‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered as he started to get his things together.
‘Meet you outside,’ Brady instructed as he headed towards the door. He had wanted to have more leverage on Fraser. But they had nothing but circumstantial evidence.
Suddenly Harvey came barging through the door, red-faced and out of breath.
‘What the fuck has got into you?’ Brady demanded, barely avoiding being run into by the DS.
‘You need to see this! Now!’ he insisted thrusting his phone at Brady.
‘Why? What is it?’
‘There’s two photos on there, just look at them will you?’ Harvey wheezed as he tried to catch his breath.
He looked at the first photo. Then the second. ‘Shit! Conrad, upload these will you?’ Brady demanded as he handed the phone to him.
He stared at the whiteboard as Conrad uploaded the first photo, and felt the hairs go up on the back of his neck. Realised that the room had taken on a deathly silence. Everyone had stopped what they were doing and were staring at the image on the board.
‘Christ!’ muttered Brady. He looked at the painting. A study of a woman in a psychiatric chair. Naked. Starved. Tortured.
‘Tell me you are seeing what I’m seeing?’ Harvey asked, as he stared at the work.
‘A woman about to be lobotomised,’ Brady answered. He swallowed hard, as he stared at the brutal, sickening images on the board. The woman’s face was jarringly blank. Mask-like. Disturbing. She was shackled to a psychiatric chair while a faceless doctor – male – studied her. Leaned over her with . . .
An ice pick . . .
Brady walked over to the board. Examined the instrument. He was correct. The white-coated male figure was holding an ice pick in one hand and a small hammer in the other.
‘What is that?’ Daniels suddenly interjected.
Brady turned around. Daniels’ mouth was open in shock. His partner, Kenny opposite him, looked sickened. As did the others in the room.
‘An ice pick,’ Brady answered, turning his attention back to the board, to the man in the painting. Brady stared at him. He looked unnervingly like Julian’s father, Dr Fraser. The hands poised over the patient’s eyeball . . . Waiting to take the patient’s identity away.
Brady turned to Harvey. ‘This is by Julian Fraser?’
Harvey nodded. ‘Yeah. I sped down the coast road to get this to you. Needed you to see it before you brought him in for questioning.’
‘Why didn’t you call me?’ Brady demanded. ‘Or even just send it to me?’
‘Because I wanted you to see it in person first. And as for sending them to you, fuck Jack! It’s me you’re talking to. You know I’m crap with technology. You’re bloody lucky I figured out how to take the photographs on that bloody thing!’ he stated, gesturing over at his phone.
‘Where did you find them?’
‘Newcastle College. I’ve been trying to find someone there who had any images of Julian Fraser’s artwork. These two paintings were being stored by the caretaker. Fraser had cleared out all his work yesterday afternoon. Had loaded it into a hire van with the help of the caretaker. These two pieces didn’t fit. So Fraser had asked him to store them until he was able to collect them. Last the caretaker saw of him was when he drove off late yesterday afternoon.’
Brady realised that he had inadvertently warned Fraser that the police were after him. He assumed Fraser had returned to the college to get rid of any evidence. Or was it just coincidence? He turned back and looked at the painting on the screen. Admittedly, it was disturbing, but that was all. Nothing tied it to the twelve murder victims, or Hannah Stewart. All it told Brady was that Julian Fraser had issues with his father. Issues that he committed to canvas. That was it.
‘Good try, Tom,’ Brady replied, shaking his head. ‘But I need more than that to charge him. Come on, Conrad. Let’s go.’
‘No. Wait!’ Harvey called out after Brady’s retreating figure.
Brady stopped and turned.
‘The other painting. You need to see it blown up on the screen. Trust me here,’ Harvey said. ‘I recognised something and I think you will too.’
Brady nodded at Conrad to upload the second painting.
‘Fuck!’ Brady muttered as he stared at the new image on the white board.
The rest of the room was shocked silent.
