by Grace Monroe
GRACE MONROE
The Watcher
From Maria:
For my Mum and Dad who taught me what it is to be loved.
From Linda:
For Paul – who knows what matters.
Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Acknowledgments
About the Author
By the same author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Edinburgh Castle
Friday 21 December
When Katya Waleski stepped out of the Great Hall at Edinburgh Castle, she had less than fifteen minutes to live.
The castle ramparts were bitter but the chill went deeper than her bones. The north wind whipped and bit her bare shoulders; she shivered – not simply because of the temperature.
Her companion removed his custom-made evening jacket and placed it around her shoulders. Katya lengthened her spine like a cat and purred, more aware of the role she was playing than the man was of the performance he was receiving. Her wine glass was slippery with condensation; it almost fell out of her hand. Her usual poise had deserted her.
Katya gazed into his eyes, showing him white even teeth; for once the smile left her lips. The champagne bubbles tickled her nose, languorously she twirled her curls; it was not often she got paid to enjoy herself. Katya closed her eyes. For a few long seconds she held her breath as she savoured the champagne.
The biting north wind cut through her hair, a country girl. The stars shone in an almost cloudless black sky, the moonlight reflected off the snow, giving the castle battlements an eerie glow. It was difficult to walk on the cobbled stones; they were icy underfoot and the meltwater crept through her satin sandal. It was hard to keep her footing so she held on tightly to the arm of her escort.
She scanned the castle walls, peering into the shadows. Could she feel eyes upon her from somewhere in the distance? Katya was used to being ogled but this surely felt … different. A lone piper circled the half-moon battery, welcoming late comers to the ceilidh, serenading the lovers who sought intimacy in the ancient nooks and crannies of the castle.
Katya quivered at the caterwaul. You had to have the blood of the Celts in your veins to be stirred by such a noise. The lament merely made the fine hairs at the base of her neck stand on end.
The wind had picked up, and it blew a solitary cloud across the moon, the dense ground cover that hid his static body began to crackle and bend. Branches scratched his cheeks, his jaw tightened and his neck stiffened as the gale began to howl. He could see the clouds rolling in over the River Forth. It was going to snow. He rubbed his leg to ease the paralysing cramp.
The first flake fell.
Didn’t that just say it all, though? A snowstorm while he froze his ass off waiting for that bitch.
The Watcher dug himself in deeper; something large scuttled by his ear. They say in Edinburgh you are never more than thirteen feet from a rat. He disciplined his mind to ignore the different types of creepy-crawlies, which might, at this very moment, be crawling their way up his spine or nesting in his ears.
His eyes followed a couple as they left the castle early. The man staggered and leant on the railing of the wooden bridge; clutching on to the rails, the gentleman spewed his guts out. Flaming torches illuminated the massive stone statues of Scotland’s guardians – Wallace and Bruce looked down disapprovingly. Were these Protectors judging the drunk, who was now failing to heed the ‘don’t drink and drive’ warnings, or were they judging him? He sniggered at the thought.
The Watcher knows death stalks the castle ramparts.
‘The lovers,’ he spat out the words, were strolling hand in hand towards the battlements, their heads nestling together like two turtle doves. The man’s hand crept underneath the jacket and fondled her tight, high buttocks; he inched the dress up over her hip, and stroked her silky smooth skin. The Watcher held his breath. His tongue crept out of the side of his mouth, like a ravenous dog’s, flecks of spit formed at the corner of his mouth. With a life of its own, The Watcher’s cock stiffened, uncomfortably; he was forced to shift positions; the bed of leaves rustled beneath his weight.
With eyes only for each other, Katya and her beau strolled towards the cannons overlooking Johnston Terrace. ‘Love is blind’ hissed The Watcher. Using his top-of-the-range German night-vision goggles, and aided by the light reflected off the snow, The Watcher had a perfect view. He settled himself down to enjoy the show.
It’s freezing but Katya was hot; The Watcher could almost see the sheen of sweat on her skin as he licked his dry lips. She seductively slipped her lover’s jacket from her shoulders, mindful of the fact it cost more than she earns in three months, and she handed it back to him.
The Watcher held his breath as she used her lovely white teeth to undo her lover’s zip; the jacket is placed on his arm as he leant against the cannon to appreciate his girl. The red silk evening gown slipped easily from her shoulders, revealing full high virgin breasts; her head fell back in ecstasy. A tiny black dragon is tattooed near her nipple; it catches The Watcher’s throat when he recognizes it as Mushu, the dragon from Mulan. He shook his head – it would not save her tonight.
