by Grace Monroe
The fog hung in dense pockets like ectoplasm. It covered his tracks, muffling any sound he might be careless enough to make – even his breath was concealed in the cold night air. The freezing mist was harsh on his lungs. He stuck his nose deep into his scarf in case he coughed. It was extremely unpalatable; the material was wet with snot and condensation but he couldn’t take any chances.
The night-vision goggles showed the groom’s party arriving, denting his hopes. He should be filled with triumph. His plan was working, but instead of a tingle of excitement, his muscles constricted, causing him to momentarily double in pain – the bastard was still looking for him.
Glasgow Joe’s kilt moved the air around him as he turned from side to side, watching his back. The big man cased the joint as though he were looking for a sniper. The Glaswegian was light on his feet, despite his size, but The Watcher was quick. Too quick for him. Thomas Foster was in jail and that was enough for the present. Anything else was the icing on the cake.
The Lewis bridal song called out to him as a small clear voice sang and eased his fears. It was all worth it. The excitement now began to flow through his limbs. He struggled to remain where he was. He wanted to see them and he wanted to smell them but, most of all, he desired to touch them.
I want never gets his mother had admonished. Well, he was fed up being the good boy. He wanted a taste of the action himself, and what a delicious dish it was. The flickering flames held by those juvenile delinquents called attention to the bridal party. His girls, as he had come to think of them, were particularly appetizing today.
Unusually, they were dressed identically in red duchesse satin cut on the bias, which shimmered as they walked. In deference to the weather, they wore short cream fur stoles over their shoulders. The Watcher rubbed the front of his trousers, satisfied with the throb, feeling the blood pump back into his loins. A slow smile crossed his face and he nodded to himself as he stared at them, stroking methodically with his right hand.
Connie’s hair fell in long, loose ringlets. Her eyes were wide with delight as she hopped and skipped trying to get attention. He watched as her bottom lip jutted out. Would she be happy if she knew he was watching? He thought so – in fact he knew she would be. Brodie was a different kettle of fish altogether. Her scarlet dress clung to her curves; some would say that it was too tight but The Watcher felt it was just right.
His body temperature was rising. She was here. It was all worth it. He was doing it for her and, one day soon, she’d know it.
Fuck it.
They were going in just when he was starting to enjoy himself. The Dark Angels remained on guard by the door of St Margaret’s Chapel; he felt himself wither inside as she disappeared. His heart couldn’t take the strain, he would have to bring it to a climax soon, perhaps sooner than he would have liked, sooner than was safe or sensible. With Thomas Foster in jail, the only reason to hurry was his need. It was growing every day. Every day he found it harder to stand in embalmed silence and watch her.
The chill settled into his bones. He sniffed back the snot that had formed on the end of his nose, and waited. He was no longer so good at waiting.
To those inside it was no doubt a short, happy service; to The Watcher it seemed interminable. His patience was growing shorter, and that wasn’t a good sign for anyone. He closed his eyes to dream. Pictures came into his mind that made it difficult for him to swallow – they made him ashamed but he did not open his eyes until he heard the skirl of pipes. Uncoiling, he stared through the binoculars he had fixed on her and observed the antics. Digging his nails into his skin as she caught the bouquet – she would be no one’s bride.
They were making it easy for him. There was one person in the party who was not enjoying herself, one person who would have a better time with him. Connie. His eyes scanned her body again and made the calculations; he was absolutely certain he had it right. Initially, she would have to be drugged, but then she would be happy.
She stood alone in the mist as the grown-ups disappeared down the hill, lingering behind to see if anyone missed her. They didn’t. Rubbing his hands together The Watcher grabbed his bag – he always carried his tools with him – ready to take her. He hated the idea that she would think she was unloved, unwanted.
He would take better care of her. Standing alone in the dark, she huddled into the stone doorway. The Watcher could sense her fear as he moved closer, readying himself to make a move. Clutching his bag of tools to his chest, he inched forward in the fog, anxious not to alert her, not to scare her into running.
Clenching his body tight, The Watcher savoured the thrill. He had anticipated this for so long. Everything was leading up to this moment.
