The Ripper

by Carmelo Anaya

  - 'But she wasn't a sex worker. So why her?' asks Galan, who's standing next to us by this time.

  Diaz and Menendez come up to us too. Some of the colour has come back into Diaz's face. I wonder if Menendez has even been in the room where she was killed.

  - 'Rita Oehlen was... she got around. Lots of sex partners. Everyone knows that. She had a bad rep because of it. She didn't care if they were married, single, young, old, whatever. They say if she couldn't get them into bed she'd pay. Apparently it was an illness, she was a... I forget the word now...'

  - 'Nymphomaniac?' say Galan.

  - 'Yeah, that's it. But I don't buy it. I think she was just doing what men in power do. Sleeping around, throwing their weight around. Why shouldn't she do the same thing? She never let anything stop her.'

  - 'What's her company called?'

  - 'She had a few different ones.' 'The big one, the main one.'

  - 'Mediterranean Group LLC?' Galan scrolls through her phone.

  - 'Yeah, that's it. Then she had lots of small businesses in case one of them fell on hard times. But she never fell on hard times. That was for other people, not her.'

  I leave Lopez to it with Galan and go out to make a quick call. I look around for a room that hasn't yet been invaded by a team of eager officers and find one at the end of the hall. It's a library with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the glass panels glinting. The room has a stuffy, unused feel. It's been a long time since any of those books were cracked open. The room is dominated by a portrait: a severe-looking man with strong features staring haughtily out from a golden frame. It must be the Oehlen patriarch, hanging just yards from where his daughter met her downfall. At least he won't have to suffer through the indescribable pain of losing a child in the most horrific way possible.

  I phone Natalia and she tells me she's at work, teaching, and Jose Luis drove her there. I tell her she's got nothing to fear. It's all over. He killed another woman.

  - 'I know,' she says. 'I read it in the papers. It's awful.'

  I don't respond, but, for the first time, I do give her my love.

  My phone buzzes just as I'm leaving the room. I know it's him, reveling in his success.

  - Life's going to be very boring from now on. Any serial killers you'd recommend for me to outdo again? How about the Zodiac Killer? They never got him either. Tee hee. But his crimes lack all fancy, don't you think? Decision, decisions. Tee hee. I'm thinking about it. BTK? Bind, torture, kill? Hmm. You'll be hearing from me, Chief.

  The Ripper's room, Sickert's room

  The replica of Mary Kelly

  My work...

  Will great masterpieces depicting my work hang in the best galleries,

  like the portrait of Ian Grady's wife?

  Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

  24

  A heavy silence hangs over the Mediterranean Group offices like a vigil. Sorrow on the faces of the employees. Sadness in the air. Muted sounds. No one exclaiming or talking loudly. Even the colours seem tamer. Curious looks as we walk in. Agustin Gomez will be here in five minutes, back from Rita Oehlen's home, to talk to us. We wait in the lobby on the twentieth floor. It's a replica of the entrance hall downstairs: marble gleaming like jade; mahogany furniture; rugs so thick they'd keep the cold out of an igloo; muted sounds bouncing off the luxury furnishings, removed from the haste and mess of the wider world.

  A man walks over to us. Agustin Gomez's younger than his bald spot and dark circles would have it. He has chubby cheeks and closely-shaved skin that shines slightly with oil.

  - 'I'm sorry to welcome you here in these circumstances,' he says somberly, stretching out a small hand.

  He leads us into his office. On one wall is a huge map of Almeria Province, Mediterranean Group's property and investments marked in red. You couldn't be blamed for thinking they own the whole of the area. A sweeping floor-to-ceiling window dominates the dove-grey room, softened by the intense light streaming in. A less grand version of Rita Oehlen's expansive office.

  Gomez plops himself down into a cushy armchair, his back to the map of the kingdom. The light shines on his bald spot. He puts his hands together as if to beg.

  - 'I can't believe it.'

  Tears fill his eyes.

