He still had his back to me when he spoke.
‘Listen, Jo, I’m sorry about the other day in your office.’ He turned and put the steaming mug in front of me. ‘What I said was out of order.’
‘That’s okay,’ I said, quietly. ‘You were thinking the same as me. Not another Ripper in Yorkshire on my watch.’
We’d both been children when the last Ripper terrorised the people of West Yorkshire. Callum’s parents had moved down to Fordley from Edinburgh the year before, so like me, he’d lived through those killings and their fallout.
I was just nine-years-old when the court case began, but I had vivid memories of sitting with Mamma and her friends around the TV in our warm kitchen, listening to them talk about it. Dad spreading the newspaper out on the kitchen table every morning to read the latest.
Events from that time had a fallout into my teenage years. My parents – like most other parents in West Yorkshire after that – imposed restrictions on my social life they previously might not have. A kind of innocence and a sense of security had been polluted by Peter Sutcliffe and his crimes. Teenagers robbed of what should have been carefree social lives, as a legacy of his predatory years.
Callum sat back in his chair, looking at me over his cup.
‘It leaves me cold when I think about how it was then. The suspicion that made every woman look a bit more closely at her husband or boyfriend. Can you imagine what would happen if the public think we have another Ripper? Here? Now? It doesn’t bear thinking about.’ He shook his head. ‘My first thought about being a copper started as a kid back then.’
Later, the Yorkshire Ripper had been nothing more for me than a case study in criminology and law at school. But I remembered the emotional reaction from my parents when I’d asked them about their recollections of it at the time. They’d lived through it and their enduring memories were of the impact it had had on the community and on everyone’s feelings of vulnerability.
Reading about the trial had been the starting point of my interest in psychology. I could trace my ambitions back to studying reports of the proceedings at Dewsbury Crown Court and later at Court Number One of the Old Bailey. The jury grappling with the question of whether Sutcliffe was insane, or just plain evil.
‘Mad or bad? A question that formed the basis of my whole career ever since.’
He sipped his coffee, then got to the point.
‘This copycat, how do you get a profile on him? It’s not his original work. How much can we learn about him when all the signatures are from the Victorian Ripper?’
I tipped my head back to ease the tightening muscles in my shoulders. It was a good question and he was right – it wasn’t easy.
‘I’ll be honest, I’ve never worked a profile on a copycat killer, so the short answer is, I don’t know. But it seems to me that even though he’s working to another killer’s formula, there are bound to be signatures of his own that’ll come out.’
‘What are your thoughts on him?’
‘He’s chosen the Victorian Ripper for a reason. If I can work out why he’s picked that particular killer, that might give us something. He’s obviously intelligent. Computer literate and can cover his tracks using technology. Perhaps he has a technical background of some sort?’
‘The techies say he routed his IP through several proxy servers in universities or companies across the globe.’
‘Now you’ve lost me,’ I confessed.
‘I’m not much better,’ Callum said, with a smile. ‘I just repeat what the techies tell me.’
‘He’s chosen Yorkshire over London. As Shah says, there’ll be a reason for that, so there’s another individual signature. He’s injected himself into the investigation, which is typical of psychopaths who think they’re clever enough to hide in full view.’
‘Injected himself into it?’
‘By sending me the photograph. He’s communicating with someone involved in the investigation and who was involved with the victim. He’s opened a dialogue with me.’
Callum looked worried. ‘I think Heslopp has a point, Jo. That you’re somehow connected to him. I think he’s chosen Fordley to get close to you. He has your unlisted numbers and email address. Does Lister have your personal numbers?’
I thought for a moment. ‘No.’
He frowned. ‘I thought he called you at the farm when Martha absconded from Westwood?’
‘He didn’t call the farm. He left the message at the practice in Fordley. I used remote access to dial in.’
He scanned a sheet of paper in front of him. ‘The techies have installed a tracker on your computer. By the looks of it, they can see every keystroke you make. So you’d better not go on any of your usual porn sites for a while.’
‘Very funny.’
He flicked the paper back onto his desk. ‘We think you should have a dialogue with Jack if he contacts you again. The techies are on duty twenty-four seven, assigned to keeping an eye on you electronically, so if you get any more messages from him, you can respond.’
‘Okay,’ I said, tentatively.
‘The original plan was that one of us replied as if it was you, but apparently it’s better if a psychologist designs the game plan for that kind of dialogue, to make sure we get it right. Too provocative and we tip him over the edge and make things worse. Not provocative enough and he could just melt away.’
‘You need to play him, with just enough tension so he’ll trip himself up?’
He nodded. ‘And as you already know all that stuff, why bring in another psychologist to complicate things?’ He looked across at me and his expression changed. ‘But there are strict guidelines to this, Jo, and you’ve got to agree to them or all bets are off and I’ll get someone else in.’
I immediately thought of Taylor-Caine and my blood ran cold.
‘Agreed.’
He nodded. ‘Okay. I’ll get technical support to set everything up on your phone, just in case he calls. That okay?’
