Page 37 of Watching You

Brodie Baarda sat in an unmarked police car in a side road from where he could see the entrance to the hospital multi-storey car park.

It also offered a view of one of the entrances to the main building, although the whole site sprawled across acres and acres, with separate buildings for some specialties.

The footfall through the hospital was unimaginable, and it wasn’t even just staff, patients and visitors.

There were deliveries turning up, people ordering food, others visiting a legal firm that had set up shop somewhere inside.

Then came a minibus full of nuns in wimples and habits that Baarda realised would be an absolutely ideal costume for a female serial killer.

Finally, a school bus came in, unloading at least forty children and five teachers, presumably for a work experience talk.

Brodie stopped looking at the main doors and concentrated on the idea of the best vantage point that offered the least chance of being noticed.

The road he was on had no CCTV. There were no traffic lights with cameras either, and no businesses nearby that would have their own security cameras.

It was the perfect place to park, but spaces were limited.

Hospital parking had to be paid for, so it was likely that nearby free spaces got taken early.

That only left more distant side roads, which meant walking a few minutes to get to the hospital, but without the benefit of being able to sit in a car to observe.

Baarda dictated notes on his mobile as he watched. ‘Team of plain-clothes officers to conduct door-to-doors in roads local to hospital to check for repeat sightings of pedestrian watching hospital or hanging around area.’

He got out of the car and walked towards the hospital, checking for visible camera locations inside the grounds as he went.

Some were obvious – mounted on poles or positioned at doorways – but there were others, he already knew, that looked like street lighting or alarms. All in all, the security set-up was substantial, and it would be enough to put most intelligent criminals off using the hospital to identify targets.

Unless, of course, they had cause to visit the hospital regularly anyway. That made much more sense. Baarda walked through the main doors and looked around. Serial killers got sick too. They had sick relatives. They had jobs in healthcare.

There was no magic to psychopathy. Serial killers were from all walks of life. They didn’t only hunt at night or have a third nipple. Quite often, in his experience, they were really very boring.

‘It’s impossible,’ he muttered. ‘Too many variables.’

A female nurse walked past and gave him a broad smile. ‘You okay?’ she asked. ‘You look miles away.’

Baarda gave a small shake of his head and laughed.

‘Guess I’ve got a lot on my mind. I have a friend who’s agoraphobic and they have to come in for a minor procedure.

I was trying to figure out which door they could use that gets the least foot traffic.

I need to keep things quiet for them to avoid stress. ’

‘Now that I can help with.’ She beamed. ‘My shift doesn’t start for half an hour so I can show you myself. Follow me.’

They walked away from the doors of the main building and back out towards the road before turning around the side of the block.

‘So do you live in Edinburgh or are you just visiting your friend?’ she asked.

‘Just visiting,’ Baarda said. ‘Although I’ve always loved Scotland. My parents used to bring me here for holidays as a child. It gets in your blood.’

‘That it does,’ she said. ‘I could never live anywhere else. What is it you do when you’re not travelling around being a good Samaritan?’

‘I’m in close protection,’ he replied automatically. ‘Bodyguard work for politicians and VIPs.’ It was his standard line.

‘Gosh, how exciting. Have you worked with anyone I’d know? Just down the pathway and the door’s on the right.’ She pointed.

‘Elton John, Kate Moss, Gordon Ramsay. Honestly, it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. Lots of late nights standing around in hotel lobbies and outside restaurants.’

‘Sounds thrilling to me. I’d love to hear a bit more about it.

This is the entrance. It’s the external route into our geriatric rehabilitation unit.

Most of these patients have been there a while but we’re still trying to get them well enough to go back to independent living.

The double doors on the right go into their lounge, the corridor straight ahead goes past the nurses’ station and towards their bedrooms and physiotherapy rooms, but if you turn left here, you end up going through radiology then into A&E.

The external door saves visitors to this unit from going through the main hospital with all the bugs and bacteria.

Keeps our geriatric patients that little bit safer, but if they need x-rays or treatments, they can be taken straight through. ’

‘That’s so thoughtful,’ Baarda said. ‘How clever. And yes, this does seem like the perfect entrance for my friend.’

