The Puppet Maker: DI Jack Brady 5 Read online

  ‘How were they being tortured?’ Brady asked.

  She swallowed as she looked at him. ‘I dunno. Medical stuff. Being injected with syringes by doctors in white coats. I couldn’t understand why he was so celebrated in the art world for this kind of stuff. Or what it was about him and his work that fascinated Emily. I saw a couple of photographs from this project she was working on last Friday and it was really similar to Julian’s work. I mean embarrassingly so. I didn’t tell her that of course. You just wouldn’t.’

  Brady looked up and caught Conrad’s eye. It was clear his deputy was thinking the same as him. That they needed to talk to Julian Fraser – now.

  ‘One last question,’ Brady asked. ‘Do you know where her portfolio would be? I asked the office this morning but it seems that no one can find it.’

  ‘Try Julian,’ she answered. ‘If it’s not in Emily’s locker then he might have it. I know she had a tutorial with him on Friday afternoon. That was the last time I saw her. It was just the two of us in the photography studio. She was busy organising her portfolio. That was when I caught a glimpse of what she was working on. She said she wanted to show Julian some new photographs and ideas she had.’

  ‘Right. Thanks for that, Lauren,’ Brady concluded.

  ‘I can go now?’ she asked.

  Brady nodded. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

  She didn’t look that convinced. ‘I hope you find her. You know . . . Emily. From what I heard she’d had a really hard time growing up.’ She stood up. Turned to leave. Stopped. She looked at the black and white abstract photograph on the wall. ‘That’s one of Emily’s,’ she said as she turned to look back at Brady.

  ‘What is it? Do you know?’ Brady asked, standing up and walking over to it.

  ‘If you look closely you can make out a window with bars on it. It’s really creepy. It was taken at that old mental asylum in Northumberland.’

  ‘St George’s in Morpeth?’

  She shrugged. ‘Could be. But Emily won a national award for it. That’s part of the work she was doing with Julian. It was one of the reasons that she’s not that popular with the other students . . . I don’t know if you picked up on that?’

  ‘I did get that impression,’ Brady answered. ‘Why was that? Because she won the award?’

  ‘Partly. But mainly because she only won the award because of Julian’s help.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Julian took a special interest in Emily. Tutored her in his own time. Just her. None of the other students.’

  Brady stared at the photograph. He needed to have another chat with Julian Fraser. He recalled his conversation with the lecturer yesterday afternoon. One in which the artist had clearly distanced himself from his student. He had lied. Now that interested Brady. A lot.

  Brady was pissed off. Big time. He hadn’t managed to track Fraser down at the college. Seemingly he had phoned in sick. Brady was convinced his sudden illness was connected to his visit yesterday. The problem he had was proving it. Aside from Fraser’s inconvenient absence he had returned to find journalists and TV crews camped outside Whitley Bay police station. He had had to force his way through. Heckled and shouted at like some criminal.

  When they had pulled up and saw the media crews waiting, Conrad had suggested that he use the back entrance. Brady refused. Feelings of anger and frustration had overwhelmed him. So Conrad’s well-meaning, untimely remark had nearly resulted in Brady’s fist in his face. Instead, he had told his deputy to, ‘Fuck off!’ He got out the car, slamming the door as he did so, and marched straight towards them.

  Brady took a sip of coffee. It was the last thing he needed considering how wound up he was, but the alternative was a bottle of scotch. He was sorely tempted but he didn’t have the time to sit and feel sorry for himself. There were two victims’ lives at stake. Two serial killers still at large. His hands were tied when it came to the Macintosh investigation. He had asked around to see if anyone had an update. Seemingly, no one did. Or if they did, they weren’t telling him.

  He had been back for over two hours and had got nowhere. He looked down at the notes in front of him. They were on Julian Fraser. He had assigned the team to dig around into Julian Fraser’s background. Brady knew that he was linked to the old St George’s hospital. Could feel it. But he had to find the evidence to prove it. He needed more than the feeling that Fraser had minimised his relationship with Emily. Or the fact that he had called in sick to work. Then there was Fraser’s artwork. All Brady had to go on was what the student, Lauren Smith had told him, so he needed to see the work for himself. The last thing he wanted to do was knee jerk. Not when he was already under the media spotlight.

