by Grace Monroe
Dutifully, I shook my head. ‘If a tiny part of your ego could acknowledge the fact I earned it,’ she said, hitting her badge off the table again, ‘then let me help you find Connie.’
If I wanted to get out of here, now was not the time to point out my concerns over her track record. Fifteen child abduction cases and not one found alive.
Detective Smith threw herself down on the chair opposite me after delivering what she thought was a good ‘help me to help you’ speech. I made no reply and, rubbing her face vigorously, she tried to dry wash away the tiredness and frustration.
She allowed a minute to pass in silence. I know exactly how long it was. I watched the hands on the clock and counted down the seconds. Finally, she looked up at me with a mixture of anger and disappointment.
‘How will you live with yourself when I find her broken, naked body? I’ll find her – she might be dead but I’ll bring her home – lay her at your feet and we’ll both know you could have saved her.’
Her guilt trip didn’t work on me. I didn’t have time for it. And I knew she was only having a go at me because of her own abysmal record in bringing home abducted children alive. She was also pissed off at my involvement in ‘her’ case.
Detective Smith stood up and pushed back her chair. It squeaked as it moved along the floor. ‘You’re free to go. I’m going back to my office – go over what scanty leads I have for the thousandth time and see if something jumps out at me. If you change your mind, stop by for coffee.’
I didn’t have time to waste so, thirty seconds after she left, I found myself asking for directions to her room.
It was smaller than Bancho’s but location is everything. Situated right next to the water fountain, she was bound to be up on all the latest station gossip. It was tidier, and the victim’s wall was smaller – it ripped my heart to look at it. Malcolm had fallen into the trap of most parents when asked for a photograph. There were at least ten different photographs on the wall. Detective Smith reached into her bottom drawer, and pulled out another bundle.
‘Malcolm,’ I said.
She nodded. ‘He insisted.’
‘It’s crazy – it’ll make no difference.’ I spoke softly.
‘Do you have any idea what’s going on?’
I shook my head. ‘But I know someone who might.’
She sat on the edge of her chair, mouth open like a fish ready to take the bait. I didn’t keep her waiting.
‘Thomas Foster.’
‘He’s your client and his DNA doesn’t match,’ she said.
‘I know. I still think he’s connected.’
‘Well, this has a different feel to other child abduction cases I’ve worked.’ I bit my lip – don’t mention her track record, I said to myself.
I wandered over to Connie’s wall. There was bugger all on it. I raked in my pockets and laid out what I had on Detective Smith’s desk: two photographs of suspects, a piece of paper and silver foil filled with a ball of used chewing gum. I put the gum back in my pocket.
I smoothed out the note.
‘Active evil is better than passive good,’ she read.
‘He left that note in my room.’
‘What does it mean?’ She looked to me for information.
‘William Blake – annotations to Lavater.’
‘Brodie, what’s he trying to tell us?’
‘He’s a pretentious prick?’
‘Well, he might be – but in his mind, what does it mean?’ Detective Smith knew enough about me to be certain I’d researched the hell out of this quote – I’d chosen not to discuss it with anyone because it showed what we were up against.
I blew loudly through pursed lips; the act of getting inside the madman’s mind was tiring.
‘The moral difference is not between good and evil, it is between action and inaction. Moral virtue cannot produce an act because it is restrained by rules.’
‘What does that mean?’ she asked, handing me my cup of coffee.
‘It means that in his mind he has done the right thing. In legal terms he has no mens rea – no guilty mind. If there is no mens rea, he cannot be found guilty.’
‘He left evidence in your bedroom that he is insane.’ Detective Smith swallowed the hot coffee too quickly. She put the mug down, spilling coffee on the desk, and then began to thump her burnt oesophagus. At least she understood what we were up against.
‘Clever bastard, isn’t he?’
I nodded. ‘Or maybe he is just plain mad.’
Chapter Sixty-Three
Bancho’s Operations Room, St Leonards Police Station
Saturday 29 December, 9 a.m.
