by Grace Monroe
I helped Joe to his feet. Bancho radioed for the two constables guarding the perimeter to come in and clear up the mess. I didn’t need Joe to tell me that the Foster family were not at home.
‘You ran this by the chief constable?’ I accused. ‘The chief constable who happens to be a Mason in cahoots with Adie Foster?’
‘I had to … I didn’t think the bastard would tell them,’ said Bancho apologetically.
I was furious. But I had to choose my battles carefully. ‘The chief’s got a lot of explaining to do, but right now we’d better get to Edinburgh Airport – it’s common knowledge the Fosters have a private jet. How fast can you drive?’
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Edinburgh Airport
Saturday 29 December, 4.45 a.m.
Sonia’s story changed everything but it didn’t make anything any clearer. She claimed to have been attacked by a man answering to Thomas Foster’s description. The detail of her evidence could only have been given by someone who had experienced it; the press did not know that the victims were alive when their ankles and hands were hacked off – yet Thomas Foster’s DNA did not match the Ripper’s.
Bancho had radioed the control tower and the Foster plane had been refused permission to take off. The light in the Edinburgh Airport terminal was harsh, but even in a dim light Bancho would have looked rough. This case had aged him more than was fair, and I couldn’t see a happy ending. Glasgow Joe stumbled into the empty concourse, even worse for wear than DI Bancho.
‘You have enough to arrest him, and question him for six hours, but I think you’ll get enough evidence to charge him with Sonia’s assault … provided she’ll give you a statement. Sonia is in the flat at the Rag Doll pub. Even if she does cooperate, this time he’ll get bail,’ I warned.
‘Of course … so then he’ll be free to walk the streets and kill at will,’ Bancho snarled, as he reached for his phone and called for a squad car to collect Sonia.
‘There’s only Sonia’s eyewitness account,’ I said. ‘And there’s also DNA evidence it wasn’t him. But maybe Thomas will tell us the identity of the real Ripper before his father takes him out of Scotland to a country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty.’
‘Breach of bail,’ Bancho fired at me.
Bancho was wrong again. I bit my tongue. I was not yet strong enough to point out all the weaknesses of his case. We walked together down the open space of the hall; DI Bancho was in the middle, separating Joe and me. It wasn’t necessary. We were too broken to fight. The check-in desks for Air France and Virgin were black and silent – they matched my mood.
I dug my hands deep into my pockets. I could keep going if I focused on just one step at a time; I knew I would lose it if for one moment I considered the bigger picture. Connie was something I needed to deal with, but not right now.
The dead girls walked before us. I was sure Bancho was talking to them – he kept patting the pocket by his heart where he kept their photographs. His nails were bitten to the quick and several of them had red, open wounds where skin had been ripped away.
Will he ever recover from this case – will any of us?
I turned to Bancho and a small moan escaped my lips. I shook my head; I didn’t want to point out the obvious. I didn’t want them to mistake my motive. ‘Thomas Foster is not on bail. When I asked for bail it was refused. The chief constable had him released without any conditions. Unless you have anything else on him, he can fly off into the sunrise.’
‘Sonia – she identified him.’ Joe was looking round and Bancho tried to eyeball me into pulling a legal rabbit from a hat. But I couldn’t oblige.
‘The attack was more than six months ago – it wasn’t witnessed. Any DNA that could have pointed to Thomas Foster being her attacker has been washed away in a thousand hot showers … and I think Sonia’s a runner,’ I said.
A couple of Edinburgh Airport police were waiting to escort us through the door marked ‘private’. They were both in late middle age, and the spread of their waists indicated it was a long time since they had graced the rugby field. The officers paraded proudly in front of us, like Tweedledee and Tweedledum holding open every door. As soon as we were through they rushed onto the next set; it was vaguely distracting. Especially since DI Bancho had confirmed he didn’t have a plan for holding my client. I was in new territory; very good at getting scumbags out, no practice in keeping them behind bars.
