‘Conrad?’ Brady asked as soon as the call was answered. Again, he was sat in his car, down by Jesmond Dene Bridge. A five-minute walk from Barbara Houghton’s house. It was dark now. The orange glow of the street lights along the bridge did nothing to disperse the disquiet he felt. Below, the Dene was blanketed in darkness. He looked to his right and sought solace from the burning lights emanating from Dene House, a nineteenth-century mansion now converted into a luxury hotel. Brady fought the compulsion to go in. Have a few drinks and forget everything. That wasn’t an option.
‘Sir?’
There was no mistaking it. Conrad’s voice sounded strained. It was clear that he still felt uncomfortable about disclosing Brady’s personal life to Gates despite the circumstances.
‘I need you to do something for me.’
‘I’m under strict orders from DCI Gates to get this information he’s requested back to him ASAP. He’s got us all running around here.’
Brady needed this information. ‘It’s to do with Macintosh.’ He heard Conrad sigh. Then silence. Awkward silence.
‘It’s just that Gates has threatened me that if I don’t get this back to him—’
‘I don’t give a shit what Gates has threatened you with or what the hell he even thinks right now. I will square it with him. All right? All I’m bothered about is finding some psychotic serial killer who has the life of a three-year-old literally in his hands. This isn’t a bloody game. Nor is it about keeping your promotion options sweet. This is someone’s life. A child’s life. For fuck’s sake, Conrad. Gates and those wankers from the Met are so busy chasing their own tails that they don’t see that Macintosh is playing them. He’s not in London. He’s bloody well here in the North East!’ Brady breathed out, realising that getting angry with Conrad wasn’t the answer. He was angry at himself for not realising that by releasing Macintosh from custody, he was setting him free to kill. Again. And again. He knew he should apologise to Conrad for his unfair outburst but couldn’t bring himself to swallow down the anger still lodged at the back of his throat.
‘Amelia mentioned something,’ Conrad began.
Brady reined in his reaction. Lucy Macintosh’s name – existence – wasn’t ‘something’. But pissing off Conrad wouldn’t be a wise move, considering that he was the only person involved in Annabel Edwards’ abduction prepared to talk to him right now. ‘Lucy Macintosh. Born around 1960 in the Northumberland area,’ Brady added for clarification. His voice was strained, but non-combative.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘I appreciate that. One more thing,’ Brady began knowing that he was pushing it. ‘Eileen Macintosh—’
Conrad cut him off. ‘We’ve already run checks on her, sir. Nothing. She just disappeared. And there has been no communication between her and James Macintosh from 1977 after he was arrested and charged.’
Brady steadied himself. Conrad was being atypically belligerent. He didn’t like going against orders. And right now, it was Gates’ orders he was following.
‘I talked to Barbara Houghton, the Macintosh’s neighbour. She said that Eileen Macintosh left the UK for Australia soon after Macintosh was imprisoned. If she’s still alive, we need to talk to her.’
‘Why? If she’s relocated, why involve her? Maybe she doesn’t want to be found?’ Conrad asked.
‘Trust me here. I just need you to check up on her before Macintosh does.’
‘Where are you?’
Brady paused before answering. ‘I’m on my way to St George’s Psychiatric Hospital in Morpeth.’
‘Sir . . .’
Brady could hear the unease in Conrad’s voice. He realised that Conrad must have immediately assumed that he was trying to track down Claudia. He still had no idea which psychiatric hospital she gone to or when, she would be released. ‘Barbara Houghton said that when James Macintosh was a child he spent some time in St George’s. He attacked a five-year-old girl when he was eleven and his mother had him placed there. For four years. But he was also there for at least six months when he was six years old, directly after the family left Mill Cottage. I want to see if any of Macintosh’s psychiatric records still exist in case there is a correlation between Lucy Macintosh and Annabel Edwards.’
‘I see,’ answered Conrad, the relief in his voice palpable that this was not some hunt for Claudia.
‘So, will you run those checks for me?’ Brady asked.
‘Yes, sir. But . . .’ Conrad faltered.
