The Ripper

by Carmelo Anaya

  We leave the station and get into the car. When I turn towards the beach, Malasana protests.

  - 'We're going to get Peter Winston first,' I explain.

  - 'I didn't realise you were too shy to talk to the big guys,' he says sarcastically.

  - 'Let's get the easy stuff out of the way. If he hasn't got what we need, we'll move on.'

  He keeps quiet, though I know he's itching to get his hands on Lapuerta. And I won't let him down.

  - 'Winston is the go-between. He must have something juicy for us.'

  We glide into the Baria Beach area in complete darkness. Someone's broken the lampposts along the boulevard. In the two-storey block of flats where Peter Winston lives, not one light is on.

  - 'This guy is on his own in the winter,' says Malasana.

  I roll down the window and feel the cool breeze blow through the Golf. It smells of rotton algae and dirty seawater. The waves are dredging up the groundswell. We park and jog up the outside staircase that leads to Peter Winston's door. A foul-smelling wind blows. We pound on the door, but there's no answer.

  - Too early to be home. Peter Winston's a busy man.

  - 'Now what am I supposed to do with this?' He pulls a small baggie out of his pocket.

  - 'Put it away.'

  From the first floor, we can see the lights of one of the strip bars in the red light district.

  We're in luck. Peter Winston is sitting at the corner of the bar, chatting to a waitress with dark, weatherbeaten skin. We're immediately grateful not to be here in summer when she'd most certainly be in her birthday suit.

  We savour the look of alarm on Winston's face. He is not happy to see us. He makes to get off his stool, where he's perched like a plump Rubenesque beauty on a plinth .

  We surround him and shoot the woman a look that says, 'Piss off.' She doesn't need telling twice. She moves along to the other side of the bar and turns up the volume on the TV, giving the place a cold, lonely air.

  - 'I've already said everything I have to say,' opens Winston defensively.

  - 'And who says we're looking for something, Peter?' 'We just want to have a drink with you. Go on, buy us a round.'

  - 'Like fuck you do.'

  - 'Not Scottish, are you? Deep pockets, short arms, all that.'

  - 'I'm English.'

  - 'Like Jack the Ripper,' remarks Malasana jovially.

  - 'Look at that. We hadn't thought of that, had we? But if we need a suspect, who better?'

  - 'Come on. This is unbelievable,' laughs Winston.

  - 'You think? If a knife and, who knows, a few of the victims' possessions turn up. And an experienced police officer puts together a nice thorough report.'

  - 'I've got an alibi.'

  - 'Come on!,' mimics Malasana. 'What alibi? With one of your little friends from your nighttime escapades?'

  - 'Right. Enough of the games. What do you want?'

  - 'If you lie, you know how it goes. My friend gets out his little baggie and you come with us.'

  - 'I've got witnesses today.'

  - 'How much are you willing to bet they wouldn't lift a finger to help?'

  Peter Winston thinks. He bites his lips, still dry and scabby-looking despite the beer. Dirty-looking. Like his yellow teeth. With his ratty face and dishevelled air, you could stick him on a street corner and everyone would think he was a beggar. He smells of sweat.

  - 'Who's the guy in the leather mask and loincloth?'

  He's taken aback. We know so much so soon. But he accepts it.

  - 'I know he's from round here. I've spoken to him a few times, before the parties. They call him Robot. Robot this, Robot that. It's what Vicente calls him. And the others too. But I don't know his real name or where he lives. Honestly. I swear.'

  - 'Where is her?'

  - 'How should I know?'

  - 'Tell us about the party, Peter. You know the one.'

  - 'What party?' 'I told you...'

  - 'We're waiting.' Malasana pushes him and he falls back against my chest.

  Touching him repulses me, so I push him back towards Malasana, who takes the oppornity to sucker punch him in the side. He lets out a long, ragged moan as if the pain only hit him slowly. His face twists and screws up with pain. He's a lump of sweaty, wrinkled flesh. The woman remains calm at the other end of the bar, barely looking in our direction before turning back to the TV screen. They're showing a BBC programme that looks hilarious. Voices and laughter fill the bar.

