by Tim Standish
‘It did. Every few weeks in the summer of ’88; Harris would get a telegram specifying some confidential but unimportant data, he would drop it off wherever the telegram said and the next day he was paid. Then, just after the first Ripper murder in August he was asked to send post mortem details, reports and investigation notes and he baulked at it. He says he ignored the request, but the telegram turned up at his home address again, this time matching the same list of events he had been sent already against payments into his bank account. So, not really having a choice as he saw it, he did what they asked, all the way through the Ripper investigation, and for several months afterwards. I couldn’t get him to admit to it, but I also think he moved information the other way, altering or replacing files. Let me have another crack later and I’ll make sure of it.’
‘So how did he end up in Special Branch?’ I asked.
‘Came out of the blue according to Harris,’ Church said, ‘about six months after the last Ripper murder. It meant moving to Birmingham, but he took it anyway and, by his account, made a good fist of it, broke a few big cases. The telegrams stopped and he thought it was over. Knuckled down, bought a house, got married, had a child.’ A pause while Church filled his cup again, added milk, spooned in some sugar. ‘Harris thought that was the end of it until last night when he got a phone call telling him that unless he did exactly what he was told, details of his leaking of documents, along with photographic evidence, would go to his superiors. He tried to put them off, said that was all behind him, but they threatened his family. So, he said yes. They gave him Richardson’s address and description, told him to pay him a visit at eight o’clock the next morning and threaten him into silence. Then they gave him a number and told him to call them after it was done.’
‘What time did he get the call?’ I asked.
‘Late evening, he thinks around 10pm,’ said Church.
‘About the time we saw Richardson at the club,’ I said.
‘Yes, someone tipped them off. I bet it was that bloody doorman,’ Church said. ‘So Harris went to Richardson’s place but before he did he looked up our dead thug, a mister,’ Church looked at his notes again, ‘Baller or Baz or Barry Johnston who he had used before for similar work. Harris used his Branch ID to get in and the landlady took him upstairs. He said Richardson was nervy and when they started in at him, Richardson apparently told Harris where to go; he had kept quiet for long enough and he was going to say anything he wanted to anyone he wanted. Harris got shirty, grabbed Richardson, tried to threaten him and he said Richardson just laughed at him. So, Johnston stepped in to give him a scare and grabbed his dressing gown cord, aiming to strangle him unconscious a few times. Didn’t quite get it right.’
‘What about the landlady?’
‘Pretty much what we thought. She heard the noise, came in with her own key to see Richardson being strangled so Johnston killed her as well. Harris panicked, did a quick search of Richardson’s place and burned what papers he could find and rigged Richardson up as a suicide,’ Church said. ‘A bloke like Johnston, killing that easily; he’s done it before. And he would have done it again, starting with Sterling. So at least we know we did one thing right.’
I suddenly realised that I had been gently rubbing at my still-sore throat and I stopped, moved my hand down to rest on the table again.
Church went on. ‘Then Harris did what he had been told to do and called a number to confirm what had happened. They didn’t seem unhappy, just told him he had one more job to do, to meet a woman at Blackpool station and she would tell him what would happen next.’ Church looked down at his notes again. ‘So, he gets to Blackpool station and a woman in a grey coat comes up to him. She knew his name, knew he was expecting her and said that he was to follow and warn off a couple of lawyers who were asking some awkward questions. She asked him if he knew any likely lads who could meet them at Preston and give these two men a bit of a roughing up. He did, as it happened, and she waited while he got in touch with the thugs for hire that we met on the train. She came with him as far as Preston, made sure he had identified us then left him to it.’
‘Did he describe her?’ asked Green.
Church referred to his notes. ‘Twenty-five to thirty-five, slim, quite tall, maybe five feet eight or nine, pale skin, brown hair, green eyes, dressed well but not flash. Quiet voice. Northern accent but not too strong. “Didn’t seem like the kind of girl you’d expect to be mixed up in something like this,” he told me. All sounds far fetched, I know but I believe him. Like I said, he has had a really bad day.’
