by Grace Monroe
The media camp around the house had grown even larger but he liked that. Crowds provided him with a cover to get close to her. He rolled his tongue around trying to think of an appropriate word to describe his relationship to Brodie – comrade. A self-satisfied smile crossed his lips. He was sure they would be very good friends – and soon.
In fact, he was making friends with the whole family.
He considered it an honour having Connie in his home. He’d followed Brodie’s career closely through the Internet. He was her number one fan. It had been an ambition of his to study Scots law; however his other talents – privileges he might say – took him in another direction, so he was forced to follow the law vicariously. During his online research he’d come across Brodie McLennan. He needed an ally.
The front door suddenly opened and the press stirred, ready to record another minor moment in ‘a parent’s worst nightmare’. Their cameras panned the leafy streets of this exclusive suburb. Connie lived in the kind of house where these things just don’t happen. The media was gearing up to ensure that the nation poured out its grief; after all, she was one of theirs.
His eyes flicked over the mawkish tributes left by strangers; cheap pink teddies with childish scrawls. Cameras clicked in the semi-darkness at Lavender Ironside and Jack Deans as they left the house. The flash startled Lavender; like a wary animal she searched the crowd. Her beady eyes stopped on him for a few long seconds before moving on.
He shrank back, frightened. He knew all about the new Mrs Gibb – he’d even gone to her wedding. There was no end to the things she could find out online about him, given her talents – if she chose to do so.
They were getting close.
He would have to act fast.
Glasgow Joe pulled back a curtain in the living room and peered out, giving The Watcher an opportunity to spy on their conference. He had no doubt that Brodie was filling them in, telling them that good old Tom Foster was innocent. The Watcher was in a mood to excuse her; no one was perfect. Well, almost no one. He felt a little ashamed, though. He was acting like one of those sanctimonious vigilantes.
So, Ms McLennan – where are you off to tonight? he drooled, whispering the words as she stepped out onto the paved driveway. His pleasure in her appearance was short-lived; Glasgow Joe was hot on her heels – wasn’t he always? Opening the top box on his trike, the big bastard pulled out a spare helmet and handed it to her. Colour had returned to her face a bit. The Watcher had given her hope – what had she done for him? Brodie McLennan was making him mad, and that wasn’t a good idea – she wouldn’t like to meet him then.
She needed him.
Brodie held Joe’s shoulder, as she threw her leg over the trike. The machine roared into life, disturbing the neighbourhood. The Glaswegian drove at the reporters, scattering them like pigeons.
Bonnie and fucking Clyde, he muttered under his breath. He smiled to himself as he remembered how that scenario ended.
Chapter Fifty
Lothian and St Clair, Edinburgh
Friday 28 December, 8.30 p.m.
Night had fallen by the time we got to the office. Joe and I had to get petrol for the trike before meeting up with Jack and Lavender outside the offices. The computer equipment Lavender had insisted I install was second to none. Jack tried to switch on the overhead lights when they entered the office. Lavender switched them off. ‘I work with just a desk light,’ she told him, tapping her finger lightly off her temple. ‘Helps the concentration.’
‘How do you intend to find her?’ Jack asked. Lavender did not look up at him.
‘I’m not looking for Connie … I’m going to find the Ripper. These killings started in July. But his behaviour escalated too quickly for a novice. I think the bastard’s done this before somewhere else. And, wherever he’s been, there’s a trail … I’ll hunt him down with a little help from my friends.’
‘Friends?’ Jack asked. But Lavender was now engrossed as her fingers flew over the keyboard.
‘You may have already guessed,’ I told Jack, ‘Lavender isn’t referring to us. She belongs to a loose group of hackers who call themselves vengeance.org.’
‘How did she join them?’ Jack asked, probably hunting for another story.
‘Lav says if you have to ask how to join, you don’t belong.’
Lavender’s half-moon reading glasses, a recent necessity, were perched on the end of her nose; they kept sliding down and she kept pushing them up. It was the only time her hands left the keyboard. Three cups of cold coffee sat untouched by her right hand. She was a model of efficiency. Jack told me that, when they arrived, she’d assessed his hacking skills – then asked him to make coffee.