Bancho was running his hands through his thinning hair, obviously racking his brains for a plan.
We were getting nearer to the plane but Bancho was no nearer to finding a solution to his problem of keeping Thomas Foster within the jurisdiction of Scots law. He’d been working the case for months, destroying himself through overwork; was it likely the solution could be with us before midday? I thought not. The final door pushed out onto the runway, the morning sun just a couple of hours away from breaking through. The cold wind assaulted my face.
‘I think it’s best if I don’t go any further. After all, I am his lawyer – no doubt he’ll ask for me when you arrest him.’
I stopped dead. Joe continued moving apace with DI Bancho.
‘I’ll give you one piece of advice, Bancho,’ I said. The runway was wet and shiny; he turned around and cupped his ear, he wanted to hear what I said. I knew he needed to take this advice.
‘Before you get on the plane, speak to Lavender – she’s expecting your call … Put it on loudspeaker,’ I whispered.
He stopped just within earshot; he understood my difficulties. I was still Thomas Foster’s lawyer, there was a limit – in fact there were many – as to what I should be doing.
For once he did exactly as he was told.
‘Lavender, I understand you have something for me.’ He scratched his head and waited whilst she brought up her screen.
‘DI Bancho, The Hobbyist website has a chapter in New Haven, Connecticut. After Thomas Foster joined the Yale student body, murders started happening … four girls found over a period of nine months and the same m.o. as the Edinburgh murders, all corresponding with Thomas Foster’s term.’
‘Lavender, was he charged?’
‘No … he wasn’t even a suspect … his redheaded friend was … but here’s the funny thing – the guy’s details have all been wiped from the FBI computers.’
‘So Foster’s not the killer … his friend is?’
‘I dunno … you tell me, but the main suspect would be more likely to have a redheaded relative who had tipped him over the edge.’
Bancho closed his phone and continued walking towards the plane. All we knew was that Thomas Foster might be an accessory to murder. But where did that leave Sonia’s story?
Chapter Sixty
Edinburgh Airport
Saturday 29 December, 4.30 a.m.
The Watcher’s night had just got better. It was delightful giving Brodie a lift out to Thomas Foster’s house. Of course he’d been with her all night, applauding their progress. When the big oaf drove off without her, The Watcher clapped his hands. It was really very careless of Joe – he could have been anyone. The Watcher had many disguises; he liked to hide in plain sight, so he affected the disguise of ordinary people who no one would question. Cabbies can go anywhere. He could almost smell victory. All that he wanted now was to see Thomas Foster marched off the plane and taken into police custody. But perhaps that would be foolhardy. Thomas Foster was the only person who knew his true identity and his role in the Ripper case. Maybe freedom was necessary for him too.
Just thinking of Foster made The Watcher press himself back into his car seat, into the shadows. He gave himself a quick lecture. He had to exert patience and control himself. The many months of work he had put in were coming to fruition. He had come so far, he could bide his time. After all, Thomas was a formidable opponent.
The battle of wills between himself and Foster had started on another continent; their enmity had spread to Scotland. The Watcher was not a cold man – he sighed, regretting
the necessity of so many lost lives. Indiscriminate murder was not elegant and The Watcher admired finesse. He sighed again and closed his eyes for a moment’s quiet reflection.
To be honest, Brodie McLennan had disappointed him. To begin with, he’d had high hopes for her, he’d even hoped that they could be allies, but sadly it had been proven that her intellect simply was not up to it. Besides, she’d looked rather tatty and torn leaning up against the pillar in the airport terminal, not quite what she was a few weeks ago.
He got out of his vehicle and marched adjacent to them. He sniggered – they were, of course, marching to a different drummer. The Watcher liked the military analogy. He had been a keen member of the Officers’ Training Corps at school. Using the night-vision goggles, he watched them stand on the tarmac with that stupid detective. He wondered whether Brodie had given Bancho the information he’d fed to Lavender Ironside? Now she was quite a surprise! A revelation; a bonus. The Watcher stopped for a moment to consider how Lavender had acquired the skills to hack into the FBI computer – he was right to fear her, and even more right to involve her. Hopefully, they were on to Thomas Foster by now.
