- "Have you heard of the Monster of Florence, boss?"
- "Rings a bell."
- "A son of a bitch who committed sixteen murders between 1968 and 1985 in Florence. He struck on summer nights when couples would go looking for hiding places for a shag. Then this guy would shoot appear out of nowhere, shoot them, stab them and mutilate the woman's genitals. He would take the vagina and left breast with him as trophies."
We leave the city far behind us and the desert starts to swallow us up. Blinding light. The temperature climbs steadily over thirty-five degrees; the heat seems to scream out. As steady and relentless, as sharp and upright as the blade of a guillotine. We roll over scorched yellow earth, the scenery dotted with implausibly green intensive crops. A metaphor for life in a barren wasteland.
- "We already know who our murder's role model is. But the Monster of Florence shares two characteristics with our killer, and I don't like it."
- "Which characteristics?"
- "He was never arrested. And he has imitators."
- "We'll catch ours."
- "But not his master." Has he realised? They never got Jack the Ripper. Or Jack the Stripper, or the Monster of Florence, or the Lisbon Ripper.
- "But they got this one.
- It was sheer luck. He left a diary and his kids found it, and seeing as how they didn't have a good relationship with him... His own kids turned him in.
- They didn't get the Zodiac Killer either. They haven't caught so many, when you think about it.
- The important ones," he says sadly.
- "They got Ted Bundy. And Ed Kemper."
- "After they killed how many people? "And Kemper turned himself in, he was tired of the murders."
I have no answer to that. We start up a slope that leads up to a meseta in the middle of the desert where a genius decided to build a golfer's paradise from scratch.
- "The last Monster of Florence imitator was arrested after he'd already raped six women."
- "Didn't he kill them?"
- "I think he killed one. He crucified the rest of them on a stick and raped them with a different stick. I don't know why he kept them alive."
- "Who was he?"
- "Someone called Richard Vines."
- "British?"
- "Italian. A plumber. He lived with his parents."
- "Maybe that's the profile we should be looking for here."
- "Do you know how to profile people, boss?"
- "Haven't got a bloody clue."
The terrain evens out and comes alive. Fields as green as a painting, splashed with waterfalls and babbling brooks as fake as liner on an eyelid. Paths dotted with golf carts. Agave plants, palm trees and prickly pears oil mills spring up in strategic locations, a Southern touch to remind the golfers where they are, though in their sweaty T-shirts, shorts and coloured socks they seem not to notice the blazing Andalusian sun. Playing the fascinating sport of golf as though their lives depended on it.
We park opposite reception, located in the middle of a housing complex with Mediterranean architecture-inspired buildings and luxury villas. Up here we have a close-up view of the Sierra Almagrera on one side and Sierra Cabrera on the other. And, taunting us from afar, the sea.
A model with blinding white teeth welcomes us at reception. We ask her to tell us where Geoffrey Hunt lives and when she seems reluctant Malasana pulls out his badge with a deft flick of the wrist like a master cardsharp. Her jaw drops, but she types something on her keyboard.
- "And don't tell anyone," I say.
She tells us Hunt lives in one of the flats, but she doesn't know whether he's at home.
- "Phone his mobile and tell him someone wants to see him. Someone's asking for him. Say whatever you like, but don't tell him it's the police."
- "I need to speak to my manager," she says.
- "Forget it."
We watch her get increasingly flustered as she dials a number while we contain our envy at seeing how good life is when you're not a police officer.
Five minutes later a tall man with a blotchy salmon pink-coloured face speckled with ulcer-like freckles, ravaged by the sun, shows up. He's wearing a sweaty T-shirt stuck to his jiggly chest and bulging beer belly, yellow plaid bermuda shorts and trainers that stink, even from a few metres away.
The few sparse hairs he has left lie in limp strands across his large head. That hair hasn't seen a good brushing since he left England. Toad eyes. Bulbous drinker's nose. Cheeks webbed with red veins like an old lady's varicose veins. Thick, repulsive moist lips.
