Watcher (10 page)

Edinburgh Sheriff Court
Monday 24 December, 11.45 a.m.

‘Happy the bride the sun shines on,’ Jack whispered in my ear as I went outside from the custody cells. I looked up and saw an anaemic winter sun trying to break through the heavy cloud cover.

‘It’s hardly splitting the pavements,’ I said. I didn’t want to think of the wedding. My stomach was knotted – I hoped it was only the fact I feared I might miss Lavender and Eddie’s big day rather than anything to do with Thomas Foster. The Sheriff Court was normally deserted at this time of day and year, but my client had changed all of that. The media swarmed around outside like maggots on a cadaver, all hungry for a piece of the action, including (or should that be especially?) Jack Deans.

‘I’ve got to go,’ I said, pushing Jack away. I didn’t want to confirm to Adie Foster that his only son had been charged with murder, but somehow it seemed more honest than hanging around the press pack.

Foster and his wife McKenzie stood at the front door of the court. They were unmolested by the reporters – despite the fact that everything they did usually made the news. There was at least a ten-foot no-go area around them that had nothing to do with Adie Foster’s stinking cigar, but everything to do with the sumo wrestler they employed as a bodyguard.

‘Mr and Mrs Foster?’ I held out my hand as I approached them. McKenzie Foster proved to me there was definitely a point when you could be too thin. Looking as if she had just sucked on a lemon, she turned her back to avoid touching me. I didn’t take it personally. As far as McKenzie Foster was concerned I was part of the problem, not the solution. Her son belonged in a country club, and in the society pages, featured with a succession of models, heiresses and talentless daughters of ageing rock stars. He did not belong in a criminal court. By contrast, her husband shook my hand until I was afraid he’d cracked several small bones.

‘There is no way I can make this any easier,’ I began. ‘The procurator fiscal has charged Thomas with murder.’ I cleared my throat so there would be no mistake about what I was going to say. ‘The more demoralizing news is that it’s a holding charge. They think that Thomas is responsible for the deaths of those other girls.’

‘What do you mean, Miss McLennan? What “other girls” are you referring to?’ McKenzie Foster hissed at me, but her Texas drawl made it seem almost ladylike. I was sure that I had laid it straight on the table but no matter how offensive I thought McKenzie Foster was, she was a mother and there are some things mothers just refuse to hear.

‘The police seem convinced that Thomas is … well, that he’s the Ripper.’

The phrase had an effect. McKenzie Foster fell back against her husband – which I suspected was the warmest contact they’d had in years.

‘I don’t care what they ‘re saying, what they’re claiming, and I certainly don’t care for what you are saying or your tone. This is absolutely preposterous,’ she said as she got more and more indignant. Her entire body language changed, she straightened her back, and her eyes blazed at the accusations. ‘Of course Thomas is totally innocent. He did not kill this girl or any other – how ludicrous! This needs to end here. I will stand up in court and tell the judge myself.’

McKenzie Foster wiped her brow with a very clean white handkerchief; all of this stress looked as if it had brought on a hot flush.

‘Mrs Foster – the proceedings today are in private.’

She looked at me blankly.

‘You won’t be allowed in court. Only the accused and his representative can be present at the calling of the indictment. I understand how difficult this is for you …’

She interrupted me. ‘Do you? Do you really, Miss McLennan? Do you have a brilliant son who is innocent yet has been charged with murder? This ridiculous scandal will haunt him for the rest of his life.’

‘I have to go and speak to the fiscal. I’ll see if there is any chance of bail, but it’s unlikely.’

‘Do you mean that he might not get home with us today, that he may spend Christmas in prison?’ McKenzie Foster went white beneath her spray-on tan. ‘We can obviously post any amount of money for bail. Adie has already spoken to the bank. One million, two million pounds … Whatever it takes.’