Joe was waiting for me when I came out. His arms were outstretched and he pulled me close. Holding me tight, he gave me strength – I hoped I gave him some too.
‘It’s the first time I’ve been in here,’ he said, still cradling me. ‘All my conversations with Bancho have taken place over the phone … these photographs …’ Joe was wrestling with his emotions; we needed cool, clear heads if we were going to find my sister.
‘By my watch, Bancho arrested Thomas Foster at five thirty a.m. It’s now nine o’clock, so we only have another two and a half hours to get information that will lead us to Connie … Bancho’s just fishing with him and my client is too smart to fall for it.’
‘You’re not entitled to see him until eleven thirty, so if he’s released he takes any information he has about Connie with him.’ Joe stiffened with frustration.
‘I have to convince Bancho to let me see him … it’s our only chance.’
‘Do you think he’s questioned him about the New Haven murders?’ Joe whispered into my hair. Holding each other we could pretend, just for a second, that nothing was wrong. For Connie’s sake we had to hold it together.
‘You’re the one who keeps telling me he’s not an idiot. The American murders match Sonia’s description of what happened to her.’
‘He’s not likely to confess … and Lavender said it was his ginger friend who was the suspect … it seems to me that he cooperated with the FBI … he tried a citizen’s arrest, led them to evidence that incriminated his friend. They don’t think it was his fault that the serial killer got away.’
‘So the only mention Thomas Foster got in the FBI files was a … commendation?’ I was finding it difficult to breathe; I stepped away from Joe. ‘It doesn’t seem right … Sonia wasn’t lying and I know that the man who attacked her is my client.’
‘I thought you weren’t supposed to judge whether clients were innocent or guilty … you’re just there to represent them.’
I tapped the pictures. ‘Memento mori … the Victorians loved them, pictures of the dead. They made them quite an art form.’
‘Brodie, I didn’t take Latin at school.’
‘Remember you must die … the English translation is … “Remembered you must die,” I said looking at him.
‘But not like that… no one deserves to die like that – those girls deserve retribution. How did the American suspect escape?’
‘Friends in high places tipped him off. Jack reckons that Thomas Foster is a Bonesman. I think it’s likely that the New Haven killer is a Bonesman too.’
‘You’re going too fast …’ He put his arm around me, and we stared at the girls, both trying not to look at Connie.
‘Yale University is the home of one of the world’s most influential secret societies,’ I explained. ‘Interestingly, it was once known as the Brotherhood of Death… they meet in the “Tomb” every Thursday and Sunday and one of the most important rituals is that they have to share a personal history.’
Joe frowned: ‘So they tell each other their deepest, darkest secrets and leave themselves wide open to be controlled by blackmail … is that what’s happening here? Thomas Foster didn’t come forward with the goods when his ginger pal started taking the game too far … Why did they let the other guy off?’ Joe was edgy, and time was running out.
‘The Skull and Bones
is tiny, only fifteen members are tapped a year. That’s why it’s extraordinary they’re so influential … at one time you couldn’t get into the upper echelons of the CIA unless you were a Bonesman, so it wouldn’t be hard to get a Bonesman out of trouble.’
‘So, the ginger killer got out of the country. They could still have put him on the FBI’s most wanted list – extradited him,’ Joe said. I didn’t answer immediately.
‘On every section the US would have been granted extradition; the crime is sufficiently serious, there exists a prima facie case, he would get a fair trial, murder is a crime in both countries, and the penalty would fit the crime,’ I said.
‘So why didn’t they do that?’ he asked.
‘They didn’t ask. Someone buried the evidence – they’ve buried the killer’s identity so deep Lavender can’t even find a nickname for him … and he’s walking about Edinburgh getting ready to strike again,’ I said.
‘Why … would people hide a killer? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Bit of mutual backscratching – get him out of here and we’ll look the other way,’ I said. ‘As you know, I raised this point when I asked the judge and the police officers if they were Masons – when people in power owe their loyalty to a secret brotherhood, the law is inevitably bent…’
‘But they’re not Masons,’ he said.