‘We are assuming the woman he talked about is the same one that Sterling noticed?’ Collier again. He looked at me for confirmation and I nodded.
‘I would put her in the middle of that range, maybe early thirties.’
‘So following Mr Sterling’s idea, we’re looking for someone of that description with a role in the Bureau or a related agency. Patience?’ asked Collier.
Patience nodded. ‘Two hours.’
‘Good. Where is Sergeant Harris now?’ asked Collier.
‘Upstairs, chained and fretting,’ replied Church. ‘He’s meant to call the same number again, tell them what happened.’
‘I see,’ said Collier. ‘Let him make the call with your supervision. Patience, can you disguise our location while finding out theirs?’
‘Sans doute. I’m hooked into a public phone box in Picadilly. We’ll use that.’
‘And Miss Green,’ Collier continued, ‘if you could check Harris’s account against his official career record?’ A short nod from Green. ‘Excellent. Now what about the fragments of papers that Sterling and Church found in Richardson’s rooms in Blackpool?
‘I managed to identify one of the papers, something that was published in an Argentinian medical journal in the early ’80s,’ said Green. ‘It was exploring the theoretical possibility of human organ transplantation. It caused quite some scandal at the time and the author, a fairly respected Argentinian surgeon called Rodolfo Pereira-Garcia, was forced to resign as a result. Nothing much was heard from him after that except from some informal, on-wire monographs and interviews on a similar theme. He died in 1890. The other fragments seem to be facsimiles of private, unpublished papers. It’s almost impossible to say much beyond the fact that they were medical in nature.’
‘Organ transplantation?’ Collier seemed genuinely unhappy at the idea.
‘That ties with what Richardson told us,’ I said. ‘He said that the prevailing theory in his on-wire salon was that the Ripper was two people. One of them was a surgeon whose job was to remove the organs and the other, the real ‘Ripper’ if you like, mutilated the victims afterwards to cover up the surgery.’
‘With our man Harris doctoring any evidence to make sure that no one realised later on,’ said Church. ‘Even so, it would be tricky work.’
‘Such an undertaking would entail a substantial risk,’ said Collier.
‘And a substantial reward to match it,’ said Green.
‘Something like an unexpected promotion to Special Branch, perhaps?’ I said. ‘I imagine there would be similar rewards for the others involved.’
‘Did you have something in mind?’ Church asked.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I was thinking that a knighthood and a brand-new hospital wing might be suitable inducements for a medical man.’
‘Sir Anthony Willard,’ said Church.
I nodded. ‘Indeed. I’d be interested to know when his meteoric rise began. Keep your ears open, won’t you Miss Green?’
‘Of course,’ she replied, though I got the impression she was less happy taking direction from me than she had been so far from Collier.
‘And would you do some more research into this idea of organ transplantation? Has it been done successfully? How long does it last? And how quickly does the organ have to be transferred from body to patient?’ I said, thinking of the picture from our initial briefing of the two men by Miller’s Court, one in the doorway while the
other hurried on his way with a black bag. For the first time I wondered at the man staying behind, alone with the body in Miller’s Court and the charnel mayhem of the scene that he left there.
‘I’ll see what I can find,’ said Green.
‘Excellent,’ said Collier. ‘If there is nothing else to add, let’s move on to the photographs. Patience, if you would?’
Her earlier enthusiasm had slumped slightly during the first part of the meeting, but Patience perked up at this, moved her plate out of her way and gathered up her envelopes in front of her.
‘Just a moment,’ I said. Patience paused half out of her chair then slumped dramatically back down, rewarding me with an eye roll that seemed to take in her whole head. Ignoring her, I pulled myself up out of my chair with the merest of winces and walked over to the boards. I took a card and wrote ‘Tapper’ on it and pinned it to the board next to the card with Harris’s name on it. I took two more cards, wrote ‘Surgeon’ on one and ‘Driver?’ on the other and put them next to the one that said ‘Ripper’. Then I took another, wrote ‘Patient?’ on it and pinned it high up at the top of the board. And as I did, that bell that I’d heard in Richardson’s dressing room gave another low chime in the back of my mind.
