‘Nothing, sir. Nothing that I’ve heard, anyway,’ Conrad answered, looking uncomfortable.
It wasn’t enough. Brady still felt like crap. He might be working on a new case but he was very aware of the fact that the media was claiming that he had released Macintosh knowing that he was a danger to society. Worse still, that he had the evidence to prove it. That by default, he was responsible for the murder of Annabel Edwards’ family, and her abduction.
‘Do you want an update on the CCTV footage I’ve been looking at?’ Conrad tried.
Brady remained silent. He realised that he shouldn’t have lost it in the Incident Room. That word would get back to DCI Gates that he wasn’t coping. Fuck it! He couldn’t continue in the job if he worried about every bloody thing he said – or didn’t say.
‘Sir?’ Conrad prompted.
Brady nodded. Distracted.
‘I’ve just run a check on cars registered in Julian Fraser’s name.’ Conrad shook his head. ‘He only has the one. And it’s not a black Volvo series 200. It’s a BMW estate.’
Brady sighed. It was the same car he had watched Julian Fraser head towards when he had met him at Newcastle College. He had been silently hoping that the black Volvo caught on surveillance footage at the old psychiatric hospital would have been registered to Fraser. Since he’d learned who Fraser’s real mother was, he was increasingly sure Fraser was their suspect. But they still had no real proof. Nothing that actually tied him to the victims.
He sighed. ‘All right. Take a seat. This will interest you.’
Conrad did as instructed.
‘Julian Fraser was born in 1972 in St Mary’s Hospital in Dundee, Scotland. His mother, Shauna McBride, was sixteen years old. Father of the child, unknown. The first lobotomy in the UK was performed at St Mary’s Hospital in 1946. The last in 1972. In that period 17,000 people were lobotomised in the UK,’ Brady said. He thought about it for a moment, absorbing the number. It was hard to believe that it wasn’t that long ago.
‘Do you know who the last lobotomy patient was?’ Brady continued.
‘Fraser’s mother?’
‘Correct. Shauna McBride.’
‘What was wrong with her?’ Conrad asked.
Brady looked at him. He didn’t like the answer and he sure as hell knew Conrad wouldn’t. ‘She was gay. Her parents wanted her “sorted”. At least that’s what was reported in the article I read. “Fixed” was another word that was used.’
Conrad was silent for a moment. He frowned. ‘Where did you find that out?’
‘Internet. Articles in the press. Someone wrote a book on the history of St Mary’s and Shauna McBride is mentioned in there.’
Conrad looked surprised.
‘There was a lot of controversy around her lobotomy and the psychiatric hospital was closed down shortly afterwards,’ Brady explained.
‘Was it closed down because of her?’ Conrad asked, his voice strained.
Brady shook his head. It was wishful thinking on Conrad’s part. And Brady could see in his deputy’s eye that he knew it. ‘No. Sadly not. There were two reasons behind its closure. Obviously, this is conjecture.’
Conrad waited.
‘The article I read said that Shauna had been raped whilst an inpatient there. That was how she got pregnant. Her parents were interviewed by the author in the late nineties and explained that the psychological effect on her was devastating. No one knew about the sexual abuse until she was seven months’ pregnant. Her mental health had radically deteriorated over that time.’ Brady looked at Conrad. He knew what his deputy would be thinking. Could see it on his face. That this girl was institutionalised because of her sexuality. Then found herself being raped. Presumably, repeatedly. And who would listen to her? After all, she had been confined to a mental institution, known in those days to be draconian in their treatment of patients, to say the least.
Conrad remained silent.
Brady accepted that there was nothing he could say.
‘From what I read, Shauna was an exceptionally bright girl who suffered extreme bouts of dark depression when she hit adolescence. Understandable when you consider she was trying to cope with her sexuality and her parents’ homophobic values.’
‘So why did the press suggest the hospital had been closed down?’ asked Conrad.
‘Her parents signed the legal document for her to be lobotomised when she was eight months’ pregnant.’
