by David Waine
CHAPTER 5
Detective Chief Superintendent Ronald Abberline sighed inwardly. The days when he could approach his never-ending round of press conferences with equanimity were over. There had been a time when he valued them as useful. The public had a right to know at least some of what the Force was doing with their tax money after all. Occasionally they even served to remind someone of a seemingly insignificant detail that would prove pivotal in cracking a case. Even more occasionally they could be as effective in lulling the offender into complacency by giving him the impression that PC Plod knew less than he really did.
Those days were over. New reporters, less interested in serving the public than fulfilling their own ambitions, now faced him and tore whatever he said to shreds, cashing in on the fact that he had to pick his words very carefully when they were under far less constraint. They reached for the stars from a mountain of bleeding, innocent victims. This new breed was personified by the frowning face before him, brandishing a microphone under his nose like an offensive weapon. Sally Ferguson, the BBC’s rapidly rising rottweiler, was already sharpening her words in her head.
Trying hard to keep his inward sigh from becoming outwardly audible, he cleared his throat and began. “Further to last night’s report of the discovery of a body in a flat on Hanbury Street, I can now confirm that the deceased has been positively identified as Mrs. Roberta Henderson, aged eighty-five, a resident in the building.”
“How did she die?” The words spat, rather than flowed, from the mouth of Pit Bull Sally.
‘Here we go,’ he thought. “She was the victim of a particularly savage attack with a sharp weapon.”
“A knife?”
He nodded. “Possibly.”
The young crime reporter took this in and pressed on without regard to any of her colleagues who were clamouring to attract his attention. “Has any link been established between this killing and that of Mary Anne Nichols?”
Abberline had seen that one coming and was ready for her. “Undeniably, there is that possibility. We are, however, pursuing our enquiries without preconception.”
She, in turn, had expected such a response and was not going to allow him to leave it at that. “Superintendent,” she left the ‘Chief’ off again deliberately to needle him, “when the news of the Nichols murder broke, I asked you if there was a possibility that a copycat Jack the Ripper serial killer was on the loose in the East End.”
“You did,” he replied with greater civility than he felt.
She fixed him with a steely brown eye. “Will this second murder prompt the police to re-examine their standing?”
“We do that constantly.” He was cursing himself for still being on the defensive. “We acknowledged that there were similarities between the two cases, but they were not identical. We said then that we are keeping an open mind on the situation, and that is still our position today.”
“Even though there has now been a murder on Hanbury Street, possibly on the centenary of the second Ripper killing?”
‘Yes, Sally Ferguson,’ he thought, ‘even though.’ “As in the Nichols case, there are significant discrepancies,” he explained. “Jack the Ripper’s second victim was Annie Chapman, a forty-seven year old prostitute. Today’s victim was Roberta Henderson, an eighty-five year old widow who, like the Nichols girl, was completely respectable. Chapman was murdered in the open and dumped in a back yard. Mrs. Henderson was attacked in her own home.”
He saw her pause. ‘That stumped you. Time to leave, I think.' Her mouth opened again. ‘Bugger!’ he thought.
“Can you confirm, or deny, whether Mrs. Henderson’s injuries were similar to Annie Chapman’s?”
‘No, you don’t,’ he thought. “They were at least as severe as those of Mary Anne Nichols. We will not comment further at this stage, however.” He turned to go.
“One more question.”
Abberline knew he now had the upper hand. “I’m sorry; we have nothing more to add. Thank you.”
If looks could have killed, he would have been flat on the floor with his life’s blood trickling down the nearest drain. Instead, the irrepressible Miss Ferguson had to limit herself to her most disapproving scowl as he left, pleased with himself for once at not having allowed her to wheedle more out of him than was good for the investigation.
Two floors further up, he flung his suit jacket over the back of his chair and himself after it, kicking off his shoes and raising his feet onto the edge of his desk. Leaning back with his hands behind his head, he spoke between clenched teeth. “You, Sally Ferguson, may be the brightest crime reporter the BBC has ever produced, but you are getting just a bit too clever for your own good, my girl.”
There was a diffident knock at the door, which opened to reveal the weasel-like features of his bag man, Sergeant Matthews. Matthews was small, with a light build and a very sharp nose. The others called him, ‘The Ferret’, which he took as a compliment, thinking that it reflected his ability to unearth information. In truth, it was nothing of the sort and merely referred to his physical appearance. Detective Sergeant Desmond Matthews was your archetypal PC Plod, albeit with the rank and minus a uniform.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Only then did Abberline realise that his eyes were closed. The sight of Matthews’s mustelid head peeping round the door was not a good one on which to open them. “What is it, Matthews?” he grunted, his bad mood evident in his tone.
“I heard you speaking, sir,” replied his sergeant, coming in and closing the door behind him. “I thought you were talking to somebody.”
Abberline emitted a harsh and mirthless laugh, taking his feet down from the desk at the same time. He did not wish to appear to be relaxing on the job even in front of a subordinate like Matthews. “No such luck,” he replied grumpily. “That might imply we were getting somewhere. This case is composed entirely of brick walls. A blood-crazed lunatic is laughing at us because we can’t see beyond the ends of our noses.” He sighed dispiritedly. “No, I was venting my spleen on that oh-so-bright reporter of the BBC’s, Sally Ferguson. After she’d gone, of course, lest she take me apart on the Nine O’clock News when I can’t hit back. Her theory of a Jack the Ripper copycat killer is too close for comfort. She’s right in one respect, though.”
