‘Why was she so unsettled with her foster carers? And why couldn’t she have been adopted?’ Brady asked, his mind unable to let go of the young girl he had pulled out from the furnace and carried out of the abandoned psychiatric hospital. She had had a shit life from the outset. Then someone had used that to their advantage.
‘Well . . . she found it very difficult to settle in anywhere. But the problem we had was that her mother didn’t want her back. It doesn’t matter how badly abused these children are, the one thing most of them want is to go back home to their parent or parents.’
Brady didn’t say anything.
‘We gave her mother a deal. Get some help with the heroin addiction and lose the boyfriend. She couldn’t do it. Said she would get help with the drug problem but refused to kick the boyfriend out of her life. Hannah had a really hard time coping with this. The sad thing is, you can’t keep something as obvious as this from them. These kids are smart. They’ve had no choice but to be, given what they’ve had to deal with before they were taken into care.’
‘So there was no foster carer to speak of?’ Brady asked.
‘No. Well . . . not a consistent foster carer. I think the longest she actually stayed with one carer was four months. Typically, she would be handed back after the honeymoon period was over.’
‘I don’t follow?’
‘It’s the same with any new relationship. These children are on their best behaviour for the first few weeks. They don’t put a foot wrong. Too scared to, really. They have grown up with the threat of abandonment, amongst other issues. So, a lot of them will behave impeccably at the beginning – but then the cracks begin to show. You see, you can only keep up being perfect for a certain amount of time. Eventually, whatever behavioural problems or issues with adults that they have will finally come to the fore. That was the case with Hannah. With every placement she was the ideal foster child. Assimilated immediately. But it didn’t last. You see, she desperately wanted to fit in with every new foster family, but when her challenging behaviour presented itself it proved too much for her foster carers. And sadly, the more she was returned to us, the harder it became to find her a permanent foster carer. Eventually she was placed in a children’s residential home.’
‘I see . . .’ Brady answered. ‘What happened after she was placed in a home?’
‘She repeatedly ran away from the home from about the age of twelve. When she got to fourteen I didn’t have a chance. She just did what she wanted. She got involved with the wrong people and things just went from bad to worse. She was being pimped by a twenty-eight-year-old boyfriend at the time. Then by the age of sixteen she disappeared. Haven’t seen her since or heard from her since.’
‘Do you have any contact details for the boyfriend?’ He knew it was a long shot but it was worth a try.
‘No. I’m sorry. She refused to give us his address or number. Worried that we might try and prosecute him.’
‘What about any friends?’
‘Not that I know of. She pretty much dropped out of school from about the age of ten. So as far as I know she had no school friends. Or any other friends, for that matter.’
Brady sighed.
‘Look, Detective Inspector Brady, I do my job to the best of my ability on an ever-decreasing budget and increasing client list. Hannah was of an age where . . .’ Siobhan faltered.
‘What? Where she didn’t matter anymore? She had survived in the system until her teens and that was enough? You cut her loose? For Christ’s sake! She wasn’t even listed as missing!’ He couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t get rid of Hannah’s dark, haunted eyes. Her body. So malnourished that he could have been carrying a young child in his arms. This had really affected him. But it was more than that. Hannah and Brady shared a childhood. One of living in care. After his father had murdered his mother, Brady and his younger brother Nick had been bandied about from one foster carer to another. Then they had been separated. It had been cruel. Painful. But very much par for the course. His childhood had been shit. But he at least had made it. Survived. Had gone on to have a decent life. Unlike Hannah. Someone had taken her chance away.
‘No. It’s not like that,’ Siobhan replied, her voice combative. ‘It’s just we have our hands full. Our caseloads keep increasing. And yes, we have to prioritise. I’m sure the police force is in a similar position. It’s a familiar one across all government funded resources. I am sure that in your time you have had to make choices that you wished you hadn’t been forced to. Tell me what you would do when you have a wayward, troubled teenager who has a problem with authority? Finds it difficult to fit into society and refuses any kind of help from us, versus a reported case of child abuse involving a two-year-old?’ she demanded, her tone caustic. ‘Because I have to make that choice nearly every working day! So forgive me if we don’t manage to keep track of the ones who run away for good when they reach sixteen. We’ve got enough to deal with trying to protect the most vulnerable children.’