He walks up to the girl at reception and asks why he's been disturbed, in English, sounding irritated. The girl shrinks and points at us, saying, "Police," and Geoffrey Hunt whirls around abruptly, looking sorely offended. We don't like that.
- Poh-lice... poh-lice... There is nothing with me for poh-lice.
He takes a couple of steps forward, moving towards us, and stops. He's taller than me and looks much heftier. He looks like the Hulk next to Malasana and looks down on him through narrowed eyes.
He smells of sweat and complains that he's in the middle of a round of golf and is going to lose his bet. His Spanish is half-decent. I ask the reception girl if there's a room where we can talk privately and she leads us down a corridor to a small reserved room with a picture window, the bright light flecked over the white walls. There's a sofa and two chairs against the wall.
Geoffrey Hunt has been sighing all down the corridor, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
- "Spanish poh-lice mafia," he spits as soon as the girl leaves.
- "We're here to ask you a few questions."
- "Not answer questions," he says stubbornly.
- "We've had a look at your criminal record, Mr Hunt. Very interesting," I say.
- "Huh! Dis-gasting! Dis-gasting! Finished. Over. I paid."
Geoffrey Hunt makes as if to stand up and leave, but Malasana's faster on his feet and stands firmly in front of the door. It's a bad sign when Malasana refuses to speak.
- "You can answer our questions here or at the station. We can take you there in handcuffs. Your choice," I say.
- "Not going anywhere. No rights... you no rights. I'm English."
- "We want to know where you were on the night of 31st August."
Hunt spits on the floor.
- "Pigs. Shit. Fucking Spanish poh-lice."
He spits again. This time, he aims and almost hits Malasana's feet.
- "You're not making this easy, Mr Hun," I say, surprised to hear more patience in my voice than I expected. I have to keep Malasana under control.
- "No. No. No. Pigs. Shit."
Hunt takes a fateful step towards the door.
- "Teach him some manners," I mutter under my breath.
I regret it immediately. Malasana's compact fist smashes into Geoffrey Hunt's balls. Hunt's mouth falls open. He shrinks, unable to understand the wretched power, strong as a sonic blast, that's just smashed into him. He wavers for a second - that second lasts an eternity - and then just as suddenly as Malasana's blow hit him, Geoffrey Hunt's big unwieldy body falls straight on his arse, eyes rolled up. A second later he lets out a howl that's more animal than human.
I know we're going to be here for a while, so I light up and open the window. Malasana is still standing with his back to the door, as if nothing had happened. Like a statue miraculously come to life for a split second before freezing again.
Someone pounds on the door, but Malasana doesn't budge. They bang on the door increasingly loudly and start shouting at us in English. Malasana opens the door for a split second, letting out a loud shout as he flashes his badge, and the receptionist, along with another casually dressed golfer, are struck dumb. Malasana slams the door shut again and peace returns. Even to Geoffrey Hunt, who's slowly recovering from being hit where it hrts.
He looks at me with pleading, teary eyes, drooling slightly. His c
heeks and forehead drip with more sweat than you can ever work up just playing golf. I move towards him and when I shoot at glance at Malasana, usually straight-faced, and read terror in his eyes.
- "Get him up and handcuff him. He's coming with us," I say, throwing my cigarette butt out of the window. Someone says something indignant in English on the other side.
- "Any more trouble and you'll be left alone with him," I say to Hunt, jerking my head at Malasana.
He comes along quiet as a lamb.
An inevitable excitement bubbles at the station: Geoffrey Hunt could be our man. His record shows sexual assault, minor crimes and rape; then rape and murder. He finished up his conviction and fled his country for a place where no one knew what he had done. A sunny life in the southern heat.
They bring him up from the cells and we sit him down in Malasana's office. He's been warned. One word on our treatment of him and Malasana will haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life.
