Watcher (18 page)

Kailash’s home, Ravelston Dykes, Edinburgh
Thursday 27 December, 10.15 a.m.

The east wind blew his hair into his eyes, making it difficult to watch them, but not impossible; the yew-tree hedge concealing him swung back and forth, threatening to reveal his presence.
That wouldn’t do at all
.

Dark grey clouds hung over the Forth road and rail bridges; the wind was pushing the rain cloud towards him. He knew it was going to chuck it down – soon. He sniffed the wind. It was cold enough for snow and the thought depressed him; snow was his enemy. He was too easy to track in the snow and shortly they would be looking for him. A shiver ran down his back. It had nothing to do with the inclement weather and everything to do with his fear of being caught;
misunderstood
– all his life he had been misunderstood
.

Burying deeper into the hedge, he was grateful for the tactics learned when he passed himself off as an animal-rights activist. They had taught him well; the week’s course in covert observation in an urban setting had proved particularly useful in this case. Pulling his collar up to protect himself against the cold, he lifted his shoulders to his ears and dropped them; he did this five times in an effort to relieve the stiffness in his neck.

He tried not to breathe through his mouth. The cold air hurt his lungs, and his chest was weakened by asthma.

Then Brodie walked into the garden. His jaw fell open. She was looking pale and drawn but she still excited him. He hoped she would see he had done it for her. Sure, Connie was nice enough, but the real woman he wanted, sought to please, was Brodie. Shifting from foot to foot, the rotting vegetation beneath him, crisp with ice, crackled and snapped like cereal. Forcing himself to ignore the bone-chilling cold, he twisted his neck to get a better view. His body responded to Brodie and showed him just how pleased he was to see her.

Fingering the sharp, serrated blade that he always carried, he dug the point of the knife into the pad of his frozen index finger to see if he could still feel pain. A fat globule of blood appeared satisfyingly red and vibrant against the white skin. Something brushed against his skin; a black house cat with white paws. He looked at the red collar: ‘Loki’.

‘Loki! Here puss-puss.’ The wind carried the voice of a tired householder shouting in the distance, anxious to retrieve a beloved pet before the snow started.

The Watcher had now decided it would definitely snow. He couldn’t afford to risk discovery by the searching owner. He picked up the cat. Loki squirmed in The Watcher’s grip, he was not a ‘cat’ person, whatever that meant, and they say animals know. Loki was anxious to be away, not to answer the call of her owner, just to be away from him. He smiled as he took the knife to her throat.
Curiosity killed the cat
.

The warm blood steamed lightly in the air as it stained the icy ground. The Watcher was forced to shift positions to avoid contamination and, irritated, he threw the body of the lifeless animal on the ground. It bounced noisily with the force, which was always one of his problems – he did not know his own strength.

Brodie, Kailash and Glasgow Joe huddled in the garden. Everything was quiet, but for the noise of the wind clattering through the silver birch trees, and the constant inharmonic rattling from a dozen or so hollow bamboo tubes passing as wind chimes. Feng
Shui had a lot to
answer for
.

He could hear nothing of their conversation. High walls and dense ground cover protected him, gave him a sense of security. He crunched his way, inch by inch, over the carpet of rotting vegetation; ever closer to Brodie.

The big bastard, Glasgow Joe, looked like shit; he must be missing the girl. The Watcher didn’t think they were that close; the football games he was sure were just a ruse to get back into Brodie’s life. Who knew? Not The Watcher – he might have changed his plan if he’d known. Covering his mouth, he sniggered at the thought of having got one up on Glasgow Joe.

I knew it wouldn’t last
, whispered The Watcher as Brodie lit up a cigarette; he inhaled deeply, trying to catch a whiff of her second-hand smoke. She was a bad girl; there was something so sensuous, so phallic about a woman smoking a cigarette. He moved his hand down to his trousers and rubbed himself; he felt his hard-on swell to life. Brodie’s head was back; her eyes were closed in pleasure as she exhaled. The Watcher knew that was how it would be when they were together.

He envisioned the post-coital cigarette and his hand moved faster. He recalled how she had looked in the outfit he had chosen for her, the black dress clinging to her firm high tits. He closed his eyes and rubbed himself faster still. Now he imagined touching those fine black lace-topped stockings, as Brodie wrapped her legs around his back. His hands holding her six-inch stiletto heels, lifting her legs up, up to the ceiling and then spreadeagling them while she shrieked; at first she would be afraid and then the pleasure could begin.

He could almost smell her auburn hair spread out on the pillow below him, her arms and legs tied tight to the bedstead. He groaned loudly, his breath frothed as it escaped through lips pursed into a smile. He stopped before it was too late and, opening his eyes, he could see again. Sweat trickled down his cheek, a stray snowflake fell and he felt himself slowly shrink in his trousers.

