Watcher (20 page)

Cumberland Street, Edinburgh
Friday 28 December, 4.05 a.m.

A watchful silence surrounded me as Bancho, Joe and the others tiptoed around, whispering conspiratorially, making plans, treating me as if I’d already suffered a death. When they asked how I was feeling, I said: ‘Do you think the Ripper wants to be caught? Sometimes they do, you know. Either he wants to be caught or he thinks I’m a fuckwit. I wouldn’t argue the toss with him,’ I said, completely spaced out with guilt.

They murmured niceties, seeking to assure me that I wasn’t guilty, that it was lack of sleep making me shoulder blame for something I wasn’t responsible for. They didn’t use the word paranoid.

Naturally, the first thing I wanted to do was speak to Grandad to confirm that he wasn’t harmed, but his phone wasn’t being picked up. Bancho had told me not to do it, but he couldn’t stop me trying. It didn’t matter. There was no one there. Or no one answering. Or no one able to answer. Glasgow Joe called the service provider. They listened in on the line but there was nothing wrong – it was just off the hook. In spite of this information, I ground my teeth and kept trying. Maybe he was en route to Kailash. I didn’t really believe that; just as quickly as I was putting a family together, one by one I was losing them again.

I wanted to know what was going on. Bancho had already radioed and asked for backup; he was heading for the door of the flat with Joe when I stopped him. ‘There’s no way you’re leaving here without me,’ I told him. ‘It’s my family – you don’t have the right to stop me.’

‘It’s precisely because it’s your family that I don’t want you there,’ said Bancho, softly. His face was right next to mine. He smelled of stale smoke and anchovy pizza; he wore a stubble that was twelve hours past designer and a shirt that looked as if he’d slept in it. Still, I wasn’t picky. If I had to hold on to his ankle there was no way he was leaving without dragging me along. He must have sensed my resolve and decided that, after less than four hours’ sleep, he didn’t have the strength to fight me off. Something shifted in his eyes. Pity? I didn’t care what his emotion was as long as he took me to Grandad’s side.

I tried to get in the front seat, but Bancho pushed me into the back and Joe piled in beside me. Bancho’s car would be useful I guessed, in case we needed to run any red lights. The streets were deserted, the blacktopped roads icy, and the cobbles treacherous. I prayed the constable in the front had been through his advanced driving course: even that was no guarantee we would get there safely. Joe’s knuckles were white. We were both piss-poor passengers.

Driving up the hill to Princes Street, the same old tinsel-covered Christmas trees were displayed in windows, and fairy lights flashed down on me mockingly – this was the holiday period. Life went on, but I wanted it to stop. In George Street they were gearing up for the big Hogmanay street party and I could see drunken stragglers leaving Susie Wong’s. Clenching my fist, I gestured helplessly and stared down at my shoes – I was wearing the same trainers that Connie had dropped the hair dye on.

The driver tried to make small talk, but we’d retired into stubborn silence, fighting the worst-case scenarios in our minds. The Ripper had a talent for surprise. Why did he abduct Connie? Why had he phoned me from Grandad’s phone? ‘Why’ questions were on an endless loop. Grandad and Connie were related to me, ergo I was to blame. I heard the rasping whisper, ‘I’ll make you suffer.’ Steeling myself, I lifted my chin and put my shoulders back; pumping up ready for a fight – for my family’s sake I had to be fit for the ring.

Bancho’s driver sped down Hanover Street, flying straight through the lights, no siren on. Princes Street was still lit up like Blackpool illuminations, the Ferris Wheel glowed in the dark and I heard Connie’s belly laugh again. Speeding up the Mound, we turned right past the seventy-foot Christmas tree that the residents of Norway give to Edinburgh every year. We screeched to a halt outside Ramsay Gardens – two other squad cars blocked the street and DI Bancho spoke into the radio, co-coordinating their assault. Wariness prevailed. My grandfather was a very important man, the police didn’t have a search warrant, and there had been no threat to his life. It was a dangerous move for DI Bancho’s career to kick in Lord MacGregor’s door as if he was on a drug raid.

Sitting helplessly in the back I had to wait for Bancho to let me out. Suddenly, it hit me: I was scared shitless. What would I find? I didn’t know. All I did know was I had to be the first one in, the first one to find Grandad.

DI Bancho climbed the outside staircase, avoiding the carefully potted containers filled with winter-flowering primula. Caution slowed him sufficiently for me to catch up and I pulled him by the shoulder and turned him round. Using crude sign language I motioned that this was up to me. Glasgow Joe locked eyes with Bancho; he had my back. We knew the risks.

I rang the bell.

No answer. Keeping my finger on it, I kicked the door in frustration. Soundlessly, a meaty hand pushed me aside. Leaning on the balcony railing, Joe kicked the door. Nothing for him either. Tilting out precariously over the railing to gain more leverage, he wobbled. Holding on to the railing tighter, he used his foot on the Yale lock and the door burst open as if it was made of cheap cardboard. Inhaling as if going into a blazing fire, I stepped into the darkness.

