Everyone quiets down, surprised at Galan's sudden remark. Especially Diaz, who shoots her a reproachful look for getting involved in a political issue.
- 'So should we sit back and let him commit ten, twelve murders, before we arrest him?' protests the mayor, his tone more high-pitched with every word and his irritation plain.
- 'What the inspector means is that a serial killer doesn't target people in their social circles or anyone else they have ties to. And he plans his crimes extremely thoroughly, making him very difficult to identfy,' I try to explain.
- 'We can't wait! You've got to do something! And stop these orgy scandals! They're just getting everyone worked up! Yesterday an upstanding citizen of Baria was insulted in the street.'
I can guess who he means.
- 'These men can't be linked to the crimes. That's horrible.' Finally, the real reason the mayor is here.
- 'Those men drugged and abused women and recorded it on videotape,' I correct him, staring him in the eye. 'Yes.' 'So the killer may indeed be one of the naked, masked men in those pathetic videos.'
- 'The women were professionals, Chief Inspector. They knew what they were doing and they were paid for it!' he shouts.
The veins in his temples throb.
I'm bored of him already. His screechy voice is like a drill boring into my skull. I let my focus drift to the sounds coming in from the window: kids on their bikes, playing, cars honking, people talking. Dusk slowly settles on the city.
He must notice, because he raises his voice.
- 'You're wasting your time on a bunch of OAPs and neglecting your priorities.' He wags a finger at me.
I stare at his finger and the government representative steps in when he realises I'm about to blow a fuse.
- 'I'm certain the Chief Inspector has in no way neglected the inquiry. The two issues are linked, isn't that it?'
I nod, not taking my eyes off the mayor's chubby, repugnant little finger.
- 'I'm sure all the security forces are following up any leads.'
- 'You can be sure of that (no le quepa la menor duda,)' says Galan.
The mayor takes a deep breath and continues to stare at me as he says:
- 'If I'm not mistaken, the killer has one crime left if he continues to imitate Jack the Ripper. In the next month.'
We don't say anything.
- 'I certainly hope that gives you time to catch him.'
A while later someone pops their head in to tell me COU has arrested Geoffrey Hunt yet again, as he's failed explain why he avoided the task force on the 30th. And he has no alibi.
Then the reports come in from the lab. The DNA from the fag-end in the ashtray has been identified, but there are no matches in the database.
Then I get a call from Lila. He says our man's been out to where the first woman was killed and then Hotel Caravan. He spent the whole day in the two location. When I go to hang up he says he lost track of him last night.
- 'What time?'
- 'Around ten P.M.'
- 'How did you lose track of him, where?'
- 'He was having dinner at a restaurant on the beach. Alone. And he left through a different door. I didn't see him.'
I don't say anything for a minute, gathering my thoughts.
- 'What about the day before yesterday?'
- 'We followed him back to his hotel at ten.'
He could have been in Murcia in under an hour. And he'd have had all night to kidnap those women. But no one's seen him with a van. Though it's so easy to hide so many things...
On my desk are the victim reports.
Naima Medari, five foot three, from Meknes, Morocco. Age twenty-four. She was a sex worker in the Murcia area. The report includes her pimp's details. The Murcia police are questioning him. There's a list of the locations in the outskirts of Baria where she usually went to look for clients and where she may have been kidnapped. She's the Devil's Mark victim.
Sandra Okeke, five foot two, from Minna, Nigeria. Age twenty-eight. She also used to ply her trade in the outskirts of Baria, in old farmhouses in the fields. They're also questioning her pimp. She's the Hotel Caravan victim.
I'm informed that Robot is leaving.
He made a statement before the judge. He's innocent of any crime except being tied up in the orgy film mess.
I want him free. I need him far from the cells.
I watch him make his way down the stairs to the lobby, El Dandy next to him. He waves at me.
Behind him is the nutter who was proclaiming the Apocalypse in front of the old market. He's with a tall, gaunt-looking man who stares back at me.
- 'The psychiatrist,' says Garcia when I ask. 'He's completely mad. Did you hear what he said?'
I don't reply. Instead, I jog down to the chamber of horrors.
Mary Ann Nichols - Cristiana Stoicescu
Annie Chapman - Diana Carolina Mieles
Elizabeth Stride - Naima Medari
Catherine Eddows - Sandra Okeke
Mary Kelly - ?
I contemplate out altar of Evil and Horror.
And pray in silence. A prayer of grief, rancour, rage, hatred and revenge.
My phone buzzes with a WhatsApp message. I know who it is.
Do you like how I take out the rubbish, Chief? Tee hee.
Inspector Galan insists and we can't refuse.
Baria City Blues welcomes us with open arms.
- 'Muddy Waters.' She recognises it at once.
We sit down at our usual table. Mike greets her politely, his warm smile spreading over his freckled face, blushing like a schoolboy though he's nearing forty. I've heard this music at Baria City Blues before, though it's unusually upbeat for Mike. I sense some glad happening in his life that I don't know about. He nods his head slightly, looking regal.