Brady didn’t say anything. He just kept thinking back to what he had said to Dave the security guard: ‘Life sucks!’ And it did – for some people.
‘I’m sorry . . . I’m just feeling overwhelmed with my workload. I didn’t mean to sound so . . . so unprofessional,’ she apologised.
Brady could hear the defeatism in her voice. ‘It’s fine. We all have difficult choices to make. But it must be harder to live with those choices that concern children.’ He thought of Annabel Edwards – three years old and orphaned. What would happen to her if she was found alive and well? Would there be some extended family member somewhere who would take her in and raise her? Or would she end up in the system because of a monster like Macintosh? Passed about from one foster carer to another. Maybe she would be one of the fortunate ones. Her face would be advertised. Shown in a glossy brochure to potential adoptive parents. She was young enough and pretty enough to be chosen. Unlike the ones who were left in the system without a chance of being picked out.
That is, if you get her back alive.
It hit him hard. He was getting ahead of himself. She had been missing for over forty-eight hours now. The odds weren’t stacked in her favour.
‘Thanks . . .’ she muttered. ‘It is hard sometimes. Most times.’
Brady suddenly thought of Emily Baker. She had also grown up in care. In North Tyneside. He wondered if there was any chance that she and Hannah Stewart were friends. It might explain why Hannah was repeatedly saying the other young woman’s name.
‘One last question,’ Brady began. ‘Did you have any dealings with an Emily Baker? Eighteen years old? She went into care when she was two and remained in North Tyneside’s local authority care until she turned eighteen.’
‘No . . . She’s not one of mine. I’m sorry.’
‘Is there a chance they would have known one another?’ Brady asked, hopeful. He would rather that their connection was one of a shared childhood than victimhood.
‘Let me check her records. See if they were in the same home or shared foster carers.’
Brady waited. It was only a few minutes but is seemed like an eternity.
‘Uhuh . . . Yeah, I’ve got her. She was my colleague’s client.’ She paused for a moment. ‘No . . . No they definitely weren’t placed in care together. So I can’t see how they would know one another. They were fostered in different parts of North Tyneside, so their primary schools were different. As were their high schools. It looks from the updated notes here that Emily Baker was one of our success stories. She went on to study three A-Levels at Whitley Bay High and is now taking photography at Newcastle College. Registered last September. She’s also living in Whitley Bay. Sandra, my colleague, set her up in a flat there.’
‘Did she have foster carers?’ Brady was hoping that there was someone he could talk to – just on the off-chance his hunch was right. That Emily Baker had also disappeared. Even though no one had reported her as missing.
‘Yes. She had quite a few until the age of twe
lve. Then she went into a children’s care home in Wellfield.’
‘Why was she removed from foster care?’ Brady asked. But he suspected he already knew the answer. He absentmindedly picked up a pen and started scribbling while he listened to her reply.
‘She wasn’t coping in that environment. Complained that she didn’t like her foster carers. Repeatedly moved from one fosterer to another. Last one was a woman by the name of Joyce Seaman. It seems that it was decided by everyone concerned that she be moved to a children’s home. But as I said, she’s one of our success stories. Much to my colleague, Sandra’s credit. She knuckled down and studied hard at school. Regardless of her personal circumstances.’
Brady thought about what she had just told him. There was nothing else he wanted to ask. His main concern was tracking Emily Baker down. Just so he could scratch her off a list that already included thirteen lobotomised women. Twelve dead. One, barely alive.
‘That’s great, Siobhan. Thanks, and if you think of anything else, get back to me,’ Brady concluded.
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Is Emily in danger? Do you think this . . . this Puppet Maker freak has got her as well?’
‘No,’ Brady reassured. ‘We’re just following up some leads connected with Hannah Stewart. That’s all.’
