Watcher (21 page)

Castle Hill, Edinburgh
Friday 28 December, 7.35 a.m.

‘Brodie!’ came the voice behind me.

I kept on walking. If I never saw that man again it would be too soon.

‘Brodie …! We need to talk.’

Bancho lurched after me, clearly in pain. I sighed in resignation as I motioned to Joe that he and Grandad, who was still in shock, should go on ahead. I needed to speak to Bancho on my own.

Now that the ball-clenching moment had passed, I regretted my action. It was violent, childish and criminal. I could still be charged with police assault, although I knew that there was no way Bancho’s pride would allow him to admit what I’d done. All I could say in mitigation was that I’d been under a great deal of strain.

Glasgow Joe didn’t argue with me. We were both worried about Grandad’s health. Someone needed to walk him back to Ramsay Gardens and make sure that he got into warm clothes. I slowed up and watched them walk down past the Whisky Centre. I stood motionless until they had disappeared around the corner.

Bancho grabbed me by the arm, not in an arresting sort of way; it was more that he didn’t want me to run off. I looked bad but he was worse and I couldn’t meet his eye. Small specks of yellow vomit from when the pain had been too much lined his lips. I did that to him and I didn’t feel proud. Joe was right – he was doing his best.

‘I’m sorry, Duncan – it was unforgivable for me to do that … even to a low-life bastard like you. All I can say is that you bring out the worst in me.’

‘Are you serious …? I’d rather think you had a bad case of PMT.’ He shook his head: ‘What kind of animal do you think I am? I didn’t know the girl wasn’t Connie.’

Should I believe him? Bancho held out his hand for me to shake.

I stared at it.

‘I care about the victims … I’m not the one who’s trying to get their killer off.’

He stuck his hand out again.

‘We both know we’re never going to be bosom buddies, or even polite acquaintances, Brodie, but at least we can try not to hurt each other physically or mentally … Anyone who would mislead you like that is an animal, and that’s not me.’

He squirmed. Obviously his balls still hurt. I took his hand, hoping that it hadn’t been anywhere on a soothing mission.

‘I have it from a reliable source that people pay good money to have their testicles enlarged.’

Grabbing a non-existent crease in his trousers, Bancho adjusted himself. ‘Believe me when I say, I’m not one of those people. The most you’ll get out of me is a cup of coffee – and you’re bloody lucky to be getting that.’

He tried to force a smile and failed.

‘We need to work together, Brodie … the most important thing is that we end this.’

‘Thomas Foster is in jail. The case is closed – in your opinion.’

‘Yes well … the case has just taken a new twist. Look up at the castle … the bloody snow proves that. Come back with me and look at the evidence again … you know Thomas Foster better than me.’

‘Yes, I do … and he’s innocent … He’s still in jail, for God’s sake.’

We drove in silence to the coffee box at the Meadows; my stomach growled and I became conscious that the last time I could remember eating was Christmas Day. I knew that I must have nibbled something since then, but I couldn’t get my memory to work properly. The light was struggling. Only just past the winter solstice, the sun was far away in the southern hemisphere – it felt like it.

Driving to St Leonards was a long journey. Bancho had admonished me not to eat in his car and, in spite of the earlier burying of the hatchet, I was sure he was saying it just to be mean. I’d been in his office and this guy was no clean freak; if anything he was a bigger slob than me.

I didn’t eat anyway. How could I? Connie was still missing and now another dead girl had turned up – was she next?

St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh
Friday 28 December, 8.10 a.m.

A grey dawn was breaking over the Salisbury Crags. Arthur’s Seat looked bleak, and ancient. In the seven-teeth century, men thought the earth was made 6,000 years before. After examining the crags, they realized that the earth could be as much as a million years old. I wondered if Bancho would have such an epiphany – I wasn’t holding out too much hope.

I wanted to know what progress Lothian and Borders police had made. DI Bancho led me into a quiet station and, unusually, Desk Sergeant Munro was not on duty.

It was still the season of goodwill and the St Leonards Christmas tree perfectly illustrated the fact that police stations simply don’t do festive gaiety with any aplomb. Six feet of scanty green tinsel branches, it had been bought years before and badly stored. Cheap supermarket baubles hung from its limbs, while the tree itself was contained in a cardboard box covered with wrapping paper. In silence, we headed down into the bowels of the station, along a semi-dark corridor. The station operated a green policy – lights only came on when a room was in use. It was disconcerting to walk into the black room, knowing what its walls depicted. There was a certain amount of theatre as the lights came on; the once pretty faces in Bancho’s chilling beauty pageant stared out at me.

