The Puppet Maker: DI Jack Brady 5 Page 3

  ‘I . . . I’m scared . . . I just want to get out . . .’

  Boo-fucking-hoo! You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.

  ‘Please? I just want to go home,’ she persisted.

  ‘Yeah? Well, rule one, shut the fuck up! If he hears you kicking off he’ll kill you. He doesn’t like it if you cause a fuss. So don’t give him a reason to hurt you more than he needs to. Get it?’

  ‘Are you hurt?’ she asked her, keeping her voice as low as possible. ‘You sound hurt. Your breathing . . . It sounds as if you’re in pain. Did he do that to you?’

  Deathly silence.

  ‘What’s he done to you?’

  Everything imaginable . . . and more. She was done with talking. She just wished she would go away with her fucking questions. Soon enough she would give up. Accept her fate. She tried to remember if she had been the same when he had first brought her here. But it had been so long ago now that her memory couldn’t be trusted. Not anymore. The blackness seemed to have seeped under her skin and taken everything that had once been bright and full of life. All she knew now was him. She lived for the moments when he would return. To her. For her. But she didn’t want the new girl here. She didn’t want to share him.

  It was simpler before. Now she was here it complicated things. Just as she herself had fucked things up for the girl before her.

  She had a vague memory of the girl who was there when she had first arrived. The one she had replaced. The one who had been sat in a wooden hospital chair, unable to move. Or talk. He had . . . What had he done to her? She didn’t want to remember. But soon afterwards she had disappeared. And then it had just been her on her own. In the damp, cold darkness. Alone for what felt like an eternity.

  Until now . . .

  ‘Please? Talk to me . . . I’m Emily. Emily Baker. What’s your name?’

  She was about to say but then the footsteps distracted her. He’s coming back . . . Her initial flush of excitement was soon replaced by fear. What if he doesn’t want me now he has her?

  ‘Help me? Please help me? I’m chained up down here . . . PLEASE!’ Emily Baker hoarsely called out. ‘PLEASE! Help . . . help me . . . us. There’s two of us down here. Help!’

  She tried to block out Emily Baker’s shouts. She listened as the door that led down to the basement was opened. Followed by the overhead light being switched on. Harsh. Blinding.

  ‘Help! Help us . . . please . . .’ Emily Baker cried out, hopeful.

  She heard him climbing down the stairs. Wondered what he would do to the new girl. He didn’t like them to make a noise. He was very clear about that.

  She tried to look up to see him but the light still hurt her eyes too much.

  But she heard her. Emily Baker and her annoying whining. Then, when her eyes had stopped watering, she saw her. Sat on the mattress in front of her struggling to get free from the chain that was secured around her ankle. She didn’t see him. And when she did, it was too late.

  ‘They’ll be looking for me. Please? I just want to go home . . .’ Emily pleaded as he stood over her.

  She watched his reaction. He struck her face with enough force to knock her unconscious. She watched silently as Emily’s body slumped onto the mattress. Good. Maybe he will get rid of her now? Better her than me. ‘I told her to be quiet. I told her that you would be angry.’

  He turned.

  She watched him study her; as if he had forgotten that she was there. He then smiled. ‘You’re a good girl. You know that? That’s why I’ve kept you the longest.’

  She nodded. It was a weak and weary acknowledgement. ‘I know . . . I’m a good girl.’

  ‘I’ve brought you something . . .’ His voice trembling with excitement.

  She didn’t ask what he had brought her. She had soon learned that he did not like questions. She had only survived by adapting. Learning to keep her mouth shut and accepting the rules – no matter how cruel. Sometimes he brought her gifts. Like now. But it depended upon his mood. She was hoping that the arrival of the new girl would make him treat her better – for a short time at least. That the new girl would get the violent and erratic treatment instead of her. She knew he was crazy. That he heard voices. Sometimes he even argued and screamed at them out loud. Those were rare occasions, but when it did happen, she knew that something dreadful would follow. So far, she had been lucky. So far, the voices hadn’t told him to kill her. At least, not yet.

