The Watcher. Grace Monroe

       Chapter Eleven

      St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh Sunday 23 December, 3 a.m.

      DI Bancho couldn’t wait to get rid of me; he practically threw me out of the operations room. I assumed that the detective inspector didn’t want to make a phone call to his boss until he heard me clumping up the stairs in my heavy bike boots. I jumped up and down on the bottom step and he thought I’d left. He hadn’t even bothered to close the door, although in his defence the office was down in the bowels of St Leonards and it was very late.

      I peered in the open door. He was holding his breath. Opening his bottom drawer, he pulled out a can of Arrid Extra-Dry, sprayed each armpit and sighed. Whatever it was he wanted to do, he was putting it off. He looked nervous, his forehead shiny with sweat.

      Bancho’s eyes kept returning to the phone, as if he was afraid to make the call. Who could have that effect on him – the chief constable? Maybe he had to phone in the details of the search. If I’d had my way he’d be serving a seven-year stretch in Saughton Prison this Christmas, and if Bancho had won, I’d be eating my turkey in Cornton Vale with the rest of the women prisoners. It was no wonder we could barely be civil to each other. We’d both been wrong but neither of us was prepared to forgive and forget. No, I didn’t want to admit I owed Duncan Bancho any favours. Maybe we were experiencing something of a truce but there was a long way to go before we buried the hatchet. His fingers trembled as he reached out to make the call. Stress, nerves or drink? I couldn’t blame him if he had a tipple off duty; he was under a lot of pressure to deliver the Ripper. His call was answered immediately. It was on loudspeaker so that Bancho could use his computer and what I heard next was one reason why you should never poke your nose in where it doesn’t belong.

      ‘Glasgow Joe … it’s me … We’ve got the bastard. We’re gonna get him today at first light.’ DI Bancho panted as I held my breath, trying to keep quiet – he played with the cord on the telephone. He waited, presumably for praise; none came. Instead, Joe embarked on his own interrogation.

      ‘What was Brodie doing there? Why didn’t she leave with Malcolm? If she was with you – I hope you weren’t daft enough to show her the site.’ There was more than a hint of a threat in Glasgow Joe’s voice. What website? I was now going to make it my business to know.

      DI Bancho didn’t question how he got his information – it was one of the things that made Glasgow Joe unique. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ DI Bancho asked. Joe didn’t answer him. Bancho turned from the phone and stared at his computer. I couldn’t see what was on the screen.

      ‘Are you on “The Hobbyist” now?’ Joe asked, accusingly. ‘It was part of our deal you’re supposed to keep track of site traffic and note their threads.’

      ‘I’ve got a WPC on it full time. Remember, I was the one who told you that Brodie was being mentioned.’

      Joe was silent.

      I wanted to leap out of my hiding place there and then. Why was I on some website and why it was so important that the police were spending scarce resources monitoring it? Not to mention why these two bastards were keeping me in the dark about it. But I would learn more if I kept quiet. It would also have been slightly embarrassing to have been caught spying on Bancho.

      ‘There’s no more mention of her – I’ve just checked. Nothing since that first mention at the end of July,’ Bancho wheedled.

      ‘You shouldn’t need reminding – that site is supposed to be checked at least every two hours. These guys have time on their hands right now – most of them have finished their work for Christmas and their wives are too busy shopping to notice they’re not there.’

      The edge was taken off the detective inspector’s high spirits. He stared at his unpolished shoes, it was lucky that he couldn’t see his face in them; his skin was flushed with embarrassment. Bancho hesitated before he flipped open the buff-coloured file in front of him.

      ‘I’ve got the photograph in front of me. It’s from the usual source; I think it’s enough to go on. Why do you think he posted it to you at the Rag Doll?’

      ‘I dunno. He obviously knows I’m involved – I’ve been hanging out in every brothel in Leith.’

      ‘Not true – you’ve been in every slave den in Leith,’ DI Bancho said as he walked towards the wall and pinned up another photograph. I couldn’t get a clear view of it, but it was obviously a man and it looked professional, not knocked off on a camera phone. The first photograph of the Ripper. I decided to wait until Bancho went to the toilet and sneak in to see the monster. He hesitated, glanced over his shoulder and then put the image back in his pocket. I retreated to the shadows.

      ‘Has Jack Deans been snooping?’ Joe’s voice was casual, as if he didn’t care what the answer was. Bancho didn’t look as if he was fooled – and neither was I. But I was surprised.

      ‘He’s been in touch – tried to pretend he left Darfur because the Sudanese government was going to throw him out – the truth is that sly bastard couldn’t keep away from the biggest domestic news story in years. I hear he’s still chasing awards,’ said Bancho.

      ‘Vain bastard!’ Joe grunted. I could hear he wanted to ask more; maybe he was sniffing around to see if Jack and I were together. The reception was bad and I knew that Joe would have taken this call outside. He couldn’t risk anyone knowing he was a police informer. Regardless of the circumstances, that would be the end of his reputation in Edinburgh’s criminal underworld – there were no exceptions to this most basic rule, even if he did like to keep a foot in both camps.

      I could hear tiredness in his voice; he’d been running around trying to keep me safe. I knew the way his mind worked and felt like a bitch. He would see the threat; every victim would wear my face.

      ‘Are you properly prepared?’ Bancho asked.

      ‘Calm down, we’ll nail the bastard. Every criminal messes up. It’s a myth serial killers are smart – how difficult is it to top a wee Romanian girl?’

      ‘But it’s been in the papers, Joe. Apart from this photograph, there have been no real leads. The photo could be dodgy. How come this guy has the camera at the exact moment?’ Bancho coughed. ‘It makes you think.’

      Joe was right, the only reason serial killers got away with murder was faulty witness reports.

      ‘You remember our deal?’ Joe’s voice rang out in the dim room. Most men were too frightened to renege on any deal with him, and Bancho was no exception.

      ‘It’s not that easy to just give you five minutes alone with the Ripper – people will notice his injuries.’

      ‘I promise I’ll be careful, although I don’t feel good about this dawn raid. The Ripper’s not dangling on our hook yet – in my opinion your overtime budget isn’t going to get cut in the near future.’

      ‘You’re filling me with confidence.’

      ‘If you see Brodie – make sure she’s safe. The snow’s started and if I know her she’ll be on the Fat Boy. Don’t let—’ Glasgow Joe didn’t get a chance to finish.

      ‘I’ll pick you up at the casino in an hour – and by the way, I’m not a nursemaid.’

      Bancho’s eyes flickered; it had been a long time since he’d interrupted Joe; he switched the phone off and grabbed his coat. As he left I pushed myself into a corner.

      I should have known by now to expect anything of Joe, but even I was stunned by the