He turned on the taps to splash water over his face. To bring him to his senses. But the water had long since been disconnected. He looked down at the bottom of the sink. It was a bloody rust colour – the result of a constant leaking tap.
He looked around at the large wooden kitchen table that dominated the room. Six wooden chairs were still around the table. In the centre sat a pile of newspapers dating back to 1963. It was eerie. Brady couldn’t shake the feeling that the house was waiting for its rightful owners – owner – to return. The thought of the face at the window came to mind.
He needed to check the back garden. Just to silence his unease. He had already noted that there was access from the front garden round to the back. He made his way to the back of the house. The grass was wilder there. Nature had ferociously reclaimed what had once been hers. Then there were the woods. The dense trees encroached closer than he expected, throwing the back of the house into shadow. He walked towards the back kitchen window and door. It was clear from the freshly trampled grass and weeds that someone had just been there.
Relief overwhelmed him. But it was soon replaced by questions. Who was it? Could it have been Macintosh?
Brady spun round, certain that he had heard what sounded like twigs snapping. Suggestive of someone lurking in the woods. He ran in the direction of the sound; straight ahead into the woods. Then stopped. He couldn’t hear anything. Nor could he see anyone. The woods seemed to be filled with a disquieting unease. The air, heavy and still. Fragmented fading light stabbed through the trees but the woodland was still dark and overbearing. Even the unending sea of bluebells that covered the woodland ground did nothing to dispel the atmosphere. Brady looked around. Nothing. He turned and looked back at the boarded-up cottage. No one was there.
He decided to shrug it off. For all he knew it was just kids. Macintosh’s name was very much in the public arena. It wouldn’t take much to realise that Mill Cottage was where Macintosh had murdered three-year-old Ellen Jackson in 1977. Brady started walking back. As he did so, he spotted something unusual to the left of him, partially obscured between trees and sprawling bushes. Curious, Brady walked over. Foliage had covered most of it, but it was there; a small, four foot by four foot brick structure that stood two feet above the ground. Sinewy knots of thick ivy and sodden decaying leaves and other foliage acted as a camouflage disguising what looked to be an opening leading below ground. Brady pulled back some of the ivy and bushes revealing steep concrete steps that led deep below the ground’s surface. He could see that the steps made their way to a cast-iron door situated deep underground. He went down to check it out. The door had been bolted shut, then padlocked. He shoved his weight against it. But it didn’t budge. Not that Brady thought anyone was inside. The heavy, old padlock was rusted in place; and the steps leading down to the door had been covered over by decades of woodland decay, wild ivy and bushes. No one had been here for a long time.
But just to be certain, Brady banged on the door. ‘Hey? Anyone in there?’ he shouted.
Nothing. Not that he expected a reply but he just wanted to reassure himself. After all, Annabel Edwards was still missing. He assumed that this was one of many Second World War air raid shelters that had been left, unused and abandoned. Someone had locked it against trespassers or vandals.
But it’s the perfect location to hide someone . . .
Brady headed back to the cottage. He walked through the open door and straight up the wooden stairs zigzagging the torch across the dilapidated walls. He was preoccupied by what he had found hidden nearby in the woods. It obviously belonged to Mill Cottage; or at least the occupants who had lived here during the Second World War. He was aware that the North East of England – known for its industrial production – had been raided by German bombers. Brady knew that there was no point calling it in. No one had been near it in years. Yet, even with this fact, Brady still felt uneasy about it. He decided that he would come back later with bolt cutters to check out what was inside.
Brady reached the first floor landing. It was shrouded in blackness. He shone the torch up and down and counted; four rooms. Doors all shut. He stepped into the bathroom first. Shone the torch around. Nothing. He looked in the mirrored medicine cabinet on the wall. Empty – apart from an old cut-throat rusty razor. He turned and looked at the deep enamel bath. Around the plughole rust had bled into the enamel, discolouring it a burnished orange. But again, nothing unusual.