Time was running out.
Didn’t she understand the concept of delegation? Bancho would arrest and detain Foster using the information he had fed to Lavender Ironside. He needed Brodie back in Edinburgh, ready to pick up the rest of the trail he’d laid for them. He drummed his fingers impatiently off the goggles. Dear God. Would they ever shut up and get a move on? He had plans for Brodie McLennan, even if they were not quite as satisfying as he had initially fantasized. Call him an old romantic, but he still had high hopes for her.
The sight through the night glasses was truly remarkable; there was such detail that he could even see the tired rings around Brodie’s eyes. She zipped up her jacket and pulled the collar up against the wind. Her fingernails were torn and dirty. No lady had hands like that. He wondered if the blackness under her nails was bike oil; for some reason he found that possibility exciting.
Finally they were on the move – how chivalrous of that big bastard to put his arm around her to shelter her from the gathering storm. Glasgow Joe seemed to be searching the skies again, scanning the perimeter of the fences … searching for him, no doubt. Trying to keep her safe. It was laughable. The Watcher sniggered on his way back to his vehicle. They hadn’t caught on to him by now and they never would. Once Thomas Foster was safely contained behind bars he would go back to his old life, which was markedly more comfortable than this one.
He wondered if they’d discovered the secrets of Connie’s sweatshirt yet.
He shivered – it had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with anticipation.
Chapter Sixty-One
St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh
Saturday 29 December, 7.15 a.m.
The taxi headed to St Leonards. He had a clear run with the roads devoid of traffic. The citizens of Edinburgh appeared to be taking the whole two-week period of Christmas and New Year off. Glasgow Joe was twitching about in the back seat. It bothered me – it seemed more than his usual reluctance at being a passenger.
The Sheriff Court was quiet but today was a working day; we had a few custodies, but they were being covered by Eddie, and Louisa was going with him in case he needed help.
There were no trials or deferred sentences: even the judges were on vacation.
The taxi driver was chatty, cheery in spite of the time. I was worried, and when I worry I chatter like a budgerigar. Glasgow Joe was too busy staring out of the cab windows to notice my discomfort. I didn’t want the cabbie asking me where I had been last night. What I had been up to over the Christmas season. What was on the cards for today.
And so I succumbed to asking him the usual questions: what time had he come on, when would he finish, had he been busy? As if I was at all interested in his answers. He served his purpose well. His mundane small talk anchored me in the present, so I could consider my next step.
As the cab drew up outside the police station, dawn had not yet broken; the reception desk was empty, and the Christmas tree still twinkled pathetically. Nothing had changed. The driver handed me a contract slip to sign; as I handed him back the paper and his pen he caught my hand and held it, his eyes dug into mine.
‘I hope you get her back.’ His eyes shone. ‘My granddaughter played against her at football, just before Christmas – she’s very upset; well, we all are.’ He nodded and turned back to his steering wheel. I clamped my lips together and nodded back. Malcolm was so much better at graciously receiving people’s sympathy than I was.
Two teams of detectives were working on this; Connie’s case was being treated as child abduction, separate although linked to the Ripper murders. Kailash, Malcolm and Moses were at Four Winds with the second team and Moses was playing Xbox Live, still searching the gaming community for her. He would not give up until we had her back – dead or alive.
Sergeant Munro was still on the front desk – he must be working a twelve-hour shift. All overtime had been cancelled and officers from other forces had been drafted in to patrol the streets. The streets were filled with the type of girls the Ripper loved so much. Sergeant Munro was busy – I could tell he’d seen us but he kept his head down working on a piece of paper. I waited, every bone in my body ached, I wanted to fall into a deep sleep and never wake up – I couldn’t be bothered playing games with him.
