by Edward Figg
Carter waited for everyone in the room to be seated and settled, then called for silence. Present were all seven of his team, Superintendent Janice Watkins and two uniformed PCs. When they'd quietened down, he walked straight up to the whiteboard, looked around the room. ‘Last night I made the connection in these murders. I can now tie them together and I am sure that the evidence I have here on this board is conclusive.’
Superintendent Janice Watkins lifted her head and said in a hopeful voice.
‘So, you think you can bring this case to a close, do you Chief Inspector?’ She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms.
The rest of them exchanged meaningful glances. Now that Carter had got their attention, he said, ‘Yes apart from a few loose ends, Ma’am. Yes, I think I can.’ What she didn’t see was the crossed fingers behind his back
‘Then please carry on.’
He took a deep breath and said. ‘What we have here is a copycat killing but in a slightly different vein.’ He walked to the whiteboard and turned it so everyone could see what was written there. Some of those seated in the room exchanged sideways glances at one another. Some of their expressions said it all. ‘Had their DCI lost it?’
‘Look at all these names.’ He pointed to the board where he’d earlier written, side by side, two sets of names.
Mary Anne Nichols. Maureen Newman
Annie Chapman. Allison Connor
Catharine Eddowes. Chelsea Ellis
Elizabeth Stride. Emma Saxon
He stood looking slowly around the sea of confused faces waiting for their reactions. Reid was the first to break the silence. He pointed at the board. ‘The names you have in that left-hand column sir, they’re victims of Jack the Ripper?’ He paused and, looking totally confused, half laughed, and said, ‘Are you seriously suggesting we have a Ripper copycat on our patch? You want us to believe that? That’s crazy. He disembowelled his victims. That didn’t happen to any of ours.’
All of a sudden, the room came alive as everyone started talking at once.
Carter held up his hands and called for silence. ‘I know what most of you are thinking. If someone came to me with this idea, I think, like all of you, I’d say it was fanciful. Well it's not. Believe me. Firstly, our man is not doing the full Ripper scenario. He has not, as Mike has pointed out, been disembowelling them. He has just cut their throats. He has also picked him victims using a different and bizarre method. Just bear with me a minute.’ He pointed at the board. ‘Take a look at the names, the initials of the women killed by the Ripper, then look at those of our victims. They are all the same.’ He paused for a moment, took a breath then continued. ‘Before anyone says anything, there is one more bit of evidence that proves me right.’
‘Sorry sir, I’m not convinced. It has to be a coincidence,’ cut in Jill Richardson.
Like someone directing traffic, he held up his hand to stop her. ‘Just a moment Jill. Let me finish.’
He then looked at Reid. ‘Sergeant. I know that your great-grandfather, Inspector Edmund Reid, was part of the Ripper investigation back in 1888. He looked around the room. ‘I know that most of you here today know that. But, for those that don't know, let me enlighten you. Your dearly beloved sergeant is quite an expert on the case. Isn’t that right Mike?’ He walked over to where Reid was sitting. ‘You told me long ago you had it drummed into you from the moment you could speak. Am I correct, Mike?’
‘Yes sir, that's right. All the time I was growing up. I couldn't escape it. It was with me day and night. Dad served at the Brixton nick. He had quite a big collection of books about the Whitechapel murders.’ He laughed. ‘It was like compulsory bedtime reading in our family. Dad was always banging on about it. His stories were always guaranteed to get him a free drink down the pub when talking to strangers.’
Carter walked back over to the whiteboard and pointed to it.
‘So, Mike. Can you see anything significant about the names of our victims? Is there anything else that ties them together with Jack’s victims?’
Reid was conscious of the silence around him as he sat and studied the board. They waited for him to speak. The only sound in the room came from Luke Hollingsworth as he removed the wrapper from his Bounty Bar.
‘Well, offhand sir, I can't think of anything.’ He took a few more moments to contemplate what was on the board then rubbed his chin thoughtfully, shook his head and said. ‘No sir, nothing comes to mind.’