He made his way to the largest bedroom first. An old, rusted double bedstead had been left. Pillows and thick blankets lay neatly arranged. Bedside cabinets with lamps sat either side of the bed. A book, half read, had been left on one of the cabinets. A large Indian rug was spread over the wooden floor. If the windows had not been boarded-up Brady would have believed that someone still lived here. But the thick layers of dust and chunks of chalky white plaster that covered everything told a different story. He looked up at the ceiling. Part of it had collapsed from rain damage, letting in stabs of fast fading daylight where roof tiles had slipped or broken.
A feeling of disquiet had taken hold again. He looked around the room. A lopsided picture of a landscape still hung on one of the peeling walls. It was eerie. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that Macintosh’s parents had just walked out one day and never returned.
A large wardrobe stood opposite the bed. Tall and imposing. Brady walked over and opened it, expecting it to be empty. He was wrong. The smell hit him first. A pungent, musty waft of moth balls. Then he saw the clothes. Clothes dating back to the Fifties. Men’s suits neatly arranged. Women’s floral dresses. Skirts. Coats. Even shoes.
Why leave them here?
He walked to the adjacent room. It was the smallest one, and was completely empty. He then made his way to the final room at the back of the house. He immediately realised that this must have been James’ room as a boy. The wallpaper was a faded blue decorated with fighter planes. There was a child’s bed, again with pillows and blankets neatly folded. A chest of drawers and a small wardrobe filled the rest of the space. Brady pulled open the drawers but they were empty. The same with the wardrobe. He walked around the room looking for something – anything. But it was empty. There was no trace of Macintosh as a boy.
He wasn’t sure what he thought he would find. An insight into Macintosh’s mind. A clue as to where he could be hiding. But there was nothing.
He sighed. He had to concede that Gates could be right after all. Maybe Macintosh was in London. Why would he come back here? There was nothing left for him.
Brady decided enough was enough. He would go home. Force himself to eat and then get some much-needed sleep. Maybe then he would start to think straight.
He turned to leave. As he did, something caught his eye. There was a small door fitted into the low wall on the landing opposite. Brady walked over and tried it, expecting it be jammed shut, but it opened. He bent down and shone the torch inside. It was a small room under the eaves which had been boarded out. He somehow managed to crawl in to get a better look. Trying not to breathe, he shone the torch around. The air was dry and stale and his eyes and nose itched from the years of undisturbed dust.
Then he saw it.
He managed to force it out from where it had been hidden behind one of the rafters. It was an old, beaten-up leather suitcase. Dragging it with him, he shuffled backwards out of the cramped space onto the landing. Hands trembling, kneeling over the torchlight, he pulled on a pair of blue latex gloves from his back pocket. Trepidation filled him as he questioned what could be inside. It was heavy – heavy enough for a young child’s body.
Steeling himself, he opened it. Disappointment hit him hard. Or was it relief?
The case was filled with layers and layers of clothes. Children’s clothes. But these were girls’ clothes. Brady picked up what looked like a sailor’s dress. It was old – dated. He would have hazarded a guess that it was from the late fifties, early sixties. But what was clear was that it was for a very young child.
He rummaged through them. All the same. Petite dresses with matching wool pastel coloured cardigan. Even nightgowns, white cotton slips and laced socks. Carefully – lovingly – folded and arranged in order. There was even a pair of black patent leather shoes made for tiny, dainty feet. The bottom of the suitcase was weighted down with a substantial collection of children’s illustrated nursery rhymes and fairy tales books.
But there was something else buried along with the books. Something wrapped in a quilted baby blanket: an antique Victorian doll. Brady looked at the grotesque doll’s heavily painted face.
It was identical to the doll that Ellen had been found holding. But this one was old. Worn. Used.
Brady stared at it. Why? He couldn’t quite understand. The information the police had on Macintosh said he was an only child.
So, who did the clothes and the doll belong to?
Macintosh had been born in 1957. A period where gender identity was still very fixed. Gender fluidity was a recent acceptance and would certainly not have been openly discussed, let alone understood in the late fifties and sixties. Brady was also aware from Macintosh’s psychiatrist’s transcripts that his father had been an officer in the army. He had been the victim of considerable homophobic abuse meted out by his father. Brady seriously doubted that he would have allowed his son to play with dolls.
