Watcher (25 page)

The Shore, Banana Flats
Saturday 29 December, 3 a.m.

‘When I first saw him … I thought it was my lucky night … he was so young, so handsome, so clean.’ Sonia’s eyes were filling with tears, but as I reached out to touch her she flinched as if expecting a punch.

‘He took me in his car; it was a rented one … he is an American, I think he is a tourist. At first he treated me like a lady. He said how pretty my hair was, he kept touching my hair and saying it was just perfect – why I dye it now.’ She clutched her golden cross even more tightly, and spat on the ground beside me. Sonia was keeping away the devil.

‘The man had champagne in the car … I thought very nice … but it was drugged … from the first sip it tasted odd … I felt my tongue swell … I couldn’t breathe, or see straight, and I realized my luck was running out.’

I had a paper hanky in my pocket; it was crumpled, grubby but unused, and Sonia accepted it gratefully.

‘I passed out … when I woke up I was in a dark cellar, it smelt of cats’ pee; the floor was dirt and a rat ran over my hand.’ She showed me her finger: a chunk had been taken out of it, presumably the work of the rat.

‘Did you find out where the cellar was?’ I asked.

‘No, I never found out and I never want to know, it is enough that I carry it around in here –’ she tapped the side of her head – ‘always.’

She nodded at me as if I would know, or could understand the hell where she had been. I didn’t, and I prayed that neither did Connie.

‘I felt the needle go into my eyelid, he pressed down on the eyeball and pulled … like so.’ She mimicked the action. My stomach was rebelling, to witness another human being in such pain and not be able to touch or comfort them was unnatural.

‘My eyes became very dry … I kept trying to blink … but it hurt.’ She pointed to the red marks on her eyelids. ‘The stitching.’

I offered her a cigarette and she smiled weakly. ‘I came here to be secretary … who knew people could lie so much?’ She laughed grimly at herself.

‘He had a knife … a knife he loved … this knife was special to him … a pirate’s knife.’

‘I don’t understand … what’s a pirate’s knife?’

‘Here, I show you.’ Sonia dragged me over to the wall, spat on the end of her index finger and drew a sign, which left a slimy trail. She was no artist and it meant nothing to me.

‘He tied me like so.’ She splayed her arms and legs out like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. He had secured her tightly, exposing her vital organs so he could inflict maximum pain.

‘I was bound so tightly, I couldn’t move. The ropes were tied very tight, the bindings cut into my wrists, blood dripped onto the cellar floor.’ Sonia held her wrists up for me to inspect; the scar tissue was wide, deep and purple. None of the other girls had these marks because he cut their wrists off.

‘I tried to get away, I pulled, tugged and jerked the ropes as he came at me with his pirate’s knife, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t close my eyes; I saw everything he did to me. When I tried to scream he put a cloth in my mouth … it was difficult to breathe.’ Sonia closed her eyes against the horror. The night was cold but beads of sweat had broken out on her skin.

‘He used his knife to slice through my ankles. It was like electric shock, and then exploding like a bomb. I fainted I think; when I wake up he was hacking at my leg using all his strength to sever my ankle.’

Sonia lifted up her right leg. Grabbing my hand she ran my fingers over her leg, and I could feel a chunk of skin missing. I could feel her chipped bone and some screws; surgeons had put a steel plate in her ankle to repair the damage.

‘I prayed to die … dear God end this now … End my life now, I begged. Then the Madonna, she heard my prayers. First footsteps, then voices in the dark … I didn’t shout. He thought I was still unconscious or maybe dead. He was frightened and I was pleased. He dragged me like I was a sack of potatoes along the rough floor. It scraped and scratched my skin … I wanted to scream but if I wanted to live I could not … I discovered at that moment I wanted to live very much.’

I chose not to comment on the quality of her life. Whether this information led me to Connie or not I would help this girl.

‘He pulled me up the stairs – many, many stairs; each rough step it chipped and cracked my bones.’ Sonia touched her ribs, and placed a finger on her lips. ‘But still I did not make a sound,’ she whispered.

‘He kicked me into the gutter, and left me like a dog. I was frightened to move … many, many people walked past me thinking I was drunk … what kind of man does this?’

Joe and I hung on every word as Sonia went on to describe the man in detail. As she spoke, the horrific realization came over me that I knew him – and I knew where to find him.

‘Bourich’,
Gamekeeper’s
Road,
Cramond
Saturday 29 December, 3.30 a.m.

It came like a bolt from the blue; it was so unexpected I didn’t have time to react. Glasgow Joe gave Sonia his house key; he told her to go there and when he returned he would make sure she was safe. Then he jumped on the trike and I was left standing and waiting; he had no intentions of taking me into the Ripper’s lair, but I wasn’t asking for anyone’s permission.

Lights were being switched on in bedrooms as my screams of fury woke up the residents of the flats, but Joe was unmoved. In frustration and fury I grabbed my bike helmet and fired it at him. I caught him on the shoulder and he tried to massage it as he drove. I hoped it didn’t ease the pain as I watched him drive into the darkness to Adie Foster’s house.

