The Ripper

by Carmelo Anaya

  - 'What do you expect? Mr Top Hat Kidney Eater's messing it all up.'

  I take a sip of my sad gin and tonic and feel a wave of nostalgia for Mike's masterfully crafted G&Ts.

  - 'Heard the Englishman's been arrested. The one with the bar...'

  Asuncion neatly sidesteps calling him a friend of mine.

  - Cada uno hace lo que quiere. You look for Robot.'

  'Three punters for more than 15 women. It's been getting steadily worse for weeks. Si primero afectó a la calle, ahora toda la prostitución de la zona está en el punto de mira de periodistas y políticos. The absolute worst for business.'

  - 'Does it really have that much of an impact?' enquires Malasana maliciously, prying.

  - 'Do it.'

  He walks away, slipping through a door at the end of the bar. Aurora smiles at us from there, under the shelves lined with bottles glinting in the light. In the coloured lights she looks like a Christmas tree.

  - 'You want to stay?' I ask Malasana. Woman is for the recreation of the warrior, and God knows Malasana needs some recreation.

  But he doesn't have time to think it over. Lazaro Asuncion comes back out holding a slip of paper with an address written on it.

  - 'Dive bar in the Barrio Alto. Thugs, junkies, scum. Anarchists, all that shit. That's where he gets his junk.'

  On our drive to Barrio Alto we phone Jose Luis and he joins us, saying it'll be a laugh. The bar is called Mala Hierba (Weeds).

  We park the car next to Jose Luis's bar.

  - 'My patrons have been in bed for two hours. What kind of a time is this?' he asks when we get out of the car.

  - 'You haven't got a patron under the age of seventy.'

  - 'Nothing could be further from the truth. I'll have you know I've just had a table of students in and a group of university professors. My patrons are educated, that's why you're not a regular.'My bar is for cultured, learned people, that's why you're never here.'

  He leads us on foot through winding, impossibly hilly alleyways whose sides you can practically touch just by stretching out your arms. Everything is pluned in darkness. I'm out of breath in less than two minutes. 'Out of puff, Commissioner.

  - Maybe you should give up smoking. You sound like an old lady enjoying her last ever roll in the hay,' says Jose Luis.

  - 'This isn't the best time to give it up,' I retort.

  - Still with that? – and he laughs.- Of ocurse, what can anyone expect from the cops? He, he

  - 'Stopped your funny business, didn't they?'

  - 'Like fuck they did. They couldn't have caught me if I'd been right under their fat noses. Nah. It was a man holding a gun to my partner's head that stopped me.'

  - 'A wise man learns by the mistakes of others, does he not?'

  Jose Luis stops at the top of a street. He points to the only window with a light on in the row of old one-storey houses. Then the street tapers off into a slope leading down to the meadow.

  - 'There.'

  - 'What do you know about Robot?' I ask as I get my breath back. I'm not going to walk into a hippie house party out of breath. 'What a bloody shambles.'

  - Mala hierba ése también.

  - 'Where is he hiding?' asks Malasana.

  He looks at us.

  - 'Is that why we're here?'

  He shrugs.

  - 'Dunno.' 'He stinks. Get too close to him and you'll catch something for sure. Not mange, either.'

  - 'Who are his friends? What friends did he have round here? Who can be helping him?'

  He bobs his head left and right regretfully,

  - 'I don't think he's got many friends left here. He burnt bridge, capisce?' 'I heard he's the main man in the tapes.' 'Doesn't surprise me. He was always a perv.'

  - 'He's about your age. Do you remember who he used to kick about with?'

  - 'Not me... He's older than me. Roughed me up when I was a kid. Fucking bastard! Then, when I was 15, I waited for him one night with a balaclava and a crowbar.

  'Already a glimpse of the man you were to become, Jose Luis.'

