Kelly groaned when she looked at the schedule and saw her patient for the night. The day staff had updated Monahan’s notes with more detail than they had previously, after obtaining ‘limited information’ from his previous healthcare provider. Solid tumours were in about thirty per cent of his bone mass. He was dying a slow and painful death. Kelly scanned for any information on the primary source. None given. Often the patient was too far gone to work out what had caused the cancer in the first place.
A nurse had also written that the patient seemed agitated about having enough morphine left and asked for an extra syringe driver to be left onsite. This request was denied by the day doctor who suspected the patient ‘may endear to practice euthanasia’. Seven years at medical school for a fancy way to write ‘top himself’, Kelly thought.
She believed that the doctor was wrong on that front. She’d had plenty of patients looking to end their lives, and they were usually so bleak and depressed they could barely speak. They also rarely got the chance to top themselves as nature soon took its course.
But Monahan was nothing like them. He wanted to be in control and she figured he simply didn’t wish to be left without any painkiller again. He was a military man through and through, who planned ahead. She grabbed his case notes and headed off into the night.
9: The Ripper
April had ignored another needy text from Luigi as she added a dash of tonic to her glass of gin, which contained the thinnest slice of lemon known to cocktailology. Over the years the spirit level had gone up and up and up, to now, where there was no room for the ice cubes anymore. She plonked the glass on the table by her armchair, where her ageing cat, Cheeka, joined her, settling down on her owner’s lap. It had just gone 7pm and now April was ready for her next scandal from Beast Shamer:
By now I’d like to think you’ve got to know me a little bit, even if you cannot know my true identity. Nevertheless I have always believed the proof is in the pudding. Yesterday I showed you a picture of a TV personality with his private parts in a goat’s mouth. But that was mere tittle-tattle compared to what I have in store for you now. It’s one of the first, and biggest, cover-ups in British history: Jack the Ripper.
Now, before you think I’m just another crazy Ripper-ologist who came up with yet another mental theory, these are not the conclusions of years of research. In actual fact I wasn’t even looking for anything to do with the case. But when you come across a file marked ‘The Whitechapel Murders’, it does prick your interest somewhat. So I will shortly reveal the man who carried out the murders of five victims – Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes and Mary Jane Kelly. They became known as the ‘canonical five’ and were murdered between August 31st and November 9th, 1888.
This is not who I think carried out their murders and mutilations, but the actual person who was arrested and confessed… and I’ll then reveal how the establishment simply made him, and the case, disappear.
I imagine a lot of you will be asking why this sort of archive material hasn’t been made available under the UK’s declassification acts or even through a freedom of information request. To do that the Government would have to know that these files are in existence in the first place. Quite simply, the Government doesn’t know about them.
No, this information is in the hands of a select few, the people who really run our country – the secret services. And, as their name suggests, they like to keep everything secret.
April was getting a tad fed up with the blogger’s ramblings. All she wanted to know was the identity of Jack the Ripper.
Anyway, time for the big reveal: the murderer was James Maybrick. ‘Who?’ I hear you collectively ask. He was a wealthy cotton trader from Liverpool. But why would the establishment want to protect him? Well, that’s because he was a Freemason and his brother, Michael, was on the Supreme Grand Council of Freemasons.
An old black and white police mugshot appeared of a good-looking man, with receding hair, a sharp nose and moustache. He was still wearing the stained leather apron he had been arrested in when he was found at the crime scene of the fourth victim, Catherine Eddowes.
Another much grander portrait appeared of Maybrick in all his Freemason finery at some Masonic meeting.
James Maybrick was literally caught red-handed. He had also carved a pair of compasses into the face of his victim. I’m sure I don’t need to explain that compasses are symbols associated with Freemasonry. Freemason signs were found at all his crime scenes. He also had a town house right in the middle of Whitechapel. A search discovered an assortment of meat cleavers and surgical instruments, still covered in God knows what.
Of course what is most alarming is that Maybrick was released, and even allowed to keep his bloodied apron and butchery tools, and went on to carry out his most horrendous murder of the lot, with the dissection of the poor prostitute Mary Jane Kelly. Even the establishment had to act after this: rank and file officers complained bitterly, knowing they had let a guilty man go free to kill again. One even put his disgust in a memo to his superiors, and it’s still on file.
But they were all warned, to a man, that their careers would be over, and their pensions withdrawn, if they didn’t fall into line. They were finally placated by a solemn promise from a Chief Constable that the ‘alleged perpetrator would be banished from the City of London, never to return’. A footnote records that this Chief Constable reminded his men to think of the reputational damage that would be done to the Freemason movement over ‘the inconsequential lives of a handful of prostitutes’.
Maybrick’s brother, Michael, arranged for James to see a doctor, a fellow Freemason, who put him on strong medication just two weeks after his final killing. It seemed to do the trick for a while, but the following year James told the doctor that his murderous urges were returning with a vengeance. His brother was informed and the masons decided there was nothing left to do but have James poisoned. His wife was hastily sentenced to death, for a murder she didn’t commit, by a judge who was also… you guessed it… a member of the Lodge.