Brady didn’t bother asking what he was about to say. He had the answer he wanted. ‘Thanks, Harry. I owe you.’
Conrad didn’t reply.
Brady listened to the dull tone. Conrad had hung up. He breathed out. Relieved. He knew Conrad would run those checks for him. Had his word. It was enough.
Brady knew he should have gone home. He didn’t know what he had expected to find. But definitely more than what he did. Which was nothing. He had shown up at St George’s Psychiatric Hospital. It was an unorthodox visit on a Saturday evening. He had called the reception in advance and used his police status to get in. But they had no patient records in the new building dating from before 1995 – the year the original St George’s Hospital had been closed down.
Brady walked over to his car, his eyes automatically drawn to the monolithic, sprawling building that had once been the original hospital. It remained standing – just. It had been sold off. The site a valuable commodity. The old buildings – for the original hospital had been added to over the years – now a liability, with a history no doubt including barbaric and questionable practices that the new owners would rather remain buried. Mesmerised, he walked over to the main building of the old hospital. It had an ominous feel about it. The windows and doors had been sealed off years ago. An added measure against public curiosity. The extensive land, which backed onto fields and woodland, now guarded by fences. Blackness engulfed the surrounding grounds and the access routes between the various Victorian buildings. Brady noted the gaps in the fences along the perimeter where they joined hedges, realised it would be all too easy to climb in and have a look around.
Brady mulled over what the receptionist had told him about the old Victorian building. Opened in 1859, it had originally been known as the Northumberland County Pauper Lunatic Asylum. Later renamed the County Mental Hospital and finally in 1937, St George’s Hospital. It had housed men, women and children. He found it hard to even contemplate a six-year-old child being placed in such a place. He had heard enough accounts of psychiatric hospitals to make him feel uneasy about it. The treatment of mentally ill patients had been barbaric and cruel. He couldn’t imagine what a child would have suffered in such arbitrary conditions.
What could you have possibly done at the age of six for your parents to have left you here, Macintosh?
Brady shuddered. He put it down to the cold March air. He was about to call it a night when he thought back to what the receptionist had suggested; that some outdated patient files might still be stored in the basement in the main building of the old hospital. She knew that most of them had been destroyed. But some of them remained. The receptionist had stressed that he needed to check with the security office, once Rose Cottage, located opposite the main entrance to the old hospital.
Brady looked over at the security office. The small cottage was brightly lit. Twenty-four-hour security was in place to prevent trespassers from entering the grounds. Numerous signs had been erected warning that the old hospital buildings and grounds were unsafe. Not that people took heed, Brady included. He played with the idea of breaking in and thought better of it. Gates came to mind. His boss definitely wouldn’t be impressed if he got caught breaking and entering. Brady turned and headed for Rose Cottage. He knew it was the right decision to clear his entry with whoever was on duty. He had no choice but to check out the old hospital, just in case Macintosh’s medical records were still there.
Brady had an inexplicable feeling that he was going to find something. And with that knowle
dge came a sense of dread and foreboding. Part of him wanted to just run. To forget about Macintosh and what might – or might not – have happened during his childhood. But he knew he had no choice. He had come this far. He might as well see it through to the end. Regardless of the outcome.
Chapter Ten
Saturday: 7:09 p.m.
Emily opened her eyes. Blinking, she tried to adjust to the glare of the light bulb directly above her. Her eyes felt heavy and the desire to drift back to sleep compelling. But it was her aching body that had nagged her awake. And the cold. She was so, so cold.
Shit! I can’t move . . . I can’t move my head!
It was then that it hit her. No! God no!
She remembered the thick leather restraints that had held the other girl. Adrenalin coursed through her at the thought of what had happened. She listened. Hard. Straining to hear the laboured, punctuated breathing. Nothing. She had disappeared. It was now her who was shackled to an old, battered psychiatric chair.
She had no idea how long she had been like this. Nor did she have any memory of being placed in the chair. She knew he had to be drugging her.
Otherwise, why couldn’t she remember?