Suddenly, Joe cleared his throat purposefully, as if he was trying to call the room to order. It worked.
‘Seeing as our efforts are moving online now, I have something I need to tell you,’ he said, looking uncomfortable.
‘Some time ago, Brodie’s name cropped up on a perverts’ website called The Hobbyist. There’s been no recent mention but Bancho’s monitoring it and he’s pretty sure—’
I stopped his flow. ‘Yes, yes … I know about that.’ Joe stepped back in surprise. The smart-arse thought he’d kept it from me. I told the others: ‘Look, this website stuff is just a waste of time. For a start it’s an American site. That’s obvious from the users, the spelling, the addresses and the references. It’s a stretch to think the Brodie McLennan in question is me, “right here in li’l old Edinburgh”.’ For the last few words I affected a drawling, American accent. ‘And anyway, it was posted six months ago. So let’s move on shall we?’
‘Brodie, I don’t think you’re seeing the full picture here,’ said Joe.
‘Lucky I’ve got any picture at all,’ I snapped. ‘You obviously weren’t going to tell me!’
Joe ignored that, took a deep breath, and continued. ‘It’s originally a US site, it’s true. But the most recent links take you through to other sites. In mainland Europe,’ he paused and then went on, ‘and in Scotland.
‘The post you saw was just under six months ago. Bancho’s people were monitoring for further posts – but then they checked back the way through old threads.
‘There was another post two weeks before the first, almost seven months ago …’
I knew he was about to drop a bombshell of some description. At least Lavender was still firing on all cylinders, her fingers tapping away again.
‘Jack. Use Brodie’s computer. “thehobbyist.com” all lower case, all one word,’ she ordered.
She turned back to her screen. ‘Demonika, one of the full-timers at vengeance, has just sent me some stuff on The Hobbyist,’ said Lav. ‘The site started in San Francisco and then other chapters opened across the US. I’m just printing off a list of chapters now. Whoever opened The Hobbyist chapter in Scotland has some connection with these places in America.’
She gave me a copy, although I wasn’t sure what I could do with it. It was long, too long to help me out in the near future. I stuck it in my pocket.
Jack had found the site. He leaned forward on his seat, eyes wide, staring in disbelief at the screen.
‘Shit, Brodie,’ he said. ‘Who the fuck is this guy? The Watcher? What sort of weirdo bastard is asking about you? The bastard wants your address!’
At Joe’s command, he navigated back to earlier posts – and I read it over his shoulder.
It appears Catalina and Florenta are no longer avail able, my friends. Does anyone know where I can find Brodie McLennan?
In my mind’s eye, a calendar flipped back six months … to when the first two victims were found. My God. And I’d dismissed his later post out of hand. Even as I was petrified for myself, feeling as if every hair on my head and body was standing to attention, I was overwhelmed by feelings of guilt and stupidity as well. This was a lead to whoever had Connie – and I’d missed it. I felt the anger rise up, boil over and spew outwards. This was all Joe’s fault.
‘Why the he
ll didn’t you tell me about it?’ I shouted at him. ‘Why did I have to find out by eavesdropping on you and your buddy Bancho? Even then I couldn’t possibly know the relevance unless you two told me! Or are you really so conceited and macho that you thought you could protect me?’
Joe’s face was white. I didn’t get a chance to find out if he was equally angry with me, or just hurt, because while I was venting my spleen Lav had been concentrating on moving things on.
Ignoring my outburst completely, she said: ‘I’ll cross-reference the details of The Hobbyist with the rest of the information that’s coming through. The first thing I need to do is see if Thomas Foster has a connection.’
Jack was still bug-eyed on the website. ‘I thought you said the last entry was six months ago. There’s a new one … posted just hours ago!’
Joe and I shot across the room to peer over his shoulder. Lavender followed.
He placed his finger on the cursor; a deep groove had formed between his eyebrows as he saw Connie’s picture posted on the site. I’d guess we all felt the same chill. It had been taken the day of the football match in the Meadows; she was lying on the ground after the illegal tackle, blood pouring from her nose.