  - 'It's horrible. I just can't...'

  He opens a drawer, pulls out a tissue and wipes his nose and eyes. Finally, he sighs and tries to compose himself, act the executive used to taking control.

  - 'Well. You're here to do your job. Tell me what you need.'

  - 'A list of everyone who could have something against Ms Oehlen. Former employees. Unhappy suppliers. And a list of her sexual partners.'

  He looks thoughtful for a moment.

  - 'You don't think this has anything to do with her business dealings.'

  - 'We don't know.'

  - 'But she. She isn't... she wasn't...'

  - Mr Gomez, it's precisely because she doesn't fit the profile that we need this information.'

  He nods.

  - 'I see.'

  He looks more at Malasana than he does at me. He must be curious. I think I remember someone introducing us once. I'm not surprised I can't remember - my social life is practically nonexistent.

  He tells us we'll have the lists as soon as they're ready.

  - 'As for her private life, I'm afraid I can't be much help.'

  - 'You can try. You're in charge here.'

  - 'The papers are saying it's the same killer who committed those other murders. I don't understand the link. It must have been a coincidence. Really, Rita,' his voice breaks, 'Rita was single. And liberated. She could see whoever she felt like. Always respectable men, of course. But she wasn't...'

  - 'If there's anyone you don't want on the list, now is the time to say it. It won't leave this room.'

  Gomez stares at me. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then shuts it just as quickly. He looks down at the steel and glass desk and doesn't say a peep. I know something is whirring in that analytical mind. But now's not the time to force it out of him. I have a feeling it will come out on its own. I hand him a card with my personal mobile number.

  - 'Just a couple of things before we go, Mr Gomez. Other police officers will be coming in to interview on this same matter. But I'd be grateful to you if you could contact me directly first if any new information comes to light, or just if you remember anything you think might be relevant.'

  - 'Of course.'

  - 'One more thing: Who's Ms Oehlen's heir?'

  A look of alarm spreads over his face. It's all too much for him. He processes my question slowly and his voice is a shade colder when he replies.

  - 'Well. It's difficult to say what will happen next. I'm not familiar with Rita's will. She has a brother in Austria, but they're not on speaking terms, And he's never shown any interest in her or the business. He inherited some of the shares but handed control over to Rita. She controlled 80% of the business.'

  - 'What about the other 20%?'

  - 'Small-scale investors. I own 8%.'

  - 'In that case, who stands to gain most from Ms Oehlen's death?'

  A sepulchral silence descends. Gomez knows what I'm getting at. He knows I'm seeing him in a different light. He's not just any old employee. He's the executive vice-president and owns 8% of the shares, which could turn into 90% if Rita's brother continues to wash his hands of the business. Making him the potential successor. He's the only one that counts.

  - 'Well. Stand to gain... No one, really,' he lies. 'No one can run the business like Rita. No one has the same... drive.

  - But the shares...

  - The shares will plummet as soon as she... because she's not here.'

  I let another silence unfold. Gomez starts to fidget and makes as if to get up and end the interview, but he catches himself. I let him off the hook and get up myself.

  - 'The lists, Mr Gomez. As soon as possible. And a
nything else you remember.'

  Before we leave the building, we search Rita Oehlen's office. It's so neat and tidy we know immediately we're not going to find anything useful. Her computer is locked. Forensics will take care of that.

  In the lift, Malasana says,

  - 'If he hired someone...

  - 'Someone who knew Robot? I don't think he'd stoop so low. He'd have found a hitman from somewhere else.'

  Whiskey Moran's distinctive voice pours from the window, gravelly and deep. This time I recognise it at once. That whiskey-soaked, hoarse voice. Perfect for his high-flown rhetoric.

  The killer must be a sane man with the hatred of a madman, exactly like our society, seemingly rational on the surface but deeply dysfunctional deep down. Very few people are capable of truly loving. But everyone has it in them to hate.

