was Amelia Jenkins. Brady had never wanted her as much as he did now. He could have used her expertise. They all could. But she was still in London with Gates. Brady had already updated Gates regarding the CCTV footage. The Puppet Maker’s crimes now dominated the media, overshadowing the Macintosh investigation. Gates had informed Brady that he would be returning from London within the next day or so, but wanted to be updated, regardless of the hour, of any new developments.

  Brady had held a briefing – despite the lack of numbers. But no one was much in the mood for talk. They were all exhausted and running on empty. He had attempted to bribe them by buying a Chinese takeaway but it had not had the desired effect. They had eaten and now simply wanted to go home. To forget for a couple of hours what some psychopath had done to thirteen women. But the problem was, they couldn’t forget. Because he had a new victim. One whose likelihood of survival was diminishing with every passing hour.

  ‘Someone has been accessing the building from as far back as 1995 when the first victim was dumped. Someone knew about that building. Had an attachment to it. His signature tells us that. He has a psychological and emotional need to return to the bodies. To attend to them. Adorn them. Then there’s his modus operandi. It’s beyond anything I’ve ever seen . . .’ Brady faltered. ‘What he does to them before he kills them.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘But I guarantee it’s all tied up with that hospital.’

  He shot a glance at Harvey. He was grim-faced.

  ‘Harvey? Kodovesky? What have you got?’

  He had set them the task of investigating everyone who worked or resided as patients at St George’s when it was still a hospital.

  Tom Harvey cleared his throat before answering. ‘Nothing. Most of them are either too old or dead to have committed these murders. Or they’ve left the area. Lots were admitted to other psychiatric hospitals.’

  ‘Not good enough, Tom! The suspect’s not just dumped one body there. He’s dumped thirteen. Then he goes back. Dresses them. Arranges them. Spends time with them. So, we’re looking at someone who has a connection with the place. I mean . . .’ Brady shook his head as he turned to the crime scene photographs on the whiteboard. Thirteen victims. Twelve dead. One alive – just. ‘He lobotomises them for fuck’s sake! So, we have to do our damnedest to find this suspect, which means narrowing down whatever impossible list we have to try and nail this bastard.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Harvey answered through gritted teeth.

  Brady resisted the urge to reprimand him for his belligerent attitude. They were all running on empty. Exhausted and overwhelmed by the magnitude of the job before them. He watched Conrad make an unapologetic entrance.

  ‘Hope it was important!’ Brady snapped.

  Conrad looked at Brady. ‘I think you’ll agree that it is, sir.’

  ‘Go on,’ Brady ordered not in the mood for games.

  ‘One minute,’ Conrad said opening up his laptop. ‘Take a look at this,’ he instructed as he displayed the footage from his screen onto the whiteboard.

  Conrad remained standing as he watched the CCTV footage. ‘The black Volvo Series 200 that the security guard mentioned, the one that can be seen on the CCTV footage sporadically driving around the hospital grounds?’

  He suddenly had the room’s attention.

  ‘Approximately ten minutes after the CCTV footage of Emily walking down from the woods with an unidentifiable male, this car can be seen exiting Morpeth town heading towards the A1 North.’

  ‘Did you get the registration plate?’

  ‘Working on that. You know how poor CCTV film can be. Give me time, I’m sure I’ll get something. Or at least, Jed will. I’ve already sent it over to him to clean it up.’

  Brady nodded. Jed was Northumbria’s computer geek. Overworked, underpaid and one of the best computer forensic officers in the force.

  ‘Did you see how many people were in the car?’

  Conrad nodded. ‘Two. Driver and passenger. And just like the security guard said, there is a dog on the back seat.’

  ‘Can you make out if it’s her?’

  ‘Like I said, the quality of the film makes it really difficult, but this shot here? See? I would say that it is her,’ Conrad stated. ‘It’s Emily Baker.’

  Brady stared at the frozen image on the screen. There was no mistaking it. Emily was in the passenger seat of the Volvo. The driver sat next to Emily – her abductor. His identity unknown. His face obscured by a baseball cap, the peak pulled down low over his eyes. But Brady was certain that this was the man responsible for the barbaric mutilation of one woman, and the cruel deaths of twelve others. The driver of the eighties black Volvo 200 was the Puppet Maker.