I took a deep breath. ‘In Scotland, money does not buy the freedom of the accused. Bail is conditional. In rare circumstances, bail will be granted for murder but I have to tell you that, in Thomas’s case, I’m not hopeful.’

‘This is entirely your fault,’ McKenzie Foster spat at her husband, poking him in the chest. Suddenly, my shoes seemed very interesting. I stared at the ground trying to give Thomas’s parents a moment of privacy. As the eyes of the press bored into us, a sneaky voice whispered in my head: Why had he alerted his bankers that a huge sum of bail money might be necessary? ‘If you hadn’t insisted on coming to this godforsaken place, then Thomas would be safe. Why couldn’t you buy an American football team?’ she whined.

‘The NFL is sewn up, honey – you know that there are very few teams to buy, besides revenue from soccer and its worldwide rights make it a very viable business proposition.’ They were unbelievable – their son was up for murder and they were having a business meeting. I excused myself – this ‘chat’ was going to keep on running but someone had to take care of their son, and I’d drawn the short straw. I didn’t have a hope of getting their boy home for Christmas, and with his pretty looks I was sure he’d be filling some old lag’s stocking before Boxing Day.

I went back inside to find that Sheriff Agatha Lochan was sitting on the bench. I’d appeared before her many times, and she always seemed to bend for the prosecution, but she was meticulous, fair, and ran a tight court. However, she was a fearsome sight with dyed red hair, backcombed into a style that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the set of
The Mikado
. Thick white face powder, to prevent a shiny nose, clung in desperation to her heavy facial hair. I couldn’t help thinking a wee bit of shine couldn’t look as bad as that.

I moved over and sat in the well of the court at a table; at the head of it, directly underneath the sheriff, sat her clerk. Davie Hooper was known as the snake; his yellow bloodshot eyes watched me warily, and the smell of stale drink was off-putting. I nodded at him but he stared right through me – he may still have been drunk.

Seated opposite me was the only friendly face in the room, even if he was on the opposite side of the case here. Frank Pearson was the procurator fiscal. He’d lost the toss on the holiday rota but I knew he had New Year off. We were in the habit of hitting the drink at Hogmanay and Lavender had organized tickets for the party in Princes Street. Last year Frank had been forced to take a duvet day – it had been hard to convince his bosses he was suffering from the winter vomiting bug; to try it on two years in a row would be impossible.

The rustlings of paper fell silent as the police officers escorted Thomas into the court; the officials craned their necks to look at the boy who was being touted as the Ripper. His mother was actually right – it was ludicrous. When he stood in the dock, I knew that any trial involving Thomas Foster would be a media circus. I wondered if
Hello
magazine would bid for the rights. He looked like a Calvin Klein underwear model in spite of stress, dirt, and sweat – maybe Sheriff Lochan would fall for his halo effect.

Most of us don’t like to think of people as being mixed: they are either good or bad. A study showed if we think a person is attractive, then we think their other traits must be equally attractive. Genetics had just improved Thomas Foster’s chance of getting bail.

‘HMA against Thomas Bartholomew Foster.’ The sheriff clerk’s voice was low and rough, honed by a daily diet of a bottle of generic whisky and sixty fags.

‘Are you Thomas Bartholomew Foster?’

This was my cue. I leapt to my feet and nodded respectfully at Sheriff Lochan. I placed my hands on my black court gown, stood to my full height, and spoke clearly.

‘M’lady, I appear on behalf of the accused who makes no plea or declaration at this stage – the defence seeks to apply for bail.’

Sheriff Lochan looked at the fiscal and said, ‘I take it the Crown opposes any motion for bail?’ Christ, she was going to do Frank’s work for him. He didn’t even bother to stand and simply threw me a look that said what I already knew – not a chance. I hadn’t bothered to sit back down. Frank needed to say nothing.

‘M’lady, Mr Foster is twenty-one years of age. He has no previous conviction. He would be willing to hand in his passport and report every day to a police station. He lives with his parents in Edinburgh. It is extremely unlikely that Mr Foster would abscond.’

