Watcher

by Grace Monroe

  ‘You know that I’m acting for Thomas Foster?’

  ‘Aye, the Ripper.’ Moses’ eyes glazed over. Nothing mattered to him except Connie. My dilemma with Foster wouldn’t even register.

  ‘The girl he was with died of a heart attack caused by drugs – he says he bought them from you.’ I watched his face. Not a flicker. He’d been accused of worse.

  ‘I don’t sell drugs, doll, and I certainly don’t force anyone to take them.’ He shrugged his shoulders; his eyes were fixed over my shoulder, watching Connie running rings around the Penicuik girls. To get anywhere, I’d have to humour him.

  ‘If she’d been a boy, a scout would have signed her.’ Moses inhaled and exhaled deeply. ‘That’s one fucking great dummy she’s just done – look, she left the defender standing. What a girl.’ Connie beamed out at us, a living, breathing spirit, proud of her talent. Waiting on the applause, she ran to the home support. I saw us huddled together, beaming back at her.

  ‘Obviously, you’re not a drug pusher, Moses,’ I wheedled. ‘You’re a businessman, right? But maybe Blind Bruce or the new guy might remember them?’

  ‘Bruce is too fond of sampling the product – you can’t rely on him for anything.’ Being the most dispensable member, Moses sanctioned the use of Bruce in drugs testing. Whenever a new batch was made, Bruce tried it. This human testing was supposed to make it safe for the streets; in fact, Moses, in his new role as businessman, even referred to it as his unique selling point. So if it was safe, how could it have killed Katya Waleski? Unless it was a batch Bruce did not test, or, more likely, Bruce had developed an unnaturally high tolerance level.

  ‘You can speak to Blind Bruce if you like, but that daft bastard is not giving evidence. No way. Cal’s not in Edinburgh at the minute – he’s gone tae his mother’s for Christmas.’

  ‘So you’ll make sure I can speak to Bruce?’

  ‘Is that no’ just what I said?’ Moses was back staring at the TV screen. I followed his eyes. I sat down next to Lavender; she squeezed my hand, never taking her eyes from the screen.

  ‘I hope he’s got other talents – he’s a shite cameraman.’ Onscreen, Eddie was playing with his new no-brainer camcorder, taking in views of Arthur’s Seat or, when he got particularly excited, dropping the lens; all you saw were shoes jumping up and down with lots of noise off camera.

  On the flat-screen TV, Connie lay stock-still; her face contorted with pain, holding her breath so she wouldn’t cry. Unusually, her face was smeared with mud. Her ponytail, which Malcolm had dressed with the ridiculous neon pink fabric rose, lay across her cheek. The images came and went, herky-jerky, as Eddie ran across the field to her. We saw the sky, pedestrians, Arthur’s Seat, and the whole panoply of the Meadows. What the hell was Eddie doing with the camcorder? He certainly hadn’t found a new calling. Connie had been hacked by a defender and was lying injured. We all froze, just staring at the screen. Malcolm ran on and soothed her, spraying instant freeze on her ankle, then helped her to her feet. She waved to Kailash to show she was okay – if only this were so easy.

  ‘Press hold! Rewind it!’ I said suddenly.

  Lavender took charge. ‘Eddie! Pause it!’

  The picture was frozen on the changing rooms.

  ‘I can see something. Look at the shadow behind the window – it looks like someone’s in there,’ I said.

  ‘It could be one of the girls – maybe she went to the toilet in the middle of the game?’ Lavender said.

  ‘At this point in the game, all the players were on the pitch. That’s a stranger in the toilets,’ said Joe.

  ‘It needn’t be anything suspicious – there are no toilets up at that end of the Meadows. I know myself that if I was desperate for a pee, I’d nip in.’ Lavender didn’t want me to build up my hopes, but Joe was on my tag team.

  ‘You might want to spend a penny there, but you couldn’t. I lock the changing rooms,’ he said. The remote was now in his hands.

  ‘Fast-forward it to the end of the game, Joe,’ I said.

  ‘What have you seen?’ he asked.

  I didn’t answer him immediately; I wasn’t sure – it was just a vague, unsettling feeling. ‘Stop! There – look!’ I pressed my finger against the flat screen. ‘Is there any way anyone can make this image bigger?’

  Lavender pressed the zoom button on the camcorder.

  ‘Stop! Pause it!’