  - 'Peter, please. We want to get along. Everyone knows that we know. Everyone knows that everyone talks to us. You've got nothing to be afraid of. And if you don't give us something new, we'll just have to go and pay your friend Lapuerta a visit and tell him that everything we already know, you told us. So it's all the same. You'll be fucked, with no business.'

  He sighs, clutches at his left side and stares daggers at Malasana, who's as cool as a cucumber. Beads of sweat pool on Winston's forehead. He takes a deep breath and then extracts a cigarette from the packet on the bar.

  - 'Fine. But don't tell them I told you. If...'

  - 'Yeah, we know. No commission for you if word gets out. No sweat, Peter.'

  He lights up and since he doesn't offer me one I take one myself. A Lark, it's been years since I smoked one. From the other end, the waitress looks round and watches us smoke. I stare back and she turns around, not before making a moue of scorn that I have to admire.

  - 'They didn't let me attend that party. I got them a special girl, from the Romanian.'

  - 'How did you get in touch with him?'

  - 'Through Bogdan. The other guy, the big boss, I never met him.'

  - 'How much?'

  - 'Six grand for four hours.'

  - 'Why did the boss drive her there instead of Bogdan?'

  - 'Because if he hadn't been there she wouldn't have done it. It was too hard. They did all kinds of shit to here. Barely stopped short of killing her.'

  - 'What was the girl like?'

  - 'Pretty. Young. I dunno...'

  I reach into my inside jacket pocket. I feel shame when I show him the photograph of Cristiana Stoicescu's face in death, as if I were tainting her memory, as if by having Winston look at it I'm making it obscene, shameful. The photograph I look at silently, hidden away, punishing myself for not bringing her killer to justice.

  - 'Her?'

  He barely looks at it. He knew it was her.

  - 'I think so.'

  He confirms what Radu said.

  - 'Who was at the party?'

  - 'I don't know. They didn't let me go. I told you. My job was to find the best girl possible. I told Bogdan. He showed me the girl. I said yes. But apparently she wasn't up for it. That's why her boss went, probably. Maybe they drugged her.'

  - 'Who was there?'

  We're talking in low voices, almost whispering, so the waitress doesn't hear us.

  - 'She doesn't speak Spanish,' says Winston, to reassure us.

  - 'Who was there, Peter?'

  - 'Vicente, for sure. I'm not sure about the others. I swear.'

  - 'You swear too much.'

  - 'It's the truth. I'm not having you on. I don't want...'

  Malasana hits him on the shoulder, hard.

  - 'Focus. How did they get in touch if you weren't the middleman?'

  - 'I told Bogdan they'd phone him to take them out to the farmhouse.'

  - 'What do you know about that party?'

  - 'Nothing. Not one word. 'The guys talk about the other parties, but not this one.'

  - 'We need more information, Peter. We'll owe you one,' lies Malasana.

  - 'Who wants favours from your lot?'

  Malasana slaps him sharply on the back of the neck.

  - 'Never know when you might need a friend. Even in Hell.'

  I park opposite Baria City Blues. The sky presses down on us. heavy and dark, as if the Apocalypse were upon us
. It smells of storms. Of a furious sky. Of gusts of wind. But in spite of all that, it's still warm in this corner of the South.

  Mike crosses the bar like a shadow and vanishes into a corner. His graceful steps, light but not slow, make him look like he's levitating. We sit down at our usual table.

  - 'What's this?' I ask when he emerges from the corner and approaches.

  - 'Sarah Vaughan.'

  - She has a sad, trailing voice. A good match for me.

  - 'Something to eat?'

  We nod and a moment later Mike brings us a few nibbles and a cheeseboard with ice-cold beers.

  Malasana throws himself on the food. I've seen lots of men eat, but I would never have imagined a man with such a small build could put away so much. His metabolism is the envy of every fat person in the universe. I've barely been able to eat for weeks.