The inexplicable tiredness that overwhelmed her, saturating through to her bones, said it all. Every particle of her body felt heavy and weighted down.
Oh God . . . what am I going to do?
She needed to fight the tiredness. She needed to stay awake so she could figure out how to get out. She chewed her dry, cracked lips as she tried to swallow down the panic.
Think . . . come on, think . . .
She was certain he would be back soon to drug her again. She had to be smart and outwit him if she was going to survive this. She had no choice.
It was then that her eyes registered what was on the wall in front of her.
Fucking hell!
It was covered in Polaroids of women. All young with long dark hair and brown eyes. Each one had the same blank, lifeless expression. She searched from one photo to the next, to the next. All of them had been strapped to this chair when photographed.
They looked like they were already dead when he had photographed them. As if they had been poised with their lifeless eyes open, staring blankly straight ahead.
She shuddered at the thought.
It was what he had done to them before he had photographed them that horrified her. The blood dripping down their necks from . . . from . . .
She couldn’t let herself go there. If she did, then she might lose her mind. And she needed to be strong if she was going to get out of here alive.
She flinched at a sudden noise above her. Then she recognised the ominous dragging of a door being pulled open.
A knot of fear unfurled in her stomach. She clenched her body, balling her hands into fists. Her eyes stared at the wall. She didn’t want to end up like them.
God, no . . . please, no . . .
Then she heard footsteps. He was coming down the stone steps. Slowly. Deliberately. She couldn’t see him. She couldn’t turn around. She was strategically positioned so she faced the wall covered in photos of his victims. She felt like some freak exhibit sat there, waiting. Waiting for him.
Gripped with terror, she listened to his footsteps as they closed in. Then, she felt him standing behind her. Followed by a burning prick in her neck. He held it there, the sharp tip threatening to pierce her skin. Teasing, threatening, terrifying.
‘No . . . please . . . I don’t want to be drugged—’
His hand covered her mouth and nose, preventing her from breathing. ‘No talking.’
She tried to object.
He pressed the needle harder against her flesh. ‘Understand?’
She didn’t answer. Didn’t struggle.
‘Good girl.’ He took his hand away from her face. ‘Now, you need to do exactly as I say. Exactly.’
She felt sick when she heard those words.
Tears began to flow down her cheeks as she looked at the other victims’ faces. She closed her eyes against them. Against the prospect of what could become of her.
I don’t want to be drugged again. I don’t want to fall asleep . . . What if I wake up like them?
‘Shhh . . .’ He caressed her hair.
His touch was surprisingly gentle. She recoiled in disgust. ‘Don’t fucking touch me!’ she hissed through bared teeth.
She felt the cold air first, followed by the stinging burn of his hand as it hit her face.
A deafening ringing filled her ears as blood began pooling at the back of her throat. Her cheek stung as if acid had been thrown at her face. Her tongue tentatively touched the inside of her throbbing mouth. The impact had knocked her teeth into her cheek, gouging out a chunk of flesh.
Shit! That hurts . . . you fucking crazy bastard!
Her bottom lip was throbbing. She could feel blood ebbing down her chin and realised it must have split open.
He came into her vision.
She winced, expecting him to hit her again.
The blow she was expecting didn’t come. She opened her eyes to see him knelt down in front of her, staring at her. Or to be exact, studying her face.
‘Why am I here?’ she mumbled. Her words felt awkward. Her mouth thick and swollen. But her eyes were defiant.
He studied her. Disappointment flashed across his face, quickly replaced by irritation.
She stared belligerently at him, taking in every detail of his features. She needed to memorise it so when she did escape she could identify him.
It’s him . . .
She couldn’t bring herself to admit it.
‘I need you to eat for me,’ he said as he reached on the ground for something. His voice lacked any compassion or empathy. It was simply a fact. Without food she would die.
She couldn’t see what it was that he was picking up, but realised it had to be a tin of something when she heard the click as the ring pull released and he opened it.
