Watcher (7 page)

Princes Street, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 3.40 p.m.

The hunched babushka leaned on her walking stick, bundled up against the cold, wearing every article of clothing she owned. Her grey-coated tongue played with her false teeth. Mashing her jaws together, she moved the dentures in and out to pass the time. The Watcher sniffed and got the smell of stale urine on her – he was disgusted, but the old woman was safe from him.

Last-minute Christmas shoppers moved like shoals of fish, endlessly weaving in and out. The windows of department stores were filled with golden tinsel, and expensive dresses that would cost less than half that price in three days’ time. The babushka stood in the centre of the pavement, craning her neck, hunting for something, someone – the good citizens of Edinburgh gave her a wide berth but she’d found her mark.

The Watcher giggled to himself:
Who knew that he
had so much in common with peasants? Actually, on second
thoughts it was an unpleasant idea
.

The old woman reached out and grabbed Brodie McLennan. Clawing on her clothing, she demanded help. The babushka’s voice was guttural, low, like a cat ridding itself of a hairball. He shuddered. Her gnarled hands waved a piece of paper in front of Brodie. The Watcher squinted. It was a photograph she was brandishing – it was impossible to tell but he imagined that he knew the face.

Sniggering, as Brodie spoke slowly and deliberately, it was obvious to The Watcher that the hardhearted bitch was trying to palm the babushka off with enough money for a cup of hot chocolate and no more. Brodie raked through her pockets, coming up with some loose change, which the old woman took and secreted in her bag, but she held on tight to Brodie – this was not an end to the matter. Jack Deans tried to pull Brodie away, but Connie spotted his move; she was having none of it. Suddenly, the old woman’s plight became the most important thing in the thirteen-year-old’s life. Testily, she slapped Deans’s hand and pulled Brodie over to the babushka.

Deans pulled out a well-used wallet and handed Brodie a ten-pound note. ‘It’s really not going to work, Brodie,’ The Watcher heard him say. ‘She’s oblivious to my charms.’ Brodie shrugged her shoulders. ‘Fine – you’re right. I just think you could try a little harder.’

The Watcher smiled slowly, satisfied that Brodie had been hoodwinked – it made him feel safer. He moved in even closer. He needed crowds – it was easy to get lost in them. An electric shock passed through him as he crept nearer still. Close enough to see that Jack Deans wanted rid of the precocious brat as soon as he could. Connie was obviously cramping his style. He giggled to himself again – in a way, he was about to do Jack Deans a big favour.

The cold damp air was making Brodie’s beautiful red hair curl into a rumpled, just-crawled-out-of-bed look. The Watcher licked his lips and flexed his fingers; he was itching to make his move. He could feel his impatience growing. Closing his eyes, he centred himself –
act in haste, repent at leisure
. Another of his mother’s maxims. For several long seconds he breathed deeply, consciously relaxing every muscle in his body. The rattling tin broke his state. His eyes flashed open and the Salvation Army officer stepped back. She saw something that gave her pause and caused her heart to race a little; withdrawing the tin she scuttled away.

The Watcher ran, sprinted around the corner – but it was too late. Brodie, Connie, Jack Deans, and the babushka were disappearing in a taxi.

She was getting away from him – again.

Danube Street Casino, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 5 p.m.

Glasgow Joe opened the front door of the casino to us, looking surprised, to say the least – and he didn’t like surprises. He always said he’d never met an assassin who did, which was fair enough. Not that he was in that line of business any more, of course – he’d given that up for me. The fact that I’d brought Jack Deans with me was obviously another source of displeasure. Joe flicked his eyes over his so-called rival, and I could almost hear him thinking that Deans was too bloody smooth by half. In fact, I’d been wondering myself whether Jack hadn’t been scrubbing himself up a bit better since he’d returned – maybe it was my imagination, but I thought his hair had fewer grey streaks in it than before.

‘What are you looking at?’ I said, ignoring the fact that he was Kailash’s partner in the casino. In spite of Kailash’s protests to the contrary, she was considering dumping the brothel end of her business and concentrating on Internet gambling while still perfecting it in the real world too. The billions-a-year in profit made from online betting was too much for her to resist – she wanted a piece of the pie and had decided to share it with Glasgow Joe. The initial income was set to their quadruple projected forecasts. Joe was going to be rich soon, very rich, but all the money in the world wouldn’t solve the problem he was clearly having seeing me with Jack.

