Watcher (22 page)

Kailash’s home,
Ravelston
Dykes, Edinburgh
Friday 28 December, 12.15 p.m.

‘She’s alive!’

They all stared at me. My eyes were locked with those of my mother. The clock on the fireplace mantel ticked loudly. Kailash cleared her throat but couldn’t speak.

‘I knew it … I knew if anything really bad had happened to her I’d be able to tell.’ Malcolm collapsed against the cushions on the sofa, patting his heart.

‘Connie’s been gone over thirty-six hours – statistically she should be dead—’ I stopped mid-sentence, afraid to say the words and afraid they would hurt Kailash even more if I did. Kailash was frightened to have faith like Malcolm, too many bad things had happened to her in the past.

‘But,’ I continued, ‘I heard her voice… She sounded …’ Tongue-tied, I struggled to find the right words, ‘… alive and happy.’ They were the best I could come up with.

‘What do we do now? Did you consider she might just have been forced to repeat something after she was kidnapped?’ Kailash eyed me doubtfully.

‘I don’t think she knew she was being taped,’ I said. ‘She was reading from today’s newspaper. If it was a put-up job, then the Ripper’s made her feel very relaxed; she was chattering on and on about Lucas Baroc’s foot, the sort of nonsense she spouts at Joe and Eddie.’

‘Did you think she sounded drugged?’ Kailash asked, her voice cracked with nerves.

The possibility had crossed my mind. I knew it was more likely than not.

‘I couldn’t say,’ I replied.

Kailash ran her fingers through her own hair, pulling at it until Malcolm laid his hand on hers. ‘You’ll have none left if you keep that up – it won’t do Connie any good. What are we going to do, Brodie?’ he asked me. They’d all gathered at Four Winds as I made my way there. As soon as I’d spoken to Kailash I’d phoned Bancho, and after several minutes he’d calmed down enough to listen.

Bancho had been labouring under the misapprehension that I already knew that Thomas Foster had been released. He didn’t take the news well and was sulking, accusing me of attacking him behind his back, trying to make him look bad in front of the press because he’d believed that Thomas was the killer. I’d gone back to St Leonards and he’d rushed to meet me – ostensibly to drive me to Kailash’s, but his initial reaction was to get his hands round my throat while screaming something about undermining police authority. He spewed expletives at me. The vomit stains on my jacket went some way to convincing him that I was telling the truth, and he was almost nice to me as he drove me to my mother’s – if niceness could be measured by shutting the fuck up.

He was in the kitchen at Kailash’s trying to find out who had authorized Thomas Foster’s release – now was not the time to point out that neither of us had a legitimate complaint against the decision to release him from Saughton. Indeed, it could be argued we were both failing in our duties for not having done so earlier. For my part I found it disturbing that neither Thomas nor Adie had contacted me about Thomas’s sudden release. I was certain they weren’t leaving me alone out of concern for my family turmoil. If it hadn’t been for Connie, I might even have given a damn.

Derek arrived with lunch, using Malcolm’s hostess trolley. We all ignored it, except Bancho, who had followed Derek; grabbing five of the salmon sandwiches he stuffed them into his mouth. Coughing, he thumped his chest in an effort to force the sandwiches down his gullet into his stomach. Bancho’s eyes watered until Joe relented and thumped him on the back.

‘Thanks,’ he rasped, pouring a cup of milk from the jug.

‘You’re standing there stuffing your face as if we’ve got all the time in the world – wait much longer and Connie could be dead,’ I said.

‘I wasn’t aware the police were waiting,’ Kailash said anxiously. ‘What are they waiting for? What’s happening with Foster? Is he behind this?’

‘There’s not much to tell, Kailash,’ said Bancho, shaking his head and already regretting what he was about to say. ‘I’m being forced to agree with Brodie about the Masonic connection. Chief Constable Nadler might be a Mason, and so is Adie Foster. What else would explain Nadler’s interference in this case?’

‘The chief constable should have been offering Adie Foster hush money for wrongful accusation,’ I interjected. ‘We’ve been over this so many times – there’s no evidence against Thomas Foster.’

Bancho ignored me and spoke to everyone else. ‘We’re still waiting on the DNA.’ Tightening his jaw he failed to speak calmly. ‘The chief constable negotiated directly with the Crown Office without telling me.’