You don’t have to take my word for it, it’s all in these files. This yet again proves the immense influence the people who really run the country have – not the puppet politicians we elect. These establishment figures not only have the power to make sure that one of their own never stands trial for the most appalling murders committed in the modern history of these isles, but they can also keep his name secret for decades after his death.
But information is the key, people. With every drip, drip, drip of truth we will expose their lies and cover-ups.
10: Fishy
Kelly was buzzed into Monahan’s flat. She asked how her patient was feeling and whether he’d like anything.
‘I wouldn’t mind another ham sandwich. The last one you made was delicious.’
‘It was just a plain ham sandwich. I guess anything would taste delicious after those protein shakes,’ Kelly replied, trying to adopt a professionally courteous manner. She made her patient a snack and freshened the bottle of water by his bed. Monahan didn’t seem in the mood for talking, so after taking his obs, she settled down in the armchair opposite the bed. Satisfied her patient was sleeping, Kelly pulled a biscuit from her bag, along with the newspaper she had bought yesterday. She read the front page, with yet another outlandish theory on the death of Princess Diana, and turned inside for the full report, which even she could see was full of dubious insider quotes and speculation.
‘What do you think happened?’ Monahan asked, surprising her.
‘To who?’
‘Diana. What do you think happened to her?’
‘Well, I’m not into conspiracy theories. But really it’s pretty hard to see how it wasn’t fishy.’
‘Fishy how?’
‘Witnesses reporting a bright white light in the tunnel. CCTV cameras with no recordings. The ambulance stopping to treat her on t
he way to the hospital – not a chance. I’ve worked in A&E, they just get there. End of. Then there’s the embalming of the body, plus the fact they couldn’t find the white Uno... the biggest car hunt in French history and they couldn’t find it! Yeah, it’s fishy. Like I said though, I’m not a conspiracist, these are just facts.’
‘Some of the facts. What about the driver being a drunk?’ Monahan asked.
‘His blood results were well dodgy. If the levels they said they found were correct he wouldn’t have been able to speak, never mind drive. I just don’t buy it.’
‘So you are a wee bit of a conspiracist, then?’ Monahan teased.
‘I didn’t think I was, but maybe I am. It is fascinating.’
‘It is and it isn’t. A surprising amount of information is actually out there. Officially. It’s the public who have read too much into it all,’ Monahan said dismissively.
‘Are you trying to tell me you don’t think she was murdered? That it was all just a coincidence?’ Kelly asked incredulously.
‘No, I’m saying it’s as plain as the nose on my face that it was a hit. What’s more… I know who did it.’
• • •
Kelly thought about what Monahan had said as she drove home. She hadn’t asked him to elaborate any further after he’d lobbed his Diana hand grenade into the room.
‘Know who killed Diana, indeed. I’d love to see the girls’ faces if I told them that one,’ Kelly said to herself.
She thought no more about it as she arrived home to the melee of a typical morning with the kids in various states of dress and her mum trying to coax them to get ready.
Kelly had too much going on in her life to worry about the death of a rich and famous person she’d never met. Precisely six minutes after the children had been shuffled out the door in the direction of school, Kelly was in bed drifting off to sleep. She didn’t dream once of the late Princess.
11: Full moon
Connor pulled up beside April’s battered purple Daewoo estate, which was swaying gently from side to side as a hefty shape inside moved towards the rear of the vehicle. Connor got out of his Audi TT and stared, perplexed, into his colleague’s car. It was hard to work out what was going on through the grime on the windows, which had accumulated over who knows how many months. Maybe the old girl was having an illicit morning liaison? Connor shuddered involuntarily – that was a sight he was sure he’d never recover from.
There was an audible click and the Daewoo’s hatchback began its slow ascent towards the multi-storey car park’s roof. A large, perfectly rotund backside began to emerge from the car, crack first. Connor would recognise those buttocks anywhere. Kim Kardashian had nothing on April’s ample arse.
‘It’s a full moon tonight,’ Connor remarked.
‘Oh, you gave me a fright,’ April said, standing upright.
‘Pray tell?’
‘I had another little accident.’
‘Pissed yourself again?’
‘That too,’ April said, taking the insult in her stride. ‘I hit something.’
‘Cyclist? Pedestrian?’
‘Maybe, but whatever it was I can’t get my passenger door to open. I’ve got to climb out the back now.’
‘So… wait a minute. For days, perhaps weeks, you had been climbing out of the passenger door?’
‘I adapted well. Could nip in and out, quite the thing,’ April said proudly.
‘Then you hit “something” and had to use the back door?’ Connor said, desperately trying not to make any sexual references.
‘I think it’s time to see a mechanic,’ April conceded.
‘I think it’s time to see a salesman. This is no way for one half of the special investigations desk to be getting around.’
‘I’ll only dink a new one.’
‘And what if you “dink” your rear entrance?’ Connor said, still managing to resist any double entendres. ‘You’ll either have to go through the windows like Starsky and Hutch, or you’ll be stuck, living in your car like a mental person. Throw in a half-dozen cats and you’ll look and smell like an old bag lady.’