The narrow hallway was tastefully decorated with pen and ink sketches of old Edinburgh, all hung in a row and framed in black. A small Waterford crystal chandelier hung at the far end. I made no sound. Creeping along in the dark until I got to Grandad’s bedroom, I knew that someone was there. Joe pushed me behind him and gingerly opened the door. A figure lay slumped on the bed. Joe switched the light on. I heard a sigh of relief coming from Joe. ‘It’s all right, Brodie … your grandpa is sleeping like a log.’

‘Hey, ya daft old bugger!’ said Joe to the sleeping form. Grandad didn’t stir. ‘Come on now. You’d better put your teeth in – you’ve got company.’

Grandad was slow to rouse, but he was coming round. I wandered over to the bed. I didn’t fall over any piles of discarded clothing. His suit was hung on a trouser press, and handmade brogues, shiny to within an inch of their lives, were in shoetrees. It was the first time I’d ever been in Grandad’s bedroom. I took the opportunity to nose around; it smelt a bit of old man with a vague bouquet of expensive cologne – not enough of it. On the walnut bedside table was a brown tablet bottle: Ambien 200 mg prescribed for Jack Deans. Well, that bloody explained it. Grandad didn’t take tablets as a rule and these sleeping tablets were hard stuff. No wonder the poor old bugger was out cold. I gave the bottle to Joe. Shaking his head and swearing, he helped Grandad to a sitting position.

‘That fucker Deans is an idiot – he could have killed him.’ Half turning to me, Joe spoke again. ‘There’s a word for people like him.’

‘Pusher?’ I added helpfully.

‘No, junkie. Have you never noticed he can give you a pill to pop for any occasion? He’s as bad as bloody Moses. The old boy could sell these tablets for a pound a go.’

‘He could if he could get out of his bed.’

Bancho and the boys were staying respectfully in the hallway. ‘Bancho! The old boy’s fine!’ Joe shouted.

‘I’ll have less of the “old boy”, thank you very much.’ Grandad had slipped in his teeth before he spoke.

The lights went on in the hallway.

Detective Inspector Smith shouted: ‘I think you’d better come and see this!’

Screaming echoed round the flat. It took me a few moments to realize I was the screamer. Bloody footprints made by a trainer marked the carpet. There was one set into the drawing room, another leading back out to the front door – and freedom. DI Bancho was trying to protect the crime scene but, in the confusion, I wandered across the bloody path blindly.

Standing in the doorway, apart from the footprints, everything seemed normal, except for a nagging raspy whisper in my head. It was as if the Ripper was talking to me.
Pay attention – or you’ll suffer even more
. Adrenalin pumped through my veins, improving my senses; breathing in through my nose I fancied I could smell him and he smelled – familiar. I knew him, just as he knew me; all I had to do was remember.

You haven’t gone to all this trouble just to make a mess
on the shag pile – have you?

I heard his laugh and oddly, I thought of it as educated. Stepping into his shoes I took an inventory. Oxblood Chesterfield settee – where it should be. Winged armchair exactly in the place I had last seen it – I hadn’t sat on it for it was Grandad’s favoured chair. My graduation photograph, in pride of place on the Chippendale table. I was grateful the Ripper had not stood on the seventeenth-century Aubusson rug; obviously he had enough taste to know it was irreplaceable.
How considerate!

Screwing up my eyes, I saw what was bothering me – the telescope I used to spy on the pedestrians in Princes Street. It was fixed into position rather than free on its swivel as usual. I looked through it like it was an old fairground attraction, What the Butler Saw. I hope for his sake he did not see what I saw.

Connie.

I don’t know whether I screamed again before I fainted.

Edinburgh Castle
Friday 28 December, 5.15 a.m.

The gatehouse entrance to the castle was floodlit and covered in snow. The snow was stained like a frozen red waterfall; there was so much blood. I didn’t think one little body could hold so much fluid. The telescope had been well positioned so that I could see a mutilated young girl.

I had to hold Connie.

As I came to, all I could see were anxious faces crowding me. Joe’s eyes streamed; his worst fears had come to pass. He crushed me to his heart, more for his sake than mine. I couldn’t breathe. My world had changed in an instant. For Connie’s sake I had to be a survivor. I couldn’t bear the thought of her body lying in the snow, cold and alone for one second more than she needed to be.

Fighting Glasgow Joe off was easy; his heart had been taken. Grandad didn’t stop to collect his coat or dressing gown. He held my hand and walked up Castle Hill in his pyjamas and I’m sure that none of us could bear to think of Lavender’s wedding. I heard Connie sing clear and true in my head, her version of the Lewis wedding song. Somehow, together, we stumbled through the gatehouse and on up through the portcullis.

