The Watcher

by Grace Monroe

  They preened themselves as they saw Joe approach; one even went as far as to throw her fag away. She crushed it out with the ball of her foot, taking care to display a thin thigh and an emaciated calf. A gold chain encircled her ankle; it had caught on the ten-denier black tights and there was a run in them that reached her knee. Her face fell when I tottered up the rear.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ She took another fag out of her pocket and stepped back into the close. Holding her hands around it, she got a light from a friend’s cigarette end. ‘What brings you down here?’ she asked me. ‘Business must be bad if lawyers are turning to this game.’

  I stared into her face, a face much older than I had first thought, but the harder I tried the more her name escaped me; my amnesia was obvious. She tapped my shoulder as if the shove would help me remember. ‘It’s Senga – Senga Palmer.’ Her voice was high and nasally. ‘You act for my boy – wee Billy Palmer? He was lifted on Christmas Eve – silly wee bastard was on bail, so now he’s in the poky till his trial.’ Turning to the other girls, she explained, ‘He’s as guilty as fuckin’ sin – still, it’s best he does as many days as he can on remand and hope the judge will backdate it.’ She smiled at me and said quite kindly, ‘Penny dropped has it?’

  I nodded like an automaton. ‘I saw him a couple of days ago,’ I smiled because it seemed more like a century ago. ‘He asked me for a kiss.’

  ‘Well, I hope you didnae gie him one – dirty wee bugger!’ She smiled at her colleagues. She stopped smiling when my tears fell. I couldn’t get the words out. It was hard enough to breathe. I was relieved that Joe ignored me and started asking for their help. He took the photograph of Sonia from his inside pocket. Senga Palmer responded by taking her mobile phone out and using it as a light. Then she bent down and rummaged in her handbag. I was ready to move if I saw smack – she needed a clear head to be of any use. I needn’t have worried. She pulled her reading specs out and peered; Senga was every bit as old as she looked.

  Her head was nodding like a little dog on the back shelf of a car. ‘Aye. I know who she is. I even know where she stands.’ She started to scratch the inside of her arms dramatically. ‘Sorry though. I’d love to help but I cannae leave here until I’ve turned a trick.’

  ‘How much?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Fiver for a hand job, six for a blow, tenner for the full Monty with a johnny, fifteen without.’ Glasgow Joe took a wad of cash from his back pocket and handed her a twenty. She put her arm through his. ‘I cannae really work the maths, son,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just tell me where Sonia is, that’s all.’ Joe’s nerves were shredded, he was in no mood to be polite. Senga looked at the money and gave us what we needed.

  It took us less than five minutes to get there, but it was a different world. The Shore, like most dockside areas throughout the world, has been redeveloped and is now home to trendy bars and Michelin-starred restaurants – but not everything has been pulled up to the same level. I had always called where we were heading ‘the banana flats’. You can imagine their shape, a testimony to bad architecture, and as soon as Joe said where we were going, I felt sick. Suffice to say there was no way Gordon Ramsay would be opening his next restaurant on the ground floor of this development. Sonia had fallen far if she wasn’t fit to stand with Senga Palmer and her crew. Joe ran into the dark recesses. He stopped and waited. Taking out his wallet he counted cash and I could hear the rustle of crisp, clean fifty-pound notes.

  The million-dollar question, was it enough to tempt Sonia out of the shadows?

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  The Shore, Banana Flats

  Saturday 29 December, 2 a.m.

  ‘Where is she, Joe?’ I hissed at him from the shadows. We thought it was unlikely Sonia would appear if another ‘prostitute’ was there; Senga Palmer and her gang defended their territory like a pack of wild dogs and to survive Sonia had learned, early on, to stay away from them.

  ‘She’s here.’ He was standing under a light patiently counting his money. ‘I can’t push her. We just have to wait until she’s ready.’

  ‘But we don’t have time to wait,’ I hissed again.

  ‘What option do we have: everything rests on this damaged wee lassie?’

  He was right about having no other cards to play; I pushed myself back into the darkness, leant against a huge concrete post and waited. It was a good thing I had work to do, and I could not afford to lose myself in grief. I thought of Sonia, how had she survived not only the horrific attack but this hostile environment as well? Her business must be bad if she left her punters waiting this long.

