by Grace Monroe
She stood quietly, listening intently. Her full red mouth was open as she tried to decipher the old woman’s jabbering. They all eavesdropped, although they couldn’t understand a word; even Connie had laid aside her game. Reaching out, Contessa tucked a stray grey hair back into the babushka’s headscarf.
‘Her name is Irena Antonescu … her journey began weeks, maybe months ago … the old woman has lost track of time.’
Malcolm pulled out a seat from the table and helped the babushka to sit down. Her legs were covered by opaque black stockings, but he, like everyone else, could see the gnarled markings of varicose veins – wiggling his own toes, he looked as if he was guessing how tired her feet must be. Throughout this procedure, she hadn’t stopped talking. The wind was building up outside, the windows rattled, momentarily distracting them. Contessa’s English wasn’t fluent – I’d imagine she’d found it unnecessary to take extra language lessons for her career advancement – and, consequently, she was a frustratingly slow translator. The babushka jabbered on for several long minutes each time, but Contessa gave curt, one-second answers.
‘Irena says that the journey cannot stop … it is a journey to find not her granddaughter. Her daughter, Mihaela.’
Clearly the old woman had had a hard life. I would have guessed any daughter of hers would have been near retiral. I wanted to ask how old she was but Contessa was interrupted by the old woman pulling at her; the girl turned her full attention back to the crone, nodding in silent understanding. ‘She says that she wants you to know that her daughter’s name means … gift from God. She is … was a dancer. She loved to dance since she was a little girl.’ Contessa stopped; bending down, she indicated Mihaela had been dancing since she was knee high.
A sudden blast of wind shook the side of the building. A storm was gathering. Business would be slow tonight, so Contessa could spend some time with the old one. Rocking back and forth, the babushka never stopped speaking, not even for a sip of the tea that was growing cold in front of her.
‘She is talking about journey again. She is hoping that will reveal the mystery of the daughter. She was good girl, she kept in touch with her mother who is widow …. Irena keeps saying she has to find daughter… her search for the daughter has brought her to world she does not understand … Mihaela comes from village in countryside… as you can see, they are peasants.’ Contessa’s lips curled in distaste. ‘The village is called Glod … is a Romanian word for mud … no cars in village … only transport is by horse-drawn cart.’ Perhaps Contessa wouldn’t spend time with the old woman after all – from what Kailash had told me, she had run many miles to escape a village just like Glod in the first place.
The babushka pulled at Contessa’s dressing gown again, anxious for her story to be heard, anxious for any help to find her daughter. ‘Babushka says that they are poor people … but they are still people.’ Contessa sighed as she listened to the stream of words from the babushka. ‘She says they were tricked by people more educated than them … I do not know what she means.’ Malcolm handed Contessa tea in a china cup and saucer; she sipped delicately on the hot sweet black brew.
The babushka cleared her throat and was about to begin again; Contessa held up her hand – a full thirty seconds passed before the babushka was given permission to continue. The kitchen was filling up. Girls of all shapes, sizes and hues began to file in – the storm had affected trade and they had some spare time. A semicircle gathered around the kettle waiting for it to boil; normally, the air would be filled with girlish chatter, but tonight there was silence. Out of the corner of their eyes they stared at the battered photograph of Mihaela untouched on the table. More than any other group, these women had reason to fear the Ripper.
Connie removed her anorak. The close proximity of so many bodies had raised the temperature of the room. A cloud of worry passed across Contessa’s face as she continued to listen to the babushka. I thought I saw a small bead of sweat run down the side of her face, until I looked again and saw that it was a tear. The old woman reached out and lifted the worn picture from the table; clutching it to her chest, directly over her heart, she began to wail. Her coat was black and worn, and it brought the fresh-faced beauty in the photograph into sharp relief. Mihaela’s dreams were reflected in her eyes.
Joe’s jaw tightened and he clenched his fist – I knew that he would feel impotent. There was nothing he could do to bring her back, but at least the old woman deserved to be told what was going on in this city.
