The Watcher

by Grace Monroe

  I heard his laugh and oddly, I thought of it as educated. Stepping into his shoes I took an inventory. Oxblood Chesterfield settee – where it should be. Winged armchair exactly in the place I had last seen it – I hadn’t sat on it for it was Grandad’s favoured chair. My graduation photograph, in pride of place on the Chippendale table. I was grateful the Ripper had not stood on the seventeenth-century Aubusson rug; obviously he had enough taste to know it was irreplaceable. How considerate!

  Screwing up my eyes, I saw what was bothering me – the telescope I used to spy on the pedestrians in Princes Street. It was fixed into position rather than free on its swivel as usual. I looked through it like it was an old fairground attraction, What the Butler Saw. I hope for his sake he did not see what I saw.

  Connie.

  I don’t know whether I screamed again before I fainted.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Edinburgh Castle

  Friday 28 December, 5.15 a.m.

  The gatehouse entrance to the castle was floodlit and covered in snow. The snow was stained like a frozen red waterfall; there was so much blood. I didn’t think one little body could hold so much fluid. The telescope had been well positioned so that I could see a mutilated young girl.

  I had to hold Connie.

  As I came to, all I could see were anxious faces crowding me. Joe’s eyes streamed; his worst fears had come to pass. He crushed me to his heart, more for his sake than mine. I couldn’t breathe. My world had changed in an instant. For Connie’s sake I had to be a survivor. I couldn’t bear the thought of her body lying in the snow, cold and alone for one second more than she needed to be.

  Fighting Glasgow Joe off was easy; his heart had been taken. Grandad didn’t stop to collect his coat or dressing gown. He held my hand and walked up Castle Hill in his pyjamas and I’m sure that none of us could bear to think of Lavender’s wedding. I heard Connie sing clear and true in my head, her version of the Lewis wedding song. Somehow, together, we stumbled through the gatehouse and on up through the portcullis.

  Detective Inspector Smith, the detective in charge of the abduction, was somewhere close by. I wasn’t conscious of her but she must have smoothed our passage. Joe told me that Bancho had already received a tip-off by the time we’d roused Grandad – certainly, the castle had been cordoned off as a crime scene although no one tried to bar our way. DI Smith led the way; we pushed past the yellow tape. Clearly, no one thought that we were mere onlookers. Grief had already etched its signature on our faces. Grandad seemed to have lost inches. He slumped beside me sunken in pain; the only reason he could keep going was that he wouldn’t let me face this alone. Although the Ripper had not stabbed Grandad tonight, I was sure this would kill him. It was just another score I had to settle with the bastard.

  Uniformed officers crawled over the castle like termites. We walked up the cobbled road, past substantial black signposts with gold lettering directing us to less gory locations – we ignored them. A young Lothian and Borders officer, who looked all of seventeen, stood guard anxiously at the makeshift barricade, clearly conscious of the fact that his every move was being recorded and then analysed live on news channels. DI Smith pushed us past the youngster, and I was aware I was making headlines. At this very second probably, across the bottom of TV screens, would be running a headline – Family visit last resting place of Connie Coutts in grim attempt to identify body parts.

  Inside a makeshift white tent, crime-scene technicians swarmed, their latex-gloved fingers probing every square inch of cobbled stone, gathering and preserving forensic samples. Everything and anything was now considered evidence – I watched as a discarded chewing-gum wrapper, probably left by a thoughtless tourist, was now sealed and sent to a crime lab. Flashes lit the pre-dawn sky as crime-scene photographers took pictures from every conceivable angle. Fingerprint powder covered any surface on which the Ripper might have left a print, and some where he could not. The cannons had not seen as much action since the seventeenth century.

  I knew that the human body contained about ten pints of blood. I just didn’t know that it could spread so far. We encountered the red snow long before we could see the body. A shiver ran through me, though it had nothing to do with the cold. This place was a blood bath.

