Watcher (26 page)

Edinburgh Airport
Saturday 29 December, 4.30 a.m.

The Watcher’s night had just got better. It was delightful giving Brodie a lift out to Thomas Foster’s house. Of course he’d been with her all night, applauding their progress. When the big oaf drove off without her, The Watcher clapped his hands. It was really very careless of Joe – he could have been anyone. The Watcher had many disguises; he liked to hide in plain sight, so he affected the disguise of ordinary people who no one would question. Cabbies can go anywhere. He could almost smell victory. All that he wanted now was to see Thomas Foster marched off the plane and taken into police custody. But perhaps that would be foolhardy. Thomas Foster was the only person who knew his true identity and his role in the Ripper case. Maybe freedom was necessary for him too.

Just thinking of Foster made The Watcher press himself back into his car seat, into the shadows. He gave himself a quick lecture. He had to exert patience and control himself. The many months of work he had put in were coming to fruition. He had come so far, he could bide his time. After all, Thomas was a formidable opponent.

The battle of wills between himself and Foster had started on another continent; their enmity had spread to Scotland. The Watcher was not a cold man – he sighed, regretting the necessity of so many lost lives. Indiscriminate murder was not elegant and The Watcher admired finesse. He sighed again and closed his eyes for a moment’s quiet reflection.

To be honest, Brodie McLennan had disappointed him. To begin with, he’d had high hopes for her, he’d even hoped that they could be allies, but sadly it had been proven that her intellect simply was not up to it. Besides, she’d looked rather tatty and torn leaning up against the pillar in the airport terminal, not quite what she was a few weeks ago.

He got out of his vehicle and marched adjacent to them. He sniggered – they were, of course, marching to a different drummer. The Watcher liked the military analogy. He had been a keen member of the Officers’ Training Corps at school. Using the night-vision goggles, he watched them stand on the tarmac with that stupid detective. He wondered whether Brodie had given Bancho the information he’d fed to Lavender Ironside? Now she was quite a surprise! A revelation; a bonus. The Watcher stopped for a moment to consider how Lavender had acquired the skills to hack into the FBI computer – he was right to fear her, and even more right to involve her. Hopefully, they were on to Thomas Foster by now.

Time was running out.

Didn’t she understand the concept of delegation? Bancho would arrest and detain Foster using the information he had fed to Lavender Ironside. He needed Brodie back in Edinburgh, ready to pick up the rest of the trail he’d laid for them. He drummed his fingers impatiently off the goggles. Dear God. Would they ever shut up and get a move on? He had plans for Brodie McLennan, even if they were not quite as satisfying as he had initially fantasized. Call him an old romantic, but he still had high hopes for her.

The sight through the night glasses was truly remarkable; there was such detail that he could even see the tired rings around Brodie’s eyes. She zipped up her jacket and pulled the collar up against the wind. Her fingernails were torn and dirty. No lady had hands like that. He wondered if the blackness under her nails was bike oil; for some reason he found that possibility exciting.

Finally they were on the move – how chivalrous of that big bastard to put his arm around her to shelter her from the gathering storm. Glasgow Joe seemed to be searching the skies again, scanning the perimeter of the fences … searching for
him
, no doubt. Trying to keep her safe. It was laughable. The Watcher sniggered on his way back to his vehicle. They hadn’t caught on to him by now and they never would. Once Thomas Foster was safely contained behind bars he would go back to his old life, which was markedly more comfortable than this one.

He wondered if they’d discovered the secrets of Connie’s sweatshirt yet.

He shivered – it had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with anticipation.

St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh
Saturday 29 December, 7.15 a.m.

The taxi headed to St Leonards. He had a clear run with the roads devoid of traffic. The citizens of Edinburgh appeared to be taking the whole two-week period of Christmas and New Year off. Glasgow Joe was twitching about in the back seat. It bothered me – it seemed more than his usual reluctance at being a passenger.

The Sheriff Court was quiet but today was a working day; we had a few custodies, but they were being covered by Eddie, and Louisa was going with him in case he needed help.

There were no trials or deferred sentences: even the judges were on vacation.

The taxi driver was chatty, cheery in spite of the time. I was worried, and when I worry I chatter like a budgerigar. Glasgow Joe was too busy staring out of the cab windows to notice my discomfort. I didn’t want the cabbie asking me where I had been last night. What I had been up to over the Christmas season. What was on the cards for today.