Was that a sob?
His heart warmed at the sound of the lonely girl. He recognized it as a moment of happiness; she would think he was a hero. The Watcher could taste her fear, it was sweet to him. The unexpected noise on the cobbles made him stop and scuttle for cover by the side of a cannon. Peering over the top, he saw the bastard. For a few long seconds his heart stopped. Glasgow Joe scooped Connie up in his arms – regrettably he did not give her a row. The Watcher bit his tongue so hard that blood mixed with saliva, dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. Joe put the frightened little girl down, clutching her to him. Did he know that evil was so close by?
Grasping his tool bag tighter to his chest, The Watcher turned. He didn’t look over his shoulder, walking away to live and win another day.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kailash’s home, Ravelston Dykes, Edinburgh
Tuesday 25 December, 3 p.m.
‘Happy Christmas.’
Kailash and I kissed, and held each other for longer than usual. We had travelled a short, hard road together but maybe our relationship would turn out all right. Connie bundled her way in, shoving a present in my face, the first of many from my mother.
‘I’m sorry …’ I started. Kailash shrugged. It was of no importance that I wasn’t bearing gifts. Smiling, she put her arms around her girls and walked us into the living room – I wondered if she had been on the sherry. Truthfully, I could only guess at what her childhood Christmases had been like. This time, she had certainly tried her best to create the ideal, festive, family scene. It was like a greetings card photo-shoot in its perfection – the only thing it lacked was Bing Crosby crooning by the fireplace.
The eight-foot tree was real and it filled the room with the scent of the forest. The baubles hanging from the branches were not colour-coordinated or newly bought. They represented Kailash and Connie’s life together. You know the sort of thing, salt-dough Santas, made by Connie aged three. But there was one that caught the back of my throat. I fought the tears and looked out of the French windows. There was no escape. Kailash took it off the tree and handed it to me. It looked the oldest decoration; shiny, glittery and dented. In the middle was a picture of me, aged seven, without my front teeth. ‘I’ve had this for over twenty years,’ she told me. ‘Your grandfather got the photo from Mary.’ She took it back and put it on its branch.
‘Happy Christmas!’ Grandad handed me a glass of buck’s fizz which I shied away from. ‘Hair of the dog,’ he insisted and, God knows, I needed it. My liver was complaining, and I was praying that Kailash had forgotten to put the turkey in the oven so that dinner would be delayed until at least 8 p.m. No such luck. She was on the ball since it was our first Christmas dinner as a family – the bird had been stuffed and in the oven since 8 a.m.
Connie called us through to her games room. She’d linked the television to her computer, and she was showing us photographs from the wedding. Kailash looked amazing; it’s hard having a mother who belongs on the cover of FHM. I wished I’d stuck to the Atkins Diet.
Moses beamed out at us from the TV screen, a microphone in his hand. It was the wedding video and he was singing ‘My Way’.
‘That boy is the world’s worst Sinatra impersonator,’ Grandad smiled, still enjoying the performance.
‘I t
ried to tell him that he couldn’t sing; he’d have none of it because the Dark Angels – and other people – say he’s fantastic,’ I said, looking at my grandfather accusingly. Grandad shuffled uncomfortably. Cruelly, he encouraged Moses to sing, purely because it made him howl with laughter.
‘Dinner!’ Kailash shouted, as she staggered into the dining room under the weight of a 14-lb bird.
Connie insisted we pull our crackers, I’m sure they were expensive but those cheap paper hats never fit my oversized head. A yellow one sat perfectly on Kailash’s black hair, Connie was fine, and even Jack managed not to look ridiculous. As I glanced around the table there was one other person who had to rip his hat at the seam to make it fit: Grandad. My heart sank a little when I remembered who had given me the genetics of Humpty Dumpty.
‘Just a little bit for me thanks,’ said the surprise guest – a surprise to me at least. Grandad had invited Jack Deans because he was still matchmaking, although he’d whispered to me that Jack had nowhere else to go. He was a sly old bugger.
