Jose Luis raises a hand and takes a step back, scaring himself. Sometimes we go too far and I read the intent in his eyes. If it weren't for my badge he would already have slammed me against the wall. Then he would have treated me to lunch, something he never does.
- 'Make yourself useful and get me a beer, would you? At least you can handle that,' – I turn and look mockingly at the domino players, but no one's laughing now.
They know Jose Luis and they can see he's genuinely angry.
- 'Would be good to see a few of them with the badges gone,' insists Jose Luis as he pulls a pint and sets a glass full to the brim with beer and foam in front of me, so delicately it splashes on my shirt.
The darkest, coldest beer in the city. It tastes divine.
- 'No tapa?'
- 'Tapa? Tapa? Who are you to order a tapa? If you're hungry, you can order something and pay for it.'
- 'Then let's go through to the living room.'
Jose Luis opens a door next to the bar. Before going in, he says sharply:
- 'What, is that piece of shit going to leave the city whoreless? What's the force doing about it?'
- 'Working, unlike some others I could mention.'
The living room is really a cellar, tucked away under the back street, with two cheap wooden tables and an old bullfighting poster featuring Manolete.
I sit down at one of the tables and sit a while, hearing how Jose Luis slags off the police to his patrons, who laugh silently, afraid I'll overhear.
A while later Jose Luis comes in with a plate of fried fish he'll no doubt have tasted as well and one of squid in tomato and garlic sauce, which for some mysterious reason the big brute makes better than anyone.
- 'What, no work for me?'
- 'If I knew who the bastard was, you'd have work coming out of your eyeballs... an in-depth approach to the problem, as it were.'
- 'In-depth, eh? Six feet under?'
- 'Exactly.'
Now he's finished his little show, Jose Luis draws his face together in an expression of pity, his large features wide-set and his skin weatherbeaten. His eyes are small and keen, deepset above a broad, flat nose, a reminder of times past. His black buzzcut gives him the ferocious look of a troublemaker, but when he's moved, as he says, he melts like an old lady with her grandchildren.
- 'What he's doing...' he starts. 'I'd like to take care of him.
- That bastard had better pray I find proof, because if I find out who he is and there's no evidence, I'll put an end to his career anyway I like.'
- 'No clue who it is?'
- 'Not a fucking clue. What do you think?'
I dig in as Jose Luis picks up a chair with his giant paw and places it across the table from me.
- 'Not a clue.
- He's from here.' 'You know everyone. Especially the worst lowlifes. Anyone come to mind?'
He racks his brains again, but shakes his head sadly.
- 'How do you know he's from round here?'
- 'He knows the area like the back of his hand.'
- That's not much to go on. Baria's tiny. You could say that about anyone.'
- 'He has places to hide in, places to hide a van in. Very likely he keeps the women there for a long time before the time comes.'
- 'Is it true he does the same thing as that... Jack the Ripper?'
- 'Down to the last detail. Cut by cut.'
- 'Son of a bitch!'
Joe Luis slams his fist into his thigh.
- 'I know a few thugs, thieves, troublemakers, wheelers and dealers...'
- 'Any weirdoes, weird sexual proclivities? Anyone you've run into like that?'
- He shrugs. 'In this scene people steal or cheat but they fuck the usual way. All that pervert, fetish stuff is for other kinds of people. Fuck this, I don't have a bloody clue, Chief!'
- 'Have a think, either way.'
He gets up, tucks his chair in and stands there thinking for a few moments, watching me eat, but his mind is elsewhere because he stares right through me and he's zoned out, somewhere far off.
- 'What about...'
I freeze, fork midway to my mouth. When Jose Luis is focused on the underbelly of the city you pay attention to his expert opinion.
- 'That English guy?'
- 'What?'
- 'Jack the Ripper was English, wasn't he?'
I nod.
- 'Your friend, the Englishman,' he manages to spit out at last. 'He's a funny fish, you can't deny it. He even gives me the jitters.'
- 'Mike? Baria City Blues Mike?'
- 'Yeah. Him. I've seen him in action and he's cold as ice. Remember when he nearly slit that guy's throat?'
I freeze. He can't think it's Mike.
- He's English. Knows Baria better than anyone. 'He's a very strange man. Used to be a (maton) or something like that. And his relations with women... Well. He has none. Doesn't that seem strange to you?'
- 'Fuck you! And bring me more squid, would you?'
Jose Luis suspecting Mike makes my blood boil. When I walk into the station I see three officers attempting to hide something written on a blackboard.
- 'How are those bets coming along?'
They shrug, too scared to say, but I stare them down and they break down.
- 'Ten to one.'
- 'That I don't find him, is that right?'
It's not the first time people have betted against me. My own men. Last time I lost them a lot of money. Fuck them.
Lopez accosts me. Word has got out that the DNA on the fag-end is mine. The worst humiliation I can think of. Photos of the body of Diana Carolina Mieles have also been posted online.
Lopez says he wants to look into the leaks.
- 'Don't waste your time. We know who did it.'
- 'What?'