And so I succumbed to asking him the usual questions: what time had he come on, when would he finish, had he been busy? As if I was at all interested in his answers. He served his purpose well. His mundane small talk anchored me in the present, so I could consider my next step.

As the cab drew up outside the police station, dawn had not yet broken; the reception desk was empty, and the Christmas tree still twinkled pathetically. Nothing had changed. The driver handed me a contract slip to sign; as I handed him back the paper and his pen he caught my hand and held it, his eyes dug into mine.

‘I hope you get her back.’ His eyes shone. ‘My granddaughter played against her at football, just before Christmas – she’s very upset; well, we all are.’ He nodded and turned back to his steering wheel. I clamped my lips together and nodded back. Malcolm was so much better at graciously receiving people’s sympathy than I was.

Two teams of detectives were working on this; Connie’s case was being treated as child abduction, separate although linked to the Ripper murders. Kailash, Malcolm and Moses were at Four Winds with the second team and Moses was playing Xbox Live, still searching the gaming community for her. He would not give up until we had her back – dead or alive.

Sergeant Munro was still on the front desk – he must be working a twelve-hour shift. All overtime had been cancelled and officers from other forces had been drafted in to patrol the streets. The streets were filled with the type of girls the Ripper loved so much. Sergeant Munro was busy – I could tell he’d seen us but he kept his head down working on a piece of paper. I waited, every bone in my body ached, I wanted to fall into a deep sleep and never wake up – I couldn’t be bothered playing games with him.

‘You’ll be here to see Thomas Foster,’ he said curtly. ‘Well, he’s being held for six hours and, as you well know, under Scots law you’ve no right to see him during that time.’ Sergeant Munro opened up the reception desk and walked through; he held the large bunch of keys that were attached to his trousers in his hand. He walked slowly, fingering the individual keys in silent contemplation. Glasgow Joe was leaning against the wall staring out at the street, lost in his own hell. Sergeant Munro shouted twice before Joe heard him.

‘Oi! Big man – you’d better come too.’ Sergeant Munro held the door open for Joe, who was doing a fair impersonation of a somnambulist. I reached for his hand. I had a feeling Sergeant Munro was not taking me to see Thomas Foster but rather to give us news about Connie. He showed us into a dreary interview room. Joe and I have both been in these rooms before, and never have I wanted to be in a place less than I did now.

I slumped down on the table and watched the clock’s big black second hand tick away the time. Joe and I were beyond speech but we continued to squeeze each other’s hands. The door squeaked open and a young white-blonde WPC, who was MTV pretty, looked at us, then anxiously laid down two mugs of strong sweet tea – which we had not asked for.

‘Sergeant Munro thought you could do with some of this.’ She placed the tea and Rich Tea biscuits on the table and left. I gave her six months on the force. It was no reflection on her, but if she couldn’t bear to be in the presence of people whose lives had been ripped apart, she wouldn’t last long. The mugs lay untouched in front of us as we continued to watch the seconds tick away.

At 7.56 a.m. the door opened again and Detective Smith entered the room. Her hands were behind her back, poorly concealing a large evidence bag. In spite of her best attempts to break this to us gently, I could see it was Connie’s sweatshirt.

I caught her eye; she knew she’d been rumbled so Detective Smith tossed the evidence bag down on the table in front of us. We both shrank back. I inhaled deeply and held my breath. Staring at the thing was horrible; the pale pink Roxy sweatshirt was covered in dried blood. My heart raced at sprinting pace, a hot flush ran through my body, sweat appeared on the small hairs at the back of my neck and slowly trickled down.

Detective Smith had not yet deigned to speak. Reaching down she picked up the evidence bag and threw it against the wall. Joe and I glanced at each other.

‘Its fake!’ she screamed. ‘Fake fucking blood – the kind of shit you buy at Hallowe’en from joke shops. The Addams family – quite a joke, Ms McLennan.’ She leant over and sneered into my face – I could smell last night’s whisky on her breath. ‘I want the truth – or you’ll see in the bells in jail.’

Her words went over my head as, pushing back the chair, I ran to the evidence bag and held it to my heart. There was a chance, a small glimmer, that Connie was alive. The next problem was how to get out of here and find her – by the look on Detective Smith’s face we were going nowhere. She was playing the golden rule of child abduction over and over in her head. ‘It’s the family, stupid, it’s always the family.’

St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh
Saturday 29 December, 8.30 a.m.

I sat there and said nothing as she snatched the sweatshirt out of my hands; Joe had already been led to another interview room for questioning. It was the first rule of interrogation – divide and conquer. It was my intention to say nothing; Detective Smith believed my silence inferred guilt, although the law said otherwise.

