Watcher (4 page)

George Street, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 1.25 a.m.

He stopped whistling to himself when he saw her – he knew it was her even before she took her helmet off. When she shook her curls free, he felt that she was toying with him but he was still mesmerized. His jaw was tight and his neck stiffened.
He’d show her and then she’d be
sorry
.

The Christmas lights shone on her face and The Watcher was pleased that Brodie no longer looked tired or edgy. He hoped this situation would continue. Nothing wrong with a false sense of security – he needed a few more days to bring his plan to fruition. The thought of his plan excited him.

Her long auburn hair spilled around her shoulders in a whirl of tendrils. He cursed the fact that she was wearing her leathers but he could still imagine her body underneath them. He had a very good imagination.

He sniffed the cold night air – just on the periphery he imagined he could smell her. It felt as if she had been talking to that delinquent forever.
What did she see in
him?
Didn’t they know what time it was? It was way past a good girl’s bedtime. A slow smile broke out on his face and reached his eyes. Tapping his fingers on the lamppost he bit his lip to cool his impatience – it was not yet his time.

A pretty girl like Brodie McLennan shouldn’t be left alone in a city like this when the Ripper was on the loose. A discreet laugh escaped his lips. Passers-by probably wondered what his private joke was, but it would remain private; that was the whole point of secrets. The Watcher liked secrets.

The Harley growled into life but she didn’t drive off. He was torn; it bothered him when she talked to Moses Tierney but at least he knew where she was. The Watcher knew that Tierney wanted her to leave; he kept looking over Brodie’s shoulder as if he was expecting someone he didn’t want her to see. When she finally did leave, The Watcher would have to find her again and that wasn’t always easy. He held his breath as he saw her drive off into the night. Resentment tightened the knot in his stomach – he couldn’t follow her yet.

Five minutes passed before Tierney’s mystery guest showed up. The Watcher wasn’t pleased. The rumble of a bike engine had quickened his pulse for a moment.
She’s come back
. But it wasn’t Brodie. Glasgow Joe got off his trike and started snooping.

The Watcher disappeared into the shadows to wait.

St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 1.35 a.m.

St Leonards police station was aglow. The artificial Christmas tree twinkled as its lights flashed on and off – it was enough to cause a punter to have an epileptic fit. As usual my timing was impeccable. I was parking the Fat Boy just as the meat wagon arrived with its cargo of petty criminals, herded up from the city streets. Normally, it’s a wonderful opportunity to score new business, but Sergeant Munro was hovering and I knew he would do anything to thwart me. Did that man never sleep?

The lager louts were drunker than usual, filled with Christmas cheer and all manner of illegal substances; there were many well-kent faces in the crowd.

‘Brodie, darlin’ – you look beautiful! Gies a kiss for ma Christmas!’ I could always rely on wee Billy Palmer for an arrest and a compliment; the effect of the latter was shattered seconds later when he threw up in the gutter. The other prisoners laughed and jeered.

‘Better out than in, son, that’s what I always say,’ said Sergeant Munro. Billy Palmer lifted his head and wiped his face on the sleeve of his grubby hoody. Ever the gallant, he blew me a kiss – he used the hand which had L.O.V.E. tattooed on the knuckles.

It was a right rogues’ gallery tonight. I’d represented most of these wasters at one time or another over the years. Shuggy McAllister was dragged along by Sergeant Munro – right through the diced carrots and custard or whatever it was that had been in Billy’s stomach. Shuggy was a small-time crook who had ideas above his station, and was fussy about his appearance. Lifting his foot, he tried to wipe the sole of his shoe on Billy Palmer’s back.

‘Palmer – ya dirty wee bastard!’ McAllister shouted. ‘D’you ken how much these fuckin’ boots cost me?’ The officers in charge weren’t expecting it. McAllister broke free and kicked Billy Palmer full in the face. There was a crack, and then the sound of a jaw breaking carried far into the night. It was always like that; the atmosphere could turn on a five-pence piece. It was always wise to watch your back.

‘I’m sorry – I didnae mean it, man!’ Billy Palmer screamed his apology through bloodstained teeth as he cowered in the gutter. His eyes held mine, beseeching me to get him out, but he was already on bail so it was Christmas in Saughton Prison for him. I didn’t think Santa would bring him anything other than another beating from Shuggy McAllister.

The situation was quickly under control. The noise had alerted Malcolm who had been inside the station keeping warm. Sergeant Munro had made him a cup of tea. Their association went back years, to the times when Malcolm himself was getting lifted for lewd and libidinous behaviour. Malcolm teetered out on the toes of his patent pumps, watching where he stepped and ignoring the fracas – it was nothing he hadn’t seen many times before.

