Watcher

by Grace Monroe

  ‘Knocking shit out of the fridge won’t help,’ I told him. ‘There’s nothing you can do – except pace this house and pray.’

  He narrowed his eyes at me. ‘This morning … I said my first fucking prayers since you left me. I’m not losing her, Brodie. There’s always something I can do, even if it’s only to have the money ready to pay the fucker when he calls.’

  ‘Is that what you were doing – selling your bikes?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘It’s more like giving them away, the way that bastard’s taking advantage of the situation, but I’m not complaining. I need to be ready for the phone call.’

  ‘You really think it’s ransom? You really think he’ll call?’ I asked, not sure I believed my own idea any more.

  ‘I need to believe the bastard will – so does Bancho. He’s got the phones tapped and everything.’

  ‘Bancho’s waiting for a phone call because you had him up against the wall, threatening him. He just did it to keep you off his back. Bancho’s in charge of the Ripper investigation, Joe – do you really think he could take on child abduction as well?’ I asked, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. ‘Listen, Joe, you need to get a grip. We need you. Connie and I need you – time is running out for her,’ I said, but his fear was running rampant in his usually disciplined body. The Ripper had attacked Glasgow Joe where he hurt.

  ‘Where is she?’ he whispered, banging his fist off the fridge again. I could see the rage rise within him. ‘Is she dead, Brodie, is she dead?’ he cried, shaking me, unaware that his size and strength was likely to break my collarbone. ‘Is she alive? How could Malcolm let someone take her? Christ, if he didn’t look like a fucking corpse already, I’d kill him.’

  I moved over to him and took him in my arms, cradling him like an infant just as Bancho came in. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he sniffed. ‘I heard it’s on Radio Forth. I don’t know where they are getting their information, but they’re quick off the mark.’ He stared at his shoes, embarrassed because he knew I would assume the leak came from within the police force.

  ‘I’m warning you.’ He took a deep breath before he continued: ‘It’s not going to be easy under the media’s scrutiny – they’re detailing the family history.’ He looked directly at me. ‘All of you are being scrutinized. Of course Kailash’s business interests will keep the tabloids going for days … but you don’t get away scot free.’

  Derek handed DI Bancho a cup of tea and then disappeared into the background. Bancho leant in conspiratorially, ‘They’re already saying a member of the family did it – Kailash’s murder case just became news again. Of course, there was some suggestion that it might be the Ripper because she’s got red hair.’ Joe looked shocked. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that,’ said Bancho. ‘I assumed you’d made the same connection.’

  Joe ranted at Bancho’s insensitivity: ‘How can they say it’s the Ripper? Thomas Foster is linked to the other murders – this doesn’t follow the m.o. of the other murders. This is child abduction and we’re going to get her back.’ Bancho and I locked eyes over his shoulder.

  ‘It’s not just about the headlines – there’s some pretty sordid stuff about Ms Coutts’s occupation, really not fit to read over the breakfast table,’ Bancho advised, going all moral on us all of a sudden.

  Kailash was upstairs in Connie’s bedroom. She wanted to be on hand to answer every question the technicians had. They were taking Connie’s laptop away for further examination. The fingerprint guys had already dusted the scene, the authorities already had records of Kailash’s fingerprints on file, which might speed things up as in cases like this the usual suspect was the mother anyway. It was a subject everyone was tiptoeing around. The newspapers lay untouched on the table. Connie smiled out from them all braces and dimples, dressed in her team strip. As captain of the football team, she held the shield they won for coming top of the league.

  ‘I want you to meet a colleague – Detective Inspector Smith; she works child abductions.’ Bancho turned around to introduce a middle-aged woman with thinning hair who had just arrived. She held a bacon roll in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. A fine smear of grease lined the outside of her mouth, like lip gloss. Kailash appeared downstairs and, pouring an espresso, shut her eyes against the pain as she spied Connie’s photograph in the newspaper.

  ‘You okay, Ms Coutts?’ DI Smith’s mouth was full of bacon.

  ‘Yes, but Connie’s not is she? Shift your arse and find her rather than standing there bloody chomping!’ I wasn’t the only one surprised – I’d never really seen Kailash lose it before and the detective choked on her butty. She placed the cup on the granite counter top and, taking out a black notebook, said: ‘Ms Coutts – I’ve worked fifteen child abduction cases.’

