Chained in Time

by David Waine

CHAPTER 20

  In his black Rover, parked round the corner, Detective Chief Superintendent Ronald Abberline pressed the switch on his intercom and checked, for the fourth time since nine o'clock, that his armed response squads were all in position and ready. At his side sat a small, muffled Irishman, who waited patiently and smiled indulgently at what was obviously an unnecessary check.

  “Surely if they were all ready twenty minutes ago, Chief Superintendent, they are still all ready?” he asked softly.

  “Just checking,” admitted Abberline ruefully. “Can't have them dozing off at the critical moment, can we?” Suddenly a wryly rueful smile fluttered across his face. “I never did like waiting,” he admitted before raising the handset and checking that the fire engine and ambulances were still ready and alert in the next street. “Shouldn’t you be with Marie, Mister Logan?”

  The old man considered this for a moment before shaking his head decisively. “Under normal circumstances, yes,” he conceded. “The good Lord knows she could do with some counselling, but these circumstances are far from normal. My most immediate concern is for the Ripper’s spirit.”

  Before the policeman could frame an answer, his intercom buzzed. Fairly ripping it from its hook, he barked his name into the speaker, “Abberline!”

  A voice crackled into life from the speaker. “It's Conway, sir,” it said, “we've been following a lead not far from you. People have reported a strange car left in a car park at the end of their street for the last couple of days. Nobody has approached it.”

  “What is it?” growled Abberline.

  “Vauxhall Nova GTE, sir. Dark blue. Not new but meticulously maintained, by the looks of it. Number matches the one you circulated.”

  “Relay it to Sergeant Matthews, Conway,” barked Abberline, “out!”

  “An abandoned car?” asked Logan with one eyebrow raised.

  “His,” replied Abberline grimly. “The man the Ripper forced to dump Edward Stride's body for him told us that he got away in a souped-up regular car with a four cylinder engine. His wife said it was a small, boxy car, possibly dark blue. That Nova GTE would fit the bill.”

  “And the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Centre confirmed the owner's address?”

  “Oh yes,” nodded Abberline grimly. “It’s Trent all right.”

  “Then the case is solved,” breathed Logan softly. “Your detective work is done. Concentrate your minds on protecting Marie and leave the rest to me.”

  “His time is getting short,” pointed out Abberline. “You know exactly where he is, don't you?”

  Logan nodded solemnly. “Oh, yes. The house next door to Marie's is empty, is it not? That is where he will be, counting the minutes until his moment of glory.”

  Abberline had already surmised this long before. “It really goes against the grain to leave him there and pretend we don't know. Under normal circumstances, we would have had the door down and him in handcuffs hours ago. But you wouldn't let us, would you?”

  The old man shook his head. “I would not. He cannot be sent through the light in that manner. He must be given the opportunity to turn away from this vile deed voluntarily.”

  Abberline grunted. “Meanwhile we have to behave like brainless plods, doing spot checks every fifteen minutes while all he has to do is hide in a cupboard.”

  Marcus Logan smiled softly. “And you do it so convincingly.”

  Having vented his spleen, Abberline changed tack. “If we can get him through the light, everything will be okay? Is that right?”

  “Precisely so.”

  The policeman faced front again and replaced the intercom on its hook. “If your faith is correct — and I’m not saying that it isn’t, Mr. Logan — how come his soul isn’t burning in Hell for what he did a century ago?”

  Logan shook his head slowly. “That is not for me to say, Chief Superintendent. God alone can judge. To date this man has avoided that judgement by not passing through the light. He claims that he cannot see it, that he has lost it. I have no reason to believe that he was anything other than truthful in what he told me. There again, what is Hell? Do we really have any idea of that?”

  “I don't believe in a burning pit full of demons with pitchforks,” answered Abberline gruffly.

  Logan nodded his agreement. “No more do I,” he admitted, “but it is as much a leap of faith to claim that it does not exist as to claim that it does. There are many who believe that there is no Hell; others claim that Hell is here on earth.”