  The terror the faceless killer provokes in us, lying in wait, hidden in a crowd, takes us back to the first, essential terror we felt as a species, the terror of being stalked by a great beast. It defies civilization and everything we long for. The killer has drawn a sinister parallel between the women he chose to murder at first, slaves of misery and exploitation, and Rita Oehlen, the epitome of opulence and power. And it's not just the victims of poverty and injustice he chose in this Autumn of Terror. To culminate his work, his ultimate crime, he chose someone from the upper echelons of society, someone with unimaginable power, the kind of person we think is immune to danger. He's not a lowlife, a degenerate. He's a killer who is aware of the power his acts of savagery give him He's a revolutionary with no message, a nihilist forcing us to look at the vulnerability and misery that exist in society. He's the protagonist in a tragedy in which he himself is the lowest of te low, the worst of human nature, reminding us that are all capable of fulfilling our desires. Desire, desire, desire! A ferocious, desperate desire, a tormented desire, that finds solace only in death and the recognition of his terrible greatness. There is no doubt in my mind that today he is the happiest man alive, with not a trace of remorse. He is the monster that has always lived in our midst, hidden away, the one society is now feeding with its selfishness and individualism. No. This killer will not be the last. This killer is the first in a long line of killers, the product of our rotten postmodernity.

  As for the spectacle due to take place this afternoon. Did you know a protest against Rita Oehlen's murder is being held? The pathetic parallel with Whitechapel, 1888, is more apparent than ever. In the poor areas where the prostitutes lived, a few citizen patrols were organised. Now, when a mogul is slayed, our politicians organise a protest, more than they have done for any of the other victims. I'm sure many people will turn out. We see now how sycophantic, how servile society is. Now we can fully make sense of the line one of our politicians uttered after the first four crimes: We urge residents to remain calm. The murder is only targeting sex workers. The coldest line ever spoken after a murder. That politician is still in his post and will head up the protest this afternoon. We have the honour of his pomposity to lead this city, all flash and no substance. A straight face stretched over a rotting skull. Just like our killer.

  - 'Amen,' says Malasana.

  I'm not going to give Malasana the satisfaction, so I kick him in the balls before I even open my mouth to say anything. He falls to the floor in silence.

  But Javier Macias is hard as nails. He falls to his knees, hands on his balls and eyes streaming with tears, drooling. I abandon all pretence of scruples.

  - 'Sit down.'

  He doesn't protest. He gets up slowly and hobbles over to a chair, slumping into it heavily. His face contorts with pain and he sighs.

  - 'You didn't have to do that,' he says with rancour.

  - 'Stop your bullshit. Where were you last night?'

  - 'Out.'

  Malasana takes a step towards him and Macias puts his hands up pleadingly.

  - 'I was with a friend. A woman friend.'

  - 'What friend?'

  - 'Marian.'

  - 'Who is she? Where does she live? Why did you hide?'

  - 'I didn't hide. She's married. She's a bit of a slut. But she's married.'

  - 'Where did you go?'

  - 'A hotel outside Turre, the wooden one. I don't remember the name.'

  - 'Give us her phone number.'

  Macis gets out his phone. Malasana makes a note of her name and number.

  - 'Let me see your phone.'

  I scroll through his call log. He called her at 8pm last night.

  - 'Why did you hit me?'

  - 'I don't trust you. There's something you're not telling us.'

  - 'I swear there isn't. I've told you everything I know.'

  - 'Ww're going to shut down your business and make your life a living hell. Those tapes are evidence of rape. We'll hit you with every charge in the book.'

  - 'I swear I don't know anything else.'

  He shrinks in on himself.

  - 'You won't be able to walk for a month, let alone fuck, you pig.' 'Bastards!'

  We leave and Malasana phones this so-called Marian. She picks up immediately and confirms she spent last night with Macias, from 8 PM to 10AM.

  - 'She didn't even ask who was calling. I don't believe here,' says Malasana, hanging up.

