Watcher (5 page)

St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 3 a.m.

DI Bancho couldn’t wait to get rid of me; he practically threw me out of the operations room. I assumed that the detective inspector didn’t want to make a phone call to his boss until he heard me clumping up the stairs in my heavy bike boots. I jumped up and down on the bottom step and he thought I’d left. He hadn’t even bothered to close the door, although in his defence the office was down in the bowels of St Leonards and it was very late.

I peered in the open door. He was holding his breath. Opening his bottom drawer, he pulled out a can of Arrid Extra-Dry, sprayed each armpit and sighed. Whatever it was he wanted to do, he was putting it off. He looked nervous, his forehead shiny with sweat.

Bancho’s eyes kept returning to the phone, as if he was afraid to make the call. Who could have that effect on him – the chief constable? Maybe he had to phone in the details of the search. If I’d had my way he’d be serving a seven-year stretch in Saughton Prison this Christmas, and if Bancho had won, I’d be eating my turkey in Cornton Vale with the rest of the women prisoners. It was no wonder we could barely be civil to each other. We’d both been wrong but neither of us was prepared to forgive and forget. No, I didn’t want to admit I owed Duncan Bancho any favours. Maybe we were experiencing something of a truce but there was a long way to go before we buried the hatchet. His fingers trembled as he reached out to make the call. Stress, nerves or drink? I couldn’t blame him if he had a tipple off duty; he was under a lot of pressure to deliver the Ripper. His call was answered immediately. It was on loudspeaker so that Bancho could use his computer and what I heard next was one reason why you should never poke your nose in where it doesn’t belong.

‘Glasgow Joe … it’s me … We’ve got the bastard. We’re gonna get him today at first light.’ DI Bancho panted as I held my breath, trying to keep quiet – he played with the cord on the telephone. He waited, presumably for praise; none came. Instead, Joe embarked on his own interrogation.

‘What was Brodie doing there? Why didn’t she leave with Malcolm? If she was with you – I hope you weren’t daft enough to show her the site.’ There was more than a hint of a threat in Glasgow Joe’s voice.
What website?
I was now going to make it my business to know
.

DI Bancho didn’t question how he got his information – it was one of the things that made Glasgow Joe unique. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ DI Bancho asked. Joe didn’t answer him. Bancho turned from the phone and stared at his computer. I couldn’t see what was on the screen.

‘Are you on “The Hobbyist” now?’ Joe asked, accusingly. ‘It was part of our deal you’re supposed to keep track of site traffic and note their threads.’

‘I’ve got a WPC on it full time. Remember, I was the one who told you that Brodie was being mentioned.’

Joe was silent.

I wanted to leap out of my hiding place there and then. Why was I on some website and why it was so important that the police were spending scarce resources monitoring it? Not to mention why these two bastards were keeping me in the dark about it. But I would learn more if I kept quiet. It would also have been slightly embarrassing to have been caught spying on Bancho.

‘There’s no more mention of her – I’ve just checked. Nothing since that first mention at the end of July,’ Bancho wheedled.

‘You shouldn’t need reminding – that site is supposed to be checked at least every two hours. These guys have time on their hands right now – most of them have finished their work for Christmas and their wives are too busy shopping to notice they’re not there.’

The edge was taken off the detective inspector’s high spirits. He stared at his unpolished shoes, it was lucky that he couldn’t see his face in them; his skin was flushed with embarrassment. Bancho hesitated before he flipped open the buff-coloured file in front of him.

‘I’ve got the photograph in front of me. It’s from the usual source; I think it’s enough to go on. Why do you think he posted it to you at the Rag Doll?’

‘I dunno. He obviously knows I’m involved – I’ve been hanging out in every brothel in Leith.’

‘Not true – you’ve been in every slave den in Leith,’ DI Bancho said as he walked towards the wall and pinned up another photograph. I couldn’t get a clear view of it, but it was obviously a man and it looked professional, not knocked off on a camera phone. The first photograph of the Ripper. I decided to wait until Bancho went to the toilet and sneak in to see the monster. He hesitated, glanced over his shoulder and then put the image back in his pocket. I retreated to the shadows.

