by kindels
"Her parents?"
"Still in France at their place in Normandy. She's alone man, like I promised."
"What about our guest?" asked the driver, gesturing with his eyes towards the cavernous interior of the van, which held only one object, a large white American style refrigerator.
"Ah, you might say he's very much 'on ice' for the moment. I gave him enough to keep him well out of it for as long as we want. When we leave we can give him one of your 'specials' and that should ensure he comes round at just the right time."
"You've done well, I must say. These young girls, eh? Who'd have thought that the daughter of such well-to-do parents would end up a junkie and a prostitute to boot, and at such a young age, fucking old men for a pittance just to raise the cash to feed her ridiculous and filthy little habit? How tragic!"
A mixture of sarcasm and irony emanated from his last words and his companion replied,
"You know as well as I do that drugs are no respecters of age or wealth. Half of my clients are from good homes and good schools. That's where most of 'em get hooked in the first place. You can get almost anything illegal in schools these days."
"As long as one knows the right people of course," said the driver, smiling a demonic smile. His next words were delivered in a flat, chilling monotone. "So, shall we get to work?"
Without another word the two men alighted from the van into the incessant drizzle that had taken the place of the torrential downpour that had accompanied the earlier storm. It was just after six p.m. and there wasn't a soul about in the street as they walked the short distance from the van to the front door, where the younger man reached out and pressed the doorbell.
Within seconds the door was opened from within and a young dark haired teenaged girl, no more than eighteen years old, stood glaring at the two visitors.
"Michael," she screeched as she recognised the younger man. "Where the hell have you been? I'm going out of my mind here. You promised&"
"Yeah, yeah, I know, babe," Michael replied. "Don't sweat it. I got the stuff you need right here." He held out his hand to reveal a small white packet in his palm, manna from heaven to the young drug addict.
"Yeah, but who the hell's the old guy?" she asked as her shaking fingers reached out to snatch the package from Michael, only for him to pull it quickly out of her reach.
"No need for disrespect, Mandy. This here's The Man, you know, the one who gets the stuff for me so I can get it to you, babe. He wanted to come and meet a few of my best customers in person, just so's he'd know where to find you if ever I was out of circulation, like, you know?"
The girl barely appeared to hear his words, so intent was she on obtaining the narcotics contained in that little white packet.
"So, gimme, huh, please, Michael? You know how much I need it."
She held out a trembling hand containing three ten pound notes, and Michael took the proffered cash from the girl.
"So, is there something else you want?" she asked as Michael and the stranger made no attempt to leave. As far as Mandy was concerned, the transaction was over and done with. She wanted to be left alone to sink into her own narcotic nirvana. She certainly didn't need company or an audience, come to that.
"Actually, Mandy, there is something else,."
It was the first time the elder man had spoken since entering the house.
"Michael has something to show you, don't you, Michael?"
"Yes, it's a new 'product'," said Michael, walking across the hall to a small table that stood against the wall. "Come and take a look at this, Mandy. I think you'll like it. It gives you a real 'high."
Mandy followed the young man across to the table where he'd laid a small packet and was making as if to open it. The girl bent forward slightly to get a better look, and never saw the elder man as he produced a long, slender blade from the inside of his jacket, came up behind her and quickly reached around her throat with his right arm. Before she had time to react the blade sliced deeply into her flesh, a spitting torrent of blood cascading forth as a look of shock, pain and horror swept across her face. She tried to scream, but so deep was the wound that no sound issued from her mouth, just a terrible rasping gurgle as her throat filled with blood and the effects of shock instantaneously set in. The man caught her as she fell backwards, supporting the weight of her body as it sagged against him and slowly slithered to the floor, where the gaping wound in her neck continued to pump blood for a few more seconds until death rapidly took the young victim into its waiting embrace, her heart ceased pumping and the flow of blood slowed and finally stopped.
"Bloody hell," said Michael. "That was a smooth job."
"There's no time for self-congratulations," the man replied as he began to set about his next task. Quickly, he lifted the girl's skirt and raised her blouse to reveal her bare abdomen. Taking his time, he worked steadily, recreating the incisions and mutilations that had been inflicted on poor Annie Chapman over a hundred years earlier. Michael had seen him at work before and thought himself immune from the sight of seeing a still-warm body being treated in such a fashion, but even he gagged and had to force himself not to be physically sick when the man slowly and methodically removed a large portion of the girls intestines from the abdominal cavity and draped them over her left shoulder. He arranged certain items upon the floor that he knew would pique the interest of the police and in what seemed to be no time at all completed his macabre task.
Within thirty minutes of having her throat cut and her life so brutally extinguished, Mandy Clark's body now lay in gruesome reminiscence of that of Annie Chapman, certified victim of Jack the Ripper. The man removed his blood stained coat and placed it carefully into a plastic bag which Michael produced from inside his own jacket. He gestured to Michael who, knowing what he had to do, crossed the hall, opened the front door and went out to the van. There was still no-one in the street as the man had predicted. This was a quiet and private cul-de-sac with little in the way of comings and goings outside of the morning and evening rush-hours, now both passed of course.