My heart was pounding. Appearing in court is always a fight. I don’t like to lose. The acid in my stomach crept upwards, filling my mouth; it burned as I forced it back down. I glanced back at Thomas Foster. He looked frightened. His baby blue eyes were wide, unblinking; as a student of body language, I noted that he held his own hand for comfort. His hands were joined as if in prayer in front of his genitals – for protection. His lips were pursed. I suspect he was clenching his arse too – I couldn’t blame him.

Sheriff Lochan put on her half-moon reading spectacles. They slipped to the end of her bony nose and whatever she was going to say to me was put on hold as the courtroom door creaked open. We all turned to see the intruder.

Bancho.

Leaning against the wall, he remained at the rear of the court. It was against policy that he should be there, but he’d come to ensure Thomas went down.

Sheriff Lochan cleared her throat: ‘Do you have anything further to add?’

When you’re asked that question in court, you know you haven’t done enough. Habit makes you scramble around for something else to say. Inevitably it’s irrelevant and often downright stupid, but it was a habit I couldn’t break. ‘I’d just like to emphasize, M’lady, that Mr Foster will hand in his passport and report to the police.’

It is always important in these situations that your client knows you said something, no matter how lame. It is surprising how many lawyers keep quiet in these situations because they are afraid of the wrath of the bench.

Sheriff Lochan drew herself up, placed her glasses on the bench, and looked at me like a cobra about to strike. ‘The problem, Miss McLennan, is not that your client would escape – but that he would kill again,’ she hissed at me, and I had her. She had played right into my hands. My pen had been poised and I scribbled her words. I could now appeal to the High Court against her decision to refuse bail. Whatever happened to the principle of Scots law, innocent until proven guilty?

Bancho had no idea what had just happened. I could only assume he hadn’t been listening, as it had been pretty clear – he was punching the air in celebration. The snake was irritated. Sheriff Lochan stared uneasily into space – no one likes to be appealed and I suspected that she knew exactly what was going to happen as soon as the words were out of her mouth. More worryingly for me, professionally and personally, was that Frank’s mouth curled in displeasure.

I barely noticed that, in the background, my client howled like a baby as he was led away. And me? Did I think he was guilty or not? I tried not to care – I was a lawyer, not a person. Wasn’t I?

The Witchery by Edinburgh Castle
Monday 24 December, 1 p.m.

‘I can feel you’re mad at me,’ Jack Deans said as he handed me a glass of cold, pink champagne. We were standing in his suite at The Witchery, looking down the Royal Mile at the last-minute Christmas shoppers scurrying back and forth. The pedestrians who still had free hands scampered like rats in and out of the shops, desperate to buy anything. I knew what they felt like; apart from Connie, I hadn’t bought a single gift – let alone wrapped one.

‘I just asked, was the Ripper case worth ruining Lavender’s wedding for?’ he said.

‘I’m not angry at you,’ I lied. ‘When I took the case I didn’t know he was charged with murder or that Bancho was using this charge as a holding device to pin the rest of the murders on Thomas Foster.’

‘Brodie, try to convince yourself all you want. Just don’t drag me into your delusion. You’ve a sixth sense when it comes to situations like this and you knew the Ripper had been arrested. Unless it was something serious, no PC Plod was going to keep Adie Foster’s son in custody on Christmas Eve.’

‘You’ve a bloody cheek!’ I told him. ‘Just for once I’d like you to hang around with me for who I am – not because you can get the inside scoop on some trial,’ I said.

Attack is the best form of defence, and Jack interrupted me by kissing my neck; it’s usually a winner and my train of thought was lost.

‘I’m your stalker because of who you are. You’re Brodie McLennan, the lawyer who would do anything to win,’ he said.

I dug my elbow into his stomach, pushing him away from my erogenous zones.

‘You make me sound delightful – besides, I haven’t ruined Lavender’s wedding plans. I just couldn’t make it to the Sheraton.’