  - 'Ha. Ha. I had a great time! He never found out it was me. But I don't know why, he was more cautious with me after that. If my memory serves me correctly, he had a gang, but I didn't know any of them. By the time I'd grown up they'd all left. Not for uni either. Robot was in Barcelona til he got kicked out, or so they say. He got a good beating and a warning. I don't think he's been back since. He'll have been somewhere else doing God knows what. I didn't even know he was living in Baria til you arrested him.'

  My breathing finally goes back to normal and we walk into Mala Hierba. You can smell the weed 50 yards from the door. The building is off-white, dirty and lusterless, a sole lightbulb lighting the way. The door is made of wood, half-rotting, inset with dirty glass panes that give off an even dirtier light. Someone's put an anarchy flag up in a tiny, grimy window.

  The door squeaks on its ancient hinges when Malasana pushes it open, the glass windowpanes rattling in their worn-down frames. When I see the flag I expect a handful of hippies smoking away and talking about 'the system', but though they do indeed have a joint in one hand and a drink in the other, there's nothing young about this lot. And there's not just handful of them either.

  Eight men swivel their heads to look at us. Not one of them even pretends to look civil. They look at us like SS officers watching the Jews being herded into the showers. Next to me, Jose Luis sighs, no doubt bemoaning our lack of backup.

  We move towards the far end of a formica bar, so old it makes Jose Luis's one look brand spanking new. Probably salvaged from a skip. They didn't bother to give it a good wipe, either.

  - 'Children not allowed,' spits the waiter, leaning his tattooed arms on the bar.

  Malasana doesn't react, just stands there looking at him.

  - 'Three G&Ts,' orders Jose Luis.

  - 'Not for the little one.'

  In my mind's eye I see Malasana leaping over the bar and leaving Mr Clean in a quivery, bloody heap on the floor, but, to my disbelief, he stays put. So seemingly relaxed, so calm that then I really start to get scared.

  - ¿Con sutileza? I ask Jose Luis when the bartender goes off to get the drinks.

  - 'Fuck that. They're asking for it.'

  Looking around, he licks his chops, knowing full well the state we're going to be leaving it in.

  The waiter swaggers back towards us and pours fake gin into three glasses filled with grimy-looking ice. Then he plonks the tonic in front of us without opening it. Not even a poxy slice of lemon.

  He spins and joins his pals at the other end of the bar. There are three guys waiting for him there, one in a filthy jumpsuit covered in oil stains. Another's in a plain white vest. He's lanky, with long arms. The third balances on a high stool, hands on his thighs.

  A few yards from us, another four men are sitting round a table smoking.

  I take out my badge and silently hold it up.

  - 'We know who you are. The Ripper's cocksucker,' says the one perched on the stool.

  'Kiss your front teeth goodbye.

  - We know Damian Albor has been here. We're looking for him. There's a reward for information leading to his capture.'

  - 'Stick your reward up your arse.'

  The waiter and his musketeers laugh. The tough guys at the table don't say a word. They know what's coming.

  Malasana lifts his glass to his lips for a sip.

  - 'Yuck! Gross! It's dirty.'

  The waiter stands up straight behind the bar. Then comes towards us, looking menacing.

  - 'Get me a new glass, Maria, this one's dirty,' says Malasana, emptying the contents of the glass onto the grimy, broken tiles of the floor.

  The waiter's round faces turns several shades of red. The veins on his shaved head are visible. He leans threateningly over Malasana.

  - 'Heaven quiets all,' says Malasana.

  - 'What
....'

  That's all he's got time to say. The glass smashes into his lips and teeth and he lets out a howl that must have woken up the whole street.

  That's Jose Luis's cue. He runs at the musketeers and before they know it two of them are on the floor. The ones at the table waste no time barreling through the door in a stampede. I move slowly up to the one who owes me two front teeth. He's not so relaxed on his high stool anymore. Now he's looking round in stupefaction. Even more so when Malasana gets behind the bar and his favourite waiter starts screaming.

  - 'What did you say?'