  DI Bancho put his arm in front of me, barring the way. He looked me in the eye and said: ‘Do you think you can handle it?’ I tried to push past him without answering; he was stronger than he looked. ‘Think about it carefully, Brodie – this isn’t a stranger …’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Let her pass, Duncan. If I can bear it, she can bear it – we owe it to Connie.’ Glasgow Joe’s voice sounded from over my shoulder. I looked to my right and he was there; he seemed smaller too. I was scared. I was really scared, but I had to go on. Walking between Joe and Grandad, gripping their hands, I got my first sight of the body. I was still too far away to do more than note the position. Her naked corpse was grotesquely draped over a cannon; her back lay along the barrel of the massive gun with arms falling limply to the side and legs spreadeagled. I was close enough to see that her feet had been hacked off. She was tied by her ankles and wrists to the cannon so that there was no danger of her falling off. Focusing on her limbs, I could tell she had been bound post mortem – there were no purple bruises on her skin.

  I wanted to run to her, to take her in my arms, give her some dignity, but I couldn’t interfere with the crime scene; contamination might mean a court case would fall because of lack of evidence. My head knew this, but all my practice at murder scenes involving strangers could never prepare me for this.

  Inching forward, I strained my neck to see. I’m sure Joe’s eyes were closed because it felt as if I was leading a blind man. There was something wrong. Deviating from his m.o., the Ripper had shorn her hair, her beautiful hair. A picture of Malcolm brushing and de-tugging her ponytail before catching it up in that bloody silly neon rose flashed before my eyes. A whimper caught in my throat and I ran to her.

  It was hard to see in the darkness. As I drew closer, I was drawn to the thorn bush tied to her hand; the Ripper was developing, telling us a story … it was changing. The body had been hit with a blunt instrument; battered like a veal escalope. Perhaps Patch had been successful with his pig experiments and would be able to tell us definitively which blunt instrument had bludgeoned her to death.

  I’d never known such grief, but I couldn’t look away. Not only had the Ripper shorn her hair but, as the first light of dawn cracked over the castle, I saw what had been concerning me about the thorn bush.

  Eyes.

  Her eyes hung on branches of thorns in a grotesque parody of a Christmas tree bauble.

  Duncan Bancho looked over my shoulder.

  I turned to face him.

  Reaching between his legs, I grabbed his balls and squeezed until my fingers hurt.

  ‘You bastard,’ I whispered, ‘you knew it wasn’t Connie, but you had to prolong it, didn’t you?’ I twisted his balls once more. ‘Maybe you’ll think twice about fucking with my head again, Bancho, or I’ll rip those off next time.’ I let go. Walking away, clenching and unclenching my fingers, I tried to bring the circulation back. In other circumstances, what I had done would have felt good. I was honest enough to concede maybe I was my mother’s daughter after all, but in the circumstances I wouldn’t break out the champagne just yet – guilt ate at my stomach. When I looked at that poor dead girl, all I felt was relief: relief that we still had some hope … and that’s when I received the text.

  It shd hve bn u

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Castle Hill, Edinburgh

  Friday 28 December, 7.35 a.m.

  ‘Brodie!’ came the voice behind me.

  I kept on walking. If I never saw that man again it would be too soon.

  ‘Brodie …! We need to talk.’

  Bancho lurched after me, clearly in pain. I sighed in resignation as I motioned to Joe that he and Grandad, who was still in shock, should go on ahead. I ne
eded to speak to Bancho on my own.

  Now that the ball-clenching moment had passed, I regretted my action. It was violent, childish and criminal. I could still be charged with police assault, although I knew that there was no way Bancho’s pride would allow him to admit what I’d done. All I could say in mitigation was that I’d been under a great deal of strain.

  Glasgow Joe didn’t argue with me. We were both worried about Grandad’s health. Someone needed to walk him back to Ramsay Gardens and make sure that he got into warm clothes. I slowed up and watched them walk down past the Whisky Centre. I stood motionless until they had disappeared around the corner.

  Bancho grabbed me by the arm, not in an arresting sort of way; it was more that he didn’t want me to run off. I looked bad but he was worse and I couldn’t meet his eye. Small specks of yellow vomit from when the pain had been too much lined his lips. I did that to him and I didn’t feel proud. Joe was right – he was doing his best.

