Grace Monroe - The Watcher

Lavender took her coffee cup and joined me at the window.

‘Before you start,’ she said, ‘I know there are ninety unsolved murders of prostitutes in the UK.’

‘Don’t believe the crap!’ I retorted. ‘The bit about “decent women are safe”. If a man will murder a prostitute, no woman is safe from him. It didn’t keep “decent” women safe from the Yorkshire Ripper, did it? Peter Sutcliffe just moved on from prostitutes to students.’

‘Fine.’ She saluted me quickly, a parody of a soldier obeying an order. ‘Change the subject.’

We stared in silence from the office window to look at Edinburgh Castle. It was a dark winter’s morning and I could see police in their luminous jackets climbing on the Castle Rock. Halogen lamps lit what appeared to be a crime scene with an ethereal glow, and a deathly silence hung over Johnston Terrace, the street below the castle façade. Police scurried around in last night’s snowfall; they were the first to walk on the pristine surface, and their footprints were like blemishes.

I’d heard a news flash on Radio Forth that another body had been found; they didn’t give out any details, and I suppose they were waiting until the family was informed. I often came into the office on a Saturday, as did Lavender – we made the most of the quiet and could run through work much quicker than on weekdays, but today a cold silence fell over us as we watched the depressing scene.

Incongruously, just out of sight on the other side of the rock, Edinburgh’s Christmas festivities were gearing up for another fun-packed day. In a few hours skaters would be falling, racing and spinning on the temporary ice-rink in the city’s famous Princes Street Gardens. Wurlitzers would boom out hits from twenty years ago and overexcited children clutching candyfloss would be trailing behind the parents on a mission to buy last-minute gifts at the German market. Whatever had happened on the rock, for most life would go on, especially at Christmas.

‘You’re not in much danger, Lav – Eddie never lets you out of his sight,’ I said, patting her on the shoulder, both of us knowing that I was referring to his treatment of her since the miscarriage without me actually saying anything.

‘Maybe. But you …’ She held my eye, and there was a lot of weight in the stare, ‘are too hard on Bancho. These girls are all from Eastern Europe – nobody seems to give a damn about them, so anything Bancho does has to help. Eddie worries about me, Brodie – but I worry about you. Look …’

She led me by the arm to look at the wall behind my desk. I keep it there because I hate seeing pictures of myself. However, clients enjoyed seeing evidence of past victories; it was good for business, so my personal preference was irrelevant.

Lavender tapped the glass of a particularly unflattering photograph; I was standing dressed in my leathers, next to my motorbike, ‘The Fat Boy’, arms crossed over my chest, looking mean. That wasn’t the problem – my helmet hair was bright red and frizzy, as if it had a life of its own. Lavender pulled the picture next to the front page of the article that showed the photographs of the Ripper’s victims.

‘See what I mean?’ She nodded, looking pleased with herself. ‘Apart from the fact that you’re way too old – you fit his profile. Our man likes redheads.’

‘My hair is auburn,’ I sniffed.

‘Mmmmn. Either way you need a bit of protection – it’s time you started speaking to Glasgow Joe.’ Lavender walked back to the window as if that was an end to the matter. Even if I didn’t want to admit it to her, I could see her point – she was getting married in two days’ time and the best man and the matron of honour weren’t speaking. In fact, I hadn’t spoken to my ex-husband for nearly six months.

I needed to change the subject.

‘And what are you doing in the office anyway – two days before you get married and just before Christmas?’

‘Unlike you, my presents were all wrapped before the start of November, and in case you hadn’t noticed …’ She waved her arm around. Lavender’s wedding had taken over the offices of Lothian and St Clair – the filing cabinets bursting with contact details for florists, dressmakers and limousines and the million other seemingly vital bits of the bridezilla armoury.

‘There’s something more happening up at the Castle Rock.’

Lavender pressed her nose to the glass.

‘Did you ever doubt it?’ Lavender asked, as her voice started to crack. ‘Another victim of the Ripper?’

‘No, no – it doesn’t have to be. Absolutely not,’ I said, too hastily. She was getting married in the castle and I didn’t want anything to spoil her day. Not even my feud with Joe. ‘It’s probably a suicide: single people get very lonely at this time of year.’

‘Speaking from personal experience?’ she quipped.

I turned my head, not willing to let her see just how close she was to the truth on both counts.

Chapter Two

Lothian and St Clair W.S. Saturday 22 December, 8.30 a.m.

‘Do you have a death wish, girl?’

Lord MacGregor shook his head in disgust and threw the weekend paper down on my desk. A silver foil container tipped over, scattering cold chicken and fried rice everywhere.

‘That,’ he continued, pointing to the offending article, ‘is professional suicide.’

Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I refused to turn round. I knew what my grandfather was referring to, and I didn’t want to face his anger. Maybe it had been a foolish move on my part; even he’d acknowledged I’d been keeping my nose clean and avoiding trouble until now. Plus I hated disappointing him, which was something I seemed to have a knack for.

‘What do you think about this?’ He picked up the article again, and threw it down in front of Lavender. She clapped her hands sarcastically.

‘Very dramatic,’ she said. ‘Maybe that’s where Brodie gets her antics from.’ Looking directly into his eyes she added: ‘They do say the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree.’

Using her hand she cleared away the debris of my last night’s meal and threw it in the bin.

‘Seriously,’ said Lord MacGregor, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘Seriously, you’re a well-matched pair of drama queens!’ Lavender snorted and sat down in my seat, opening the offending article out in front of her.

Lawyer Could Force Judges to Declare They Are Masons

‘So you asked a judge if he was a Mason.’ Lavender rattled the newspaper noisily before placing it down on the desk again. ‘I hate to say it … but His Lordship has a point.’

Lavender had been told by my Grandad to call him by his Christian name, but she refused. He was now known to everyone in the office as His Lordship. Initially, it was her way of getting at him, but now they were allies. He had won her over and he was giving her away when she married Eddie on Christmas Eve.

I kept my back firmly to them; I wasn’t turning round to face their torrent of abuse, especially now I had admitted to myself they were right. The case had called six weeks ago in Edinburgh Sheriff Court, but we were still waiting for the judgement to be issued. Anyway, the action on the Castle Rock was revving up, and the rubber-neckers were gathering at the barricade.

‘We discussed this.’ Lavender inserted her face directly in front of me. ‘Are you stupid? It’s not just your livelihood on the line.’ I could feel her hot breath on my neck. She grabbed my shoulder, and pulled me round to face her; I didn’t feel it was a particularly good time to suggest she should perhaps be a little calmer on her wedding day. The consequences of my actions to Scots law were immense. If I was right, the decisions of every judge who was a Mason could be called into question if any party to the case was also a member of the Masonic Lodge.