‘My father persuaded Shauna’s parents to have her lobotomised. Not that there was anything wrong with her. She wasn’t mentally ill. She just wasn’t what her parents wanted her to be. My grandparents were . . . very much of their generation. My mother was an embarrassment to them. Sexually active. But with the wrong sort, if you get my drift. They thought she would grow out of it. But when my grandmother caught her with a friend in a compromising position, well they had no choice but to deal with it. With her,’ he smiled at Brady.
Brady didn’t react.
‘So, she was committed and put under the care of my medically esteemed father at St Mary’s, who took the opportunity to abuse her. Then she got pregnant. When he realised, he naturally worried that she would talk. Not inside. Nobody listened to them on the inside. But once she was out. She would have exposed him. So, he used his expertise. The ultimate power he had to keep her quiet permanently. A month later he delivered me. Wanted to see if I was healthy. Then he told her parents, my grandparents, that I was “mentally retarded”. He recommended they forget that I was ever born.’ He suddenly stopped.
‘How do you know all this?’ Brady asked.
‘I checked my birth certificate when I graduated from university. Had this feeling that something wasn’t right. I was definitely my father’s son. I never doubted that. But I did doubt that she was my real mother.’ He shook his head. ‘She never liked me. You see, she could see that I was his child. I looked just like him.’
And he did. Brady had seen the photograph of Dr Nigel Fraser. He understood why Harvey wouldn’t have questioned the suspect’s parentage. Julian Fraser did look just like him.
‘You know how I found out about Shauna McBride? That bitch who raised me! The one I was forced to call Mother. She told me. She had put two and two together. Knew my birth mother was a young patient of his. She was happy to begin with, and then I started to grow up. Started to have this uncanny resemblance to my adopted father. Then that bitch somehow found out my father had had Shauna McBride transferred to St George’s. He had that power. He could do whatever he liked and he did. But she would take me there. My adoptive mother. To humiliate me,’ he said staring Brady straight in the eye. ‘Point at her and tell me that she was my real mother.’
Brady remained expressionless. There was nothing Fraser could say that would shock him. Or provoke him. Not now. Not after he had seen what this man had done to women as vulnerable and helpless as his own biological mother. Julian had copied his father. He had taken it to a perverse and sadistically inhuman extreme. But there were parallels. And that was what Julian Fraser was explaining. That he was really no different from his critically acclaimed, neurologist father. Yet here he was, charged with kidnapping, torturing and murdering the women he lobotomised. Unlike his father who, when he retired, received the British Medical Journal Lifetime Achievement Award for his work.
‘You know, Shauna wasn’t the only young woman my father sexually abused. There were others. All lobotomised. All locked up under his authority. Waiting, strapped to a chair or a bed, for Dr Fraser’s visits.’ He suddenly shook his head and laughed.
Brady could hear the pain in the guttural laugh.
‘I saw him once. I wasn’t supposed to. I was there on a visit. My father had taken me. I was ten years old. He had said he had a meeting with the hospital’s board of directors.’
Brady thought back to the photograph taken on the grounds outside the hospital. The one where Dr Fraser stood holding his son’s hand, surrounded by medical staff and a few, specially selected patients.
‘I went looking for him. Found him in a patient’s room. She was strapped to the bed and he was doing things to her. And then she turned her head and looked at me. Stared with blank eyes. As if . . .’ Julian faltered, lost in the moment. ‘As if she was already dead. Or wishing she was dead.’
Brady looked at him. Felt no pity. Nothing but contempt. Whatever had happened to Fraser as a child could never justify the heinous crimes he had committed against women. The most defenceless women in society. Just like his mother.
‘What about Emily Baker? Have you . . .’ Brady couldn’t say it.
Julian Fraser smiled at him. ‘Lobotomised her?’ He studied Brady. Considered whether it was worth telling him. ‘They were all the same as my mother. They were diseased. Their minds crawling with filth. Whores. All of them. What I did to them was for their own good. I cleansed them. Took away their obsession with sex. Cut it out of them, so to speak.’
