The Watcher

by Grace Monroe

  The hallway of the flat was pretty bare. The other doors were shut and, I assumed, occupied. Juliana led us into the kitchen. Cheap units lined the small room and its walls were marred by handprints and stains I didn’t want to investigate. A calendar of Bucharest hung on a loose nail above the kettle, a red pen had marked crosses and someone was counting off the days until an event.

  Juliana’s nails were shell pink and clean, in stark contrast to her massive, sausage-like fingers. She retrieved cups from the cupboard and placed a teaspoon of instant coffee in each one. I pointed to the red crosses. ‘Who made those?’ I asked.

  Juliana tapped her butcher’s hands over her heart and tapped some more. I raised an eyebrow at Joe. ‘What are you waiting for?’ I asked her.

  ‘In three weeks I get married – my fiancé will repay the loan to them as soon as it is through from building society.’ Juliana smiled; it looked as if, inside, she was already doing a victory slide. My mind was doing cartwheels: I thought she was the hired muscle and now I’d discovered she’d been forced into prostitution too, which by her looks was surprising enough, but, to cap it all, she’d found a man amongst her customers.

  ‘Erm, your fiancé? Is he from Edinburgh?’ I asked.

  ‘No – he from Musselburgh,’ she replied.

  There were so many things I wanted to ask, and I knew that I didn’t have much time. Thankfully, Joe interrupted appropriately for once. ‘Juliana – Brodie. Brodie – Juliana. Introductions over.’ He took a sip of coffee. ‘I’ve been keeping my eye on these brothels for some time – the lassies are frightened to open their mouths; through the grapevine I heard about Juliana.’

  The big butch woman smiled, and like every newly engaged woman I’ve ever met she kept flashing her ring about. The diamonds were little more than chips, but he was laying out a lot to her owners.

  ‘Juliana’s man,’ continued Joe, ‘is into cross dressing. He’s straight but they often go for – no offence, doll – butch women, don’t they? This guy heard about Juliana on The Hobbyist site and decided to check her out. The rest, as they say, is history.’

  ‘My reputation spread once I came here – I appeal very much to a certain type of man. My man likes to dress as woman – sometimes – but he’s no hobbyist!’ Juliana spat into the sink. ‘Joe met my man, Arthur.’ She smiled again. ‘Joe asked if he could meet up with me – maybe I could help him with some things. After my man says it’s okay, I agree.’

  Joe nodded and smiled throughout this conversation. ‘Do you have anything for me?’ he asked her.

  Juliana reached down into her extensive bosom and pulled out a rumpled photograph taken from an Internet website. She slid it across to him. ‘Sonia – she change her name, colour of hair, but she’s the one you want. He put her in hospital for five weeks.’ Juliana held up her hand and splayed her fingers, giving me another opportunity to admire her good fortune.

  I looked at the photograph. A doe-eyed girl with elfin features and a sleek black bob stared warily out at us. Joe bit his tongue; we both knew that this girl had the fair skin of a redhead. So much depended upon her. Could she identify the Ripper? She’d kept silent for months – why should she speak now? Joe took his mobile out of his pocket. Looking at Juliana, he spoke slowly: ‘Arthur? He explained to you what I was going to do?’ He nodded, encouraging her to agree, and even I was impressed by how much he had done on his own.

  ‘Oh, yes. I said to him, time to get out of this business; they’ve had enough out of me,’ Juliana said defiantly. The three of us stayed quiet. None of us really wanted to address the ways in which people got their money out of Juliana and others like her. The silence was awkward – but not for long.

  Wham! Suddenly a sledgehammer started breaking through the front door. The first smash cracked it, the second and third took it off its hinges. A black jackboot from an intruder brought it crashing down in the small hallway, bringing down the coat stand. The sounds of screeching filled the air as two underweight waifs ran screaming out of the front room. They clutched their scanty clothes to their chests; they looked frightened and ashamed at the same time. Close on the heels of the slaves, a man who had struggled into his boxer shorts came running into the melee, his flaccid penis poking through the opening, jiggling as he ran. An enormous hairy muffin top hung over his pants. I held his eye. I looked from him to the young girls and back again. I saw fear but no shame.