  I don't fancy bruising my knuckles, so I take out the Glock. His pupils dilate, the terror etched on his face. I smash the barrel in his mouth. Blood and a few teeth. Much more than he bargained for.

  - 'Now. Where's Robot?'

  Moaning, nursing their wounds, the four men are suddenly listening.

  The place is fit for a rat. A concrete block of flats abandoned halfway through the project. Only the basement and ground floor have been partially finished. On the first floor, iron rods burst from the concete pillars like upright lances, piercing the night. Macenas Castle is about two hundred yeards away. Building here was bound to be a disaster. Of course, no one's thought to tear down this dirty, broken hunk of cement.

  We park the car in the same place we left it when we went looking for Sisi.

  - 'Sisi isn't here, boss.'

  I stare at Malasana. I can't tell where he's going with this.

  - 'Maybe Sisi's not on duty every night.'

  - 'People like him are on duty every night.'

  - 'Like her,' I correct him.

  - 'We'll see.'

  I don't have the energy for his games.

  Jose Luis is nearby. He didn't want to miss out on the rest of tonight's action and has donned yet another balaclava. Malasana slipped him a gun, just in case.

  I make sure we have the first-aid kit and we inch our way along the road. The foliage eating away at the edges of the road covers us and the waves and breeze shaking the leaves cover the sound of our steps and breathing. When we get to the mass of concrete, we split up. Malasana watches the perimeter, doing laps. We meet in the middle. Nothing.

  We go down to the basement, along a ramp, nearly slipping on the dust and earth. There are squeaks of terror. We've disturbed a family of rats.

  The ramp is our only way back out of the basement, so Jose Luis stands guard and we start searching the place. We're sweating, scared a shot will ring out from the pitch black. When all that's left is one dark, mouldering corner, tucked away behind a partition wall that doesn't go up to the ceiling, we stand on either side of where the door should be.

  - 'Damian, come out with your hands up,' I shout.

  I say it again twice, but the only answer I get is the wind moaning through the empty windows. Malasana leaps into the corner, torch and gun thrust forward.

  No one there.

  A sleeping bag pushed against the wall. A blanket. Empty beer cans. Cigarette ends. A porn mag.

  - He was here.

  I am a sculptor of death

  An artist

  Isn't Jack a myth?

  I'm a myth

  A beautiful myth

  I create pleasure where there are only tears

  Hahahahaha

  19

  Dear Chief, You know I'm a joker. Soon we'll all be on the news again.

  I didn't finish my last job off properly. Faithfulness to the original is a hallmark of our greatest artists.

  I'll make up for it next time. It'll be very, very thorough. Shall I send you a little present, just for you? The ears, perhaps? Tee hee.

  Yours, always,

  Jack, The New Ripper

  The postcard we were expecting has arrived late. He's being more careful now.

  - 'This proves you've got the wrong man,' I tell the Madrid team. Mike's in custody, but we've got the postcard.

  - 'He could have posted it yesterday, before his arrest,' Galan shoots back.

  - 'Also. You saw the books he keeps at home,' adds Diaz.

  - 'The ones I've got at home are worse.'

  Talking to me about the case makes them edgy. But they haven't got a choice - the postcard was addressed to me and when I got to the station it was handed to me personally. I pause deliberately and then go on.

  - 'If the forensics team hasn't found anything on the laptop or knives they gathered yesterday, I'm afraid Mike will go free this afternoon.'

  - 'Even so, he'll still be our main suspect.'

  Mike's lawyer is standing outside demanding to know why his client is being held in custody with no proof. It's not El Dandy - Mike hired Roberto Contreras, who's about to retire and has never dealt with a criminal case. Either a rash decision, or proof of his self-confidence. A moment later I receive news that's filed for habeas corpus. And two hours later, Mike leaves through the front door, to the stupefactin of some of the journalists and the curious shoppers at the market.

  He didn't want to see me.