‘Lavender trusts you as far as she can throw you. She called me up, and told me to haul ass down to the Sheraton to collect your dress.’ He looked at me suspiciously. ‘How did she know I had a suite here?’ He smiled, and drawled, ‘Brodie – have I been the subject of gossip?’ Jack held my face and stroked it. ‘People believe you – that’s why you are so good in front of juries.’

Lavender understood me well enough to make contingency plans. I told her Jack had a suite at The Witchery, an eerie restaurant with rooms, located near to the Witches’ Well at the entrance to Edinburgh Castle. In case she ever needs to find me, Lavender makes it her business to know the ins and outs of my sex life: generally, there’s not much to know.

The wedding was taking place at 4 p.m. in St Margaret’s Chapel, the oldest building in Edinburgh Castle. In the worst-case scenario, I would have been stuck in court until 3.30 p.m., but as long as I had my dress I could run up the road, and still be on time. I switched my mind to the wedding. I was starting to get in the mood but Jack Deans had other ideas.

He refilled his glass, and said, ‘It’s not just some trial … it’s the trial of the century – at least that will be my headline.’

Wandering over to the mullion-paned window, I stared down at the Witches’ Well, tapping my glass on the old window. I pointed out a ten-inch by six-inch black and gold sign that hung on the wall.

‘That is a pretty pathetic plaque. After all, it commemorates the fact that over three hundred women were burnt as witches on Castle Hill during the sixteenth century.’

I half turned to face him. ‘And another thing. Everyone believes the Witch Trials at Salem were bad – but no one was burned.’

‘That’s misleading, Brodie. You always push it too far. In America the punishment for witchcraft was hanging – women were burnt in Europe because being a witch was heresy. Nineteen people were hung in Salem.’

I poked my empty glass into his chest; it was my way of asking for a refill.

‘People are already saying hanging is too good for Thomas Foster,’ I said.

Jack poured me some more of the chilled champagne. He didn’t agree with me.

‘As a matter of fact, people are saying they are surprised. No one thought he was a serial-killer type.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘But I’ll bet they’re denying knowing him … No one wants to be best mates with a serial killer. It’s bad for your image.’ Even as I said the words, I questioned them – Thomas Foster had been a fixture of the glossy society pages for some time, generally pictured with talentless hangers-on. They could all make a quick buck if he was found guilty.

Room service knocked on the door of the ‘Old Library suite’. A young waiter rolled in a trolley covered with the finest starched linen and topped with more champagne and the largest seafood platter I had seen outside of Maine.

‘Why Mr Deans, I do believe you are trying to seduce me!’ I purred, using my best Scarlett O’Hara voice.

‘Tax deductible … you haven’t forgotten I’m only interested in the Ripper case.’ Rhett Butler fashion, he raised an eyebrow before pulling out my chair.

It’s never a good idea to eat seafood with someone you hardly know; I tucked into the mountain before me with gusto, juice from the fresh Loch Fyne oysters running down my chin. It wasn’t so much that I knew Jack Deans well, I just didn’t care whether my table manners sickened him or not. I needn’t have worried; his face was down at the trough. I reached under the table and grabbed him by the bollocks. His eyes opened wide with anticipation and, squeezing his stomach, I said: ‘I thought there was supposed to be a famine on in Darfur?’

‘Not in the hotels frequented by foreign correspondents with large expense accounts and fuck-all to do.’ Jack wiggled his fingers in the bowl of lemon-scented water beside his plate.

The lobster claws clanked noisily off the side of my plate. I’d lost my appetite and my head was beginning to hurt. I would have to start drinking again before the hangover took effect.

Jack had told me earlier that seventy children under five die every day in Darfur, and the thrill I got from envisaging Connie running out onto the pitch on New Year’s Day paled into insignificance.

‘You can’t save the world – there’s no point in being maudlin. Lavender deserves to have a good day.’ Jack poured me more drink.