‘What kind of sick bastard would put a photograph of an injured child up on the web?’ he asked, shaking his head.
Peering into the screen, I placed a finger on it. ‘Follow that thread,’ I commanded. The words were indistinct because I was biting my bottom lip as he scanned the messages.
‘Stop! Open it up.’
Jack did as he was told.
‘It’s a photograph of Connie taken after she was kidnapped. Brodie, she’s wearing the Roxy sweatshirt I gave her for Christmas,’ he said, without meeting my eyes. I leaned forward, squashing him out of the way, as I printed the image. Watching the photograph roll out of the printer, I felt the life being squeezed out of me.
Chapter Fifty-One
Lothian and St Clair, Edinburgh
Friday 28 December, 9 p.m.
‘What’s she doing in that pic?’ Jack asked as he squinted.
‘She’s playing her Xbox – she’s online playing with other gamers; look at the headset.’ We all stared at each other as Lavender spoke.
‘So, if she’s being held somewhere and is safe, then … if she was online playing, could we contact her?’ Jack asked, his voice hesitant as he recognized his technological limitations.
‘We could log on and list her as a friend. If she confirmed that we were her friends, then we could search for her online any time she was playing and …’ Lavender stopped.
‘And? What are you thinking?’ I asked.
‘It couldn’t be that easy – if she was online and we had a headset we could talk to her. It’s a long shot but if there’s anyone who can find her in that community it’s—’
‘Moses!’ we all said at the same time.
Moses was an avid online gamer; his saving grace was that his fear of poverty and his sense of responsibility prevented it from becoming an addiction. He was a true insomniac and whiled away the wee small hours playing with other sad bastards in different time zones. Unlike Connie, he enjoyed playing against Chinese people because he needed the challenge. Sexual abuse at the hands of a paedophile ring in childhood had left him with post-traumatic stress disorder; unable to endure the night sweats and flashbacks, he fuelled himself with caffeine and chocolate.
‘Being an online gamer is part of the bond she shares with Moses,’ I said. ‘Connie doesn’t have a lot of friends because Malcolm watches her like a hawk.’
Jack shook his head and gulped a large mouthful of cold coffee. ‘Has he never heard the rule about talking to strangers?’ he asked. ‘Doesn’t apply on Xbox live-gaming as far as I can see,’ I replied. Jack scratched his head, his shoulders slumped. ‘Christ, even Malcolm is more computer-literate than I am.’
‘Yeah, well – he manages the girls’ Internet bookings, so to that extent he has moved with the times,’ I said.
‘Brodie,’ interrupted Lavender, ‘this is a shot in the dark but predators do frequent these rooms and if she moved to another media with him – like email or webcam – then they could have arranged to meet up.’
She went silent, got up and stood by the window. It was freezing outside, a snow flurry was falling, and the coldness of the glass must have gone some way to stopping the hot flush she seemed to be experiencing. ‘Bancho said there was no sign of a struggle in her bedroom. She went willingly or she was drugged, maybe both. If she met him on the net, then the chances are none of us will know him.’ Lavender fanned her face, which was the colour of putty. ‘I should have checked the parental controls were in force in the games she was playing; I’m the one who knows how to do this stuff.’
‘Moses should have checked,’ Jack said, unconvincingly. The mere idea that Moses Tierney would be responsible enough to impose checks on a minor was laughable. Some of the Dark Angels were runaways barely a couple of years older than Connie. His business empire would grind to a halt if he did not recognize the autonomy of minors.
Lavender stared at the fluorescent clock on the wall as the seconds ticked away. Like an hourglass, it felt as if every falling grain of sand brought Connie closer to death. Even Lav had to admit she needed help in her quest to hunt down the killer online. She sighed and went against her nature; she was a control freak, and preferred to dictate to everything and everyone around her. Now, she had to let that go. Dialling his mobile she held her breath. Moses didn’t always pick up, but this time he answered her on the second ring. She put him on loudspeaker.
