The Watcher

Chapter Thirteen

Danube Street Casino, Stockbridge, Edinburgh Sunday 23 December, 4.10 a.m.

I knew that my scuffed bike boots were leaving dirty marks on the plush red carpet, but I guessed that Bancho’s banging on the front door had been much more unsettling for the high rollers. Anything that took their minds off the tables was bad for business, and that made it Joe’s business.

The hum of conversation and the shuffle of cards had slowed due to the late hour. It didn’t take too long before Glasgow Joe was at my side. He’d approached Kailash with an idea for online gaming; the costs were low, and their profits phenomenal. Against all odds they worked well together.

We weren’t really back to chatting – a few minutes spent on a muddy pitch watching Connie couldn’t make up for what had happened; Joe’s a proud man who didn’t take rejection well and that was without him knowing that I’d slept with Jack Deans. Again.

He blamed me. Well, that’s always easier. We’d got on great until he wanted more – Joe always wants more.

I pulled a battered black-leather wallet out of my jacket and handed him £500 in fifty-quid notes. I always kept a sizeable quantity of spare cash on me – it made me feel safe. Growing up we never had grubby fivers lying around. Joe crooked his index finger and called over a waitress. He placed the money on her tray, and, after a few moments, she brought back the chips. As I took them, Joe quietly suggested that I try out the poker table, before heading for the front door where Bancho was still creating merry hell. I turned and watched as the door was opened – if the policeman was surprised to see Glasgow Joe in full Highland evening dress, he didn’t show it.

‘Have you got a warrant?’ Joe asked, his tone cool and measured. I wasn’t fooled. Despite apparent hostilities, these two were working together, creating a convincing charade to fool the rest of us.

‘No. It’s a friendly visit – I can get one, though, if that’s your last word on it,’ replied Bancho.

Their play-acting was pathetic. Joe reached out into the cold night air and hauled Bancho in off the street. It looked impressive, especially to the punters who were growing a little uneasy. Manhandling the police in front of witnesses was an Oscar-winning bit of theatre.

I wandered through the casino. It was packed with judges, football players, businessmen and wealthy tourists, all desperate to get a last bit of freedom before being shackled to their families for Christmas. I craned my neck looking around for someone – a friend, an acquaintance, but there was no one, so I turned my attention to the tables. I knew that Joe was probably watching me on the surveillance system. The clientele watched me too as I walked around. I contravened every dress code the casino had – my leathers were filthy, still covered in midges from the summer, but the pliable leather clung to my arse in what I’d told myself was a most appealing way. Maybe that would distract them all and I’d walk out of here a millionaire.

Pulling out a chair, I joined the poker table playing Texas Hold ’Em. In for a penny, I thought as I took my jacket off too. I wasn’t wearing a bra because I hadn’t exactly dressed up when I left the flat, and the only one that wasn’t grey was lying on the bedroom floor after Jack had taken it off me, but maybe that was a good thing – more distraction for the saddos around the table.

I kept my face blank as I clasped my cards up from the table. Pocket-Rockets – a couple of aces. I was in good shape. The player across from me, in a bespoke evening suit, white tie, and with the obligatory female companion looking over his shoulder, chucked another grand into the pot. The dealer knew my credit was good at his table, so I decided to play on – thirty minutes with Bancho had reminded me to live for today, but I’d make this my last hand, win or lose. To my surprise, the other player at the table raised too. His toe tapped constantly, he wore a cowboy hat and was difficult to read. In spite of his porky butcher’s fingers, he shuffled his chips deftly.

‘Two thousand more,’ he said, evening off the two stacks of black chips and pushing them into the pot. It was the right bet and it should have scared the third player away. Unfortunately for him, the third player was me and I was just riled.

‘I’m in,’ I said, pushing one pile of eight black chips into the pot.

‘You’re bluffing,’ the fat cowboy puffed, gulping air as his eyes flicked over me.

‘Play and see,’ I shrugged. I was sure that Joe would be laughing out loud if he was watching. The fat man looked convinced that all he had to do was push in his remaining chips, and he’d take the hand.

‘Yours,’ he snorted, flicking his cards over. A pair of sixes.

‘You were right,’ I told him as I flicked over my two aces. A roar went up as the dealer pushed a mountain of chips my way.

A bit of luck at last – I wondered how long it would hang around for?

Chapter Fourteen

Danube Street Casino, Edinburgh Sunday 23 December, 4.40 a.m.

Glasgow Joe leaned in to kiss me as he stopped to check that I was all right. The money in my pocket made everything all right. He swept me up and turned me round as I threw the cash in the air. The notes whirled around us like a snowstorm – I was Kailash’s daughter. I knew how to put on a good show for the punters.