Glasgow Joe looked carefully into Contessa’s face. ‘The old woman has to be told what’s happening in Edinburgh,’ he said. ‘The poor old soul can’t read or speak English – she has no idea that the Ripper’s on the rampage killing girls like Mihaela.’
Fear seemed to quicken in Contessa. Gripping the cup and saucer tightly, she softened her tone and began to speak. The babushka stared into the distance, slowly allowing Contessa’s words to sink in. The pendulum clock on the wall ticked loudly, as I watched. The girls were rifling in their handbags, gathering their change to make an offering to the old woman, and Kailash already had a wad of cash waiting. Gloria stood and waited. When Contessa stopped to draw breath, she handed over their offering. Even if Mihaela’s body was never found, it was enough to buy a memorial stone to mark the fact that the babushka’s daughter had once walked and breathed on this earth.
Rocking back and forth, the old woman keened, the loud shrieking noise no doubt disturbing the few high rollers who were in the casino above – no one moved to quieten her. Holding a fistful of money out to Contessa, the old woman began to speak again. It was a horrible sound, the guttural noise of an animal in difficulty. Contessa suddenly stilled. Her hands joined in prayer, she lifted them to her mouth, as if she was beginning to understand some horror. She struck like lightning. Kicking the money out of the babushka’s hands, she grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and dragged her up the steps.
‘Put the old woman down, you crazy bitch!’ Joe stepped forward as the rest of us looked on in shock at the turnaround. I watched as the old woman hit every step on the way up; she bounced and ricocheted like a black plastic bin bag as Contessa manhandled her to the grand entrance hall. The high rollers gawped; some even placed their cards face down on the table to stare. The red silk robe had slipped from Contessa; the snake was gleaming with the sheen of sweat, the colours of its scales jumped as the muscles on Contessa’s back twitched from exertion. Glasgow Joe caught up with them when Contessa was opening up the heavy Georgian front door.
He circled Contessa and her prey crouched low like a hunter; Contessa bent down and took off her left shoe. It was no ordinary shoe – the seven-inch stiletto heel made it an offensive weapon in Contessa’s hands.
Firing it, her aim was true; it glanced off Joe’s forehead, buying her enough time to open the front door. Using her bare foot, she kicked the old woman out of the house. The babushka rolled down the three steps and landed in the gutter. Contessa gathered phlegm from her throat and spat on the old woman.
‘Vacu draculi!’ she cursed, slamming the casino door.
Chapter Nineteen
Danube Street, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 6.30 p.m.
The Watcher smashed the streetlights and huddled in the dark to wait – he was used to that. All good things come to those who wait. He kicked the shattered plastic into the gutter; he couldn’t afford to inadvertently stand on it. He knew he had to be extra vigilant, although the noise from the casino covered any din he made and he made sure to stand at least one hundred yards from the entrance. Kailash’s employees were always on the lookout for those who would stalk her doorstep, either as a police informer or a pervert. The Watcher was nothing if not careful.
He placed his gloved hands over his mouth and blew; there was no warmth left in him to thaw his fingers. His lips were frozen. It was even too cold to blow rings with his breath. The wind howled down the street. He felt an icy chill run up the back of his thighs as a gust lifted the
flaps of his overcoat. He clenched his teeth and heard his breath hiss: this feeling had better just be the cold.
He had arrived at the corner of Danube Street just in time to see Brodie disappear into the high rollers’ casino. Joe kept the journo and the old woman on the doorstep longer than the rest of the party, allowing The Watcher time to choose the perfect viewing point. His heart fluttered – things were going according to plan. He felt a surge of pride that he’d tracked her down so quickly.
The feeling of elation was fleeting.
For a few long moments after the party had disappeared, Glasgow Joe remained on the front stoop, staring up and down the street, searching the darkness. The Watcher held his breath. A tingle of excitement ran through his loins – he was unused to being the hunted. He had to fight the urge to run. From inside the casino, a voice called, ‘Joe!’ Reluctantly, the former assassin turned to answer it, granting The Watcher a stay of execution.
