Chained in Time

by David Waine

CHAPTER 12

  The manhunt continued under the dependable, unimaginative stewardship of Sergeant Matthews. Sudden strokes of brilliance and flashes of insight customarily passed him by, but what he was good at he did well. The Ferret’s troops were marshalled with strict discipline and sent out on door to door enquiries covering the whole of Whitechapel and the surrounding districts systematically. A more distant unit, seconded from Northumbria Police, dug up every detail that could be found of Cathy Kelly’s background and contacts, although, given her calling, a complete list was unlikely ever to emerge. Too many wealthy and influential clients did not want their names dragged into the affair and would go to considerable lengths to ensure that they weren’t. A tidal wave of information flooded into the command centre at Bow Road Police Station every day, requiring the permanent attention of a substantial team of officers to sift through it and double check any tiny clue that might lead to the killer. Not for them the brilliant stroke of intuition that allowed a Sherlock Holmes, an Hercule Poirot or a Miss Marple to solve a mystery by deduction alone.

  They had to live and work in the real world where everything was much less clear-cut. Most of the information was, frankly, useless or merely corroborated what a dozen other people had already told them, but every so often a snippet of something new filtered through for Matthews’ organised brain to seize upon and report to the increasingly frustrated Chief Superintendent Abberline, who would promptly swear to the high heavens and send him out to follow it up.

  It was on one of these missions, late at night, that the sergeant made a critical breakthrough. He was called out to Henriques Street, the modern replacement for Berner Street, where Elizabeth Stride had met her end and where her namesake, Edward, was dumped. A local resident had called the police to complain of a disturbance during the night and Matthews was dispatched, along with a couple of the heavy brigade in a squad car, to investigate. Normally the regular patrol would have dealt with it as a matter of course, but the fact that this call came from a Ripper murder scene automatically brought it under Abberline’s authority.

  The squad car made its way slowly along Henriques Street with Matthews’s nose pressed against the passenger seat window. The street was a jumbled hotchpotch of a thoroughfare, under heavy redevelopment. A few of the buildings that had witnessed the ghastly first instalment of the Ripper's double act, however, still stood at one end and it was the numbers on these doors that Matthews scrutinised as they passed.

  “There it is,” he announced, espying the shabby door to a flat above a derelict shop. “Pull in here.”

  Alighting from the vehicle with his minions in tow, Matthews pressed the doorbell and waited. The usual ‘ping-pong’ sound reached his ears from within. “At least the doorbell works,” he announced to his colleagues. He must have visited at least a hundred houses where it didn’t in the last week alone. Maintaining a doorbell in working order should be required by law, in his opinion, and failure to do so should be punishable by death.

  A light clicked on inside and he could hear a figure approaching down a flight of stairs beyond the door. There was the sound of several bolts being withdrawn and a lock being unlatched. It opened to reveal a wizened old face.

  “What is it?”

  Matthews held up his warrant card. “Sergeant Matthews, Metropolitan Police. Are you Mr. Jacobs?”

  “Yes,” replied the cracked voice. A bony finger indicated a point beyond Matthews's right shoulder. “It’s in there.”

  Matthews and his associates turned to face in the direction in which the finger pointed. It indicated a patch of wasteland next door. They turned back just in time for the door to be shut in their faces.

  “Right,” said Matthews indignantly. “Let’s see what he’s on about and then you can get him back again and take a statement.”

  His associates trotted down the road towards the wasteland, automatically removing their torches from their belts and shining the powerful beams into the gloom.

  “There’s something here, Sarge!” shouted one of them. “In the bushes. A body, I think!”

  Jerked out of his indignation by the announcement, Matthews fairly ran across the road into the alley. It couldn’t be the fifth victim, surely. November the 9th was still weeks away. Unless it was an unrelated killing, of course. One policeman busied himself freeing the bonds that bound the victim while his partner was already sealing the area off with a roll of crime scene tape.

  “You know better than to interfere with evidence before it’s been processed, Miller!” barked Matthews.

  “I know, Sarge,” replied Miller, “but this body’s not dead!”

  Matthews knelt down, shoving Miller aside, and gently removed the gag from the woman’s mouth. She was no more than semiconscious. Her head lolled as he tried to raise it. Slowly the eyes flickered open to reveal their characteristic slanted almond shape, typical of south-eastern Asian origin, as were the straight, jet-black hair and prominent cheekbones. The pupils were dilated.

  “You’re all right, miss,” said Matthews gently. “We’re the police. You’re safe now.”

  Understanding began to dawn in the eyes and the face nodded slightly.

  “Drugged by the looks of it,” said Matthews to Miller curtly. “Call an ambulance and inform Abberline.”

  As Miller raced off to carry out his mission, Matthews spoke again to the woman. “We’ve sent for an ambulance to take you to hospital, where they can check you over properly. It will be here shortly. You just lie here and gather your wits until it comes. Can you tell me your name, miss?”

  The oval eyes fought for focus again as she tried to concentrate on what he was saying. The mouth faltered open and a small sound came out.

  “Yes, Miss, you’re quite safe now,” he reassured her with a soft smile. “Take your time. Can you tell me your name?”

  She gave a tiny cough, her eyes finally opening fully. “Ka…” she said before another cough seized her. When it subsided, she finally told him. “My name is Kawai,” she said, “Kawai Turner.”