The Puppet Maker: DI Jack Brady 5

by Danielle Ramsay

  He heard the security guard make a frantic 999 call. His words rushed, garbled.

  He then ran up behind Brady. ‘They’ll be here soon,’ he panted. ‘Shit! I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. Got caught up on the phone to my mam while you were down there. Olivia’s got a temperature. You know how it is . . . with kids,’ Dave apologised, rushing his words. Panicking. He was jogging to keep up with Brady. Shining his torch on the ground ahead leading up to the new St George’s facility.

  But Brady had no idea how it was with kids. And didn’t think he ever would. He looked down at her fragile face, the glare of the laser torch lighting it up. It had an eerie hue to it. As if her skin hadn’t seen daylight for a long, long time.

  He heard the security guard’s intake of breath.

  Part of her long hair had been cut and then shaved off. What was left of her hair was covered in congealed blood and . . . Brady stopped himself.

  ‘Her head . . . It’s covered in blood . . . Is she all right?’

  Brady continued walking.

  Then the guard saw what Brady had seen when he first lifted her out of the furnace. ‘Shit! Someone’s drilled a hole in her head!’

  Brady didn’t bother correcting him. There were two holes. One on either side.

  ‘Fuck! Why? Why would someone do that?’ Dave questioned. His voice shocked.

  Brady knew she looked bad. Even a hardened ex-soldier who would have seen some unspeakable crimes in Afghanistan was disturbed by what had been inflicted upon her. But at this precise moment, Brady couldn’t – wouldn’t – allow himself to think about what someone had done to this girl. He just couldn’t go there.

  Brady stood at the crime scene. The site had been sealed off. Police were everywhere. Soon the media would be here. Speculating. Ruminating. He didn’t want to be around when they turned up. But he had no choice. He had to wait for the Crime Scene Manager and his forensic team to arrive. The victim had been taken to the Royal Victoria Infirmary in Newcastle. She was in good hands now.

  Too late though. Too damned late to prevent what had happened to her.

  He shuddered. The cold was getting to him worse than ever. He didn’t want to admit to himself that the physical condition of the girl had affected him. Never mind her mental state.

  Why would some sick bastard do that to her?

  For a short time, all thoughts of Macintosh had evaporated, replaced by something equally as sick and twisted. What were the odds of him finding her? If he hadn’t been looking for old medical files on Macintosh he would never have found her. Or the others.

  Christ . . . What the fuck had been done to them?

  Brady was under no illusion. They had been left here to die. Locked up in a furnace, in the basement of a derelict Victorian mental institution. He imagined they had been left in the same state as she had. Starving to death.

  But he does more than that . . .

  Brady didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t. Not yet.

  He had put in a call to Gates. He was waiting for him to return it. He had already passed on a brief update. But he knew that his boss would have some hard questions. Firstly, how could a killer of this magnitude have gone undetected for so long?

  Brady was still struggling with the ‘what if’ scenario. If he hadn’t found her then she would have starved to death. And there would have been more of them. For years to come until the killer decided to stop. Or died.

  ‘You OK?’ The security guard asked as he approached Brady. He offered him a steaming black coffee. ‘Added a shot of scotch. Reckon you needed it.’

  ‘Thanks, Dave,’ Brady replied. He could barely manage a weak smile. Exhaustion had kicked in. The adrenalin that had surged through him when he first discovered her had long since dissipated. Grateful, he raised it to his lips and blew on the scalding liquid. The heady aroma of coffee and scotch assaulted his senses.

  ‘Who you waiting for?’

  ‘SOCOs. I need to walk the Crime Scene Manager through what I found. Then I can go home. That’s after I’ve called in at the hospital on the way.’

  The security officer raised his eyebrow at this. ‘Don’t you reckon you should just call it a night? See her in the morning? I mean, don’t take this personally, but you look really fucked, man!’

  Brady certainly felt fucked, so the fact he looked it didn’t come as a surprise. He’d looked a mess first thing this morning when he had showered and changed for Gates’ briefing on Macintosh. That seemed like an eternity ago now. So much had happened. He had lost track of events. Everything had blurred. All he could think about was finding her. Locked in that furnace with the others. All sat neatly in a half-circle, positioned to be facing towards the door. Their hair had been brushed. Smoothed down. Their faces painted. Heavy red lipstick. All very dead.

