by Adam Croft
The not knowing was infuriating him. Were they just playing games? Was the silence and apparent cluelessness just another police tactic to try and smoke him out? Perhaps it was the endless bureaucracy the modern day police would no doubt have to go through. Maybe that was slowing them down. Or perhaps it was just that they were fucking incompetent.
He hoped that wasn’t the case. The chase wouldn’t be much fun if it was. How can you run a race against a one-legged man? You can’t. Maybe he’d been too clever. Perhaps his clues weren’t quite obvious enough. Perhaps he needed to be more conspicuous.
It was fine. It was all fine. He’d been planning for this eventuality, or rather history had. There was a precedent at this point in time, and he was secretly quite glad he had good cause to use it. It’d be a nice touch, wouldn’t it? And it’d certainly be one clue they couldn’t ignore or fuck up like they had with all the others.
Because everyone would know what this meant. Even the most pig-headed doughnut-munching beat bobby would figure out what it was referring to. Anyone with any sort of interest in murder. In death.
He paced around the dark room, trying to calm his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Deep breaths. That’s what his doctor had taught him. That was the easiest way without pills. And pills weren’t an option. Not now. Doctors knew things, could tell things. He couldn’t be coming face to face with a doctor now. He was great at covering things up — in so many ways — but he needed to stay under the radar.
A solitary shaft of light streamed into the room through the gap in the blinds. He’d need to get that fixed. He couldn’t think in the light. He needed silence, darkness, to dull his senses and heighten his thinking. Only under cover of darkness could he truly be free.
29
27th September
Suzanne Corrigan collapsed onto her office chair and groaned as the air was pushed out from her lungs. Another day, another dollar. In any other job that old saying would probably seem quite outdated, but her salary didn’t amount to a whole lot more than that as it was.
This was probably the shortest amount of time it’d taken her to become seriously jaded with a job. And she’d had some jobs. Even four months stacking shelves in Sainsbury’s had seemed like a fairground ride compared to this. Growing up in Cardiff just before the city’s huge regeneration scheme, she’d seen how difficult it was for her peers to get a job without leaving in a London-bound direction. It was the same struggle her parents had had thirty years earlier when they’d been forced to leave the IRA-riddled streets of Belfast for work and safety on the mainland.
She’d wanted to be a journalist for a while, and when she’d seen the opportunity advertised on her local paper she jumped at the chance. The starting pay wasn’t great, but she was confident she’d move up the ladder before long. That was until she actually started the job and realised there was no ladder. Not unless you knew people or were at least willing to have sex with them.
She’d pretty quickly realised that the people above her in the pecking order were either family friends of the paper’s owners or else were leggy blondes or testosterone-driven young blokes who were presumably more than happy to shag the middle-aged middle-management to get on in their careers.
Suzanne’s main journalistic interest had always been in crime, which was what had originally drawn her towards the job on the Mildenheath Gazette. She’d long been fascinated by the inner machinations of the police force and read with great relish the memoirs of serving police officers from the 1980s and before, revealing the scandals and dark, murky practices of the bygone era of policing. The irony wasn’t lost on her that her job reporting on the much cleaner modern day police force was being done against the backdrop of one of the seediest, most dubious industries still operating in its present form.
There were good journalists. She knew that. There were thousands of them, and she counted herself as one of them. But, like her, they were almost all on the bottom rung and destined to stay there for some time to come. Particularly if, like her, they were of a larger build than average and didn’t give two hoots about caking themselves with make-up or designer clothes.
The lack of sleep didn’t help. She couldn’t help it, but she’d been up half the night thinking about other jobs she could do. The problem was she was thirty-two years old and had never held down a full career. She’d told the editors at the Gazette that journalism was all she’d ever wanted to do but that she’d lacked the self confidence to go for it up until now. That was mostly true, but the fact remained that she was hardly going to be a prime candidate for promotion.
She had, thankfully, been able to lose herself somewhat in the two recent murders that’d happened in the town. At least that had given her workday some meaning.
Humming a random cheerful ditty in order to try and motivate herself into believing she was actually happy to be here, she looked at the pile of incoming mail in her desk tray and instead decided to boot up her computer and tackle her email first. She opened Outlook and the computer told her she had 143 unread messages. She decided on balance to opt for the desk tray.