‘Has Jack Deans been snooping?’ Joe’s voice was casual, as if he didn’t care what the answer was. Bancho didn’t look as if he was fooled – and neither was I. But I was surprised.

‘He’s been in touch – tried to pretend he left Darfur because the Sudanese government was going to throw him out – the truth is that sly bastard couldn’t keep away from the biggest domestic news story in years. I hear he’s still chasing awards,’ said Bancho.

‘Vain bastard!’ Joe grunted. I could hear he wanted to ask more; maybe he was sniffing around to see if Jack and I were together. The reception was bad and I knew that Joe would have taken this call outside. He couldn’t risk anyone knowing he was a police informer. Regardless of the circumstances, that would be the end of his reputation in Edinburgh’s criminal underworld – there were no exceptions to this most basic rule, even if he did like to keep a foot in both camps.

I could hear tiredness in his voice; he’d been running around trying to keep me safe. I knew the way his mind worked and felt like a bitch. He would see the threat; every victim would wear my face.

‘Are you properly prepared?’ Bancho asked.

‘Calm down, we’ll nail the bastard. Every criminal messes up. It’s a myth serial killers are smart – how difficult is it to top a wee Romanian girl?’

‘But it’s been in the papers, Joe. Apart from this photograph, there have been no real leads. The photo could be dodgy. How come this guy has the camera at the exact moment?’ Bancho coughed. ‘It makes you think.’

Joe was right, the only reason serial killers got away with murder was faulty witness reports.

‘You remember our deal?’ Joe’s voice rang out in the dim room. Most men were too frightened to renege on any deal with him, and Bancho was no exception.

‘It’s not that easy to just give you five minutes alone with the Ripper – people will notice his injuries.’

‘I promise I’ll be careful, although I don’t feel good about this dawn raid. The Ripper’s not dangling on our hook yet – in my opinion your overtime budget isn’t going to get cut in the near future.’

‘You’re filling me with confidence.’

‘If you see Brodie – make sure she’s safe. The snow’s started and if I know her she’ll be on the Fat Boy. Don’t let—’ Glasgow Joe didn’t get a chance to finish.

‘I’ll pick you up at the casino in an hour – and by the way, I’m not a nursemaid.’

Bancho’s eyes flickered; it had been a long time since he’d interrupted Joe; he switched the phone off and grabbed his coat. As he left I pushed myself into a corner.

I should have known by now to expect anything of Joe, but even I was stunned by the extent of his collusion and involvement with Bancho, not to mention Bancho’s subservient attitude. Who was running this investigation?

I ran up the stairs as if there was no tomorrow. For the dead girls – there wasn’t.

Edinburgh’s Old Town
Sunday 23 December, 3.30 a.m.

I lifted my face and let the fat snowflakes fall onto it, feeling each one cold and clean upon my skin. I was worn out and felt like crap. I stuck my tongue out to catch a speck; it melted immediately but didn’t make me feel any cleaner. The cobbles were covered with a layer of white; it gave the streets an innocence that I’d lost long ago.

There’s nothing like confronting death to fire up your will to live. The roads were lethal and I didn’t fancy spending Christmas in an intensive care unit. Lavender would kill me if nothing else. Snow lay on the Fat Boy too. He was staying where he was, and I’d have to get a taxi home. Easier said than done – the clubs were emptying and the narrow streets of the Old Town were filled with prime examples of binge Britain. Young girls staggered down the road arm in arm, thinking that there was safety in numbers. It made sense to me in the absence of any other option, so I fell in behind them as they lurched and reeled up St Mary’s Street.

The sound of a horn made me jump. My heart raced as I turned and saw Bancho kerb crawling. Putting on my best smile, I hopped in – he’d obviously been bullied into this. As I’d overheard, he was on his way to pick up Joe at the casino to go on the dawn raid. A blast of warm air counteracted the chilliness of his welcome. Glancing at him out of the side of my eye, I put the seat belt on. The wheels skidded as Bancho drove off in the direction of my house; he was obviously in a rush to get rid of me.

We stopped at the top of St Mary’s Street, and a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature ran down my spine.