  A familiar feeling of fear stirred as she felt his finger trail down her long dark hair. Then he kissed her head. It was gentle. Delicate. So unlike him. She knew something was wrong. That her time had come.

  She felt him place something on her lap.

  She couldn’t look at it. Her head was secured so she could only stare straight ahead at the wall above the mattress. But she did not need to see it to know what he had brought her. It was a white ankle-length nightdress; old-fashioned and ugly. She had watched, silent and obedient, as he had forced the girl before her to wear a nightdress identical to this one. That was when she had slept on the mattress with her ankle chained to the ground like the new girl. Now he kept her strapped to this chair. It was his way – his ‘process’, as he called it.

  ‘You are so beautiful.’ He tilted her head up towards his face. ‘Look at the bone structure in this light. Perfect. You do know I have an eye for detail? And you . . . you are quite exquisite.’

  She attempted a smile as she looked into his cold eyes, but failed. Icy fear had now gripped her from the inside. It was screaming at her that she had to do something – anything. That this was her chance. She had been waiting for this moment for months . . .

  Or was it years?

  She had lost track of the days, weeks and months. Her clock was ruled by him. She had come to welcome the noise of the door being dragged open. The metal scraping in protest against the stone floor. Whether the outcome would be good or bad, she always felt the stirrings of hopefulness. For sometimes he brought her real gifts. Unlike today. What he had brought today was not a gift for her – it was for him.

  Ordinarily he would bring her food. Disgusting food. And if she had refused to eat it in the earlier days, hunger had soon won out. But sometimes – if she had shown willing and had been good – he would bring her chocolate and a can of Coke. The real Coke with sugar. His only condition was that he had to feed her. He liked to keep her restrained in this chair when he brought her gifts. He called it his mother’s chair, which used to creep her out. But now it didn’t bother her. In fact, not a lot bothered her now. Apart from this new girl showing up, shouting and screaming. She knew it would upset him. And she didn’t like to see him angry. When he got really mad he forgot about her. Sometimes for what felt like days and days. She would wait for him, silently praying that he would come back. That he would remember her. Remember that she was his good girl.

  ‘Are you going to behave for me?’ he asked as he bent down. His face was now level with hers. He gently brushed a loose strand of hair away from her eye and tucked it behind her ear. But his voice betrayed him. It was heavy with malevolence. ‘Mmm? Because I need to know that you’re not going to do anything stupid when I remove these restraints?’

  She shook her head. ‘No . . . promise . . .’

  ‘Good girl,’ he said, letting go of her chin.

  Her skin felt pinched, bruised; his grip too tight. She looked at him. The smile had gone. He looked distracted. Irritable, even. She knew this was a bad sign. She watched, scared, as he began to unbuckle the leather cuffs.

  ‘I’ll dress you,’ he told her. ‘Then I’ll photograph you.’

  She stared at him. She had witnessed this procedure – his ‘process’ – just the once. But it was enough.

  ‘You know you have nothing to be scared of, don’t you?’

  She didn’t respond. Instead she let her eyes focus on the wall above the mattress. It was covered in Polaroid photographs. Bleak, ugly, lacklustre faces stared back at her. She didn’t see it as ‘art�
�� – his term for it. All she saw were the faces. All much of a likeness: young, long dark hair, starved and half beaten to death. But each one shared a common trait – their eyes. He had altered their eyes forever.

  ‘They look perfect. So at peace,’ he mused as he looked proudly at the wall covered in photographs. He smiled as he looked from one photograph to another. ‘Perfection immortalised. Do you not agree?’

  She kept quiet. To her they looked like those macabre Victorian photos of dead loved ones. She had seen the photos – dead people – staged to look as if they were alive. Posed sitting, or bizarrely standing, all looking straight at the camera but with one obvious difference; most had their eyes closed. The ones that had their eyes open looked like the faces on the wall ahead of her – blank. Staring at nothing.

  He turned to her. ‘And you will be the most beautiful one.’ His smile had returned.