‘It’s the same the world over – children and women trafficked for sex,’ I said.

‘In every continent I’ve been in it’s the same … even Bosnia. But the governments will not even pay lip service to it. America doesn’t have a law against people trafficking because their defence contractors say it’s unenforceable in foreign lands.’

‘Is that unreasonable?’ I asked.

‘It is if the slave traders are American citizens.’ Jack grabbed me, pulling me over to the window again. His greasy finger marked the glass. ‘See that?’ He poked at the window. ‘That is the most Masonic street in the world.’

‘Jack, that’s bullshit! Masons are not sex slavers,’ I scoffed.

‘If you don’t believe that Masons are a force, why did you stir up the hornets’ nest by demanding to know if the judge was a member of any secret society?’ Jack said.

‘Doh … to get my client off.’

‘You should know better. If you want to get Thomas Foster off, use the fact that he’s a “Bonesman”,’ he said.

‘Pardon?’ I said, walking away from the window to refill my glass. He had reignited my interest in this conversation. I was open to any ideas about how to get a ‘not guilty’ for Thomas Foster, but with Jack it didn’t do to show you were too interested. Besides, I needed to get ready for the wedding.

I pushed open a panel of books in the library wall, and it swung open revealing a bathroom. It was a suite we had stayed in before. The claw-foot bathtub was approximately one hundred years old, I remembered – I remembered that it was big enough for two as well but I didn’t want any distraction. I closed the door on Jack’s face, secretly pleased to see the look of disappointment. He shouted to me loud enough so I could hear him clearly above the roar of the water and through the books.

‘The society of Skull and Bones was started at Yale in the nineteenth century.’

My ears pricked up. Thomas Foster told me he had been forced back to America to go to college; he was at Edinburgh University on exchange. The Molton Brown pomegranate bath gel was foaming into mounds of soapy suds. I lay back and allowed the hot water to relax my neck; the contrast with the champagne bubbles going up my nose was divine.

‘It was founded by Russell – a Boston opium trader. Russell and Co. was led by an old sea captain named Warren Delano the Second, the former American viceconsul in Canton and grandfather of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the thirty-second president of the United States. Not that we can talk – Russell and Co. were the second biggest drug dealer in the world. The Scots firm Jardine Matheson were the biggest,’ he said.

‘If Thomas Foster is a Bonesman, it doesn’t seem to be doing him much good,’ I shouted back, jumping out of the bath, soapsuds clinging to my skin dripping water all over the floor. I made straight for Jack’s razor; rubbing my hairy legs, I knew the real reason I hadn’t let him join me – still, there was always tonight!

‘Wait and see. Adie Foster is a Bonesman and Thomas was born to be one.’
Nepotism, I knew all about that
.

I remained silent, so Jack was forced to speak. He abhorred a void.

‘The Skull and Bones Society is not some two-bit club. President George Bush and presidential candidate John Kerry were both members – their influence makes the Enlightenment Society look like a joke.’

‘But not in Scotland,’ I shouted back. ‘Here the Enlightenment Society holds sway and it wouldn’t have any interest in Thomas Foster.’

The Enlightenment Society, formed in the eighteenth century, was a secret brotherhood of lawyers, recruited as first-year students at Edinburgh University. Until recently, over 90 per cent of judges were alleged to be members.

‘They’re linked. Edinburgh New Town was built and designed by Masons – the Masons who built Castle Street went directly to work on the White House; the cornerstone of the Statue of Liberty was laid by a Scottish Mason – need I go on?’ he asked.

‘Can I stop you?’ I whispered.

‘Okay, you think this investigation is going to be based on reason, reliable evidence. It’s not. If you don’t believe me, ask your grandfather. Why did the police contact him when they arrested Thomas Foster? More to the point, I’d ask why he didn’t tell you Thomas was the Ripper?’

At that moment, I stopped shaving my legs.