Watcher (12 page)

Kailash’s home, Ravelston Dykes, Edinburgh
Tuesday 25 December, 3 p.m.

‘Happy Christmas.’

Kailash and I kissed, and held each other for longer than usual. We had travelled a short, hard road together but maybe our relationship would turn out all right. Connie bundled her way in, shoving a present in my face, the first of many from my mother.

‘I’m sorry …’ I started. Kailash shrugged. It was of no importance that I wasn’t bearing gifts. Smiling, she put her arms around her girls and walked us into the living room – I wondered if she had been on the sherry. Truthfully, I could only guess at what her childhood Christmases had been like. This time, she had certainly tried her best to create the ideal, festive, family scene. It was like a greetings card photo-shoot in its perfection – the only thing it lacked was Bing Crosby crooning by the fireplace.

The eight-foot tree was real and it filled the room with the scent of the forest. The baubles hanging from the branches were not colour-coordinated or newly bought. They represented Kailash and Connie’s life together. You know the sort of thing, salt-dough Santas, made by Connie aged three. But there was one that caught the back of my throat. I fought the tears and looked out of the French windows. There was no escape. Kailash took it off the tree and handed it to me. It looked the oldest decoration; shiny, glittery and dented. In the middle was a picture of me, aged seven, without my front teeth. ‘I’ve had this for over twenty years,’ she told me. ‘Your grandfather got the photo from Mary.’ She took it back and put it on its branch.

‘Happy Christmas!’ Grandad handed me a glass of buck’s fizz which I shied away from. ‘Hair of the dog,’ he insisted and, God knows, I needed it. My liver was complaining, and I was praying that Kailash had forgotten to put the turkey in the oven so that dinner would be delayed until at least 8 p.m. No such luck. She was on the ball since it was our first Christmas dinner as a family – the bird had been stuffed and in the oven since 8 a.m.

Connie called us through to her games room. She’d linked the television to her computer, and she was showing us photographs from the wedding. Kailash looked amazing; it’s hard having a mother who belongs on the cover of
FHM
. I wished I’d stuck to the Atkins Diet.

Moses beamed out at us from the TV screen, a microphone in his hand. It was the wedding video and he was singing ‘My Way’.

‘That boy is the world’s worst Sinatra impersonator,’ Grandad smiled, still enjoying the performance.

‘I tried to tell him that he couldn’t sing; he’d have none of it because the Dark Angels – and other people – say he’s fantastic,’ I said, looking at my grandfather accusingly. Grandad shuffled uncomfortably. Cruelly, he encouraged Moses to sing, purely because it made him howl with laughter.

‘Dinner!’ Kailash shouted, as she staggered into the dining room under the weight of a 14-lb bird.

Connie insisted we pull our crackers, I’m sure they were expensive but those cheap paper hats never fit my oversized head. A yellow one sat perfectly on Kailash’s black hair, Connie was fine, and even Jack managed not to look ridiculous. As I glanced around the table there was one other person who had to rip his hat at the seam to make it fit: Grandad. My heart sank a little when I remembered who had given me the genetics of Humpty Dumpty.

‘Just a little bit for me thanks,’ said the surprise guest – a surprise to me at least. Grandad had invited Jack Deans because he was still matchmaking, although he’d whispered to me that Jack had nowhere else to go. He was a sly old bugger.

Kailash can’t cook. It was the driest turkey I’d ever tasted, but I bravely fought my way through the food mountain in front of me. The roast potatoes were hard and soggy at the same time – a feat I didn’t think was possible. I chewed and chewed my way through the main course and managed to keep it down. Connie’s eyes were wide with excitement – she insisted on lighting the Christmas pudding so we all had to have some to show willing. I’m not keen on it at the best of times, but with the mother of all hangovers I was positively gagging at the thought.

There was quite an art to it. Connie’s head was bent close to Kailash’s as she heated a large silver spoon over a candle, then, striking a match, the alcohol became a mass of blue flame which Connie poured over the pudding. The fire lit her face. Kailash pulled back Connie’s hair in case she set fire to herself. The tenderness of the action stopped me. Kailash did look like a mother, she just didn’t look like mine. Again, it was hard to believe she had been Connie’s age when she had given birth to me. I’ve never given her enough credit for the way she loves me. Logically, it wasn’t my fault, but I would have been hard-pushed to blame her if she’d held the circumstance of my delivery against me.