His lawyer requests an interview with him: Gonzalo Santana, AKA El Dandy. The city's biggest hotshot lawyer. He hides his arrogance well, putting on a front of friendliness with all. Fake as a twenty-euro Rolex. Tall, slight, body sculpted at the gym like any self-respecting executive, he cuts a fine figure, finishing off his image with designer suits, watches and shoes. He might as well have a designer label tattooed on his forehead. He parades around town with a different bright young thing on his arm every week like yet another designer label. His Jaguar XK is parked outside the station, gleaming in the sun. Today his black hair is slicked back and he wears a shirt - no tie - with the cuffs carefully rolled up, exposing a Cuervo y Sobrino watch that costs more than what I make in a year, perfectly cut chinos and leather loafers, soft as silk.
A remorseful Hunt looks at him when he walks in for the interview. While they talk, we wait to hear from the officers who went out to Desert Springs, praying they will have discovered that Hunt's alibi is false.
El Dandy looks at me sternly once he's finished with the interview. He can feel we haven't exactly treated Hunt with kid gloves. He doesn't attempt to hide the contempt he feels for him. He's allowed. Hunt looks at him out of the corner of his eye. He knows that whoever finds out about his past can't help but feel scorn.
Later on, Hunt's alibi is confirmed: he was with a Moroccan prostitute.
El Dandy and Hunt leave the station, get in the Jaguar and speed off into the sunset.
Annie Chapman's body was found at approximately six A.M. on September 8, 1888, by a young man named John Davis who had got up early to go to work, in a local market. Her body was found near a courtyard fence, her left arm draped over her left breast, her legs bent on the ground, knees open to either side, her skirt up around her thighs. She was nearly decapitated by a deep cut in her throat and her intestines had been placed on her left shoulder.
On his arrival, the doctor estimated that the time of death was approximately two hours prior to the body being found. Her tongue stuck out between her teeth and the doctor deduced that she had been strangled before the throat was slit and she was disembowelled. There were bloodstains on the wall next to the body. The murderer took the victim's tin rings with him, and a piece of muslin, a comb, a bloody envelope and some pills were found at the feet of the body.
I finish the tale of the Ripper's second victim, shaken. I already know what awaits us. I try to fool myself, racking my brains to think of arguments to prove myself wrong. But none come. I can't cling to the hope that I'm mistaken. Someone suggested our man could be an imitator. There's not been enough fuel to feed the flames, all it would take is something similar happening on September 8 for our worst nightmares to come true.
What will happen then?
Jack the Ripper; Jack the Stripper; the Lisbon Ripper; the Monster of Florence; none were caught, and if they were, it was always by chance, years after they'd stopped their killing spree. Ted Bundy was stopped after murdering more than twenty women. Sheer luck got him into the cuffs. Ed Kemper turned himself in when he was tired of killing. De Salvo confessed to his crimes when he thought they'd arrested him for them, but it was for a different reason that I can't remember and no one even knew he was the Boston Strangler. Berkowitz got done for a traffic ticket. The Vampire of Silesia, Zdzisław Marchwicki, was arrested after killing more than fourteen women, as far as I know, and that was because his wife reported him for beating her up and he confessed. The Butcher of Rostov, Andrei Chikatilo, was only arrested after he killed more than fifty women and children. It took years of investigation, dozens of crimes and hundreds of Soviet officers to finally catch him.
My anxiety and fear thrum louder and louder as all these cases flash through my mind.
I lock myself in the toilet and splash my face with cold water. But the water is never really cold in summer. My vertigo doesn't disappear. I don't bother drying my face, and the man in the mirror is scared, fearful of his fate. I look at my watch and see we have twelve hours before my terrible hypothesis can be confirmed. I retch. But hold it in. I wet my lips with water, but don't swallow. I'm a thirsty man in the desert.
I make my way back to my office and leave the Ripper book to one side. I'll read it again, three, ten, twenty times. Because the killer's modus operandi for tonight is written in the details of Annie Chapman's murder. I light a cigarette and close my eyes. Then stub it out, but I don't open my eyes. I try to keep my mind blank. Leave space for something to drift in and illuminate me. But there's nothing.
