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  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 Bancho’s windscreen wiper. When Bancho had been given the case months earlier, there had been a fanfare of publicity – he was Lothian and Borders’ blue-eyed boy because he’d been seconded to the FBI for six months. He was trained in profiling techniques, but this was his first serial killer.

  The two unknown victims were particularly heartrending. Their families didn’t even know that they should be grieving. In the last six months, five bodies had been found, in various locations. After the first one, the Ripper made sure to place the bodies where a member of the public would find them. Now, he was becoming increasingly reckless.

  ‘You must have learned something with the FBI,’ I said. My shoulders hunched instinctively and it sounded like a criticism. It wasn’t the tone I was looking for, but old habits die hard …

  ‘The FBI have unsolved cases too,’ he said snippily. ‘The Ripper has chosen these girls carefully. At the moment only he knows the reason – but he’s marked them with a signature that keeps changing.’ DI Bancho turned to look at me. ‘He hunts his prey – knows all about them. At the moment he’s scouring the brothels of Leith but, as I’ve said, the bastard keeps changing.’

  DI Bancho and I stood in front of the photographs, a heavy silence between us as we stared at the girls.

  ‘What’s his signature … you’ve said it’s changing … how did it start?’

  ‘With Catalina you can see her body is badly decomposed, but he’s cut off her feet and hands to stop her escaping. Then he sewed her eyelids open using heavy black twine. Florenta got the same treatment, but look here.’ He tapped an eight-by-ten photograph. ‘He tore her tongue out by the root. Finally he cut her throat from ear to ear.’

  ‘What about this one?’ An unknown girl, her mouth twisted into an obscene scream, stared at me.

  ‘I told you he varies it slightly … he’s taken the skin off her left knee. And this one …’ He pointed to the other unidentified victim. Her breast had been cut open and her heart removed. Bancho coughed. ‘The media didn’t dub him the Ripper – that’s what he calls himself. These aspects of his signature, along with the torn-out tongue, are taken directly from the history books.

  ‘There’s also speculation that the original Jack the Ripper was a Mason; he scrawled an incriminating message on the wall at the murder scene. The chief constable at the time rubbed it out and that’s why he was never caught. It’s no secret there are some pretty powerful Masons in this city. How often have there been calls for public declaration of membership among police and the judiciary? You can see why I am trying to keep this secret – especially after your recent publicity stunt.’

  He offered me a Mars bar from a stash of sweeties in his desk and I couldn’t resist. I always use food as comfort; it was late and we were both sick and exhausted. A sigh of weariness escaped from his lips as we stared at the dead girls. Christmas was coming but to Bancho and me, the season of goodwill had never felt further away.

  ‘What do they look like to you?’ His finger reached out to touch the portrait of Bianca Kowalski, the third body to be found. ‘They’re all redheads for a start – foreign—’

  ‘So far …’ he said, interrupting me. I looked back at the gallery of death, recalling the training that Patch, my Professor of Forensics, had given me.

  ‘Good nutrition in childhood has strengthened her bone structure – see the Slavic high cheekbones – but her mother worked in the fields, I’d guess. Her dress is cheap but she’s copied it from something like American Vogue. It’s bloody sad – she was the prettiest girl in the village, probably dreamed of something more. I bet that all she wanted was to get out, away from the arranged marriage, anything to escape. Jesus, the price was too high,’ I said the final words under my voice. I had to admit that it made me sad and the words slipped out as I thought about the girls.

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ Bancho’s shoulders slumped, and he turned away from the girls to place his cup down.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I thought the papers had named him the Ripper for no good reason … but I suppose he is following Jack the Ripper’s signature to an extent.’

  ‘The media would have a feeding frenzy over the tongues,’ said Bancho, shuddering. ‘I mean, they’re torn out by the root … well, it’s obviously difficult so he helps the separation along using a serrated knife … he wants it to look like it’s torn out.’

  I turned to another part of the wall, on which was a printed, blown-up image of a text message. I’d heard about it at court, but I thought it was an urban myth. Unfortunately, for Ban
cho, it was not.

  Hi i’m jack c ur still having no luck finding me

  i respect u duncan but ur boys are letting u down

  u have no chance of catching me

  warn the whores i will strike again and again

  ‘How did that go down in the canteen?’ I asked, turning to face him.

  ‘Depends who you speak to,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘Some of the older men are saying that I sent it to myself.’