- 'Someone on the force, for the old market photos. Someone from the Institute of Legal Medicine, for the autopsy photos. And the hospital team for the DNA. Didn't we say we wanted the results back quickly? Well now everyone's got an advance preview.'
- 'And we're not going to do anything?'
- 'What did you bet?'
He doesn't bat an eyelid.
- 'Odds on you. '
- 'You sure? I won't take offence.'
- 'Don't you offend me. You know I'm the only one who betted on you last time.'
'That's true.' He was on the only one who bet on me when no one believed I would be able to break up a fledgling terrorist ring in Baria. I've never asked him how much he won.
I flick through the latest reports that have come in: nothing in the forums or on the websites on Jack the Ripper and other serial killers.
Martin emails me saying he's started investigating the dogs whose throats had been cut again. I have an idea and tell him to check for any pigs purchased in a two hundred kilometre radius. Small pigs, just a few purchased at a time.
- 'Boss!' exclaims Lopez when he reads what I'm typing.
- 'Why not? He would have had to localise the dogs and snatch them, he ran the risk of being seen. If he had a few small pigs he could practise in the comfort of his own home.'
Lopez don't argue back, though I can see he still thinks it's a witticism.I order him to take the new reports I've just printed out down to the basement.
Sebastian Rodriguez has left me a message telling me to attend a conference tomorrow at the New Destiny HQ. There'll be someone there to help with the occult symbols.
The phone rings. The - Chief Superintendent is on the line and he's got complains from the COU. I havent been cooperating, I'm not pulling my weight, COU need full cooperation with no resistence, and much more following the DNA leak which has shown us all up. I ask him outright whether he wants me to leave the investigation team. He doesn't go so far as to say so and that calms me down somewhar. Then I say casually that our director may also be sending in a team of serial killer experts.
- 'Do we have experts in this field?' I ask curtly.
- 'You'll follow the orders you're given for once, chief! He shouts and slams the phone down.
Lopez looks at me, speechless.
- 'Bad news, right boss?'
- 'Could it have been good?'
The car radio won't leave me alone either. El delirio de los peridistas. I feel humiliated by their words when the DNA on the cigarette butt found on the body comes up. I change stations and stumble upon our honourable town mayor, who is convinced that soon this nightmare will be over, and that every body and force in the national security forces and local police are working together. In addition, a group of experts has recently been sent in and he can say with confidence that the criminal will soon be brought in.
There follows an interview with the leader of the opposition who, (come no podia ser de otro modo), and after reaffirming his trust in the state security forces, arremete con the municipal police, who limited the powers of the local police in the last elections. Another politician from a minor party speaks up, saying the crimes are merely the product of our misogynistic society which pushes a few lost people to commit random brutal acts.
I turn off the radio and park the car on the pavement.
Since Jose Luis mentioned it it's been on a loop in my mind, a recurring nightmare I can't push away: Mike! Mike! Mike!
He's standing at the far end of the bar, still as a photograph. Mike reading or looking up music on his PC at the end of the wooden bar.
- He studies me. 'I bet you haven't eaten.'
- 'I have today, actually.'
I sit in my usual seat, leave my wallet and gun on the table. I light up and sigh.
- I look round the empty bar. 'Rushed off your feet, I see.'
- 'You know I love my solitude.'
- 'Isn't there anything you miss? Company? A partner?'
A strange look flits across his features. Everyone thinks we're friends because I spend so much time here. But to me this place is something of a refuge. And we never get personal. The rumours about him - more interesting than any true tale - are enough for me, and I try to preserve the mystery around his past like a barrier against truths that might create unnecessary distance. The two Madrid idiots already warned me, throwing my supposed friendship with Michael Rigby in my face. We don't even know if that's his real name. And I'll always be grateful for his quiet tact, by my side, when my wife died and I was suddenly more alone that I ever imagined I'd be.
- 'There's always something you miss,' he says.
- 'I didn't think you ever felt nostalgic.'
He smiles sadly, his small freckled face slightly wrinkled with age - though how old he is I don't know.
- 'For a man like me, all that's left is waiting.'
- 'I don't think so.'
- 'What about you?' he shoots back.
I shrug.
- 'I'm not ready. But even so, I have someone.'
- 'And who said I don't?'
His question leaves me speechless. Of course. Why wouldn't he? When it comes down to it, I know nothing about his life outside Baria City Blues.
- 'I love being alone like this. Hear that?'
In the background, strains of slow music steal through the room, moving like an underground stream flowing into your veins. A soft melody, sweet but not saccharine. A firm, manly voice that could stay with you til the end without your ever tiring of it.
- 'Willie Dixon.'
I shake my head.
- 'Just listen.'
Neither of us says anything for a while and I take in the music. It seeps into my bones like slow rain soaking through your clothes. It pulls me into another dimension, infinitely placid, almost enough to help me completely unwind, when Mike interrupts, jerking me back to reality:
- 'I heard they've sent in a COU team. And bands of citizens are patrolling the streets at night. Our friend Jack must be having a good laugh to himself in his hidey-hole. Just like in 1888. Whitechapel residents organised street patrols. They were useless, for obvious reasons. 'I suppose you'll have to send a little letter to whoever had the bright idea of starting those patrols.'