  - 'Mr Carrillo!'

  Inspector Galan is watching us, sipping on a beer. She was the person hidden in the dark corner. We invite her to come over and sit with us.

  - 'I knew this was your refuge,' she says.

  She also knows I'm not going to assume this is a coincidence.

  - 'Who told you?'

  - 'Lopez. But don't be angry with him.'

  - 'Why would I be?'

  - 'They say you're a loner. You only come here with your officers. No one else.'

  - 'I never go anywhere with anyone else.'

  - 'So you're devoted to your work.'

  - 'I'm not. I just don't have anyone to go with.'

  Without meaning to, I lift my eyes and they meet hers. She doesn't look away. 'Me neither.' Her face is softly illuminated, glowing prettily in the half-light. She's not an attractive woman, but there's an easy grace about her.

  - 'Are you hungry? Dig in.'

  - 'Thanks.'

  She picks up a piece of cheese and nibbles on it. Then takes a sip of her beer.

  - 'Where are your colleagues?

  - At the hotel. I suppose.'

  - 'Shouldn't you be with them?'

  - 'Not all the time.'

  We drink slowly. Time seems to stop. Mike watches us from the bar and when I meet his eyes I think I see a glint of mischief in his eyes.

  - 'What did you think of our chamber of horrors?' asks Malasana.

  - 'The Inspector is off work.'

  - 'We're always working. Like you.' 'I don't know where you were today, but I know you were doing something.'

  - 'Unrelated to the case.

  - I also know that you've barely slept or eaten since all this began.'

  - 'I have a hard time relaxing.'

  Malasana goes off to the bar, mumbling something about ordering a beer. He stays there with Mike.

  Galan chews slowly. Thoughtfully. Every once in a while she looks up at me, watching her, and smiles just with her eyes smizing. Her faint laugh lines crinkle up as she smiles, but her eyes shine with warmth.

  - 'Sometimes evil crosses a line and becomes incomprehensible,' she says.

  I remember Mike saying something similar. I don't know what to say in response.

  - I know that if I voiced that somewhere else I could lose my job. What's someone who owns up to being incapable of understanding evil doing trying to delve deeper into it to find the culprit? 'But, really...'

  Tiredness flickers across her face.

  - 'I think there are things I'll never understand.

  - There are things we can never make sense of.'

  - 'I'd like to go over some of the details of the case with you.'

  - 'We can have a briefing with your colleagues tomorrow.'

  - 'No, that'll be a different meeting. You're the only person he's been sending messages to. I'd like you to tell me what you think, even if you believe some of the ideas that have crossed your mind are ridiculous and don't belong in a work meeting.'

  - 'I don't know if I'm ready for that. I've included my viewpoint in the reports. Even the most recent theories.' 'From what I've seen it looks like you've been working on reconstructing the killer's route, as far as possible.

  - But I'm not talking about strategy or theories. I'm talking about something deeper. Something... almost spiritual.'

  I try to smile at her assumptions.

  - 'There's no spiritual connection between that son of a bitch and me.'

  - 'You're wrong. There is one, though it pains you. He knows you. You're important to him. For some reason he's chosen you to play in his game.'

  - 'Because I'm the Chief Inspector. He needs an Abberline.'

  - 'Maybe. But I don't think so. Just look at how he talks to you. He should call you boss, as the original Ripper did, but he calls you Chief, like your officers.'

  - 'Actually, no one on my team calls me Chief. They all call me boss.'

  She doesn't say anything for a while, then points to the bar.

  - 'Friend of yours?'

  - 'Who?'

  - 'The waiter.'

  - 'He's not a waiter.'

  - 'So what is he then?'

  - 'A mysterious character who hides away in a basement with his music,' I say jokingly.

  - 'Funny,' says Galan, turning to look at him.