Most were the usual round-robin press releases from PR companies and businesses which had either yet to adapt to email or had instead deduced that being one of the few remaining people to send hard-copy releases would somehow get theirs noticed amongst the hundreds of others. There were a couple of handwritten letters from local residents who were sure their exclusive and exciting story about the scandal of the dropped kerb in their street would be sure to hit next week’s front pages and, as always, a good few pieces of mail which’d been put on her desk when, really, they were nothing to do with her at all.
Then there was the handwritten letter that she held in her hand now as she began to shake and murmur the words, ‘Oh God.’
30
27th September
Wendy’s head was filled with a mixture of impending doom and sheer excitement as she leaned over the shoulder of DC Debbie Weston, with Culverhouse and Suzanne Corrigan crowding round the table in the incident room.
‘How closely does it match up?’ Wendy asked Debbie, who was thumbing through a large hardback copy of the Jack the Ripper book she’d been reading.
‘Large chunks of it are word for word. Some bits are missing completely, but with good reason. The context of the original wouldn’t mean anything in this case. Call it a modern day version, if you will. But there’s no mistaking that whoever wrote this is referring to the original. Most of it is identical, even down to the spelling and grammar errors.’
Wendy glanced down at the letter Suzanne Corrigan had received that morning and read it again, carefully.
Dear Boss,
I keep on hearing the police are nowhere near catching me yet. I laughed at the press conference when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck. Yours truly
Jack the Ripper
‘Look at these bits,’ Debbie said. ‘Word for word what was in the original. Even the missing apostrophes in "shant" and “ladys”, and the grammar — “the last press conference when they look so clever”. It’s identical.’
‘Why not the bits about the blood and the red pen?’ Wendy asked.
‘Maybe he only had a blue biro,’ Culverhouse quipped.
‘The Leather Apron stuff from the original wouldn’t make any sense here, nor the mention of being a doctor. That’s probably because we never mentioned that in the press conference,’ Debbie said.
‘What’s your view then?’ Culve
rhouse asked her. ‘Seeing as you’ve read the book, I mean.’
‘Well, he’s leaving out bits that aren’t pertinent to the modern day versions of the killings, as he sees them. Which I think we now have to accept is what’s going on, don’t you? If that’s the case, the bits he’s left in are relevant. Which means we can expect him to send us a lady’s ear if we don’t catch him before he gets to her. Whoever she is.’
‘Fuck,’ Culverhouse replied. ‘We must be able to narrow it down, though. Who was the third Ripper victim?’
Debbie flicked back a few pages through the book to locate the information.
‘The third victim was Elizabeth Stride, born Elisabeth Gustafsdotter in Gothenburg, Sweden. Moved to England when she was about twenty-three Five feet five inches tall. Forty-five years old when she died.’
‘Married?’ Culverhouse asked. ‘History of prostitution?’
‘She married in 1869, three years after moving to the UK. They owned a coffee shop, and apparently she claimed that her husband and children were killed in a steam ship disaster, which was later found to be a lie. Her husband died in 1884 and a year later she was living with another man. There’s some evidence that she was an occasional prostitute, yes.’
‘She seems to fit the type, then,’ Culverhouse replied.
‘What type?’ Wendy replied. ‘If you mean the MO of the original Ripper, then yes, but the only MO we have for the current one is that he seems to be finding people who meet some — not all — of the original victims’ attributes. So if you’re about to say that the next victim will be another prostitute, think again. Lindsay Stott wasn’t a prostitute, for a start.’
‘Only because she gave it away for free,’ he snorted.
Wendy glanced sideways at Suzanne Corrigan, who was still sat at the table watching this all going on.
‘Where was the letter when you received it?’ Wendy asked her.
‘In my desk tray, along with a load of other letters. It came in through the mail room with everything else, so it must have been through the mail system.’
‘Which means it could’ve been posted anywhere,’ Culverhouse added. ‘We’ll need to get forensics to analyse the paper and ink. They’ll be able to tell us what type of paper and pen were used. With any luck, there’ll be traces of DNA, too. Fingerprints, maybe, or a bit of hair or skin.’
‘I’ll get it fast tracked,’ Wendy said.
Culverhouse was silent for a few moments before looked sternly at Suzanne Corrigan. ‘Whatever happens, this stays completely secret, understand? I don’t want to see this popping up in your paper. There’ll be a time, not long, when we can make this public, but not just yet. If I promise you the exclusives, will you promise to only report on what we permit? I don’t think I need to warn you about little things like contempt of court.’