‘What?’ Conrad said, unable to keep the shock out of his voice.
‘I know. It’s unprecedented. But then . . .’ Brady shrugged. ‘Christ only knows what other malpractices went on. They were effectively self-governing.’
‘What happened to her afterwards?’ Conrad asked.
Brady could see from his expression that he was struggling to comprehend what he was hearing. ‘Well, a caesarean section was performed on her a month later. By the same doctor who lobotomised her.’
‘Julian Fraser’s father?’ Conrad asked.
Brady nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘How did the Frasers adopt the child? Surely the girl’s parents would have wanted him?’
‘Who knows?’ Brady replied. ‘Even in 1972 it was a stigma. A sixteen-year-old unmarried mother in a psychiatric hospital gives birth to a child who is the product of rape? If I’ve assumed correctly that the Frasers couldn’t have children, then this might have been an ideal situation for them. It’s not as if the birth mother was in any fit state to object.’
‘I suppose not, sir. What happened to her after the birth of Julian?’
‘The articles I read reported that St Mary’s closed down in 1972, shortly after McBride’s lobotomy. She was then transferred to Lennox Castle Hospital in Glasgow. It closed in April 2002.’
‘Is she still alive?’
Brady shook his head. ‘But this is the interesting part. She died twenty years ago.’
Conrad frowned. ‘Wolfe said that he believed the earliest victim was murdered twenty years ago?’
Brady nodded.
‘But that doesn’t necessarily make Julian Fraser a suspect. Yes, it could be a trigger. But did he know about it?’ asked Conrad.
‘Shauna McBride was transferred in 1980 to St George’s Psychiatric Hospital and remained there until she died in 1995. Just before the hospital was closed down.’
Conrad shook his head in disbelief. ‘Are you certain?’
‘Of course I’m bloody certain! I checked her death certificate. I don’t know why she was transferred to St George’s. Perhaps her parents had her moved? We’ll never know, because they’re both dead. Or maybe Dr Fraser had her moved?’
Conrad looked at Brady. ‘He worked at St George’s?’ His voice was unable to hide his incredulity.
‘No. He wasn’t a member of staff, which is why our team missed him. He was on the board of directors. Remained on the board until the hospital closed down.’
‘And you think Julian Fraser somehow found out about his birth mother? That she had been lobotomised and was a resident at St George’s Psychiatric Hospital?’
Brady nodded. ‘Definitely. And he definitely lied to us when he said he had never been to St George’s.’
Conrad shot him a quizzical look.
Brady turned his laptop to face Conrad. ‘See here? Old photographs of when the hospital was still open. All very civilised, of course. Here, standing outside on the grounds is Dr Fraser. See? Below it states that Dr Fraser was on the board of directors.’
Conrad nodded as he looked at the man listed as Dr Fraser. Beside him was a young boy, smiling, holding his hand.
‘That’s his son? That’s Julian?’
Brady nodded. ‘It was a public holiday and some charity event was being held there. The press were there. It was good publicity for the hospital.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Conrad. He shook his head in disbelief. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. It’s all circumstantial. Fraser could easily argue that he had no memory of St George’s because he
was a child when he visited. It is clear from what we have heard about his artwork that he has issues around mental health treatments. Does that make him a serial killer? No. Does it make him suspicious? Yes. One hundred per cent.’
Conrad nodded. ‘But there’s nothing tangible here, is there? DCI Gates wouldn’t authorise you bringing him in for questioning. Not with this evidence. It doesn’t mean Fraser’s a murderer. It just tells us what a tragic background he had. Or should I say his mother had . . . And he’s clearly not hiding the fact he has issues around his father’s neurological practices. He’s made that very public. So, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did know about his biological mother, that there is a history of mental illness in his family. But I don’t believe it would make him a murderer. His art could be a direct reaction, a rebellion if you like, to the fact that his father was a neurologist who practised lobotomies.’ Conrad shook his head.