I nodded, still wondering whether I wanted to do this, but knowing at the same time that I certainly didn’t want anyone else to do it. I owed it to Martha. She had chosen me to open up the silence of her death. I felt I owed it to her to finish the conversation.
25 August
Kingsberry Farm
Callum took the photographs from Martha’s post-mortem report and spread them out on my kitchen table. We both put our heads together.
‘This is a herringbone pattern in blood on the edge of some of the deeper wounds. Pathologist thinks it’s probably an imprint from the knife handle, which bit into the lips of the wound.’
I straightened up from looking at the gruesome image and took a sip of tea. The intimate details of violent death were something I had never quite become used to. Part of me thought, if I ever did, it was probably time to quit.
‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘Final results from the post-mortem show that cause of death was strangulation.’
‘The same MO as the Victorian Ripper. He strangled his victims first. No struggling, no screams, and then he mutilated them. Jack didn’t rip to kill. He killed so he could rip.’
Callum leaned back in his chair. ‘What’s the difference?’
‘In outcome, as far as the victim and the investigators are concerned – no difference. The victim is dead and the body is mutilated. But in the mind of the murderer, there’s a huge difference. It’s the order in which he does things. The chosen behaviours that give us clues to his drives.’
‘But our man is a copycat. These are not necessarily his drives.’
‘True, but it’s that very fact that makes me think they’re his drives too.’
‘Not sure I follow.’
‘Not sure I do, yet,’ I confessed. ‘But to quote Sherlock Holmes, “Singularity is almost invariably a clue”.’
We both jumped as the large bell above the Aga rang, shattering the stillness of my cosy kitchen.
‘What the hell…?’ Callum almost spilled his tea
.
‘Sorry.’ I headed for the office to catch the call before it stopped. ‘I had the bell put in here so if the office phone rang, I could hear it anywhere in the house.’
By the time I pushed the door open to the office, Callum was already behind me. Harvey was hot on his heels, wondering what all the fuss was about.
I grabbed the phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Doctor.’ The voice was eerie. Synthesised. Robotic.
I froze, knowing it was him, but my mouth opened and for a second, nothing came out.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Please don’t disappoint me, not when I’ve waited so long to speak with you again.’
Callum gestured for me to keep him talking.
Think! I had to get this right. This might be the only chance we’d get.
I sat on the edge of my mahogany desk, looking down at the carpet to avoid being distracted by Callum. I pressed the speaker button so he could listen in.
‘Have we spoken before?’
The metallic voice was cold with disappointment.
‘You know we’ve spoken. You know we’ve met. Playing games with me is a very dangerous thing to do.’
‘When did we meet?’ My clinician’s tone sounded calm. I was pleased to hear it.
‘When you set me free,’ he grated, chillingly. ‘I have you to thank. It feels good to be back together, doesn’t it?’
‘Together? I don’t understand.’ I played for time.
‘Doctor,’ he chided, like a parent to a child. ‘Don’t waste our precious moments like this. If you’re giving the police time to trace this, don’t insult me. They won’t. Any more than they could follow my computer trail.’
His tone, if it hadn’t been electronic, would have been oily.
‘I like to keep our intimate moments private.’ He laughed softly, the sound making my bowels turn over.
‘You’re saying we met through Martha?’
‘When your mind entered hers, it brushed against mine.’ His whisper was intimate. ‘I know you, doctor. I know all there is to know about you.’
‘Why are you here, Jack?’
‘Because it’s time,’ he said, simply. ‘You opened the door and freed me.’
‘Why me, Jack?’
‘It had to be you. You were the only one who could open Martha’s mind and let me out.’
‘You’re not a figment of Martha’s mind, Jack.’ I let my tone harden, to let him know I wasn’t playing the game. ‘A phantom can’t kill.’
‘I was a phantom in 1888 and I’m a phantom now. But the pleasure this time is having you to share these most intimate things with. That makes you very special.’
‘What exactly do you want, Jack?’
The voice laughed softly, like the laughter that echoes through haunted houses in horror films.
‘Polly put the kettle on,’ he began to sing. ‘Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, we’ll all have tea…’
‘Jack?’ The line felt empty. ‘Jack?’
‘He’s gone.’ Callum took the phone from me.
We stared at each other in silence, neither of us knowing quite what to say, then we both nearly jumped out of our skins when Callum’s mobile shrieked through the ghostly silence of my office.
He fished it out of his pocket, still looking into my eyes as he took the call.
‘Yes I know, I was here when he called.’
I half listened as he talked to the techies, who must have been privy to every chilling word.
I walked to the huge arched window and looked out across my fields. Afternoon sunlight was caressing the treetops, silhouetting their spreading limbs against a dark turquoise sky.
‘Okay.’ I heard Callum in the background to my thoughts. ‘So no trace then?’
Harvey came to stand beside me and pushed his wet nose into my hand. I absently stroked his silky ears. My mind replaying Jack’s call.
He was like no other killer I had ever dealt with before.
He was beginning to unnerve me.