Detective Smith strutted about the room. It was tiring just watching her, and I wanted to be left alone with my private thoughts. Connie was still out there – that’s why I didn’t see her with the dead girls yet. I just had to get out of here and find her before she
did
join them. Detective Smith could keep me in this room for six hours but my time started after Thomas Foster’s so he would be on a plane before I was released.

‘Nancy Drew, that’s you,’ said Detective Smith. She pointed her finger in my face then she pulled out her detective’s badge and threw it down on the table. ‘Is it worthless?’ She paused. ‘D’you think I got it by collecting tokens off crisp packets?’

Dutifully, I shook my head. ‘If a tiny part of your ego could acknowledge the fact I earned it,’ she said, hitting her badge off the table again, ‘then let me help you find Connie.’

If I wanted to get out of here, now was not the time to point out my concerns over her track record. Fifteen child abduction cases and not one found alive.

Detective Smith threw herself down on the chair opposite me after delivering what she thought was a good ‘help me to help you’ speech. I made no reply and, rubbing her face vigorously, she tried to dry wash away the tiredness and frustration.

She allowed a minute to pass in silence. I know exactly how long it was. I watched the hands on the clock and counted down the seconds. Finally, she looked up at me with a mixture of anger and disappointment.

‘How will you live with yourself when I find her broken, naked body? I’ll find her – she might be dead but I’ll bring her home – lay her at your feet and we’ll both know you could have saved her.’

Her guilt trip didn’t work on me. I didn’t have time for it. And I knew she was only having a go at me because of her own abysmal record in bringing home abducted children alive. She was also pissed off at my involvement in ‘her’ case.

Detective Smith stood up and pushed back her chair. It squeaked as it moved along the floor. ‘You’re free to go. I’m going back to my office – go over what scanty leads I have for the thousandth time and see if something jumps out at me. If you change your mind, stop by for coffee.’

I didn’t have time to waste so, thirty seconds after she left, I found myself asking for directions to her room.

It was smaller than Bancho’s but location is everything. Situated right next to the water fountain, she was bound to be up on all the latest station gossip. It was tidier, and the victim’s wall was smaller – it ripped my heart to look at it. Malcolm had fallen into the trap of most parents when asked for a photograph. There were at least ten different photographs on the wall. Detective Smith reached into her bottom drawer, and pulled out another bundle.

‘Malcolm,’ I said.

She nodded. ‘He insisted.’

‘It’s crazy – it’ll make no difference.’ I spoke softly.

‘Do you have any idea what’s going on?’

I shook my head. ‘But I know someone who might.’

She sat on the edge of her chair, mouth open like a fish ready to take the bait. I didn’t keep her waiting.

‘Thomas Foster.’

‘He’s your client and his DNA doesn’t match,’ she said.

‘I know. I still think he’s connected.’

‘Well, this has a different feel to other child abduction cases I’ve worked.’ I bit my lip – don’t mention her track record, I said to myself.

I wandered over to Connie’s wall. There was bugger all on it. I raked in my pockets and laid out what I had on Detective Smith’s desk: two photographs of suspects, a piece of paper and silver foil filled with a ball of used chewing gum. I put the gum back in my pocket.

I smoothed out the note.

‘Active evil is better than passive good,’ she read.

‘He left that note in my room.’

‘What does it mean?’ She looked to me for information.

‘William Blake – annotations to Lavater.’

‘Brodie, what’s he trying to tell us?’

‘He’s a pretentious prick?’

‘Well, he might be – but in his mind, what does it mean?’ Detective Smith knew enough about me to be certain I’d researched the hell out of this quote – I’d chosen not to discuss it with anyone because it showed what we were up against.

I blew loudly through pursed lips; the act of getting inside the madman’s mind was tiring.

‘The moral difference is not between good and evil, it is between action and inaction. Moral virtue cannot produce an act because it is restrained by rules.’

‘What does that mean?’ she asked, handing me my cup of coffee.

‘It means that in his mind he has done the right thing. In legal terms he has no
mens rea
– no guilty mind. If there is no
mens rea
, he cannot be found guilty.’

‘He left evidence in your bedroom that he is insane.’ Detective Smith swallowed the hot coffee too quickly. She put the mug down, spilling coffee on the desk, and then began to thump her burnt oesophagus. At least she understood what we were up against.

‘Clever bastard, isn’t he?’

I nodded. ‘Or maybe he is just plain mad.’