‘What did you think of the City Wall verdict … did it make you proud?’ Bancho asked, exhaling noisily. He watched as I gave my reply.

‘No.’

On the corner with the Royal Mile sat the City Wall pub, implicated in one of Edinburgh’s most notorious murders. Two young girls, Alice Parks and Jane Derren, had been bound and raped then murdered after they had left the pub. The police had investigated the case for thirty years until advances in DNA techniques allowed them to bring in Andrew Saunders.

‘Did you think Alice and Jane got justice?’

‘No.’

‘You’re bloody right. We brought her killer to court; he was a convicted double killer and paedophile – yet he was found not guilty. Nine days of evidence, and thirty years of painstaking detective work down the toilet … why did the prosecutor close the case without putting the DNA evidence to the jury?’

There was no answer. All I knew was the law must be above suspicion – which was why I’d asked if the judge was a Mason in the earlier case. People make mistakes – there must be no suggestion it’s not a mistake.

‘You know what the tragedy is, Brodie – we had the evidence to nail him … It just wasn’t put forward in court.’

Bancho drove at speed. He couldn’t leave the scene of the City Wall fast enough.

‘It could happen again, Brodie. When I catch the Ripper there’s always a chance he could walk free because of a smartass lawyer – we both know that lawyer could be you. Would you sleep at night? Would you?’

He was looking at the City Wall pub in the rear-view mirror. His eyes showed that the old case still haunted him. ‘Nobody cares.’ He ran his fingers over his mouth as soon as he spoke; perhaps wishing he could take the words back. ‘We couldn’t get justice for Alice and Jane and they belonged to the city – what chance does someone like Bianca have?’

His nicotine-stained fingers kept pulling on his hair, and clumps came away in his hand. I hoped for Bancho’s sake that this alarming moulting had occurred because he hadn’t brushed his hair and not because of a failure to control his stress; otherwise he’d be as bald as a coot come Christmas morning.

‘No one cares about these girls,’ he said again. ‘Not their families, government, no one.’ His voice was rising. I could see he wasn’t taking me home. That was unfortunate, because I wanted to check out this ‘Hobbyist’ website as soon as possible.

‘The media just think these girls are prostitutes – even if they were that’s no excuse – but they were double-crossed, Brodie; told that they were coming to the West to go to college or to model, and then ending up as sex slaves.’ Bubbles of spit were forming at the edges of his mouth as he turned into Danube Street and stopped outside Kailash’s establishment. He leaned over and opened the door for me to get out. The snow was still falling heavily and I wasn’t even home yet. ‘Do you know that the American government doesn’t have a charter against people trafficking? You’d think Uncle Sam of all administrations would be against slavery – well, they all speak a good game but that’s as far as it goes. Bush said in 2002 that there would be zero tolerance and a bill was drafted, but defence contractors objected. The British government is just as bad.’

I thought he was going to leave me alone in the snow; I was bored and just wanted to get home – but no such luck. He got out of the car and grabbed my arm, dragging me to the front door of Kailash’s place. I don’t choose to frequent my mother’s brothel or her casino, but Bancho wasn’t giving me any choice in the matter.

It was a while before the door was answered, which gave me plenty of time to inspect the Christmas wreath in front of me. It was extravagant, expensive and unique – just like my mother. I was touching the blue thistles that were intertwined with holly, when Kailash opened the door.

‘Well, well, well – to what do I owe the pleasure?’ Kailash’s tone was sarcastic and acerbic. She wasn’t talking to Bancho, she was talking to me. It was a source of great annoyance to her that I had difficulty accepting her choice of profession. I’d hoped that when Connie went to a day school in Edinburgh, Kailash would change her ways. She certainly didn’t need the money. Her casino and property developing companies more than paid for her hairdressing bill, which wasn’t insignificant. Kailash said that I just didn’t understand her – kids were supposed to say that to their parents, but, actually, she was spot on.

My heart sank as she pulled me inside the large Georgian hallway. With one swift kick of her Manolos, she slammed the door shut in DI Bancho’s face.

Quality time with Mummy.

Just what I needed from Santa.

Danube Street Casino, Stockbridge, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 4.10 a.m.

