The Puppet Maker: DI Jack Brady 5 Page 5

  None at all . . .

  ‘So what is his relation to the girls? If he, as you propose, is metaphorically killing his father, why kill the infant boys? And not the girls? Why abduct them?’ Amelia asked, frowning.

  ‘I think the infant males are representative of him as a child. He hates himself. A voice inside him – his father’s voice – hates him. The girls . . .’ Brady paused and shook his head. ‘He’s trying to repeat something. Why? I don’t know. But it’s crucial that we find out if we’re to have any chance of saving Annabel Edwards.’

  Amelia didn’t look convinced. Neither did DCI Gates, who looked like he had better things to be doing than listening to Brady psychoanalyse the suspect. Time was running out.

  Brady looked back at the crime scene photographs of Ellen Jackson. They still jarred with him. As he was sure they did with every other member of the team. He had spent hours staring at all the crime scene photographs. Trying to glean something – anything that would hint at why Macintosh had done this. Because that was what this was about – the girls. Why had he kidnapped both girls? That was the question that tormented him, because he still didn’t have an answer.

  The room was deathly quiet. Unease had settled over everyone.

  Brady stared at the sickening images of Ellen Jackson. He could feel the anxiety building. The tension. This could soon be Annabel Edwards.

  The crime scene photographs showed the three-year-old victim sat on a chair. Perfectly posed. Her long blond hair hung in neatly arranged ringlets around her pale, cruelly pretty face. Her clothes stiff. Old-fashioned. A starched white dress with a frilly petticoat underneath, white tights, small black patent leather shoes. She had been dressed to match the old Victorian porcelain doll she clutched in her hands. But it was unnatural. Unnerving. Her dark brown eyes staring. Open. Blank. Dead.

  Brady swallowed. Hard. He still couldn’t get his head around what he had done to her. Or why.

  Chapter Five

  Saturday: 11:20 p.m.

  When she came to, the overhead light was on.

  The sudden glare surprised her. Blinking, she forced herself to sit up. As she did so, her headache notched up a gear and the dull thump became a deafening noise. She then remembered being hit so hard that her head had ricocheted backwards, knocking her out. She fought the instinct to lie down again. She couldn’t do that – wouldn’t allow herself to do it. Her primary focus was the fact that the light was on. How long for before he turned it off, she had no idea. But she needed to see exactly where he had brought her. And if there was any chance of escape.

  Keeping her eyes closed, she succeeded in leaning back against the cool wall and caught her breath for a few moments while she waited for the pain to lessen. Finally, feeling less likely to retch, she opened her eyes.

  Shocked, she felt herself lose control of her bladder.

  Oh God . . . what did you do? What the fuck did you do?

  The image in front of her was cruel, twisted . . . barbaric.

  Her mind had gone blank. She couldn’t believe what she was looking at. Her brain refusing to process it. She closed her eyes, squeezing them tight. She counted to ten. Tried to calm herself down. Rationalise. Then she opened them again. It – she – was still there. Unmoved. Unchanged.

  The girl . . . the one I was talking to. It had to be her. But . . . what has he done to her?

  She forced herself to breathe. Slow deep breaths. For a second it felt as if this was some horrific nightmare. She closed her eyes again and willed herself to wake up.

  Come on . . . make it end. WAKE UP!

  Nothing. She could feel, even with her eyes shut tight, that she was still sat there – staring at her. Blindly, she grabbed the flesh on her left arm and twisted it as hard as she could. Again and again.

  The pain jolted her eyes open. Nothing had changed.

  Tears slipped down her cheeks as she hugged her knees to her chest. She wanted out. Wanted to go home. Anything but ending up like that.

  She tried to make sense of what she was seeing. She forced her eyes to look. To understand what had happened and what kind of crazy person was holding her captive.