Her hands reached up to undo her lover’s black evening tie. He was more than willing to play ball; the tie lay around his neck as she opened his white pin-tucked evening shirt. The Watcher admired their hardiness – it is seriously cold. He shook his right leg to keep the blood flowing, and placed his free hand inside hi
s trousers.
Raking her long red talons over the expensive evening shirt, his nipples stood to attention. It is not merely a natural reaction to the cold, the man was understandably aroused. He caressed her neck with light tender kisses, moving his mouth down until he found her nipple, her back arched in gratification.
Katya was a bad girl; her sensuous mouth was open wide with pleasure. The Watcher strained to hear her moan, as he stroked himself faster and faster. Yes, Katya was a very bad girl.
Her lover could bear no more. The tent pole in his trousers said everything, The Watcher understood as he observed him lay the jacket on the barrel of the siege cannon. Gallantry is not dead, surmised The Watcher; the lover didn’t want Katya’s back to stick to the icy metal.
The sex did not disappoint The Watcher; Katya’s hands quickly undid her lover’s trousers as they fell without hindrance to his ankles. Grudgingly, The Watcher conceded his rival was a handsome specimen; no one complained about the cold now – not even The Watcher.
They were good enough to be professional, The Watcher thought as she wrapped her long Eastern European legs around the man’s waist. She panted, he could see her breath move in and out of her mouth like exotic smoke, and her back inched along the cannon as her lover thrust himself into her.
It was hard for The Watcher to remain still; he squirmed in the undergrowth, unable to satisfy himself. The moonlight caught the girl’s red hair; it seemed to sparkle with excitement, her body shone with sweat, the curves glistening.
The sex was vigorous and uninhibited – in spite of himself, The Watcher felt a reluctant twinge of admiration for her lover. He bit his tongue as the girl slid further along the barrel, blood trickled out of the side of his mouth as a naked Katya finally reached the mouth of the cannon.
Taking out a camera, he caught Katya’s final throes of ecstasy, her back bucking in pleasure as she slid off the end. Her lover reached for her as she tumbled over the ramparts.
The Watcher was helpless – he could not stifle his cry: it was not supposed to happen like that. Shock heightened his senses, and he saw in slow motion Katya’s body bounce off the volcanic castle rock. Her head cracked open as it hit the first rough edge, marring her once beautiful features. There will be no open coffin for the mourners; like a rag doll she rolled and bounced, each bump shattering another bone. There is no hope for the once lovely Katya.
The police found Katya in a ditch at the foot of the crag and tail structure known as Castle Hill. On her scraped and scuffed body a message could be discerned.
A bloody prophecy:
more will die
Chapter One
Lothian and St Clair W.S. Offices
Saturday 22 December, 8 a.m.
It was the last Saturday before Christmas, I hadn’t bought a single present and this year I had sworn it would all be different. I’d even imagined stringing popcorn on a real tree, yet here I was spending another weekend working in the office. And on the front page of the Evening News was a photograph that made my heart race and my breath catch in my throat.
Another dead girl had been found.
The story had filled the papers for months, endless column inches, always featuring those painfully ordinary photographs of the murder victim. You’ve seen them. The school portraits with the stray piece of hair sticking out that makes you ask why someone didn’t smooth it down. That picture. The one every parent is forced to buy. When you see it on top of a fireplace a slow smile of nostalgia crosses your lips. But when the same image is on the front page of the Evening News, your heart stops, and you look twice. On a second glance you take in more, the bad posture, the shy smile, the timid eyes … and your imagination takes you to hell.
The hell she suffered in her last moments.
I brought the newspaper over to the window with me. Sipping on the freshly made espresso, with two sugars, I dipped a biscotti whilst I read aloud to Lavender Ironside, official holder of all things to do with power in both the office and my life.
‘Reign of terror on city streets.’
‘Everyone is running scared. Eddie’s trying to impose his own personal curfew. He maybe doesn’t have as much sway as he’d like on the entire population of Edinburgh, but he’d lock me up if he could,’ she said. As the words came out of her mouth, I could almost hear her regret them. She loved it when Eddie was masterful; Eddie Gibb, my court assistant and Lavender’s fiancé. Recently, however, his attentions had been for another reason, and we both knew it. Lavender’s surprise and very much unplanned pregnancy of recent months had ended in a miscarriage. Both she and Eddie had been delighted at the thought of a baby cementing their unlikely love – we all had; and we’d all had to deal with the consequences, which included an even more protective Eddie. I found it hard to talk to Lavender about the baby. We had always looked out for each other but this was one area where I just didn’t know what to say. She knew I wasn’t the motherly type really, but I had looked forward to being an auntie, even if not by blood – and I always wanted for her what she wanted most. That I couldn’t do anything to fix this for her was horrible – for both of us.