Detective Inspector Smith, the detective in charge of the abduction, was somewhere close by. I wasn’t conscious of her but she must have smoothed our passage. Joe told me that Bancho had already received a tip-off by the time we’d roused Grandad – certainly, the castle had been cordoned off as a crime scene although no one tried to bar our way. DI Smith led the way; we pushed past the yellow tape. Clearly, no one thought that we were mere onlookers. Grief had already etched its signature on our faces. Grandad seemed to have lost inches. He slumped beside me sunken in pain; the only reason he could keep going was that he wouldn’t let me face this alone. Although the Ripper had not stabbed Grandad tonight, I was sure this would kill him. It was just another score I had to settle with the bastard.

Uniformed officers crawled over the castle like termites. We walked up the cobbled road, past substantial black signposts with gold lettering directing us to less gory locations – we ignored them. A young Lothian and Borders officer, who looked all of seventeen, stood guard anxiously at the makeshift barricade, clearly conscious of the fact that his every move was being recorded and then analysed live on news channels. DI Smith pushed us past the youngster, and I was aware I was making headlines. At this very second probably, across the bottom of TV screens, would be running a headline –
Family visit last resting place of Connie Coutts
in grim attempt to identify body parts
.

Inside a makeshift white tent, crime-scene technicians swarmed, their latex-gloved fingers probing every square inch of cobbled stone, gathering and preserving forensic samples. Everything and anything was now considered evidence – I watched as a discarded chewing-gum wrapper, probably left by a thoughtless tourist, was now sealed and sent to a crime lab. Flashes lit the pre-dawn sky as crime-scene photographers took pictures from every conceivable angle. Fingerprint powder covered any surface on which the Ripper might have left a print, and some where he could not. The cannons had not seen as much action since the seventeenth century.

I knew that the human body contained about ten pints of blood. I just didn’t know that it could spread so far. We encountered the red snow long before we could see the body. A shiver ran through me, though it had nothing to do with the cold. This place was a blood bath.

DI Bancho put his arm in front of me, barring the way. He looked me in the eye and said: ‘Do you think you can handle it?’ I tried to push past him without answering; he was stronger than he looked. ‘Think about it carefully, Brodie – this isn’t a stranger …’ His voice trailed off.

‘Let her pass, Duncan. If I can bear it, she can bear it – we owe it to Connie.’ Glasgow Joe’s voice sounded from over my shoulder. I looked to my right and he was there; he seemed smaller too. I was scared. I was really scared, but I had to go on. Walking between Joe and Grandad, gripping their hands, I got my first sight of the body. I was still too far away to do more than note the position. Her naked corpse was grotesquely draped over a cannon; her back lay along the barrel of the massive gun with arms falling limply to the side and legs spreadeagled. I was close enough to see that her feet had been hacked off. She was tied by her ankles and wrists to the cannon so that there was no danger of her falling off. Focusing on her limbs, I could tell she had been bound post mortem – there were no purple bruises on her skin.

I wanted to run to her, to take her in my arms, give her some dignity, but I couldn’t interfere with the crime scene; contamination might mean a court case would fall because of lack of evidence. My head knew this, but all my practice at murder scenes involving strangers could never prepare me for this.

Inching forward, I strained my neck to see. I’m sure Joe’s eyes were closed because it felt as if I was leading a blind man. There was something wrong. Deviating from his m.o., the Ripper had shorn her hair, her beautiful hair. A picture of Malcolm brushing and de-tugging her ponytail before catching it up in that bloody silly neon rose flashed before my eyes. A whimper caught in my throat and I ran to her.

It was hard to see in the darkness. As I drew closer, I was drawn to the thorn bush tied to her hand; the Ripper was developing, telling us a story … it was changing. The body had been hit with a blunt instrument; battered like a veal escalope. Perhaps Patch had been successful with his pig experiments and would be able to tell us definitively which blunt instrument had bludgeoned her to death.

I’d never known such grief, but I couldn’t look away. Not only had the Ripper shorn her hair but, as the first light of dawn cracked over the castle, I saw what had been concerning me about the thorn bush.

Eyes.

Her eyes hung on branches of thorns in a grotesque parody of a Christmas tree bauble.

Duncan Bancho looked over my shoulder.

I turned to face him.

Reaching between his legs, I grabbed his balls and squeezed until my fingers hurt.

‘You bastard,’ I whispered, ‘you knew it wasn’t Connie, but you had to prolong it, didn’t you?’ I twisted his balls once more. ‘Maybe you’ll think twice about fucking with my head again, Bancho, or I’ll rip those off next time.’ I let go. Walking away, clenching and unclenching my fingers, I tried to bring the circulation back. In other circumstances, what I had done would have felt good. I was honest enough to concede maybe I was my mother’s daughter after all, but in the circumstances I wouldn’t break out the champagne just yet – guilt ate at my stomach. When I looked at that poor dead girl, all I felt was relief: relief that we still had some hope … and that’s when I received the text.

It shd hve bn u