Katya Waleski had been added.

‘You’ll need to take her down.’ I tapped the picture with my finger, noting how dirty my nail was.

‘Why?’

‘Oh come on! You were at the fucking autopsy – she died of natural causes.’

‘A girl of Katya Waleski’s age does not just die of a heart attack.’ His eyes narrowed to slits as he held my eyes.

‘Granted, but it was drug-induced heart failure. You can’t pin it on Thomas Foster – do you have anything personal against him?’

‘Yes. He’s a murdering little bastard who thinks he can get away with anything. And when the results come back from the crime lab, I’ll have all the evidence I need.’

‘Hello, Bancho? Reality check here. Thomas Foster is in Saughton – although he shouldn’t be. I’m going to petition the court … Crown Office will have to drop the case.’

‘He’s also charged with breach of the peace.’

‘You know that’s not going to keep him locked up. Anything constitutes a breach of the peace. If you so much as look at me the wrong way, I’ll say it’s a breach of the peace. Face facts, Bancho: Thomas Foster will be released. He’s not the Ripper.’

‘I
know
that he is. What about the theory that there’s two of them? This new killing – is it a copycat or are there two?’

‘Bancho, you saw yourself that the m.o. keeps changing.’

The Ripper’s modus operandi had altered but there were elements that remained constant, the peculiar knife marks in particular and the ripping out of the tongue.

He stared at the dead girls and I followed his eyes to a new picture. Connie. He dropped his head to his hands and started rubbing his temples.

Without looking up he said: ‘What’s your connection in all of this? We’ve nine victims: five murdered in the first six months, Katya and Mihaela plus the left foot of another girl we’ve got to assume is dead – so that makes eight. And, of course, Connie makes nine.’

‘She’s not dead,’ I shouted. ‘She’s not dead!’

‘And the girl at the castle makes ten.’

‘Have you identified her yet?’

Bancho nodded. ‘Jade Wesson, aged eighteen. Went missing from Pilton last night.’

‘She’s not Eastern European and she wasn’t a redhead. He’s accelerating … the Ripper’s previously gone to the trouble of finding a particular shade of hair. I think that’s why he shaved her head. And you can’t deny that, last night, Thomas Foster was in jail,’ I reminded him.

‘I’m not overlooking that fact – whatever you think.’ Bancho took a deep breath. He was tired, beaten, and his breathing had the sound of a death rattle.

‘You still think he’s guilty?’ I asked.

‘I
know
that he is. Let’s assume that there are two killers and—’

‘And what?’ I interrupted him. ‘That means Thomas Foster’s partner is still killing whilst he’s in prison? You can’t just bend the facts to suit yourself, you’re not in China.’

‘Put aside your prejudices and listen.’ He scratched his head and walked up and down in front of the victims.

‘I asked to be informed of any crimes that happened around houses you were connected with.’ I stared at him blankly. Coughing, he reached into his drawer and pulled out a new picture. Taking Blu-Tack, he placed it on the wall.

‘A cat … violence to a cat?’

‘Well, the pet owner was very upset. She made quite a fuss …’

I knew that serial killers often start out by being cruel to animals. I took the photograph from the wall, and stared at the dead cat. It was obvious what he was getting at, the animal’s throat had been cut and torn – it was similar to the marks on the girls. He could see on my face that I understood his point.

‘Was Thomas Foster in jail when this happened?’ I asked, flapping the photograph in front of him. He nodded. ‘Now, Brodie, I want you to tell me the truth … is there anything else I should know?’

I stared at the dead girls. I wanted to snatch Connie’s picture from the wall but I stopped myself. As long as she was there, Bancho had to look for her and that had to be good – right?

Taking a deep breath, I turned to face him. ‘The Ripper sent me a text. He said it should have been me … What the fuck does that mean?’ I took a cigarette out and lit up.

‘You’re not allowed to smoke in here.’ He pointed to a sign on the wall. I shrugged my shoulders and started pacing, all the better to think. ‘So – arrest me.’

He reached over and took a cigarette out of my packet. ‘I thought you’d stopped,’ I sneered.

‘I was under the same impression regarding you.’