  By the time Sonia stepped out, I had given up hope; the sight of her raised a twisted smile on my face that faded when I saw her face. I barely recognized her from the photograph. Her scars were as deep on the outside as I imagined they were inside. Her hair was dyed raven black but her milk-white complexion gave away the fact that she was naturally a redhead. The light showed telltale puckering around her eyelids: the bastard had sewn her eyes open, just as he had the others. Joe gently pulled her out into the open. She was trembling, desperately clutching a small golden crucifix that hung around her neck as if her life depended on it.

  I smiled, and nodded at her as Joe placed a fifty-pound note in her quivering hands. He held up the photograph of the priest taken at Connie’s football match.

  ‘Is this the man who attacked you?’ Sonia took the photograph, and her trembling stopped.

  ‘He’s not the man.’

  Joe breathed in deeply, unwilling to take no for an answer – we were so sure we’d found him.

  ‘Look again, doll … Come over here where the light’s better.’ He led her five feet away to an equally dim spot and handed her another fifty-pound note. Sonia refused to take the money, shaking her head. ‘No, I already tell you it’s not him.’ Her voice had a conviction and strength that was at odds with her frail damaged body, and I knew she would keep this denial up for hours.

  Hours that we just didn’t have.

  The phone rang; it was Lavender. She spoke in a monotone. The only way she could deal with this was to work.

  ‘Another photograph has been posted on The Hobbyist website. I’m sending it to you now. Brodie, it appears to be a picture of the guy who was looking for you.’

  ‘Send it direct to Joe’s phone.’ I was trying to save every second I could. ‘Have you found out any more about Thomas Foster?’ My client’s DNA results proved his innocence, but he was connected to the Ripper whether he knew it or not.

  ‘Remember the list of towns and cities where The Hobbyists had chapters?’

  It was only a matter of hours ago that Lavender’s friend Demonika had unearthed the places where The Hobbyists pursued their depraved pastime, but it seemed like months.

  ‘Well, they have a chapter in New Haven, Connecticut.’

  ‘New Haven … that’s the town where the University of Yale is based.’

  ‘Mmmh … that’s right. I was wondering if the Ripper was setting up Thomas Foster as a fall guy for his murders,’ Lavender said.

  ‘The same thought’s crossed my mind – and even Bancho’s!’ I told her. ‘Who the hell is this guy who keeps posting photographs and messages on The Hobbyist?’

  ‘Brodie, he must be the Ripper … he’s committing these murders.’

  ‘Could it be a vendetta?’ I asked. I didn’t hear Lavender’s reply; I was too busy listening to Sonia describe her attacker. Joe had shown her both photographs – the one just in from Lavender and the screen grab of the ‘priest’. She was right – neither of them fitted her description.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  The Shore, Banana Flats

  Saturday 29 December, 3 a.m.

  ‘When I first saw him … I thought it was my lucky night … he was so young, so handsome, so clean.’ Sonia’s eyes were filling with tears, but as I reached out to touch her she flinched as if expecting a punch.

  ‘He took me in his car; it was a
rented one … he is an American, I think he is a tourist. At first he treated me like a lady. He said how pretty my hair was, he kept touching my hair and saying it was just perfect – why I dye it now.’ She clutched her golden cross even more tightly, and spat on the ground beside me. Sonia was keeping away the devil.

  ‘The man had champagne in the car … I thought very nice … but it was drugged … from the first sip it tasted odd … I felt my tongue swell … I couldn’t breathe, or see straight, and I realized my luck was running out.’

  I had a paper hanky in my pocket; it was crumpled, grubby but unused, and Sonia accepted it gratefully.

  ‘I passed out … when I woke up I was in a dark cellar, it smelt of cats’ pee; the floor was dirt and a rat ran over my hand.’ She showed me her finger: a chunk had been taken out of it, presumably the work of the rat.

  ‘Did you find out where the cellar was?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I never found out and I never want to know, it is enough that I carry it around in here –’ she tapped the side of her head – ‘always.’