  My right leg moved involuntarily back; it swung forward in an arc, connecting with the punter’s wedding tackle. On the basis he wasn’t using it in any marital bed, I figured no one would miss it, especially those young girls he’d just had a threesome with. The punter crashed at my feet, while the intruders stormed in over the top of him, sledgehammers held aloft. They herded us into the kitchen. It was a sickening crush; I like to choose the naked people I share epidermal surfaces with.

  I sidled up to Joe. In a fight there was no one better. Using his body as a shield, I watched the action. Five men carrying weapons had burst into the flat and the occupants of the other rooms were now being frogmarched in beside us. One of the punters was at least ninety. It was sickening – they could at least have allowed him to put his knickers on; for my sake, not his.

  Then I heard a voice I recognized and everything changed again.

  ‘Police, you’re all under arrest.’

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh

  Friday 28 December, 11.35 p.m.

  Bancho bundled us all into the back of a waiting paddy wagon; when I say ‘all’, Glasgow Joe was exempt. He was allowed to drive the trike to St Leonards. I was squashed between Juliana and a half-naked punter with the hairiest back I’ve ever seen. Juliana kept wriggling around to get more space, and I ended up the meat in a very unpleasant sandwich.

  It was the first time I’d ever travelled in a police van, and I sincerely hoped it would be the last. It was a high-profile police raid; Joe and I had been caught in its net, and paperwork would have to be processed before we were allowed back on the street to hunt for Connie. I’d screamed in Bancho’s face but his attitude implied Connie’s abduction was a matter for the police. I didn’t agree – I was sick of pointing out that they were no good at bringing children home alive.

  Joe tried to get me to shut up; Bancho was very close to charging me with breach of the peace and resisting arrest. I calmed down when Joe pointed out that the fact he was allowed to drive the trike meant we would be able to start hunting for Sonia as soon as we were released and he was sure it wouldn’t take us long, now we had a photograph to go on. She couldn’t stay a spectre forever. I had started to believe she was flesh and blood, not some figment of an overactive imagination. I was excited; we were getting closer to the Ripper, and closer to Connie.

  The paddy wagon drew to a jerky stop outside St Leonards, and the motley crew and I disembarked. I felt filthy, tired and just bloody desperate to be on my way. We were heading for the police cells; surely for Connie’s sake if not mine, Bancho wouldn’t make me languish there. The still, small voice of reason in my mind knew if the detective thought for one moment that I was interfering in his investigation he’d lock me up and throw away the key until the first court on 2 January – but that was way too late.

  Desk Sergeant Munro walked towards me shaking his head. ‘Lassie, will you never learn?’ He smiled sadly and tapped me gently on the head. ‘You don’t have the sense you were born with. As for Glasgow Joe, what was he thinking of, taking you to a joint like that?’

  Sergeant Munro had separated me from the crowd. Presumably on Bancho’s instruction, he took me into a private room and set about the paperwork to release me. He laid his pen back down on the desk and held my eyes.

  ‘Brodie, do you have any idea what these animals who traffic in humans are like? They’re not your junkie from Pilton: it’s the Mafia, Russian and American. It’s international organized crime … you’re lucky you’re still alive.’

  ‘Lucky?’ I sh
outed. He was trying to be kind but I didn’t feel lucky when Connie was still missing. He raised his hand to quieten me. ‘There’s still hope for your sister; there’s plenty of time for grieving if it doesn’t have a happy ending. Those girls out there: what age do you think they are?’

  ‘Fifteen,’ I answered.

  ‘Close. They’re fourteen and the poor souls don’t even know they’re in Edinburgh. They can’t speak English, and they’ve been kept inside for months being used by dirty old bastards like him.’ Sergeant Munro jabbed his pen in the direction of the hairy, fat man.

  ‘Imagine shagging something like that forty times a day.’ He shivered and smiled at me as he pushed a form across for me to sign.