‘Honey! You came!’ In the best tradition of a drag queen he extended his arms and hugged me, holding on as if he’d never let go. I didn’t mind; he smelled a lot better than Billy Palmer.

‘Come here,’ I said to him gently. ‘Let me see what damage that bastard has done this time.’ I pulled Malcolm under the nearest streetlamp. Gingerly, I touched his blacked eye. ‘What’s this – has your mascara run?’ I ran my fingertips over his swollen lips; tears of shame filled his eyes.

‘I was going to say that you could do with some leeches – but I forgot you married one.’ Malcolm is a Beaton, a family known throughout Scottish history as healers. As he himself said many times, ‘Life in Glasgow was tough for a pansy.’ He went to Amsterdam and honed his skills, patching up people who preferred not to go to a hospital. That’s how he met Kailash.

It was hard to tell that he was upset, apart from the tears, because his face had been so frozen by Botox and Restylane fillers. Blowing his nose noisily into an immaculate handkerchief – Malcolm prided himself on his whites – he began to speak. I tried to listen, even though I’d heard it all before.

‘This guy has no right to hit you,’ I said, when he drew breath.

‘Brodie, he doesn’t mean it. I probably started it anyway and annoyed him with something I said or did.’ He tapped me on the shoulder, trying to soothe my anger. The more I looked into his broken face, the angrier I got. He’d tried to patch it up with heavy foundation and concealer, but that just made it worse.

‘He’s insulting you, Malcolm, not the other way round. Fat bastard that he is – he’s never been any good.’ I shrugged Malcolm’s hand off me; he had to be made to see that this was unacceptable.

‘I’m sorry for calling you out, Brodie, but I didn’t know who else to turn to. He gets loaded then he loses his temper, that’s all. This time the neighbours called the police.’ Malcolm kept patting his hand on the left side of his chest, checking his heart to see if it was still beating – perhaps he thought it was broken. Pulling his arm, I led him back into St Leonards.

‘Just take a deep breath and relax. I’ll check with Sergeant Munro and maybe they’ll let me see him.’

Sergeant Munro busied himself with paperwork. It was a game he liked to play with me: how long could he ignore the daft wee lassie? He was the only one enjoying it.

‘Sergeant Munro,’ I said, smiling – we may have had a longstanding association but neither of us liked it. I even lifted and lowered my lashes very slowly. I’d read in
Cosmopolitan
that men find it irresistible; the journalist who wrote that clearly hadn’t come across the good sergeant.

‘Miss McLennan.’ He stared down at the paperwork. ‘Your colleague, one Mr Edward Gibb, has already visited your custodies and you’re not getting to see Billy Palmer for another six hours.’ He smiled ingratiatingly – he liked to smile at me when he was winning.

‘I wanted to check the status of Derek Brown. I—’

He interrupted me, unable to hide his delight; he didn’t even have to check his paperwork. ‘Derek Brown has asked for another solicitor. In fact, he said – wait a minute, I wrote it down somewhere … I quote: “If that miserable bitch Brodie McLennan comes here, tell her I wouldn’t let her represent me if she was the last lawyer in hell.”’ Sergeant Munro grinned but Dismal Derek’s insults were like water off a duck’s back to me. However, I needed to get more information so that Malcolm could sleep tonight.

‘I take it he’s appearing in court tomorrow? Who’s his lawyer?’ If I found that out then Malcolm could speak to them in the morning.

‘Ricky Gordon,’ said Munro.

A snort of laughter came out of my nose. It was quite embarrassing, but must have just been nerves. ‘Ricky Gordon doesn’t do criminal work because of his stutter.’

‘Well, he’s doing it tomorrow – I’d get there early or God knows what time you’ll be out of Court One. I’ll get Malcolm a taxi – he needs his bed,’ he said.

No man is all bad, even Sergeant Munro, but there were a few that seemed to be devoid of anything positive – the Ripper, for one. The atmosphere in the station was tense; all the officers were working overtime trying to catch the Ripper, yet the people in the cells were the usual suspects. A young Polish police officer shouted that Malcolm’s taxi was here. Lothian and Borders police needed foreign nationals as constables to deal with the immigrants – not that I’d ever represented a Polish plumber. I wondered if it was just another PR exercise by the Scottish government.