  Abberline saw the logic in that and nodded his agreement. For decades he had seen people living out their personal hells and knew instinctively what the old man referred to. “If it is, then young Marie, in there, is in it already.”

  Logan nodded. “She is, and so is the Ripper. God only knows how we will achieve it, but we must send him through the light this night.”

  The same worry was coursing through the policeman's brain. Exactly how did one send a tortured soul through the light? It wasn't as if there was a form on the desk at Bow Road to cater for such a situation. It most certainly wasn't in any training manual. Just what was the procedure? “You don't know how you're going to do it?”

  Logan shook his head with a small wistful smile. “I have vague ideas, but nothing concrete,” he said simply, “I put my trust in the Lord that He will show me the true way when the moment arrives.”

  “And if He doesn't?” The scepticism in Abberline's voice was only too evident.

  “Then my faith will be severely tested,” replied the old man, “but that will be the least of our problems this night.” Looking directly at the policeman, he smiled openly. “I have complete confidence that He will not desert us, Chief Superintendent.”

  A disgruntled-looking Abberline looked away pointedly. At heart he placed little more faith in mystical things than Matthews did, although he acknowledged the vital role that the old man had played and had long accepted that he would have to be given his way.

  “Would he go through the light, knowing that Hell is on the other side?” he asked, giving voice to what he perceived as the essential flaw in Logan's strategy.

  The response from the old man was not encouraging. He knew little more about it than Abberline did himself. “Where he goes after the light is for a higher authority than me to decide. At the same time, he cannot be allowed to perpetuate this defiance of nature, this abomination, forever. If we have to, we force him through.”

  “Yes, Mr. Logan, I accept that,” went on Abberline, turning in his seat to face the old man, “but we are running out of time. What do we physically have to do to force him through the light?”

  The policeman saw a slow transformation cross the old man's face. The lines, which had grown deeper with worry over the previous weeks, slowly seemed to lessen and a clarity that had been long absent in his eyes gradually returned. Instinctively Abberline knew that Logan had received what he perceived as a message from beyond, and that all doubt was now removed from him. The old man's face was surprisingly clear and unburdened when he turned to face him again. “What do we have to do?” He smiled warmly. “Why you have to do nothing, other than keep him from harming Marie. It is I who must invite him through the light.”

  A terrible realisation ignited in Abberline's brain, matched by a rising turmoil in his vitals. Suddenly he understood everything. The old man intended to sacrifice himself to save Marie. By allowing the Ripper to kill him instead, he would drag the monster through the light with him. “You can't be serious,” he gasped, “you're going to make him blow you up with him instead of Marie?”

  A gentle chuckle escaped Marcus Logan's lips as he shook his head. “Not if I can help it, I assure you, Chief Superintendent, but it remains a stratagem of last resort. If I can persuade him to abandon his purpose without further bloodshed, I will. If not, I must force his hand. You make sure that the girl comes to no harm and do not worry for me. I may be five years short of my three score and ten but I have lived
a good and full life. My place at the Lord's Table is booked, make no mistake about that. I have no fear of death.”

  Abberline's look was grim. “We'll take him out before he has a chance to throw his switch.”

  If anything, Logan's was even grimmer. “No, you won't, Ronald. He must pass through the light and he cannot do that if you kill him first. He may or may not survive this night. The same applies to me and I am content with that. Your overriding concern is to ensure that Marie does.”