  We all stared at the screen – at the man leaving the girls’ changing rooms.

  ‘What the hell was a priest doing there?’ I asked.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Cumberland Street, Edinburgh

  Friday 28 December, 3.15 a.m.

  I didn’t know which was worse – waiting for the phone to ring or it actually ringing.

  I’d been expecting his call. I lay fully dressed underneath the duvet, just waiting. We’d split up into teams. Lavender and Jack had gone to the office to enhance the image of the priest; Joe and Moses had just returned from another fruitless trip to the brothels and pubs to hunt down the only person who could identify the Ripper. And I waited by the phone. A sense of helplessness and the sound of my racing heart must have lulled me into a dreamless sleep sometime after midnight. Then it came, the jolting ring, jarring me to the bone, shocking me back into a living nightmare.

  Desperation magnifies your senses. He was coming, and there was nothing I could do about it. I could feel him creep around inside my head, there was no escape; my heart knew that. He was inside me, a parasite, one of those worms that can only live inside a human eye. But as sure as a drumbeat he was coming, bringing more evil to my doorstep.

  Don’t answer it.

  I pulled the duvet over my head but the phone rang again. God help me, I whispered, as I picked up the phone.

  His breathing was hard, hot and heavy – oppressive. The panting echoed off the corners of the room, darkness amplifying the rasping quality of the sound, jangling my nerves. Panic set in. I knocked a glass of water over. It smashed on the wooden floorboards as I struggled to find the lamp. He held his breath, listening to my terror. I fought to regain my composure.

  He invaded my darkness and pinpricks of sweat broke out on my skin as the wave of nausea swelled. I did not cry out. Like a good girl I listened. I knew how he could punish me. I held my breath, afraid to inflame the monster, but he said nothing. I could sense him enjoying my fear. For Connie’s sake – get a fucking grip, I told myself. For once, heeding my conscience, I sat bolt upright in bed, fumbling again for the bedside light. This time I found it and my eyes struggled to adjust.

  ‘You’ll suffer.’

  He sounded different – disguised.

  This time he was whispering. It was difficult to make out whether it was even a man or a woman; there were no recognizable characteristics. Bancho was monitoring my calls; knowing that he was listening gave me strength.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Surprisingly, I sounded much stronger than I felt. ‘Why do you want me to suffer?’ I demanded.

  ‘You’re going to suffer.’ The Ripper inhaled deeply, as if I exhausted him, and then he gently put the receiver down. I held the phone in my hand and stared at it. I wanted him back – he was my only link to Connie.

  Suffer? Suffer for what, for God’s sake?

  When the shit hits the fan, I feel an overwhelming urge to laugh. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. I’ve tried. That was how they found me, rolling around in bed laughing hysterically. I saw Bancho and Joe wedge in the doorway, both trying to be heroes, to save the day. Well, it was too bloody late for that. I stopped laughing.

  ‘We’re trying to trace the call, but …’ Bancho’s eyes were hooded with concern at my apparent hysteria. Leaning across the bed I dialled 1471 and threw the phone at him – just in case. They watched me in disbelief, probably thinking I must have completely lost it if I thought things were that simple. ‘For Christ’s sake, Brodie,’ said Bancho, ‘let me do my job. If he was stupid enough to call from a n
on-payphone, do you really think he’d have left his number? Do you think he’s a fucking amateur?’ said Bancho. An automated voice told him that the caller rang at three nineteen – and then gave Bancho the number. His eyes almost popped as he got straight on to Fettes police HQ asking them to trace the number. ‘Why are you calling headquarters?’ Joe asked. ‘Why not just ring back and tell the bastard we’re coming for him?’

  ‘Because I don’t want him to know that we know and I need backup. DI Smith needs to be told. Connie’s abduction is her case,’ said Bancho. ‘And, like her …’ he nodded in my direction, ‘shut up and let me do my job.’

  ‘Come on, Bancho,’ I said. ‘He’s not stupid. If he’s left the number, it’s on purpose.’

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ Joe asked, as if that would somehow make this all right. We were at an impasse until the information on the caller came through. I didn’t feel like joining the others in the kitchen. Perhaps if I just lay here maybe I would hear Connie’s voice again.

  Switching the light off, Joe told me to get some sleep. I lay shaking and chilled; maybe the tea would have done me good after all. Recognizing that I was in a state of shock, I clasped my knees, trying to ward off the cold feeling stealing into my bones. It was hard to breathe; the air was stale and hot under the covers.