‘You know the media have named him “The Edinburgh Ripper”,’ I said, returning to the much easier subject of murder.
The tally of dead girls was rising, and the authorities didn’t seem any nearer to catching him. Of course, I had my own explanation for the inept police investigation – DI Duncan Bancho. Duncan Bancho and I had history, none of it was good. In the recent past he had had me arrested and held on suspicion of attempted murder. I wasn’t blameless. I tried to get him thrown off the force for corruption.
I cleared my throat and read aloud again, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
‘“We’re doing all we can,” said DI Duncan Bancho, officer in charge of the investigation for Lothian and Borders police. “We lost valuable time because no one reported that the girls were missing.”’ I put the paper down.
‘“We’re doing all we can”!’ I banged my head lightly against the window. The news of the girls barely registered at first – the police went through the motions but the media waited until there were enough deaths to get them excited. The death of a prostitute is regarded as an occupational hazard, and the clear-up rate is the lowest of any homicide – so I wasn’t buying his PR statement.
The first murder in July had only just made the inside pages of the tabloids, but by the time the second body had been found, three weeks later, rumours were circulating.
‘To get Bancho’s attention the killer had to send him a text – of course Bancho ignored it,’ I snarled.
Lavender was ignoring me – this was a well-rehearsed rant of mine against my least favourite policeman. As I’ve said, DI Bancho and I go back a long way.
‘So what made Bancho sit up and do something? Finally, do something?’ I asked myself more than her. ‘When the killer put the finger of another victim under his windscreen wiper?’ When this occurred, the hunt was on for the body of the third dead girl. It was during the festival so the papers were playing it down. None wanted to spook the wealthy tourists because of three dead whores.
Lavender took her coffee cup and joined me at the window.
‘Before you start,’ she said, ‘I know there are ninety unsolved murders of prostitutes in the UK.’
‘Don’t believe the crap!’ I retorted. ‘The bit about “decent women are safe”. If a man will murder a prostitute, no woman is safe from him. It didn’t keep “decent” women safe from the Yorkshire Ripper, did it? Peter Sutcliffe just moved on from prostitutes to students.’
‘Fine.’ She saluted me quickly, a parody of a soldier obeying an order. ‘Change the subject.’
We stared in silence from the office window to look at Edinburgh Castle. It was a dark winter’s morning and I could see police in their luminous jackets climbing on the Castle Rock. Halogen lamps lit what appeared to be a crime scene with an ethereal glow, and a deathly silence hung over Johnston Terrace, the stree
t below the castle façade. Police scurried around in last night’s snowfall; they were the first to walk on the pristine surface, and their footprints were like blemishes.
I’d heard a news flash on Radio Forth that another body had been found; they didn’t give out any details, and I suppose they were waiting until the family was informed. I often came into the office on a Saturday, as did Lavender – we made the most of the quiet and could run through work much quicker than on weekdays, but today a cold silence fell over us as we watched the depressing scene.
Incongruously, just out of sight on the other side of the rock, Edinburgh’s Christmas festivities were gearing up for another fun-packed day. In a few hours skaters would be falling, racing and spinning on the temporary ice-rink in the city’s famous Princes Street Gardens. Wurlitzers would boom out hits from twenty years ago and overexcited children clutching candyfloss would be trailing behind the parents on a mission to buy last-minute gifts at the German market. Whatever had happened on the rock, for most life would go on, especially at Christmas.
‘You’re not in much danger, Lav – Eddie never lets you out of his sight,’ I said, patting her on the shoulder, both of us knowing that I was referring to his treatment of her since the miscarriage without me actually saying anything.
‘Maybe. But you …’ She held my eye, and there was a lot of weight in the stare, ‘are too hard on Bancho. These girls are all from Eastern Europe – nobody seems to give a damn about them, so anything Bancho does has to help. Eddie worries about me, Brodie – but I worry about you. Look …’
She led me by the arm to look at the wall behind my desk. I keep it there because I hate seeing pictures of myself. However, clients enjoyed seeing evidence of past victories; it was good for business, so my personal preference was irrelevant.
Lavender tapped the glass of a particularly unflattering photograph; I was standing dressed in my leathers, next to my motorbike, ‘The Fat Boy’, arms crossed over my chest, looking mean. That wasn’t the problem – my helmet hair was bright red and frizzy, as if it had a life of its own. Lavender pulled the picture next to the front page of the article that showed the photographs of the Ripper’s victims.