  He picked up the file that Harvey had dropped off earlier. It was a list of all the patients dating back from 1950. Fraser’s name had already been eliminated. But Brady thought that maybe a family member of his had been institutionalised there. If he was obsessed with mental illness in his art, maybe it was personal. Then he found out what the connection was . . .

  Harvey had finally traced Fraser’s parents for Brady. His father was Dr Nigel Fraser. He had been an eminent neurologist in his day. Between the 1950s and 1960s he had performed over 10,000 lobotomies. A staggering number. One that had left Brady numb. The last lobotomy had been performed on a sixteen-year-old girl at St Mary’s Hospital in Dundee in 1972 when he was fifty-five. Julian’s father had died four years ago.

  Brady was forcing himself to accept that Fraser had ‘father’ issues and his artwork questioning society’s attitudes to mental health was his way of struggling with his father’s extraordinary work. His father had received many accolades for his work that mainly involved lobotomising depressed housewives. It still staggered Brady when he thought about it.

  Brady had been surprised that Fraser’s father was fifty-five when his son was born. His mother, Susan, had also been older than the norm; forty-seven at the time. He found this odd for a first child. But then, he had no idea what they had gone through to get Julian. He thought of Claudia for a moment and the heartache they had gone through with IVF in an attempt to have a child. It was the first time he had been grateful that it had never happened. Realising that the last thing he would want to do would be to bring a child into a world where the likes of James David Macintosh existed. Or a serial killer like the Puppet Maker.

  He tried to shake off the disquiet he felt about Fraser. Maybe he had overreacted. Brady was no psychologist, but it was clear that Fraser had ‘issues’ and these were around his father’s choice of vocation. He then thought of Emily. He wondered whether she had simply shared Julian Fraser’s interest in mental health and its representation in society. Nothing more. He had nothing that tied Fraser to the murdered women, aside from the fact that his father was a neurologist who performed lobotomies. And all thirteen victims had been lobotomised. Coincidence? Brady sighed heavily. He didn’t believe in coincidences.

  He dropped the file and took another gulp of coffee. The suspect had completely evaded them. If Brady was honest, he now had no idea who the suspect could be – let alone where he could be hiding Emily.

  There was a sudden knock at the door.

  ‘Yeah?’ called out Brady.

  It was Kodovesky. She looked awkward. More so when she saw Brady’s surprised reaction.

  ‘Can I speak with you for a moment, sir?’

  ‘Sure. Take a seat,’ Brady offered.

  He watched, intrigued as she closed the door behind her. She was clutching a file to her chest as she walked over to his desk. She then sat down opposite him. Her face was flushed. Her eyes hesitant.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked, worried that she wasn’t coping. Either with the workload, or the gruesome nature of the case. After all, she was the only female detective on his team and they were dealing with a misogynistic serial killer who literally took away his female victim’s cognitive abilities.

  The latest medical update on Hannah was a cruel testimony to
that face. When Brady had returned to the station, it was to the unwelcome news that Hannah would never fully recover. Doctors had carried extensive tests and had come to the conclusion that she would have to be institutionalised – for life. Unable to look after herself. Let alone talk coherently. Or walk.

  Brady waited. But Kodovesky seemed reluctant to talk.

  ‘Look . . . whatever it is, I’m sure I can help,’ he reassured her, smiling.

  She nodded. Chewed her lip for a moment as she thought over why she was there. ‘I . . . I wanted to bring you something. I know I shouldn’t have been working on it but . . .’ she gave Brady an apologetic shrug as she handed over the file she had been clutching.

  Brady opened it up. There was one sheet of paper inside. It concerned details regarding a Kathleen Fitzgerald. Seventy-six-year-old retired nurse. Her address was a suburb of Sydney, Australia. He looked up at Kodovesky. ‘Is this who I think it is?’

  She nodded. Mildly apprehensive as she tried to gauge his reaction.