‘But, what if he’s targeting young women who’ve been in care. Should we be doing something?’
‘No. Seriously, there’s nothing to worry about. And if there is a connection you would be the first to know about it. Again, thanks,’ Brady said. He hung up before she could ask another question.
He sat back and thought about her final question.
What if he was targeting young woman who had previously been in care?
He checked himself. Realised that he had no such evidence.
Not yet, anyway.
Chapter Fourteen
Sunday: 11:37 a.m.
Brady had got word back from Daniels about the Volvo 200 that had allegedly been parked up outside the old psychiatric hospital. The security guard had been correct. It had shown up on the CCTV footage in the past couple of weeks. But they had been unable to get a visual of the registration plate. Brady had told Daniels to try harder. It had crossed Brady’s mind that the driver might be visiting a relative or a friend at the new St George’s psychiatric hospital and merely using the old hospital as a parking spot.
Brady looked at Conrad as he climbed into the car. ‘Nothing?’
Conrad nodded. ‘Afraid so. Hannah Stewart had no family to speak of.’
‘Poor bloody girl . . .’ Brady said as he focused and pulled out. He was heading to the Royal Victoria Infirmary in Newcastle. Not to see Hannah Stewart. But to visit the others that the aptly named Puppet Maker had succeeded in murdering. But their murder was perhaps the least cruel part of their fate. It was what the suspect had done to them first.
The question was, why lobotomise them first and then lock them up and leave them to slowly die? Unless it was the knowledge that they were defenceless. Unable to think coherently, strategically. To get out. Save themselves.
But the part that had struck a chord with Brady was the most obvious answer – they would never be able to identify him.
He thought of Hannah Stewart. She was one of the lucky ones. Or was she?
Regardless of how many times Brady visited the morgue, the smell always got to him. It was a rancid, noxious smell that permeated your skin, hair and clothes. No amount of industrial antiseptic cleaning agent could get rid of the smell of a decaying body. Yet the body on the on the slab had already gone beyond the seven stages of putrefaction. The liquefaction of the body’s organs had occurred years ago. Still Brady could smell death. He accepted that maybe it was his imagination. After all, the Puppet Maker’s oldest murder victim had completely decomposed. All that was left was the skeleton – apart from the hair and scalp. The sight still took his breath away. It was too macabre to even understand the mentality behind it.
‘Not a pretty sight, eh?’ Wolfe wheezed as he looked at the damaged skull. The drill holes on either side of the skull were clearly visible. Even to Brady’s eyes he could see fracture lines along the skull from the force of drilling through bone. The holes were roughly two-and-a-half centimetres in diameter. He couldn’t even begin to conceive the pain the victim would have felt during such a procedure. After all, this was brain surgery without the operating theatre and Brady presumed, without anaesthetic. The victim would have been fully conscious of the procedure. Wolfe was right. It was ugly.
‘Neither is that wee lassie upstairs in ICU, mind! Had a look at what’s been done to her. Exactly the same process as your suspect carried out on this poor bugger here. Have to say though, I don’t know who is in the better position. This one here or the one that’s still alive.’ He shook his bald, glistening head. ‘Had a look at the lassie’s MRI scan. It’s not good, Jack. He’s butchered her. Bloody butchered her brain. Still can’t fathom out why.’
Brady didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced at Conrad. He was typically pale and thin-lipped. Not an unusual look for the morgue. Or in the presence of Wolfe – the Home Office Pathologist. Wolfe and Conrad had never seen eye to eye. The reason for their mutual animosity had never been discussed. At least, never in front of Brady.
‘What is it about you, laddie?’ Wolfe asked as he shot Brady a questioning look. He had ignored Conrad from the moment the DS had walked into the morgue behind Brady.
‘What do you mean?’ Brady asked. He never failed to marvel at Wolfe’s accent. His soft, well-educated Scottish lilt betrayed the fact that although he had lived in the North East for the past thirty years, Wolfe’s Edinburgh roots had never left him.