‘I know what we have is tenuous, Conrad. But don’t forget he is the last known person to have seen Emily before she disappeared. I think that gives us grounds enough to bring him in for questioning.’
‘Not with all the media interest. If we make a wrong move we will be crucified by the press.’
Brady looked at Conrad. It wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear but he knew his deputy was right. The media were camped outside the station. One wrong move and Brady’s career could be over. Fuck it! He had no other choice.
‘I want a briefing with the team first. Then I’m bringing him in for questioning. He was the last person we know to have spoken to her. That’s significant enough for me, Conrad.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Monday: 2:16 p.m.
He had found it all too easy. Smiled. Looked around the bedroom. Breathed in the air. Breathed his smell. Detective Jack Brady. He wasn’t here. Not that he had expected him to be. He could feel the stirring sensation in the pit of his stomach. His smile widened as he thought of what he had planned for him.
Not yet though . . .
He still had work to do. He thought of his mother. The smile gone. Anger coursed through him.
That fucking bitch! That lying fucking bitch!
He had tracked her down. He knew it would not be long before Brady did the same. He was aware he was running out of time. He had been following the news. All the false leads he had put in place had been swallowed. Gullible fools. But not Jack Brady. The police believed he was in London. Apart from DI Brady who he had seen sniffing around Mill Cottage. Taking things that he had no right to remove. Her things.
But he was disappointed with Brady. It seemed that he had forgotten him. And her. Maybe he needed to remind him to get his priorities in place?
He walked over to the bed. Pulled open the bedside cabinet and found what he expected. A photograph of Jack Brady and his wife, Claudia. He removed the photograph from the frame. Stared for a few moments at the picture. It was clear that Brady had loved her. He touched her face. It was tilted up towards him, laughing at something he had said. Her long curly red hair was wild. Her green eyes filled with joy. He felt a stab of envy. The only love he had ever truly felt was for Lucy. But she had been taken from him. The pain had never left him. Instead of lessening over time it had intensified. So much so that at times it was unbearable.
He snapped himself out of it. Not now. Not yet.
He put the photograph of Brady and Claudia in his jacket pocket. He removed a Polaroid photograph he had taken of Annabel and placed it in the frame. She looked so much like Lucy, dressed like that and holding Lucy’s favourite doll.
Fucking bastard. You stole her doll. And the photographs of her. Everything I had saved, you took . . . You went through my house and you found all I had left of her. And you took it from me.
Macintosh reined in his anger. He needed to keep it under control. For now. He still had a plan to exact. For now he was focused on making DI Jack Brady suffer as much as he suffered. Brady had taken from him so now it was time to take from Brady. Something that would destroy him.
He placed the frame on the bedside cabinet. He knew Brady would see it as soon as he walked into the room. He wanted him to have a choice to make. One that would affect him every day for the rest of his life.
He left the room. Walked down the dark corridor. Passed Claudia’s room. Then passed the bathroom. The cabinet where he had seen her medication. Left behind. In a hurry.
Just like Lucy . . .
No! Not like Lucy. Claudia, Brady’s ex-wife was still alive. Wanting Brady back. To make amends. Start again. He had heard her words. Sweet. Sickly . . . Begging Brady to visit her. To wait for her.
Then he heard his father’s voice. Screaming at him. Admonishing him.
What have you done, you little shit? What have you done to her?
NO! He slowed his breathing down. He had a job to do. Focused, he walked down the stairs. He looked at the answer machine. He had silenced the flashing light. The irritating beeping noise. He memorised the number that Claudia had left for Brady. Then he had pressed delete. Eradicated her pathetic message.
Brady wouldn’t know until it was too late.
Then . . . then he will know what it feels like.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Monday: 3:21 p.m.
He turned around as Conrad walked into the Incident Room. ‘Anything?’
‘No, sir,’ Conrad answered.
They still had nothing on Emily’s whereabouts. The ageing druggie from the flat below her on Whitley Road had been interviewed. Harvey had given him a hard time. But it was clear that he knew nothing. He had an alibi. One that covered him for all of Friday and Friday night. Not that it had surprised Brady. He was convinced, as were the rest of the team that she had been taken by the same suspect who had killed twelve women and left Hannah Stewart brain damaged. But where was she?