  Inside the house a dread silence had descended as the clock wore inexorably on over the next hour towards midnight. The television was on downstairs, but only Constable Dawson seemed to be enjoying what he was watching, and that was an illusion because he had his mind firmly fixed on watching every conceivable point of entry. The back door was locked but the front was not, being guarded by the officers at the gate, who would require instant access if need be. All windows were closed, as would have been normal at this time of year anyway. There was no cellar, so no way in underground. The house next door was empty, the neighbours having suddenly announced a long-standing engagement in Wales when they learned of the looming peril the previous weekend. He was the one who would not be getting his grubby paws on the lawn mower again. Dawson was particularly vigilant of any attempt to get in that way. It wasn't so very long since the SAS had stormed the Iranian Embassy to release its personnel from being held as hostages by terrorists. To do that, they had peeled away the dividing wall between the building and the next one down to the level of the wallpaper and had burst, impressively, through an apparently solid wall. Whether the Ripper had the skill to do the same without being heard was very doubtful, but Dawson deliberately kept the television sound low and one ear cocked on that wall for any give-away scraping sounds. As yet, he had heard none.

  That was because of the neighbours' love of deep pile carpets. In darkness next door, a man, dressed all in black, his head covered by a black ski mask, made his final preparations. He wore carpet slippers and gloves lest he make the merest sound to give away his position. His blue Vauxhall Nova was parked half a mile away, out of sight and out of mind. He would not need it again. As recently as four days previously he had planned to make his approach under cover of darkness on the final night and hide in the shrubbery until the critical moment. The neighbours' lack of courage and community spirit, however, had handed him a gilt-edged opportunity. Even then, he had been surprised by their lax security. Breaking in had been a piece of cake. He could have achieved it without half of the practice runs that he had indulged in regularly for months past: the only burglar in London who stole nothing. No longer would he have to run the gauntlet of the police cordon to get at her. Now he could launch his attack from a position of strength. The final obstacle in his way had been removed by cowardly self-interest. He was installed now and the little doll lay within his grasp. Lying low by day, he worked in a dark cupboard with a tiny torch assembling the two devices he had taught himself to construct during those long solitary hours of study at home. Now both were ready. All that remained were to site the first device where it would be most effective and to strap the second to his body.

  He checked his watch. The patrol was due. Sure enough, the powerful beam of a torch shone through the fanlight and another through the letterbox. He knew perfectly well that similar torches would be shining through the kitchen, living and dining room windows. Every fifteen minutes. Regular as clockwork. He remained as still as stone within his cupboard with the door cracked slightly ajar so that he could see the torch beam reflected off the passageway wall.

  The beams went out and darkness returned. He could hear the crump of heavy feet on the gravel as the plods withdrew to take up their regular positions again. There would be no more patrols before zero hour. He was free to proceed.

  Ultimate glory beckoned. Silently, he congratulated himself on his stroke of genius with the purgative. He had not even felt a slight need to relieve himself all day. Nobody would have called for him at home. Nobody would miss him. Nobody ever missed him.

  Carefully crawling on hands and knees, lest any movement be discerned from outside, he made his way to the front door and knelt by a small table next to the dividing wall. Reaching under it, he withdrew the large ventilation brick that it had taken him nearly two days of working in absolute silence to prise loose. It came away without even a scrape and he laid it gently on the carpet. In its place he fitted a bottle containing an amber liquid, tightly stopped with a rubber bung through which a spark plug and two wires protruded. The bung kept most of the characteristic aroma within the bottle, but his nose could detect the distant tang of petrol. He shook his head in thought. The smell was faint. It would not penetrate the wall in time for them to prevent its effect. The two wires terminated in a standard terminal block that he had purchased at a hardware store weeks previously. Working carefully, he pushed the two ends of a roll of electrical cable into the vacant holes in the block and secured them with a small screwdriver. All that remained now was a power source and that awaited him in the kitchen.

  Unrolling the cable a little, he reached up and pulled the table silently away from the wall, having first ensured that its letter rack and ornaments were cleared out of the way onto the floor. The table was marble-topped and very heavy for its size so he had to work carefully to lower it and push it home over the Molotov cocktail without making a sound. Finally the job was done and he sank back, inspecting his handiwork with satisfaction. The table lay on its side, its heavy top totally covering the hole in the wall that held the fire bomb. That would ensure that the entire force of the blast was directed forward into the neighbouring house, setting the hallway ablaze and preventing egress through the street door. They would have to use the back door, and he would be waiting.