Bancho came out of the security room. With only an hour to go before his planned raid he was edgy. The smile slid from my face, and I bent down to pick up the notes, carefully collecting them and putting them in the old wallet.

‘Get Kailash,’ barked Bancho. ‘I want to see the dungeons – rumour is that she’s got slaves.’

‘Arsehole – come back with a warrant,’ I hissed.

‘What does Kailash want?’ Joe turned around to find her. She was leaning against a colonnade, her jet hair curled expensively around her shoulders, and a sheer black Dolce&Gabbana dress clinging to every curve.

‘I’ve never denied owning slaves, Duncan, but there’s quite a waiting list. See Malcolm; he’ll put your name down.’ I was jumping from foot to foot, but Kailash locked eyes with me and it was a look that told me to calm down. ‘There are a lot of exhibitionists in tonight – the thrill of being observed by a real policeman means I can push the price up,’ she purred. She turned on her heels – he was being given one chance at what he wanted. If he failed to take it, Kailash would shut the doors faster than a Venus flytrap. Everyone concerned knew there was no way Bancho would get a warrant to inspect these premises – the powers that be had no idea who the police would find there or what the tabloids would make of it; they themselves kept Kailash out of the courts because they spent so much time there.

On the other hand, the Ripper’s victims seemed to be plucked from the city’s disenfranchised community of foreign, probably illegally trafficked prostitutes. Sex slavery. Perhaps, despite their unconventional ‘partnership’, Bancho didn’t trust Joe to check out Kailash’s operation with the same dedication he applied to brothels in Leith.

‘I’m coming!’ Glasgow Joe shouted. ‘I hate watching these fucking deviants getting their arses skelped,’ he muttered under his breath, and scratched his head as if such behaviour was beyond his comprehension. I knew it was. Joe’s sexual taste didn’t run along these lines; he was strictly a meat and two veg kind of guy. He grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t act smart down there – Bancho’s been mouthing off to the authorities that Kailash has sex slaves. I’ve told him he’s wrong but she feels insulted. She’s ready to knife him, Brodie, so we don’t need you shit-stirring as well. I don’t think it would be so easy to get Kailash off another murder charge.’

I pulled free. But I went along with their game, even though they didn’t know I was in on it. ‘It wasn’t so easy for me the first time,’ I growled, rather content that we were now back on an even keel and old habits of bitching at each other were to the fore again.

The dungeons were full tonight with ‘customers’ cramming in one more whipping before the traditions of Christmas demanded that they stay with their families. The dungeons were rooms with bars on them like the type you would see in a Wild West jail. It was a great design. Most fetishists were happy to share their perversion within their private world, and Kailash could check the employees were safe.

‘What’s the score here?’ I asked, pointing to a middle-aged, lumpy woman who was painting liquid latex onto a man. ‘And what’s with the straws?’ The man had thin tubes for breathing protruding from his nose. The dominatrix overheard me and proceeded to demonstrate by putting her thumbs over the bottom of the straws. Her victim, who was in chains, his hands manacled above his head, struggled. She took her boot and jammed the pointed heel into his bare foot. I winced. The man screamed silently, unable to make a noise because of the gag.

‘That’s enough, Betsy,’ Glasgow Joe warned as the male slave passed out.

‘This is what I mean, Joe – how can you say she doesn’t have more information about foreign sex slaves?’ Bancho hissed.

‘Because Betsy is married to a solicitor from Melrose – he’s a misogynistic bastard according to her, so she comes up once a month and spends his money here in the shops during the day and then helps out here at night, earning a bit of pin money that he knows nothing about. The slaves are quite happy to cooperate with Betsy.’ Glasgow Joe sounded tired as he explained matters.

‘Anything you need to ask about – ask me,’ said Kailash, who was standing behind Bancho long before he had any idea that she was there.

‘That girl there looks Eastern European,’ he said, squinting his eyes at her. The one he was talking about was a stunning dominatrix who would have been at least six feet tall in her fishnet-stocking soles. Tonight she wore over-the-knee latex boots with seven-inch heels. I winced when I saw the nipple clamps.

‘Contessa.’ Kailash beckoned the girl, who flicked the black eight-tongued whip over her client’s butt before she left the cell. He squealed and I looked twice at him. I thought I recognized him, but it was hard to make out his features. He squirmed in the corner, presenting his naked, flaccid butt – Joe shuddered and I couldn’t blame him.

Contessa, gripping the whip, marched over to her employer. ‘He wants a word with you,’ Kailash inclined her head in DI Bancho’s direction, and then started to laugh softly with Joe. I’d met her before – she was notoriously bad-tempered and born for this sort of work. It was unlikely that any attempt at questioning by the police would go down well.