The Fosters lived on the right side of the tracks. It was a world apart from the banana flats, but the taxi ride there gave me time to consider what to do next and make some calls. Luckily, the driver sensed my mood and merely grunted in my direction.

‘Bancho.’

‘I’m too busy just now, Brodie. I’ll catch you later.’

‘No, you need to listen to me … Glasgow Joe cannot be given another “five minutes” with Thomas Foster. He’ll kill him this time – you’re in charge so bloody well act like it. If anything untoward happens at the arrest it could lead to Thomas Foster walking – we don’t know what his involvement is and you’ve just released him. The Fosters will claim it’s police harassment … with my client being a foreign national the embassy or the American government might get involved.’

‘I’ve told you before, Brodie – don’t tell me how to do my job.’

He hung up on me. I could tell Bancho was worried. That Glasgow Joe needed to be controlled, and he was enough of a man to admit he wasn’t up to the task.

‘I’m really in a hurry, could you step on it please?’ I smiled at the driver. No doubt he was wondering what a tart was doing using the contract cab for the lawyers Lothian and St Clair. But the bald taxi driver said nothing as he pushed his foot to the floor like he was Lewis Hamilton.

I phoned Lavender for her to investigate.

‘Lavender … what does Niddry Street mean to you? Are there any buildings, churches, locations connected with that place?’

‘Connie’s sweatshirt was found there, nothing else.’ A painful silence fell between us. The phone went dead. We were too busy to be polite.

Normally I would never cross the line and act against my client. And I was still Thomas Foster’s lawyer. I would be until I withdrew from acting or he sacked me. But I believed Sonia. She had no reason to lie. And Connie’s life was at stake. No contest.

The roads were empty except for a few cabs and Tesco lorries coming back into the city. So why did I still feel like I was being watched? The fine hairs on my neck stood on end. My fears were dispelled as I drove into Gamekeeper’s Road, Edinburgh’s millionaire row. The house was named Bourich. At another time, in another place, it would have raised a smile. Bourich is a Gaelic word that loosely translated means chaos, confusion or a bloody mess. Just like the case against Thomas Foster.

The driver took me to the front door. I dived out and as soon as I gathered my wits together to sign the man’s contract slip, he was gone. Bancho was waiting outside but I couldn’t see Joe. I had a bad feeling about this and as I approached the front door it got worse, my stomach began to ache – a sure sign something was wrong.

Even from the front garden the house sounded like a venue for a World Wrestling Entertainment title fight.

‘Didn’t I tell you to control him?’ I shouted at Bancho as I heard more glass smashing. Bancho looked like a man who had been vindicated: his chin was up, his shoulders were back and he was enjoying the sound of Joe at work – he wasn’t about to listen to me.

‘Get in there you idiot and stop this!’

I ran round the back to the French windows. Joe had thrown one of the granite boulders that lined the driveway through the glass, and it had shattered into what seemed like a million pieces. It was a good job that there were no neighbours nearby or their attention would surely have been attracted by the noise. We followed a trail of his blood. Bancho leant against the wall of what seemed to be Adie Foster’s office. There were the usual family photographs and several showed Thomas at chess competitions – he was quite the little grandmaster. Bancho lit a cigarette and enjoyed the nicotine; he held it in his lungs. The noise suggested Joe was banging Thomas’s head off the stairs.

Unconcerned, Bancho wandered round the office fingering the framed photographs. He was particularly interested in the image of Thomas Foster taken in Revolution Square, Bucharest; Thomas was pointing out the bullet holes that led to the end of communist rule in Romania.

‘Brodie, what was it about those women that angered him … was it unrequited love?’

‘Oh, Bancho, we don’t have time … this case is a tangled mess … and we’re not going to get any answers if Thomas Foster is dead.’

He followed me into the hallway, just as Glasgow Joe was thrown from the top landing. Joe wasn’t fighting Thomas Foster, he was wrestling with the Sumo bodyguard I’d met on Christmas Eve. Blood poured from Joe’s nose as he lay winded on the floor. He didn’t look like a bookie’s favourite as the Sumo came hurtling down the stairs after him. I took the pepper spray I always carry out of my bag and, turning, sprayed it into the Sumo’s eyes. The fat man was blinded and covered his face, staggering backwards.

I helped Joe to his feet. Bancho radioed for the two constables guarding the perimeter to come in and clear up the mess. I didn’t need Joe to tell me that the Foster family were not at home.

‘You ran this by the chief constable?’ I accused. ‘The chief constable who happens to be a Mason in cahoots with Adie Foster?’

‘I had to … I didn’t think the bastard would tell them,’ said Bancho apologetically.

I was furious. But I had to choose my battles carefully. ‘The chief’s got a lot of explaining to do, but right now we’d better get to Edinburgh Airport – it’s common knowledge the Fosters have a private jet. How fast can you drive?’

Edinburgh Airport
Saturday 29 December, 4.45 a.m.