  She nodded at me as if I would know, or could understand the hell where she had been. I didn’t, and I prayed that neither did Connie.

  ‘I felt the needle go into my eyelid, he pressed down on the eyeball and pulled … like so.’ She mimicked the action. My stomach was rebelling, to witness another human being in such pain and not be able to touch or comfort them was unnatural.

  ‘My eyes became very dry … I kept trying to blink … but it hurt.’ She pointed to the red marks on her eyelids. ‘The stitching.’

  I offered her a cigarette and she smiled weakly. ‘I came here to be secretary … who knew people could lie so much?’ She laughed grimly at herself.

  ‘He had a knife … a knife he loved … this knife was special to him … a pirate’s knife.’

  ‘I don’t understand … what’s a pirate’s knife?’

  ‘Here, I show you.’ Sonia dragged me over to the wall, spat on the end of her index finger and drew a sign, which left a slimy trail. She was no artist and it meant nothing to me.

  ‘He tied me like so.’ She splayed her arms and legs out like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. He had secured her tightly, exposing her vital organs so he could inflict maximum pain.

  ‘I was bound so tightly, I couldn’t move. The ropes were tied very tight, the bindings cut into my wrists, blood dripped onto the cellar floor.’ Sonia held her wrists up for me to inspect; the scar tissue was wide, deep and purple. None of the other girls had these marks because he cut their wrists off.

  ‘I tried to get away, I pulled, tugged and jerked the ropes as he came at me with his pirate’s knife, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t close my eyes; I saw everything he did to me. When I tried to scream he put a cloth in my mouth … it was difficult to breathe.’ Sonia closed her eyes against the horror. The night was cold but beads of sweat had broken out on her skin.

  ‘He used his knife to slice through my ankles. It was like electric shock, and then exploding like a bomb. I fainted I think; when I wake up he was hacking at my leg using all his strength to sever my ankle.’

  Sonia lifted up her right leg. Grabbing my hand she ran my fingers over her leg, and I could feel a chunk of skin missing. I could feel her chipped bone and some screws; surgeons had put a steel plate in her ankle to repair the damage.

  ‘I prayed to die … dear God end this now … End my life now, I begged. Then the Madonna, she heard my prayers. First footsteps, then voices in the dark … I didn’t shout. He thought I was still unconscious or maybe dead. He was frightened and I was pleased. He dragged me like I was a sack of potatoes along the rough floor. It scraped and scratched my skin … I wanted to scream but if I wanted to live I could not … I discovered at that moment I wanted to live very much.’

  I chose not to comment on the quality of her life. Whether this information led me to Connie or not I would help this girl.

  ‘He pulled me up the stairs – many, many stairs; each rough step it chipped and cracked my bones.’ Sonia touched her ribs, and placed a finger on her lips. ‘But still I did not make a sound,’ she whispered.

  ‘He kicked me into the gutter, and left me like a dog. I was frightened to move … many, many people walked past me thinking I was drunk … what kind of man does this?’

  Joe and I hung on every word as Sonia went on to describe the man in detail. As she spoke, the horrific realization came over me that I knew him – and I knew where to find him.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  ‘Bourich’, Gamekeeper’s Road, Cramond

  Saturday 29 December, 3.30 a.m.

  It came like a bolt from the blue; it was so unexpected I didn’t have time to react. Glasgow Joe gave Sonia his house key; he told her to go there and when he returned he would make sure she was safe. Then he jumped on the trike and I was left standing and waiting; he had no intentions of taking me into the Ripper’s lair, but I wasn’t asking for anyone’s permission.

  Lights were being switched on in bedrooms as my screams of fury woke up the residents of the flats, but Joe was unmoved. In frustration and fury I grabbed my bike helmet and fired it at him. I caught him on the shoulder and he tried to massage it as he drove. I hoped it didn’t ease the pain as I watched him drive into the darkness to Adie Foster’s house.

  The Fosters lived on the right side of the tracks. It was a world apart from the banana flats, but the taxi ride there gave me time to consider what to do next and make some calls. Luckily, the driver sensed my mood and merely grunted in my direction.