‘Please tell me you’ve found her. I’m sick with worry.’ Moses could barely speak for the tightness in his throat. He knew first hand the suffering Connie would be experiencing at the hands of a paedophile if that was who had taken her; he seemed to be walking a thin line between sanity and a breakdown. I wondered whether it was possible for him to distinguish where his pain ended and Connie’s began.
‘There’s a lead, Moses – I need you to follow it,’ Lavender told him.
‘I’ll do anything.’
‘Get on Xbox live – see if you can find her; we think she might have met someone online.’
‘Not a chance,’ he replied immediately. ‘I set the parental controls on the handset – she can’t go anywhere dodgy without me knowing. In fact mostly she only played with me.’
It was a crushing blow. Lavender had tried to tell us at the outset that the chance of this working was remote, and it had seemed too easy; nonetheless, she had built her hopes up. Jack put his arm around her as her lips trembled.
‘The other difficulty we have is that she’ll be playing on his site using his name; it’s too hard to change just for a short period. Unless I know who he is, or what game-tag he uses, I’m fucked on my controller,’ said Moses.
‘What about her controller?’ Lavender asked.
‘Surely that’s with the police?’
‘I’ll contact Bancho and arrange for you to get it,’ Joe intervened.
‘I’ll get hold of Connie’s controller to find out who her friends are – it’ll tell me if they’re online or not,’ Moses said.
‘Will it also tell you the last time she played with them on her console?’ asked Lavender.
‘Lavender – if that bastard has contacted her online, believe me I’ll find him.’
The phone went dead. Moses was always too busy to bother with social niceties – especially tonight.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Pilrig Street, Leith, Edinburgh
Friday 28 December, 10.30 p.m.
Lavender had struck gold. Grandspin, one of her associates in vengeance.org, had hacked into the Lothian and Borders police computers – and bingo, he’d come up with a list. It contained the names of girls, including the dead girls Katya, Bianca, Mihaela, Florenta. Glasgow Joe recognized some of the other names, so armed with only a scrap of paper, we set off in search of the girl who had survived the Ripper – even though in
my heart I feared she was a phantom.
I jumped off the trike as it was slowing to a stop, and ran to the stairwell of the flats in Pilrig Street. The snow was coming down fast and furious; I pressed a buzzer at the side of the door and waited. My foot started tapping – not a good sign.
The names were all from Eastern Europe, picked up from Bancho’s monitoring of The Hobbyist site. Joe had expected Bancho to share this information – it was no surprise to me that the bastard hadn’t. The girls had appeared, and then, for one reason or another, had disappeared from the street scene in Edinburgh. At least one girl was lying dead in some remote corner of Edinburgh, but the prostitute I was hoping to find tonight had escaped from the clutches of the Ripper early on in his career. One thing was certain: she wouldn’t be a redhead by now. In hiding she would have done everything she could to change her appearance. I was praying she didn’t dye or shave her pubic hair as well, otherwise identification would be difficult. I was assuming she wouldn’t cooperate because if she existed she had gone to ground, become a ghost.
The stair door clicked open. Joe was at my back; holding on to my shoulder he pushed me behind him. ‘It’ll look less suspicious this way.’ I didn’t like to ask how you could look anything but suspicious at an illegal brothel.
He marched in, ignoring the crushing smell of cat’s piss in the stairwell. He took the stairs three at a time. I ran to keep up. I pressed the front door bell but, when it opened, our way was barred; it would seem sex slaves, prostitutes and tennis stars are not the only thing Eastern Bloc countries export. The female bouncer was doing a good job of impersonating a brick shithouse – in a previous life she had definitely been an Olympic hammer thrower. Glasgow Joe has always had reservations about hitting women, especially ones who can match him pound for pound. Joe leaned forward and whispered in her ear; she smiled coquettishly and stepped aside. I shivered. ‘Brodie, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’ He pointed at the hammer thrower. ‘Juliana.’ He eyed me coldly, my distaste was obviously written all over my face. I stuck my hand out to introduce myself.
