The Watcher

by Grace Monroe

  ‘I know about his misunderstanding with the FBI. In spite of what the chief constable may think, the US government will not get involved.’

  I thought they would but I needed to see his reactions. Nothing. I mimicked the tone of voice, even matching his breathing; Machiavelli would have been proud. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Adie Foster was a sly bastard. He was giving nothing away, forcing me to do all the talking. Truthfully this wasn’t going to plan – so far I had learned nothing.

  ‘Thomas just has to keep his mouth shut for a couple more hours and he’ll be home and dry … There is, however, one difficulty we have …’ I said.

  Adie Foster froze. This wasn’t what he wanted to hear. It was not my job to point out problems – I was there to find solutions. I took the photographs of the priest and the man from The Hobbyist site out of my pocket and tried to slide them across the desk to him. The desk was sticky with spilt Irn Bru and the pictures got stuck. I waited to see if he would examine them.

  ‘Do you know him?’ I asked. But I already knew the answer from his rapid blinking and the way every facial muscle froze as he recoiled from the six-by-ten images. I was enjoying pushing the image in front of him. Whoever this man was, he certainly knew how to get under Adie Foster’s skin.

  A sweet paper lying on the floor crackled beneath his handmade shoes – he was backing away from the photograph. Mouth closed, I ran my tongue along the bottom edge of my teeth. I had him.

  ‘Your son has an enemy. Care to tell me about it?’ I slapped the photographs noisily down on the desk. He shook his head still backing away, ghostly white beneath the tan. Was he going to vomit?

  I waited, counting my heartbeats; they were loud enough for Adie Foster to hear. He was lost in the silence of private thoughts. Detective Smith’s help-me-to-help-you speech came to mind.

  ‘I can’t do this on my fucking own!’ My voice was harsh and aggressive and shocked him out of his trance. I had once read a book on How to Marry a Millionaire. Apparently they are so rich everyone agrees with them, so they find difficult, high-maintenance women irresistible. I wasn’t hitting on Adie Foster but I’d tried everything else – wasn’t he the type of man who made up Kailash’s clientele?

  Adie Foster hated women, especially women who swore. He stood to his full height, and as an ex-linebacker for the Bulldogs, his physique was still impressive. Not missing a breath, I picked the photographs up and slapped them off his chest. I pounded them off his pectorals and shouted at him. Surely somewhere way back he was used to obeying a woman: his mother, a nanny, even a schoolteacher? I tried to claw the memory back to the surface of his mind.

  ‘Adie Foster,’ I pronounced each syllable. ‘Tell me now – who is this man? What does he have to do with your son?’

  I had backed him into a corner, and he seemed to have shrunk. ‘It’s a secret,’ he whispered.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘I can’t talk about it – it’s secret.’

  ‘Tell me NOW … I’m used to keeping secrets.’ I slapped the photographs into his face.

  ‘It’s his Anam Cara from Yale.’ He dropped his head, his words were barely audible.

  Anam Cara: soul friend. This friendship was based on an oath; it linked them in blood, a bond more enduring than brothers. This was the man Thomas Foster had confessed to during his initiation. Was he blackmailing Thomas Foster – was that why Foster was protecting him?

  The alarm on my watch buzzed and I had to leave the room.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh

  Saturday 29 December, 10.03 a.m.

  We had less than eighty-seven minutes to break Thomas Foster and find Connie; weariness and Bancho’s demeanour told me it wasn’t going to happen. We reached the door of the interview room. Bancho stopped. He wasn’t going any further. I needed to speak to Thomas alone.

  The air left my lungs as Bancho threw me against the wall. My forehead rested on the flimsy stud partition. Kicking my legs apart he nearly knocked me through it. He forced my arms above my head; he didn’t have time to wait for political correctness and a WPC to do a full body search.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I screamed at him.