Brady had had enough. He felt sickened. He knew that Fraser would never tell him where he had hidden Emily Baker. Let alone whether he had lobotomised her. He turned and walked out of the interview room. He imagined that Fraser’s artwork would command a high price now. A killer painting his victims as he tortured them. It would be priceless to some people.
‘I’m just like my father, Detective Inspector Brady. That’s what that bitch would taunt me with. But you know something? She’s right! You tell her from me that she was right! I am my father’s son! You tell that fucking bitch of a woman what I did for him!’ Fraser shouted after Brady’s retreating figure. ‘Do you hear me? You tell that fucking bitch!’
Brady continued walking. Slammed the door behind him. To block out his voice. His taunts.
Tried to focus. He had to keep it together – for Emily’s sake, Brady could not let go of the eighties black Volvo. If he found the Volvo, he would find Emily Baker. He knew it had to have been Fraser who had walked Emily down past Bluebell Woods. Presumably he had offered her a lift home. After all, what was there to be fearful of? She knew Fraser. And Brady was certain that Fraser knew of Emily’s plans to visit the old hospital to take photographs. An assignment that was heavily influenced by Fraser’s own work on mental illness and psychiatric hospitals. If Brady had not been looking for old patient files on James David Macintosh, he would never have come across Hannah and the others. And Hannah’s repetition of Emily’s name had led him to Fraser.
The car had to be how he could find where Julian Fraser had hidden her. He just hoped to God he was right.
‘Conrad!’ Brady shouted down the hall. He could feel the tension building. He didn’t have time to wait around. ‘CONRAD!’
Moments later his deputy came running down the corridor.
‘You got it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad said, red-faced.
‘About bloody time. Come on, we’ll take my car,’ Brady instructed as grabbed his jacket and keys. ‘What’s the address?’
‘It’s about three miles from Wooler. Remote place by the looks of it.’
‘Sounds about right,’ Brady replied.
Brady would not have expected anything else.
Brady sped up the A1 North heading for the countryside on the outskirts of the Northumberland town of Wooler.
‘I don’t understand . . . Fraser’s paintings. The doctor with the ice pick?’ Conrad questioned.
Brady shook his head as he thought back to the painting. ‘Yeah . . . most people don’t realise that a simple kitchen implement like the ice pick advanced modern lobotomies.’
‘You are serious?’ Conrad questioned.
‘Yes. An American doctor named Walter Freeman was the first surgeon in 1945 to use an ice pick. Taken from his own kitchen as a means of lobotomising his patients. He popularised the operation to the extent that it was still being practised in the United States and the UK until the seventies,’ Brady stated, pausing for a moment as he thought about it. ‘He even travelled around the United States in a coach offering the operation. No anaesthetic needed, so consequently, no operating theatre. A simple ten-minute procedure that involved inserting the ice pick behind the eyeball, followed by a few firm taps to break through the skull. Then a few more taps to sever whatever neurons were malfunctioning in the brain and there you are . . . Lobotomised.’ Brady shook his head again. The practice beyond his comprehension. ‘Depressed housewives . . . disobedient children. Fixed in ten minutes,’ he stated.
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br /> ‘Homosexuals . . .’ Conrad added.
Brady nodded. ‘Lobotomies were seen as a positive cure for extreme schizophrenics, violent patients and,’ he looked at Conrad, ‘people seen as socially deviant.’
‘Do you think he has already—’ Conrad faltered. Unable to say it.
Brady turned and looked at Conrad.
‘What? Lobotomised her?’ Brady shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’
He drove in silence for the rest of the journey. He didn’t feel much like talking. Nor it seemed, did Conrad.
‘There!’ Conrad pointed over to his left. ‘That track there must lead up to it.’
Brady looked up at the detached stone house. It was built on a hill overlooking Wooler. ‘Looks like it’s been abandoned for a few years,’ Brady commented as he drove towards it.
He parked his black 1978 Ford Granada Ghia in the drive next to the black Volvo Series 200. The registration plate was 1985. Brady got out and walked around the car. The partial registration they had caught on the CCTV surveillance footage at the nursing home matched. But Brady already knew it would. ‘It’s in good condition.’ He peered in through the windows. He knew that forensics would find conclusive evidence against Julian Fraser. His DNA would be all over the car. Fingerprints, strands of hair. He was equally certain that forensic evidence would place Emily in the car as well.