I eyed Bancho up and down, mulling everything over. ‘And before you start considering my position, Brodie, what about your own? Adie Foster cut you out of the loop as well.’

‘I know. Why?’ I asked. ‘Why would Adie Foster do that – he’s not a stupid man?’

‘Sometimes I think I must be very stupid,’ Kailash said quietly. ‘I don’t care about any of this conspiracy shit … Find Connie.’

‘Thomas Foster is important to the Ripper for some reason,’ Joe said. ‘He’s the fall guy I reckon.’

‘I think he is,’ I agreed. ‘Thomas Foster was only charged with the murder of Katya Waleski because of a tip-off and a photograph that showed him with Katya on the battlements.’

I licked my dry lips, all too aware that what I was about to say would lead to accusations that I was just trying to get my client off. I’d soon turn into the Girl Who Sets the Guilty Free.

‘What if the Ripper called in the information?’

‘Why would he want to stitch up Thomas Foster? The guy’s a psycho – his thing is mutilating redheads.’ Bancho reached for another fistful of sandwiches and we all stared at him. ‘What?’ he whined defensively. ‘All this stress gives me an appetite.’

Shaking my head I continued, trying not to watch the nauseating sight of Bancho cramming more food into his mouth. ‘Let’s assume that the Ripper did set Thomas up – do they know one another? Does it matter? The next question that needs answered is why did Adie Foster cut me out of the loop – he must be hiding something.’

Lavender grabbed a mug and poured stewed tea into it. Clicking three sweeteners into it, she then took the largest scone. Eyeing us defiantly, she said: ‘I’ll need all the energy I can get. I’m going to nail that bastard Adie Foster even if I have to hack into the FBI itself. I’m a bit rusty, but—’

‘How can she? How could she do that?’ Bancho lifted his hand in Lavender’s direction as she walked out of the room, noticing the shifty glances that passed between the rest of us. There was no way we could initiate Bancho into Lavender’s secret. Lavender Ironside wasn’t even her true name – she’d found it on a gravestone in Alvie, a churchyard in the Highlands. She needed a new identity and the real Lavender Ironside wasn’t using hers any more. I’d known Lavender for more than five years, yet I didn’t know her real name. All she told me was she was on the run from the police, over some mistake regarding the Bank of England. Lavender had learned to be a computer hacker to keep an eye on her boyfriend at the time. She found she loved hacking computers more than she loved him and she was good at it – too good.

‘I have to take this at face value. If Thomas Foster isn’t the Ripper, he might know who is. It’s worth chasing up; he needs to be interviewed.’ Bancho wrote it down in his book as I sighed.

‘Christ, Bancho – tell me that you can remember a straightforward detail like that?’ I snapped. He raised his eyebrow and continued with his jotting, before meticulously folding his book and putting it in his pocket.

I hit on the only real plan I could think of. ‘He’s out there. The Ripper is still out there. He has Connie. People know him; they’ve looked into his eyes, eaten with him. We’re having no luck with the photograph. Maybe it’s a disguise. Whatever… he has a mask of sanity, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to get close to his victims. But that one girl escaped from him. We have to find her. It’s Connie’s only chance.’

Kailash’s home,
Ravelston
Dykes, Edinburgh
Friday 28 December, 4 p.m.

Arms folded across his chest, he looked at Four Winds and cursed. He had been smug, overconfident, and now he was praying he wouldn’t be asked to pay for his mistake.

Could he justify why he had let her believe Connie was alive? Weak. Weak. Did he expect her gratitude? The answer was ‘yes’. Pity made him behave in such a foolish manner; stunned by her sunken eyes, her pale, drawn complexion. He had knocked the fight out of her. That carcass was not the Brodie he knew and prized – the final confrontation would be no good if she didn’t fight back.

Thirty-eight hours had passed – thirty-eight long hours in which he had practised patience. It had been difficult. He sighed, taking a moment to congratulate himself on his fortitude but also recognizing how hard it had been. The Watcher was doing everything in his power to make his plan work – nobody would get in his way. To the left of his foot, the snow was still stained red, a reminder to him of a time in the recent past when he had not shown such patience. He smiled and fingered his serrated blade: such a useful tool.