‘Are you finished, Mr Agent, sir?’ Patience from her chair, mockingly respectful.
‘A few more things,’ I said, as I walked back to my side of the table. ‘We’ll need to make sure that the gang from the train stay out of circulation for a while. And make sure that Richardson’s death is treated as open and shut by the locals. We want Harris’s anonymous bosses thinking that everything went smoothly for as long as we can.’ I eased myself back into the chair. The moment I did Patience pushed back out of hers and went to the projector.
‘Special Branch will be holding onto the gang for the next 72 hours before they pass them to the locals for charging,’ said Collier, ‘and as far as Richardson goes, once his stay in a sanatorium becomes public knowledge, people will be more inclined to believe that he was responsible.’
‘Excuse me, Mr Collier, but I don’t remember seeing anything about a sanatorium,’ interjected Green. ‘It wasn’t in his file.’
‘Really? I’m sure it will be there somewhere if one were to look again,’ replied Collier. ‘Would you mind adding it to your list, Patience?’
‘Right you are, guvnor!’ came a chirpy reply from Patience, tweaking buttons on the projector. Church shook his head in mild exasperation.
‘Oh, and we should call Harris’s wife, say that he has to stay away on Branch business,’ I said.
‘Church?’ Collier said.
‘Done. I’ll get the cockney sparrow here to let me have the line after Harris has made his call.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Collier. ‘So, unless there is anything more, that leaves us with whatever you have found for us, Patience.’
Patience made some final adjustments then stood facing the rest of us. ‘Just so you know, I’ve done my best but the disc you found was quite deteriorated, and on top of that Stirns have a fixed aperture and these were taken at night. So, don’t expect miracles. I’ve enlarged them as much as I could without losing too much clarity and pulled up the contrast but even so there’s not much to see. I’ll show you them in order. Could someone switch off the lights?’
Collier walked to the switch and turned the lights off as Patience brought the first image on the screen. It was almost white.
‘They were all pretty dark,’ said Patience. ‘So I’ve tried to bring them up as much as possible. To try and get some detail.’
The view was of a street. From the angle it looked like the photographer was lying on the ground. The cobbles in the foreground were clear enough in places, and here and there it was possible to pick out details: a lamp post, kerb stones, a window ledge. Two blurred figures stood in the background.
‘Difficult to tell from this where it was taken,’ Patience’s commentary continued, ‘but I think we can assume London.’
The second image was clearer, the two figures still there, their hats visible now. It seemed obvious now that one of them had a case. They were turned, their backs to the camera.
‘And the next one.’
In the third the scene had changed dramatically: the camera was angled up away from the pavement showing a blank sky between the edges of buildings. And in the middle a fattened teardrop, a shade lighter than the sky around it. What I had thought was a boat when I had first seen the disc in Richardson’s lodgings.
‘It’s clearer in this,’ said Patience as the next slide clicked into place.
Closer now, the shape resolved itself into an airship, filling the sky between the buildings as it descended. The details were hard to make out, but it looked small, perhaps smaller than the one that had taken me to Millbank.
‘And in this.’
The airship was barely above the rooftops in this shot, blocking the sky, its shape clearer to see, its hull obviously lacking identification numbers. A light-coloured line that might have been a rope ladder hung down from the ’ship, one of the figures making his way up, the other standing at the bottom holding the ladder steady.
‘And finally.’
The airship was rising again in this photograph, the remaining figure alone now and walking along the pavement towards the photographer but on the other side of the road. He was indistinct but one could just make out his top hat, his shoes and, in the hand closest to the camera, a walking stick, the shank thin while the top was heavy and round, almost the size of a fist.
‘That’s all there is.’ Patience ended her presentation but left the last image up which faded to be almost invisible as Green brought the lights back up. ‘And now,’ she said, walking over to the boards, giving me a smug look as she did, ‘we just need to make one small alteration.’ Without waiting for a response, she took the card that said ‘Driver?’ off the board, reversed it, wrote ‘PILOT’ in large block capitals, and pinned it back up on the board.