‘Members only,’ he snarled, sticking out his hand in front of my companion. The two men stared, digging into each other. Joe’s eyes were stained with insomnia. Jack was the only one who was smiling, and he smiled like the cat that had the cream – in Joe’s mind the bastard probably had. I was annoyed at both of them – and myself.

‘I told him you wouldn’t let him just walk into your casino!’ shouted Connie, stirring from the back of the line where she was jumping with glee at the thought of Jack being blackballed. Joe was trying to teach her about good sportsmanship, something he knew little about, so, reluctantly, he stepped aside and let Jack in. It was an upmarket establishment, though. How would we explain the smelly old bag lady beside us? ‘She’s with me,’ Connie piped up, as she pushed the crone inside the hallway, obviously having fallen for whatever story she had been fed.

The arrival of our strange party disturbed the gamblers for no more than a few moments before we were shepherded downstairs to the private quarters. Glasgow Joe remained frozen at the front door. He craned his neck to survey his casino. He was acting strangely, as if something was very wrong.

‘Joe!’

He turned. Connie stood alone at the top of the stairs, waiting for him to join them. At least she was looking after his interests. Reluctantly, it seemed, he closed the door. What was he up to? Kailash owned two Georgian townhouses in Danube Street. They were adjoining properties linked by a corridor in the basement. Connie was allowed in the casino side, but the girls used the area underneath it for rest and recreation. The kitchen and cellar of the brothel had been transformed into the S&M dungeons that Bancho had been so interested in.

‘Hey!’ whispered Connie loudly to Joe. ‘You need a friend?’

Glasgow Joe shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t if you’d left me upstairs,’ he muttered.

‘And miss your chance to get one over on Jack? I’ve been watching your back all afternoon – if I’d known you were just going to roll over, I’d have saved myself the bother.’ Her bottom lip stuck out, a sure sign she was ticked off.

Joe smiled, almost feeling sorry for Jack Deans – he knew just how bloody awkward Connie could be when she set her mind to it. I didn’t know whose side to be on – they all had claims on me.

Kailash wandered in and caught Joe’s eye. It was early. She wasn’t dressed to receive her special clientele. A diva in a white Armani trouser suit, Kailash would never approve of a dressing-down day at work. I couldn’t help but squirm as my mother scrutinized my unkempt appearance and my usual biker gear.

Sniffing loudly, Kailash looked pointedly at me, Jack and Connie. Raising her eyebrows, we were left in no doubt that she wanted an explanation, and what Kailash wanted, she generally got.

‘Gloria! Get her something to eat!’ Kailash ordered the young girl who was making herself beans on toast. ‘It’s hard to tell under all those clothes, but I suspect the old biddy hasn’t had a square meal for some time.’ Nodding towards the babushka, Kailash recognized the hungry look in the old woman’s eyes. Connie took Gloria’s phone and plonked herself on the window seat to play a game, while the rest of us got on with being uncomfortable around each other.

Sitting down at the table, the old woman yammered at Kailash, who held up a beautifully manicured hand and, immediately, the crone fell silent. She slid the photograph across the table to my mother who manoeuvred it with her fingertips. Breathing deeply, she seemed to be thinking about what to say next.

‘Can you help her?’ I asked.

‘How much has she told you?’ Kailash replied.

‘Very little – she can’t really speak English. She waved that photograph at us, the way she had been waving it at everyone. She was crying and wailing and kept clutching it to her breast. I take it that’s her granddaughter and that she’s disappeared?’

‘Mmmm,’ she murmured. ‘That’s what we need to find out. We need help here. Gloria! Get Contessa!’ Kailash ordered. ‘She’ll be busy, but for once we can interrupt.’ Malcolm had been keeping a low profile, embarrassed by his bruises which couldn’t be hidden even with thick makeup. But now he emerged to hand Kailash a strong cup of tea, no doubt full of sugar. ‘On second thoughts,’ she said, ‘you go as well, Malcolm – make sure that she hurries.’ He shook his head and, muttering, walked out the door.