  His hands gripped me through the leather jacket, squeezing every wrinkle in the hard fabric. He probed. It was obvious his intention was to check out every nook, cranny and cavity in my body. I felt his hands on my torso, his fingers climbed my ribs, searching my bra for concealed blades. DI Bancho was not enjoying his work; in fact he seemed to find it even more distasteful than I did.

  ‘Glasgow Joe is within screaming distance!’ I hissed.

  My legs needed shaving but he didn’t notice, his hands kept slapping them looking for something. Up the inside of my legs. I bit my tongue as he checked my panties. The man was nothing if not thorough and the bastard knew me too well.

  ‘Stop it … what are you doing?’

  He ignored me, continuing with his search, prodding, poking, and finally his hands reached into my pocket and pulled out the backup plan – a Swiss army knife.

  ‘What am I doing? I’m saving you from yourself. I hope you’ll return the favour.’ He pocketed the knife I always carried on the Fat Boy. I could write a book on the uses I have found for it – none would have been more satisfying than gutting Thomas Foster. Maybe then he would give me the Ripper’s name. If Bancho felt the urge to take police brutality too far today, I promised myself I wouldn’t stop him.

  ‘You’ve got half an hour,’ he said, scratching his head.

  ‘You promised me longer.’ I pulled him round to face me. He stepped back, the last few minutes was enough contact with me to last a lifetime.

  ‘No, you promised yourself! Now you’re lucky I’m giving you this … don’t waste it,’ he said. I knew he would be waiting just outside the door; he didn’t trust me even with my bare hands.

  I wasn’t going to do anything foolish. I grabbed his lapel and whispered in his ear – I needed to get rid of him. ‘A search warrant … we need a search warrant. Ask Detective Smith to get one for the City Vaults and as many bodies as she can muster … you know my family will help.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m looking for the smoking gun that will nail the Ripper and his associate,’ I told him.

  ‘Give me more than that.’

  ‘Niddry Street appears once too often in this case for it to be a coincidence. Niddry Street where Connie’s sweatshirt was found, Niddry Street where Sonia was discovered after the assault. What made Niddry Street so special? The City Vaults, where Burke and Hare, Edinburgh’s first serial killers, hunted their victims, and where Thomas Foster said he had a part-time job.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Bancho with a note of resignation that suggested he might finally be coming on board.

  ‘It’s about domination and control,’ I said. ‘The Ripper takes sexual pleasure in having the power of life or death over his victims. He keeps trophies, I’d lay my life on it, and if he does they’re in the vaults. We’re going to get him.’

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh

  Saturday 29 December, 10.10 a.m.

  The door slammed behind me, the key turned in the lock. Christ, here I am looking like a redheaded tart throwing myself at a beast who feeds off my kind. The beast in question continued to do a fine impersonation of a Calvin Klein underwear model, his pale blue Oxford cotton shirt from Savile Row freshly laundered, his light beige chinos and tan loafers continuing the yachting theme.

  He smiled but there was no warmth. He extended his hand and said, ‘So good of you to come, ma’am.’ His palm was cool and dry. His heart rate never reached above forty-five. His eyes flicked over me, taking in the cheap high heels, the torn black tights, a push-up bra barely hidden behind a supermarket scoop-top tee shirt.

  ‘I gave you advice once before, ma’am – d’you regret not taking it?’ he asked.

  ‘You told
me not to take your case – you were right, too, you didn’t need me.’

  I leant against the door, our eyes locked. I could feel him winning as the faces of the dead girls swam before me. I couldn’t let him beat me. What was it Lavender said? Oh yes, I did remember.

  I fitted the Ripper’s signature – although I was a little on the old side, and not quite the job description he was after. Would Thomas Foster fall for human bait? Sonia was clear Foster had attacked her, but the DNA was unequivocal. My best hope was he would attack me, buy me some time to find the Ripper.