Brady called in backup. He had waited. He had wanted to be certain first. But he had been right.
‘Sir!’
Brady looked over at Conrad’s concerned expression. Then he heard it. A dog barking. It was coming from within the house.
‘Come on. Let’s go find her, shall we?’
Conrad followed Brady up the stone steps to the large wooden door. He knocked. The dog’s barking intensified. Brady waited. He knocked again. Waited. Nothing.
He tried the handle. The door was locked. ‘Reckon we need the “big red key”. Get it out my boot will you?’ Brady instructed. He went over to the living-room window and peered into the gloom.
Conrad came back with the battering ram.
Brady took it and after three hard blows the heavy wooden door gave way.
The smell of decay and stench hit them. The place had not been lived in for years. Brady walked into the dark hallway. He flicked a switch on the wall. A light overhead came on illuminating the dismal, worn decor and threadbare Axminster hall carpet. He immediately noticed the pile of unopened mail piled at the bottom of the stairs. He walked over and picked up an envelope. It was addressed to a ‘Mr D. McBride’.
When Julian Fraser had mentioned his grandparents in the interview room it had struck Brady that he had a relationship of sorts with them. That was when Brady started to wonder whether the Volvo could have belonged to the McBrides. After all, they would have been in their sixties when they had bought the car new. So, after finishing the interview with Julian Fraser, Brady had researched vehicles registered to Dougal McBride and his wife. The Volvo that had so eluded his team had been registered to Julian Fraser’s biological grandfather. Brady had found out that the couple had retired in the mid-eighties and had moved from Dundee to Wooler. Brady seriously doubted that it was to be closer to their daughter in St George’s. But if they had found out that Dr Fraser and his wife had adopted Julian, and that he was healthy, then maybe that was a good enough reason to relocate. Brady doubted he would ever find out. But Julian had a relationship with them – or at least his grandfather. One that had allowed him to use his grandfather’s Volvo to abduct his victims. But his grandparents had both been dead for over ten years.
Brady just hoped that they were not too late. Unwittingly, Brady had warned Fraser that they were looking for him. For Emily. Fraser had already attempted to get rid of anything that tied him to the crimes – primarily his artwork. Brady was no fool. He realised that the likelihood of finding his abductee alive was remote. Easier to destroy all evidence.
Brady dropped the envelope and turned and looked at Conrad. ‘Where’s the dog?’
It had stopped barking as soon as they had entered the house. The noise had been replaced by frantic scratching. Wherever the dog was, it had been locked in.
‘Down there,’ answered Conrad as he gestured towards the closed door at the end of the hallway.
Brady nodded. He walked down the corridor. ‘EMILY?’ he shouted as he approached the door. ‘Emily, it’s the police!’
He knew the door would be locked before he even attempted to turn the handle. ‘Stand back,’ Brady ordered.
Conrad did as instructed as Brady ran at the door throwing his weight against it. But to no avail.
‘Shit!’ muttered Brady.
The scratching behind the door had become even more furious.
‘Do you want the battering ram, sir?’
‘No,’ Brady answered. ‘Just in case she’s directly behind the door.’ He then rammed his shoulder hard against the door, succeeding in forcing the lock to give way.
Brady opened it, not sure what he was going to find. ‘Emily?’ he called out.
But she wasn’t there. Instead a dog was anxiously clawing and digging at something in the corner.
‘God that is foul,’ Conrad complained as his eyes watered.
Brady looked around. It was a small, windowless room. The plaster walls scratched and chewed. He realised the black Labrador was clawing furiously at what seemed to be a metal door. It was covered in scratches, telling Brady the dog had been kept in here for years. Why? Unless the dog was a deterrent in case anyone tried to escape?
‘I bet that door leads to a basement of sorts. Remember all the victims sustained injuries from being thrown or pushed down from a height?’ Brady said as he turned back to Conrad. ‘Grab hold of the dog, will you?’ Brady asked. ‘I don’t want him going down there.’
Conrad pulled the dog back by its collar, allowing Brady to pull the metal door open.