‘I wish I had a boyfriend as thoughtful as you. Not many people would come to do a recce.’ She blushed slightly and Baarda was suddenly aware that she was looking at him with more interest than a simple desire to help.

He wished he hadn’t had to lie. It was a part of the job that always made him feel uncomfortable.

‘You know, I still have just enough time for a coffee if you’d like one.

I can show you the route through to the main block. ’

‘That would have been lovely, but I’m on something of a deadline.’ Her face fell. ‘Plus, I don’t think my partner would appreciate me getting coffee with anyone as attractive as you. Thank you, though. Under any other circumstances, I’d have said yes.’

‘I suppose I’ll have to forgive you, then.’ She smiled. ‘I hope your friend has a stress-free visit. I work on the paediatric ward, just in case things change.’ She shrugged. ‘A girl can dream.’

Baarda watched her walk away and wondered what his life would be like had he never met Connie. Simpler, that was certain. Less exciting too. Definitely less confusing.

He constructed a rough map of the hospital grounds in his mind and tried to figure out what the view was from the unit he was in back towards the main entrance. The best way to check was to go into the residents’ lounge. That door, he found, was not locked. Baarda wandered in.

At the far end of the lounge was a wall of glass, with multiple sofas and armchairs overlooking a lawn and flower beds, beyond which were the main car park and the road where Baarda had parked.

Soporific music played through tinny speakers and the few residents who were using the lounge looked unimpressed.

Other than that, the light was good, there was an enormous television at one side, plenty of games stacked on a table, and a packed bookshelf for readers.

Baarda went to the corner with the best view and looked out.

‘You’ll be police, then,’ a man said. ‘I can never quite put my finger on what makes you all stand out like you do.’

Baarda looked across the room at the man who was speaking to him. ‘Sounds like you know a few.’

‘I was in the fire service for forty years. Some of my best friends were police officers. It was always easier to be around people who understood what the deal was with the job. I’m Charlie Stott.’ He offered a hand to shake and tried to stand but was struggling.

Baarda went to him instead. ‘Brodie Baarda. It’s nice to meet you, Charlie. What’s landed you in here?’

‘Too much time up ladders carrying hoses, and eighty-year-old hips. It’s a bad combination. I don’t suppose you could just pull the wires out from that speaker, could you? I could tolerate this place much better if I didn’t have to listen to this dirge all day.’

‘I suspect that would be criminal damage, but I can ask them to change the music if that would help?’

Charlie had clearly once been a hulk of a man.

He still had an impressive head of white hair, a voice that came from the depths of his chest and a determined set to his mouth that Baarda knew would put him at odds with being dependent on others.

Ageing was slow torture, and that was if you were one of the lucky ones who made it that far.

‘Ach, don’t bother,’ Charlie said. ‘They’ll change it for half an hour then put the same drivel on again. I think it’s supposed to encourage us to want to leave.’ He gave Baarda a wink. ‘You’ll be here about the murder, I suppose.’

Baarda took the seat next to Charlie and relaxed into surprisingly comfortable leather.

‘We’ve done our best to keep the details out of the public eye. What have you heard?’

‘I listen. People’s tongues are the best newspaper you’ll find.

Some of the nurses were talking about it during drug rounds yesterday – they assume we’re all deaf or past caring.

One of them said everyone thought it was natural causes when the lad first collapsed in the lift, but then the police were all over it and now there are special security measures in place. Is that right?’

‘The security measures have obviously not been put in place here,’ Baarda noted. ‘I was able to walk straight in.’

‘Well, really, what’s left to kill in here?’ Charlie grinned. ‘A few old folk who’re already infirm. He can come in here and have at it, if he likes. He’ll have to take me beating him with my crutches first though!’

Baarda grinned back.

‘Well, we don’t know who’s responsible yet, so I can’t tell you if it’s a him or a her, but it was definitely an unlawful killing, and it definitely took place in the hospital. I’ll ask that security measures be applied here properly. No one should be put at risk.’