Kailash can’t cook. It was the driest turkey I’d ever tasted, but I bravely fought my way through the food mountain in front of me. The roast potatoes were hard and soggy at the same time – a feat I didn’t think was possible. I chewed and chewed my way through the main course and managed to keep it down. Connie’s eyes were wide with excitement – she insisted on lighting the Christmas pudding so we all had to have some to show willing. I’m not keen on it at the best of times, but with the mother of all hangovers I was positively gagging at the thought.
There was quite an art to it. Connie’s head was bent close to Kailash’s as she heated a large silver spoon over a candle, then, striking a match, the alcohol became a mass of blue flame which Connie poured over the pudding. The fire lit her face. Kailash pulled back Connie’s hair in case she set fire to herself. The tenderness of the action stopped me. Kailash did look like a mother, she just didn’t look like mine. Again, it was hard to believe she had been Connie’s age when she had given birth to me. I’ve never given her enough credit for the way she loves me. Logically, it wasn’t my fault, but I would have been hard-pushed to blame her if she’d held the circumstance of my delivery against me.
‘I’m proud of you,’ Grandad said, tapping my hand with a cracked blue leather box. ‘You’ve kept your nose clean … except for that one incident … and it wouldn’t be you if you weren’t irritating someone. I have to face facts, you’re never going to be an angel, but you’ll always be mine.’ He stopped, and I prayed he wasn’t going to get emotional or start crying – or both. ‘This belonged to your grandmother,’ he started up again. ‘I thought you might like it. I kept it especially, hoping that one day there would be someone who would appreciate it.’
I smiled but my heart sank. Could I pull it off? A present from my deceased grandmother, some ghastly earrings or a hellish diamond brooch, no doubt, either of which I would be forced to wear. Locking a smile ear to ear, I opened the box, readying myself to squeal with delight.
‘What is it?’ I asked, holding a key up between my thumb and forefinger.
‘It’s a key,’ Grandad replied, reaching out, covering my fingers and the key with both his hands.
‘Uh-huh – I can see that.’
‘Come and see, come and see!’ Connie shrieked.
‘So you’re all in on it except me?’ I asked.
Kailash opened the front door. Grandad covered my eyes with his hand and Connie led me into the driveway. They didn’t give me time to get my coat and the wind whipped round my legs. I’d worn a skirt in honour of the fact it was Christmas Day and I was regretting it. The snow was melting and the slush around the front door had formed a grey crust that seeped into my light shoes.
‘Open your eyes now!’ Connie shouted. Although my eyes had been shut for a relatively small amount of time, it was still difficult to adjust to the light. The floodlights on the garage door were on and I had to blink several times, sure that alcohol poisoning had blinded me.
‘What is it?’ I asked again.
‘It’s a car, stupid!’ Connie slapped my head. ‘And not just any car – it’s a metallic blue 1954 Chevrolet Corvette Convertible,’ she shouted, jumping into the driver’s seat, her learned words ringing in my ears.
‘I think we should let Brodie sit in her present first, don’t you?’ Kailash leaned into the car and manhandled Connie out of it.
‘Grandad! Promise me that I can have one just like that? Did Granny have two?’ asked Connie, innocently.
‘No, darling, she only had one,’ he answered. ‘She was a remarkable lady even to have owned that. I think that Brodie gets her taste for outlandish motor vehicles from her.’
‘Am I like her too?’ Connie asked. This was getting onto difficult ground. Connie was my half-sister, although I didn’t think the penny had dropped yet with her. I didn’t know who her father was and perhaps Kailash didn’t either.
‘Stop stealing my thunder,’ I interrupted, trying to change the subject. ‘You can sit in the passenger seat if you promise to be quiet.’ I turned to Grandad. ‘It’s absolutely beautiful.’ I kissed him on the cheek as he whispered, ‘Maybe now you’ll stop driving that damned motorbike – you know I hate you driving that thing, it’s awfully dangerous. I couldn’t bear to lose you, Brodie.’
The top was down and the beige leather seats sent a chill straight through to my bones as soon as I sat down. The sensation didn’t go away as the seats warmed up. It wasn’t a good feeling and I couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was truly to do with the car. The vibration from my mobile phone buzzed on my hip. I answered it, thinking it would be the blushing bride calling to wish us all a Happy Christmas.