  ‘And? What exactly does that mean?’ Kailash snapped.

  ‘It means I find children who have been snatched.’

  ‘Does it? Do you find them? Or do you just coordinate looking for them?’

  ‘Usually,’ Smith said.

  ‘How many of them have you found alive, Detective Smith?’ Kailash asked.

  She had asked the question, the question that detectives always tried to avoid.

  ‘None,’ she said, looking down at her notebook.

  I could see that Kailash had made her mind up not to act like other mothers of abducted children, sobbing in front of a media circus, begging for their child to be returned. Kailash Coutts did not beg. DI Smith slumped, diminished in Kailash’s presence, but trying to rally. I could see the fear in her eyes; she was probably a good woman who had stuck with this job longer than was ideal for her health.

  ‘Ms Coutts, what colour, size and make of pyjamas was Connie wearing?’ Detective Inspector Smith asked the question as if she was asking for more sugar in her tea. I watched as Kailash’s jaw tightened. ‘I don’t know – I left for work yesterday before she went to bed. Malcolm!’ she shouted. Malcolm scurried into the kitchen. Sizing up the situation, he took the detective inspector’s elbow and led her away. Kailash already knew she wouldn’t be winning any prizes as mother of the year – it seemed pointless to rub her face in it. Placing her untouched espresso cup on the table, she half turned and left the kitchen. Joe and I followed her, along the hall, up the stairs to Connie’s bedroom. It was a typical thirteen-year-old’s space. On the wall were digital printouts of the wedding that seemed like a lifetime ago. ‘Eddie? Lavender?’ I whispered.

  ‘I phoned them about half seven this morning,’ said Joe. ‘I know it’s a bastard disturbing their honeymoon, but it would have killed Lav to see that front page or to have heard it on the radio. They’re leaving Gleneagles right away – I’m expecting them to walk through that door any minute.’ He finished speaking and silence took over.

  ‘What about Grandad?’ I had thought of more people to worry about. ‘At his age a shock like this could kill him.’

  ‘I phoned Jack – he’s with him now. We didn’t want to give the old man the news over the phone.’ Things must be bad if Joe was willingly contacting Jack. As an afterthought, Joe added: ‘Moses wanted to come up, but I said that the house was crawling with police so it’d be easier if he stayed where he was. He’s not happy about it. He feels he’s to blame – he knew Malcolm was having … domestic troubles.’ Joe raised his eyebrows.

  Kailash shook her head: ‘Didn’t we all?’

  I was breathing hard. Everyone felt that Connie’s abduction was their fault. Kailash was being punished for being a bad mother. Malcolm had sinned by being self-obsessed. Glasgow Joe felt obligated to protect anyone he loved – the list was very short and in his opinion it should have been well within his capabilities.

  But they were all wrong.

  They’d stupidly ignored putting my name on the list.

  ‘You’re hiding something – tell me!’ Joe demanded as the thought went through my mind and showed on my face. ‘Now, Brodie!’

  Shit. How could I tell him this?

  C
hapter Thirty-Eight

  Kailash’s home, Ravelston Dykes, Edinburgh

  Thursday 27 December, 10.15 a.m.

  Last autumn’s leaves and the odd plastic bag blown in from the nearby bus stop crunched underfoot as we walked through the garden, away from the prying ears of Bancho. ‘Is this private enough for you?’ Glasgow Joe’s breathing was short and shallow. Kailash, never good in the morning or in the cold, eyed me suspiciously.

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’ I leaned against a large elm tree and stole a cigarette from Kailash’s packet. Crouching over her cupped hands I tried to light it in the gusty wind. It was minus one, but the wind-chill factor made it feel like minus ten. When the second match failed, Joe’s hand covered the matches – there would be no cigarette until I had confessed.

  ‘Admit it – you thought you could handle whatever it was on your own,’ he accused. It was the truth, but a guilty conscience wouldn’t let me admit it.

  ‘It was on Boxing Day – it’s all connected with Thomas Foster,’ I said.

  ‘You mean the Ripper?’ Kailash brought Indian prayer beads out of her pocket and ran them feverishly through her fingers.