‘Your ability to make life difficult for yourself.’ He shook his head as he gestured at the young, female skeleton laid out in front of him. ‘I thought you would have had enough on your hands, what with that Macintosh killer on the loose, to warrant searching around for more bodies.’
Brady shrugged. He knew he could be honest with Wolfe. They had shared too many pints in the Stuffed Dog on Tynemouth Front Street. Wolfe knew about Brady’s car wreck of a life – both personal and professional. And Brady knew about Wolfe’s idiosyncrasies. Mainly his drink problem; one that had nearly cost him his job and Brady the outcome of an investigation. But Wolfe had somehow bounced back from infamy and had continued unscathed. He was still one of the best Home Office pathologists in the force. So, for the time being, Detective Chief Superintendent O’Donnell looked the other way. Not that it had curbed his alcoholism. He had just adapted. Became more adept at hiding it. More wary when it came to the jobs that counted. Some were more high-profile than others. Which meant that they would be under the spotlight. If Wolfe failed to detect something, or made an error in judgement, regardless of how small, he now knew that someone, somewhere would be watching, waiting for him to fuck up. So he made sure that on such occasions he moderated his liquid lunch.
Despite Brady’s casual shrug, Wolfe still looked concerned. It was clear that he wasn’t going to accept it. So Brady attempted a reassuring smile. Let him know that he was all right. Regardless of how shit his life had suddenly become. Not only that, the fact that his shit life was now under the glare of the media. But he failed. His smile was more of a grimace.
‘Macintosh isn’t my problem now. Finding the sick bastard responsible for what happened to her is,’ Brady stated as he stared down at what was left of one of his victims.
Surprised, Wolfe looked up at him. ‘Tell me that arse of a DCI of yours hasn’t knee-jerked because of the crap those morons in the media have been saying about you?’
Brady felt Wolfe’s assistant Harold watching. He looked across at him. Harold reacted by blushing profusely. He shifted his gaze to the female body – or skeleton. ‘No. Gates has enough people working on finding Macintosh. He needed someone on this case and I’m the one who found the victims,’ Brady answered as he turned back
to Wolfe. He shook his head at the pathologist’s scepticism. ‘I’m fine. Honest!’
Wolfe wasn’t buying it. ‘So why do you look like shit? Eh?’ He shot a scathing glance over at Conrad, as if he was somehow responsible.
‘It is what it is,’ Brady stated, sounding nonchalant. However, he was anything but. It still hurt. The press had got to him. Even though he didn’t like to admit it. He caught Wolfe’s disbelieving expression. ‘It’s just the way it goes. That’s all. Someone’s got to be held accountable and unfortunately I was an easy target. I released him without charge.’
‘And from what I gathered, you had no choice. You had nothing on him. So, tell me why bloody Gates didn’t have your back? Huh? You were only doing your job, laddie!’
‘He did. Or at least as best he could. And if it wasn’t for this new case I would still be working on finding Macintosh.’
‘Aye, laddie! You believe that if you want! I wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t stumbled across this serial killer’s collection of victims? I imagine Gates is relieved to have you working on something else. You’ll see, soon there will be some PR spin sold to the press saying that you’ve been removed from the Macintosh investigation. They won’t say why, but they’ll be hoping it will quell the baying dogs.’
Brady shook his head as he gave Wolfe a half-hearted smile. ‘I honestly don’t give a fuck what those bastards write about me. It’s all lies, so what does a few more matter?’
Wolfe didn’t look so convinced.
‘I’m fine. Honest.’ He had known Wolfe a long time now. Trusted him. Respected him. Worried about him.
Brady knew he was a heavy smoker and a drinker with a rather robust appetite. Not even the job got in the way of his pleasures. But what worried Brady wasn’t just his unquenchable thirst, troublingly evident by his ever-expanding waistline. It was the fact that he was asthmatic. Not that Wolfe seemed to care. But Brady did. And his attacks were becoming increasingly dangerous. Asthma killed. It was simple maths; at some point his luck would run out.
The Puppet Maker: DI Jack Brady 5 Page 14