  ‘Meaning that they think you’re a big-headed bastard?’ I said. It raised a weak smile on his face.

  ‘That, I can handle. Others, including most of my superiors, think I’m being taken for a ride. I’ve overheard whispers as I pass – “He’s just like that detective in charge of the Yorkshire Ripper murders in the eighties – the fool’s being hoaxed by some prankster.” I swear the next one to make comments like that gets punched, no matter how many stripes on their shoulders … Fortunately, they can’t pull me off the case because of the fuss they made about me going on that profiling course at Quantico.’ DI Bancho tightened his jaw, and rolled his tongue along his lips.

  ‘Maybe both schools of thought are right,’ I said. It was out before I could give it any thought. Christ, even Bancho needed some sympathy. He rolled his eyes like he gave a fuck about my opinion.

  Bancho’s mobile rang and I strained to eavesdrop. I could make out parts – the constable on the other end was excited and shouting loudly. Bancho made noncommittal noises and tried to calm the man down. ‘I need you to stay calm, Constable McLeod. We’ve had tip-offs before … Yes, we’ve had what we thought were reliable tip-offs before too.’ Bancho sighed and punched his ‘loudspeaker’ option so that I could hear the words he had probably heard many times before. Bancho’s ego was such that he felt the need to justify himself, particularly to me, one of his harshest critics.

  ‘But this is the real thing, boss. We can’t move on him for a couple of hours because he won’t be in place until then – but, after that, it’s fucking guaranteed. You’ll have your man. The Ripper’s yours … boss.’

  ‘I’ll be with you in an hour,’ Bancho said, closing his phone. Despite his words to the other man, he rubbed his hands together. How many times has he really been down this road before? I wondered, but I kept my thoughts to myself.

  Chapter Eleven

  St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh

  Sunday 23 December, 3 a.m.

  DI Bancho couldn’t wait to get rid of me; he practically threw me out of the operations room. I assumed that the detective inspector didn’t want to make a phone call to his boss until he heard me clumping up the stairs in my heavy bike boots. I jumped up and down on the bottom step and he thought I’d left. He hadn’t even bothered to close the door, although in his defence the office was down in the bowels of St Leonards and it was very late.

  I peered in the open door. He was holding his breath. Opening his bottom drawer, he pulled out a can of Arrid Extra-Dry, sprayed each armpit and sighed. Whatever it was he wanted to do, he was putting it off. He looked nervous, his forehead shiny with sweat.

  Bancho’s eyes kept returning to the phone, as if he was afraid to make the call. Who could have that effect on him – the chief constable? Maybe he had to phone in the details of the search. If I’d had my way he’d be serving a seven-year stretch in Saughton Prison this Christmas, and if Bancho had won, I’d be eating my turkey in Cornton Vale with the rest of the women prisoners. It was no wonder we could barely be civil to each other. We’d both been wrong but neither of us was prepared to forgive and forget. No, I didn’t want to admit I owed Duncan Bancho any favours. Maybe we were experiencing something of a truce but there was a long way to go before we buried the hatchet. His fingers trembled as he reached out to make the call. Stress, nerves or drink? I couldn’t blame him if he had a tipple off duty; he was under a lot of pressure to deliver the Ripper. His call was answered immediately. It was on loudspeaker so that Bancho could use his computer and what I heard next was one reason why you should never poke your nose in where it doesn’t belong.

  ‘Glasgow Joe … it’s me … We’ve got the bastard. We’re gonna get him today at first light.’ DI Bancho panted as I held my breath, trying to keep quiet – he played with the cord on the telephone. He waited, presumably for praise; none came. Instead, Joe embarked on his own interrogation.

  ‘What was Brodie doing there? Why didn’t she leave with Malcolm? If she was with you – I hope you weren’t daft enough to show her the site.’ There was more than a hint of a threat in Glasgow Joe’s voice. What website? I was now going to make it my business to know.

  DI Bancho didn’t question how he got his information – it was one of the things that made Glasgow Joe unique. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ DI Bancho asked. Joe didn’t answer him. Bancho turned from the phone and stared at his computer. I couldn’t see what was on the screen.

  ‘Are you on “The Hobbyist” now?’ Joe asked, accusingly. ‘It was part of our deal you’re supposed to keep track of site traffic and note their threads.’