Opening the side door of the van he pulled out a ramp that was fixed to the inner floor of the van and then slowly and carefully wheeled the large refrigerator out on the trolley on which it had been placed and pushed it quickly into the house.
He and the man again set to work, this time removing the human contents of the fridge before quickly wheeling the device back out to the van where it was soon reloaded and secured in the rear compartment. Before leaving the house the man nodded to Michael, who produced a filled hypodermic from his pocket and swiftly injected it into the neck of the young man who lay on the tiled hall floor just feet from the body of the dead girl. The drug cocktail within it would ensure that Jack Reid remained in a state of unconsciousness for the next thirty six hours, perfect for the man's plan.
After positioning Jack and the body in the required positions and ensuring that the killing blade rested securely in the young man's unconscious hand, the pair left as unobtrusively as they'd arrived. No-one had seen them arrive or leave and though the killing of Mandy Clark had taken place over twenty four hours early in terms of the Jack the Ripper crimes, the man knew that the police would probably be onto his modus operandi by now and he'd felt justified in using a little artistic licence in the execution of his plan.
There just remained the necessity to depart as quickly as possible from his temporary home on the hill and to ensure that Michael was in no position to betray him in the future. That, he knew, would prove to be by far the easiest part of the operation. Getting away would prove to be simplicity itself, and Michael would be an asset for as long as the man needed him, then he would help to seal the perfect end to the whole scenario. It was a pity that he would have to finish his work elsewhere, but he'd always known that things might get a bit too hot to complete his task in one place and his plans allowed for some flexibility.
The man just wished he could see the police's reaction to what they'd eventually find when the time cam
e for them to visit the house on Hastings Close. As he drove through the evening rain, the wipers making a satisfying 'swish, swish' as they swept back and forth across the windscreen he allowed himself a rare smile of anticipation. For now, his work here was done. Fresh pastures lay ahead, presenting new challenges and there was much work to do in order to reach them safely.
Chapter 29
Doctor Ruth Takes Up the Story Once Again
I suppose this is as good a point as any for me to bring this story back to the present day, to reality as it currently exists for me, for Jack and for the other protagonists in this strange affair. As far as the case of Mandy Clark and the other victims of 'The Brighton Ripper' goes, the facts have been recorded and relayed in court and in psychiatric reports many times.
Following a night-long vigil on the night of 7th/8th September, during which Inspector Mike Holland and Sergeant Carl Wright led their task force in a total surveillance operation in the vicinity of Hastings Close the police had become frustrated and bemused when, by 6.30 on the morning of the 8th there appeared to have been no activity in the neighbourhood that would indicate the killer had so much as approached the area. Bemused, frustrated and just a little fearful that they had somehow tipped their hand and that the killer had caught wind of their presence, at six forty-five a.m the two detectives took a slow walk along the length of Hastings Close, thinking that they might have missed something that had occurred during the long night.
As they neared number six they were amazed to see a young man, his hands and clothing soaked in blood, staggering down the driveway towards them. The door to the house stood gapingly open and the two men knew instantly that they'd overlooked one vital element in the case.
"It's him, sergeant, it has to be. Grab the bastard while I go take a look. We never bloody well thought that he'd kill his next victim indoors. She has to be in that house."
Carl Wright quickly caught hold of the young blood-soaked man, who seemed hardly aware of the policeman's presence. He snapped his handcuffs on to the man and turned him around, following the path taken by the inspector. Realising where he was being taken, the handcuffed prisoner suddenly began to panic and resist Wright's pressure on him to approach the house.
"No, please, you can't take me in there. She's there, and she's dead!"
"Who's dead?" Wright asked. "Who is she?"
"How should I know?" the man answered. "She's a girl, just a girl."
"Keep going you cold-blooded bastard," said Wright, pushing the man along in front of him. Before they reached the door however, Holland appeared at the entrance to the house and Wright brought himself and his prisoner to a halt.
"Bloody Hell, Carl," Holland gasped, an air of finality and of horror in his voice. "He's done it again and the poor girl's only a kid, still in her teens. Funny thing is, it looks like she's been dead for a day or more. The blood's dry on the floor and on this."
Holland held out his right hand on which he wore a latex glove and held out a long, thin bladed knife of the type used by traditional old-fashioned butchers in their shops. The blood stains on the weapon were evident but, as Holland said, they appeared dry, certainly not fresh, making it appear that the murder had taken place some time before they arrived on the scene.
"He's not much more than a kid himself, sergeant," said Holland as he took a long hard look at the man they now held in custody. "Why'd you do it, son? Why'd you kill these poor girls, eh?"
"I didn't. I mean, did I? I must have done, mustn't I? The man said so, so it must be true. I've got blood on me. Is it hers? She was, just, you know, lying there."
"He's not making a lot of sense, sir," said Wright.
"No, he isn't, is he? Let's get him to the station, sergeant. I'll call it in and get the forensic people here at the double. From the looks of things we've got our man, and if I'm not mistaken he killed her earlier than he planned to throw us off the scent. Somehow though, he stayed here until the time and date the body of Annie Chapman was discovered in Whitechapel. Why, I wonder?"