Carter bent down and whispered two words in Reid's ear then stood back. He raised his eyebrows at Reid in expectation. He looked at him and said. ‘Well! am I right or not?’
It took a few moments for Reid to understand what Carter had meant. Then, as his eyes ran over the names, his reaction was immediate. It was as if some invisible force had pushed him from his chair. He got up, went over to the board and standing in front of said loudly. ‘Holy shit! The dates!’
Carter smiled and nodded. Reid had worked it out.
‘Would somebody please tell us what the bloody hell is going on? Come on Sarge. Out with it,’ said a frustrated Hollingsworth.
Mike Reid took the marker pen that Carter handed him. He started to write beside the names of the victims.
When he had finished, he stood to one side, so all could see.
Mary Anne Nichols. 31st August
Maureen Newman. 31st August
Annie Chapman. 8th September
Allison Connor. 8th September
Catharine Eddowes. 30th September
Chelsea Elis. 30th September
Elizabeth Stride. 30th September
Emma Saxon. 30th September
Reid looked over at Carter. Carter saw a mixture of raw emotions play out across Mike Reid's face. It was a combination of shock, disbelief and amazement.
‘As you all can see from what Mike has written,’ said Carter. ‘The dates that our victims were killed are a match for those of the Ripper’s victims. Our man is using those same dates to kill again. He is using the anniversaries of Jack’s killings to kill again. And the man we are looking for, and I’d stake my life on it, is George Harris.’
Everyone started to talk at once. They all fired questions directly at Carter. He held up his hands, palms forward, trying to hold back the flow of questions. He called for silence.
‘All this is beyond belief, I know, but there it is.’ He pointed to the board. ‘There’s the evidence we’ve been looking for.’ He looked at the sea of faces and gestured to them by holding out his arms.
Superintendent Janice Watkins, who had sat patiently absorbing it all, spoke up. ‘Chief Inspector, it seems to me you have discovered something quite remarkable. Bloody unbelievable, I admit, but even so, bloody remarkable. It’s all very hard to believe. But as you say. The evidence speaks for itself. Seems you’ve cracked it. Well done.’ She got up from her chair and went over to the board and scrutinised the list more closely. ‘Harris could have easily have just gone through the phone book and picked out any women with the same initials. What were the chances of him finding them all working in the same place?’
Carter turned and looked at the board. ‘It's my guess that he deliberately set out to get them all in the one place. He needed to know all about them. He'd have no problem in talking to them because they all came into the library; they were all members. It must have taken him a hell of a long time and a lot of patience to groom them. We know he persuaded them to come in as helpers. He must have damn good powers of persuasion. God knows how long he'd been working on his little plan. He needed to get them all under one roof and over time, make friends with them so he could get closer to them.’
‘Well, I must say that all sounds very plausible,’ said Marcia Kirby. So, sir, George Harris is our murderer. The evidence against him is stacking up. What we don’t know, is his motive.’
‘No, we don’t. We’ll find that out when we catch him,’ Carter said, hopefully.
Janice Watkins walked back to her seat but before sitting, stopped and s
aid, ‘Right. Listen up, all of you.’ Her gaze, slowly took in those around her. ‘We don't want the press getting hold of this. What has been said in this room, stays in this room. Only those in this investigation will be privy to this information. In fact, it's my decision,’ she said, looking directly at Carter, ‘that HQ will not be informed of what you’ve found out. I will take full responsibility. We’ll inform the press that Harris is wanted for questioning. Get his picture out to bus and train stations as well. See if anyone has seen him. As I said. There is to be no mention of the Ripper involvement. Is that understood? If the press gets wind of this, they’ll blow it up out of all proportion. It could cause the public to panic. That's the last thing we want. Any inquiries from the media, you refer them directly to me.’
She looked around the room. ‘I promise you, I will make life hell for anyone discussing this information to anybody outside of this investigation. Is that clear?’ Heads nodded. ‘If this gets out and I find who is responsible, their career will be well and truly over. They’ll be cleaning out the cells toilets right up until the day they draw their pension.’ She looked at the assembled group. ‘Is that understood?’