The second hand on his watch seemed to have stopped; time dragged by as the three of them huddled, whispering in the cold. He could see from their eyes that Brodie had told them about his little visit. He stood gnawing his bottom lip for what seemed like an hour; in truth it was a matter of minutes.

He ground his teeth together. He wanted Brodie to leave Glasgow Joe’s company so he could have her to himself; he had enjoyed these past months being her shadow, her destiny. The wind gusted, black bins rolled around gardens and his cover swayed ever more violently. Each long second he stayed he risked discovery; he knew he would have to go. He couldn’t wait until he saw her again.
Their next date, he’d forgotten how many they’d
had; now it was time to move their relationship up to
another stage
.

‘Loki … Loki!’ The annoying cat owner shouted, not walking but running. Funny how we always sense when something is wrong, seriously wrong. The woman fell and her support hose was torn, revealing a bulging blue varicose vein; a skinned bleeding knee did not stop her. Neither did the shards of black gravel sticking to her wounds. On hands and knees she searched, scrambling in the undergrowth, impervious to the cold.
Searching
for her fuckin’ cat. God she’s fond of it – was fond of it
.

In front of him the woman lurched and tripped up again; her neat court shoes and tight Harris Tweed skirt were not suited to this task. The Watcher almost broke cover to help her. The heel of her right shoe had broken off; she tossed the other one aside.

Her broad feet had bunions and corns and they flattened the grass beneath them. She was a heavy-set woman, a spinster by her looks. Maybe the cat was all she had. ‘Loki … Loki!’ Her voice was growing hoarse now. The air became eerily still as she crawled to the correct bush. The Watcher held his breath as the elderly woman moved slowly, commando-style, through the bushes.

Her screams rent the air, frightening the ravens nesting in nearby trees. They echoed her grief as they rose noisily into the air. The cat was about the size of a baby, a furry black baby. The woman cradled the dead animal to her breast, not caring that her expensive white silk blouse was now stained red with blood. It looked like her heart was bleeding; The Watcher was a sensitive enough man to concede it was.

Reluctantly, The Watcher gathered together his bits and pieces, and left the yew-tree hedge, counting the seconds until the next time. He knew there would be a next time for him and Brodie.

Kailash’s home, Ravelston Dykes, Edinburgh
Thursday 27 December, 11.45 a.m.

If Connie wasn’t dead she would be alone, upset, and praying to be found. And I wasn’t doing anything to find her. Kailash had already established that DI Smith’s track record was abysmal: fifteen cases and not one child found alive. We couldn’t leave this to the police – but I didn’t know where to start. So I was staring out of an upstairs window at morbid sightseers coming to lay floral tributes and tacky teddies at Kailash’s front gate. I wanted to open the window and throw cold water on them, but Kailash had warned Joe to keep me under a tight rein. She had misplaced one daughter; she wasn’t going to allow it to happen again any time soon.

Connie went to an exclusive private girls’ school in the area. Despite it being holiday time, her classmates started arriving to leave her flowers. There was a lifesized photograph of Connie in her football kit. A message was painted on it saying,
Connie – we love you now and
forever
. Beneath the poster, the pile of condolences was already gathering in size.

Malcolm came out; he wanted to beg them to go away but he was too polite. Derek held his arm as Malcolm defiantly pinned a missing poster to the tree as if she were a lost cat. A photograph of a smiling Connie taken on her thirteenth birthday beamed out.

The truth was so simple. Connie was gone because I thought I could handle things. I wasn’t much of a sister. Glasgow Joe put his arm round my waist and pulled me close. I didn’t object for a moment – I needed the comfort.

‘Look at that brave old bugger,’ Joe nodded at Malcolm who was pushing his way through the media snake pit. Cameras stalked him as he tottered along the road putting up posters on every tree. Reporters had told him that if it was on television the kidnapper might see the pain Malcolm was in, feel ashamed, and let her go. But all Malcolm could think about was Connie’s pain.

‘I’ve got to go.’ I kissed Joe on the cheek and took the stairs two at a time, not stopping to put my coat on. The snow was dusting the air; too light to be taken seriously. As I ran out of the front door, I kept my head down, looking neither to my right nor left. Pushing through the reporters, I ignored the flashbulbs and cameras. I had one aim in mind, but Malcolm was moving remarkably fast for an old man in carpet slippers who had enough tranquillizers in his system to slay an elephant. Out of breath, I finally reached them. Derek, his long-term partner, was still holding on to Malcolm’s right elbow. My eyes locked with Derek’s and in a few long, wordless seconds, hatchets were buried, love and sympathy exchanged. He recognized a need in me to do something. He stepped aside and I took Malcolm’s elbow. We marched up the streets and avenues with our posters. Derek walked a pace behind, carrying tacks and a hammer, followed by the press.