  Unravelling the roll of wire as he went, he crawled into the darkened kitchen, where a solitary battery pack lay in the shadow of a cupboard unit. Peeling apart the two wires that made up the cable, he positioned them ready to touch the contacts simultaneously and checked his watch. There was yet time. He still had to ensure that his ultimate device was ready and fully installed. That would be the work of moments. He had planned everything meticulously. Nothing could go wrong now.

  Mrs. Kelly, her nerves getting the worse of her again, now that the simple pleasure provided by giving her daughter the boots had worn off, kept herself busy in the kitchen. She appeared as midnight approached carrying a tray loaded with lemon drizzle cakes and went straight upstairs with it to Marie's room.

  “I brought you something for a snack,” she said with a forced smile on entering. “I thought you might need it.”

  The main light was doused, but Marie's night light was on, sending its fuzzy pastel shapes of horses and clouds about the walls and leaving the room in semidarkness. This was a deliberate ploy of Rutter's to make an attempt at a rifle shot through the window all the more difficult. For the same reason, she had moved the bed so that anyone sitting on it could not be seen from outside. She now stood to the side of the window, out of gunshot view, but staring intently into the darkness beyond for any sign of movement in the garden below.

  “Thanks, Mum,” said a grateful Marie, rising to take the tray.

  “Keep away from the window,” hissed Rutter, causing the girl to duck automatically and the tray to shake in her mother's hands.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kelly,” said an artificially calm Sally, taking the tray and hurriedly pulling Marie back onto the bed with her. “They look lovely. How are you keeping?”

  Marie's mother simply stood by the door, looking pathetic and wringing her hands. “Oh, all right, you know,” she whimpered. “I had to do something.”

  Sally had her professional smile in place, even though her stomach was churning as much as anyone else's. “And Mr. Kelly?”

  “He’s trying to watch the television with the policeman,” replied a shaky Mrs. Kelly, rapidly losing the battle of wills with her nerves. “Snooker. He hates snooker!
”

  “Everything quiet?” asked Rutter softly without taking her eyes from the darkness beyond the glass.

  “Yes,” replied a wobbly Mrs. Kelly, joining her daughter on the bed. “Are you sure your colleagues are waiting close by? I looked out and I couldn’t see anybody.”

  Rutter nodded solemnly. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Kelly,” she replied quietly. “They’re out there. One movement and they’ll be here before you can blink.”

  “How can Dad stand watching snooker?” Marie's voice, heightened by her shredded nerves, now sounded unnaturally loud in the gloom of the bedroom in stark contrast to her murmurings of an hour previously. It was all that she could think of to say.

  “I don’t think he can,” replied her mother. “He spends most of his time pacing about. I keep telling him to sit down, but he can’t.” She stopped as her hands began to shake and her face crumpled into tears. “Oh dear. I’m not much help, am I? I should be cheering you up, but instead I’m…” she buried her face in her hands and was immediately hugged from either side by Marie and Sally.

  “It’s all right, Mum,” consoled Marie, screwing up all her remaining courage into those few words.

  “We know, Mrs. Kelly,” added an empathetic Sally with her own hug. “This is a terrible time for us all, but we must be strong, for Marie’s sake.”

  “We’ll get through it,” hissed Rutter. “The closer we get to midnight, the sharper we watch.” Joe marvelled at her, stationed by the window, her eyes fixed on the darkness. All traces of the woman had disappeared. In her place stood a cold, calculating killing machine, eyes sharp and alert, body poised, ready to spring and hand held within the lapel of her jacket.

  The door opened quietly and Marie's father's head appeared round it. “Are you all right, love?”

  Somehow the girl summoned up a faint smile from her churning soul to welcome the father she loved so much. “Yes, Dad. I’m guarded tighter than the Bank of England.”