Our bitchy sparring was just to buy us some time to come up with answers.

‘What did the Ripper mean? That he meant to take me instead of Connie? Or he should have killed me and plucked my eyes out?’

I wandered over and switched the kettle on. I needed a serious caffeine fix to keep going. The burst of adrenalin during the night had depleted my energy; if I wasn’t going to fall over, I needed help. Waiting for the kettle to boil, I pushed Bancho to one side.

‘How do you get on the Internet – what’s your password?’

He didn’t tell me, frightened to give away too much personal information, but he did type it in himself. I Googled an assortment of words – nothing.

‘The latest female he abducted was Connie. In what way is she the same as the rest of his victims?’ I asked Bancho. He saw where I was going with this.

I carried on. ‘She’s a redhead – okay, let’s think how we could classify redheads. Who are the most famous redheads? Where do you get more of us? Why would he dislike us?

‘Here’s something –
National Geographic
is warning that redheads could become extinct as soon as 2060.’ I turned round to catch his eye, He was making the coffee. ‘I hope we catch the fucker before then.’

‘Well that’s nothing to do with the Ripper,’ said Bancho. ‘It’s a recessive gene. Less than two per cent of the population have it.’

‘True – it was a gene mutation in Northern Europe and Celts are traditionally redheads. Why would he dislike us?’

‘Brodie – where would I start?’ Bancho was pushing it but I accepted his coffee. He went on: ‘Maybe his mother, lover, father, significant other was a redhead?’

‘My clients’ parents don’t have red hair,’ I pointed out.

Bancho pointed to his wall: ‘Well, maybe we’re overplaying the red hair. Maybe they were just accessible.’

I shook my head. ‘No – he doesn’t seem to have any trouble with access. He got into the Thistle Chapel and he made his way into the castle. You’re the expert – you’ve been to Quantico, and for once I’m not knocking you, but what if he is smarter than that?’

Bancho’s eyes had clouded over.

‘The way he’s acting, it’s erratic – there’s no real pattern. The tableau at the castle was complex and entirely different to the other scenes. What if he has no signature?’ Bancho said.

There was a thought rattling around in my head that I didn’t want to voice yet. The way he was toying with us reminded me of chess – in particular, a move known as ‘the knight’s move’. It’s been around since the seventh century. It’s illogical, and it’s a phrase used to describe schizophrenic thinking. It’s unusual among chess pieces – what if the Ripper was unusual amongst serial killers? If he was, we’d need to catch a lucky break.

‘I’ve got something,’ he said. All the while I had been talking and thinking, he had been researching

‘Celtic Saint – so we presume she’s a redhead – came to Scotland with nine maidens. Her beauty was unsurpassed. A knight fell in love with her but she rejected him and he accused her of casting a spell on him with her eyes. So he plucked her eyes out and hung them on a thorn bush. In the eleventh century, Edinburgh Castle was known as the castle of the maidens.’

‘Well it’s interesting,’ I said. ‘The castle’s centre-stage with him, and removing or brutalizing eyes is part of his signature. But the changing m.o. doesn’t fit.’

But then Bancho thought he’d found another similarity. ‘A knight fell in love with her? Christ! Don’t tell me the Ripper has developed a crush on you too.’

I bit my tongue, unsure of what to say. I didn’t like that last link – I didn’t like it at all.

Royal Mile, Edinburgh
Friday 28 December, 10.30 a.m.

After refusing Bancho’s offer to phone a taxi for me, I had to walk. A warped part of my mind felt that, if I didn’t suffer, some even greater tragedy would occur.

Connie was still missing. How the hell could it get worse? I knew how. She could be dead.

As I walked, the girls from the wall kept me company, their empty, dead eyes judging me. Head down against the prevailing wind, step by step, I made my way, reflecting on those previously pretty faces. Screwing my eyes, I endured a few long moments with each one in my head, their plump mouths warped by screaming, silenced forever. Katya Waleski lingered with me. I told her to go away – she didn’t belong with the rest. I was sorry she was dead, but, nevertheless, she had presumably taken the drugs herself, so maybe she could shoulder some of the blame? Her death was misadventure, unfortunate, but shit happens, and I didn’t really care, now that Connie was in danger.