Unless it was the mother?
Macintosh’s mother was an enigma. The investigative team still knew very little about her, yet Brady was certain that Macintosh’s relationship with his mother was essential to the abduction. That they were missing something crucial. But Brady was still at a loss as to what it could be. He had noted that during Macintosh’s sessions with Dr Jackson, his mother had never been discussed. If questioned, Macintosh would change the subject – or remain silent.
He placed the doll back down and picked up the small biscuit tin which had also been wrapped inside the blanket. He prised up the lid, revealing a collection of black and white photographs. He picked them up. It was a family – of four. Mother, father and two children. A boy who looked roughly six or seven years old and a much younger girl. Brady recognised the dress the girl was wearing in the photograph – it was the dark navy blue sailor’s outfit from the suitcase. He flipped the photograph over. On the back someone had scrawled something – ‘The Macintosh family. James aged six. Lucy aged three. July 1963.’
Shit! James David Macintosh had a sister . . .
Brady turned the photograph over and stared and stared at the stark, frozen image. It felt as if his blood had turned cold. The girl in the photograph – Lucy Macintosh – was pretty, with blond cascading ringlets and dark, inquisitive eyes. Brady could feel his heart accelerating. His mouth felt dry. One thought kept repeating itself – they look just like her.
Annabel Edwards. Ellen Jackson. Oh Christ!
Then a question hit him.
Where is Lucy? What happened to her? And why the hell did no one know she existed?
James David Macintosh had a sister. Or had had a sister. One who looked uncannily like Ellen Jackson – the seventies victim. The one Macintosh had brought here. Brady tried not to think about what he had done to her in this house. Instead he turned his mind to Annabel Edwards. The victim who was still alive – he hoped. The photograph of her that had dominated all the newspapers and the TV channels came to mind: blond ringlets and dark brown, trusting eyes. It was those eyes that Brady couldn’t get out of his mind. He knew if he didn’t find her – alive – they would haunt him to the day he died.
Out of the two victims, it was Annabel who most resembled Lucy Macintosh. And that scared the hell out of him.
What are you planning to do to her, Macintosh?
Brady’s blood ran cold. Or have you already done it?
Brady was sitting in his car waiting for Amelia to answer his call. The light was fading. Fast. The gloomy air of the derelict cottage intensified as the sun set lower and lower in the bleak March sky.
Finally she rang. ‘Jack?’ Her voice sounded unusually concerned.
‘Yeah—’ but before he had a chance to speak, she cut him off.
‘Where exactly are you? You do know Harry’s been trying to contact you?’
‘No . . . I mean yes,’ he corrected. He knew there was no point in lying to her.
‘So, where are you?’
‘Mill Cottage.’
‘Do you really think he will return there?’ Her voice had an unmistakable edge of scepticism.
‘Yes,’ Brady replied.
Amelia did not respond. But her silence was enough for Brady to know that she was not convinced. However, Brady wasn’t bothered. Nor was he in the mood to explain his reasons for believing that Macintosh had never left the North East.
‘Did you know Macintosh had a sister?’
‘Sorry?’
Brady could hear the surprise in her voice. ‘He has a sister. Lucy Macintosh. From what I can gather she was born in 1960, or thereabouts.’
‘Wait a minute. Run that by me again?’
‘Macintosh has a younger sister. We somehow missed this fact. It’s crucial to the investigation. To the reason why—’
Amelia abruptly stopped him. ‘How do you know that he has a sister?’
‘I found old photographs hidden in the eaves of the cottage.’ Brady paused for a moment as his eyes dropped to his knee. On it he had placed the photograph taken of the Macintosh family in 1963. Lucy Macintosh’s curious, upturned face was staring at the camera. It still made him feel uneasy just looking at her. The resemblance between Macintosh’s sister at the age of three and the Edwards’ child was uncanny.