  “Just thought I’d see,” said Mr. Kelly, coming into the room and sitting down well away from the window at Rutter's gesture. “Not long now.”

  “How’s the snooker?” asked Sally hurriedly, with a sharp glance to Marie, lest her father's innocent words had upset her unwittingly.

  “God knows,” he replied with artificial joviality. “I think the Welshman’s winning. That’s if he is Welsh. He could be Irish for all I know, or from Timbuktu for that matter.”

  “Never did go much for snooker, did you, Dad?” asked Marie, forcing another smile to her lips.

  “No,” he replied simply, “football’s my game, but there are no highlights on tonight.

  “Is Dawson still on watch down there?” asked Rutter without moving her eyes from the window.

  “Oh yes,” said Mr. Kelly, apparently noticing her for the first time. “He’s very good. Sharp as a tack. Nothing will get past him. He likes snooker, but he isn't paying much attention to it.”

  “My dad likes it too,” pointed out Joe.

  “Yes, he does,” agreed Mr. Kelly, glad of the opportunity to talk about anything except the subject that dominated their minds. “They’re a right pair. Give us a hug, love.” Marie did so, putting all her love into the embrace. “It won’t be long now and, when it’s over, I’ve got a treat for you. I’m pulling you out of school for a couple of weeks. It’s all arranged. And Joe too. I’ve squared it with your parents, Joe. We’re going to Spain. I tried for America but I couldn't get it at short notice, so Spain it is. Booked it this morning. We leave day after tomorrow from Luton.”

  “I’ll have a film crew on hand to see you off,” added an impressed Sally. “This is one news story that will have a happy ending.”

  Joe was awestruck, not so much at the choice of destination, which was unremarkable as he had been there with is parents during the summer, but at the fact that he had been invited along at all. “Thanks, Mr. Kelly.”

  Marie hugged her father again. “You’re a love, Dad. I’d better pack.”

  “I’ll help you,” said her mother, rising.

  “Get down!” hissed Rutter, gesturing her back onto the bed with her hand. “No offence, Mrs. Kelly, Marie,” she said without looking at them, “but nobody's going anywhere near the wardrobe until this is over. Time to pack then.”

  In the kitchen of the house next door the man squatted on the floor and checked the illuminated numerals on his watch for the twentieth time. Minutes only now. Soon his glory would be complete.

  Around the corner, Abberline was also checking his watch. “Nine minutes. He’s cutting it fine.”

  Next to him, Marcus Logan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “He wants to drag it out as long as possible to heighten the tension. Increase the theatrical effect.”

  Abberline sniffed at the term. “Theatrical effect! I suppose he would look on it as that.”

  “He would,” agreed Logan, nodding sagely. “To him, that is exactly what it is. This is some sort of perverted game that he is playing with us, keeping us guessing and putting poor Marie through the anguish of Hell itself. How sick must a mind be to inflict that on anyone?”

  Unable to frame an adequate response, Abberline shook his head grimly.

  “It doesn’t bear thinking about, I know,” said Logan softly. “Put it out of your mind lest it affect your wits. We will both need to be at our very best this night. You keep your eyes peeled and I’ll shoulder that worry.”

  Abberline sat, thinking hard. “Let’s be logical,” he said, finding his voice at last. “He’s down to eight minutes now. He can’t leave it to the very last second, because then he loses any chance of an element of surprise. Therefore I assume he will strike in the next five to six minutes.”

  Logan nodded sagely. “Logically speaking, you must be correct. The question is how?”

  “What bothers me particularly,” snarled Abberline, “is if we are correct about the bomb theory, what is to stop him from just blowing the whole building up with all of them inside it?”

  “He won't do that,” replied Logan softly. “He will target Marie specifically. From his point of view, there is a danger that she might survive a general blast, but he may not.”