  ‘I’ve got a WPC on it full time. Remember, I was the one who told you that Brodie was being mentioned.’

  Joe was silent.

  I wanted to leap out of my hiding place there and then. Why was I on some website and why it was so important that the police were spending scarce resources monitoring it? Not to mention why these two bastards were keeping me in the dark about it. But I would learn more if I kept quiet. It would also have been slightly embarrassing to have been caught spying on Bancho.

  ‘There’s no more mention of her – I’ve just checked. Nothing since that first mention at the end of July,’ Bancho wheedled.

  ‘You shouldn’t need reminding – that site is supposed to be checked at least every two hours. These guys have time on their hands right now – most of them have finished their work for Christmas and their wives are too busy shopping to notice they’re not there.’

  The edge was taken off the detective inspector’s high spirits. He stared at his unpolished shoes, it was lucky that he couldn’t see his face in them; his skin was flushed with embarrassment. Bancho hesitated before he flipped open the buff-coloured file in front of him.

  ‘I’ve got the photograph in front of me. It’s from the usual source; I think it’s enough to go on. Why do you think he posted it to you at the Rag Doll?’

  ‘I dunno. He obviously knows I’m involved – I’ve been hanging out in every brothel in Leith.’

  ‘Not true – you’ve been in every slave den in Leith,’ DI Bancho said as he walked towards the wall and pinned up another photograph. I couldn’t get a clear view of it, but it was obviously a man and it looked professional, not knocked off on a camera phone. The first photograph of the Ripper. I decided to wait until Bancho went to the toilet and sneak in to see the monster. He hesitated, glanced over his shoulder and then put the image back in his pocket. I retreated to the shadows.

  ‘Has Jack Deans been snooping?’ Joe’s voice was casual, as if he didn’t care what the answer was. Bancho didn’t look as if he was fooled – and neither was I. But I was surprised.

  ‘He’s been in touch – tried to pretend he left Darfur because the Sudanese government was going to throw him out – the truth is that sly bastard couldn’t keep away from the biggest domestic news story in years. I hear he’s still chasing awards,’ said Bancho.

  ‘Vain bastard!’ Joe grunted. I could hear he wanted to ask more; maybe he was sniffing around to see if Jack and I were together. The reception was bad and I knew that Joe would have taken this call outside. He couldn’t risk anyone knowing he was a police informer. Regardless of the circumstances, that would be the end of his reputation in Edinburgh’s criminal underworld – there were no exceptions to this most basic rule, even if he did like to keep a foot in both camps.

  I could hear tiredness in his voice; he’d been running around trying to keep me safe. I knew the way his mind worked and felt like a bitch. He would see the threa
t; every victim would wear my face.

  ‘Are you properly prepared?’ Bancho asked.

  ‘Calm down, we’ll nail the bastard. Every criminal messes up. It’s a myth serial killers are smart – how difficult is it to top a wee Romanian girl?’

  ‘But it’s been in the papers, Joe. Apart from this photograph, there have been no real leads. The photo could be dodgy. How come this guy has the camera at the exact moment?’ Bancho coughed. ‘It makes you think.’

  Joe was right, the only reason serial killers got away with murder was faulty witness reports.

  ‘You remember our deal?’ Joe’s voice rang out in the dim room. Most men were too frightened to renege on any deal with him, and Bancho was no exception.

  ‘It’s not that easy to just give you five minutes alone with the Ripper – people will notice his injuries.’

  ‘I promise I’ll be careful, although I don’t feel good about this dawn raid. The Ripper’s not dangling on our hook yet – in my opinion your overtime budget isn’t going to get cut in the near future.’

  ‘You’re filling me with confidence.’

  ‘If you see Brodie – make sure she’s safe. The snow’s started and if I know her she’ll be on the Fat Boy. Don’t let—’ Glasgow Joe didn’t get a chance to finish.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at the casino in an hour – and by the way, I’m not a nursemaid.’

  Bancho’s eyes flickered; it had been a long time since he’d interrupted Joe; he switched the phone off and grabbed his coat. As he left I pushed myself into a corner.

  I should have known by now to expect anything of Joe, but even I was stunned by the extent of his collusion and involvement with Bancho, not to mention Bancho’s subservient attitude. Who was running this investigation?

  I ran up the stairs as if there was no tomorrow. For the dead girls – there wasn’t.

  Chapter Twelve

  Edinburgh’s Old Town