It was an honest, if unexpected answer. ‘I see.’
‘And yours,’ he added for clarity. ‘I passed this new information on to him as soon as possible. He wasn’t impressed to hear from me. Nor was he happy that I was still active on the Macintosh investigation when I had been transferred to this new case, sir.’
‘Fuck Gates!’
Conrad didn’t react.
Brady had handed the suitcase and its contents into the station last night on his way back home. He had to. Even he wasn’t stupid enough to withhold evidence.
‘I take it that Gates has seen the photographs?’
‘Yes, sir. All relevant information was passed onto Gates early this morning.’
‘And what did he make of them?’
‘Honestly? I don’t know. He didn’t comment.’
‘And the Victorian doll? Nearly identical to the one found with Ellen Jackson?’
Conrad looked at Brady. It was clear from his expression that he didn’t want to discuss a case he no longer had the authority to be involved in. ‘Again, he didn’t comment.’
Brady rested his elbows on his desk and leaned forward. ‘This lead they’ve got in London?’
Conrad shook his head. ‘I know nothing about it.’
‘Bullshit!’ Brady snapped. ‘I know for a fact that Amelia is in London with Gates working with the Met on finding Macintosh. I also know that you and she are tight. So if they had anything tangible, she’d tell you.’
Conrad shifted his body, the tension on his face building. His lips a thin, repressed line. His eyes narrowed even further as he held Brady’s unrelenting gaze. ‘They’re raiding a house somewhere in London this morning. If they haven’t already done so.’
Brady nodded. It was what he would have expected. Most police raids took place early in the morning; element of surprise. Suspects too busy lying in bed scratching their sweaty nads to even realise that the police were about to storm their premises.
‘You know they won’t find him?’ Brady said.
Conrad didn’t comment.
‘What was the connection?’
He looked at Brady, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation. But he realised that Brady could be unrelenting. In these circumstances it was wiser to acquiesce than resist. ‘An ex-inmate from Macintosh’s time in Belmarsh.’
Brady thought it over. It was a set-up. This ex-prisoner wouldn’t be hiding Macintosh. It was part of Macintosh’s game plan. Only his boss couldn’t see that. Nor could the rest of the investigative team. Too busy chasing shadows to actually realise that Macintosh wasn’t in London.
Brady turned his mind back to Lucy Macintosh. He knew that she was crucial. It was no coincidence that Macintosh had abducted two young girls who looked identical to his sister. All three the same age. ‘Where is she? Lucy Macintosh?’
‘I couldn’t find any trace of her apart from her birth records. I couldn’t find a death certificate either. She wasn’t registered at any schools in Jesmond or the surrounding area. I know that the family left Mill Cottage in 1963 when she would have been three years old but then she seems to have just disappeared.’
Brady had a bad feeling about this. People – children – don’t just disappear. ‘You’re certain?’
Conrad nodded.
Brady was about to ask what Gates made of Lucy Macintosh’s disappearance but then decided there was no point. Gates clearly didn’t see a connection. And clearly, as he had impressed upon Conrad, they were no longer involved in the hunt for Macintosh – or Annabel.
‘What about Eileen Macintosh?’ She too, like her daughter, had disappeared.
‘Nothing,’ Conrad said shaking his head.
‘Did you check to see whether she had relocated to Australia?’
‘Yes. Still nothing. Nor is there a death certificate.’
Brady leaned back. It didn’t make any sense. How could two people from the same family disappear without trace? ‘You’re definitely sure you didn’t miss anything?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Brady decided to let it go. He had no choice. He had tried to follow his hunch but he had hit a dead end. He still felt sick when he thought of Annabel Edwards. But his hands were tied. This was Gates’ call and Brady hoped that his boss wouldn’t live to regret it.
He breathed out. Slowly. Deliberately. It was time to focus on the case he had been assigned. He had no alternative but to let go of Macintosh. ‘Thanks for checking that out for me, Harry. I appreciate it. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about the flack that you got from Gates. It should have been me. Not you.’