  I tried to put it all out of my mind, to relax, but no sooner had I started the process than Joe came rushing in.

  ‘Fettes have just called with the details of that number, Brodie – can you fucking believe it? It came from your Grandad’s house!’

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Cumberland Street, Edinburgh

  Friday 28 December, 4.05 a.m.

  A watchful silence surrounded me as Bancho, Joe and the others tiptoed around, whispering conspiratorially, making plans, treating me as if I’d already suffered a death. When they asked how I was feeling, I said: ‘Do you think the Ripper wants to be caught? Sometimes they do, you know. Either he wants to be caught or he thinks I’m a fuckwit. I wouldn’t argue the toss with him,’ I said, completely spaced out with guilt.

  They murmured niceties, seeking to assure me that I wasn’t guilty, that it was lack of sleep making me shoulder blame for something I wasn’t responsible for. They didn’t use the word paranoid.

  Naturally, the first thing I wanted to do was speak to Grandad to confirm that he wasn’t harmed, but his phone wasn’t being picked up. Bancho had told me not to do it, but he couldn’t stop me trying. It didn’t matter. There was no one there. Or no one answering. Or no one able to answer. Glasgow Joe called the service provider. They listened in on the line but there was nothing wrong – it was just off the hook. In spite of this information, I ground my teeth and kept trying. Maybe he was en route to Kailash. I didn’t really believe that; just as quickly as I was putting a family together, one by one I was losing them again.

  I wanted to know what was going on. Bancho had already radioed and asked for backup; he was heading for the door of the flat with Joe when I stopped him. ‘There’s no way you’re leaving here without me,’ I told him. ‘It’s my family – you don’t have the right to stop me.’

  ‘It’s precisely because it’s your family that I don’t want you there,’ said Bancho, softly. His face was right next to mine. He smelled of stale smoke and anchovy pizza; he wore a stubble that was twelve hours past designer and a shirt that looked as if he’d slept in it. Still, I wasn’t picky. If I had to hold on to his ankle there was no way he was leaving without dragging me along. He must have sensed my resolve and decided that, after less than four hours’ sleep, he didn’t have the strength to fight me off. Something shifted in his eyes. Pity? I didn’t care what his emotion was as long as he took me to Grandad’s side.

  I tried to get in the front seat, but Bancho pushed me into the back and Joe piled in beside me. Bancho’s car would be useful I guessed, in case we needed to run any red lights. The streets were deserted, the blacktopped roads icy, and the cobbles treacherous. I prayed the constable in the front had been through his advanced driving course: even that was no guarantee we would get there safely. Joe’s knuckles were white. We were both piss-poor passengers.

  Driving up the hill to Princes Street, the same old tinsel-covered Christmas trees were displayed in windows, and fairy lights flashed down on me mockingly – this was the holiday period. Life went on, but I wanted it to stop. In George Street they were gearing up for the big Hogmanay street party and I could see drunken stragglers leaving Susie Wong’s. Clenching my fist, I gestured helplessly and stared down at my shoes – I was wearing the same trainers that Connie had dropped the hair dye on.

  The driver tried to make small talk, but we’d retired into stubborn silence, fighting the worst-case scenarios in our minds. The Ripper had a talent for surprise. Why did he abduct Connie? Why had he phoned me from Grandad’s phone? ‘Why’ questions were on an endless loop. Grandad and Connie were related to me, ergo I was to blame. I heard the rasping whisper, ‘I’ll make you suffer.’ Steeling myself, I lifted my chin and put my shoulders back; pumping up ready for a fight – for my family’s sake I had to be fit for the ring.

  Bancho’s driver sped down Hanover Street, flying straight through the lights, no siren on. Princes Street was still lit up like Blackpool illuminations, the Ferris Wheel glowed in the dark and I heard Connie’s belly laugh again. Speeding up the Mound, we turned right past the seventy-foot Christmas tree that the residents of Norway give to Edinburgh every year. We screeched to a halt outside Ramsay Gardens – two other squad cars blocked the street and DI Bancho spoke into the radio, co-coordinating their assault. Wariness prevailed. My grandfather was a very important man, the police didn’t have a search warrant, and there had been no threat to his life. It was a dangerous move for DI Bancho’s career to kick in Lord MacGregor’s door as if he was on a drug raid.