‘No, they’re Bonesmen – and until the seventies the Skull and Bones didn’t keep their membership list secret, but they did keep their ritual secret. As G.W. Bush said, It’s so secret we can’t talk about it. John Kerry refused to answer questions on it because it’s secret. Secrets and lies lead to getting away with murder.’
‘Soon after Foster arrived in Edinburgh, the murders started. I think his American friend set up The Hobbyist site here.’ Joe still looked embarrassed for having kept it a secret from me.
‘The Hobbyist website deals with sex slaves … the US doesn’t have a law against human trafficking. G.W. Bush, aka the Bonesman, promised zero tolerance, but Congress said it was too hard to impose so they just didn’t bother,’ I said, pulling a cup from the dispenser. The water was cold and refreshing.
‘Brodie, are you telling me our hands are tied? It’s up to the United States to give us the identity of the killer and they’re not going to? For some reason Thomas Foster doesn’t want to help the police here so he’ll walk out of here a free man at eleven-thirty, taking the Ripper’s identity with him? We’ve got fuck-all chance of finding Connie then.’ I grabbed his arm; he looked as if he was going to storm the room where Bancho was interviewing Thomas Foster.
We walked along the corridor towards the interview room. Bancho was out having a drink – Joe and I could see that he was having no success.
As he caught sight of us approaching, his grip on the cup tightened.
‘How did Sonia’s statement go?’ Joe asked. Bancho threw the cup in the bin and snarled, ‘What statement? You idiots … she’s done a runner. She wasn’t there. We’re searching Leith again for her now, but I’m not holding my breath.’
‘I want to see my client,’ I said.
‘You know you don’t have any right …’ He eyed me up and down, suspicious of my motives. If I murdered him in jail, would Bancho be an accessory to the fact?
‘What’s your answer?’ I held his eyes. ‘Have you questioned him about Connie?’ I asked. Glasgow Joe growled in the background.
Shamefacedly he shook his head. ‘It’s not my investigation – I’ve only been quizzing him about the redheads.’
‘So … he has no reason to believe we suspect him of having anything to do with Connie’s kidnap?’ I said.
‘Well, we are both agreed, he’s not a fucking idiot. He took her – she’s a redhead. Of course he knows we suspect him.’
‘I don’t agree. He’s an arrogant bastard, and if he thinks he’s walking out of here with the Ripper’s name, he’s mistaken,’ I said. ‘I think he’s part of a killing team – that explains the DNA. He doesn’t have to kill – he’s doing this for some motive of his own,’ I said. ‘And I think his partner has Connie.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Thomas Foster isn’t the only one who knows the Ripper. We all do. Connie went willingly with her abductor. She knows him … we all know him.’
Chapter Sixty-Four
The Operations Room, St Leonards Police Station
Saturday 29 December, 9.30 a.m.
‘If we know him, where is he hiding? I’m a pretty good judge of character. I’m sure I would have spotted something dodgy; my senses have been on red alert. How could I have looked into this man’s eye and not known?’ Glasgow Joe shook his head, disgusted with himself.
‘It might be someone she’s met on Xbox Live,’ I said. The problem we had was that every one of us from Kailash to Moses prided ourselves on being a good judge of character, and I was all too aware of what they said about pride coming before a fall.
‘Maybe it’s a woman? Things aren’t always what they seem.’ Bancho’s train of thought was interrupted when his phone rang. He listened in silence, nodding deferentially.
‘No, sir, I wasn’t aware the US embassy was involved,’ he lied. ‘Yes, sir, I understand the difficulties with the press. But, sir, I have new evidence. An eyewitness. The victim … it was an assault on a prostitute.’
The conversation was obviously concluded by the other party and Bancho put the phone down.
‘That was the chief constable. Adie Foster’s in reception – he’s filed a complaint with the chief and I’ve been told I have to speak to him … to calm the bastard down – avoid a diplomatic fucking incident.’ He fired his mug off the wall next to the dead girls and it shattered.