It screeched as it dragged across the stone floor.
‘Turn on that light switch, will you?’ Brady asked as he peered down into a chasm of bottomless blackness.
Conrad reached up with his free hand and flicked the light on.
If Brady thought the smell from the trapped dog had been bad, it was nothing compared to the stench emanating from the basement. The air foul with the smell of sweat. Urine. Faeces.
Brady tried not to react. Or gag. All he could think of was her.
Brady looked down into the underground room. A basement. A cell. He saw a mattress in the corner. It was empty. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light. Then he saw her. Tied to a chair identical to the ones he had seen dumped in the basement of St George’s. It was the missing eighteen-year-old. They had found her.
‘Oh fuck!’ he muttered. ‘Emily? Emily?’ he shouted as he ran down the steps. ‘It’s the police! Emily? Emily Baker?’
No response.
He realised then how the other victims had suffered such injuries. The stone steps were steep and slippery. He imagined they were pushed through the door at the top of the steps and fell, shattering and twisting whatever bones they landed on. Brady jumped the last few steps, landing on the dirt ground.
‘Emily?’ he called.
Nothing. Shit!
She had her back to him. The chair was positioned directly under a naked bulb. He walked over. Stopped. Stared at the wall of Polaroid photographs ahead of him. God . . . He looked away. Had to. Turned his attention to the victim.
‘Emily? It’s the police. Emily?’ Brady called out as he crouched down in front of her.
She didn’t move. Didn’t react.
Fuck!
He noticed her hair. The sides of her scalp had been shaved.
He breathed out. Slowly. Steadied himself.
Brady looked up at her face. It was pale. Her eyes were closed. But she was breathing. He touched her. Gently. ‘Emily?’ he whispered. ‘What has that bastard done to you?’
Fraser had left her dressed in a white
Victorian-style nightgown. Identical to the others.
‘Sir? Is she alive? Sir? Can you hear me?’ Conrad yelled down over the dog’s howls.
Brady heard him. Heard the pitiful yowling from the dog. But didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He just kept willing her to open her eyes. To look at him. To let him know she was going to be all right.
Oh God . . .
Chapter Twenty-Five
Monday: 10:10 p.m.
Brady sat there with her in silence. They didn’t need to talk. She was too exhausted after her ordeal. And Brady was too relieved to spoil it with words. But just being present was enough.
She was one of the lucky ones. Unlike Hannah and the others. He tried to focus on the positive.
She’s going to be all right. You got to her in time . . .
But it was hard to feel positive. Emily would recover. Physically and psychologically. He was sure of that. But as for Hannah, the young woman who had effectively saved Emily’s life, her outcome could not have been more different. She was alive. But . . .
Brady thought about the ones who didn’t make it. The ones who even in death had no dignity. Four of Julian Fraser’s victims remained unidentified. Nameless. And would continue to do so. How do they know you’re missing, if they don’t even know you exist? It was a question that would haunt him. But he had to be grateful for this one victory.
‘Jack?’ asked Emily, turning to look at him. ‘You won’t leave, will you?’
Brady smiled at her. ‘I’ll stay until you fall asleep. As promised. But then I have to go back to the station. Fill out some paperwork and then go home and crash myself. I’ll come and visit you tomorrow.’
Emily’s dark brown eyes studied him. Serious. Distrustful. It was clear that she had never had anyone to rely on. Not really. Yes, she had a social worker. But that wasn’t the same. And now that Emily was out of North Tyneside’s care her social worker had no need to keep in touch. But Brady knew that Sandra would. He had called her as soon as Emily had been admitted to hospital. She was coming to visit Emily first thing in the morning. Her gratitude was immense. As was her relief. But Brady did not feel the same elation. For Emily’s freedom had come at a price. He thought of Hannah again. She was still in ICU. It was touch and go as to whether she would pull through. Brady had planned to visit her after Emily had fallen asleep. Not that he had told Emily that. Nor had he told Emily the full extent of her injuries. That could wait. He didn’t have the strength to tell her. And she didn’t have the strength to process it. Not tonight. Tomorrow he would explain to her how Hannah had saved her life.
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