"If you ask me, sir, he's high on something. Just look at him. I wouldn't be surprised if he was so 'junked up' he killed her without knowing what bloody day it was and then stayed in the house to get junked up on some more and just staggered into our arms by accident when he came around and panicked to find he was still in the house with the body."
At his sergeant's behest, Holland looked closely into the eyes of the young man in the handcuffs. Sure enough, he had the look of a man who had been heavily drugged until a short time ago. The police inspector knew the look of a 'druggie' only too well from his years of experience on the force and this man most definitely looked like a man who was no stranger to the use of illegal drugs.
"I think you're right, sergeant," he agreed. "Get Barnes and Thorne to take him in while we take a closer look at the house."
Wright summoned the two officers Holland had selected from their place in one of the surveillance cars and Jack Reid soon found himself in the back of the unmarked police car and on his way to the police station. He would be held in a cell until Holland and Wright returned to begin questioning him. The sun rose without apparent warmth for the policemen who now began their tragic investigation into the events that had taken place at the house of death.
***
Number six, Hastings Close resembled a scene of carnage, a charnel house. As they waited for the arrival of the Scenes of Crime officers they did their best to examine the body of Mandy Clark and surrounding blood-soaked hallway. The thing that stood out most to Holland was the fact that, as Wright quickly pointed out, the killer had arranged the scene to resemble that reported after the murder of Annie Chapman. Close to the body, her killer had arranged a neat pile of the girl's belongings, or perhaps had brought them with him for effect. There was a tissue, neatly folded, two pennies (in Chapman's case it had been two farthings, long discontinued from British coinage), and two combs which forensics would later confirm as having been Mandy's from hair samples clinging to them. This tended to confirm that the killer had remained in the house for some time after the murder and had removed the combs from the bathroom or the girl's bedroom. It was a chilling re-creation of the murder site in Whitechapel back in 1888 and added to Holland's view that the killer had to be in some way deranged to enact so elaborate a copy of the scene.
There was blood on the tiled floor of the hallway and on the table which stood against the wall. Holland assumed correctly that the girl had been standing by the table when she was attacked, perhaps not seeing the knife before it sliced into her neck. The mutilations to her body were what Holland and Wright found so disturbing. Apart from the intestine draped over the girl's shoulder the mutilations to the body were appalling to say the least. Wright pulled a sheet of paper from his inside pocket, and as far as he could see on cursory examination the killer had done his best to copy the exact series of injuries inflicted in Annie Chapman's body so long ago. The later poet-mortem examination of the body of Mandy Clark would confirm that those injuries exactly matched Chapman's. Perhaps the most telling was the fact that Mandy Clarks head been almost severed from her body, the wound to her neck inflicted with great strength and appalling determination. The girl's abdomen had been laid open entirely as in the case of Chapman. The only difference, and Holland assumed this to be because of the drug fuelled state of the young man now in custody was that whereas in Chapman's case certain organs had been removed and taken from the scene by the Ripper, in Mandy Clark's case her uterus, and the upper portion of her vagina had been removed and were found an hour later by a member of the forensic team in the rubbish bin at the rear of the house, another sign that the killer had taken his time over the killing and the subsequent aftermath.
On their way back to the station to commence the questioning of Jack Reid, and despite the fact that they had the man they believed to be the killer in custody, something didn't quite add up in the mind of Carl Wright.
"Something's a bit screwy about this, sir," he s
aid to Holland, a deep frown upon his face.
"Explain, 'screwy' sergeant," the inspector replied.
"Well, so far the first two killings have exactly mirrored the murders of Martha Tabram and Polly Nichols. All of a sudden he deviates from the path. Annie Chapman's organs were never discovered, and if our man was trying to copy her murder, then to be honest we should have found him walking down the road with her organs concealed either on his person or in a bag or something similar, on his way to dispose of them. He had nothing on him at all."
"Because he was influenced too heavily by the drugs, sergeant," Holland surmised. "Look, it's all very well us believing that he set out to re-create the Ripper murders, but we have to bear in mind that with each killing he probably found himself becoming more and more sickened by the actual acts he was perpetrating. That does happen you know."
"Yes, sir, I know it does, but the first two murders were just so cold and calculating. This one seems a bit messy, that's all."
"Good God, they're all messy, sergeant."
"I know, sir, but I think you know what I mean."
"Yes, I do, but let's face it. I think we're dealing with a very sick and highly deranged individual here. I've a suspicion that questioning our suspect might prove to be a very disturbing experience for both of us."
And so it was to prove. Later that day, Mike Holland and Carl Wright sat down in interview room one at the station, with the young Jack Reid seated opposite them, the table and chairs on which they sat being the only furniture present and the hum of the obligatory police tape recorder the only sound in the room apart from the voices of the officers and the suspect.
Chapter 30
Interrogation, Disbelief, and Arraignment
After managing to persuade Jack to identify himself and provide them with his home address, the police arranged for the man's parents to be informed of his arrest. A worried and appalled Tom Reid contacted Holland and informed him that he and his wife would arrive in Brighton the next day.