  Mike and Malasana are talking, two calm, dark figures, like two old friends who know each other inside out. I'm envious of the tableau. I'd like to feel the way they look. But I feel vulnerable, clumsy, scared and angry, because what Inspector Galan has put into words is something I already knew, sensing it with the intuition God gave me to torment me, that tells me evil is brewing.

  Yesterday I slit open a whore.

  I'll be tender with today's prize.

  What a sublime contrast!

  Tee hee.

  What a terrible wait!

  Lucky I could amuse myself far from home

  But it wasn't a full job. The whore didn't deserve that.

  It's a crying shame!

  Mmmm mmmmm mmmmm

  12

  I find Malasana huddled in a doorway, taking shelter from a driving rain that seems to want to destroy everything. Not long before we start building our ark, like Noah. I've seen a few of these rainstorms since I came to this barren, yellow strip of the country. Every two or three years the same phenomenon repeats itself: a cold front moves in, mixing with the still-warm Indian summer air and unleashing torrential rains. All of the Levante seems to be awash in seawater when the rains beat down violently, flooding the streets and sweeping away dead trees and other objects. When I cross the motorway from Garrucha to Baria, the ravine below the crossbridge is almost overflowing, looking like its about to swallow the bridge into the deep. Only a madman like myself is able to cross it as coolly as ever. The drivers sensible enough to stop at the bridge honk furiously, turning around to find a route with no valleys or floods. The car wheels spin in the mud the bubbling waters of the ravine have left on the bridge road. I manage to make my way across only to come to a road awash in water. The surrounding fields, usually so vast and open, look tiny, hunched under a grey sky so dark and close-looking it feels as though it could reach down and touch the earth.

  Malasana bolts into the car, bumping into me in his race to escape the rain.

  - 'Bloody hell!' he complains. 'This is going to muck up out day.'

  - 'No way.'

  He takes off his raincoat. His head is soaked in rain and sweat.

  - 'Bloody Day of Judgment rain and humid enough to choke you. I don't get it. It's mad.'

  - 'That's the way it is here.'

  I've picked him up on the city outskirts outside the blocky building where he lives. I peer out of the windshield and make out Natalia's block of flats a few streets away, Today more than ever it resembles an ocean liner thrashed by the waves and wind. I feel a desolate nostalgia.

  - 'So did you take the inspector home, boss?'

  - 'I dropped her off at her hotel.'

  He laughs.

  - 'I had a fe
eling you wouln't take her home.'

  - 'Why not?'

  - 'Never seen you do it.'

  - 'I've never done it.'

  - 'You're not that ugly.'

  - 'That's what you think.' The usual.

  He laughs again. I don't think it's so funny.

  The windshield wipers can't cope with the rain and we can barely see a foot in front of us. The car wobbles every now and again when it hits a patch of road where the gutter isn't enough to swallow the fast-flowing water. Every few yards we spray up sheets of water like a geyser. The car sways, skids. Then, by some miracle, straightens up again, more out of sheer luck than any skills on my part.

  - 'This'll be the death of us, boss.'

  - 'Then no one will know we're incapable of catching our son of a bitch killer.' 'Every cloud has a silver lining.'

  - I don't want to die before I have the satisfaction of catching him.

  I cross the city, which trembles in the storm.

  - 'Aren't we going to the chemist's?' asks Malasana.

  - 'I think he'll be out on the coast, in the para-pharmacy. Apparently he's almost always out there.'

  - 'Then where are you going?' 'If we go this way Alfareria Avenue may be flooded. If we go through the housing estates we'll get to the coast.'

  We leave the city and cruise through ghostly, unfinshed streets, filled with potholes. Bumping and rattling over them, the Golf groans like a beast being whipped. In the absence of asphalt, to make things look official and cheat the local government, which was delighted to oblige, someone had these streets paved with cement instead. They knew there weren't going to be many people walking them, either way. Empty lots line the street on either side, stretching into nothing. A city government that was going to built thousands of houses for God knows who, now shown up in its futile attempts, so ridiculously so that no one wants to admit to the failure because everyone's had a hand in it.