Conrad shrugged. ‘I’m fine.’
Brady nodded. He steeled himself. It wasn’t his problem. Not anymore.
‘I’ve just had a call from the hospital,’ he began. He couldn’t help but notice the relief on Conrad’s face. Relief that Brady had moved on to something else. ‘The medical staff have said that there has been no improvement on her condition. But she has been repeating the name “Emily Baker”.’
Conrad raised an eyebrow.
‘I know . . . I don’t want to get my hopes up but we need to run a check on the name.’
Conrad nodded. ‘I’ll get straight on to it.’
It was obvious that Conrad wanted to leave. Not that Brady could blame him. Gates had him firmly by the balls. Conrad clearly didn’t want to get caught up in any of Brady’s unorthodox plans. His job was his life. The same with Brady. The difference was, Brady was prepared to risk it all.
Chapter Thirteen
Sunday: 9:22 a.m.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Dave said. He nervously ran a large hand over the stubble on his head. ‘I mean . . . I just wish I had done something . . .’
Brady nodded. He felt bad for the bloke. Who wouldn’t? He had seriously fucked up. His role as a security guard would be called in to question. A serial killer had been dumping victims, leaving them to die a tortuous death under his watch. Worse yet, the killer had been returning, repeatedly.
‘I’ll be in touch if I remember anything else. But honestly, the only thing I can think that stands out, is that car. The black Volvo. It stood out because it was an old Volvo. One of the 200 series from the eighties I reckon. It was in mint condition though. Beautiful car. The amount of times I would see it parked up by the old grounds. It’s only now I think about it that I realise it could be significant. Christ! I wished I’d taken the registration details down.’ He shook his head as he looked at Brady. ‘I just thought he was a dog walker. You get a lot of them drive up that way because of the woodland next to the old hospital. I mean . . . he did have a dog. A black Labrador I think. On the back seat. Barking and jumping around. Thought it odd that it wasn’t in the boot . . .’ he shrugged. Realised he was rambling. Making excuses.
Brady nodded. He had taken down the details. But they were sketchy. A white male, early-to-late forties with dark hair. That effectively narrowed down one-sixth of the males in the North East. Then the car. A Volvo 200 dating back as far as thirty-five to forty years old. Registration unknown. But he had requested all CCTV footage filming the exterior of the Victorian psychiatric hospital. Whether or not they would be of any use, he couldn’t say. But right now he had DC Daniels and Kenny scouring through the footage. Looking for anything – or one – remotely suspicious. If Dave Baxter was right about this Volvo, then it was guaranteed to be on the surveillance footage, along with the registration plate.
Brady watched as Dave Baxter was led out of the station. He had no reason to hold him. Brady was still waiting to hear Wolfe, the Home Office Pathologist’s opinion on when the first victim had been murdered. He was certain that some of the victims had been murdered some time ago. When, he couldn’t say, but it ruled Dave Baxter out. He had been serving in Afghanistan for the past five years. During that time twelve victims had been killed and dumped. Also, he wasn’t a serial killer. He wasn’t another James David Macintosh.
He was an ex-soldier whose life had turned out crap. Working a shitty jo
b to keep the roof over the kids his ex-missus had dumped on him. He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. His worst offence? Not investigating the banging when he first heard the noise. But it wasn’t Brady’s place to hold him accountable. Dave Baxter had made it quite clear that he would never forgive himself. He had done the maths. He had walked away from one of the victims. A victim who had still been alive – barely – banging relentlessly on the door of the old Victorian furnace that they had been locked in.
Brady was back in his office. He had picked up a bacon stottie from the cafeteria and a black coffee. Realised that he had to eat. Otherwise he would be of no use to anyone.
What about Annabel Edwards? What use are you to her?
Brady shook his head. Annoyed with himself. No matter how hard he tried he still couldn’t stop thinking about the little girl. He had overheard the news about the raid in London in the cafeteria, but no one had mentioned it directly to him.