28 August
The media had agreed with the police to a two-week blackout on coverage of Martha’s murder. At least that gave me some peace. After the last brush with the press, I was in no rush for them to find out the killer had sent me photos of his handiwork.
I was driving back to the farm when Callum called.
‘I’ve got some info from Manchester. We found some prostitutes who knew Martha before she met the boyfriend. None of them ever saw him though, so no ID. After she got involved with him, they said she dropped off the scene and they never saw her again. Can’t question the pimp she had either because he died of a drug overdose last year. Also, Martha isn’t her real name. It’s Susie Scott.’
Something jarred in my mind. I negotiated a roundabout as I tried to think.
‘So when did she become Martha?’
‘No way of knowing. She didn’t do it officially. Just assumed the name.’
‘She didn’t like the name, though.’ That was the bit that jarred.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She asked me to call her Matty. She didn’t choose the name, Cal, it was chosen for her. She didn’t like it, but she went along with it.’
‘So you think the boyfriend made her adopt the name?’
‘And why would he choose Martha? An old Victorian name for his twenty-something girlfriend – unless it fit his purpose?’
‘To have the same name as the Ripper’s first victim,’ he concluded for us both.
‘I ran Susie Scott through the PNC. She had several arrests for soliciting and interestingly, one for wounding with a knife.’
‘What were the details of that?’
‘Gerry Ward, her pimp, was the “victim”. Apparently he didn’t take kindly to her new boyfriend and they had a domestic. She took a kitchen knife and stabbed him in the arm. It wasn’t a serious wound. He was discharged from hospital the same day. She was arrested, but once he’d calmed down, he refused to press charges. He had a history of violence towards her and she claimed self-defence, so it didn’t come to anything. After that she moved to Fordley. We’ve no idea where they were living. Could be that the boyfriend rented using a different name. All transactions were paid in cash and all signed by Martha. As far as we can see, the boyfriend never showed his face to landlords or signed any paperwork. He spoke to them over the phone.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. The pathologist called about the murder weapon.’ He paused for effect. ‘You sitting down?’
‘I’m driving, so it’s to be hoped so.’
‘He says it matches the shape and description of a Victorian amputation knife, used in operating theatres in the early to mid-nineteenth century. He sent details of where we can see one that matches.’
‘Where?’
‘The Old Operating Theatre Museum in London. And get this, it’s on the site of what used to be Thomas’s Hospital from Jack’s time. I’m going down there tomorrow, fancy a trip?’
Anything was better than sitting around waiting for Jack to call again.
29 August
The curator of the Old Operating Theatre and Herb Garret Museum ushered us up the tortuous winding staircase and into the galleried operating theatre, discreetly cleared of visitors for our private visit.
‘God,’ I panted when I could finally get my breath, ‘I hope patients didn’t have to make that climb?’
‘No.’ The curator smiled. ‘The women’s ward was adjacent to the herb garret in the church. They were brought straight in here from the ward. Students would come in via a separate entrance – over what is now the fire escape.’
He stroked the basic wooden operating table almost lovingly.
‘Putting the operating theatre up here meant they could take advantage of the huge skylight to maximise light during operations. It also offered a degree of soundproofing, which was necessary for obvious reasons.’
‘No anaesthetic?’ I ventured a guess.
> ‘Not until after 1847. But the surgeons were very skilled at making the process as fast and efficient as possible to minimise shock to the patient. A leg, for example, could be amputated in as little as twenty-six seconds.’
‘Which brings us to why we’re here,’ Callum said.
‘Ah yes, your amputation knife.’
We followed the curator through a small doorway into a corridor. The wood-panelled walls were lined with posters and sepia photographs of what the hospital looked like back then. A wooden display case with a sloping glass lid stood against one wall. Inside were an array of cutting tools, saws and blades.
The curator carefully set the lid back and lifted out a curved blade.
‘A broad-backed amputation knife with checked and grooved ivory handle. From the information you sent through, this matches the pattern on the handle almost exactly. I’d say this is what you’re looking for.’
He handed it to Callum, who turned it over in his hand. It still looked like it could do the business, over a hundred years on.
‘Where would someone get hold of a knife like this today?’ Callum asked.
The curator pursed his lips. ‘Not on the open market. All the ones still in existence are owned by museums. Maybe a few in private collections. Examples could turn up in people’s attics, I suppose. But if the injury you mentioned was inflicted by a well-preserved piece with no chips on the blade, then you’re looking for a museum-quality piece. Yours, if it’s out there, is very rare. It’s a Laundy blade.’
‘Laundy?’
‘Yes, they were instrument makers with a workshop on St Thomas's Street, opposite Guy's Hospital, from 1783 to 1819. They used the herringbone pattern on the ivory handle as their trademark. The initials of the workshop can be partially seen on the print you sent me.’
Callum fished the photograph out of his pocket, of the blood-stained herringbone pattern found on the body, and put it on the edge of the display case. The curator traced the faint imprint of the letter ‘L’ at the edge, then lined it up with the ‘L’ on the ivory handle of the knife. It matched.
The Murder Mile Page 14