  The intercom buzzed again and Abberline rasped his name into the speaker. The voice of Sergeant Matthews crackled through from the other end. “Matthews, sir.”

  “News?” demanded his superior officer.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the plodding sergeant. “The warrant finally came through.”

  “And?”

  “It’s him all right: computer, Epson printer, photographs of the victims and press cuttings pinned to the wall, a map with flags showing all the victims stuck in at the appropriate points; the whole place so neat you’d swear it was antiseptic, apart from a thin layer of dust, that is.”

  “He won't have been there for a day or two,” remarked Abberline. “That would explain the dust.”

  “There’s a brochure for a Vauxhall Nova on the coffee table.” continued Matthews.

  Both Abberline and Logan were now sitting up, hearts pounding. “And he still wasn’t there,” ventured the policeman grimly.

  “How do you know, sir?” asked his subordinate.

  “Because he’s here.”

  In the kitchen of the empty house next door to the Kellys, the man wound one end of his wire round the stubby negative terminal of the battery pack and secured it with a clamp. Holding the other bare wire over the positive terminal, he checked the glowing figures on his watch. Nearly there.

  In Marie's bedroom, the momentary relief brought by her father's revelation of the planned holiday had dissipated in just a few minutes as midnight loomed. The girl's face was white again and she shook convulsively.

  Joe sat beside her, gripping her left hand as in a vice, while Sally did the same on her right. “Courage, Marie,” she whispered.

  Marie looked at her wildly, tearing both of her hands free and then burying her face in them. “I can't
bear it,” she croaked.

  Her parents were on their knees before her, also grabbing her hands and holding onto her with whatever strength they could muster. “Come on, Marie,” encouraged her father. “You can do it. We’re nearly there.”

  “It’s almost over, love,” implored her mother through a film of tears. “Hang on.”

  “Almost midnight, Marie,” added a desperate-sounding Joe.

  Seized by a sudden conviction, a frantic Marie tore herself free from all of them and shot to her feet.

  “Get down!” yelled Rutter, turning from the window, free arm raised.

  But Marie would not get down. She fought off their hands like a wild cat, backed into a corner. Rutter divided her gaze between the girl and her vigil at the window, calculating constantly what she would do if Marie moved within view from beyond, but she did not. Instead, she backed away in the direction of the door, spluttering her words through a flood of terrified tears.

  “What if his watch is wrong?” she shrieked. “What if it’s five minutes slow? What if midnight comes and we all relax. Then he strikes?”

  “That won’t happen!” cried Rutter.

  “How do you know? Marie threw the words back at her. “He’s outthought you every step of the way, so far. Why should now be any different?”

  “You know as well as I do that he has to attempt it tonight!” yelled Rutter, readying herself for a leap to disable the girl, should she attempt to run.

  “Do I?” Marie yelled back. “Does he?” Her green eyes flashed in the gloom as a stray beam from the night light caught them. “Show me where it’s carved in stone that he has to rip me up by midnight. Why can’t he wait a few minutes until you are all off your guard? It’s so simple. Why the hell didn’t you think of that?”

  “Hold together, Marie!” cried Rutter desperately.

  Sally's voice cut through the cries like a hot knife. “One minute more, Marie. That’s all. Don’t fall apart now!”

  Marie stopped dead, her eyes fixed on the clock on her bedside table. It read 11.59pm. Suddenly her trembling stopped and she was icy cold. She surveyed the scene: Mum and Dad on the floor, arms outstretched to her, imploring; Sally and Joe on the bed, her face desperate, his a mask; Rutter at the window, glancing repeatedly outside and back in towards her. An awful moment of silence engulfed them all.

  “Come here, Joe,” she said suddenly.

  Uncertainly, the boy rose and moved across the floor towards her, every other eye on him. When he came within reach, she pulled him to her, wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and planted her lips firmly on his.

  The blast of white hot air from the detonation below ripped the door off its hinges and threw the pair of them to the floor.