My nemesis, DI Bancho, appeared, holding the door open for Malcolm. He looked like shit: heading up the investigation into the Ripper murders was taking its toll. I decided it wasn’t just Sergeant Munro who could have his fun – baiting Duncan Bancho always made me feel better.

St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 2 a.m.

The five dead girls stared at me and I stared back.

Lips were silenced and eyes deadened. They all wanted to know one thing.
Who will speak up for me?

What could I do? I wasn’t their lawyer. The dead don’t have lawyers. But though I’d gone into the operations room originally to goad Bancho, the dead girls had silenced me. I felt as if a freezing-cold cloak had been thrown on my back, and I shivered. The silent mouths asked me a new question:
What will you do if he’s caught?
Will you speak for him?

The operations room was a mess. Bancho’s cheeks were heavy and drawn, his skin bleached by exhaustion. He walked up to the wall that held the chilling photographs and tapped it reverentially. ‘They talk to me too,’ he muttered, scratching his head and turning to make some coffee. I didn’t bother to deny what he’d said. Waiting for the kettle to boil, he massaged his temples, trying to ease the pressure that was building. All the time he gazed unblinkingly at that wall. The wastepaper basket was overflowing, and an empty box of paracetamol was on the top. If I’d had any I would have given him some of mine. Wonders never cease – me feeling sorry for DI Duncan Bancho.

The desk was littered with crumpled paper that Bancho had discarded. Police reports, details of autopsies, newspaper clippings, buff-coloured folders with spurious leads – everything was laid out for the world to see. If it was an indication of the state of his mind, then no wonder he had headaches. I wanted to help. In spite of my revulsion, I wandered back over to the wall. The families of the victims who could be traced were located in Eastern Europe, Romania, Poland and the Ukraine. A map on the far right contained red dots to indicate the place of origin of the victim. Another map of the city of Edinburgh contained black dots to show where the bodies had been found. To my untrained eye, there seemed to be no obvious link.

For identification purposes, the relatives had been asked to provide a recent photograph. The before shots were more distressing than the after ones. The beautiful faces were arranged in chronological order according to the date of death, not the date they were found. These girls hadn’t been reported missing. No one was looking for them – the discovery of the bodies was more a case of luck than judgement. A macabre beauty pageant was lined up on the wall. The girls had taken time to look pretty for their days at weddings, parties, graduations – and they did. I felt old just looking at them. All the victims were redheads, all different shades of red, and haircuts of every description.

Catalina was the first victim, found on 3 July; her hair was a cascade of curls. Florenta, whose body was discovered on 24 July, had her auburn hair cut short into an elfin style that emphasized her eyes; whereas Bianca, whose body was located on 20 August, had hair that fell poker-straight to her waist. Two of the victims had no before photographs. In direct contrast, straight below the glamour shots, the bare, smashed bodies of the murdered girls had been photographed one last time. Blu-Tack held the unnerving, inexcusable gallery to the wall. There wasn’t much room left.

‘If the Ripper continues with his killing spree, they’re going to have to give you a bigger room,’ I muttered.

Bancho had written the girl’s name and age, if known, where and when the body was found, and the pathologist’s estimated time of death. Catalina had lain undiscovered for months. The Ripper, annoyed at being ignored by the police, had cut the index finger from Bianca, the third victim, and placed it under Detective Bancho’s windscreen wiper. When Bancho had been given the case months earlier, there had been a fanfare of publicity – he was Lothian and Borders’ blue-eyed boy because he’d been seconded to the FBI for six months. He was trained in profiling techniques, but this was his first serial killer.

The two unknown victims were particularly heartrending. Their families didn’t even know that they should be grieving. In the last six months, five bodies had been found, in various locations. After the first one, the Ripper made sure to place the bodies where a member of the public would find them. Now, he was becoming increasingly reckless.

‘You must have learned something with the FBI,’ I said. My shoulders hunched instinctively and it sounded like a criticism. It wasn’t the tone I was looking for, but old habits die hard …

‘The FBI have unsolved cases too,’ he said snippily. ‘The Ripper has chosen these girls carefully. At the moment only he knows the reason – but he’s marked them with a signature that keeps changing.’ DI Bancho turned to look at me. ‘He hunts his prey – knows all about them. At the moment he’s scouring the brothels of Leith but, as I’ve said, the bastard keeps changing.’

DI Bancho and I stood in front of the photographs, a heavy silence between us as we stared at the girls.

‘What’s his signature … you’ve said it’s changing … how did it start?’