He moved a spoon of congealed brown lumps towards her mouth. She closed her lips tight. She felt nauseous at the thought of eating. She had no idea what he was trying to feed her, and her mouth and lip throbbed where he had hit her.
‘Eat!’ he ordered.
She refused, keeping her mouth firmly shut against the spoon that he was forcing between her sealed lips.
He pinched her nose between his thumb and forefinger and waited. His piercing blue eyes intent on making her comply.
I can’t breathe . . . Shit! I can’t breathe . . .
She lasted less than a minute before she gasped for air. Before she could react the spoon was rammed into her mouth. She spluttered and coughed as she gagged on whatever suspect meat was hidden in the cold, congealed gravy.
She looked at him, her eyes filled with hatred.
He smiled in return.
With as much strength as she could muster she spat the mouthful of food in his face. ‘Fuck you!’
He didn’t react. Didn’t flinch, even. Instead he reached on the floor for a hand towel. He wiped his face. Slowly, deliberately, ensuring that every trace was gone.
‘Let’s see how long you last in the dark without food or water. Because I can guarantee that you will be begging for me to come back. But right now . . .’ He faltered as he looked at her, eyes filled with disgust. ‘I’m not so certain that you’re worth the wait.’ He turned his back to her.
The knot of fear tightened in her stomach. Whatever bravery and defiance she had had was now gone. His words had hit her. Hard. ‘What are you planning to do?’ she asked, unable to disguise the terror she felt.
He turned and looked at her. The smile gone. ‘I am going to make you better.’
‘No! You can’t touch me. Please don’t . . . They’ll be looking for me. My family and friends will have already reported me missing. The police . . . the police will be searching for me.’ Tears slipped down her face as she stared at him, willing him to believe her. But she knew from his eyes that he saw it for what it was;
an empty, pathetic attempt at saving herself.
He reached into his pocket and took out a full syringe.
‘Midazolam hydrochloride. So you don’t feel anything,’ he explained.
‘No . . . Please no . . . You know me. My name is Emily . . . Emily Baker. Remember? You must remember me?’ Tears fell, hot and salty down her pale cheeks as she tried to persuade him not to inject her.
‘Shhh . . . Who you were is not important anymore. The past is irrelevant. It is what I am going to do for you that matters now. Think of me as doing you and society a favour. I rid you of the disease that riddles your body and mind and at the same time, I rid society of the scum that plagues the streets,’ he said. ‘You see, I’m a philanthropist of sorts. My calling is to cleanse society by taking your body and ridding it of the sickness that contaminates it. Then,’ he smiled benevolently at her, ‘I will immortalise you.’
‘But . . . but I . . . I have a family. They’ll be worried. Please . . .’ she pleaded.
He paused for a moment, disappointed. ‘I know all about your background. I’ve read your records. So don’t lie to me.’ The smile returned. ‘You see? You need me to protect you from yourself.’
‘NO!’ she yelled and felt an intense burning as he stabbed the needle into her neck.
She knew it wouldn’t take long before she lost consciousness. And there was one question that had been troubling her . . . What had happened to the other girl? Where had he put her?
‘The other girl . . .’ But before she could finish the sentence she could feel herself drifting, her mind starting to get hazier and hazier as the drug coursed through her veins.
‘She’s where she belongs . . . with the others. You see, I released the demons from her head. I set her free,’ he replied smiling benevolently as her heavy eyelids finally acquiesced.
He caressed her hair. His touch delicate. His fingers lingering. ‘Shhh . . . Emily. There . . . Doesn’t that feel better? Soon all those tormented thoughts and evil desires will be gone. Replaced by . . .’
When Emily came to she was surrounded by blackness. She tried to move but couldn’t. She was still shackled to the old psychiatric chair. She had no idea what had happened to her. All she knew was that her body hurt. But the memory of what he had done to her was non-existent. He had drugged her. And then he had . . . She had no idea what he had done. She bit down hard on her lip to prevent herself from crying. She didn’t want to give him that. Not when he had everything else. She tried to at least move her head. But she couldn’t.
The Puppet Maker: DI Jack Brady 5 Page 9