But the Ripper had pulled off what years of community vice work had failed to produce: cooperation. A sex worker from Eastern Europe she may be, but Contessa knew that this time police officers, even ones as smelly, dishevelled and desperate as Bancho, were on her side against a common enemy. They huddled in a corner as I waited for the explosion that never came; instead of kicking the detective’s butt (which I was secretly hoping for), Contessa kissed Bancho on both cheeks before returning to her dungeon.

‘I’m done here,’ Bancho said, walking up the stairs. Turning he faced me, ‘And you? You can walk home.’

Silently, I wished them good luck at catching the Ripper.

Chapter Fifteen

Princes Street, Edinburgh Sunday 23 December, 3 p.m.

The boots bit into my ankles, and it was with throbbing feet that I puttered over to the side, hands flailing wildly as I tried to stay upright on the ice. The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl were singing ‘Fairytale of New York’, and it rang out around Princes Street Gardens. Connie had dragged me down to Winter Wonderland – the most romantic outdoor ice-skating rink in the world.

I’d found out that ice-skating is a dangerous business as soon as I’d started. I was certain I’d cracked my coccyx from the last fall. Jack was waving a Kielbasa sausage with sauerkraut all wrapped up in a hot-dog bun – the temptation was too much to ignore. Unable to stop, my body slammed off the barriers, every bone rattled. Winded, I reached out and snatched the sausage out of his hand.

‘Mind my fingers.’ Jack flapped his hands theatrically in the air. ‘I got mustard and ketchup – I don’t know which you prefer.’ I didn’t get the chance to find out; the hot dog was teetering on the edge of my lips when a shower of ice came down on top of us. ‘Connie!’ I screamed as she dug her blades into the ice and came to a sliding stop, shaving the top layer of the rink off and depositing most of it on Jack Deans – the residue ended up on my hot dog.

‘Whaaat?’ Her eyes widened with innocence as Jack wiped the melting chips of ice from his face. ‘When you said a friend was coming Christmas shopping with us, I thought you meant Joe – why is he here?’ Connie turned her back on Jack, ignoring him completely as she continued whining in my face. ‘He’s not coming to Lavender’s wedding, is he? Promise me he’s not coming – cos I don’t want Glasgow Joe to be in a mood, I’ve been looking forward to this wedding for ages.’

‘Lavender only set the date six weeks ago,’ I told her. (I didn’t want to point out that we had all only known her for about five minutes; it might sound like I was surprised at how little time it had taken her to become part of the group. Truth be told, I was – and a little jealous, as I wasn’t that sort of person myself.) Taking advantage of her change in mood, I was in the process of escaping, gingerly. I inched along the barrier; luckily, Jack walked beside me – anywhere he was, Connie was sure not to follow.

‘Ten quid says that by the end of today she’ll be eating out of my hand,’ he whispered to me. We both half turned and watched her skating backwards, arms stretched out like the wings of an aeroplane, the point of her tongue poking through her teeth in studied concentration. He’d raised one bet I didn’t want to win.

We left the rink. Next on the itinerary was the Edinburgh Ferris Wheel, adjacent to Sir Walter Scott’s monument in Princes Street Gardens. The shrine to Scott resembled an illuminated wedding cake – wedding cake always makes me sick, and not just because I hate fruitcake. I was trying to overcome my fear of heights by confronting it. Standing in the queue with jostling, excited teenagers, it felt like one of my dumber ideas. Connie refused to allow Jack to come on with us, hissing that he would unbalance the basket and make it unsafe, cleverly playing on my weaknesses. Her behaviour towards Jack was outrageous really; I was looking forward to getting her on my own to tick her off or bribe her. I hadn’t yet decided which tactic would be the most effective.

As soon as the wheel swung into action, I knew my scheme was flawed: fear of heights can be dangerous. I remembered reading on Wikipedia that acrophobics have the urge to throw themselves off high places despite not being suicidal – I’d soon find out if I fell into that category or not. It seemed an especially bad idea when the wheel stopped at the very top; I hadn’t noticed that the wind had got up until then. Connie leaned over the edge and the basket swung round and round. I got the same feeling when I watched the part in Carrie when she was prom queen one minute, then the next covered in pig’s blood. Everything is fine, breathe deeply and just look down, I told myself. I could see the Princes Street shoppers a hundred and fifty feet below me. They swarmed like ants in and out of stores, desperate for a last-minute bargain and oblivious to the drama of me, terrified, playing out above them. Connie was leaning out of her seat and shouting and waving.

‘Cal! Cal!’ she shouted for some reason, flailing her arms around – a lunatic oblivious to her own safety. A chill ran down my back like an ice cube. I tried to grab Connie and get her to sit down but I was afraid that any sudden movement would send her over the top of the ferris wheel. I had seen too many disaster movies; racing thoughts showed me Connie tumbling through the air until she landed, a broken doll gone from my life forever. I didn’t know that there was a feeling around that made you think that your heart could puncture your ribs at any moment – until then. A mouth as dry as a desert river bed meant I couldn’t scream her name. If loving a child gave you this much fear, I was glad I had decided to remain childless – Connie was more than enough.