Once again, there were nods and murmurs from around the room.
‘We need to concentrate all our efforts in getting this maniac behind bars. This afternoon I'll call a press conference and tell them we need Harris to come forward and assist us with our inquiries. I'll get them to run his picture. I'll keep the whole thing low key. I’ll make sure they know he’s not a suspect. We don’t want him spooked and doing a runner. It should be enough to keep them quiet for a while.’
All this time Jill Richardson had been busy Googling and reading about the Ripper case on her laptop. She gestured to her screen. ‘He killed five women, not four?’
‘You’re quite correct, Jill. There's a bit more to this story yet to come; just bear with me, I haven’t finished,’ said Carter. ‘It will prove my findings one hundred per cent right.’
‘We are now in a position, with all this information, to catch him and bring this whole thing to an end before he kills again. He has his next victim all lined up.’ He paused, looking around. ‘We know the exact date he plans to kill her. We’re one step ahead of him because we know who she is and when it will happen. We don't know where it will happen but that's not going to be a problem because, when the time comes, we can wrap her up so tight that she'll have trouble even going to the loo without someone having eyes on her. We have the upper hand. He won't know we're on to him.’
‘How do you know all that sir?’ said Bill Turner, looking confused. ‘Who is this mystery woman?’
A few others voiced the same question.
‘We’re looking at history, Bill. The Ripper’s last victims was Mary Kelly. She was killed on the ninth of November.’ He went back to the whiteboard and added a name to the bottom left hand column then added initials to the other column.
Mary Anne Nichols. 31st August
Maureen Newman. 31st August
Annie Chapman. 8th September
Allison Connor. 8th September
Catharine Eddowes. 30th September
Chelsea Elis. 30th September
Elizabeth Stride. 30th September
Emma Saxon. 30th September
Mary Kelly 9th November M.K
‘Bloody hell,’ said Marcia Kirby, looking directly at Carter. ‘Those initials, MK. It's the other woman from the library. That's Margaret Keane. She's the next victim?’
‘Intended victim, Marcia,’ corrected Carter. ‘Because we intend that she's not going to be a victim. We won't let him get within a stone’s throw of her. In fact, we won't even need to keep her under surveillance because we know she will be perfectly safe until the ninth of next month. He won't touch her until then. He has to stick to that date because that is the anniversary of Mary Kelly’s death.’
‘That's just as well. A whole month sir. That would take a lot of man power to put a twenty-four hour guard on her. We'd have to call in county for that?’ she queried.
‘That’s another reason why we can’t keep her under surveillance. Chummy may well be keeping an eye on her as well. We can’t afford to blow it and have him spot us. God willing, we'll have him before the ninth. One thing I can be sure of,’ said Carter, looking at his audience, ‘Harris won't be getting his hands on her, you can count on that. We have thirty-two days in which to find him. If we can't get him by then, we'll catch him red-handed on the ninth. Either way we’ll have the bastard.’
‘With this press coverage, he may well feel we’re on to him and try to get to her before,’ added Dave Lynch, from the back of the room.
‘I’m gambling on that not happening,’ answered Carter, confidently.
Lynch leaned over to Bill Turner, who was sitting next to him and said, quietly, ‘It’s one hell of a gamble. One I wouldn’t like to take.’
Sunday 10th October
Cow Lane, as its name suggests, was once a track used by cows. In the distant past, the cows would make their way along it, up to the dairy, for milking. The dairy and the farm have long since gone. All that remains of that bygone era is a crumbling, dry stone wall. The lane now, is a short, tree-lined stripe of tarmac with sycamore trees on both sides. Off to one side, stands three early Elizabethan cottages. The lane is only a five-minute drive from the outskirts of Kingsport. These cottages were once home to the workers of a big estate that had been broken up and sold off after the first world war. It had been split up into fifty-acre plots and smallholdings, growing cherries, hops and feeding grazing animals.