  ‘It’s a big deal rescuing these lassies … I’d bet my wages the poor wee souls will be caught again and on their backs in a Birmingham brothel before January is out.’

  I handed him his form and pen back.

  ‘You know where Bancho’s room is … Oh, and Brodie, stop fighting with him and we’ll all be better off.’

  ‘Thanks.’ My voice was cold. I didn’t see much to be grateful for and, pushing the chair back, I left. The corridor to Bancho’s room was empty, and I heard the noise long before I even saw the door to the operations room.

  Thummp, thummp, thummp.

  Banging. It sounded like he was being attacked but, in spite of the good sergeant’s pep talk, I didn’t feel like rushing in and saving him. The door was slightly ajar and a sliver of brighter light shone out. Warily, I edged the door open with my toe. The shouting and swearing was extreme, even to my accustomed ears, but there was only one voice.

  My mouth went dry, and I stood in the doorway, mouth open, appalled, witnessing a man’s complete meltdown. Bancho was banging his head off the wall; a shattered telephone lay in bits on the floor. I could only conclude that he’d received news he didn’t want to hear, and I knew it was Connie. I put my hand on his forehead. It was cut and bleeding. I held him, I had to calm him down; I didn’t want to discover the source of his pain but I had to.

  Bancho needed to tell me what he knew, what had happened – I was bloody fed up with men keeping secrets from me.

  ‘Tell me!’

  He refused to answer, shaking his head violently from side to side, but his eyes drifted in the direction of a scrunched-up message. As I moved to pick it up, a shadow crossed his eyes whilst he debated whether or not to let me in on his secret and I quickly grabbed the message in case he changed his mind. The information was written on a yellow message pad. Patch had phoned two hours ago and left the results of the DNA test on Thomas Foster. I now understood why Bancho was in hell. Thomas Foster’s results were negative; he was not the Ripper. Now there could be no dispute.

  How many girls had died as a result of DI Bancho’s narrow-mindedness?

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh

  Friday 28 December, 11.55 p.m.

  ‘Brodie, stop!’

  Bancho was shouting at me, but I didn’t have time to stand around and comfort him; he’d made a mistake that he would have to learn to live with. Maybe when I had Connie back home I’d take him out for a drink and let him cry on my shoulder. It was a big maybe.

  ‘Brodie, you need to listen to me.’

  Bancho shouted again, he wasn’t giving up. Taking the stairs two at a time I was heading for the front door; nothing and no one was getting in my way. Surely Joe would be ready by now. Sonia was out there somewhere. She knew what the Ripper looked like; perhaps she had an address. I allowed myself to get carried away and I even imagined she knew his name. When Sonia was found, everything would be all right; Connie would be found and we’d have a good New Year. I tried to convince myself … and I was succeeding until Bancho grabbed my arm.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Bancho asked. He was breathless and, taking my arm, he tried to pull me back downstairs. I dug my heels in.

  ‘Please, there’s something you need to see.’ His voice was horribly gentle and immediately I felt numb. I supposed I was going into shock. Bancho continued to pull me along the corridor and into his room.

  ‘I got a phone call.’

  ‘From the usual source?’

  Bancho nodded, ‘Yeah … the one who sent Joe the photograph of Thomas Foster and Katya.’

  ‘Why should we believe anything that bastard has to say? It’s partly his fault; he was the one spending time on Foster when the real killer was out there.’

  ‘No, what he sent was an accurate picture … I assumed Thomas Foster was the Ripper; I was wrong … it’s my fault.’

  He pulled out his chair and refreshed the computer screen. He didn’t warn me about what I was about to see, but I suppose no warning would have prepared me. A picture of a Roxy hoody. Taking a deep breath, I pulled out my mobile and called up the image Lavender had downloaded from The Hobbyist site after Connie was kidnapped. My sister smiled out at me as she played Xbox live.

  Holding the phone up to the screen, and viewing the images side by side, I still didn’t want to commit myself. It was too dark to say for sure. I switched on Bancho’s desk light, dithering back and forth until I could stand the uncertainty no more. Bancho scurried about at my side.