He took a bite of his breakfast and looked at the report Conrad had left on his desk. It was an update on the name that the victim had been repeating – Emily Baker. Whether that was the victim’s actual name or someone connected to her, Brady couldn’t say – yet. But Conrad had been thorough, so it wouldn’t take them long to establish whether the victim was in fact Emily Baker. What Brady did know was that she had no known priors so hadn’t shown up on the police database. Nor had she been reported missing. But Conrad hadn’t stopped there. He searched and searched until he had something tangible to give Brady. She was just eighteen years old. Lived alone. Set up in a bedsit by Social Services. His eyes scanned down the report picking out relevant details. He realised there was a reason she had not been reported missing. She had no family. She had been removed from her mother’s care at the age of two and put into emergency foster care. It appeared that her father was unknown and her stepfather, or to be precise, her teenage mother’s then forty-year-old boyfriend hadn’t much liked kids and had used her as an ashtray – amongst other things. The list of injuries the two-year-old had sustained even took Brady aback. He noted that her address was registered as Whitley Road, in Whitley Bay. She had left Social Services’ care as soon as she had turned eighteen and had been living in a flat for the past ten months.
Brady scribbled down the address. As soon as he had finished the bacon stottie he would head over there.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Yeah?’ shouted Brady.
Conrad walked in.
‘Good work,’ Brady said.
Conrad didn’t say anything.
‘How did you know to check her name against Social Services?’
‘I suspected that she might be a high-risk victim. She wasn’t listed as missing which told me that no one even knew that she had disappeared. When I read the doctor’s medical report it was clear that someone had held her captive for at least four months. She had sustained injuries as long ago as then. So then I asked why no one would know that she was missing. Or if they did, why didn’t they care? I had already checked that Emily Baker, if this is the victim, hadn’t been arrested for soliciting. So, I deduced that she must have come from a background that involved social care. A lot of the kids in the care system end up running away. Getting involved in drink and drugs. Some end up in prostitution. Others living on the streets. Or both. So I checked her name against North Tyneside’s social services records and struck lucky. She was listed with them. Or had been, until last year.’
‘Let’s go along to her address and see what we can find out,’ Brady suggested. He pushed his chair back and stood up. Finished off what was left of his coffee and picked up his phone as it started to ring. ‘Give me two seconds?’
‘Sure.’
Brady watched as Conrad left him alone.
He answered it. Then listened, not liking what he was hearing.
‘Are you one hundred per cent certain?’ he asked.
Again, he didn’t like the response.
‘So why the hell would she be saying Emily Baker’s name?’ Not that he expected them to know the answer.
‘Yeah . . . yeah. Thanks for letting me know.’ Brady hung up. He walked over to his office door and opened it and yelled: ‘Conrad!’
‘Shit!’ Brady muttered. She was there. In the system. He looked at the priors listed on the computer screen. Then turned to Conrad. ‘It’s her, Harry. No question. Her DNA conclusively matches our victim.’
‘Why would she be saying Emily Baker’s name then?’ Conrad asked as he frowned at the evidence on the screen.
Brady shrugged. He had not been surprised that she wasn’t Emily Baker. The crucial question was why was she repeatedly saying someone else’s name? Brady had a feeling about why the twenty-year-old victim, now identified as Hannah Stewart, a known homeless prostitute, might be saying someone else’s name. But it was just a hunch. He wanted to check it out before he committed himself.
‘Go check if she has any family,’ Brady instructed. But he seriously doubted it. He was starting to think that the suspect was targeting high-risk, young females with no family to speak of – no one to report them missing. Hannah Stewart had been arrested as a minor for soliciting. She had just been thirteen years old. Sadly, she wasn’t atypical. At the time she was in the care of the council – North Tyneside. After that, the following arrests detailed her address as ‘unknown’. In other words she was either sofa surfing, or having sex in exchange for a bed for the night. Or, worst-case scenario, sleeping on the streets or in local parks.
Homelessness was becoming an increasing problem. Especially amongst the young. He was aware that one in five people, aged between sixteen and twenty-five had sofa surfed in the past year because they had nowhere else to go. Homeless charities were doing their utmost to campaign about this hidden problem. But it wasn’t enough.