Malcolm held the poster to his heart. He said in a whisper: ‘I didn’t tuck her in.’ As we walked back home, I heard the children singing; the strains of ‘Abide With Me’ carried on the wind.

‘Usually, I love that hymn – they played it at Mother Teresa’s funeral – but I wish they’d shut the fuck up,’ Derek said, opening a fresh packet of hankies and handing one to Malcolm. His tears had disintegrated the others.

‘Malcolm!’ The girls from Connie’s class all rushed towards him. He put his arms out, glad to be needed. Patting their heads he whispered: ‘It’s going to be all right. She’s still alive. I know my Connie, I’ve had a bond with her since the day she was born. I would know if something really bad had happened. But say your prayers and I promise next Thursday you’ll all be round for chocolate brownies as usual.’

‘Malcolm.’ One of the mothers was in tears as she reached out to touch him. ‘We’re thinking of you … all.’

‘Thank you. Connie needs all the prayers she can get at the moment.’ The woman’s hand patted his back in a gesture of comfort as he passed. I thought how strange we were, an odd family. I wouldn’t have blamed the neighbours for fearing that Kailash’s presence would bring the price of property down, yet Malcolm and Connie were loved in the community. But, in the midst of this terror, they showed how much Kailash was included.

Kailash was upstairs sleeping, having surrendered to exhaustion. Glasgow Joe felt it was safe to come out and comfort the girls from the football team. Most of them lived in Leith and their mothers lived off less than a nanny was paid in Ravelston Dykes. He wandered amongst them with a bag of jam-filled doughnuts; Lavender and Eddie had stopped off for provisions on the way down from Gleneagles that morning. Everybody felt they needed to do something. The girls clamoured around Joe, and I didn’t blame them. His sheer physical presence made everything around him seem that bit safer. He looked uncomfortable as they all tried to hug him, but I could see that they needed some sort of reassurance. Eddie was vomiting in the toilet but Lavender assured us that as soon as he had finished he would be out to see the team. He had been in there for ten minutes and we could all hear him crying. He tried to save us from his grief but failed to notice that the window in the downstairs lavatory was open.

Connie’s abduction was growing news. TV crews, reporters from red-tops and broadsheets made themselves at home on the grass verge outside Four Winds. They were reclining on shooting sticks and garden chairs, drinking instant coffee out of flasks. Bitching about the weather, I could hear them freely offering their professional opinion.

‘Who’s that?’ asked a reporter from one of the big national dailies, pointing at Joe.

‘Him?’ Another stranger pointed at Joe.

‘Yeah, him – the big guy fondling all the kids.’ The reporter’s voice was disturbing.

‘He’s the manager of Connie’s football team.’

‘Has he been checked out?’ I heard the first guy asking. ‘I’d be terrified to touch kids like that. I was in Soham – that Ian Huntley was so fucking helpful, always hanging around us, trying to ingratiate himself. Were you there?’ The reporter stopped to pick his nose and consider the scene.

‘Nope. I usually do politics,’ replied the second guy. ‘But it’s Christmas and I’m on call, so …. Huntley was unusual though. Funny how it always used to be poor kids that got abducted. Nowadays, it’s rich kids … like Connie.’

Examining the snot on the end of his index finger, the seasoned crime hack wiped it down his trouser leg. ‘It’ll be someone she knows, always is. Her mother’s a whore. He glanced at the house. ‘She must be good – she’s obviously paid well; nice job if you can get it. They’re dodgy, definitely dodgy.’ They all nodded their heads in agreement. Engrossed in their gossip, they didn’t see him coming and I wasn’t going to warn the bastards. Glasgow Joe pushed his way through like a steam train heading for a collision. He grabbed them and they started to argue, shouting for help. DI Bancho sent the constable at the front door inside for a cup of tea, then turned and followed him into the house, as Joe banged their heads together. His large hands grabbed the scruffs by the collar. He dragged them to the road. Booting them up the arse, they fell into the gutter, cameras still clicking.

‘Fuck off – if your papers want the story, they’ll have to send someone else. If I catch any of you bastards up here again, I’ll give you something to worry about. Now, piss off!’ Glasgow Joe straightened himself up. The reporters did not look back. I knew Joe had played right into their hands. His photograph would be on the front page alongside Connie’s. So what, it felt good to see him smack those ghouls who wouldn’t leave us alone.

‘Connie’s kidnap is news … they think she belongs to them,’ I said, as a CNN van drove up the road. ‘We’ve got to find her, Joe.’

Time wasn’t on our side.