The Watcher

‘Miss McLennan.’ He stared down at the paperwork. ‘Your colleague, one Mr Edward Gibb, has already visited your custodies and you’re not getting to see Billy Palmer for another six hours.’ He smiled ingratiatingly – he liked to smile at me when he was winning.

‘I wanted to check the status of Derek Brown. I—’

He interrupted me, unable to hide his delight; he didn’t even have to check his paperwork. ‘Derek Brown has asked for another solicitor. In fact, he said – wait a minute, I wrote it down somewhere … I quote: “If that miserable bitch Brodie McLennan comes here, tell her I wouldn’t let her represent me if she was the last lawyer in hell.”’ Sergeant Munro grinned but Dismal Derek’s insults were like water off a duck’s back to me. However, I needed to get more information so that Malcolm could sleep tonight.

‘I take it he’s appearing in court tomorrow? Who’s his lawyer?’ If I found that out then Malcolm could speak to them in the morning.

‘Ricky Gordon,’ said Munro.

A snort of laughter came out of my nose. It was quite embarrassing, but must have just been nerves. ‘Ricky Gordon doesn’t do criminal work because of his stutter.’

‘Well, he’s doing it tomorrow – I’d get there early or God knows what time you’ll be out of Court One. I’ll get Malcolm a taxi – he needs his bed,’ he said.

No man is all bad, even Sergeant Munro, but there were a few that seemed to be devoid of anything positive – the Ripper, for one. The atmosphere in the station was tense; all the officers were working overtime trying to catch the Ripper, yet the people in the cells were the usual suspects. A young Polish police officer shouted that Malcolm’s taxi was here. Lothian and Borders police needed foreign nationals as constables to deal with the immigrants – not that I’d ever represented a Polish plumber. I wondered if it was just another PR exercise by the Scottish government.

My nemesis, DI Bancho, appeared, holding the door open for Malcolm. He looked like shit: heading up the investigation into the Ripper murders was taking its toll. I decided it wasn’t just Sergeant Munro who could have his fun – baiting Duncan Bancho always made me feel better.

Chapter Ten (#u7eceafa5-3462-54de-8f93-ee5e50863b62)

St Leonards Police Station, EdinburghSunday 23 December, 2 a.m.

The five dead girls stared at me and I stared back.

Lips were silenced and eyes deadened. They all wanted to know one thing. Who will speak up for me?

What could I do? I wasn’t their lawyer. The dead don’t have lawyers. But though I’d gone into the operations room originally to goad Bancho, the dead girls had silenced me. I felt as if a freezing-cold cloak had been thrown on my back, and I shivered. The silent mouths asked me a new question: What will you do if he’s caught? Will you speak for him?

The operations room was a mess. Bancho’s cheeks were heavy and drawn, his skin bleached by exhaustion. He walked up to the wall that held the chilling photographs and tapped it reverentially. ‘They talk to me too,’ he muttered, scratching his head and turning to make some coffee. I didn’t bother to deny what he’d said. Waiting for the kettle to boil, he massaged his temples, trying to ease the pressure that was building. All the time he gazed unblinkingly at that wall. The wastepaper basket was overflowing, and an empty box of paracetamol was on the top. If I’d had any I would have given him some of mine. Wonders never cease – me feeling sorry for DI Duncan Bancho.

The desk was littered with crumpled paper that Bancho had discarded. Police reports, details of autopsies, newspaper clippings, buff-coloured folders with spurious leads – everything was laid out for the world to see. If it was an indication of the state of his mind, then no wonder he had headaches. I wanted to help. In spite of my revulsion, I wandered back over to the wall. The families of the victims who could be traced were located in Eastern Europe, Romania, Poland and the Ukraine. A map on the far right contained red dots to indicate the place of origin of the victim. Another map of the city of Edinburgh contained black dots to show where the bodies had been found. To my untrained eye, there seemed to be no obvious link.

For identification purposes, the relatives had been asked to provide a recent photograph. The before shots were more distressing than the after ones. The beautiful faces were arranged in chronological order according to the date of death, not the date they were found. These girls hadn’t been reported missing. No one was looking for them – the discovery of the bodies was more a case of luck than judgement. A macabre beauty pageant was lined up on the wall. The girls had taken time to look pretty for their days at weddings, parties, graduations – and they did. I felt old just looking at them. All the victims were redheads, all different shades of red, and haircuts of every description.

Catalina was the first victim, found on 3 July; her hair was a cascade of curls. Florenta, whose body was discovered on 24 July, had her auburn hair cut short into an elfin style that emphasized her eyes; whereas Bianca, whose body was located on 20 August, had hair that fell poker-straight to her waist. Two of the victims had no before photographs. In direct contrast, straight below the glamour shots, the bare, smashed bodies of the murdered girls had been photographed one last time. Blu-Tack held the unnerving, inexcusable gallery to the wall. There wasn’t much room left.

‘If the Ripper continues with his killing spree, they’re going to have to give you a bigger room,’ I muttered.

Bancho had written the girl’s name and age, if known, where and when the body was found, and the pathologist’s estimated time of death. Catalina had lain undiscovered for months. The Ripper, annoyed at being ignored by the police, had cut the index finger from Bianca, the third victim, and placed it under Detective Bancho’s windscreen wiper. When Bancho had been given the case months earlier, there had been a fanfare of publicity – he was Lothian and Borders’ blue-eyed boy because he’d been seconded to the FBI for six months. He was trained in profiling techniques, but this was his first serial killer.

The two unknown victims were particularly heartrending. Their families didn’t even know that they should be grieving. In the last six months, five bodies had been found, in various locations. After the first one, the Ripper made sure to place the bodies where a member of the public would find them. Now, he was becoming increasingly reckless.