The image had been too small on Harvey’s screen to see the detailed features of the patient – victim. But now Brady could see that she looked uncannily familiar. She was a young woman shackled to a psychiatric chair while a male figure in a long white coat shaved the side of her head.
‘Her face, Conrad. Zoom in on the face.’
The sudden disquiet in the room was deafening.
‘That’s one of our victims,’ Brady muttered as he looked at the tortured face in the painting.
There was no disputing that the painting was of one of the unidentified victims whose face – death mask – was on display with the rest of the crime scene photographs on the other wall. This victim was believed to be the earliest one. The one that Brady had seen on the mortuary slab when he had visited Wolfe. Even checking dental records with local dentists had failed to come back with a positive ID. Not that he had expected to find a match. It had been a futile stab in the dark. One that hadn’t paid off.
Brady stared in shock at the painting, not quite believing what he was seeing. The mask that he had made of the victim was indistinguishable from the young woman Julian Fraser had painted. The thick scar in the left eyebrow where the hair had never grown back. The large black mole on her left cheek. Her nose, flattened. Broken, he presumed by a punter. Or her pimp. It didn’t matter. She was inconsequential. So much so, no one even noticed that she had disappeared. Twenty years ago she had been murdered. And for two decades no one had known. Or cared. But nothing had changed. She would remain unknown . . .
But it was there in front of him. The face of a young woman who had died at the hands of a psychopath. Someone who had drilled into her head and altered her brain – permanently. And had then locked her up to die.
It was conclusive evidence. Julian Fraser had painted this victim. There were no two ways about it. And that meant that he had to be . . . Shit!
‘Get a warrant for Julian Fraser’s arrest, NOW!’ Brady ordered.
Suddenly, everyone in the room were on their feet.
‘Don’t you think we should clear this with DCI Gates first?’
Brady looked at Conrad as if he had lost his mind. ‘Are you crazy? And tell him what? That this artist is painting his victims for posterity? He’d have me committed!’
Conrad shook his head. ‘Not if he saw the evidence.’
‘Well, he’s not here and I haven’t got time to wait for a decision,’ Brady said, as he picked his jacket up off the back of one of the chairs. He turned back to Conrad. ‘Are you coming or what?’
Conrad nodded. ‘Let me just close this down,’ he replied as he shut down his laptop.
‘For fuck’s sake, Conrad! Get a move on!’
Brady didn’t have time. Emily Baker didn’t have time. ‘I saw him yesterday, for fuck’s sake. I alerted him to the fact that Emily was missing. What would you do with that information? You’d bloody get rid of the evidence. So come on. Move!’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Monday: 4:33 p.m.
Brady banged on the door of number 39 Grosvenor Drive, Whitley Bay. He had called backup. They would be here within minutes. But he didn’t have minutes.
Just like before . . . Jonathan Edwards’ house. Queens Road. Banging on the door. Shouting. No one answering . . .
The door opened suddenly.
‘Police!’ Brady flashed his warrant card at the startled Annika Fraser, Julian Fraser’s wife.
‘What?’ she asked, shocked. She pulled her cardigan protectively around herself, hands trembling as she did so.
‘Where is he?’ demanded Brady as he pushed past her.
She stepped back.
Flattened herself against the wall as she stared in disbelief
Fast approaching sirens could be heard. Flashing lights followed as cars screamed to a halt in the street.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ Conrad said. ‘We need to talk to your husband.’
‘Talk? This is talk?’ she spluttered incredulously as she gestured outside at the chaos in the street.
‘Where is he?’ shouted Brady as he made his way down the corridor.
‘In his studio. Why? What has he done?’ she asked. Her tanned face had lost its healthy vigour. She turned and stared, numb with shock as bulky officers wearing protective body armour ran up the path towards her house. One of them was armed with a battering ram. ‘I . . . I . . . don’t understand!’
She stumbled back. Out of the way of the officers. Confused. Scared. She looked for the detective who had flashed her his warrant card. Wanting answers. But he had gone. Disappeared through the house and out in to the back garden, followed by ten or so heavily armoured officers.