‘But I hate car salesmen. They always sell me something I don’t want.’
‘Like cars with doors that open and close?’
They began their morning walk to the Peccadillo with April’s stomach already grumbling in anticipation.
‘What did you make of the Beast Shamer stuff last night and this Maybrick fella? Do you think it’s true?’ April asked.
‘I have no idea. I googled him and he certainly seems to have been a contender. Then again so was his brother Michael and a dozen other folk, according to the Internet. Basically if you wore a cape and had facial hair, you can now be considered a Ripper suspect.’
‘But it all looked so convincing. The police photos. The memo sent by the Chief Constable. The Freemasonry stuff.’
‘I know. It does. There’s enough from that last night for another Ripper book. Several, actually.’
‘I wonder if it’s been picked up by any of the papers.’
‘Probably. I guess you’re pretty safe to name whoever you want when everyone’s dead.’
The pair arrived at the café and took their usual seat. Martel gave April a smile as she took her order – a full fry-up – but spared no pleasantries when Connor ordered a bowl of porridge with a banana.
‘Service with a scowl,’ April giggled under her breath. ‘I’m guessing you’ve switched back to an “off” phase?’
‘And I’m guessing I should have called her. I hope she doesn’t spit in my porridge.’
‘She wouldn’t do that. But I can guess where she’d love to shove that banana,’ April smiled.
12: The fantasist
Kelly made the evening journey to work all too quickly for her liking: it felt like she’d only just finished last night’s shift. She hoped she didn’t have Monahan tonight.
‘Hi Kelly, how’s you?’ Jean the auxiliary nurse asked in her usual cheery manner.
Jean had worked nightshift before Kelly had even been born. She’d be retiring soon and Kelly dreaded the thought, as she’d miss her company and, most of all, her support.
‘Uch, the usual, Jean. Tired. Always tired. I could sleep for Scotland. In fact, given the choice I’d take sleep over anything. A Lottery win. Chocolate. Sex. Sleep wins out every time.’
‘I agree with everything apart from the Lottery win. That’s my dream.’
Kelly wished she hadn’t mentioned the Lottery, for now she’d get Jean’s jackpot fantasy again. How much she’d like to win. Who would get what in her family. How she’d take all her grandchildren to Disney World in Florida. But Jean managed to stop herself as she had news.
‘This came in today. It’s more of Mr Monahan’s case notes. Some sort of psychiatric report. Funny how we’re getting his stuff in dribs and drabs, isn’t it? He’s definitely military. We had a similar case years ago. Some old navy captain who had signed the Official Secrets Act and was suffering from dementia. He kept telling us state secrets, not that we understood a bloody word. It was all codes and fleet commands. The MOD wanted to make all his nurses sign the Official Secrets Act too, but our union told them to bugger off.’
Kelly opened the report. It was full of the usual psychiatrist ‘arse covering’, as the nurses called it, about what the patient may or may not do. There was nothing definite in psychiatry, therefore its practitioners were never wrong.
But one section leapt out as it had been typed in bold:
Patient Monahan is a delusional fantasist, with an intrinsic belief in almost everything he recalls. This makes him prone to grand claims about his work and exaggerating the importance of his position within the organisation.
Kelly stared at the two sentences: it was almost as if they had been written for her benefit.
‘I guess I’v
e got Mr Monahan again, then?’ she sighed.
‘You sure have, hon,’ Jean said, adding, ‘And don’t worry, in another thirty years you’ll finally have got used to the nightshift.’
‘Thanks, Jean. Just when I thought I couldn’t be any more depressed.’
• • •
Kelly kept it formal with Monahan as her shift started. She checked his obs, washed him, prepared a sandwich and his protein shakes. He said nothing except ‘thank you’, sensing she didn’t want to talk.
She settled down in the armchair beside his bed. Monahan had his eyes closed and was breathing normally. She thought he was going to remain like that until he asked a very softly spoken but clearly audible question: ‘Anything strange happen at work tonight?’
Kelly was a little startled. Did he know about the psychiatric reports? ‘Define “strange”,’ she replied coolly.
‘Out of the ordinary,’ Monahan said with equal composure.
Kelly decided she wasn’t in the mood to play games. ‘There was something, actually. Some more of your medical notes arrived. Apparently you’re a total fantasist who makes the most outlandish claims.’
Monahan pushed his head back as far as it would go into his pillow, as if he was reclining in a sun lounger, and let out a laugh. ‘I wondered when they’d start calling me a nutter.’
‘And are you a “nutter”?’ Kelly asked, hating the use of the term that for so long demonised those with mental health issues.
‘Suppose so. But, then again, aren’t we all a bit crazy?’
‘Are you a fantasist?’
‘Again, aren’t we all? Don’t you dream of being rich? Not having to do this?’
‘I prefer realistic dreams, goals I can achieve. And I happen to like my job.’ Monahan’s question had struck a chord. Without her work, what was Kelly? A divorcee? A mum? She needed to be more than that. She realised her job defined her life.
‘But “no” is the answer to your question. I am not a fantasist. I just so happen to have seen many fantastical things in my line of work.’
Wicked Leaks Page 4