  Brady couldn’t rid himself of the image.

  He shuddered. At the thought of her. Of what her assailant had taken from her. She was so young. Maybe eighteen, if that. But then, it was difficult to gauge because of the condition of her body.

  ‘Why would someone do that?’ Dave looked at Brady, unable to comprehend the horror of what he had witnessed. ‘I don’t get it. I get war. I understand that things happen that would never happen ordinarily. That it’s extenuating circumstances and all that crap. Between you and me, I’ve seen shit in my time. Shit that I’m not proud to say I witnessed. But I did. I walked away and hoped to God I would never be privy to sick shit like that again. But I left the war behind. This . . .’ he gestured around him. ‘This is meant to be safe. Civilised. You know?’ He shook his head as he looked at Brady. His eyes searching for answers. For reassurance.

  Brady had none. He was as much at a loss to explain what he had uncovered tonight to himself, never mind anyone else. So he did all he could. He kept quiet and let the security guard talk.

  ‘I’m just a goddamned security guard, for fuck’s sake! Now I’m a suspect in a serial murder investigation.’

  Brady didn’t comment. Dave was right. He would be high up there on the list of suspects. At this precise moment, he was the only one on the list. Brady knew it wasn’t him. But it wasn’t his place to give him that reassurance. The security guard would be swabbed, and then interviewed. But he would be released. He was certain of that. Whether he had a job at the end of it, Brady wasn’t so certain. After all, this had happened while he had been on watch. It would be for Dave to answer how that had been possible.

  ‘I’ve got a little girl. You know?’ His eyes filled with concern as he stared at Brady. Still looking for something to hold on to. Something to grab hold of, anything to stop him sinking.

  ‘Yeah, you said,’ Brady answered, unable to ignore the guilt in Dave’s eyes. After all it had been Dave’s role as a security guard to watch the abandoned hospital grounds and buildings for any unusual activity. It was evident he had failed. Brady took another drink, wishing this day would end. That he wasn’t here right now. He couldn’t give what he didn’t have. He sorely wanted to tell Dave that everything would be all right. That his job wouldn’t be affected. That his daughter would never suffer what they had just seen. That he wouldn’t be a suspect in a multiple murder investigation. But he couldn’t. It was that brutal. And he wished to God that it wasn’t.

  ‘It could have been her in there.’

  ‘It could have been anyone. But it’s not. She’s at home. Safe. She’s got you and your mam looking out for her. And a big brother. She’ll grow up fine.’

  Dave looked at Brady. Then nodded. Grateful. Accepting what he had been told. It was what he had wanted to hear. That the bogeyman didn’t abduct and torture little girls like his daughter. That they targeted and abducted someone else’s child. Like the girl in the furnace. And the others who were in there with her.

  ‘Do you think she has a family?’

  ‘No doubt,’ answered Brady as he watched the headlights coming up the hill towards them.

  ‘Do you think you’ll find them?’

  Brady
shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘In a way, I hope for their sake that they never find out what has happened to her.’

  Brady turned away from the hypnotic glare of the oncoming vehicles and looked at Dave. It was an odd statement. But one he understood. He had seen what the killer had left behind to die.

  ‘I’m not a sick bastard. Or callous. But if that were my little girl, I couldn’t cope. I would rather . . . rather that she was dead than have to live everyday looking at what some sick piece of shit had done to her. Had taken from her. You don’t think that’s wrong of me, do you?’ The look in his eye was troubled. ‘The others, they’re already dead. But her . . .’

  Brady swallowed. He didn’t want to think about it. Not yet. Not until he had talked to the doctors. Until he had a definitive prognosis. Not until then would he contemplate what life lay ahead for her. Or her family. If she had any. For Brady sensed she might not have any. He didn’t know why. It could be that no one had reported her missing. Or had they? Was she just another statistic? Another missing teenager believed to have run off to London or Manchester?