The media camp around the house had grown even larger but he liked that. Crowds provided him with a cover to get close to her. He rolled his tongue around trying to think of an appropriate word to describe his relationship to Brodie – comrade. A self-satisfied smile crossed his lips. He was sure they would be very good friends – and soon.

In fact, he was making friends with the whole family.

He considered it an honour having Connie in his home. He’d followed Brodie’s career closely through the Internet. He was her number one fan. It had been an ambition of his to study Scots law; however his other talents – privileges he might say – took him in another direction, so he was forced to follow the law vicariously. During his online research he’d come across Brodie McLennan. He needed an ally.

The front door suddenly opened and the press stirred, ready to record another minor moment in ‘a parent’s worst nightmare’. Their cameras panned the leafy streets of this exclusive suburb. Connie lived in the kind of house where these things just don’t happen. The media was gearing up to ensure that the nation poured out its grief; after all, she was one of theirs.

His eyes flicked over the mawkish tributes left by strangers; cheap pink teddies with childish scrawls. Cameras clicked in the semi-darkness at Lavender Ironside and Jack Deans as they left the house. The flash startled Lavender; like a wary animal she searched the crowd. Her beady eyes stopped on him for a few long seconds before moving on.

He shrank back, frightened. He knew all about the new Mrs Gibb – he’d even gone to her wedding. There was no end to the things she could find out online about him, given her talents – if she chose to do so.

They were getting close.

He would have to act fast.

Glasgow Joe pulled back a curtain in the living room and peered out, giving The Watcher an opportunity to spy on their conference. He had no doubt that Brodie was filling them in, telling them that good old Tom Foster was innocent. The Watcher was in a mood to excuse her; no one was perfect.
Well, almost no one
. He felt a little ashamed, though. He was acting like one of those sanctimonious vigilantes.

So, Ms McLennan – where are you off to tonight?
he drooled, whispering the words as she stepped out onto the paved driveway. His pleasure in her appearance was short-lived; Glasgow Joe was hot on her heels – wasn’t he always? Opening the top box on his trike, the big bastard pulled out a spare helmet and handed it to her. Colour had returned to her face a bit. The Watcher had given her hope – what had she done for him? Brodie McLennan was making him mad, and that wasn’t a good idea – she wouldn’t like to meet him then.

She needed him.

Brodie held Joe’s shoulder, as she threw her leg over the trike. The machine roared into life, disturbing the neighbourhood. The Glaswegian drove at the reporters, scattering them like pigeons.

Bonnie and fucking Clyde
, he muttered under his breath. He smiled to himself as he remembered how that scenario ended.

Lothian and St Clair, Edinburgh
Friday 28 December, 8.30 p.m.

Night had fallen by the time we got to the office. Joe and I had to get petrol for the trike before meeting up with Jack and Lavender outside the offices. The computer equipment Lavender had insisted I install was second to none. Jack tried to switch on the overhead lights when they entered the office. Lavender switched them off. ‘I work with just a desk light,’ she told him, tapping her finger lightly off her temple. ‘Helps the concentration.’

‘How do you intend to find her?’ Jack asked. Lavender did not look up at him.

‘I’m not looking for Connie … I’m going to find the Ripper. These killings started in July. But his behaviour escalated too quickly for a novice. I think the bastard’s done this before somewhere else. And, wherever he’s been, there’s a trail … I’ll hunt him down with a little help from my friends.’

‘Friends?’ Jack asked. But Lavender was now engrossed as her fingers flew over the keyboard.

‘You may have already guessed,’ I told Jack, ‘Lavender isn’t referring to us. She belongs to a loose group of hackers who call themselves vengeance.org.’

‘How did she join them?’ Jack asked, probably hunting for another story.

‘Lav says if you have to ask how to join, you don’t belong.’

Lavender’s half-moon reading glasses, a recent necessity, were perched on the end of her nose; they kept sliding down and she kept pushing them up. It was the only time her hands left the keyboard. Three cups of cold coffee sat untouched by her right hand. She was a model of efficiency. Jack told me that, when they arrived, she’d assessed his hacking skills – then asked him to make coffee.

Suddenly, Joe cleared his throat purposefully, as if he was trying to call the room to order. It worked.

‘Seeing as our efforts are moving online now, I have something I need to tell you,’ he said, looking uncomfortable.