‘You’ll be here to see Thomas Foster,’ he said curtly. ‘Well, he’s being held for six hours and, as you well know, under Scots law you’ve no right to see him during that time.’ Sergeant Munro opened up the reception desk and walked through; he held the large bunch of keys that were attached to his trousers in his hand. He walked slowly, fingering the individual keys in silent contemplation. Glasgow Joe was leaning against the wall staring out at the street, lost in his own hell. Sergeant Munro shouted twice before Joe heard him.
‘Oi! Big man – you’d better come too.’ Sergeant Munro held the door open for Joe, who was doing a fair impersonation of a somnambulist. I reached for his hand. I had a feeling Sergeant Munro was not taking me to see Thomas Foster but rather to give us news about Connie. He showed us into a dreary interview room. Joe and I have both been in these rooms before, and never have I wanted to be in a place less than I did now.
I slumped down on the table and watched the clock’s big black second hand tick away the time. Joe and I were beyond speech but we continued to squeeze each other’s hands. The door squeaked open and a young white-blonde WPC, who was MTV pretty, looked at us, then anxiously laid down two mugs of strong sweet tea – which we had not asked for.
‘Sergeant Munro thought you could do with some of this.’ She placed the tea and Rich Tea biscuits on the table and left. I gave her six months on the force. It was no reflection on her, but if she couldn’t bear to be in the presence of people whose lives had been ripped apart, she wouldn’t last long. The mugs lay untouched in front of us as we continued to watch the seconds tick away.
At 7.56 a.m. the door opened again and Detective Smith entered the room. Her hands were behind her back, poorly concealing a large evidence bag. In spite of her best attempts to break this to us gently, I could see it was Connie’s sweatshirt.
I caught her eye; she knew she’d been rumbled so Detective Smith tossed the evidence bag down on the table in front of us. We both shrank back. I inhaled deeply and held my breath. Staring at the thing was horrible; the pale pink Roxy sweatshirt was covered in dried blood. My heart raced at sprinting pace, a hot flush ran through my body, sweat appeared on the small hairs at the back of my neck and slowly trickled down.
Detective Smith had not yet deigned to speak. Reaching down she picked up the evidence bag and threw it against the wall. Joe and I glanced at each other.
‘Its fake!’ she screamed. ‘Fake fucking blood – the kind of shit you buy at Hallowe’en from joke shops. The Addams family – quite a joke, Ms McLennan.’ She leant over and sneered into m
y face – I could smell last night’s whisky on her breath. ‘I want the truth – or you’ll see in the bells in jail.’
Her words went over my head as, pushing back the chair, I ran to the evidence bag and held it to my heart. There was a chance, a small glimmer, that Connie was alive. The next problem was how to get out of here and find her – by the look on Detective Smith’s face we were going nowhere. She was playing the golden rule of child abduction over and over in her head. ‘It’s the family, stupid, it’s always the family.’
Chapter Sixty-Two
St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh
Saturday 29 December, 8.30 a.m.
I sat there and said nothing as she snatched the sweatshirt out of my hands; Joe had already been led to another interview room for questioning. It was the first rule of interrogation – divide and conquer. It was my intention to say nothing; Detective Smith believed my silence inferred guilt, although the law said otherwise.
Detective Smith strutted about the room. It was tiring just watching her, and I wanted to be left alone with my private thoughts. Connie was still out there – that’s why I didn’t see her with the dead girls yet. I just had to get out of here and find her before she did join them. Detective Smith could keep me in this room for six hours but my time started after Thomas Foster’s so he would be on a plane before I was released.
‘Nancy Drew, that’s you,’ said Detective Smith. She pointed her finger in my face then she pulled out her detective’s badge and threw it down on the table. ‘Is it worthless?’ She paused. ‘D’you think I got it by collecting tokens off crisp packets?’