  He heard dogs barking in the distant woods. Dog handlers had been radioed in. That had been Brady’s call. Her nightgown had been removed by the paramedics and bagged for forensic evidence, with the dogs allowed to pick up whatever scent there could be on her clothes. There was a chance that they would find him. He could be out there for all Brady knew. But he seriously doubted it. The fresh injuries to the victim’s skull suggested that she had been dumped within the past twelve hours. He imagined that the suspect would have waited for the cover of darkness before bringing her here. He obviously had a way into the building. One that prevented him from being easily detected. Brady would find it. Or at least, the dogs would. They would track down the route he had taken. His fear was that then they would hit a dead end. That the dogs would track the scent to a vehicle which would be long gone.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  Brady turned to Dave. He looked pale. Brady wasn’t surprised. A collection of women’s tortured bodies had been found in a derelict psychiatric hospital that he was supposed to be guarding. It didn’t look good. But that wasn’t all. Brady knew exactly what the security guard wanted to hear from him. He wanted Brady to cover up for his ineptitude. ‘Go on,’ he instructed.

  ‘You know that I heard that banging noise. I said I had heard it about three times over a week, a year or so ago. Shit!’ He stopped and ran a large, trembling hand over his scalp as he thought over the ramifications of what he had done – or failed to do.

  ‘Yeah. I know.’ There was nothing else Brady could say.

  ‘I . . . I just don’t want to lose my job. I’ve got two kids to think of and me mam. Shit! If I lose this then I’ll have no choice but to go back over there. To Afghanistan as a private security guard. It’s all I know. But . . . I don’t want my kids growing up without me. They’ve already lost their mam.’ Dave shook his head. Numb at the prospect of what could happen to him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Brady said. And he meant it. But he could not pretend that it hadn’t happened. It was crucial evidence. The timing alone. For all the security guard knew, he could have unwittingly seen something that could be invaluable to the investigation. Brady was certain that the surviving victim had been locked in the furnace within the past twelve hours. He was also convinced that the perpetrator visited his victims. Repeatedly. To relish in his work. And to add to his collection.

  The security guard looked at Brady, understanding that Brady had no intention of letting it go.

  Brady stood with Conrad, watching Ainsworth, the Crime Scene Manager, assess the scene that lay in front of him. It was a big job. The vast basement was filled with discarded medical equipment from its years as a psychiatric hospital. There were also countless old wooden cabinets and boxes upon boxes filled with patient files. There was a chance that amongst all this paraphernalia would be forensic evidence tying the killer to the crime scene. The law of averages were weighted in Brady’s favour. After all, the unknown offender had brought multiple women to this place. The latest one was evidence that he had recently been here.

  ‘You just found her locked in that old furnace?’ Conrad asked, shaking his head at the prospect.

  Brady nodded. He didn’t feel much like talking. But he was relieved to have Conrad here. He had called his deputy as soon as he had talked to Gates, who had made it quite clear that he needed Brady working this new case – regardless of his personal interest in Macintosh. Gates had offered Brady his old team with some extra officers. Brady was grateful for whoever he was given. The force was already stretched in relation to the massive police hunt for Macintosh. Despite the sickening nature of the victims that Brady had stumbled across in the basement furnace, it was not the same as a missing three-year-old girl. Annabel Edwards’ face and her tragic plight had caught the hearts of the nation. Brady had reined in his objection to being transferred to a new case. He had a duty to the young victim he had found. And to the others who had already lost their lives to this unknown killer.

  ‘How many bodies are in there?’

  Brady shrugged. ‘I don’t know. There were too many to count. All I know is that they were all identically dressed with long brown hair and these perfect faces. They were all wearing red lipstick making them look . . . I don’t know . . . life-like somehow.’

  Conrad gave him a surprised look.

  ‘Sounds crazy, I know.’

  Conrad stared at him, expecting a better explanation.

  Brady shook his head. ‘You need to see this for yourself. Believe me.’ He looked back over at the furnace. ‘Wait until Ainsworth has stopped with his blustering and I’ll take you over so you can have a look for yourself. Don’t want to get in the way of Ainsworth while he’s setting up his office.’

  Conrad didn’t argue.