  Sitting helplessly in the back I had to wait for Bancho to let me out. Suddenly, it hit me: I was scared shitless. What would I find? I didn’t know. All I did know was I had to be the first one in, the first one to find Grandad.

  DI Bancho climbed the outside staircase, avoiding the carefully potted containers filled with winter-flowering primula. Caution slowed him sufficiently for me to catch up and I pulled him by the shoulder and turned him round. Using crude sign language I motioned that this was up to me. Glasgow Joe locked eyes with Bancho; he had my back. We knew the risks.

  I rang the bell.

  No answer. Keeping my finger on it, I kicked the door in frustration. Soundlessly, a meaty hand pushed me aside. Leaning on the balcony railing, Joe kicked the door. Nothing for him either. Tilting out precariously over the railing to gain more leverage, he wobbled. Holding on to the railing tighter, he used his foot on the Yale lock and the door burst open as if it was made of cheap cardboard. Inhaling as if going into a blazing fire, I stepped into the darkness.

  The narrow hallway was tastefully decorated with pen and ink sketches of old Edinburgh, all hung in a row and framed in black. A small Waterford crystal chandelier hung at the far end. I made no sound. Creeping along in the dark until I got to Grandad’s bedroom, I knew that someone was there. Joe pushed me behind him and gingerly opened the door. A figure lay slumped on the bed. Joe switched the light on. I heard a sigh of relief coming from Joe. ‘It’s all right, Brodie … your grandpa is sleeping like a log.’

  ‘Hey, ya daft old bugger!’ said Joe to the sleeping form. Grandad didn’t stir. ‘Come on now. You’d better put your teeth in – you’ve got company.’

  Grandad was slow to rouse, but he was coming round. I wandered over to the bed. I didn’t fall over any piles of discarded clothing. His suit was hung on a trouser press, and handmade brogues, shiny to within an inch of their lives, were in shoetrees. It was the first time I’d ever been in Grandad’s bedroom. I took the opportunity to nose around; it smelt a bit of old man with a vague bouquet of expensive cologne – not enough of it. On the walnut bedside table was a brown tablet bottle: Ambien 200 mg prescribed
for Jack Deans. Well, that bloody explained it. Grandad didn’t take tablets as a rule and these sleeping tablets were hard stuff. No wonder the poor old bugger was out cold. I gave the bottle to Joe. Shaking his head and swearing, he helped Grandad to a sitting position.

  ‘That fucker Deans is an idiot – he could have killed him.’ Half turning to me, Joe spoke again. ‘There’s a word for people like him.’

  ‘Pusher?’ I added helpfully.

  ‘No, junkie. Have you never noticed he can give you a pill to pop for any occasion? He’s as bad as bloody Moses. The old boy could sell these tablets for a pound a go.’

  ‘He could if he could get out of his bed.’

  Bancho and the boys were staying respectfully in the hallway. ‘Bancho! The old boy’s fine!’ Joe shouted.

  ‘I’ll have less of the “old boy”, thank you very much.’ Grandad had slipped in his teeth before he spoke.

  The lights went on in the hallway.

  Detective Inspector Smith shouted: ‘I think you’d better come and see this!’

  Screaming echoed round the flat. It took me a few moments to realize I was the screamer. Bloody footprints made by a trainer marked the carpet. There was one set into the drawing room, another leading back out to the front door – and freedom. DI Bancho was trying to protect the crime scene but, in the confusion, I wandered across the bloody path blindly.

  Standing in the doorway, apart from the footprints, everything seemed normal, except for a nagging raspy whisper in my head. It was as if the Ripper was talking to me. Pay attention – or you’ll suffer even more. Adrenalin pumped through my veins, improving my senses; breathing in through my nose I fancied I could smell him and he smelled – familiar. I knew him, just as he knew me; all I had to do was remember.

  You haven’t gone to all this trouble just to make a mess on the shag pile – have you?

  I heard his laugh and oddly, I thought of it as educated. Stepping into his shoes I took an inventory. Oxblood Chesterfield settee – where it should be. Winged armchair exactly in the place I had last seen it – I hadn’t sat on it for it was Grandad’s favoured chair. My graduation photograph, in pride of place on the Chippendale table. I was grateful the Ripper had not stood on the seventeenth-century Aubusson rug; obviously he had enough taste to know it was irreplaceable. How considerate!