was vigorous and uninhibited – in spite of himself, The Watcher felt a reluctant twinge of admiration for her lover. He bit his tongue as the girl slid further along the barrel, blood trickled out of the side of his mouth as a naked Katya finally reached the mouth of the cannon.
Taking out a camera, he caught Katya’s final throes of ecstasy, her back bucking in pleasure as she slid off the end. Her lover reached for her as she tumbled over the ramparts.
The Watcher was helpless – he could not stifle his cry: it was not supposed to happen like that. Shock heightened his senses, and he saw in slow motion Katya’s body bounce off the volcanic castle rock. Her head cracked open as it hit the first rough edge, marring her once beautiful features. There will be no open coffin for the mourners; like a rag doll she rolled and bounced, each bump shattering another bone. There is no hope for the once lovely Katya.
The police found Katya in a ditch at the foot of the crag and tail structure known as Castle Hill. On her scraped and scuffed body a message could be discerned.
A bloody prophecy:
more will die
Lothian and St Clair W.S. Offices Saturday 22 December, 8 a.m.
It was the last Saturday before Christmas, I hadn’t bought a single present and this year I had sworn it would all be different. I’d even imagined stringing popcorn on a real tree, yet here I was spending another weekend working in the office. And on the front page of the Evening News was a photograph that made my heart race and my breath catch in my throat.
Another dead girl had been found.
The story had filled the papers for months, endless column inches, always featuring those painfully ordinary photographs of the murder victim. You’ve seen them. The school portraits with the stray piece of hair sticking out that makes you ask why someone didn’t smooth it down. That picture. The one every parent is forced to buy. When you see it on top of a fireplace a slow smile of nostalgia crosses your lips. But when the same image is on the front page of the Evening News, your heart stops, and you look twice. On a second glance you take in more, the bad posture, the shy smile, the timid eyes … and your imagination takes you to hell.
The hell she suffered in her last moments.
I brought the newspaper over to the window with me. Sipping on the freshly made espresso, with two sugars, I dipped a biscotti whilst I read aloud to Lavender Ironside, official holder of all things to do with power in both the office and my life.
‘Reign of terror on city streets.’
‘Everyone is running scared. Eddie’s trying to impose his own personal curfew. He maybe doesn’t have as much sway as he’d like on the entire population of Edinburgh, but he’d lock me up if he could,’ she said. As the words came out of her mouth, I could almost hear her regret them. She loved it when Eddie was masterful; Eddie Gibb, my court assistant and Lavender’s fiancé. Recently, however, his attentions had been for another reason, and we both knew it. Lavender’s surprise and very much unplanned pregnancy of recent months had ended in a miscarriage. Both she and Eddie had been delighted at the thought of a baby cementing their unlikely love – we all had; and we’d all had to deal with the consequences, which included an even more protective Eddie. I found it hard to talk to Lavender about the baby. We had always looked out for each other but this was one area where I just didn’t know what to say. She knew I wasn’t the motherly type really, but I had looked forward to being an auntie, even if not by blood – and I always wanted for her what she wanted most. That I couldn’t do anything to fix this for her was horrible – for both of us.
‘You know the media have named him “The Edinburgh Ripper”,’ I said, returning to the much easier subject of murder.
The tally of dead girls was rising, and the authorities didn’t seem any nearer to catching him. Of course, I had my own explanation for the inept police investigation – DI Duncan Bancho. Duncan Bancho and I had history, none of it was good. In the recent past he had had me arrested and held on suspicion of attempted murder. I wasn’t blameless. I tried to get him thrown off the force for corruption.
I cleared my throat and read aloud again, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
‘“We’re doing all we can,” said DI Duncan Bancho, officer in charge of the investigation for Lothian and Borders police. “We lost valuable time because no one reported that the girls were missing.”’ I put the paper down.
‘“We’re doing all we can”!’ I banged my head lightly against the window. The news of the girls barely registered at first – the police went through the motions but the media waited until there were enough deaths to get them excited. The death of a prostitute is regarded as an occupational hazard, and the clear-up rate is the lowest of any homicide – so I wasn’t buying his PR statement.
The first murder in July had only just made the inside pages of the tabloids, but by the time the second body had been found, three weeks later, rumours were circulating.
‘To get Bancho’s attention the killer had to send him a text – of course Bancho ignored it,’ I snarled.
Lavender was ignoring me – this was a well-rehearsed rant of mine against my least favourite policeman. As I’ve said, DI Bancho and I go back a long way.
‘So what made Bancho sit up and do something? Finally, do something?’ I asked myself more than her. ‘When the killer put the finger of another victim under his windscreen wiper?’ When this occurred, the hunt was on for the body of the third dead girl. It was during the festival so the papers were playing it down. None wanted to spook the wealthy tourists because of three dead whores.
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
