Watcher by Grace Monroe Read Free Book Online Page B

the door open for Malcolm. He looked like shit: heading up the investigation into the Ripper murders was taking its toll. I decided it wasn’t just Sergeant Munro who could have his fun – baiting Duncan Bancho always made me feel better.

Chapter Ten
     
     
    St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 2 a.m.
    The five dead girls stared at me and I stared back.
    Lips were silenced and eyes deadened. They all wanted to know one thing. Who will speak up for me?
    What could I do? I wasn’t their lawyer. The dead don’t have lawyers. But though I’d gone into the operations room originally to goad Bancho, the dead girls had silenced me. I felt as if a freezing-cold cloak had been thrown on my back, and I shivered. The silent mouths asked me a new question: What will you do if he’s caught? Will you speak for him?
    The operations room was a mess. Bancho’s cheeks were heavy and drawn, his skin bleached by exhaustion. He walked up to the wall that held the chilling photographs and tapped it reverentially. ‘They talk to me too,’ he muttered, scratching his head and turning to make some coffee. I didn’t bother to deny what he’d said. Waiting for the kettle to boil, he massaged his temples, trying to ease the pressure that was building. All the time he gazed unblinkingly at that wall. The wastepaper basket was overflowing, and an empty box of paracetamol was on the top. If I’d had any I would have given him some of mine. Wonders never cease – me feeling sorry for DI Duncan Bancho.
    The desk was littered with crumpled paper that Bancho had discarded. Police reports, details of autopsies, newspaper clippings, buff-coloured folders with spurious leads – everything was laid out for the world to see. If it was an indication of the state of his mind, then no wonder he had headaches. I wanted to help. In spite of my revulsion, I wandered back over to the wall. The families of the victims who could be traced were located in Eastern Europe, Romania, Poland and the Ukraine. A map on the far right contained red dots to indicate the place of origin of the victim. Another map of the city of Edinburgh contained black dots to show where the bodies had been found. To my untrained eye, there seemed to be no obvious link.
    For identification purposes, the relatives had been asked to provide a recent photograph. The before shots were more distressing than the after ones. The beautiful faces were arranged in chronological order according to the date of death, not the date they were found. These girls hadn’t been reported missing. No one was looking for them – the discovery of the bodies was more a case of luck than judgement. A macabre beauty pageant was lined up on the wall. The girls had taken time to look pretty for their days at weddings, parties, graduations – and they did. I felt old just looking at them. All the victims were redheads, all different shades of red, and haircuts of every description.
    Catalina was the first victim, found on 3 July; her hair was a cascade of curls. Florenta, whose body was discovered on 24 July, had her auburn hair cut short into an elfin style that emphasized her eyes; whereas Bianca, whose body was located on 20 August, had hair that fell poker-straight to her waist. Two of the victims had no before photographs. In direct contrast, straight below the glamour shots, the bare, smashed bodies of the murdered girls had been photographed one last time. Blu-Tack held the unnerving, inexcusable gallery to the wall. There wasn’t much room left.
    ‘If the Ripper continues with his killing spree, they’re going to have to give you a bigger room,’ I muttered.
    Bancho had written the girl’s name and age, if known, where and when the body was found, and the pathologist’s estimated time of death. Catalina had lain undiscovered for months. The Ripper, annoyed at being ignored by the police, had cut the index finger from Bianca, the third victim, and placed it under Detective