  ‘It’s hers, isn’t it?’ Bancho asked. He didn’t want to hear my answer. I breathed in deeply through my nose; holding my breath, I nodded. The sweatshirts were one and the same, but on the PC screen, the quantity of blood on the ripped hoody – the one that Joe had given her for Christmas – left little room for hope.

  Bancho held me; my pain was beyond tears.

  Time seemed to stop; the realization of Connie’s death went in like a bullet. After the initial jolt, it was as if someone had injected novocaine into my brain. Numbly, I pushed Bancho away, but he wouldn’t let me go.

  ‘Wait, Brodie. There was a message with the picture. It said we’d find “something of interest” in Niddry Street.’

  I felt the breath being sucked out of me.

  ‘No, it’s not what you think. We didn’t find … Connie. DI Smith went straight there. She’s still there but all she found was the hoody.’

  ‘Who is he? Who is this fucking secret informant who knows so much? He’s been in my flat, for God’s sake! He chose clothes for me, he got things all laid out as if he was my fucking maid! Now, what does that say to you? It shouts pretty clearly to me that he’s obsessed. What’s he got to do with anything and why is he pulling our strings? What else does he know? Why doesn’t he just come out into the open?’ These were my questions but I did not expect any answers. I knew I was wailing, my reasoning lost in a mire of confusion and pain.

  Bancho paused, looked me straight in the eye and said: ‘I think he’s the Ripper and he’s been laying a false trail of evidence against Thomas Foster.’

  ‘We have to find her – we have to bring her home,’ I said. I did not add that I could not stomach the thought of Connie lying cold, alone and naked.

  I didn’t need to.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  The Shore, Leith, Edinburgh

  Saturday 29 December, 1.35 a.m.

  Somehow, the fact that she was dead made it even more urgent to find her. My mind wouldn’t accept it until I touched her, stroked her face, and held her in my arms. How strange – I could understand those old men who refused to admit their wife was dead because they couldn’t bear to be parted from the body. Of course, in my mind’s eye, I saw Connie sleeping peacefully, not battered and bruised on Patch’s table.

  Since the first moment I saw the dead girls in Bancho’s room, they walked before me, silently begging for their day in court, for justice; but mostly they wanted retribution. Before Bancho had shown me the image of the sweatshirt, I’d taken this as a good sign. In my imagination at least, Connie had not joined them. Was it false hope, or did part of me really know she might still be alive?

  Actually, I was disgusted with myself. It wasn’t long since I’d been bitching about not being kept inf
ormed. Now I understood – ignorance is bliss. I dragged my feet along the icy cobbles of the Shore. How much easier it would have been to search for Sonia if I’d still had faith she could help me find Connie. Anger raged in my gut; if Sonia had spoken up, the police would have arrested the killer by now and Connie would be safe.

  There was a little voice in my head – not so little actually – that was saying words I didn’t want to hear. She wouldn’t have been any safer if the killer had asked for me to represent him, it whispered – I’d have made sure he walked. Uncorroborated evidence from a known prostitute was a defence counsel’s dream.

  The girl we were searching for was easily spooked; to find her we had to employ subterfuge. Joe had left the trike in Constitution Street as part of the deception – no man goes kerb crawling on a motorbike; where would he do the business? If he was to be the presumed pimp or client, I was to be the prostitute. I plastered makeup on my face and borrowed some clothes a lap dancer had left at the Rag Doll. I teetered in ridiculously high heels and a crotch-covering mini. It was freezing, and each step I took hurt, but I found the physical pain comforting. It meant that I was doing something.

  A gaggle of street girls huddled in a close, smoking and leaning into one another, trying to keep warm. If anything, they were even more scantily clad than me; at least I had a jacket on. The train tracks on their undernourished arms told me nothing I didn’t already know. These girls were addicts doing anything and anyone to fund their habit. As they shivered it seemed more likely they would die of hypothermia than anything else.