  Reaching up, I took the pen that held my hair in a French knot out, and my hair tumbled around my shoulders in a mass of red curls. As per normal I didn’t have a comb so I used my fingers, teasing out each strand of hair. I was engrossed in this and could see him gulping. He tried to ignore me but I wouldn’t stop. I wound strands of hair around my index finger and, perfecting the curl, I let it bounce free.

  I looked up at him. He was on his feet, his hands were in his pockets and he was pacing. I took a cigarette out and lit it. I knew he was the evangelical type of non-smoker, anything to piss him off and rile him. I drew hard and swallowed the smoke, releasing rings of noxious fumes in his direction. He waved the smoke rings away.

  ‘Those cancer sticks will kill you,’ the little prick moralized at me.

  ‘Another piece of advice, Thomas,’ I said. ‘We are full of it today, aren’t we?’

  I walked over to him and blew smoke in his face. I had made up my mind he wasn’t walking out of here in seventy-six minutes, even if I had to punch myself in the face and claim rape – that little bastard was staying put.

  ‘Anyway, Mr Genius, you should be delighted I didn’t take your advice. Because I am your legal counsel—’

  ‘—anything I tell you is confidential … more hush-hush than the secrets of the confessional,’ he mocked.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said, deciding the hair play was more effective than the cigarette smoke in unbalancing him. I took my jacket off; perhaps the sight of my neck would spur him on to spontaneous violence. He laughed.

  ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ he said.

  ‘Sure I do, Thomas. You and your friend have got away with murder on two continents, but that’s not satisfying enough for you, is it? The pleasure’s spoiled because no one knows how clever you really are – even I think you’re going to walk because of Daddy’s connections.’

  He closed his eyes, and for a moment I thought he was preparing an attack. Adrenalin pumped through my system, a trickle of sweat ran down my left arm and his eyes opened like a reptile’s. He smelt my fear and it excited him. I had to get the balance of power back in my direction.

  ‘Connections – that’s the real reason you didn’t want me, isn’t it? You knew who I was, and my Grandaddy’s connected. Did you get scared – is that why you changed your mind?’ I mocked him.

  His eyes closed again. He was meditating, trying to regain composure, a technique no doubt picked up during his chess tournaments. His breathing steadied and I watched a prominent vein in his neck bob up and down – his heart rate was slowing. He was winning again. Thomas looked up and smiled at me. Clasping his hands together he steepled his index fingers and tapped them off his lips. I couldn’t let this happen; I didn’t like to lose either.

  I kicked him hard in the groin but his reactions were fast. He held my calf in the air and I hopped on one leg but I would not cry out. I could feel the frustration building. My throat was tight; it was hard to breathe. He sniggered, I flailed my arms about but he would not release me. In desperation I tore at his shirt and threw the photographs at him; they missed … flying through the air and landing near the corner.

  Luck was on my side, though, they landed picture side up. Thomas Foster froze as he stared at the man in the photograph. He dropped my leg. I stumbled, placing my hand on the desk to prevent a fall. He clasped his Breitling watch and ran to pick the images up. Holding the photographs aloft he started to laugh. He laughed like a maniac.

  ‘Tell me who he is!’ I demanded.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t tell me it’s a fucking secret,’ I said.

  He snapped at me. I had touched a button. ‘I don’t follow their code.’

  ‘If you don’t tell me who he is, you’re just like your father. He wouldn’t speak either,’ I said.

  Thomas Foster’s eyes slid from side to side in his head, weighing things up. For the first time I saw his ugliness. His shirt was open to the waist, exposing his chest. I clutched my throat to stop the vomit.

  And that’s when I knew I had him.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh

  Saturday 29 December, 10.17 a.m.

  Things started to go haywire again when I looked at the clock. I had less than fifteen minutes to get the information I needed from him. He was still holding the photographs and laughing – and he didn’t give the impression of stopping any time soon.

  I ran my fingers through my hair, though not to get his attention. Frustration made me want to pull each strand out by the root.

  ‘Your father is the winner – you’re going to walk free from here, and it’s all thanks to him!’ I lied, watching him to see if it would get through. His laughter slowed; he buttoned up his shirt, but I had seen all I needed to.