‘I’d put money on it being a man. I told the nurses there’s been a dodgy chap coming through here a few times. No one takes any notice of me though. They see wobbly hips and act like it’s my brain that’s rotten.’

‘What have you seen, Charlie? And for the record, I can already tell there’s nothing wrong with your faculties.’

Charlie leaned forward and lowered his voice.

‘They all think it’s my imagination, but I could swear there’s a man who comes through here once a week, sometimes more, only he looks different every time.

Sometimes he’s in normal clothes but always with a hat on, and sometimes he’s in a hospital uniform. ’

‘Do you think maybe he just works here and sometimes gets changed in a staff room?’

‘That’s the thing,’ Charlie said. ‘He wears different sets of scrubs. Sometimes like a male nurse. Sometimes like a porter. I’ve seen him in a cleaner’s uniform too.

And I’ve seen him leave through this route on days when I’ve not seen him enter this way.

Even when he’s wearing scrubs, he’s still got a hat or a cap on, or a hood up. ’

Charlie sat back in his chair and Baarda watched him for a few seconds.

‘You know I’ve got to ask: how can you be sure it’s the same man?’

‘It’s a fair question. I’ve seen him shave his hair, dye it, grow a moustache for a while then shave it off again.

All his clothes are sort of generic, nothing stand-out.

But it’s him. I’ve started looking out for him.

I thought maybe he was getting treatment for a sort of multiple personality disorder, then I figured I was the one losing the plot. Then this happened.’

Baarda got his mobile out of his pocket.

‘Charlie, do you mind if I record the next few questions I ask you, just so I’ve got an accurate note?’

‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘You want to know what I remember?’ Baarda nodded.

‘Well, he’s skinny for one thing, not shorter than five nine and not taller than six foot.

Height is harder for me at the moment as I’m always sitting down.

White-skinned though, and I reckon around about thirty years old, maybe a bit older, but he changes his look so it’s hard to be specific. ’

‘What was his hair like the last time you saw him?’

‘He’s growing it again, I reckon,’ Charlie said. ‘But then I never see the top of his scalp.’

‘Anything in particular about the way he walks? Have you ever heard him speak? Does he have tattoos? Does he ever carry anything like a bag or a bicycle helmet?’

Charlie thought about it. ‘No tattoos. He brought a backpack with him once or twice. Those are fire doors you came through so I’ve seen him through these windows and the glass in the doors, but it’s soundproof from the corridor into here.

As for how he walks, I’d say it’s like he’s trying to make himself nothing.

Not small, exactly, just head down, hands in pockets.

Sending out signals like, nothing to see here. Know what I mean?’

‘I do indeed,’ Baarda said. ‘That’s a very good description. I don’t suppose you’d be able to recall the last time you saw him?’

‘I can tell you exactly. It was the twelfth of June. I’d just had a review to decide whether or not I’m fit to be sent home yet. Bastards sentenced me to another month even though I’ve been on good behaviour.’

‘I’m sorry about that, Charlie, but also not sorry, if you’ll forgive me for saying. If they’d sent you home, I wouldn’t have ended up speaking to you today.’

‘That’s got to be worth you smuggling me in a bottle of a decent single malt, surely?’

‘It certainly is. And when they let you out, I’m taking you for a steak too. I’ll be sending an artist to work with you and we’ll need to take a formal statement. Is that something you’re okay with?’

‘More than okay,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in eight months, much as I wish no one had died.’

‘Don’t you worry about that.’ Baarda stood and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘We all have to make the best of every day. I’ll be back to see you, Charlie. In the meantime, you stay safe.’

‘What do I do if I see him again?’

‘I’ll have an undercover officer here with you within the hour. If you see this man, tell the officer. We’ll take it from there. No running after him and starting a fight,’ Baarda told him, mock serious, but not altogether sure Charlie wouldn’t have a go if he got the opportunity.

‘Chance’d be a fine thing. He’s lucky my hips aren’t healed. Wee bastard would be wearing his guts for garters.’