Where are you hiding her? She has to be close. Close enough for you to abuse her . . .
Brady caught Daniels and Kenny sniggering over something. He snapped: ‘If you two haven’t found the registration of that black Volvo 200 yet, then I don’t see why you’re both sat there with your fingers up your arses doing nothing!’
Conrad caught Brady’s eye.
Brady ignored him. He would be the first to admit he was in a foul mood. He was tense. Time was running out for Emily. The suspect would feel backed into a corner. He would worry the police were on to him. It would just be a matter of time. His crimes were all over the media; national and international. Brady thought about Julian Fraser. He had a gut feeling about the man that he couldn’t silence. But, as Conrad had pointed out, they did not have enough to charge him. However, he could bring him in for questioning which was exactly what he was about to do. Whether it would bring him any closer to Emily and her whereabouts, he couldn’t say.
The nationwide police hunt for Macintosh was still the main focus – after all, a three-year-old girl had been abducted. Brady had been left with the dregs. Not that he could complain. Annabel Edwards was the priority. He glanced around the room. There were ten people in here. But still – ten people. Six uniform, four CID. The four detectives were his old team. Apart from Amelia Jenkins, who was still in London helping Gates and the Met with the Macintosh investigation. He hadn’t talked to her since yesterday afternoon when he had been outside Mill Cottage. That was before they even realised that they had another sick bastard on their hands. That was when all Brady could think about was James David Macintosh and finding three-year-old Annabel.
And bring her home . . . But she had no home. No family. Nothing.
The parallel with the latest Puppet Maker victim hit him hard. Both missing. Both potentially dead. Brady swallowed. Had to clear his throat. He was struggling to cope. Terrified of failure. That he would lose Emily to him. That Brady would find her too late. After all, he had released her information to the press. Had claimed that she was another potential victim of the Puppet Maker. He had wanted to see a result. Had hoped that someone would ring the police with crucial eviden
ce. Details of when she had last been sighted and with whom. Details of the car Brady believed she would have been driven away in – the Volvo 200. She would have climbed into the passenger seat willingly. Why not? She knew the man. Of course she did. Otherwise, why did she walk with him down the road from the nursing home? Why did she look so animated, so enthralled to be in his company?
Brady knew the answer. As did Conrad. They just needed to prove it.
‘This is the best I could get,’ Conrad said as he connected his laptop to the interactive board.
Brady turned and looked at the board. Conrad had put up a frozen image of the suspect walking away with the victim, alongside one of Julian Fraser that they had found from the college website.
Conrad turned to him. ‘What do you think?’
Brady shrugged. ‘Could be him. Then again, could be anyone. His hair roughly looks the same. Height the same. But that big coat he’s wearing is disguising his build. And he has his back to us. What about the suspect’s face?’
‘No good. In every shot his face is obscured by the baseball cap. It’s impossible to say whether it’s Fraser or not,’ Conrad answered as he changed the image of the suspect to a close-up of his head.
‘Shit!’ cursed Brady. The suspect had pulled the baseball cap peak down low enough to make it impossible to see any distinguishable features. ‘All right. Let’s see if Jed can do anything with it.’
If anyone could find something conclusive from these images, it would be Jed.
Brady looked over at the wall that had the twelve victims’ faces covering it. Some mug shots from when they had been arrested. Four of them still remained unidentified.
He shook his head. Brady didn’t want to think about what he had done to them. How Hannah Stewart had been left, barely alive.
‘All right, Conrad. Let’s go bring Fraser in for questioning,’ Brady conceded. He had nothing on Julian Fraser. Aside from circumstantial evidence. Did that make him a serial killer? No. But what he did have was one glaringly obvious fact – he was the last known person to have seen Emily before she disappeared. And that was what Brady was banking on. Simply because that was all he had.
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