Down at St Patrick’s Church, the worshippers were arriving for eleven o’clock Mass. I envied them their faith. At the great black wrought-iron gates to the church, I debated whether or not to go in and light a candle. On reflection I decided against it. These girls were young and vibrant; to feel their presence I would need to walk in their steps, not dwell on their deaths. Surely, they were more likely to have partied in the Cowgate than knelt down in St Pat’s. Typically, I ignored the voice that pointed out that the youth of Eastern European descent still attended church, unlike their UK counterparts.

In truth, I was searching for Connie. I wouldn’t be closer to her in a church. Increasing my pace I marched to a landmark she loved. The mechanical cow’s backside attached to the front of the Rowan Tree pub made her hoot with laughter. It lifts its tail and shoots out smoke at passers-by. Along with the one o’clock gun, the farting bovine helps the good citizens of Edinburgh keep track of time. The smile quickly left my face as I walked under South Bridge. It was once a fashionable place just outside the city gates; now it’s a cheerless underpass into the Grassmarket.

Tourists are bringing the area up. The Edinburgh Vaults are a popular haunt; in fact I’d found out that Thomas Foster worked there. I was surprised. I didn’t think sons of billionaires worked, but apparently his parents had seen what too much excess could do and they’d insisted on a touch of reality in his life. A laudable sentiment, especially if it didn’t matter a toss what kind of degree he got, given that he wouldn’t have to work a day in his life. My footsteps echoed off the moss-covered walls. Water dripped incessantly and I was uncomfortably aware that the vaults were beneath the pavement. Foster worked there as a storyteller, explaining that the caverns were hewn from the rock, describing the businesses that existed in the nooks, the ghosts and the characters.

Where would the girls haunt, I asked myself? At the moment they were haunting me. A shadow crossed my path. I had heard that spirits could follow people – right now they were inside my head.

My mobile rang. The one I keep for important clients and friends. I was pleased to be disturbed, sure that it would be Joe. But the face of the phone showed ‘caller unknown’. As the tremors began again, I stopped where I was. Turning away from the wind, looking back at the Rowan Tree, the cow’s backside emitted a blast of dry ice ‘smoke’. I forced myself to answer.

‘Brodie.’

I just kept breathing – that was hard enough.

‘Brodie. You look scared. You should be scared, Brodie. I thought you knew? What’s good for me is good for you – and good for Connie.’

He didn’t try to disguise his voice as much this time – accentless, educated – but the tone was guttural and throaty. There was no mistaking the aggression. Shrugging my shoulders, I searched for the right pitch – soft and low, a pretence at friendship. ‘I did as I was told,’ I said, copying Kailash’s cajoling tones. Obviously, I wasn’t an impersonator, because he barked straight back at me.

‘Listen to me! What’s the matter with you? Don’t you want her back?’

Fighting the urge to swear, I opened my free palm and beseeched him. ‘Please, let me speak to her.’ I wouldn’t be ashamed to beg if I had to. His answer wasn’t exactly unexpected. A grunt. He was posturing, threatening. I had lost nothing, but then he surprised me.

Her voice came.

It was a recording – maybe I deluded myself but I’d swear it was Connie.

‘Look, it says Lucas Baroc has recovered from the metatarsal injury. Club doctors have declared him fit to play on New Year’s Day! I WILL get to meet him.’

Connie was so excited. Baroc had been out for six weeks through injury, and Connie had suffered agonies over the tiny bone in his left foot. She’d been torn between wanting to meet him and hoping injury would keep him on the bench at the New Year’s Day match. A businessman walked towards me, a
Scotsman
clutched under his arm. He looked astonished as I mumbled something about borrowing his paper and snatched it, turning to the sports pages.

There it was, today’s lead story about Baroc’s recovery. I thrust the paper back at him and felt myself knocked against the wall by the force of emotion. I whispered into the phone: ‘She’s alive.’

‘Of course she’s alive – but she won’t be for much longer. You’ve been stupid, Brodie. You released Thomas Foster and that was a very naughty thing to do.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ I gasped.

The line went dead. And my heart stopped. I didn’t get the chance to tell him I hadn’t released Thomas Foster. Some bastard had gone over my head.

Hunkered over a gutter in the Grassmarket, the sour taste burned the back of my throat. Wiping the snot and acid from my nose, I kept going until there was nothing left in my stomach to vomit. Bancho’s text came in towards the end.

Qk wk on Foster

Quick work? Bancho hadn’t released my client – so who had?