‘We need to open this,’ Brady urged as he threw his body against the double wooden doors. It didn’t budge. He knew Julian Fraser was in there. Had locked himself in. Brady had seen someone through the large windows on the side of the single-storey brick building. But the glass was frosted to prevent anyone from clearly seeing in. The lights were on. Brady held his ear against the wooden doors. He could hear banging in there. As if Fraser was rearranging his art studio. No. Smashing everything up.
He needed in. Needed to get to her before . . .
He stopped himself. Turned, as officers in black protective gear came running down the large back garden. One ready with a battering ram. The studio, which looked like it had originally been constructed as a double garage at the bottom of the large garden, was a decent size, with a pitched, tiled roof. A driveway gave access from the street through double wooden doors to the side of the house. The garden was secluded, not overlooked by the neighbours. It was the perfect location to hide someone.
‘Open it!’ ordered Brady as he stood out of the way. ‘NOW!’
‘POLICE!’ yelled the officers as they stormed the building.
Brady watched them force their way in. Had decided it was better to let them check out the situation. After all, Julian Fraser was cornered and Brady had no idea how he would react. It seemed like an eternity, but was in reality only a minute or so, before two officers emerged.
They shook their heads at Brady. ‘There’s no one else inside, sir. Apart from the suspect. The first part’s a garage. Car parked up. Then a door leads into an art studio. Nothing else.’
Brady made his way in. He saw the car. A BMW estate. There was no Volvo Series 200 parked up here. No black Labrador. For a moment Brady wondered if he had got it wrong.
Could it all just be coincidence?
He walked over to the door, which hung, smashed and crooked. He walked through into a brightly lit, deceptively spacious studio. Paintings had been ripped and smashed beyond recognition and thrown in disarray around the room. A large leather couch sat against the far wall. It was clear from the cushions and blankets thrown on it that Fraser used it to sleep on. Two easels stood at the side of room. Both works in progress. But both canvases had been shredded into pieces by a knife.
He turned. Nothing.
He scanned the room. Looking for signs of Emily. But the officer had been right. There was nothing. He ignored Julian Fraser who had been restrained by two officers, holding him back. Ignored his outraged shouts claiming police brutality – and the rest.
Brady walked around the large space. He was looking for a hiding place. Couldn’t see one. The exposed floor had been laid with polished concrete. His eyes glanced over at the small kitchen. A sink, cabinets and a worktop. A kettle and a couple of paint-covered mugs. He opened the cupboard doors with latex gloved hands. Nothing.
He could hear Julian Fraser’s shouting. Getting louder and more aggravated. He continued his search.
‘She’s not here, sir,’ Conrad quietly informed him. ‘I’ve checked the bathroom back there. There’s no sign of her. Walk-in shower, sink and toilet. That’s all.’
Brady didn’t respond. He refused to accept that she wasn’t here. The alternative was too hard to face.
If she’s not here and he’s hidden her somewhere else, I’ll never find her. She’ll die . . .
‘She has to be here. Keep looking!’
Brady turned and looked across at Fraser. Brady swore he saw a trace of a smile on his face. His hazel eyes were steady, calm.
‘What were you doing in here?’ Brady asked as he walked over to him.
‘I could ask you and your armed gorillas the same question,’ Fraser said, gesturing with his head at the grim-faced officers flanking him on either side.
Brady got right in to his face. ‘What the fuck were you doing in here?’
‘Painting. That’s what I do for a living.’ he replied.
‘Looks to me as if you were destroying evidence.’
Fraser shrugged.
‘I know you’ve got her.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’
Brady lunged at him. ‘If I find her too late, I’ll kill you. You hear me!’ he yelled, his face contorted with rage.
‘Sir!’ cautioned Conrad.
Brady ignored him.
The other officers kept out of it.
‘I’m fucking serious, you little psychotic shit! I have enough evidence to lock you up forever!’ Brady spat at him. He raised his fist. ‘Are you going to tell me where she is or do I have to beat it out of you first?’