‘I need to contact her social worker. See what I can glean from their records. Whether she’s been fostered. If she has, then we need to talk to foster carers. There might even be a connection between Hannah Stewart and Emily Baker.’
Conrad didn’t look so convinced.
‘Both girls were in state care. That already connects them. And Hannah Stewart has not been able to say anything other than Emily Baker’s name. That’s not a coincidence, Conrad. Far from it.’
Conrad didn’t reply.
It was the obvious step. They had her address. Brady was just hoping that she was there. But he had an uneasy feeling. One that told him that they were already too late to have prevented Emily Baker from being abducted by the same suspect who had tortured and lobotomised Hannah Stewart. Who had then left her to die.
‘Let me know as soon as you hear something on Hannah Stewart’s family,’ Brady said.
‘You know what the press are calling him?’ Conrad asked.
Brady had made a point of ignoring the newspapers. He had watched the news in the cafeteria about Macintosh but as soon as it changed to covering the victim discovered last night, he had left. Returned to his office to eat, instead of listening to the media speculate upon the victims’ injuries.
‘No.’
‘ “The Puppet Maker”,’ Conrad said.
Brady shook his head. He had no idea how they had gleaned enough details to be able to come up with that name for the unknown suspect. What he found so disturbing was the fact that the name was so apt. ‘Sick fuckers!’
It had taken some time but Brady had managed to get hold of Hannah Stewart’s social worker’s number. He had informed her that he was investigating an attack on one of her ex-clients.
‘You’re serious?’ Siobhan Reardon asked.
‘Yes.’ Brady knew she was struggling to come to terms with what had happened to her ex-client but he needed her to snap out of it quickly. Time was running out and he needed her help.
‘How was she hurt?’ The social worker’s voice sounded nervous. Scared, even. As if she could somehow be responsible.
Brady sighed. He imagined that she was only in her late twenti
es herself. Recently graduated when she took Hannah Stewart on as a client. One of her first. He imagined that aside from shock, she would feel guilt that perhaps she hadn’t done enough. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘Oh . . .’
He waited. Knew what would be coming next.
‘Hannah’s not the girl who was found at that old psychiatric hospital? The Victorian one on the hill overlooking Morpeth town centre? It was on the news earlier.’
‘As I said, I can’t say.’
Siobhan was silent for a moment as she remembered the news report. Then she reacted. ‘Oh God! Not Hannah! What the news reported . . . God . . . it’s horrific! They’re calling him “The Puppet Maker”, which means there’s more than one victim. Doesn’t it?’
Brady ignored her question. He could not answer her, even if he wanted to. ‘As I’ve said, I’m not at liberty to discuss that case. But I really do need any information you have on Hannah Stewart. Such as people she might have been in contact with?’ Brady asked, in a last-ditch attempt at steering the conversation in a direction that he wanted it to go. Shock had obscured her professionalism.
‘I’m sorry . . . I just was overwhelmed by what you told me. Right, let me see . . .’
Brady waited while she accessed Hannah Stewart’s files. He didn’t bother correcting her. He hadn’t actually told her anything. She had just heard what she wanted. Filled in the blanks with her own conclusions.
‘I’m sorry. There’s not a lot here that I think will be of any help.’
He breathed in. Held it for a few seconds. Then let it out. ‘Humour me will you, Siobhan?’
‘Well, she came into authority care at the age of five. Mother was a heroin addict. Same with the boyfriend. No trace of her biological father. No extended family either. It was the school that reported the neglect. She was filthy. Also suffering from malnutrition. She was severely underweight and would steal food from other children’s packed lunchboxes. And her body was covered in bruises and cuts. All unexplained, of course. So the school called us in and she was removed. Placed in emergency foster care and ultimately, in a home. Disruptive and abusive, she was moved from one foster home to another until she was permanently placed in a children’s home in North Shields.’
The Puppet Maker: DI Jack Brady 5 Page 13