  The girl was in a chair directly under the bare light bulb. She looked no older than twenty but she was so emaciated that she couldn’t weigh more than five stone. Her bones protruded from her parched skin; skin that was an unnatural sickly pale colour – as if she had been locked in the dark for months and months. She looked like a Holocaust victim. Bruises and cuts sporadically decorated her bony body and her dark, long hair hung in greasy clumps around her face. Her head was held in place by a heavy brown leather restraint that secured her forehead in position. But on either side of her head her hair had been shaved. And . . .

  She swallowed.

  She realised with horror that this was more than an old wooden chair. It looked like some kind of torture chair out of a horror film. Thick leather ankle and cuff restraints were fixed to its arms and legs, securing the girl in place.

  Without warning, the light went out.

  No . . . no . . . NO!

  Overhead, footsteps could be heard walking away.

  What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?

  Short, sporadic gasps suddenly filled the blackened room. She tried to block the disquieting noise out, along with the disturbing mental picture that she had of the girl shackled to the old psychiatric chair. Positioned so she was staring straight at her. The thought turned her stomach.

  Oh God . . . Oh God, help me. Please help me . . . I don’t want to be left like that. Please God? I . . . I would rather die . . . Those eyes . . . lifeless. He has . . . has . . .

  Chapter Six

  Saturday: 12:24 p.m.

  Brady knocked on Gates’ office door and then walked in.

  Distracted, Gates looked up from his desk. He didn’t look happy to see him. Not that Gates ever looked happy to see Brady, but his expression was worse than usual. On his desk were copies of that day’s newspapers. Broadsheets and tabloids. All with screaming headlines about police incompetence – Brady’s incompetence.

  ‘Sit.’

  Brady did as instructed. There was something about Gates’ mood that warned Brady not to push him. Not today.

  Gates studied him.

  Brady noted that Gates looked as tired as he felt. Gates would be under even more pressure than Brady. He had to deal with the political bullshit that came with the job. Brady was certain that Gates was being raked over the coals when it came to the media frenzy over Macintosh’s release from police custody. It was one of his officers that had let Macintosh go. The same man who somehow knew where Macintosh had taken his axe.

  Gates cleared his throat as he clasped his large hands together. Brady couldn’t help but notice the neatly manicured nails. Even his desk was ordered and clutter free. Everything about Gates was regimented. And that was the problem. Gates couldn’t quite get Brady to fit within his strict, controlling, exacting ways.

  ‘Jack,’ Gates began. His deep voice was cold, detached. Unnervingly so.

  Brady waited, nervously. A lot had happened to him in the past few days, both professionally and personally; including his ex-wife leaving him without any warning. She had checked into a private psychiatric hospital after five or so months of living with Brady. It was either that, or she would have taken her life. She had survived being held hostage by two extreme Eastern European gangsters – unlike her boyfriend, DCI David Jameson, who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had been tortured and murdered. Not surprisingly, Claudia suffered from survivor’s guilt. Brady had done everything to help her, but it had not been enough. Then there was James David Macintosh. If he was honest, it was the Macintosh case that was keeping him together. Without it, the reality of Claudia’s sudden disappearance from his life would cripple him.

  ‘Is there anything you want to talk about?’

  Brady was surprised. That was one question he had not anticipated. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What ab
out your personal life? Are there any problems that you want to discuss with me?’ Gates continued.

  ‘No. Everything is fine,’ Brady lied, feeling Gates’ eyes scrutinise his every word and movement. He knew exactly where Gates was heading and the outcome didn’t look good – not for him. He could feel the anger rising within him, combined with the fear of being taken off the case and not being able to find Macintosh and Annabel Edwards. He had a bad feeling that Gates was looking for a reason to remove him. But he found it hard to accept that Macintosh would be in London. And Gates knew that. Brady had made it quite clear to him that he believed Macintosh would remain within the North East. Not that Brady had had a chance to discuss the new evidence tying him to London with Gates. He had kept his thoughts to himself during the briefing. But it didn’t make any sense to him. The recent murders were an exact copy of what had happened in 1977 which led Brady to believe that Macintosh would find a way back to Mill Cottage.