  ‘Promise?’ she asked as she stared at the wall; fixated. They horrified, yet fascinated her . . . They had been photographed – sat in THIS chair – dressed in a white Victorian-style nightdress, staring out with those dead eyes.

  She knew the reason why they looked like that. And that was what terrified her.

  He nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then you’ll let me go?’ She asked, trying to keep her voice steady. She didn’t want him to know that she was scared, for fear of angering him. He liked her to be compliant. It had not taken her long to realise that being complaisant guaranteed her survival. But now?

  ‘Of course. After I’ve finished with you, then you can go.’

  She nodded. She was too weak – or perhaps the better word was too institutionalised – to cry or object. She had been hoping that this day would never come. Now it had. Maybe it was the arrival of the new girl that had prompted the change? Maybe . . . or maybe not.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked as he started to unbuckle the leather restraint that secured her head.

  ‘Yes.’ But it was a lie. She wasn’t ready. She thought of the unconscious new girl sprawled on the mattress, oblivious as to what was about to happen.

  This girl was her replacement. She had watched while he had performed his ‘art’ on her predecessor. And now it was her turn. How she wished she was lying on that mattress, unaware of what was about to happen. That it was her who was still chained to the ground.

  ‘Good. Now arms raised so I can put this over your head.’

  She obeyed. The material felt odd. Prickly and coarse against her naked skin. She couldn’t remember the last time she had worn clothes. It was before he had brought her here. That was another life – a life she had long given up on.

  ‘Now stand up so I can pull it down,’ he instructed.

  She did as she was told. The pain in her knee, her crippled leg, unbearable. She put her weight on her good leg. Bit her lip. Held it in. He didn’t like her to complain.

  She looked down as he slipped it over her waist. It fell down to her ankles. She couldn’t help thinking it looked like a shroud.

  ‘Perfect . . .’ he murmured as he stepped back to admire her.

  She stood as still as a mannequin and waited for him to tell her she could move.

  ‘You really are perfect . . .’ he repeated, smiling at her.

  She stared at him, willing herself to do something – anything! She had her chance. She wasn’t restrained. She could make a move if she wanted to. Surprise him. Throw herself into him. Catch him off-guard. Then get out. Escape. It was that simple. Up the stone steps towards the door at the top. Then out. Freedom.

  Then do it . . . Do it now!

  ‘Sit down.’

  Without thinking, she automatically did as she was told, despite the voice screaming frantically in her head to do something; anything, rather than accept this fate.

  All thoughts of escape disappeared when he started strapping her to the chair.

  ‘I won’t hurt you . . . I promise,’ he said as he took his time securing her head in place.

  She didn’t say a word. He was lying – they both knew it.

  She fixed her eyes on the wall ahead. At them. Their faces. Soon she would be just like them. She would be identical.

  She had witnessed what he had done to the girl before her. She had screamed. Oh God how she had screamed . . .

  ‘You will let me go when you’ve finished?’ she asked again, her eyes never moving from the photos. She was searching for her. The girl she had replaced.

  ‘Of course . . . Didn’t I promise I would?’ he replied.

  ‘Yes . . .’ she whispered. But I’ll never know whether you do or not.

  She watched, mute as he swung a delicate gold pendant in front of her. She knew it would have her name on it. She wished she could look away. But she couldn’t. Her head was fixed.

  ‘This is for you when I’ve finished. So you will be just like them.’

  Her eyes darted beyond the dangling pendant to the young women in the Polaroid photographs on the wall ahead. They all wore gold necklaces with their names engraved on them. Soon she would be identical to them.

  She suddenly couldn’t breathe. She felt as if she was going to choke. She couldn’t bring herself to look at their eyes, knowing that soon that would be her. She had never felt so alone. So scared. No one even knew she was here. Or that she was missing . . . Why would they?

  Chapter Four

  Saturday: 10:43 a.m.