- 'Welcome back,' he says, in English.
- 'Thank you,' she responds, also in English.
I immediately envy their suspected intimacy. People have criticised my friendship with Mike but now I wonder if what's between us is really friendly. Either way, now it's time for hours of friendly silence and music at the bar. Slowly sipping our G&Ts without talking much. Neither of us go in for heartfelt confiding. No doubt that's what our long friendship is built on. When you know about other people's insecurities, you hurt them, even without meaning to.
Mike serves us a platter of sandwiches, but this time he's taken more care with the presentation, like a true English butler.
- 'Michael Rigby,' she says when he bends to serve her.
- 'That's what they call me.'
- 'The mysterious man in black.'
- 'Dressed in black, maybe, mysterious, not at all,' and he spreads his arms, showing off the bar. 'This is it.'
- 'But that hasn't always been the case, has it?'
Inspector Galan's smile is so honest and warm that it prevents all reticence. Not even from Mike, in spite of how protective he usually is of his privacy.
After serving us, he sits down at our table.
- 'It's been a hard day,' he says.
We don't need to nod. He knows it. He's seen it. He sees it on our grey faces.
- 'I heard about his latest prank.'
None of us is surprised. We know the journos could have got a shot with their long-lens cameras. Or even the hotel guests who saw the Ripper cutout from their windows. When it was finally covered with a sheet, lots of people had already seen it. And it's been posted online.
'What do you think about all this, Mr Rigby?'
'Call me Mike, please.'
Galan corrects herself after swallowing a bite of her sandwich. She pats the corners of her mouth carefully and has a drink of beer.
- 'What do you think about all of this, Mike?'
- 'I've already told the Chief Inspector here,' he says. 'A Caucasian man, around forty.'
- 'You don't think he's younger?'
&nb
sp; - 'Too cautious to be really young. Maybe over forty. Fifty, even.'
- I'm interested in his opinion. 'Well, this is getting interesting. What else?'
- 'The inspector is a member of the Behavioural Analysis Unit,' I warn him. 'She's a psychologist and criminal expert.'
- 'He lives alone. He needs privacy to prepare for and commit the crimes. He's got enough room for his work. A place to hide a large van. A remote place, soundproofed, where no one will hear noises or screaming. He has good social standing.'
- 'What makes you say that?'
- 'He writes properly. No spelling or grammar mistakes.'
- 'How do you know?'
- 'His letter was published in the papers.'
- 'Do you think he's mad?'
- 'Not at all.' 'He's a psychopath.' 'But he's not mad. Though he may have a split personality.'
- 'That's common in people suffering from psychosis. Not in psychopths,' argues Galan.
- 'Not him. 'There have been cases of psychopaths with split personalities. Besides, he likes it. He likes being two people at once. The upstanding citizen and the monster within.'
- 'Like Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde?'
- 'That's right. But our guy isn't a liar. He's evil, but he doesn't lie.'
- 'Interesting,' says Galan, looking him in the eye. 'Very interesting. Anything else?'
- 'It will be difficult to catch him. And there will be more murders. Many more.'
- 'You don't think he'll stop at five prostitutes, like the original?'
- 'He killed a sixth woman while he was waiting, out of boredom. When he finishes with his fifth victim, he'll find another reason to go on killing.'
- 'Are you sure?'
- She's loving it.
We all know Mike is right. We all know he'll go on killing. We all know catching him will be nigh on impossible.
- 'Mr Rigby, where were you last night?' asks the inspector, the friendly grin still on her face
Mike doesn't move a muscle. He doesn't blink.
- 'My memory has limits,' he replies at last, suddenly cold and distant after a silence that stretches on for a very long time.
- 'You're not from Whitechapel, are you?' she asks with a chuckle.
- 'I'm a citizen of the world, Inspector.'
He gets up, silently clears our glasses and heads back behind the bar to mix up our second round. Malasana looks thoughful. His eyes are half-closed, as if none of this had anything to do with him.
When we leave, Galan is tipsy. She trots up to the car, waiting for me to unlock it. Malasana says bye.
- 'The walk'll do me good,' he says, by way of explanation.
He moves away through the streets, the cobbles shining with water from a cleaning lorry. I start the engine and look for the hotel Galan is staying at. But when we're nearly there, she puts her hand on mine.
- 'No. Let's go to yours, please.'
- 'I don't think I'm the best company just now.'
- 'Nor am I.'
We drive in silence, following the sinuous curves of the coast road. I leave the car on the beach, next to the dirty white side wall of my house. It could use a lick of paint .
- 'I'd like to have a swim,' says Galan, looking out at the dark, calm waters.
- 'It's freezing.'
When she gets out of the car, she's got a file in her hand. The same one she left under her seat when we had dinner at Baria City Blues.
As I open the door and step inside the house, I suddenly feel incredibly lazy. Any desire to go to bed with a woman who's practically a stranger, think up new kisses and caresses for her, drains out of me. No other woman has ever been in that bed. I've told myself a million times that it makes no sense to let the dead take up space this way, but there is some atavistic tie that stops me contemplating sex with another woman there.