  ‘You know I’m not allowed to deal with this? That it has to go to DCI Gates?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I have already sent it to him. But I don’t believe they are going to do anything about it. DCI Gates made it clear that they didn’t have the time to follow up some woman living in Australia who may or may not be the suspect’s mother.’ She waited for his reaction.

  ‘Tell me your thought process here. Why do you think this could be Eileen Macintosh?’

  ‘She disappeared in 1977. Vanished. I assumed that she had gone to Australia. I heard Conrad talking to you on the phone about the statement you had taken from the Macintosh’s neighbour yesterday,’ she explained, blushing an even deeper crimson.

  Brady nodded for her to continue.

  She did. Relieved. ‘So, I then researched her maiden name. It was Taylor. So I thought she would return to her maiden name. I also knew her date of birth and that she was British. So then I just spent hours searching. I narrowed it down to a few women and then figured she had chosen the name “Kathleen” as it was close to “Eileen” and would feel more natural for her.’

  ‘So, I take it she remarried?’ Brady asked.

  Kodovesky shook her head. ‘I’m not sure yet. I don’t know whether she was scared someone would trace her maiden name and connect it with James David Macintosh and so she changed it again. Or whether she did remarry. I’m still working on it.’

  ‘You’re absolutely certain this is . . . was Eileen Macintosh?’

  ‘Yes. I believe so.’

  ‘Have you contacted her?’

  ‘No, sir. After DCI Gates said not to bother following it up I thought I would see what you wanted me to do. I know I have no authority to be working on this but I can’t let this lead go, which is why I’ve come to you. I . . .’ She faltered for a moment, unsure whether to risk continuing.

  ‘This is between us. It won’t go any further,’ Brady assured her.

  She nodded, nervous. ‘What if . . . if DCI Gates is wrong? What if we should be trying to track her down?’

  Brady sat back. He knew that if he ordered Kodovesky to contact Eileen Macintosh aka Kathleen Fitzgerald he would be a crossing a line. It would be tantamount to asking for his P45. He thought of Annabel Edwards. Fuck it!

  ‘Do you think he’s in London?’ Brady asked. ‘Macintosh?’

  Kodovesky shook her head. Her dark brown eyes said it all. She had the same feeling as Brady that he was definitely still in the North East.

  ‘All right. Contact Kathleen Fitzgerald. But whatever you do, don’t scare her. If this woman really is Eileen Macintosh, we need her help. No one will know James David Macintosh better than his mother.’

  ‘Do you think she will help?’ Kodovesky asked.

  Brady shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But it’s worth a shot.’ He was certain that the reason Macintosh had abducted Annabel Edwards and Ellen Jackson in 1977 was to do with his psychological and emotional need to resolve whatever had happened to his three-year-old sister, Lucy. A little girl who one day disappeared. And like the Puppet Maker’s victims, no one reported her missing. The significant difference here was that this child had two parents and a brother.

  He looked at Kodovesky. ‘We need to find her before she hears the news about her son. She went into hiding once before. There is no reason why she wouldn’t do it again. I imagine she will be scared that someone will uncover her true identity.’

  Kodovesky stood up. She had a determination about her that told Brady she would get to her before that happened.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Monday: 11:33 a.m.

  Her body felt heavy. She couldn’t move. Could barely open her eyes. She looked at him. Something was wrong. She moaned as he slumped her into the old wooden psychiatric chair.

  ‘No . . .’ She resisted, realising what was happening.

  He deftly shackled her wrists first. Then her ankles. Finally her head.

  ‘Please . . . No . . . No . . .’ she objected.

  He ignored her.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me . . . Please,’ she begged as she tried desperately to make eye contact.

  ‘It’s me . . . Emily. Emily Baker. Please? Emily . . .’ Again. And again. And again.

  ‘SHUT UP! Do you understand? Shut the fuck up!’ he screamed, spraying her face with spit.

  Silence.

  He bent down and opened the bag on the floor beside the chair. She couldn’t see what he had taken out. What he was holding. Her head was fixed straight ahead. Staring at the wall of Polaroid photographs he had taken of the others.