  ‘Bancho.’

  ‘I’m too busy just now, Brodie. I’ll catch you later.’

  ‘No, you need to listen to me … Glasgow Joe cannot be given another “five minutes” with Thomas Foster. He’ll kill him this time – you’re in charge so bloody well act like it. If anything untoward happens at the arrest it could lead to Thomas Foster walking – we don’t know what his involvement is and you’ve just released him. The Fosters will claim it’s police harassment … with my client being a foreign national the embassy or the American government might get involved.’

  ‘I’ve told you before, Brodie – don’t tell me how to do my job.’

  He hung up on me. I could tell Bancho was worried. That Glasgow Joe needed to be controlled, and he was enough of a man to admit he wasn’t up to the task.

  ‘I’m really in a hurry, could you step on it please?’ I smiled at the driver. No doubt he was wondering what a tart was doing using the contract cab for the lawyers Lothian and St Clair. But the bald taxi driver said nothing as he pushed his foot to the floor like he was Lewis Hamilton.

  I phoned Lavender for her to investigate.

  ‘Lavender … what does Niddry Street mean to you? Are there any buildings, churches, locations connected with that place?’

  ‘Connie’s sweatshirt was found there, nothing else.’ A painful silence fell between us. The phone went dead. We were too busy to be polite.

  Normally I would never cross the line and act against my client. And I was still Thomas Foster’s lawyer. I would be until I withdrew from acting or he sacked me. But I believed Sonia. She had no reason to lie. And Connie’s life was at stake. No contest.

  The roads were empty except for a few cabs and Tesco lorries coming back into the city. So why did I still feel like I was being watched? The fine hairs on my neck stood on end. My fears were dispelled as I drove into Gamekeeper’s Road, Edinburgh’s millionaire row. The house was named Bourich. At another time, in another place, it would have raised a smile. Bourich is a Gaelic word that loosely translated means chaos, confusion or a bloody mess. Just like the case against Thomas Foster.

  The driver took me to the front door. I dived out and as soon as I gathered my wits together to sign the man’s contract slip, he was gone. Bancho was waiting outside but I couldn’t see Joe. I had a bad feeling about this and as I approached the front door it got worse, my stomach began to ache – a sure sign something was wrong.

  Eve
n from the front garden the house sounded like a venue for a World Wrestling Entertainment title fight.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you to control him?’ I shouted at Bancho as I heard more glass smashing. Bancho looked like a man who had been vindicated: his chin was up, his shoulders were back and he was enjoying the sound of Joe at work – he wasn’t about to listen to me.

  ‘Get in there you idiot and stop this!’

  I ran round the back to the French windows. Joe had thrown one of the granite boulders that lined the driveway through the glass, and it had shattered into what seemed like a million pieces. It was a good job that there were no neighbours nearby or their attention would surely have been attracted by the noise. We followed a trail of his blood. Bancho leant against the wall of what seemed to be Adie Foster’s office. There were the usual family photographs and several showed Thomas at chess competitions – he was quite the little grandmaster. Bancho lit a cigarette and enjoyed the nicotine; he held it in his lungs. The noise suggested Joe was banging Thomas’s head off the stairs.

  Unconcerned, Bancho wandered round the office fingering the framed photographs. He was particularly interested in the image of Thomas Foster taken in Revolution Square, Bucharest; Thomas was pointing out the bullet holes that led to the end of communist rule in Romania.

  ‘Brodie, what was it about those women that angered him … was it unrequited love?’

  ‘Oh, Bancho, we don’t have time … this case is a tangled mess … and we’re not going to get any answers if Thomas Foster is dead.’

  He followed me into the hallway, just as Glasgow Joe was thrown from the top landing. Joe wasn’t fighting Thomas Foster, he was wrestling with the Sumo bodyguard I’d met on Christmas Eve. Blood poured from Joe’s nose as he lay winded on the floor. He didn’t look like a bookie’s favourite as the Sumo came hurtling down the stairs after him. I took the pepper spray I always carry out of my bag and, turning, sprayed it into the Sumo’s eyes. The fat man was blinded and covered his face, staggering backwards.