Brady swallowed. He didn’t want to think about Annabel Edwards. Couldn’t. ‘This . . . this whole thing with Macintosh is all about his sister. We need to find her. ASAP.’
‘Listen, Jack,’ Amelia’s voice had changed. The scepticism gone. Filled now with concern for him. ‘There’s no mention of any siblings in Macintosh’s medical history. Or even prison records for that fact. Nothing.’
‘So?’ Brady sighed. ‘I have evidence to the contrary.’
Amelia didn’t reply. Her silence said it all. But Brady knew that once she had seen the photograph she would be convinced. ‘I’ll copy the photograph and send it to you. Then you can tell me I’ve got it wrong.’
‘Look, Jack, that’s not what I am saying. But you’ve been under considerable stress.’
‘So has everyone else. It doesn’t mean that I can’t do my job.’
‘Come on, Jack. You know what I mean . . . With everything the press are saying about you and—’
Brady had heard enough. He wasn’t sure whether she knew about Claudia’s sudden disappearance. But the last thing he needed was her acting like his shrink. ‘I don’t want to argue with you, Amelia. Just do as I’ve asked. And get Conrad to run a check against that name.’
Brady waited. The resistance in her silence was palpable.
‘Fine,’ she finally agreed. ‘Maybe if you had answered your phone you could have asked Conrad yourself. He wanted to tell you we have a new lead.’
‘Go on,’ Brady said, ignoring her jibe.
‘A witness has come forward.’
Brady held his breath. Waited.
‘An elderly woman named Barbara Houghton. She knew Macintosh personally. Thinks she might be of some help.’
‘When?’ Brady asked.
‘She contacted the helpline earlier today.’
‘I don’t mean that. When did she know him, Amelia?’ Brady asked, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.
‘Well, she knew him as a young boy. When the family moved to Jesmond. She lived next door at number nineteen. Is still living there now.’
The disappointment was bitter. Brady had been hoping against the odds that she had known him recently. That she might have some idea of where he was hiding.
‘She knew him from 1963, right up until he was arrest
ed and charged in 1977. For all we know she could have some information about him that could be crucial to the case.’
‘Do you think you and Conrad could interview her today?’ Brady suggested. He was tired. All he wanted to do was get back to the station with this new evidence and find out what he could on Lucy Macintosh. And he wanted to increase the search for Macintosh’s mother Eileen.
People just don’t disappear. Or do they? Lucy Macintosh . . . Then Eileen Macintosh.
‘Look, I would if I could but I’ve been asked to go to London with . . .’ she left it unsaid. ‘I’m sorry but I leave in literally ten minutes. When Conrad said he couldn’t get hold of you, I wanted to check in with you myself.’
‘Great!’ Against his best intentions, it sounded truculent. ‘I mean, that’s great. London. Right . . . So, she wants to give a statement, does she?’
‘Yes. She specifically asked for you. Has seen your face on the news. She was adamant that she could be of some help.’
Brady was keenly aware of the amount of calls coming in from the public. Most were a waste of police resources. But there was a reason why the public had been thrown into a frenzy: a three-year-old child had been abducted by a serial killer – after he had savagely murdered her family. It couldn’t get worse than that. So, the nation – the world – watched and waited.
‘Conrad can do it. He’d be better suited to take her statement than me. Especially with all the bad press, the last thing I should be doing is dealing with members of the public.’
‘No chance. Gates has him chasing something else up. The same with the rest of the team. Kenny, Daniels . . . Harvey . . . they’ve all been assigned jobs. The investigation is starting to pick up momentum. A new lead has come in about Macintosh’s potential whereabouts in London and Gates has everyone focused on that.’
Suddenly the photograph on his lap seemed inconsequential. Pointless. He didn’t even bother asking how they had got this new information. Or even where they believed Macintosh to be. It didn’t matter. Gates and the team were convinced Macintosh was in London and were doing their utmost to find him, whereas Brady had remained behind chasing what now seemed to be ghosts.
The Puppet Maker: DI Jack Brady 5 Page 7