  Brady looked at himself in the mirror. He had caught up on a couple of hours sleep. Not that it had made much difference. He still looked like crap. His naturally tanned, olive-skinned complexion had an unhealthy greyish pale pallor to it. His eyes were bloodshot and the skin below, dark and puffy. He looked as if he had been on a bender for a week. But nothing could have been further from the truth. He had spent the last God knows how many hours working, like the rest of his team.

  He bent over the sink and splashed cold water onto his face. He had showered and shaved but from the state of his face it hadn’t had the desired effect. Then again, he accepted that he was not the only one who looked like crap. The pressure of the case had affected every officer working on the investigation.

  He had taken Conrad’s advice. Luckily, he still had a spare change of clothes in his locker for such occasions. But it wasn’t every day that the station was thrown into mayhem because a serial killer was loose on the streets of Whitley Bay. Not that Brady expected him to be anywhere near this small, family seaside resort. Or at least, it was once known as a family holiday destination in its heyday. Now it was hailed for its coachloads of binge drinking lads and lasses booking in for a weekend of debauchery equivalent to Magaluf without the sunburn.

  Brady leaned over and splashed his face again. But he knew that no amount of cold water would work. He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. He put it down to the two cups of black coffee he had downed in an attempt to wake himself up. He couldn’t remember when he had last eaten. He still felt sick to his stomach; the memory of what Macintosh had done to the Edwards’ family too fresh, too raw. Alcohol was a different story. If he didn’t need to be on the job, he would have sought comfort from a bottle of scotch. But he didn’t have that choice. And he knew that getting drunk wouldn’t help him. It would feel good. That warm buzz that spread through your body. The lightheaded numbness that came with it, dissipating all tormented thoughts. That was, until he sobered up. Then he would still be faced with the same problem – James David Macintosh.

  He turned the cold tap off and pulled out some paper towels. He dried his face and hands and stood back to appraise himself. Black T-shirt and black skinny jeans. By no means as smart as his deputy, but at least they were clean. He would never be Conrad. Brady was savvy enough to understand that his dress code was unconventional. It wasn’t liked from above. Not that he cared. It was the job that mattered. And the job didn’t give a crap what clothes you wore, as long as you got the results at the end of the day. Brady hit the much-needed targets; that was what counted and that was the reason that
his unorthodox dress code was overlooked. But Brady wasn’t a fool. He knew that today his appearance would count. The way he looked would matter for the first time in his career.

  When he walked into the briefing he knew that everyone would have seen the news. That he was being held responsible for Macintosh being able to kill – again and again.

  The door to the changing room opened. He turned round to see Tom Harvey walk in.

  ‘You all right?’ Harvey asked, concerned.

  It was clear Harvey had seen the news.

  ‘Never been better.’ Brady couldn’t help himself. But then again, this was Harvey. He was a long-standing friend. Brady had known him from when he first started out in the force. They had climbed the ranks together. However, Harvey had stopped at detective sergeant. Brady had gone on that one step higher. Not that it had made a difference to their friendship. Harvey was better than that.

  What Brady liked about Harvey was that he always spoke as he found. He always knew that Harvey would tell him the truth; even if the truth was something he didn’t particularly want to hear. Then again, Harvey had his own issues when it came to the truth. Particularly in relation to his personal life. Harvey was lousy at relationships, yet didn’t want to face the reality of his situation. He was a middle-aged, unmarried fool currently being played by some twenty-two-year-old Thai internet girlfriend for his wallet and his wallet alone.

  ‘You know it’s all a crock of shit!’ Harvey said now, shaking his head.

  Harvey wasn’t often right, but he was this time.

  ‘You know everyone else thinks the same?’ Harvey reassured him. ‘Nobody is taking the bullshit they’ve printed about you seriously.’

  Brady looked at him in the mirror with a raised eyebrow. ‘You sure?’

  Harvey shook his head. ‘You’re a dick! You know that?’

  ‘Well if I didn’t, I do now,’ Brady answered, turning to face Harvey. He leaned back against the sink. ‘How are the team holding up?’

  ‘You know . . .’ Harvey shrugged. ‘Some are finding it difficult.’