‘Some time ago, Brodie’s name cropped up on a perverts’ website called The Hobbyist. There’s been no recent mention but Bancho’s monitoring it and he’s pretty sure—’

I stopped his flow. ‘Yes, yes … I know about that.’ Joe stepped back in surprise. The smart-arse thought he’d kept it from me. I told the others: ‘Look, this website stuff is just a waste of time. For a start it’s an American site. That’s obvious from the users, the spelling, the addresses and the references. It’s a stretch to think the Brodie McLennan in question is me, “right here in li’l old Edinburgh”.’ For the last few words I affected a drawling, American accent. ‘And anyway, it was posted six months ago. So let’s move on shall we?’

‘Brodie, I don’t think you’re seeing the full picture here,’ said Joe.

‘Lucky I’ve got any picture at all,’ I snapped. ‘You obviously weren’t going to tell me!’

Joe ignored that, took a deep breath, and continued. ‘It’s originally a US site, it’s true. But the most recent links take you through to other sites. In mainland Europe,’ he paused and then went on, ‘and in Scotland.

‘The post you saw was just under six months ago. Bancho’s people were monitoring for further posts – but then they checked
back
the way through old threads.

‘There was another post two weeks before the first, almost seven months ago …’

I knew he was about to drop a bombshell of some description. At least Lavender was still firing on all cylinders, her fingers tapping away again.

‘Jack. Use Brodie’s computer. “thehobbyist.com” all lower case, all one word,’ she ordered.

She turned back to her screen. ‘Demonika, one of the full-timers at vengeance, has just sent me some stuff on The Hobbyist,’ said Lav. ‘The site started in San Francisco and then other chapters opened across the US. I’m just printing off a list of chapters now. Whoever opened The Hobbyist chapter in Scotland has some connection with these places in America.’

She gave me a copy, although I wasn’t sure what I could do with it. It was long, too long to help me out in the near future. I stuck it in my pocket.

Jack had found the site. He leaned forward on his seat, eyes wide, staring in disbelief at the screen.

‘Shit, Brodie,’ he said. ‘Who the fuck is this guy? The Watcher? What sort of weirdo bastard is asking about you? The bastard wants your address!’

At Joe’s command, he navigated back to earlier posts – and I read it over his shoulder.

In my mind’s eye, a calendar flipped back six months … to when the first two victims were found. My God. And I’d dismissed his later post out of hand. Even as I was petrified for myself, feeling as if every hair on my head and body was standing to attention, I was overwhelmed by feelings of guilt and stupidity as well. This was a lead to whoever had Connie – and I’d missed it. I felt the anger rise up, boil over and spew outwards. This was all Joe’s fault.

‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me about it?’ I shouted at him. ‘Why did I have to find out by eavesdropping on you and your buddy Bancho? Even then I couldn’t possibly know the relevance unless you two told me! Or are you really so conceited and macho that you thought you could
protect
me?’

Joe’s face was white. I didn’t get a chance to find out if he was equally angry with me, or just hurt, because while I was venting my spleen Lav had been concentrating on moving things on.

Ignoring my outburst completely, she said: ‘I’ll cross-reference the details of The Hobbyist with the rest of the information that’s coming through. The first thing I need to do is see if Thomas Foster has a connection.’

Jack was still bug-eyed on the website. ‘I thought you said the last entry was six months ago. There’s a new one … posted just hours ago!’

Joe and I shot across the room to peer over his shoulder. Lavender followed.

He placed his finger on the cursor; a deep groove had formed between his eyebrows as he saw Connie’s picture posted on the site. I’d guess we all felt the same chill. It had been taken the day of the football match in the Meadows; she was lying on the ground after the illegal tackle, blood pouring from her nose.

‘What kind of sick bastard would put a photograph of an injured child up on the web?’ he asked, shaking his head.

Peering into the screen, I placed a finger on it. ‘Follow that thread,’ I commanded. The words were indistinct because I was biting my bottom lip as he scanned the messages.

‘Stop! Open it up.’

Jack did as he was told.

‘It’s a photograph of Connie taken after she was kidnapped. Brodie, she’s wearing the Roxy sweatshirt I gave her for Christmas,’ he said, without meeting my eyes. I leaned forward, squashing him out of the way, as I printed the image. Watching the photograph roll out of the printer, I felt the life being squeezed out of me.