  ‘I’m sorry, Duncan – it was unforgivable for me to do that … even to a low-life bastard like you. All I can say is that you bring out the worst in me.’

  ‘Are you serious …? I’d rather think you had a bad case of PMT.’ He shook his head: ‘What kind of animal do you think I am? I didn’t know the girl wasn’t Connie.’

  Should I believe him? Bancho held out his hand for me to shake.

  I stared at it.

  ‘I care about the victims … I’m not the one who’s trying to get their killer off.’

  He stuck his hand out again.

  ‘We both know we’re never going to be bosom buddies, or even polite acquaintances, Brodie, but at least we can try not to hurt each other physically or mentally … Anyone who would mislead you like that is an animal, and that’s not me.’

  He squirmed. Obviously his balls still hurt. I took his hand, hoping that it hadn’t been anywhere on a soothing mission.

  ‘I have it from a reliable source that people pay good money to have their testicles enlarged.’

  Grabbing a non-existent crease in his trousers, Bancho adjusted himself. ‘Believe me when I say, I’m not one of those people. The most you’ll get out of me is a cup of coffee – and you’re bloody lucky to be getting that.’

  He tried to force a smile and failed.

  ‘We need to work together, Brodie … the most important thing is that we end this.’

  ‘Thomas Foster is in jail. The case is closed – in your opinion.’

  ‘Yes well … the case has just taken a new twist. Look up at the castle … the bloody snow proves that. Come back with me and look at the evidence again … you know Thomas Foster better than me.’

  ‘Yes, I do … and he’s innocent … He’s still in jail, for God’s sake.’

  We drove in silence to the coffee box at the Meadows; my stomach growled and I became conscious that the last time I could remember eating was Christmas Day. I knew that I must have nibbled something since then, but I couldn’t get my memory to work properly. The light was struggling. Only just past the winter solstice, the sun was far away in the southern hemisphere – it felt like it.

  Driving to St Leonards was a long journey. Bancho had admonished me not to eat in his car and, in spite of the earlier burying of the hatchet, I was sure he was saying it just to be mean. I’d been in his office and this guy was no clean freak; if anything he was a bigger slob than me.

  I didn’t eat anyway. How could I? Connie was still missing and now another dead girl had turned up – was she next?

  Chapter Forty-Six

  St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh

  Friday 28 December, 8.10 a.m.

  A grey dawn was breaking over the Salisbury Crags. Arthur’s Seat looked bleak, and ancient. In the seven-teeth century, men thought the earth was made 6,000 years before. After examining the crags, they realized that the earth could be as much as a million years old. I wondered if Bancho would have such an epiphany – I wasn’t holding out too much hope.

  I wanted to know what progress Lothian and Borders police had made. DI Bancho led me into a quiet station and, unusually, Desk Sergeant Munro was not on duty.

  It was still the season of goodwill and the St Leonards Christmas tree perfectly illustrated the fact that police stations simply don’t do festive gaiety with any aplomb. Six feet of scanty green tinsel branches, it had been bought years before and badly stored. Cheap supermarket baubles hung from its limbs, while the tree itself was contained in a cardboard box covered with wrapping paper. In silence, we headed down into the bowels of the station, along a semi-dark corridor. The station operated a green policy – lights only came on when a room was in use. It was disconcerting to walk into the black room, knowing what its walls depicted. There was a certain amount of theatre as the lights came on; the once pretty faces in Bancho’s chilling beauty pageant stared out at me.

  Katya Waleski had been added.

  ‘You’ll need to take her down.’ I tapped the picture with my finger, noting how dirty my nail was.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh come on! You were at the fucking autopsy – she died of natural causes.’

  ‘A girl of Katya Waleski’s age does not just die of a heart attack.’ His eyes narrowed to slits as he held my eyes.

  ‘Granted, but it was drug-induced heart failure. You can’t pin it on Thomas Foster – do you have anything personal against him?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a murdering little bastard who thinks he can get away with anything. And when the results come back from the crime lab, I’ll have all the evidence I need.’