Shuffling along the seat redistributed the weight in the basket, causing Connie to lean out even more. Sensing my discomfort she was playing up. ‘Cal – look up! It’s me, Connie!’ Her voice had risen by several octaves. By this time, other passengers had begun to notice she was in danger of falling. Out of the corner of my eye I could see them pointing with one hand and covering their mouths in disbelief. I’d had enough and lunged and grabbed the back of her coat, breaking two fingernails in the process. Roughly, I hauled her in.

‘What the hell are you doing? Do you have a death wish?’ As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized I sounded just like Grandad.

‘Are you blind, Brodie?’ She took a deep breath and waited for my answer, which wasn’t forthcoming. ‘Didn’t you see him? Cal?’ She nodded expectantly, waiting for recognition as we finally got off the ride. The blank look on my face finally registered with her and she rolled her eyes at me. ‘He’s a friend of Moses’ and if we hurry we’ll catch him!’ She grabbed my arm and pulled me, leaving Jack to follow. I could tell Connie was getting on his nerves. I wasn’t sure if she was intent on getting rid of Jack, or if she truly had a crush on this Cal guy. I thought it best to check it out because there was no way she was dating a Dark Angel. I realized again I was acting like Grandad – he hated me going out with Glasgow Joe, but surely that was different?

Princes Street was still busy. Six Russians from the St Petersburg Brass Band were playing a quick march, which was exactly what Cal did when he saw us coming. I recognized him at this distance; he was the guy selling drugs with Blind Bruce in George Street outside Susie Wong’s. Oddly, a woman in her fifties held his arm. It took me a few minutes to work out that she was probably his mother – even Dark Angels have mothers.

The young man was well away by this time, but I had other plans than following a spotty youth anyway. I wanted to relive my childhood through Connie. It was a long shot, but everyone else had bought her a fantastic present and I didn’t want to look like Scrooge, so I reckoned that, if I dragged her around Jenners, with Jack behind us still, perhaps I could see what made her eyes light up. Visiting Santa had been a tradition that Mary McLennan and I had. She took me to see him on two separate Saturdays because I refused to believe he would remember what I wanted. Connie was almost as tall as me and wearing about a ton of lip gloss and I doubted I could make her go to the grotto under any circumstances. We wandered around for a little while and I tried to see enthusiasm at every opportunity – but with Kailash and Malcolm there for her every whim, and a whole new ‘family’ dancing at her feet, Connie was never going to get thrilled about a cuddly toy or a pair of slipper-socks.

Chapter Sixteen

Princes Street, Edinburgh Sunday 23 December, 3.40 p.m.

The hunched babushka leaned on her walking stick, bundled up against the cold, wearing every article of clothing she owned. Her grey-coated tongue played with her false teeth. Mashing her jaws together, she moved the dentures in and out to pass the time. The Watcher sniffed and got the smell of stale urine on her – he was disgusted, but the old woman was safe from him.

Last-minute Christmas shoppers moved like shoals of fish, endlessly weaving in and out. The windows of department stores were filled with golden tinsel, and expensive dresses that would cost less than half that price in three days’ time. The babushka stood in the centre of the pavement, craning her neck, hunting for something, someone – the good citizens of Edinburgh gave her a wide berth but she’d found her mark.

The Watcher giggled to himself: Who knew that he had so much in common with peasants? Actually, on second thoughts it was an unpleasant idea.

The old woman reached out and grabbed Brodie McLennan. Clawing on her clothing, she demanded help. The babushka’s voice was guttural, low, like a cat ridding itself of a hairball. He shuddered. Her gnarled hands waved a piece of paper in front of Brodie. The Watcher squinted. It was a photograph she was brandishing – it was impossible to tell but he imagined that he knew the face.

Sniggering, as Brodie spoke slowly and deliberately, it was obvious to The Watcher that the hardhearted bitch was trying to palm the babushka off with enough money for a cup of hot chocolate and no more. Brodie raked through her pockets, coming up with some loose change, which the old woman took and secreted in her bag, but she held on tight to Brodie – this was not an end to the matter. Jack Deans tried to pull Brodie away, but Connie spotted his move; she was having none of it. Suddenly, the old woman’s plight became the most important thing in the thirteen-year-old’s life. Testily, she slapped Deans’s hand and pulled Brodie over to the babushka.

Deans pulled out a well-used wallet and handed Brodie a ten-pound note. ‘It’s really not going to work, Brodie,’ The Watcher heard him say. ‘She’s oblivious to my charms.’ Brodie shrugged her shoulders. ‘Fine – you’re right. I just think you could try a little harder.’