if there was no tomorrow. For the dead girls – there wasn’t.
Edinburgh’s Old Town Sunday 23 December, 3.30 a.m.
I lifted my face and let the fat snowflakes fall onto it, feeling each one cold and clean upon my skin. I was worn out and felt like crap. I stuck my tongue out to catch a speck; it melted immediately but didn’t make me feel any cleaner. The cobbles were covered with a layer of white; it gave the streets an innocence that I’d lost long ago.
There’s nothing like confronting death to fire up your will to live. The roads were lethal and I didn’t fancy spending Christmas in an intensive care unit. Lavender would kill me if nothing else. Snow lay on the Fat Boy too. He was staying where he was, and I’d have to get a taxi home. Easier said than done – the clubs were emptying and the narrow streets of the Old Town were filled with prime examples of binge Britain. Young girls staggered down the road arm in arm, thinking that there was safety in numbers. It made sense to me in the absence of any other option, so I fell in behind them as they lurched and reeled up St Mary’s Street.
The sound of a horn made me jump. My heart raced as I turned and saw Bancho kerb crawling. Putting on my best smile, I hopped in – he’d obviously been bullied into this. As I’d overheard, he was on his way to pick up Joe at the casino to go on the dawn raid. A blast of warm air counteracted the chilliness of his welcome. Glancing at him out of the side of my eye, I put the seat belt on. The wheels skidded as Bancho drove off in the direction of my house; he was obviously in a rush to get rid of me.
We stopped at the top of St Mary’s Street, and a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature ran down my spine.
‘What did you think of the City Wall verdict … did it make you proud?’ Bancho asked, exhaling noisily. He watched as I gave my reply.
‘No.’
On the corner with the Royal Mile sat the City Wall pub, implicated in one of Edinburgh’s most notorious murders. Two young girls, Alice Parks and Jane Derren, had been bound and raped then murdered after they had left the pub. The police had investigated the case for thirty years until advances in DNA techniques allowed them to bring in Andrew Saunders.
‘Did you think Alice and Jane got justice?’
‘No.’
‘You’re bloody right. We brought her killer to court; he was a convicted double killer and paedophile – yet he was found not guilty. Nine days of evidence, and thirty years of painstaking detective work down the toilet … why did the prosecutor close the case without putting the DNA evidence to the jury?’
There was no answer. All I knew was the law must be above suspicion – which was why I’d asked if the judge was a Mason in the earlier case. People make mistakes – there must be no suggestion it’s not a mistake.
‘You know what the tragedy is, Brodie – we had the evidence to nail him … It just wasn’t put forward in court.’
Bancho drove at speed. He couldn’t leave the scene of the City Wall fast enough.
‘It could happen again, Brodie. When I catch the Ripper there’s always a chance he could walk free because of a smartass lawyer – we both know that lawyer could be you. Would you sleep at night? Would you?’
He was looking at the City Wall pub in the rear-view mirror. His eyes showed that the old case still haunted him. ‘Nobody cares.’ He ran his fingers over his mouth as soon as he spoke; perhaps wishing he could take the words back. ‘We couldn’t get justice for Alice and Jane and they belonged to the city – what chance does someone like Bianca have?’
His nicotine-stained fingers kept pulling on his hair, and clumps came away in his hand. I hoped for Bancho’s sake that this alarming moulting had occurred because he hadn’t brushed his hair and not because of a failure to control his stress; otherwise he’d be as bald as a coot come Christmas morning.
‘No one cares about these girls,’ he said again. ‘Not their families, government, no one.’ His voice was rising. I could see he wasn’t taking me home. That was unfortunate, because I wanted to check out this ‘Hobbyist’ website as soon as possible.
‘The media just think these girls are prostitutes – even if they were that’s no excuse – but they were double-crossed, Brodie; told that they were coming to the West to go to college or to model, and then ending up as sex slaves.’ Bubbles of spit were forming at the edges of his mouth as he turned into Danube Street and stopped outside Kailash’s establishment. He leaned over and opened the door for me to get out. The snow was still falling heavily and I wasn’t even home yet. ‘Do you know that the American government doesn’t have a charter against people trafficking? You’d think Uncle Sam of all administrations would be against slavery – well, they all speak a good game but that’s as far as it goes. Bush said in 2002 that there would be zero tolerance and a bill was drafted, but defence contractors objected. The British government is just as bad.’
I thought he was going to leave me alone in the snow; I was bored and just wanted to get home – but no such luck. He got out of the car and grabbed my arm, dragging me to the front door of Kailash’s place. I don’t choose to frequent my mother’s brothel or her casino, but Bancho wasn’t giving me any choice in the matter.
It was a while before the door was answered, which gave me plenty of time to inspect the Christmas wreath in front of me. It was extravagant, expensive and unique – just like my mother. I was touching the blue thistles that were intertwined with holly, when Kailash opened the door.
‘Well, well, well – to what do I owe the pleasure?’ Kailash’s tone was sarcastic and acerbic. She wasn’t talking to Bancho, she was talking to me. It was a source of great annoyance to her that I had difficulty accepting her choice of profession. I’d hoped that when Connie went to a day school in Edinburgh, Kailash would change her ways. She certainly didn’t need the money. Her casino and property developing companies more than paid for her hairdressing bill, which wasn’t insignificant. Kailash said that I just didn’t understand her – kids were supposed to say that to their parents, but, actually, she was spot on.
My heart sank as she pulled me inside the large Georgian hallway. With one swift kick of her Manolos, she slammed the door shut in DI Bancho’s face.
Quality time with Mummy.
Just what I needed from Santa.
Danube Street Casino, Stockbridge, Edinburgh Sunday 23 December, 4.10 a.m.
I knew that my scuffed bike boots were leaving dirty marks on the plush red carpet, but I guessed that Bancho’s banging on the front door had been much more unsettling for the high rollers. Anything that took their minds off the tables was bad for business, and that made it Joe’s business.
The hum of conversation and the shuffle of cards had slowed due to the late hour. It didn’t take too long before Glasgow Joe was at my side. He’d approached Kailash with an idea for online gaming; the costs were low, and their profits phenomenal. Against all odds they worked well together.
We weren’t really back to chatting – a few minutes spent on a muddy pitch watching Connie couldn’t make up for what had happened; Joe’s a proud man who didn’t take rejection well and that was without him knowing that I’d slept with Jack Deans. Again.
He blamed me. Well, that’s always easier. We’d got on great until he wanted more – Joe always wants more.
I pulled a battered black-leather wallet out of my jacket and handed him £500 in fifty-quid notes. I always kept a sizeable quantity of spare cash on me – it made me feel safe. Growing up we never had grubby fivers lying around.