  ‘Hello, Bancho? Reality check here. Thomas Foster is in Saughton – although he shouldn’t be. I’m going to petition the court … Crown Office will have to drop the case.’

  ‘He’s also charged with breach of the peace.’

  ‘You know that’s not going to keep him locked up. Anything constitutes a breach of the peace. If you so much as look at me the wrong way, I’ll say it’s a breach of the peace. Face facts, Bancho: Thomas Foster will be released. He’s not the Ripper.’

  ‘I know that he is. What about the theory that there’s two of them? This new killing – is it a copycat or are there two?’

  ‘Bancho, you saw yourself that the m.o. keeps changing.’

  The Ripper’s modus operandi had altered but there were elements that remained constant, the peculiar knife marks in particular and the ripping out of the tongue.

  He stared at the dead girls and I followed his eyes to a new picture. Connie. He dropped his head to his hands and started rubbing his temples.

  Without looking up he said: ‘What’s your connection in all of this? We’ve nine victims: five murdered in the first six months, Katya and Mihaela plus the left foot of another girl we’ve got to assume is dead – so that makes eight. And, of course, Connie makes nine.’

  ‘She’s not dead,’ I shouted. ‘She’s not dead!’

  ‘And the girl at the castle makes ten.’

  ‘Have you identified her yet?’

  Bancho nodded. ‘Jade Wesson, aged eighteen. Went missing from Pilton last night.’

  ‘She’s not Eastern European and she wasn’t a redhead. He’s accelerating … the Ripper’s previously gone to the trouble of finding a particular shade of hair. I think that’s why he shaved her head. And you can’t deny that, last night, Thomas Foster was in jail,’ I reminded him.

  ‘I’m not overlooking that fact – whatever you think.’ Bancho took a deep breath. He was tired, beaten, and his breathing had the sound of a death rattle.

  ‘You still think he’s guilty?’ I asked.

  ‘I know that he is. Let’s assume that there are two killers and—’

  ‘And what?’ I interrupted him. ‘That means Thomas Foster’s partner is still killing whilst he’s in prison? You can’t just bend the facts to suit yourself, you’re not in China.’

  ‘Put aside your prejudices and listen.’ He scratched his head and walked up and down in front of the victims.

  ‘I asked
to be informed of any crimes that happened around houses you were connected with.’ I stared at him blankly. Coughing, he reached into his drawer and pulled out a new picture. Taking Blu-Tack, he placed it on the wall.

  ‘A cat … violence to a cat?’

  ‘Well, the pet owner was very upset. She made quite a fuss …’

  I knew that serial killers often start out by being cruel to animals. I took the photograph from the wall, and stared at the dead cat. It was obvious what he was getting at, the animal’s throat had been cut and torn – it was similar to the marks on the girls. He could see on my face that I understood his point.

  ‘Was Thomas Foster in jail when this happened?’ I asked, flapping the photograph in front of him. He nodded. ‘Now, Brodie, I want you to tell me the truth … is there anything else I should know?’

  I stared at the dead girls. I wanted to snatch Connie’s picture from the wall but I stopped myself. As long as she was there, Bancho had to look for her and that had to be good – right?

  Taking a deep breath, I turned to face him. ‘The Ripper sent me a text. He said it should have been me … What the fuck does that mean?’ I took a cigarette out and lit up.

  ‘You’re not allowed to smoke in here.’ He pointed to a sign on the wall. I shrugged my shoulders and started pacing, all the better to think. ‘So – arrest me.’

  He reached over and took a cigarette out of my packet. ‘I thought you’d stopped,’ I sneered.

  ‘I was under the same impression regarding you.’

  Our bitchy sparring was just to buy us some time to come up with answers.

  ‘What did the Ripper mean? That he meant to take me instead of Connie? Or he should have killed me and plucked my eyes out?’

  I wandered over and switched the kettle on. I needed a serious caffeine fix to keep going. The burst of adrenalin during the night had depleted my energy; if I wasn’t going to fall over, I needed help. Waiting for the kettle to boil, I pushed Bancho to one side.