‘Calm down man,’ Glasgow Joe eyeballed him. ‘We don’t have enough time for you to lose it.’
‘Bancho,’ I said. ‘You’ve got two hours left to hold Thomas Foster. His father is gonna wait upstairs to whisk him somewhere, anywhere there are no extradition treaties,’ I said.
‘Really!’ he replied sarcastically. ‘You think I wasn’t aware of that?’
‘You go and continue your interrogation of Thomas Foster. I’ll speak to his father; I’ll calm him down and find out what he knows.’ I tried to make it sound like I was doing him a favour, but there’s no such thing as a free lunch. No one was going to stop me seeing Thomas Foster before the six-hour deadline ran out.
‘Bancho, you will let Brodie speak to Thomas Foster before eleven thirty.’ Glasgow Joe was not asking, he was telling the detective inspector what was going to happen. Bancho walked out of the room.
‘He’ll let you in to see Thomas Foster,’ Glasgow Joe nodded at me.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Brodie, I’m positive … what are you going to do in the meantime?’
‘Adie Foster’s upstairs. He knows more than he’s letting on … but I gave DI Smith the photographs of the two men and I want to show them to him.’
‘You don’t have a lot of time. Set the alarm on your watch. How long do you think you’ll need?’
‘Fifteen minutes is all I’ve got.’
By the time I got to Detective Smith’s room I had already lost six minutes. Mercifully, the room was empty and, due to the tidier nature of the female detective, the photographs and the note were already pinned on the wall. I kissed my finger and laid it on my sister’s picture.
With my free hand I shoved the evidence in my pocket and ran upstairs, not easy in the high heels and pelmet skirt I was wearing. Desk Sergeant Munro had put Adie Foster in a side office. It was a utilitarian, easily scrubbed-down type of room; no fabrics in which germs or lice could linger. The grey linoleum smelt of industrial disinfectant. Mr Foster was about to have an apoplectic fit, and it couldn’t come soon enough as far as I was concerned.
Adie Foster was a man used to negotiating. He had instinctively moved round to the side of the Formica desk that the interviewer would occupy – the position of power.
‘Don’t you think you’re a little …
casual?’ he drawled, looking at the tart’s outfit that I was still wearing. He looked like a CNN anchorman, his glossy grey hair unnaturally thick for a man of his age, his Botoxed forehead showing no emotion.
‘I’m sorry, it’s been a hard few days trying to prove your son’s innocence. In spite of the fact that my sister’s missing, I’ve trawled every cathouse in Leith and stood on street corners. You may have heard – I don’t like to lose,’ I said.
His eyes widened with surprise; he wanted to buy into my story so I gave him more. Unsmiling, he stared at me. His nod of approval was barely discernible but I was watching for it.
‘My grandfather, Lord MacGregor, and the Enlightenment Society were delighted when you instructed me. By the way, it was a stroke of PR genius to make your son work at the City Vaults… it goes some way to dispelling the spoilt little rich kid image.’ I kept nodding, reeling him in, even managing a smile, although without showing my teeth – it was more of a grimace.
‘If it’s such a good idea I wish I had thought of it – but I’ve never made Thomas go out to work.’
‘Oh …’ I paused, to better let my next line sink in. ‘A member of the Enlightenment Society must have got that out to the press.’
My eyes read his every movement. He was buying it – not because I was good, but because he wanted to believe there was an easy way out of this.
‘Well, I knew your … “connections” … were the reason you got Lucas Baroc such an excellent result. Lucas merely thought you were brilliant.’ He laughed. Arrogant bastard – he was relaxing, things were under his control again.
‘You were right of course. I understand you couldn’t keep me fully apprised of the situation, but the Enlightenment Society did,’ I said, slowing down enough to note the surprise in his eyes.
‘I met with them on Boxing Day – we were gathered in the WS library for a function to honour my grandfather.’ I spoke in a slow, measured tone, the rate of a human heartbeat, until he began to make those reassuring little nods again.