I knew that my scuffed bike boots were leaving dirty marks on the plush red carpet, but I guessed that Bancho’s banging on the front door had been much more unsettling for the high rollers. Anything that took their minds off the tables was bad for business, and that made it Joe’s business.

The hum of conversation and the shuffle of cards had slowed due to the late hour. It didn’t take too long before Glasgow Joe was at my side. He’d approached Kailash with an idea for online gaming; the costs were low, and their profits phenomenal. Against all odds they worked well together.

We weren’t really back to chatting – a few minutes spent on a muddy pitch watching Connie couldn’t make up for what had happened; Joe’s a proud man who didn’t take rejection well and that was without him knowing that I’d slept with Jack Deans. Again.

He blamed me. Well, that’s always easier. We’d got on great until he wanted more – Joe always wants more.

I pulled a battered black-leather wallet out of my jacket and handed him
£
500 in fifty-quid notes. I always kept a sizeable quantity of spare cash on me – it made me feel safe. Growing up we never had grubby fivers lying around. Joe crooked his index finger and called over a waitress. He placed the money on her tray, and, after a few moments, she brought back the chips. As I took them, Joe quietly suggested that I try out the poker table, before heading for the front door where Bancho was still creating merry hell. I turned and watched as the door was opened – if the policeman was surprised to see Glasgow Joe in full Highland evening dress, he didn’t show it.

‘Have you got a warrant?’ Joe asked, his tone cool and measured. I wasn’t fooled. Despite apparent hostilities, these two were working together, creating a convincing charade to fool the rest of us.

‘No. It’s a friendly visit – I can get one, though, if that’s your last word on it,’ replied Bancho.

Their play-acting was pathetic. Joe reached out into the cold night air and hauled Bancho in off the street. It looked impressive, especially to the punters who were growing a little uneasy. Manhandling the police in front of witnesses was an Oscar-winning bit of theatre.

I wandered through the casino. It was packed with judges, football players, businessmen and wealthy tourists, all desperate to get a last bit of freedom before being shackled to their families for Christmas. I craned my neck looking around for someone – a friend, an acquaintance, but there was no one, so I turned my attention to the tables. I knew that Joe was probably watching me on the surveillance system. The clientele watched me too as I walked around. I contravened every dress code the casino had – my leathers were filthy, still covered in midges from the summer, but the pliable leather clung to my arse in what I’d told myself was a most appealing way. Maybe that would distract them all and I’d walk out of here a millionaire.

Pulling out a chair, I joined the poker table playing Texas Hold ’Em. In for a penny, I thought as I took my jacket off too. I wasn’t wearing a bra because I hadn’t exactly dressed up when I left the flat, and the only one that wasn’t grey was lying on the bedroom floor after Jack had taken it off me, but maybe that was a good thing – more distraction for the saddos around the table.

I kept my face blank as I clasped my cards up from the table. Pocket-Rockets – a couple of aces. I was in good shape. The player across from me, in a bespoke evening suit, white tie, and with the obligatory female companion looking over his shoulder, chucked another grand into the pot. The dealer knew my credit was good at his table, so I decided to play on – thirty minutes with Bancho had reminded me to live for today, but I’d make this my last hand, win or lose. To my surprise, the other player at the table raised too. His toe tapped constantly, he wore a cowboy hat and was difficult to read. In spite of his porky butcher’s fingers, he shuffled his chips deftly.

‘Two thousand more,’ he said, evening off the two stacks of black chips and pushing them into the pot. It was the right bet and it should have scared the third player away. Unfortunately for him, the third player was me and I was just riled.

‘I’m in,’ I said, pushing one pile of eight black chips into the pot.

‘You’re bluffing,’ the fat cowboy puffed, gulping air as his eyes flicked over me.

‘Play and see,’ I shrugged. I was sure that Joe would be laughing out loud if he was watching. The fat man looked convinced that all he had to do was push in his remaining chips, and he’d take the hand.

‘Yours,’ he snorted, flicking his cards over. A pair of sixes.

‘You were right,’ I told him as I flicked over my two aces. A roar went up as the dealer pushed a mountain of chips my way.

A bit of luck at last – I wondered how long it would hang around for?