  It was a well-known fact that Ainsworth couldn’t stand Conrad. No one, apart from Ainsworth, knew the reason why. But Conrad’s presence always seemed to put Ainsworth in a foul temper. He was an irascible old bugger at the best of times, but whatever effect Conrad had, it wasn’t appreciated by Ainsworth’s staff.

  Brady turned his attention back to the crime scene. Ainsworth, like Conrad, was dressed in an all-white Tyvek suit with blue booties and latex gloves. Brady hadn’t bothered. Not that Ainsworth had been overly convinced by his argument that he had already contaminated the crime scene, so there was no point in suiting up. He watched the white-clad SOCOs, also known as Scientific Support Officers. They were busy getting ready to film and photograph the crime scene before anything more was disturbed. The sexy new American term Crime Scene Investigator, or CSI, had officially entered the Northumbrian Police handbook but that was as far as it had got. On the job, officers still referred to them as SOCOs. Not once had Brady heard the term ‘CSI’ used; apart from when someone was taking the piss.

  Brady watched Ainsworth as he started bollocking one of his team in charge of laying out forensic platforms for the team to walk on to avoid any further contamination of evidence. It wasn’t a good start to the night. Ainsworth was in a dire mood – worse than usual. Whether it was being called out so late on a Saturday evening, or the magnitude of the job at hand, Brady couldn’t say. But he had known Ainsworth long enough to know to distance himself from the bugger’s infamous snapping.

  Brady had often wondered whether Ainsworth’s problem was his stature, or to be precise, lack of it. He was a short, portly man with a jowly face, known for his formidable temper and his unforgiving, caustic tongue. But he was respected for his dedication to the job and crucially, his team respected him even if they didn’t necessarily like him. Brady wouldn’t trust anyone else in here. If the suspect had left forensic evidence behind, then Ainsworth and his team would find it – regardless of how long it took. He had a Jesuitical eye for detail and an uncanny knack for discovering much-needed results.

  The mood in the basement was sombre. The findings too macabre for e
ven the SOCOs to trade their usual black humour. Something Brady had read about the reason behind gallows humour came to mind – to be able to laugh at evil and error means we have surmounted them. The reason the SOCOs were not taking the piss out of the situation was simple. Whoever had enacted this heinous crime upon these women was still out there. They had not surmounted this evil. And by no means were they even close – whoever had committed these atrocities had eluded the police and the public for what Brady believed could be years. It was difficult to joke about such sadistic murders when they had no idea whether this was the full extent of the killer’s collection. There was one surviving victim in hospital – seriously injured. What if the killer already had a new victim? The stark truth was that they had no idea who they were dealing with, or why. And what the perpetrator had done to these women had left everyone attending the crime scene with a sense of disquiet.

  Numbed by the cold and the bitter reality of what lay ahead of him, Brady watched as stark lights suddenly illuminated the monstrosity that was the old, Victorian furnace. The dumping ground for a serial killer who had completely gone undetected – until now.

  Brady couldn’t help but notice that Ainsworth looked more ravaged than usual, his face red and bloated. His sharp, black beady eyes were restless. Preoccupied. He was a cantankerous old sod at the best of times, but Brady could see that there was something else adding to his usual mood. And he was sure it was more than just Conrad’s presence.

  As if he sensed what Brady was thinking, Ainsworth turned and scowled at him. It was evident that he had better places to be than forensically examining the derelict basement of an old psychiatric hospital. Then there were the victims. They had to be filmed, photographed and documented before being bagged and then removed to the morgue for examination. It was a process that would take hours, if not days. It was crucial that no trace evidence, whether biological or fibre-based, was missed or contaminated. Brady and the security guard’s DNA and prints would automatically be ruled out. Not that this took the security guard out of the equation. Dave was still a key suspect – until they found someone else. If Brady could change that fact, he would. But his hands were tied. The security guard had access – twenty-four-seven – to the sealed-off grounds and derelict hospital. He had also said that his wife had left him for a younger man in Turkey. Did that give him cause to torture and murder all these women? Brady seriously doubted it. Then there was the fact that some of the bodies looked as if they had been there for some time – perhaps years. But Brady still had to interview him nonetheless, even though he was acutely aware that the security guard had only recently returned to the UK from serving in Afghanistan.