‘With Catalina you can see her body is badly decomposed, but he’s cut off her feet and hands to stop her escaping. Then he sewed her eyelids open using heavy black twine. Florenta got the same treatment, but look here.’ He tapped an eight-by-ten photograph. ‘He tore her tongue out by the root. Finally he cut her throat from ear to ear.’

‘What about this one?’ An unknown girl, her mouth twisted into an obscene scream, stared at me.

‘I told you he varies it slightly … he’s taken the skin off her left knee. And this one …’ He pointed to the other unidentified victim. Her breast had been cut open and her heart removed. Bancho coughed. ‘The media didn’t dub him the Ripper – that’s what he calls himself. These aspects of his signature, along with the torn-out tongue, are taken directly from the history books.

‘There’s also speculation that the original Jack the Ripper was a Mason; he scrawled an incriminating message on the wall at the murder scene. The chief constable at the time rubbed it out and that’s why he was never caught. It’s no secret there are some pretty powerful Masons in this city. How often have there been calls for public declaration of membership among police and the judiciary? You can see why I am trying to keep this secret – especially after your recent publicity stunt.’

He offered me a Mars bar from a stash of sweeties in his desk and I couldn’t resist. I always use food as comfort; it was late and we were both sick and exhausted. A sigh of weariness escaped from his lips as we stared at the dead girls. Christmas was coming but to Bancho and me, the season of goodwill had never felt further away.

‘What do they look like to you?’ His finger reached out to touch the portrait of Bianca Kowalski, the third body to be found. ‘They’re all redheads for a start – foreign—’

‘So far …’ he said, interrupting me. I looked back at the gallery of death, recalling the training that Patch, my Professor of Forensics, had given me.

‘Good nutrition in childhood has strengthened her bone structure – see the Slavic high cheekbones – but her mother worked in the fields, I’d guess. Her dress is cheap but she’s copied it from something like American
Vogue
. It’s bloody sad – she was the prettiest girl in the village, probably dreamed of something more. I bet that all she wanted was to get out, away from the arranged marriage, anything to escape. Jesus, the price was too high,’ I said the final words under my voice. I had to admit that it made me sad and the words slipped out as I thought about the girls.

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ Bancho’s shoulders slumped, and he turned away from the girls to place his cup down.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I thought the papers had named him the Ripper for no good reason … but I suppose he is following Jack the Ripper’s signature to an extent.’

‘The media would have a feeding frenzy over the tongues,’ said Bancho, shuddering. ‘I mean, they’re torn out by the root … well, it’s obviously difficult so he helps the separation along using a serrated knife … he wants it to look like it’s torn out.’

I turned to another part of the wall, on which was a printed, blown-up image of a text message. I’d heard about it at court, but I thought it was an urban myth. Unfortunately, for Bancho, it was not.

‘How did that go down in the canteen?’ I asked, turning to face him.

‘Depends who you speak to,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘Some of the older men are saying that I sent it to myself.’

‘Meaning that they think you’re a big-headed bastard?’ I said. It raised a weak smile on his face.

‘That, I can handle. Others, including most of my superiors, think I’m being taken for a ride. I’ve overheard whispers as I pass – “He’s just like that detective in charge of the Yorkshire Ripper murders in the eighties – the fool’s being hoaxed by some prankster.” I swear the next one to make comments like that gets punched, no matter how many stripes on their shoulders … Fortunately, they can’t pull me off the case because of the fuss they made about me going on that profiling course at Quantico.’ DI Bancho tightened his jaw, and rolled his tongue along his lips.

‘Maybe both schools of thought are right,’ I said. It was out before I could give it any thought. Christ, even Bancho needed some sympathy. He rolled his eyes like he gave a fuck about my opinion.

Bancho’s mobile rang and I strained to eavesdrop. I could make out parts – the constable on the other end was excited and shouting loudly. Bancho made noncommittal noises and tried to calm the man down. ‘I need you to stay calm, Constable McLeod. We’ve had tip-offs before … Yes, we’ve had what we thought were reliable tip-offs before too.’ Bancho sighed and punched his ‘loudspeaker’ option so that I could hear the words he had probably heard many times before. Bancho’s ego was such that he felt the need to justify himself, particularly to me, one of his harshest critics.

‘But this is the real thing, boss. We can’t move on him for a couple of hours because he won’t be in place until then – but, after that, it’s fucking guaranteed. You’ll have your man. The Ripper’s yours … boss.’

‘I’ll be with you in an hour,’ Bancho said, closing his phone. Despite his words to the other man, he rubbed his hands together. How many times has he really been down this road before? I wondered, but I kept my thoughts to myself.