‘I’m proud of you,’ Grandad said, tapping my hand with a cracked blue leather box. ‘You’ve kept your nose clean … except for that one incident … and it wouldn’t be you if you weren’t irritating someone. I have to face facts, you’re never going to be an angel, but you’ll always be mine.’ He stopped, and I prayed he wasn’t going to get emotional or start crying – or both. ‘This belonged to your grandmother,’ he started up again. ‘I thought you might like it. I kept it especially, hoping that one day there would be someone who would appreciate it.’

I smiled but my heart sank. Could I pull it off? A present from my deceased grandmother, some ghastly earrings or a hellish diamond brooch, no doubt, either of which I would be forced to wear. Locking a smile ear to ear, I opened the box, readying myself to squeal with delight.

‘What is it?’ I asked, holding a key up between my thumb and forefinger.

‘It’s a key,’ Grandad replied, reaching out, covering my fingers and the key with both his hands.

‘Uh-huh – I can see that.’

‘Come and see, come and see!’ Connie shrieked.

‘So you’re all in on it except me?’ I asked.

Kailash opened the front door. Grandad covered my eyes with his hand and Connie led me into the driveway. They didn’t give me time to get my coat and the wind whipped round my legs. I’d worn a skirt in honour of the fact it was Christmas Day and I was regretting it. The snow was melting and the slush around the front door had formed a grey crust that seeped into my light shoes.

‘Open your eyes now!’ Connie shouted. Although my eyes had been shut for a relatively small amount of time, it was still difficult to adjust to the light. The floodlights on the garage door were on and I had to blink several times, sure that alcohol poisoning had blinded me.

‘What is it?’ I asked again.

‘It’s a car, stupid!’ Connie slapped my head. ‘And not just any car – it’s a metallic blue 1954 Chevrolet Corvette Convertible,’ she shouted, jumping into the driver’s seat, her learned words ringing in my ears.

‘I think we should let Brodie sit in her present first, don’t you?’ Kailash leaned into the car and manhandled Connie out of it.

‘Grandad! Promise me that I can have one just like that? Did Granny have two?’ asked Connie, innocently.

‘No, darling, she only had one,’ he answered. ‘She was a remarkable lady even to have owned that. I think that Brodie gets her taste for outlandish motor vehicles from her.’

‘Am I like her too?’ Connie asked. This was getting onto difficult ground. Connie was my half-sister, although I didn’t think the penny had dropped yet with her. I didn’t know who her father was and perhaps Kailash didn’t either.

‘Stop stealing my thunder,’ I interrupted, trying to change the subject. ‘You can sit in the passenger seat if you promise to be quiet.’ I turned to Grandad. ‘It’s absolutely beautiful.’ I kissed him on the cheek as he whispered, ‘Maybe now you’ll stop driving that damned motorbike – you know I hate you driving that thing, it’s awfully dangerous. I couldn’t bear to lose you, Brodie.’

The top was down and the beige leather seats sent a chill straight through to my bones as soon as I sat down. The sensation didn’t go away as the seats warmed up. It wasn’t a good feeling and I couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was truly to do with the car. The vibration from my mobile phone buzzed on my hip. I answered it, thinking it would be the blushing bride calling to wish us all a Happy Christmas.

‘Brodie?’ an American voice asked.

Adie Foster. This was my personal mobile – how did he get the number? I swivelled in the seat and caught Grandad’s eye. He looked away. I’d have to have a word with him about this.

It didn’t seem appropriate to wish Adie Foster Happy Christmas, not with his son languishing in Saughton Prison. Still, if it was a consolation to him, Thomas had probably had a more edible Christmas dinner than I’d had.

‘I’ve just had word through from the chief constable, Brodie. It was good of him to keep me up to date,’ he said, as I marvelled yet again at how the old boy network operated. His next words were even more dramatic. ‘The Ripper has struck again. DI Bancho is with the body now – they must be made to see that Thomas can’t be the Ripper, Brodie. Go over there and get my son out of jail. Immediately.’

‘It’s not as easy as that, Mr Foster.’

‘Make it that easy: you’re supposed to be the best. DI Bancho is at St Giles’ Cathedral. And Brodie? It’s the Ripper’s work … a girl has been found.’ The phone went dead.