‘You must have learned something with the FBI,’ I said. My shoulders hunched instinctively and it sounded like a criticism. It wasn’t the tone I was looking for, but old habits die hard …

‘The FBI have unsolved cases too,’ he said snippily. ‘The Ripper has chosen these girls carefully. At the moment only he knows the reason – but he’s marked them with a signature that keeps changing.’ DI Bancho turned to look at me. ‘He hunts his prey – knows all about them. At the moment he’s scouring the brothels of Leith but, as I’ve said, the bastard keeps changing.’

DI Bancho and I stood in front of the photographs, a heavy silence between us as we stared at the girls.

‘What’s his signature … you’ve said it’s changing … how did it start?’

‘With Catalina you can see her body is badly decomposed, but he’s cut off her feet and hands to stop her escaping. Then he sewed her eyelids open using heavy black twine. Florenta got the same treatment, but look here.’ He tapped an eight-by-ten photograph. ‘He tore her tongue out by the root. Finally he cut her throat from ear to ear.’

‘What about this one?’ An unknown girl, her mouth twisted into an obscene scream, stared at me.

‘I told you he varies it slightly … he’s taken the skin off her left knee. And this one …’ He pointed to the other unidentified victim. Her breast had been cut open and her heart removed. Bancho coughed. ‘The media didn’t dub him the Ripper – that’s what he calls himself. These aspects of his signature, along with the torn-out tongue, are taken directly from the history books.

‘There’s also speculation that the original Jack the Ripper was a Mason; he scrawled an incriminating message on the wall at the murder scene. The chief constable at the time rubbed it out and that’s why he was never caught. It’s no secret there are some pretty powerful Masons in this city. How often have there been calls for public declaration of membership among police and the judiciary? You can see why I am trying to keep this secret – especially after your recent publicity stunt.’

He offered me a Mars bar from a stash of sweeties in his desk and I couldn’t resist. I always use food as comfort; it was late and we were both sick and exhausted. A sigh of weariness escaped from his lips as we stared at the dead girls. Christmas was coming but to Bancho and me, the season of goodwill had never felt further away.

‘What do they look like to you?’ His finger reached out to touch the portrait of Bianca Kowalski, the third body to be found. ‘They’re all redheads for a start – foreign—’

‘So far …’ he said, interrupting me. I looked back at the gallery of death, recalling the training that Patch, my Professor of Forensics, had given me.

‘Good nutrition in childhood has strengthened her bone structure – see the Slavic high cheekbones – but her mother worked in the fields, I’d guess. Her dress is cheap but she’s copied it from something like American Vogue. It’s bloody sad – she was the prettiest girl in the village, probably dreamed of something more. I bet that all she wanted was to get out, away from the arranged marriage, anything to escape. Jesus, the price was too high,’ I said the final words under my voice. I had to admit that it made me sad and the words slipped out as I thought about the girls.

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ Bancho’s shoulders slumped, and he turned away from the girls to place his cup down.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I thought the papers had named him the Ripper for no good reason … but I suppose he is following Jack the Ripper’s signature to an extent.’

‘The media would have a feeding frenzy over the tongues,’ said Bancho, shuddering. ‘I mean, they’re torn out by the root … well, it’s obviously difficult so he helps the separation along using a serrated knife … he wants it to look like it’s torn out.’

I turned to another part of the wall, on which was a printed, blown-up image of a text message. I’d heard about it at court, but I thought it was an urban myth. Unfortunately, for Bancho, it was not.

Hi i’m jack c ur still having no luck finding me

i respect u duncan but ur boys are letting u down

u have no chance of catching me

warn the whores i will strike again and again

‘How did that go down in the canteen?’ I asked, turning to face him.

‘Depends who you speak to,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘Some of the older men are saying that I sent it to myself.’

‘Meaning that they think you’re a big-headed bastard?’ I said. It raised a weak smile on his face.

‘That, I can handle. Others, including most of my superiors, think I’m being taken for a ride. I’ve overheard whispers as I pass – “He’s just like that detective in charge of the Yorkshire Ripper murders in the eighties – the fool’s being hoaxed by some prankster.” I swear the next one to make comments like that gets punched, no matter how many stripes on their shoulders … Fortunately, they can’t pull me off the case because of the fuss they made about me going on that profiling course at Quantico.’ DI Bancho tightened his jaw, and rolled his tongue along his lips.

‘Maybe both schools of thought are right,’ I said. It was out before I could give it any thought. Christ, even Bancho needed some sympathy. He rolled his eyes like he gave a fuck about my opinion.

Bancho’s mobile rang and I strained to eavesdrop. I could make out parts – the constable on the other end was excited and shouting loudly. Bancho made noncommittal noises and tried to calm the man down. ‘I need you to stay calm, Constable McLeod. We’ve had tip-offs before … Yes, we’ve had what we thought were reliable tip-offs before too.’ Bancho sighed and punched his ‘loudspeaker’ option so that I could hear the words he had probably heard many times before. Bancho’s ego was such that he felt the need to justify himself, particularly to me, one of his harshest critics.

‘But this is the real thing, boss. We can’t move on him for a couple of hours because he won’t be in place until then – but, after that, it’s fucking guaranteed. You’ll have your man. The Ripper’s yours … boss.’

‘I’ll be with you in an hour,’ Bancho said, closing his phone. Despite his words to the other man, he rubbed his hands together. How many times has he really been down this road before? I wondered, but I kept my thoughts to myself.

Chapter Eleven (#u7eceafa5-3462-54de-8f93-ee5e50863b62)