As the door slammed shut, The Watcher allowed himself to think that maybe things were going his way after all; he deserved a break. The snow was falling thick and fast. He was unable to move from his hiding place – the snow formed a virgin perimeter around the casino and his footprints would be obvious as there was no other traffic on the street.
The lamppost was covered in a thick layer of frost. He spat on the end of his glove and traced doodles on the ice with his finger. All the time he whistled softly and pictured how it would be. He felt a familiar stirring – it was never too cold to dampen his ardour for the plan. The Watcher settled himself down, his heart rate slowed as he took himself on a mental journey from the last time. He kept each experience in a separate room in his mind – only he had the key and, when he chose, he unlocked the room and let the exquisite memories unfold.
Years of training had enabled him to recall every minute detail. He sniffed the still night air deeply – underneath the aroma of snow, he imagined fear intermingled with sweat and cheap perfume. Although smell was undoubtedly his favourite sense, he also enjoyed remembering the tiny whimpers that escaped from deep within their bodies. His memories came flooding into his mind – perhaps, after all, the taste of salty skin was his favourite.
There was no sign of life. All was quiet, except for the sound of the wind rushing down the Georgian street, rattling windowpanes, rustling through the bare trees that lined the Water of Leith and provided his cover.
Kailash’s girls opened the shutters – obviously the kitchen must have been too hot. In the darkness, the light from the basement of the casino reminded him of watching a drive-in movie. The girls had come to enjoy a coffee break – The Watcher could see them in their underwear. His hand went to his trousers as he felt himself stir to life. He unzipped his fly as the red silk gown fell off the girl he watched; he stroked himself and stared at her. Now he envisioned what it would be like if she wrapped those long bare legs around him. He stroked himself faster still. He grunted loudly in his head, but stopped himself just before he ejaculated: he who lives without discipline lives without honour.
He stood chewing his lips. It seemed like an hour, but in reality it was only a matter of minutes before the front door swung open and the girl kicked the old woman down the steps.
The Watcher heard every word.
‘Vacu draculi!’
The Watcher whispered it under his breath, interpreting Contessa’s words. He sniggered and repeated the words – ‘You are the devil’s cow!’ So, that’s the way it was. It was no surprise to him; there was no evil that his mind could not conceive of. He had little or no faith in his fellow man. The Watcher knew the score from these shouted words. He had heard the old babushka’s story increasingly often in recent years – a worthless daughter had suddenly become the family’s greatest asset for the price her body bought in Bucharest. The girl would be taken out of the country to work in a brothel. After she had paid off the initial money outlaid to her family, her new owners would take rent from her and send any remaining pennies home to the family. The babushka had travelled to Scotland to slap the wretched girl for withholding the money.
She picked herself up out of the gutter and brushed the snow from her coat. As she retied her headscarf, The Watcher noticed a ribbon of blood running down her face from a cut above her eye. Slowly, she lifted her hands and wiped it away. For a few long seconds, she stared at her bloody palms and fingers. A little surprised, The Watcher opened his eyes wider as he waited for her to seek absolution. Reaching into her deep pockets, she pulled out a string of rosary beads. Limping slowly along Danube Street, she passed close to The Watcher’s hiding place; he heard her prayers.
He guessed that she was praying for herself.
Chapter Twenty
Court Meeting, Lothian and St Clair W.S.
Monday 24 December, 7.30 a.m.
By virtue of rising at the crack of dawn, I’d finally made good my promise to check out the mysterious website Joe and Bancho had been discussing, and I had only one word to go on: ‘Hobbyist’.
I don’t know what I was expecting – disgruntled legal clients bad-mouthing myself and others of my illustrious profession perhaps?
It took a lot of Googling, but the only Hobbyist I could find appeared to be an American-based ‘adult’ site where men with bizarre and violent tendencies got their rocks off discussing the adventures they’d enjoyed with prostitutes – sometimes very young and not always willing prostitutes. I comforted myself that, as usual when men discuss their fetishes, at least 50 per cent of it could probably be dismissed as fantasy and wishful thinking.