  ‘That night after they arrested me at my parents’ house, I was scared out of my wits,’ he said.

  ‘No wonder – your father couldn’t pull the strings quite so easily in Edinburgh.’ He looked at me doubtfully.

  ‘From the first time we met I knew, I knew I was going to win … no matter what.’ He came close in to my face and sniggered.

  ‘How’d you work that one out?’

  ‘Just your attitude … you’d do anything to win … that’s your weakness … your Achilles heel.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about me – let’s get on to your favourite subject. You owe your father big time: is that why you won’t tell me who this is?’ I tapped the photograph.

  ‘I have science on my side, ma’am. It’s irrefutable – that bastion of forensic science, DNA … Ha, it’s not my DNA, ma’am, it says I didn’t rape them and I didn’t kill them, ha … how about that?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Sonia—’

  He interrupted me. ‘You need to win this more than me; if you want it so bad, let’s play Ulam’s game.’ He sniggered, not expecting me to know what he was talking about, arrogant little bastard. He was almost right, but something nagged at the back of my mind.

  ‘Ulam’s pathological liars’ game.’ I said it slowly; necessity was pulling it from the dark and dusty recesses of my mind.

  ‘Very good!’ he said, walking around the room clapping his hands. He was careful not to destroy the photographs.

  Ulam’s game was described as a well-known game semantic for mathematical probability – Lukasiewicz logic and product logic. Well known to nerds! To win the information I needed to beat a chess grandmaster who had a higher IQ than Einstein in less than – I looked at my watch – eleven minutes.

  ‘Do you want to play?’ he asked, raising his left eyebrow and staring me down.

  ‘Why not? I always liked the YES/NO guessing game. Shall we start at the beginning?’ I pulled the photograph from his hand.

  ‘Did you meet him at university – yes or no?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not going to play if you’re not going to be specific. You’re not very good at this, ma’am,’ he drawled.

  ‘Did you meet him at Yale University?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’ His smile was chilling; he was right, I wasn’t very good at this. I sat down opposite him. I had to take this seriously. It was my one chance. My last chance. We faced each other like a couple of grandmasters. Only one of us was pretending.

  ‘Did you meet him on The Hobbyist website?’ He laughed again, like it was some great secret joke.

  ‘Hell, no.’

  I didn’t care how it looked.
I put my head down on the table. It was too heavy to hold up; I only just stopped myself banging it off the melamine top.

  ‘Did you meet him at the Skull and Bones Society?’ I snapped.

  His lips pursed into a thin line, the muscle in his jaw twitched and tightened – he was under pressure. Thin beads of sweat formed on his forehead, a furrow appeared between his brows. Something had happened at Yale that Thomas Foster didn’t like. I could hear the seconds ticking down in my head. I had to ask the questions even if they were way off the mark – and I had to speed up. Feeling the pressure, my brain function seemed to slow down.

  ‘Did the Ripper kill at Yale?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you kill?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he know you were a murderer?’ I asked.

  ‘I object to that term,’ he said.

  ‘Not a valid objection – you have to play by the rules,’ I said, knowing this was the only thing that would get through to Thomas Foster. He played by rules, used them – that’s what a grandmaster did.

  ‘Did he know you were a killer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he guess?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  I wanted to know how the man who called himself ‘The Watcher’ had discovered Thomas Foster’s secret but, according to the rules of Ulam’s game, I couldn’t ask. Perhaps they were a killing team.

  ‘Did he follow you to Scotland?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To join you?’ I asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘To kill you?’ I asked again.

  ‘Yes.’

  I was beginning to see the limitations of this game. It would give me information but no clues that would help me.

  DI Bancho knocked on the door.

  ‘Two more minutes,’ I shouted.

  ‘Did you take Connie?’

  ‘No,’ he whispered and began to laugh again. ‘He beat me to it.’ He giggled.