Sonia’s story changed everything but it didn’t make anything any clearer. She claimed to have been attacked by a man answering to Thomas Foster’s description. The detail of her evidence could only have been given by someone who had experienced it; the press did not know that the victims were alive when their ankles and hands were hacked off – yet Thomas Foster’s DNA did not match the Ripper’s.

Bancho had radioed the control tower and the Foster plane had been refused permission to take off. The light in the Edinburgh Airport terminal was harsh, but even in a dim light Bancho would have looked rough. This case had aged him more than was fair, and I couldn’t see a happy ending. Glasgow Joe stumbled into the empty concourse, even worse for wear than DI Bancho.

‘You have enough to arrest him, and question him for six hours, but I think you’ll get enough evidence to charge him with Sonia’s assault … provided she’ll give you a statement. Sonia is in the flat at the Rag Doll pub. Even if she does cooperate, this time he’ll get bail,’ I warned.

‘Of course … so then he’ll be free to walk the streets and kill at will,’ Bancho snarled, as he reached for his phone and called for a squad car to collect Sonia.

‘There’s only Sonia’s eyewitness account,’ I said. ‘And there’s also DNA evidence it wasn’t him. But maybe Thomas will tell us the identity of the real Ripper before his father takes him out of Scotland to a country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty.’

‘Breach of bail,’ Bancho fired at me.

Bancho was wrong again. I bit my tongue. I was not yet strong enough to point out all the weaknesses of his case. We walked together down the open space of the hall; DI Bancho was in the middle, separating Joe and me. It wasn’t necessary. We were too broken to fight. The check-in desks for Air France and Virgin were black and silent – they matched my mood.

I dug my hands deep into my pockets. I could keep going if I focused on just one step at a time; I knew I would lose it if for one moment I considered the bigger picture. Connie was something I needed to deal with, but not right now.

The dead girls walked before us. I was sure Bancho was talking to them – he kept patting the pocket by his heart where he kept their photographs. His nails were bitten to the quick and several of them had red, open wounds where skin had been ripped away.

Will he ever recover from this case – will any of us?

I turned to Bancho and a small moan escaped my lips. I shook my head; I didn’t want to point out the obvious.
I didn’t want them to mistake my motive
. ‘Thomas Foster is not on bail. When I asked for bail it was refused. The chief constable had him released without any conditions. Unless you have anything else on him, he can fly off into the sunrise.’

‘Sonia – she identified him.’ Joe was looking round and Bancho tried to eyeball me into pulling a legal rabbit from a hat. But I couldn’t oblige.

‘The attack was more than six months ago – it wasn’t witnessed. Any DNA that could have pointed to Thomas Foster being her attacker has been washed away in a thousand hot showers … and I think Sonia’s a runner,’ I said.

A couple of Edinburgh Airport police were waiting to escort us through the door marked ‘private’. They were both in late middle age, and the spread of their waists indicated it was a long time since they had graced the rugby field. The officers paraded proudly in front of us, like Tweedledee and Tweedledum holding open every door. As soon as we were through they rushed onto the next set; it was vaguely distracting. Especially since DI Bancho had confirmed he didn’t have a plan for holding my client. I was in new territory; very good at getting scumbags out, no practice in keeping them behind bars.

Bancho was running his hands through his thinning hair, obviously racking his brains for a plan.

We were getting nearer to the plane but Bancho was no nearer to finding a solution to his problem of keeping Thomas Foster within the jurisdiction of Scots law. He’d been working the case for months, destroying himself through overwork; was it likely the solution could be with us before midday? I thought not. The final door pushed out onto the runway, the morning sun just a couple of hours away from breaking through. The cold wind assaulted my face.

‘I think it’s best if I don’t go any further. After all, I am his lawyer – no doubt he’ll ask for me when you arrest him.’

I stopped dead. Joe continued moving apace with DI Bancho.

‘I’ll give you one piece of advice, Bancho,’ I said. The runway was wet and shiny; he turned around and cupped his ear, he wanted to hear what I said. I knew he needed to take this advice.

‘Before you get on the plane, speak to Lavender – she’s expecting your call … Put it on loudspeaker,’ I whispered.

He stopped just within earshot; he understood my difficulties. I was still Thomas Foster’s lawyer, there was a limit – in fact there were many – as to what I should be doing.

For once he did exactly as he was told.

‘Lavender, I understand you have something for me.’ He scratched his head and waited whilst she brought up her screen.

‘DI Bancho, The Hobbyist website has a chapter in New Haven, Connecticut. After Thomas Foster joined the Yale student body, murders started happening … four girls found over a period of nine months and the same m.o. as the Edinburgh murders, all corresponding with Thomas Foster’s term.’

‘Lavender, was he charged?’

‘No … he wasn’t even a suspect … his redheaded friend was … but here’s the funny thing – the guy’s details have all been wiped from the FBI computers.’

‘So Foster’s not the killer … his friend is?’

‘I dunno … you tell me, but the main suspect would be more likely to have a redheaded relative who had tipped him over the edge.’

Bancho closed his phone and continued walking towards the plane. All we knew was that Thomas Foster might be an accessory to murder. But where did that leave Sonia’s story?