‘Brodie?’ an American voice asked.
Adie Foster. This was my personal mobile – how did he get the number? I swivelled in the seat and caught Grandad’s eye. He looked away. I’d have to have a word with him about this.
It didn’t seem appropriate to wish Adie Foster Happy Christmas, not with his son languishing in Saughton Prison. Still, if it was a consolation to him, Thomas had probably had a more edible Christmas dinner than I’d had.
‘I’ve just had word through from the chief constable, Brodie. It was good of him to keep me up to date,’ he said, as I marvelled yet again at how the old boy network operated. His next words were even more dramatic. ‘The Ripper has struck again. DI Bancho is with the body now – they must be made to see that Thomas can’t be the Ripper, Brodie. Go over there and get my son out of jail. Immediately.’
‘It’s not as easy as that, Mr Foster.’
‘Make it that easy: you’re supposed to be the best. DI Bancho is at St Giles’ Cathedral. And Brodie? It’s the Ripper’s work … a girl has been found.’ The phone went dead.
‘Happy Christmas, Brodie,’ I whispered.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
St Giles’ Cathedral, Edinburgh
Tuesday 25 December, 6.30 p.m.
It wasn’t far to St Giles’ Cathedral. The roads were empty, it was Christmas night, and most people were still sleeping off the effects of lunch. Jack and I drove in silence. He had insisted on accompanying me.
My stomach knotted at the thought of what lay before me. Bitter bile jumped from belly to throat and back again. Would I be able to control myself? It was bad enough vomiting in front of Patch and a lone detective as I had once done at an autopsy, but this was a crime scene and it would be heaving with people. If I knew about it, someone eager to make a fast buck would have tipped off the media. A shadow crossed my mind: Jack was the media. Maybe his motives for coming weren’t so altruistic. Mentally I kicked myself; I was dumping that bastard as soon as possible.
I parked the car outside the High Court and, from the shadows, we observed the action. St Giles’ was floodlit. In Parliament Square, directly in front of the cathedral entrance, there was a life-size Nativity scene. Less than twenty-four hours ago this place had been packed with worshippers at the Christmas Eve Watc
h Night service. Had the dead girl heard them sing ‘Away in a Manger’?
A chill ran down my spine and my teeth chattered. I couldn’t stop shivering.
‘Do you want my coat?’ Jack asked.
‘No.’ I couldn’t tell him my trembling had nothing to do with the cold. We had no right to be there, and if I was to follow Adie Foster’s instruction, then I had to blag my way in. I couldn’t think of anything more macabre than sneaking into what was essentially a grave. But I wasn’t doing it for Adie Foster. Thomas was innocent and I had to prove it. I knew that when Bancho thinks you’re guilty, all evidence to the contrary is disregarded. It was up to me to play detective for my client.
In the blackness I spied DI Bancho, deep in conversation with Joe. What was he doing here? The Ripper was in jail. Joe’s head was bent towards the policeman. If any of the regulars from his pub, the Rag Doll, saw him now, his business would be in trouble. No self-respecting crook could freely discuss his dealings with a man who was so friendly with the cops, regardless of his motives or reputation.
The crime-scene boys were still inside. Around the corner in Parliament Square I spied Patch’s twenty-year-old Volvo. It was time to come out of the shadows and declare our presence but I decided not to park beside Patch.
All heads turned as I roared up with Jack in the Corvette. I got out of the car like a finishing school graduate, opening the door and swinging my legs out, knees locked together. I climbed over the black heavy chain barrier and spat on the Heart of Midlothian, a brass heart set into the cobbles of the Royal Mile outside St Giles’ Cathedral. Superstition decrees that you must spit on it to ward off the evil eye. I was taking no chances – I needed every piece of luck I could get to pass through the police cordon.
‘Duncan, Joe!’ I shouted, waving as if I was expected. Joe turned his back on me. He was swearing, and not under his breath. Marching confidently towards them, we weren’t stopped by the constables on duty.