‘And a bloody good one, to get that low in a street,’ Church said.
‘Where do you find one of those?’ asked Green. ‘The army?’
‘Maybe,’ replied Church. ‘Maybe ex-army.’
‘Excellent work, Patience,’ said Collier.
‘Should be easy to find wherever he’s from. There aren’t many pilots that good.’ Church again.
But I wasn’t really paying attention to the voices in the room; the conversation suddenly seemed like it was happening a thousand miles away. Because I was suddenly certain that I knew that walking stick. Had watched it ordered in a shop on Jermyn Street, the large head of the stick weighted to make it suitable for self-defence. Had been there when it was picked up, felt the weight of it and seen it tested on a chipboard dummy set up in the back room of the shop. It wasn’t clear from the photo, but I knew that the top was carved like a wolf’s head. And when, just over eight years ago, I had woken, bleary-eyed on the floor of a bedroom in Cooper’s, the head of that stick was the first thing I had seen, lying on the floor next to me, its end matted with blood, hair and bone.
15. Rag
‘Where to, squire?’ The cabbie’s mouth was obscured, his scarf wrapped high up around his face. His cab was steam powered, of a much older design than the electric or diesel versions I had seen since I had been back in London. It was larger than the newer types, with an extended rear supported on its own set of smaller wheels and where a tall, thin chimney puffed. These days, I imagined, the driver would be relying on tourists to enjoy its vintage appeal but as far as Church and I were concerned, it was a busy Friday evening and every other cab we had passed so far was already taken.
‘A bar in Canning Town called Boston’s,’ said Church. ‘It’s off Victoria Dock Road. I’ll give you directions when we get there.’
‘Right you are,’ the cabbie said as Church pulled the door open. ‘Canning Town you say?’
‘Too far for you?’ asked Church, half in and half out of the door.
�
��Nowhere’s too far for a pair of gents like yourselves. If it’s company you’re after, though, there’s plenty of good clubs around here, guvnor, much quicker to get to and the ladies are much friendlier, if you catch my drift?’ He smiled, gave Church a conspiratorial wink. ‘I could have you there in two shakes.’
‘Not tonight,’ Church said.
‘Right you are, guvnor, Canning Town it is. You and your friend hop in and we’ll be on our way.’
Church ducked in through the door and I followed him into the cab’s threadbare interior. Church waited till I was settled, then rapped on the roof and we set off with a whistle along the thick bustle of the Strand as Friday evening began in earnest.
Omnibuses crawled along while cabs jostled for space, depositing bands of excited nightlife-seekers, swapping them for weary-legged shoppers, briefcase-clasping office workers, and at least one group of lengthily lunched tycoons, swaying cheerily together at the kerb. The evening was clear, the fog at bay for now, and the lights on the theatre awnings sparkled brightly, blazing out the titles of the shows at us as we slipped by. One or two of them seemed familiar to me. Perhaps, I thought, it was from one of the magazines that had occasionally found their way into the officers’ mess in Canada, thoughtfully dispatched by a far-off loved one and, once read by the lucky recipient, the tales of angling or golfing or London life shared with the rest of us.
There were screens on a few of the buildings, larger versions of the one that I had briefly watched in Marie’s room in Cooper’s. Adverts rippled into place, replacing one another in a parade of perky proclamations and, on one screen, the evening’s headlines: ‘Ripper expert dead in murder suicide!’.
Then we were heading past Drury Lane, the cabbie weaving smoothly to avoid the theatregoers as they wandered towards their shows, excitement at the experience to come rendering them less sensible to the more mundane activities of the here and now. I watched them closely, focusing on their clothes and faces, anything and everything, in an attempt to hold at bay the loop of memory that I could feel pressing in on me, a sliver of numbing horror that I had thought I had damped down and forgotten, raked to a blaze again by the picture from Richardson’s camera.