“What’s that, sir?” asked Matthews.
“There are parallels to the killings,” replied Abberline. “I can’t afford to ignore that. The last thing we need is Joe Public getting hung up on the thought of history repeating itself.”
Matthews entered the room properly and shut the door behind him. “Has she mentioned your granddad?”
Abberline squinted at him. “My great uncle, you mean? Fred Abberline died childless. I’m descended from his brother, Edward.” He yawned. He had been up half the night in Hanbury Street. “Not yet, but let’s not delude ourselves that it hasn’t occurred to her. She’ll be keeping it up her sleeve to plunge into my back when we are at our most confused, mark my words.”
Abberline was not a cruel man by nature, but his bag man could be a real dullard when he wanted. How had Matthews ever passed for Detective Sergeant? The only things he was good at were door to door enquiries, and organising teams. “My great uncle couldn’t find any witnesses to the original killings,” he explained patiently, “and I can’t find any for these. That’s worth a thought, isn’t it? Both investigations wandering around in circles. At least they had the excuse of next to no forensics to hide behind. What excuse have I got? He doesn’t leave any clues.”
“He’ll make a mistake eventually sir. They always do.” Matthews’s complacency was frequently irritating.
“When? How many corpses will it take?”
Matthews blinked stupidly. “Sir?”
“Never mind.” Abberline pulled his chair into his desk and began to sort through the pile of papers that had accumulated there since he last sat down some time the previous evening. “What did you want, anyway?”
The ser
geant pulled a grubby, faded, dog-eared bit of card, sealed in a clear plastic evidence bag, from his inside pocket and handed it over. “I thought you’d better see this, sir. I didn’t want to bring it in while the press were outside.”
“What is it?” asked Abberline, taking it automatically.
“WDC Rutter found it, sir, while going through the old lady’s flat.”
Abberline’s eyes brightened at her name. Women’s Detective Constable Rutter was everything that Matthews was not: sharp, intelligent, and intuitive. That was without considering her looks. She already held the distinction of being the youngest Met. Officer ever to pass firearms training and to receive a license to carry a gun when on duty. This honour was accorded to very few officers, and hardly any under the age of forty. Rutter had achieved it four months previously at just twenty-five years of age. Even so, she was not allowed to arm herself routinely, but had to be commissioned to do so by a senior officer, and only in the gravest of circumstances. As yet, she had not gone out with a gun strapped under her jacket.
Abberline had been instrumental in securing her transfer from the uniformed branch to CID This was not because he had taken a middle-aged fantasy to her youthful appearance, for he was a happily married man and much too professional to abuse his position. The real reason was that he had recognised the abundance of raw ability that lurked, untapped in her head. If he were truly honest with himself, he was uncertain whether he would even like her as a human being. She was thoroughly professional, but also reserved and did not invite confidences. He had heard her referred to as a cold fish, which was putting it a bit strongly, he thought, because she had always been civil with him. Rumour had it that her reserved nature was largely the result of the car accident that had robbed her of both her parents when she was only eighteen and her rigorous work ethic her way of keeping it from her mind. Beyond any doubt, she was totally dedicated to her job and, more to the point, good at it. He knew that there was no husband lurking in the background and doubted whether there was even a boyfriend. She never mentioned such things, keeping all of her statements and observations rigidly on work. She was a darned good copper, though. If there was any justice in the world, she would rise rapidly through the ranks and possibly even command her own force one day. Of course, that was unlikely because there simply wasn't any justice in the world. WDC Rutter had been found in possession of an offensive second X chromosome, which rendered her prone to a menstrual cycle and capable of impregnation, although the latter did require a difficult to imagine external intervention. Therefore her chances of achieving her potential were limited. That was the way it had been since women were allowed on the Force, and Abberline could not see it ever changing. Still, with her on board, there was always the chance of a breakthrough, which would have been a forlorn hope if he had to rely on the redoubtable Matthews.
“It was stuffed down the back of a drawer in her bedroom, which is, presumably, why we missed it at first. It’s an invitation to a wedding, sir.”
“Great!” wheezed Abberline, tossing the bag to one side. “I suppose I’ll have to tell them she’s not coming.”
“I don’t think so, sir,” replied Matthews. “This wedding took place in 1922.”
Abberline blinked in disbelief, picking the package up and examining it. “And she kept the invitation?”
“Sir.”
Abberline turned it over in his hands, rereading the message through the clear plastic. “Mr. and Mrs. D. Collins have great pleasure in inviting Miss R. A. Siffey to the marriage of their daughter, Fiona Louise, of this parish, to Mr. George Appleby. What did she keep this for? It isn’t even for her. Is it?” Now his detective’s brain began to operate. “Think again, Abberline,” he muttered. “R. A. Siffey. Roberta — Anne — Siffey. Oh, my god! Matthews, check the records office. I want Mrs. Henderson’s maiden name before I’ve finished speaking. Get the boys in on your way out!”
Matthews spun on his feet as if stung.
“And the girl!” yelled Abberline at his vanishing back.