  ‘I know about Claudia, Jack. And I am sorry. Truly, I am.’

  Brady sat back. He felt blindsided. ‘How? How do you know?’

  ‘Listen . . . why don’t you take some time away from the job to sort your personal life out? You look burnt out, Jack. Too much has happened to you, you need some breathing space . . .’ Gates shrugged.

  Brady breathed out. He needed to steady himself. The last thing he wanted to do was say something he regretted.

  ‘Look . . . sir. I’m fine. Honestly. My personal life has no bearing on the job. I’m coping. I admit I’m tired. But that’s to be expected. So are the rest of the team. Didn’t I deliver on the Alexander De Bernier case?’

  Gates nodded. ‘You did.’

  ‘So why take me off a case as crucial as this one? I know Macintosh. I was the one who knew where he had gone when he had absconded from Ashley House. True?’ Brady fired at his boss.

  ‘Yes,’ Gates answered, nodding. But it was clear he had already made a decision.

  ‘Trust me with this then. I know you think Macintosh is in London, but I am certain he is still here.’

  ‘He is in London, Jack. The car has been officially identified. It has his fingerprints and DNA all over it.’

  ‘What about Annabel?’ Brady asked, not believing what he was being told.

  ‘Yes,’ Gates replied. His voice heavy. ‘Hair samples and fingerprints were found inside the boot of the car. It appears that he had hidden her in there.’

  Brady didn’t say anything. He digested the news. It took him a moment but then he realised why Macintosh had chosen Heathrow’s Terminal 4 car park. ‘He left the car there to elude you. To throw you off his tracks. I suspect that he would have paid to have a car waiting for him to pick up. He would have used a pseudonym. He’s planned this meticulously. Macintosh is too clever to be caught so easily.’

  Gates considered Brady’s comment. ‘You really believe he’s still in the North East?’

  ‘One hundred per cent, sir.’ Brady answered.

  Gates sighed heavily as he deliberated his next move.

  ‘I know him. Better than anyone else on the team. I understand that you have forensic evidence that he is in London. But that is what he wants you to think. It is all part of his plan.’

  Gates studied him with narrowed eyes. ‘Why would he still be here? And more to the point, where?’

  ‘He’s here because he has a personal attachment to the area. To Mill Cottage. I don’t know why, but I just have a feeling that he will take Annabel Edwards there. Just as he did with Ellen Jackson.’

  The expression on Gates’ face told Brady he disagreed. ‘Come on, Jack. Seriously? The place has already been searched and we found nothing. No trace of him. He hasn’t returned there. And he certainly won’t be returning now. It is under twenty-four hour surveillance. Macintosh is anything but stupid. He will have known the first place we would search would be Mill Cottage.’

  ‘I am not disagreeing with that. But I think he will wait. He wants you to think that he is in London. As soon as the investigation becomes focused on finding him there, that is when he will return to Mill Cottage. I guarantee it.’

  Gates clasped his hands together as he weighed up what Brady had said. ‘All right. I am going to trust you on this, but do not, under any circumstances, fuck up.’

  ‘I won’t, sir.’

  ‘While I am in London, you continue as acting SIO here. But you keep your head down and stay out of trouble. Understand me?’

  Brady nodded.

  Gates leaned forward. ‘My reputation is on the line here, Jack. And I am sure you’re aware of what the press are reporting,’ he said, gesturing towards the newspapers on his desk.

  Brady nodded without looking at them.

  ‘Your bloody name and face is over all the front pages. And on the news channels. They’re holding you responsible for releasing Macintosh so he could kill . . .’ Gates waited for a moment before adding: ‘Again.’

  ‘But you know I had no grounds to detain him.’