  ‘No – not unless he’s acting with someone else. There’s another guy,’ I told them.

  ‘I knew it!’ said Joe. ‘I’ve felt the bastard watching us. I swear he was stalking us at Lavender’s wedding.’ His fist clenched and unclenched as he mentally pummelled whomever he had felt; it was his way of taking pain and burying it down deep. I clamped my jaws together so closely that my molars hurt.

  ‘On Boxing Day, I went to the autopsies in the morning.’

  Kailash reached out and squeezed my hand. Her fingers were cold, the knuckles white and bloodless. A vein in her temple pounded furiously and her skin beneath the makeup was ashen.

  ‘The girl who’d been battered against the Castle Rock – Katya – died of a heart attack; it was nothing to do with the Ripper. The second autopsy was the girl whose photograph the babushka showed us in the casino.’

  Kailash blessed herself, a curious religious mixture in which she tried to embrace both sides of her bloodline. ‘The feet had been hacked off – one of them didn’t belong to the body so there’s a girl out there they haven’t found yet.’

  Quiet tears ran down Kailash’s cheeks, she moved the Mala through her fingers at an ever-increasing speed, and Glasgow Joe put his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest.

  ‘That’s not the full story. The victim who died at the rock—’ said Joe.

  ‘Katya Waleski,’ I interrupted. It was important to me that the murdered girls retained an identity; then we knew what we were facing – a human butcher who stole lives.

  ‘Yeah, Katya Waleski. She had stuff written on her chest – what was it again?’ Joe spoke to me over Kailash’s head.

  ‘It was in red lipstick,’ I said. ‘It said, “More will die”.’

  ‘What makes you so sure Thomas Foster didn’t write it?’ Kailash probed. She needed answers.

  ‘The handbag with all her makeup in it was found at the bottom of the crags beside her body. I spoke to Bancho. Even he’s having difficulty pinning this on Thomas … it seems that she put her dress and bag on the cannon.’

  ‘But what would make her do that?’ Joe was sticking to Bancho’s line that Thomas Foster was the Ripper.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Joe … It was bloody freezing. The girl had to earn some money and no doubt the bastard wasn’t offering to put his jacket on the cannon for her. Use your head, it was probably her one good dress and handbag, she couldn’t throw it in the snow … Katya expected to be very busy over Christmas and New Year.’ Kailash spoke from experience.

  ‘That explains it … and it gives my client a way out. You know that Bancho was sent a photograph of Katya and Thomas Foster …? The photograph didn’t show him writing any messages on her body,’ I said, taking the cigarette out of the palm of my hand. I fished around in Kailash’s pocket for the matches. It was vital to avoid Joe’s stare. I knew he would see the fear. With closed eyes I inhaled the smoke deep into my lungs. The nicotine found the spot and hurriedly raced through my bloodstream, at last reaching my brain and central nervous system. Like a miracle, it instantly calmed every ragged, uptight nerve ending it passed. Joe reached out and stroked my chin. He knew me, knew that I was still hiding something. I didn’t immediately respond so he moved on to his next tactic.

  ‘There’s more, Brodie. You’d better tell us all your secrets.’ Joe’s face was set; he wanted answers.

  ‘I’m not the only one with secrets, Joe. Why don’t you tell us about the Hobbyist’s website?’ I nodded in Kailash’s direction.

  ‘Brodie, I know all about the Hobbyists – and Moses said he tried to tell you in George Street when you collected Malcolm’s pills but you didn’t want to know about my business. So please, answer Joe’s question.’

  ‘Yeah, spit it out – we’ll all feel better for it,’ he said, removing his hand.

  ‘After the autopsy I got back to Cumberland Street about four. I’d meant to take the Fat Boy out for a ride.’

  ‘We know. We know you hate autopsies; just get on with it.’ Joe’s breath was still short, shallow and now his face was reddening – only I would defy him when he was reaching this point. I was thinking that Connie would too, but he never got mad with her as far as I knew. Connie was loved unconditionally.

  ‘Well … I went into my room.’

  ‘I’ll bet it was fucking difficult to tell if anyone had broken in there,’ Joe commented. He was right. Maybe if my room had been tidier I would have spotted the signs. Joe disapproved of my untidiness, which got worse if I was drinking too much.

