by David Waine
*
An ordinary semi-detached house in Finchley was a gloomy place that night. Mr. and Mrs. Kelly sat downstairs in the living room, watching News at Ten, but neither of them really taking it in. Both of their minds were focused on their stricken daughter, ensconced on her bedroom with her gun-toting minder. Both had lost their sole remaining parents, one to a heart attack and the other to cancer, during the previous year and the grief had been terrible. That paled to nothing however, at the thought of losing their only child and in such a manner.
Upstairs, the atmosphere was equally bleak. WDC Julie Rutter was fully prepared to sacrifice her own life to save Marie’s, but she lacked the warmth and easy-going charm of Sally Ferguson. The TV reporter had only known the family for a matter of days, but she was already regarded as a firm friend and would always be welcome under their roof. Rutter was respected for the job that she was doing, but she always seemed to contain her feelings within herself and subordinate them to the task in hand. She wasn’t rude or ignorant in her behaviour, she always accepted food with thanks and a brief smile, and she invariably helped with the washing up. Both parents knew instinctively that this was because the dishes were Marie’s job, however, and the policewoman never left her side.
She was there now. They sat next to each other on the girl’s bed, also watching the news programme on Marie’s portable TV set.
After the familiar chimes of Big Ben that traditionally began the bulletin, a familiar face filled the screen. “Police released a statement this evening that the man, whom they have been interviewing in connection with the Ripper killings, has been released without charge,” he began. “A spokesman today reiterated the request that any person, who has received a communication through the post, consisting of a large five, six, seven or eight, should contact their nearest police station without delay. Following the murder of Edward Stride, the request no longer applies only to women, but includes any men who have reason to dress in female clothing.”
Marie hung her head in despair. Her final hope had evaporated. “So it wasn’t him,” she whimpered.
Rutter shook her head. “No. I told you not to put too much faith in it. We knew he wasn’t our man as soon as we started talking to him.”
Marie looked at her, green eyes bright. “Any chance you could be wrong?”
Rutter shook her head. “I can’t go into details because the investigation is ongoing. I can tell you this, though, because it will be released in the morning anyway. The man was suborned by the Ripper. He kidnapped his wife and threatened to kill her if he didn’t dump the body of Edward Stride for him.”
Marie’s hand crept to her mouth in renewed horror. “Is there anything that this monster won’t do?” she whispered.
Rutter considered for a moment, aware that her imperfect people skills were about to be tested. How much should she tell the girl? “These people aren’t like you and me,” she said at last, “they are outwardly normal. You would walk past them in the street without noticing, in fact you probably already have, but inside they are different. They don’t have consciences. We don’t do the things they do because we couldn’t live with ourselves afterwards. There are no restraints on them, though.”
Marie stared at her, her mind racing back through books that she had studied, searching for the word that matched Rutter’s definition. Eventually it came to her. “I’ve read about that. Isn’t that what they call a — a psychopath?”
Rutter nodded slowly, looking the girl hard straight in the eyes. “Yes, Marie, it is, but take heart. He is flesh and blood, like any other man, and he can be stopped. We are getting closer every day and we know that we still have time. We will take him alive if we can and bring him to justice in the proper way. But if we can’t, I'll drop him if I have to.”