  The press falls on him greedily. His dark past was enough to have him designated as the bad guy. The journos who spun the killer as a hero escaping the clutches of the police are now selling tales of crimes and brutality. With jack squat to back it up. All they need to do to spew their venom on TV, radio and Twitter is say 'the alleged' before 'killer'. Leaks from secret service agencies mysteriously appear, confirming Mike is a hitman with a sordid past.

  Not one devils advocate.

  They may have got their hands on his DNA, but conveniently, they all forget to mention that it wasn't found at the scenes of the crimes. The circumstancial evidence they've got so far could apply to thousands of citizens who don't have an alibi for the nights of the crimes. How many people live alone? How many have something to hide, no matter how insignificant?

  But now the public's decided it's on him there's no going back.

  They all point the finger: Why would the murderer have you number if it wasn't someone you were close with, Commissioner? Why has the killer chosen to address all communication to you? Not the citizen patrols, as the original did, or the press. Just you, Commissioner. 'Why does he own all those books on the Ripper's crimes?' 'You're right. Anyone who reads up on serial killers must automatically be a serial killer.' The blood on the knives is animal blood? He's taunting the police. He's an intelligent man. He wouldn't leave knives stained with the victims' blood lying about. The killer looks taller in the tapes? Could just be a trick of the light or the camera angle. His punctuation in the messages - with no opening inverted question mark at the start of the questions, as is customary in Spanish - also indicates he's an English speaker.

  The Madrid team are treating their profile like the Gospel.

  I know they've searched his house again And Baria City Blues, at least three times. And his car. They've found nothing.

  But there's a motorbike in the garage and this somehow overrides the complete lack of evidence.

  I'm tired of dealing with their so-called arguments. Of saying we have to push on, keep working, I'm convinced Mike isn't the killer. My gut would have alerted me if he were.

  They're peevish with me, as if my ties with Mike were blinding me - though I've sworn up and down that even family ties wouldn't affect me n a case like this.

  So finally I leave.

  I know now isn't the time to talk to Mike.

  He may be a killer.

  But he's not our killer.

  We drive into the City and park the car in the garage of a gleaming new skyscraper, all glass and angles.

  - 'May be see-through, but it's hiding the biggest secrets in town,' mutters Malasana.

  A security guard rushes out to tell us off for parking there. Malasana flashes his badge in his face and keeps walking.

  We go through security with our guns still in their holsters, the metal detector screaming when we go through. People are looking. Everyone busil
y rushing about. Soft background music playing. Marble floors gleaming like jewels. It smells of money.

  The glass lift soars up with spectacular views over the city and sea, the Mediterranean a rich blue expanse unfolding before us, not the poky old sea we know so well. The coast unfolds boldly in jags and outcrops, majestic and grand. The housing estates and villages surrounding Baria look colourful and alive.

  We get out on the seventeenth floor and walk down a corridor lined with doors, low lighting stylishly illuminating the receptionist as she turns and smiles, immaculate in a knee-length suit and pearls, expertly clicking her heels. She looks like something straight out of a skincare ad. But her face takes on an ugly look when we bring out the badges and tell her we're here to see the CEO of Mediterranean Group, LLC.

  - 'Do you have an appointment?'

  - 'We don't need one.'

  She's flustered, and she can't hide it. She leads us coldly over to her desk without offering us a seat, then disappears.

  Two minutes later she's back, inviting us to step through a pair of grand doors.

  Rita Oehlen's office is practically the size of a tennis court. It's so big, with so much luxury furniture everywhere, that for a minute we stand there awestruck. She motions us over to her glass and steel desk, shining in the polished light filtering in through the glass walls.

  The display is stunning. Malasana doesn't know where to look. I focus on the woman sitting at her desk, a mischievous look in her eye. She gets up. She's wearing a simple white blouse and a satin skirt and her handshake is firm. Tall and thin, she has a strong-featured face. Bulging eyes, carefully made-up. A long, thin nose. Prominent cheekbones and strong brows, her blue eyes cold as metal.