A silence fell on the room and the smell of burnt toast permeated the air. Gloria had forgotten to take the bread out of the toaster when she’d put it in for a second browning. Joe opened a window, only for Connie to whine: ‘Do you want me to catch my death?’ She pulled her anorak hood up without breaking stride as she played the game, her thumbs working at double-quick speed.

It didn’t take long before Contessa swept into the room, like a Siberian wind rolling along the Road of Bones, pulling her short red silk dressing gown around her. I swear that Jack almost swallowed his tongue trying not to look at her pierced nipples through the fabric. At nineteen, Contessa was a girl of contrasts, from her snow-white skin to her short carbon hair and sky-blue eyes; she was every boy’s fantasy of a vampire. And maybe Jack and Joe’s too, the way they were drooling.

The babushka ran rosary beads through her fingers, muttering prayers. Beads rattling, she leapt from the seat and threw herself before Contessa, clutching the prostitute’s improbably long legs. The supplicant pulled the robe from Contessa’s shoulders revealing a tattooed snake; the head of the king cobra nestled at her neck and the tail disappeared down her back. Bending over, Contessa helped the babushka to her feet and Jack helped himself to another look as he tried in vain to figure out exactly where the tail of the snake ended.

Tears of gratitude were diverted down the wrinkles on the old woman’s face as she heard the mother tongue on the girl’s lips, while Kailash and I exchanged smiles of self-satisfaction – too soon, too soon.

Danube Street, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 5.15 p.m.

Contessa was a people person – in her line of work she had to be. Born on the wrong side of the tracks, she had reinvented herself at fourteen. Following that, she’d turned up at Kailash’s door when she was seventeen. She hadn’t been turned away and Kailash had never regretted her decision.

She stood quietly, listening intently. Her full red mouth was open as she tried to decipher the old woman’s jabbering. They all eavesdropped, although they couldn’t understand a word; even Connie had laid aside her game. Reaching out, Contessa tucked a stray grey hair back into the babushka’s headscarf.

‘Her name is Irena Antonescu … her journey began weeks, maybe months ago … the old woman has lost track of time.’

Malcolm pulled out a seat from the table and helped the babushka to sit down. Her legs were covered by opaque black stockings, but he, like everyone else, could see the gnarled markings of varicose veins – wiggling his own toes, he looked as if he was guessing how tired her feet must be. Throughout this procedure, she hadn’t stopped talking. The wind was building up outside, the windows rattled, momentarily distracting them. Contessa’s English wasn’t fluent – I’d imagine she’d found it unnecessary to take extra language lessons for her career advancement – and, consequently, she was a frustratingly slow translator. The babushka jabbered on for several long minutes each time, but Contessa gave curt, one-second answers.

‘Irena says that the journey cannot stop … it is a journey to find not her granddaughter. Her daughter, Mihaela.’

Clearly the old woman had had a hard life. I would have guessed any daughter of hers would have been near retiral. I wanted to ask how old she was but Contessa was interrupted by the old woman pulling at her; the girl turned her full attention back to the crone, nodding in silent understanding. ‘She says that she wants you to know that her daughter’s name means … gift from God. She is … was a dancer. She loved to dance since she was a little girl.’ Contessa stopped; bending down, she indicated Mihaela had been dancing since she was knee high.

A sudden blast of wind shook the side of the building. A storm was gathering. Business would be slow tonight, so Contessa could spend some time with the old one. Rocking back and forth, the babushka never stopped speaking, not even for a sip of the tea that was growing cold in front of her.

‘She is talking about journey again. She is hoping that will reveal the mystery of the daughter. She was good girl, she kept in touch with her mother who is widow …. Irena keeps saying she has to find daughter… her search for the daughter has brought her to world she does not understand … Mihaela comes from village in countryside… as you can see, they are peasants.’ Contessa’s lips curled in distaste. ‘The village is called Glod … is a Romanian word for mud … no cars in village … only transport is by horse-drawn cart.’ Perhaps Contessa wouldn’t spend time with the old woman after all – from what Kailash had told me, she had run many miles to escape a village just like Glod in the first place.