I read the case file again from the start, combing through it for something we might have missed. I pore over Anni Chapman's death over and over. Then I search for other Ripper sites online, other details the book may be missing, other possibilities.
Nothing comes to me.
There's nothing we can do but wait. Wait. Wait.
And fear. Fear. Fear.
The report from Forensicsfinally comes in. Not one relevant fingerprint. Not one fibre. Not one footprint at the scene of the crime. Nothing.
The list of calls, texts and WhatsApp messages from Cristiana Stoicescu's phone is also a letdown: texts to her flatmates, a few phone calls back home, texts and calls to and from the number Bogdan was using when we arrested him.
They append a document with a study of the symbols used in the crime. Nothing new on mandalas. The so-called expert report on symbols contains the same information I found online. The circle encasing a five-point star carved on Stoicescu's skin is called an inverted pentagram. In ancient times it was used to ward off evil. But, since then, its meaning has shifted and it now connotes Satan and Satanic ritual. The star pointing down means nature is greater than humankind. It's a heretic symbol. The star symbolizes the head of a he-goat, the profile of Pan, the mythical god. The god of male carnal desires and wild promiscuity. In medieval times, the pagan god Pan was assimilated to the Christian devil. The inverted pentagram then became the symbol of the Satanic church. The police psychologists have assigned it a clear meaning: the killer's savage desires reining over all; the absence of god; evil worship.
Furious, I get on the phone and shout at the team to fucking listen to me for once and get the reports on the Ripper and serial killer websites. I order them to include websites on the occult, devil worship, Satanism and any other crazy cults in their urgent search. And make it snappy.
At the other end of the line, they make excuses: "This is not the only case we're working on, Chief,".
I bite back a flying volley of insults and hang up, then shout at my men to come in the office. Malasana, Lopez and Martin file in.
- "We all know what might happen tonight."
No one answers back when I get that edge in my voice.
- We're supposed to carry out the raid and detain Bogdan and the Romanian girls. That's what we'll do. But only three men will go out. The smallest number possible. I want everyone else - every officer at this station - to report to me in an hour.
I look out of the window. The wholesale food
market opposite the station is slowly packing up for the day. Night falls. I fear it like a curse. All the Cinderellas are stepping out and soon it will be midnight.
- Malasana and I will take a car and patrol the streets, in permanent contact with the other teams. You'll take a different car and patrol Garrucha and Mojacar.
- What about the Baria beaches? Interrupts Martin.
- Whoever's closest will have to get over there as fast as possible if the need arises. It should be the team we assign to that area. Here's what we'll do: our killer can't strike wthout a woman to kill. We know he kidnaps them not long before killing them. So we'll have teams posted wherever the prostitutes are.
- "We don't have enough officers," complains Malasana.
- They'll go out on their own. One by one. Out to the industrial estate, the beaches, the housing estates, at the Mojacar road out to Sopalmo. Have everywhere covered. One officer in every location keeping watch. Discreetly, mind. Taking notes on every number plate that stops to talk to the girls even if they're just asking for the time. Even if they're just saying hello. I want everyone linked up. At the first sign of anything suspicious...
- Why didn't we start earlier? Asks Lopez.
- Because he won't kill her until four AM. And he'll make sure the body can't be found until six.
- Why?
- So it's more like the original crime.
- "I don't get this at all," says Lopez.
- He'll be expecting us. Time to go. Leave no stone unturned, as they say. Send teams out to Barrio Alto, Albaicin, the Cemetery district. If it's a copycat crime he'll be looking for narrow alleyways to strike.
I read the tension in their faces. I have to give them some hope despite the fact that I myself feel hopeless.
- Kidnapping a woman is no mean feat. He'll have to keep her still, immobilize her. Then kill her. He could make a mistake. He got very lucky the first time round.
The Ripper Page 9