  She felt sick.

  ‘Please? Please? I won’t talk. I won’t tell them who you are.’

  ‘Shhh . . .’ his voice was sad. Reluctant. He switched the clippers on and started shaving the side of her head.

  ‘No . . . no . . . NO!’

  Chapter Twenty

  Monday: 12:39 p.m.

  Brady had gone looking for DS Tom Harvey. Something hadn’t felt right about Julian Foster’s parents. From the details on his parents’ ages they had seemed too old to be having a first child. So Brady had done his own digging.

  He walked into the Incident Room. Harvey was sitting with his arms folded behind his head having a laugh with Daniels and Kenny.

  The two young DCs saw Brady walk in first. Then they saw the expression on his face. They quickly dropped their heads and focused on whatever they were supposed to be doing.

  ‘What the fuck’s got into you two?’ Harvey questioned.

  ‘Me! That’s what!’ Brady thundered as he came up behind Harvey.

  Harvey swung round to face Brady. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  Brady threw the notes that Harvey had given him on the table. ‘This!’

  Harvey picked it up. Read a few lines and then looked back up at Brady. ‘I don’t get it?’

  ‘That’s my problem! You don’t get anything, do you? He was bloody adopted, you stupid bastard. Adopted! These aren’t his biological parents.’

  Harvey looked back at the paperwork he had given Brady. ‘I didn’t realise . . . I thought they were a bit long in the tooth.’ He looked at Brady and gave a half-hearted shrug. ‘I thought, well, shit, women have babies in their sixties. I was just reading about that woman who gave birth to twins at the age of sixty-six!’

  ‘IVF you idiot! She would have conceived through bloody IVF!’

  ‘Well . . . maybe they did as well?’

  Brady resisted the urge to pull Harvey to his feet and give him a good shaking. ‘Fraser was born in 1972. IVF wasn’t invented until 1977. The world’s test tube baby wasn’t born until 1978.’

  ‘How was I supposed to know that kind of shit? Come on, Jack!’

  ‘You’re bloody paid to realise this shit! Paid to question when something doesn’t feel right. So, if they’re too old, your job is to actually trace the birth certificate. You checked against Fraser’s amended birth certificate. The birth parents’ names have been replaced by the adopted paren
ts. And as for his original birth name, it was James Donald McBride.’

  Harvey looked up at Brady. ‘I . . . I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Why does that not surprise me?’ He suddenly turned to Daniels and Kenny. ‘You two, check for a Shauna McBride against the list of psychiatric patients at St Georges. Just in case she was there. Born in 1958.’

  ‘Who is she?’ asked Daniels.

  ‘Julian Fraser’s biological mother. That’s who!’

  ‘Come on . . . We all make mistakes. Even you!’ Harvey retaliated, trying to calm Brady down.

  It didn’t work. Brady glared at him, eyes flashing with anger. His face suddenly dark and menacing. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

  Harvey shrugged, realising too late he had crossed a line. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘If you’ve got something to say, then say it. Or anyone else in this room for that matter!’ Brady shouted as he looked around the room. There were only a handful of people. But it was enough for an audience. ‘I’m serious. If anyone has something to say, then say it now!’

  An awkward silence filled the room. Suddenly everyone was extraordinarily busy. No one dared look up.

  ‘Look, Jack—’ Harvey began.

  Brady cut him off. ‘Forget it! I need you to go to Newcastle College and interview Julian Fraser’s colleagues. I want to know everything we can about him. Even the kind of art he paints. And in particular, his relationship with Emily.’

  He then spotted Conrad in the room. ‘My office. Now!’

  He poured himself a scotch. Knew he shouldn’t but at that precise moment didn’t give a fuck. He heard Conrad come in. Didn’t turn around. Instead Brady knocked the scotch back in one. Put his mug down and walked to his desk.

  He sat at his chair and looked up at Conrad. ‘What are that lot saying?’

  Conrad frowned. ‘About what?’

  ‘About me! The papers. “Police Incompetence” and all that crap. Macintosh being released and then going on to . . .’ Brady couldn’t say it.