by David Waine
*
Many hours later, in her Finchley flat, Jennifer Earl sat down before her television set with her favourite nightcap, drinking chocolate, spiked with just a hint of brandy. Her evening’s work, a pile of tedious third year marking and an equally boring book of lesson plans for the next week, lay on the table behind her. It had been almost ten o’clock by the time she had finished and she still felt resentful. Earlier that day the irate mother of a very offensive, crude boy had self-righteously informed her that she had a part time job: finished work by three thirty each day and three months’ paid holiday per year.
She had endured the ignorant woman as courteously as she could and had not bothered to enlighten her. The words would have fallen on deaf ears anyway. The truth was that she spent at least as much time preparing and marking work as she did teaching. Around half of her holiday entitlement was spent in school, working. She regularly put in a twelve hour day, three times a week on average, but of course it was not obvious because she did several of those hours in her own home.
At least the disagreeable day was over and the morrow might bring something better. The mother had gone off with her nose in the air and her freshly suspended loathsome spawn in tow. She wouldn’t have to endure the horrible little rat for another week.
Putting her mug of chocolate to one side, she reached for her remote control and turned her TV on to catch the late news. That glamorous thirty-something woman who appeared to do all the news reading these days appeared on the screen, staring gravely directly at her.
“Police have confirmed that the bodies discovered in Whitechapel last night are the third and fourth victims of the Jack the Ripper copycat killer. Edward Stride, who habitually dressed in women’s clothing and called himself Liz, was twenty-four. Cathy Kelly, a call girl from the Newcastle area, was thirty-one. Both had disappeared on September 30th, the anniversary of the original Ripper’s double act, when he killed Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, also known as Kate Kelly, on the same night.”
The picture changed to a wet Bow Road Police Station, where a windswept and rain-soaked Abberline was facing his usual barrage of microphones and lights.
“A man is still helping us with our enquiries,” he began, “but we would stress that no charges are pending at this stage.”
The voice of Sally Ferguson, just out of shot beside the camera, cut in. “Do we infer from this, therefore, that you do not believe this man to be the Ripper?”
Abberline was careful to control his facial expression and the tone of his voice. “I am not in a position to confirm or deny that at present.”
Realising that there was no more to come from that particular line of questioning, Sally changed tack. “Had the victims asked for protection?”
Abberline shook his head immediately. “No. Edward Stride was a man and, presumably, did not consider himself a target. Cathy Kelly was a resident of Newcastle and probably considered herself safe because the previous murders had been confined to London. She did, however, periodically ply her trade among the business community in the capital and she may have been attacked on such an excursion.”
“Did they receive warning notes?”
“We cannot confirm that at this stage. A number of women with similar names in the London area contacted us and all were given protection.”
There was a brief pause as the gathered news hounds assimilated the report. Then Sally’s voice cut in again. The feared Pit Bull tone was back. “Superintendent, if history is to repeat itself again, there will be one more murder.”
Not allowing her to continue, Abberline took the point over. “Mary Jane, or Marie Jeanette, Kelly. I must remind you, however, that it is our very best endeavour to ensure that history does not repeat itself.”
“Absolutely!” The tone was now positively waspish. “Nonetheless, it has done so four times already. If the worst comes to the worst, and we all pray that you will prevent it, is that where it will stop?”
A chastened Abberline shook his head slowly. “It is true that the original Ripper killings ended with the murder of Mary Jane Kelly. He was never caught so we cannot know for certain why he stopped. Our experience of serial killers, however, is that they don’t stop until they are apprehended or killed themselves. Therefore,” he turned his eyes full on Sally’s camera, “anyone receiving a note containing a large six, seven or eight should contact the police immediately.”