The Watcher. Grace Monroe
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?
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.