The day before, just as Carter was leaving to go home, he’d received a surprise call from Christine Wilcox inviting him over for dinner on Sunday evening. He was surprised when she told him the address because his first thought he’d be going to her flat above the café.
Oak Tree Cottage was one of the three cottages that commanded pleasant views out across the valley to the green pastures on the other side. Horses could be seen grazing on the far side of the hill.
The sun was just beginning to set as Carter pulled his car into her driveway and switched of the engine. He looked at his reflection in the rear-view mirror, patted down his hair and got out of the car. Armed with a bunch of flowers in one hand and a bottle of Beaujolais in the other, he walked nervously up the garden path to the front door and knocked.
She was quick to answer. He wondered if she had been standing on the other side of the door waiting.
‘I heard you pull up,’ she smiled, holding the door back. ’Come in.’
‘Hope I’m not too early?’ he replied.
The front door opened directly into a large living room with exposed oak beams. A glass-fronted, wood burning stove, gave out a warm glow from the other end of the room. The whole room gave Carter a snug and cosy feeling. He felt instantly at home.
‘These are for you.’ He handed her the flowers and the wine.
‘Red roses. Thank you. They’re my favourite.’ She held the roses up to her nose, inhaling their fragrance. ‘Beautiful.’
‘So, Mike Reid was right after all,’ he thought. Reid was a man of the world. He’d had many girlfriends in his time before he finally settled down with his latest, Janice. They had been together now for eight months so he should know. Carter had confided to Reid about his dinner date and had openly admitted to him that he had no taste whatsoever when it came to flowers. He asked Reid what kind he should buy. ‘You can never go wrong with red roses boss. Most women love them,’ he said. The only thing Reid had neglected to tell him was the price of them. It came as a shock to Carter. The last ones he’d brought, some ten years ago, were fifteen bob. When he left the florist that afternoon, his wallet was fifty quid lighter.
‘Come into the kitchen and I’ll get some glasses,’ she said.
He followed her to the kitchen where she found a vase to put the flowers in.
‘Would you like to pour the wine?’ She indicated a glass-fronted cabinet. ‘You’ll fin
d some glasses over there.’
He went over to the cabinet, took out two glasses and poured the wine. He sniffed the air. ‘Wow. That smells fantastic,’ he said, handing her a glass of wine. ‘What’s cooking?’
‘Duck à l’Orange, served with fried potato and fresh asparagus, followed by a chocolate sauced pudding.’
‘Beats baked beans on toast.’ He looked at his surroundings. ’Nice place you have here,’ he said.
‘I’ve not long moved in. It belonged my aunt. She left it to me in her will, along with the business.
She led the way back into the living room where she placed the vase on the coffee table. He followed her as she moved to the lounge and sat down. He sat down next to her.
‘I used the flat over the café because it was so convenient, but now I’ve decided I’m going to rent it out and live out here. I like it here. It’s much quieter.’
‘Just out of interest, have you got anyone to take over the flat yet? I only ask because one of my DCs, young Luke Hollingsworth, is looking for a place.’ Thinking about Hollingsworth and his love for food, he added. ‘He’d be right at home living above your café. The way that lad eats he’d be your number one customer. He’d love it, I know he would.’
‘Well. I guess having a policeman living over the café would have its advantages. I haven’t advertised it yet. OK… well, ask him to give me a call. Let’s see what we can work out.’
‘I’ll let him know,’ he said.
‘I still have a few things to move out. Should be done by the end of the week. The next thing will be to start on this garden. I like gardening, in fact,’ she said, looking at the roses on the coffee table, ‘I might even plant some of this variety myself. I love the red.’ She bent over the vase and again, smelled the fragrance then raised her head. ‘I don’t suppose you know their name, do you?’ she said, raising her eyebrows questioningly.
They lived up to their name in more ways than one, thought Carter. At fifty quid a bloody bunch their name will haunt me for the rest of my days.