The babushka pulled at Contessa’s dressing gown again, anxious for her story to be heard, anxious for any help to find her daughter. ‘Babushka says that they are poor people … but they are still people.’ Contessa sighed as she listened to the stream of words from the babushka. ‘She says they were tricked by people more educated than them … I do not know what she means.’ Malcolm handed Contessa tea in a china cup and saucer; she sipped delicately on the hot sweet black brew.

The babushka cleared her throat and was about to begin again; Contessa held up her hand – a full thirty seconds passed before the babushka was given permission to continue. The kitchen was filling up. Girls of all shapes, sizes and hues began to file in – the storm had affected trade and they had some spare time. A semicircle gathered around the kettle waiting for it to boil; normally, the air would be filled with girlish chatter, but tonight there was silence. Out of the corner of their eyes they stared at the battered photograph of Mihaela untouched on the table. More than any other group, these women had reason to fear the Ripper.

Connie removed her anorak. The close proximity of so many bodies had raised the temperature of the room. A cloud of worry passed across Contessa’s face as she continued to listen to the babushka. I thought I saw a small bead of sweat run down the side of her face, until I looked again and saw that it was a tear. The old woman reached out and lifted the worn picture from the table; clutching it to her chest, directly over her heart, she began to wail. Her coat was black and worn, and it brought the fresh-faced beauty in the photograph into sharp relief. Mihaela’s dreams were reflected in her eyes.

Joe’s jaw tightened and he clenched his fist – I knew that he would feel impotent. There was nothing he could do to bring her back, but at least the old woman deserved to be told what was going on in this city.

Glasgow Joe looked carefully into Contessa’s face. ‘The old woman has to be told what’s happening in Edinburgh,’ he said. ‘The poor old soul can’t read or speak English – she has no idea that the Ripper’s on the rampage killing girls like Mihaela.’

Fear seemed to quicken in Contessa. Gripping the cup and saucer tightly, she softened her tone and began to speak. The babushka stared into the distance, slowly allowing Contessa’s words to sink in. The pendulum clock on the wall ticked loudly, as I watched. The girls were rifling in their handbags, gathering their change to make an offering to the old woman, and Kailash already had a wad of cash waiting. Gloria stood and waited. When Contessa stopped to draw breath, she handed over their offering. Even if Mihaela’s body was never found, it was enough to buy a memorial stone to mark the fact that the babushka’s daughter had once walked and breathed on this earth.

Rocking back and forth, the old woman keened, the loud shrieking noise no doubt disturbing the few high rollers who were in the casino above – no one moved to quieten her. Holding a fistful of money out to Contessa, the old woman began to speak again. It was a horrible sound, the guttural noise of an animal in difficulty. Contessa suddenly stilled. Her hands joined in prayer, she lifted them to her mouth, as if she was beginning to understand some horror. She struck like lightning. Kicking the money out of the babushka’s hands, she grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and dragged her up the steps.

‘Put the old woman down, you crazy bitch!’ Joe stepped forward as the rest of us looked on in shock at the turnaround. I watched as the old woman hit every step on the way up; she bounced and ricocheted like a black plastic bin bag as Contessa manhandled her to the grand entrance hall. The high rollers gawped; some even placed their cards face down on the table to stare. The red silk robe had slipped from Contessa; the snake was gleaming with the sheen of sweat, the colours of its scales jumped as the muscles on Contessa’s back twitched from exertion. Glasgow Joe caught up with them when Contessa was opening up the heavy Georgian front door.

He circled Contessa and her prey crouched low like a hunter; Contessa bent down and took off her left shoe. It was no ordinary shoe – the seven-inch stiletto heel made it an offensive weapon in Contessa’s hands.

Firing it, her aim was true; it glanced off Joe’s forehead, buying her enough time to open the front door. Using her bare foot, she kicked the old woman out of the house. The babushka rolled down the three steps and landed in the gutter. Contessa gathered phlegm from her throat and spat on the old woman.

‘
Vacu draculi!
’ she cursed, slamming the casino door.