I shrug.
- 'Maybe it'll make things more difficult for him if they're out on the streets.
- He'll do his killing elsewhere.' 'Killers like this don't give up because a few naive wannabe police officers feel like playing the hero. Plus he'll want to outdo his master. And in order to so he's got to take risks. This isn't Whitechapel. If he can't kill in one spot, he'll find another one. Just like the original Ripper did. He killed Elizabeth Stride and since he was seemingly interrupted and he had to flee without disemboweling her, he ran off and murdered Catherine Eddows in the City, outside of Whitechapel.'
I take a gulp of my G&T. I savour the slight taste of lemon and can't help clicking my tongue rudely.
- 'What do you think?'
- 'About Jack?'
- 'About the new Jack. Our Ripper. The original one isn't my case.'
I sum up the profile the COU team put together. Mike thinks for a few moments, but in the end he just shrugs.
- 'There might be a few similarities. But there's no real comparison because the first Jack was never caught and no one ever found out who it might have been.
- Who do you think it might have been, out of the suspects back then?
- There's no way of knowing.'
Mike gets up. He moves over to the bar and pours two more stiff drinks.
- 'I don't think he's the kind of guy who keeps a low profile.' He comes over with the G&Ts.
- 'Why?'
- 'He's too... what's the word in Spanish again? Brave?'
- 'Don't think that's it.' Rash?
- Yes. That's the word. I think he's...' Despite that thick foreign accent, his Spanish isn't bad, and the word comes to him. 'Arrogant?'
- 'Yeah. I thought that too. But someone arrogant can fake humility in front of other people even if they have an ego the size of a bus.'
- 'Maybe. I'm not a criminal expert.
- It's been suggested that he might be British.'
He stares at me, a quizzical look on his face.
- 'Because the original Ripper was? We don't even know that. One of the main suspects was Polish.'
- 'Someone suggested you might fit the profile .'
- 'And who says I'm British?'
I gape.
- 'I could be Canadian, American, Australian, South African or Kiwi, don't you think?'
- I always assumed.
Mike takes a long sip without taking his eyes from my face.
- 'Who suggested that? The police?'
- 'What does it matter? Everyone's intimidated by you.'
He sets his glass carefully down on the table.
- 'What about you?'
- 'Should I be?'
He looks at the gun on the table and guffaws. His teeth are even and very white, startingly so against his black shirt.
- 'There's no motive.'
- 'La ignorancia alienta la imaginacion,' I say, defending myself.
- 'I know. Let them imagine things, then.' He lights up and offers me a cigarette too.
We smoke in silence for a while. Then:
- 'Yes. It's logical they would think of me,' he admits. 'If your colleagues are looking for someone capable of doing something like this,' he nods several times, thoughtfully, 'I'm a likely suspect.'
He chuckles quietly, a sinister chuckle, staring into my eyes.
My conversation with Mike has left a bad taste in my mouth. I had too much to drink. Thinking, imagining. Yes. Mike would make a likely suspect. The ideal suspect. He was mysterious, enjoying himself, like the whole thing was a joke to him.
The murderer could be someone like him, capable and cold enough to kill in front of a crowd or a police station and leave the scene quietly and carefully, no trace left behind.
These thoughts running through my mind, I drive home and park in the sand on the beach. The best thing about not having a home of your own is that you can move lots of times without ever feeling nostalgic. But though I don't own it, this house, with its flat roof and insultingly blue shutters, has me where it hurts most - my heart. This is where I spent my last few weeks with my wife. This is where it ended for her, so close to the sea she loved so much. I enter the house, shrouded in total darkness. I hear the neighbours talking late into the night. So I put on my trunks, pad across the sand and walk slowly into the waiting sea. I close my eyes and let the soft, enveloping waves rock me. For a moment I believe that all my frustration, the nightmares, playing in an endless loop, don't exist, that they're just the product of a mad flight of my imagination. I swim a few strokes as my drunkenness ebbs and feel a sense of peace akin to that of a foetus in the womb. It's a long time before I finally emerge from the water. I take a long time drying off, water dripping off me right up to the front door.
I wake up to the sound of my phone trilling. The COU team has arrested Geoffrey Hunt. They've confirmed that his alibi is false and are interrogating him.
The Chief Superintendent gives me a lovely awakening with questions like how could I let the murderer escape after I'd already caught him? How could I not check his alibi properly?
I curse myself for it.
I shoot out of the front door and drive foot flat to the floor to the Guardia Civil station. The street is lined with onlookers and journos sniffing out the news. I make my way through the human tide. A few people recognise me and shout praise for the COU team.
They stop me from going in to the interrogation. An officer opens the door to slip out and I catch a glimpse of a downcast Hunt, head in his heads, with El Dandy next to him, worry etched on his face. I hear Lieutenant Ferrer's voice.
The Ripper Page 15