I'm relieved when I see Galan take a seat on the sofa. She gets up again and changes positions, so she's facing the big picture window with the sea view.
- 'Can you turn off the light in the hall?'
I flip the switch and she slumps down with a sigh.
- 'Just leave this one on,' she asks, gesturing at a reading lamp next to her.
- 'I haven't really got anything to drink. Just beer.'
- 'I don't want anything. Come here, please.'
I go over to her and place a packet of cigarettes on the table in front of us. She asks for a cigarette and I light it for her, her fingertips on my hand. He touch is soft, gentle.
- 'Read this, please.'
She hands me the file.
- 'Don't say anything until you're finished.'
She snuggles up next to me. Such a sweet, warm gesture that for a minute I even feel I could fall in love with her. But my blood runs cold when I open the file and start reading.
Michael Thomas Templeton, born in Sussex in March 1962. Holder of a New Zealand passport stating his name as Michael Rigby. Active in the London mafia from 1988 to 1993. The authorities lost track of him for three years until he surfaced in Tel Aviv in 1996. Supposedly working in connection with the Israeli secret service. Suspected of committing nine murders, including two women. After disappearing again, he turned up in Spain in 2004, working as a bodyguard for French finance mogul Alain Perez, linked to the Marseille mafia, whose murder has yet to be solved. Since then, he's lived in Baria. His only known activity is running Baria City Blues. No other revenue or activity has been identified.
- 'What does this mean?'
- 'Finish reading.'
I leaf through the pages. Some of them have pictures of Mike outside the bar; in others, he's in his Camaro. And yet more photos of what must be his house; I recognise the Mojacar coastline in the background.
In the 'Profile' section, it is stated that Michael Thomas Templeton may be considered a suspect for the crimes committed in September in Baria at the hands of the killer who calls himself the new Jack the Ripper. His psychological profile outlines a lonely man, a troubled relationship with women, with prior crimes including femicide. He is considered to be mentally, physically ready to commit a crime, and is an exper in weapons and strategy to commit crimes with great stealth. He has not been proven guilty of any of his previous crimes, in the UK, Europe or Turkey. 'He's got the skills, he's got the opportunity and he's a professional assassin.'
- 'What sort of rubbish is this?'
I throw the file on the floor.
- 'Your friendship is blinding you. It's not rubbish, it's your friend's profile and background. He's a criminal. He always has been. And your silence is not convincing. We're sure we have to investigatehim.'
- 'There is no proof Mike has anything to do with any of this.'
- 'How do you know that? He has no alibi for last night.'
- 'Just because he didn't answer you doesn't mean he doesn't have one.'
Galan gets up, disentangling herself from me, picks up the folder and places it on the coffee table. Then she moves to the window and opens it a crack.
- 'I want to hear the waves.'
She sits down next to me and nestles under my arm again. A cool breeze sweeps in from the window. I fetch a blanket from the bedroom. We won't be sleeping in the same bed tonight.
I sit down next to her and spread the blanket over us.
- 'Turn off the light.'
Our eyes take a little while to adjust to the darkness. Bit by bit we start making out shapes in the black night outside thw window, where the waves break on the beach, quiet now after the raging storm a few days back. The waves are like music, stilling us.
- 'It's madness,' I say quietly.
- 'We've got to investigate him.'
- 'You're convinced it's him. I'm convinced Mike isn't that kind of killer. He's not crazy. He's not a psychopath.'
- 'He is. To our knowledge, he's killed nine people.'
- 'Have you got proof?'
- 'The British force knows
it, MI5 knows it and so does Interpol.'
- 'No one's been able to prove a thing.'
- 'On two ocassions, women were murdered in cities where he was at the time.'
- 'Where?'
- 'Lisbon and Ghent.'
- 'Women are murdered in cities everywhere, every day.'
My callousness offends her. She looks up at me.
- 'You can't be that cold.'
- 'I'm not.'
- 'You said it as if it were obvious. Normal.'
- 'Unfortunately, it is. But that doesn't make it any less horrible. Killing women just for being women is senseless.'
She snuggles up to me again. I feel her body warmth. It's nice. It would be sensual, in different circumstances.
- 'We've got to investigate him.'
- 'I'm not going to my waste time.'
She sighs. She closes her eyes after looking out of the window. Then gets ready to sleep. I light up. The smoke billows out and away as if rushing to escape through the crack in the window. I refuse to believe it. I don't even believe the report is right and Mike was who it says he was. I've seen his eyes too many times, at times when alcohol and silence stripped us bare, and I know he's not the man the report says he is.
I let my head drop back and the waves sink in, my mind muddy with exhaustion and frustration.
Oh, sleep! Sleep!
Cutting, slitting, slashing, ripping
Time fades away
It silently contains us
Her and I
I in her
A piece of... eternity
Her hot blood
Hot breath
Rent flesh... still warm
I would paint myself in her blood
Like a statue dressed in red
The Ripper Page 27