It certainly wasn’t my reading of choice, and I was about to give up and log off when I caught sight of my name. One of the dirty old fuckers had been trying to get in touch with a ‘Brodie McLennan’. Okay, it’s not a common name, but I reasoned there must be at least a few Brodie McLennans in the States or on the worldwide web. I checked the date of the entry. Six months ago. Before I could read any more – not that I really wanted to, having established that I clearly wasn’t the vice girl he was looking for – Lavender staggered into my office labouring under the weight of a tray of coffees and a basket of muffins.
‘I don’t pay you enough to turn up to work on your wedding day!’ I shouted to her, while quickly closing down my web access. She held a handful of napkins between her teeth – it was bliss: for once she was unable to answer me.
At Lothian and St Clair, we’re family. It’s a small court practice and if it’s a day when the court is sitting, at least one of us has to be there. My well-publicized fights with the Law Society and the Edinburgh Bar Association meant we had difficulty getting solicitors to work for us, so our choices were limited.
Eddie was nervous about the wedding ceremony, so he came in for me to hold his hand. Lavender didn’t trust us to appear on time for the ceremony, so she had everything arranged.
I pulled the plastic lid off a takeaway coffee cup. ‘I asked for a skinny latte!’ I said, grabbing a bran and molasses breakfast muffin. I dropped it like a hot potato as Lavender smacked the back of my hand.
‘The dress is a size ten. I told you at the time you’d never stick to that diet – you lost twenty pounds on that bloody Atkins Diet, which, by the way, we all had to suffer for with your cranky cravings for carbs, and now you look as if you’ve put on thirty. Skimmed milk isn’t going to cut it, Brodie.’
‘Well, this won’t make much difference either then.’ I grabbed the muffin out of the basket, making sure to take a big bite before she could snatch it and give it to someone else. I wandered over to the outsize mirror. Breathing on it, I pulled my sleeve over my hand, and rubbed.
‘Bloody hand prints – again,’ I said.
‘Better than bum prints!’ She laughed. Lavender’s natural curiosity had led her to develop skills that would have given Sherlock Holmes a run for his money. She had been unable to settle until she’d uncovered the origin of the strange body prints I periodically found on the mirror. Apparently, a security guard and a cleaner were having
an affair – and they were rather partial to watching themselves. It was bad enough that illicit sex was taking place in my office whilst I wasn’t getting any, but these two?
‘There’s nothing on at court today,’ Lavender told me. ‘A few custodies that Danny can cover – you and Eddie have a deferred sentence each. Get your arse into court early – ask the fiscals to call your cases first. I want you in and out of court – you will be at the Sheraton no later than ten thirty a.m., Brodie!’ she ordered. Lavender ran the office like a border collie herding a flock of sheep – I met Eddie’s eyes and held them. We were having our heels nipped – if we knew what was good for us, we’d obey her commands to the letter.
‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ I asked Lavender. ‘Don’t you know it’s bad luck for the bride to see the groom on the morning of the wedding?’
‘I know what you two would get up to if I was stupid enough to leave you to your own devices – I’d be left standing at the altar while you acted like this was just any working day,’ she replied.
There was one cup of coffee remaining on the tray. Eddie, Lavender, Danny the agency lawyer and Louisa the trainee were all sipping away in companionable silence watching the winter sun struggle to rise above the Castle Rock. The door creaked open – Grandad was here. At first it irritated me, him hanging about the office controlling things, demanding to see me rehearse my jury speeches – but I couldn’t deny that I had improved under his tutelage; so much so that the challenge had gone out of defence work. Maybe it was having Connie in my life, but suddenly I wanted the streets of Edinburgh to be safe so she could go out without the fear of being attacked by some little shit I had got off.
Grandad kissed me good morning, smelling of expensive gentlemen’s cologne, the type that was probably in vogue in the 1940s. His eyes glittered and he clapped his hands excitedly; he couldn’t wait to get down to business. He had made it clear that the only thing better than walking Lavender down the aisle would have been to have me on his arm – under the strict proviso that he approved of my choice of groom, of course. Everyone knew that would never happen.