‘Happy Christmas, Brodie,’ I whispered.

St Giles’ Cathedral, Edinburgh
Tuesday 25 December, 6.30 p.m.

It wasn’t far to St Giles’ Cathedral. The roads were empty, it was Christmas night, and most people were still sleeping off the effects of lunch. Jack and I drove in silence. He had insisted on accompanying me.

My stomach knotted at the thought of what lay before me. Bitter bile jumped from belly to throat and back again. Would I be able to control myself? It was bad enough vomiting in front of Patch and a lone detective as I had once done at an autopsy, but this was a crime scene and it would be heaving with people. If I knew about it, someone eager to make a fast buck would have tipped off the media. A shadow crossed my mind: Jack was the media. Maybe his motives for coming weren’t so altruistic. Mentally I kicked myself; I was dumping that bastard as soon as possible.

I parked the car outside the High Court and, from the shadows, we observed the action. St Giles’ was floodlit. In Parliament Square, directly in front of the cathedral entrance, there was a life-size Nativity scene. Less than twenty-four hours ago this place had been packed with worshippers at the Christmas Eve Watch Night service. Had the dead girl heard them sing ‘Away in a Manger’?

A chill ran down my spine and my teeth chattered. I couldn’t stop shivering.

‘Do you want my coat?’ Jack asked.

‘No.’ I couldn’t tell him my trembling had nothing to do with the cold. We had no right to be there, and if I was to follow Adie Foster’s instruction, then I had to blag my way in. I couldn’t think of anything more macabre than sneaking into what was essentially a grave. But I wasn’t doing it for Adie Foster. Thomas was innocent and I had to prove it. I knew that when Bancho thinks you’re guilty, all evidence to the contrary is disregarded. It was up to me to play detective for my client.

In the blackness I spied DI Bancho, deep in conversation with Joe. What was he doing here? The Ripper was in jail. Joe’s head was bent towards the policeman. If any of the regulars from his pub, the Rag Doll, saw him now, his business would be in trouble. No self-respecting crook could freely discuss his dealings with a man who was so friendly with the cops, regardless of his motives or reputation.

The crime-scene boys were still inside. Around the corner in Parliament Square I spied Patch’s twenty-year-old Volvo. It was time to come out of the shadows and declare our presence but I decided not to park beside Patch.

All heads turned as I roared up with Jack in the Corvette. I got out of the car like a finishing school graduate, opening the door and swinging my legs out, knees locked together. I climbed over the black heavy chain barrier and spat on the Heart of Midlothian, a brass heart set into the cobbles of the Royal Mile outside St Giles’ Cathedral. Superstition decrees that you must spit on it to ward off the evil eye. I was taking no chances – I needed every piece of luck I could get to pass through the police cordon.

‘Duncan, Joe!’ I shouted, waving as if I was expected. Joe turned his back on me. He was swearing, and not under his breath. Marching confidently towards them, we weren’t stopped by the constables on duty.

‘You’re like a bad penny, Brodie – anybody ever tell you that?’ Bancho said. ‘Who the hell told you about this? I only found out myself half an hour ago.’

‘Adie Foster. It seems you have a leak – probably the chief constable from what Foster said – but it might not be the best thing for your career to mention it.’

‘When I want advice from you on anything, I’ll ask for it.’ As usual, Bancho and I were squaring up to one another – who knows what would have happened next if Joe hadn’t intervened.

‘Nice set of wheels,’ he whistled.

‘A Christmas present,’ I said.

‘I didn’t know hacks earned that much.’ Joe’s jaw tightened and he started to bristle as he looked Jack up and down.

‘Don’t look at me – the glory belongs to old MacGregor … I don’t need to buy her toys.’

‘Adie Foster said the Ripper went on a killing spree last night … You’d be the chief constable’s second-best pal if you let me see the crime scene,’ I said.

‘Don’t!’ Glasgow Joe intervened, holding DI Bancho by the shoulders and fixing his eyes upon him. ‘Don’t let her in there.’ He shook his head as if his words were not enough.

‘I never took you for a grass, Joe – mind you, neither did the rest of Leith.’ I was trying to rile him. It worked.

‘Okay, suit yourself, Brodie. Let her in … and I hope you’re sick, because if you’re not, you’ve got a stronger stomach than anybody here except Patch.’