  ‘Okay, now is not the time,’ I said. Kailash stared at me with a coldness in her eye that I had never seen before. ‘I lounged on my bed, checked my phone messages and found a saved message from Connie. But I’d never heard it before.’ I closed my eyes again. The world had stopped. She was gone and the moment I realized that again, there was an instantaneous change in my priorities. They both leaned towards me hopefully. ‘It was lovely, it was nothing, just a chat – you know how she is. The point was that I checked my messages before I went to the autopsies: there were no new messages. Connie had phoned whilst I was with Patch, but before I got home, someone else had listened to the message and saved it.’

  ‘Louisa,’ Joe said. It was well known that she crossed all social boundaries but she didn’t cross this one, I was sure of it.

  ‘I thought so too, but then I went to have a shower.’ I took a deep breath before continuing. ‘When I came out, my clothes for the evening were laid on the bed: black dress, handbag, shoes, even clean stockings, knickers and bra. It was appropriate for Grandad’s WS function so I think he … he … knew where I was going. Then he phoned. His voice was pretty unremarkable. He said that it was in both our interests that Thomas Foster stayed in prison. I thought he was threatening me.’

  I couldn’t hold it together. My face was wet with tears, snot ran down my nose. I didn’t care. Nothing mattered. I wiped the mess on the back of my sleeve but it made little difference.

  ‘Because of the holidays, I haven’t done anything to get him released anyway, so he’s still in Saughton Prison. I did everything he asked, everything this man asked, even if I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Tell me that you didn’t wear the outfit he laid out for you?’ Kailash had pulled away from Joe. There was a mixture of fear and confusion on her face. She lit another cigarette and stared through me, waiting for an answer. I couldn’t see the significance of it but I couldn’t lie. She would know.

  ‘I’d nothing else clean to wear and it was what I’d intended to put on anyway,’ I told her.

  ‘You imbecile! He’s watching you! He knows your every move. Wherever you are, he’s there too. Now, because you wore the outfit he chose for you, he thinks that he owns you. You’re the key in this, Brodie – Connie’s just caught up in his net.’

  Cha
pter Thirty-Nine

  Kailash’s home, Ravelston Dykes, Edinburgh

  Thursday 27 December, 10.15 a.m.

  The east wind blew his hair into his eyes, making it difficult to watch them, but not impossible; the yew-tree hedge concealing him swung back and forth, threatening to reveal his presence. That wouldn’t do at all.

  Dark grey clouds hung over the Forth road and rail bridges; the wind was pushing the rain cloud towards him. He knew it was going to chuck it down – soon. He sniffed the wind. It was cold enough for snow and the thought depressed him; snow was his enemy. He was too easy to track in the snow and shortly they would be looking for him. A shiver ran down his back. It had nothing to do with the inclement weather and everything to do with his fear of being caught; misunderstood – all his life he had been misunderstood.

  Burying deeper into the hedge, he was grateful for the tactics learned when he passed himself off as an animal-rights activist. They had taught him well; the week’s course in covert observation in an urban setting had proved particularly useful in this case. Pulling his collar up to protect himself against the cold, he lifted his shoulders to his ears and dropped them; he did this five times in an effort to relieve the stiffness in his neck.

  He tried not to breathe through his mouth. The cold air hurt his lungs, and his chest was weakened by asthma.

  Then Brodie walked into the garden. His jaw fell open. She was looking pale and drawn but she still excited him. He hoped she would see he had done it for her. Sure, Connie was nice enough, but the real woman he wanted, sought to please, was Brodie. Shifting from foot to foot, the rotting vegetation beneath him, crisp with ice, crackled and snapped like cereal. Forcing himself to ignore the bone-chilling cold, he twisted his neck to get a better view. His body responded to Brodie and showed him just how pleased he was to see her.

  Fingering the sharp, serrated blade that he always carried, he dug the point of the knife into the pad of his frozen index finger to see if he could still feel pain. A fat globule of blood appeared satisfyingly red and vibrant against the white skin. Something brushed against his skin; a black house cat with white paws. He looked at the red collar: ‘Loki’.