‘Sir!’ Conrad shouted.
But Brady didn’t care. Not anymore. He would rather have the satisfaction of hitting Fraser than walking away, knowing that he had won. That they had no way of finding where Emily was hidden.
He pulled his arm back.
Fraser winced. Shut his eyes. His forehead glistened with perspiration. He raised his hands to protect himself.
Brady stopped. Suddenly. No matter how good it would feel, it wasn’t worth losing his job.
Startled, Fraser opened his eyes to look at Brady. His gaze filled with pure murderous hate. The look in his narrowed eyes told Brady he was right. Fraser had taken Emily and all the others. She was here. She had to be. But where?
‘Arrest him!’ Brady ordered.
He watched as Fraser was read his rights. Handcuffed and taken away.
He could hear his wife running down the garden towards them. Screaming and shouting at the officers. Demanding to know what he had done. Why they were arresting him. No one said a word to her as they walked past.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Monday: 7:01 p.m.
Brady looked at Fraser. He had been arrested. His home and garden had been searched. But there was no sign of Emily Baker. No evidence to suggest that she or any of the victims had ever been held captive there. Nor were there any paintings. Nothing. Nothing to suggest that he was involved in abducting, lobotomising and then murdering young women over a twenty-year period.
It was clear from the outset that Fraser wasn’t going to talk. Brady had tried every form of coercion and nothing had worked. He simply refused to talk. But they had him. It had taken time but biological evidence had been recovered from the victims’ nightdresses and hair. The forensic evidence found matched Fraser’s DNA. It was the conclusive evidence that Brady had needed.
But Fraser had Brady by the balls. And he knew it.
Time was running out for Emily, if she wasn’t already dead. Brady breathed in slowly. Steadied himself. Resisted the urge to throw Julian Fraser against the wall. His eyes automatically looked up at the camera in the corner of the ceiling filming the interview. It wouldn’t look good on his CV.
Brady turned to Conrad, who looked as frustrated as Brady felt. He nodded at Conrad. It was all they had left. It was clear that Fraser was not going to talk. This would be Brady’s last-ditch attempt at trying to break him. Whether it would work
was yet to be determined.
Brady turned his attention to the file on the desk in front of him.
He took out the photograph that he had downloaded from the press article in 1972. ‘Pretty girl, your mother,’ he said, staring at the image. He turned to Conrad. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’
Fraser kept his eyes on Brady, refusing to look at the photograph of Shauna McBride that Brady had now placed directly before him. His face was filled with anger and disdain.
‘Why do you think your adopted father lobotomised her?’
Fraser didn’t respond.
Brady sat back and folded his arms. He was exhausted. Mentally and physically. The last place he wanted to be was in front of Julian Fraser – the Puppet Maker.
‘Did you visit your mother when she was at St George’s? Must have screwed with your head when you realised what your father had done to her.’
Again, Fraser didn’t say anything.
Brady had had enough.
He pushed his chair back and stood up. Leaned over. ‘Where the fuck is Emily Baker? Where the fuck are you keeping her?’
Fraser shook his head. ‘No comment.’
‘I’ll give you no fucking comment!’ he threatened as he banged his fist down on the table.
‘DI Brady, I must object to this behaviour!’
Brady ignored the Duty Solicitor. He didn’t need her telling him how to do his job.
‘Where is she?’ he hissed, his face inches from Fraser’s.
‘You’re not that clever are you? You don’t even know about my adoptive father, do you?’
Brady sat back down. Whatever surprise he felt at Fraser’s sudden decision to talk, he hid. ‘Go on.’
‘He was my biological father,’ said Fraser. His voice thick, filled with loathing.
Brady stared at him.
‘Didn’t know that did you?’ Fraser laughed. Brutal. Cruel. ‘Not that smart after all?’
‘So why would you lobotomise those women? Why do what he did to Shauna?’
He didn’t answer Brady. Not directly. But he did start to talk.
The Puppet Maker: DI Jack Brady 5 Page 22