  DAY THREE

  MONDAY

  Chapter Eighteen

  Monday: 11:31 a.m.

  Brady had talked to all of the students in Emily Baker’s year. He looked up at Conrad as he came back into the room. They had been given someone’s office within the photography department to conduct the interviews.

  ‘One more,’ Conrad said.

  Brady checked the names off against the list. Realised that Conrad was right.

  ‘Bring her in,’ he instructed. He reached over and picked up his coffee from the table in front of him. He looked around the spacious office. It was more than comfortable. A large desk with chairs either side was positioned under the window. A desktop computer, books and other personal paraphernalia covered it.

  The walls had various leaflets and other college information attached to various boards. There were also some dramatic pieces of photography – not surprising since they were in the photography department. Brady stared at the imposing photograph opposite. A black and white abstract piece that looked unnervingly familiar. He couldn’t quite make out the subject matter. But whatever it was, it left him with a feeling of disquiet.

  He took a much-needed drink of coffee and then leaned back against the leather couch. He assumed whoever occupied the room used this space for tutorials. It was informal. Relaxed.

  The door opened and Conrad returned with the final interviewee.

  Brady smiled. ‘Hi, Lauren?’

  ‘Yes. Lauren Smith,’ she answered. Nervous. It wasn’t every day that the police turned up to question them about a fellow student’s disappearance.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Brady and this is my colleague Conrad,’ he gestured towards Conrad. Smiled again. ‘I’m sure he’s has already introduced himself.’

  She nodded.

  ‘This won’t take long,’ Brady reassured her. ‘Why don’t you take a seat?’ he asked, gesturing towards one of the two chairs opposite him.

  She sat down.

  Conrad stood back. By the door. Less intimidating having to face one officer, than two. But it also prevented anyone from accidentally walking in.

  ‘You know what this is about?’ Brady asked.

  She nodded. Her blond hair falling across her face as she did so. She pushed it back. Embarrassed. Chewed her lip for a moment. ‘I don’t think there is anything I can te
ll you about Emily. At least nothing more than my friends have told you.’

  ‘That’s all right, Lauren. We’re just trying to build up a picture of Emily. Trying to get an idea of who she was and what she liked to do.’

  Her cheeks suddenly flushed. ‘I didn’t know her. Not really. She . . . she kept to herself.’

  Brady nodded. Glanced at the notes he had already made. Same story. No one knew anything about her. Despite the fact they were all studying the same course. Some had said that she was ‘a loner’. Others, that she was ‘weird’. All very politely phrased of course. Apart from one female student who clearly didn’t like Emily and had made no pretence at hiding it. She had described her as a ‘pervy lesbo’. Brady didn’t even bother to argue why it would make the student dislike Emily. He didn’t have the time or inclination to challenge a small-minded eighteen-year-old. But it had surprised him to hear that kind of homophobic talk on a campus. He had perhaps naïvely expected a more liberal attitude.

  ‘So you have no idea where she would have gone when she left college on Friday afternoon?’ Brady asked Lauren.

  She shook her head. ‘No.’ She then frowned. ‘Have you asked Julian? Julian Fraser? He was one of her personal tutors. He’s in the art department.’

  ‘Why should I ask him?’

  ‘Well, Emily was obsessed by his work. I mean . . . really obsessed. It was weird, like.’

  ‘How so?’ Brady asked, leaning forward.

  ‘Julian is a really nice guy. Everyone likes him, yeah? But his art is sick. And I don’t mean in a good way. Like, really sick. I had a look in his studio once. He wasn’t around and I heard all this talk about what a great artist he was and I thought I would sneak a look.’ She seemed to shudder as she thought about it.

  ‘What was it about his work that you found so disturbing?’

  She looked at Brady. ‘He did all this work about insane people . . .’ she paused, shaking her head. ‘Like really gross stuff. Women tied to chairs being tortured by doctors.’