‘I’m not ten,’ I snarled.

‘Well stop bloody acting like it. Girls are being murdered here. All of them redheads. How do I know Connie’s not next?’ Joe was definitely pissed off; but I could see through the charade.

I walked past him and whispered a silent prayer for the victim. I hadn’t seen the Ripper’s handiwork first hand. The photographs were bad enough, and I was in no rush. My footsteps echoed as I walked up the aisle; my pace was funereal, the bad feeling I had earlier just kept getting worse.

‘Jack, this is someone’s daughter … don’t write this up more sensationally than need be.’

He looked annoyed for a second, but then he shrugged his shoulders. He was what he was, a journalist, and stories like this were his bread and butter.

‘It’s not unusual for mothers of murder victims to die early of a broken heart.’

He sighed: ‘I’ve written stories about them.’

‘I know … it’s one of the few times I believe what I read.

‘Where’s Bancho … we won’t get in without him.’ I turned and looked around the large, dark cathedral, tattered, limp flags hung from the roof. It seemed to me they were flying at half-mast out of respect for the girl.

St Giles’ has a long, cold aisle. I stared into its gloomy recesses. Where was Bancho?

I was in no hurry; obviously neither was he.
Why?
Of course this could be embarrassing for him. My client was safely locked up in Saughton Prison, so Thomas Foster was in no position to quench his thirst for blood. Egg on the face again for Duncan Bancho. I couldn’t say I was sorry; now he would start looking for the real Ripper.

Then I saw Bancho enter. I think he’d just taken a fag break and from the grim smile on his face he was enjoying keeping me waiting. He walked past at a double-quick march and cursorily waved his hand in our direction.

‘He stays here,’ Bancho said, pointing at Jack, and I went off to face my demons alone. My heart was beating rapidly, adrenalin pumped through my body, all my senses were on red alert. We had reached the entrance to the Thistle Chapel and my heart sank.

‘Stand at the door – you can see all you need to from there and you won’t contaminate the scene,’ Bancho barked.

What he said was important because I could be a suspect if my fingerprints were found at the scene. Fingerprint evidence had recently been called into question, and it wasn’t as reliable as we all thought. The Scottish government had been forced to pay compensation to a young policewoman, Shirley McKie, whose fingerprints had supposedly been found at a crime scene. The legal world was still reeling from the findings of the investigation … our fingerprints are not unique after all.

Without a glance, DI Bancho turned and headed back to the entrance of the cathedral, leaving me alone and saddened. It wasn’t just the tragedy of another murder. It was the contrast. I love the Thistle Chapel. When I was in the High Court I would often go in and just look at the angels, and now they had been defiled.

The most important thing for Thomas Foster was that I could establish the time of death as occurring when he was in police custody. Estimating this is not an exact science and leaves room for error. Having said that, I didn’t need to know anything about forensics to work out that Thomas was still in trouble. A body can’t smell this awful without having being dead for days – I couldn’t understand why the girl hadn’t been discovered before now.

The arc lights displayed the body in a shallow grave. I was some distance away but I could see all too clearly her mutilated form. I had to ignore the smell but the heat from the lamps was adding to the stench and I tried not to breathe particles of dead girl. My temperature was increasing; it seemed hotter than hell in here. Small droplets of sweat appeared on my upper lip and the cold stone pillars of the ante-chapel brought me only a few short moments of relief. A shiny aluminium instrument tray stood upright on the Knights of the Thistle stalls, an ornate wooden, canopied seat reserved for members of the Order of the Thistle, the senior order of chivalry in Scotland. I caught my reflection, a pale, queasy woman stared back at me – I had aged ten years since I came in here.

I recognized the victim.

Mihaela’s eyes were sewn open using black industrialstrength thread … presumably so that she wouldn’t miss a moment of the delights the Ripper had in store for her. Her black mouth was gaping, screaming screams that no one answered. The body had been undressed for the assault and then the clothes carefully arranged – post mortem, I’d guess, but I’d wait on Patch’s confirmation for that. Singing celestial bodies carved into the relief looked down and wept. If I saw the babushka tonight I would be able to tell her that her daughter slept with the angels – unfortunately, that bitch of a ‘mother’ surely shared some of the blame.