  Gates nodded. He looked weary. Reluctant even to continue. ‘I know that. But they don’t. And until we apprehend Macintosh you will be held responsible by the press. Christ knows what they would print about you if he murders Annabel Edwards. Believe me, Jack. You would become the press’s most hated figure. They’ll dig up every piece of information they can get on you and run with it. It wouldn’t take them long to suggest that you’re a bent copper with friends on the wrong side of the law. You seriously want to think about what you’ve got to lose before you start following some inexplicable hunch of yours which could be to the detriment of this case. We already let Macintosh slip through our hands once before and I damn well will not allow it to happen again.’

  Brady felt numb. How was he to know that Macintosh would kill again? He had nothing to do with the parole board and their decision to release him back out onto the streets. Brady had simply brought Macintosh in for questioning in connection with the on-going Alexander De Bernier’s murder case. A copycat killing. Identical to the Joker’s seventies murders. He’d had no idea when he had Macintosh in custody that he was the original Joker killer. Macintosh had served thirty-seven years for an unrelated crime: the gruesome killing of his psychiatrist and his family. The three-year-old Jackson girl had been the anomaly. She had been abducted from the crime scene and later murdered at Mill Cottage; Macintosh’s childhood home.

  A DNA swab had been taken from Macintosh while in Brady’s custody. But it did not tie him to Alexander De Bernier’s murder. Consequently, Brady had had no grounds to detain the ex-offender. It was only after Macintosh had been released that Brady learned that Macintosh’s DNA sample conclusively matched forensic evidence found on one of the victim’s T-shirt’s from the seventies Joker killings. But by then Macintosh had already killed his probation officer, Jonathan Edwards, and his family.

  All Brady had done was his job. And all he could do now was his job. There was no other alternative. At least not one that he would consider contemplating.

  Otherwise you’ll never be able to get him. Because they won’t find him. And then . . . Then, Annabel Edwards will die.

  Brady walked out of Gates’ office and down the corridor. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. He was still trying to process it. How the hell Gates had found out about Claudia’s admission into a psychiatric hospital was beyond him. At least he was still acting SIO while Gates was following up leads in London. But it was a close call. Too close. Even the mere suggestion of taking time away from the job had panicked him. Without it, he didn’t know what he would do. Especially now Claudia had gone.

  ‘Sir?’ Conrad called out behind him.

  It was then it hit him. Conrad. He must have told Gates about Claudia.

  Conrad caught up with him. ‘Sir?’

  Brady continued walking.

  Conrad realised. ‘What did Gates say?’

  ‘Enough.’

  Brady reached the stairs. He ran up them two at a time, despite the searing pain in h
is right leg. At the top he continued at a brisk march towards his office, doing his utmost not to break into a run.

  He could hear Conrad hurrying to catch up. Brady reached his office and walked in, slamming the door behind him.

  A few seconds later, the door opened.

  He turned to see Conrad in the doorway. ‘You do know I had no choice?’

  Brady shrugged. ‘Do I?’

  ‘Sir, Gates asked me about Claudia. I hadn’t expected it and when I didn’t come up with an immediate answer he realised something was wrong. I couldn’t lie to him. You know how fond he was of her. He respected her a great deal and when . . . You know, when Claudia was held hostage and DCI Davidson was . . .’ Conrad faltered, unable to say what had happened to him. ‘Well, Gates was really affected by it. You do know that?’

  ‘Do I?’ Brady asked as he walked over to his filing cabinet. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a bottle of Talisker. Two-thirds of it had gone. He hadn’t had a drink despite what had happened over the past couple of days. Couldn’t. He had a job to do. But that didn’t deter him from picking up the Che Guevara mug and pouring himself a drink now.

  ‘You’re not responsible for what has happened to her,’ continued Conrad.

  ‘Do you want one?’ Brady asked gesturing with the bottle of scotch, ignoring what had just been said.

  ‘No,’ Conrad answered.

  ‘So, what did you tell Gates about Claudia? Did you tell him what . . . what she was contemplating . . .?’ Brady was unable to finish.