  We head out to Turre to check out the hotel. As we speed down the motorway the news starts flooding in. Vilar's been questioned. He says he spent last night in Almeria. COU is checking his alibi. Then Lopez phones. The Madrid team have confirmed Mike's car was seen driving through the Mojacar hills last night. They're dying to arrest him again, but they know they won't get anything out of him no matter how long they question him.

  At the hotel, the receptionist confirms Javier Macias was here with a female guest last night. They give us a description and Malasana takes notes.

  We phone Marian. She doesn't want to meet us, but Malasana raises his voice and she has no choice but to give in.

  We park next to a row of lonely bungalows, out by the nudist beach. Lampposts - the ones that aren't broken - light the streets. The slow sound of the waves beats in the background. The cold breeze sweeps through the streets, settling over the town as the sun goes down. Behind us, a barren hill rises, arid as the desert. Everything screams melancholy. We wait for her in silence and night falls.

  Half an hour later a small, dark Kia drives up, slowly cautiously next to our car. Malasana gets out and asks through the open window,

  - 'Marian?'

  She matches the description from the hotel. A scraggy body past its prime despite the tight cocktail dress she's wearing. Her face is bony. She looks older than her forty-odd years. She doesn't bother getting out of her car.

  - 'We know you weren't with Javier Macias last night,' I say.

  I shine the torchlight in her face before she can respond and she looks disconverted. She thought she was coming here to confirm their story and now she realises this is something else.

  - 'How much did he pay you to lie?'

  Before she can react, Malasana opens the passenger door of her car and gets in. 'Turn off the engine.'

  - 'I don't want you to tell Javier we know. If you do, we'll make sure you never forget us.'

  She looks at us fearfully. But then he seems to have a change of heart. Macias isn't anyone to her, and I bet he doesn't pay much.

  - 'He left at midnight and came back at 4 AM,' she admits tonelessly.

  - 'Do you know where he went?'

  - 'I just had to make it seem like he was with me. Phone down to reception for a bottle of wine.'

  - 'Show you were both there, make sure they remembered you, right?'

  She nods. She has a shock of bottle blonde hair.

  - 'Did he have anything in his hand when he left? Anything he wasn't wearing?'

  - 'Dunno. I wasn't paying attention.'

  - 'Think!'

  She furrows her brow, concentrating. Her eyes give her away when she
opens them wide and sneaks a glance at us.

  - 'No. Nothing I noticed.'

  - 'You're lying.'

  - 'No...'

  I open the door and drag her out of the car. Wave the cuffs in her face.

  - 'He had a new phone,' she shouts.

  I seek darkness, as Evil seeks to destroy. Blood flows from the world's peak. It floods the mountains, fills every gully and dell, drowns the harvests and surrounds the white houses standing on the rocks like a drowning man gasping for air. And colours everything red. As far as the eye can see, all is red as blood, dark as the eternal night now falling.

  I move closer to the grille to see the no-place, the place that is no longer, the place that is nothing because it was once everything, the place simultaneously hidden and exposed where eyes have looked upon the misery of human flesh reduced to nothingness, to ruin, its atoms reduced to inexistence, where only dead matters remains and the soul has fled. The place where thought does not exist because existence does not exist, where the infinite and eternal are nothing. Where the dead seek God. Is it that God is dead? Nonsense has thrown a veil over the sky. A veil not even a hurricane can blow away. And all that's there is darkness. And no one can see the light. The last light died out in the blackness that covers me like blood flowing over a body bled dry, flesh made misery, turmoil, taunt, plague, pain, Death. The veil uncovers darkness and death. It is lies and suffering. It is shadows and sickness. It is murder and blood. It is dislike and hatred. It's the beast, dragging its chains and laughing. The beast opening its maw and swallowing down the bodies writhing under the knives. And its nature pierces us and becomes our essence. Our essence howling to the lonely night. The incomprehensible, hostile being the gods have to bear to prove to themselves they are no better. The being that lives in torment...