‘No, of course not. You have my word,’ Suzanne replied, her voice quivering.
Somehow, Culverhouse knew she was telling the truth.
31
27th September
The emergency briefing that day had a very different tone to most other briefings. It wasn’t often that the police had what essentially amounted to a pre-warning of a murder about to take place without knowing the identity of the intended victim.
Culverhouse stood up and briefed the team. ‘We know that if the killer intends on following the original Ripper pattern, the next murder is likely to happen in the early hours of the twenty-ninth. That’s the day after tomorrow. Now, we’ve got two options. We could either go public with this and panic everyone in the town and surrounding area or we can focus our energies on likely targets and release a warning nearer the time if we are no closer to identifying a target. We’ll also be heavily increasing foot patrols and liaising with neighbouring forces with a view to getting some outside help on that front.
‘Now, again assuming that he’s following a pattern matching the original Ripper victims, we’d expect his next target to match one or more of a number of identified criteria. These are the woman’s age, which could be around her mid forties, possibly of Swedish descent although any European immigrant could be at risk, divorced and possibly living with a new partner, and possibly an occasional prostitute.’
DS Frank Vine raised his hand.
‘Yes, Frank?’
‘Do you mean to say that we could be looking for a woman who’s in her mid forties, or from Europe somewhere, or divorced, or working as a prostitute? Not all of them?’
‘Not necessarily, no. Keira Quinn and Lindsay Stott matched some of the characteristics of Polly Nichols and Annie Chapman but certainly not all of them. It’d be impossible to find a modern day clone of all the victims, which is what makes our job all the more difficult. But I think it’s fair to say that if someone matched at least two of those criteria, we’d see them as a high risk target.’
‘But that could apply to hundreds of people, guv,’ Steve Wing chipped in.
‘Then you’re going to have hundreds of fucking phone calls to make, aren’t you? It’s either that or this bastard kills again, and I’m not keen on that possibility.’
‘Guv, there’s more,’ Debbie Weston said, her voice faltering slightly as she spoke, not taking her eyes off the hardback book on Jack the Ripper, which was open on her desk.
‘What is it?’ Culverhouse barked, by now growing impatient.
‘The murder of Elizabeth Stride wasn’t the only one that happened on the twenty-ninth. The Ripper killed twice that night.’
‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ Culverhouse shouted, trying desperately to keep a lid on his temper.
‘I’m sorry, guv. I was in such a hurry to get things moving to try and stop the next one, I hadn’t thought to look over the fourth again.’
‘Give me the details,’ Culverhouse said in his trademark gentle whisper which actually said I’m fucking furious.
‘Her name was Catherine Eddowes. She was forty-six years old, about five feet tall, originally from Wolverhampton. Not married, but had a couple of long-term partners. Not known to be a heavy drinker, but had a bit of a temper, known to the police and had Bright’s Disease, apparently.’
‘What’s that?’ Culverhouse asked.
‘Something to do with the kidneys, ain’t it?’ Steve Wing said.
‘Thank you, Doctor Wing. Perhaps you could contribute further once you’ve Googled it for me,’ the DCI replied. ‘So we’re potentially looking for someone with this Bright’s Disease, then. Surely there must be some sort of society or charity who’d know about local sufferers? Maybe get onto doctors and ask them if anyone local has been diagnosed with Bright’s Disease recently.’
‘Ah, not likely to be much help, guv,’ Wendy interrupted, holding her iPhone in the air. ‘I’ve just Googled it. It doesn’t exist any more, technically. It’d usually be described as nephritis these days.’
‘Ask them if anyone’s been diagnosed with fucking nephritis, then. What does the name matter? A Snickers is still a fucking Marathon.’
‘We could just as easily be looking for a woman in her mid-forties who hasn’t been married. Or a woman from the Midlands,’ Wendy said. ‘Whichever way we look at it, it’s a needle in a haystack. And that’s assuming that he’s using the same criteria we assume he will. What if he’s using something more obscure.’
‘What do you suggest we do, Knight? Just sit around and wait for two more bodies to pop up?’
‘I don’t think getting angry’s going to help anything, guv,’ Wendy replied, immediately regretting it as she saw Culverhouse’s face grow redder. ‘If you ask me, I think your idea of stepping up foot patrols is going to be our best bet. We should warn people to be extra vigilant, too. Especially women.’
‘If you ask me, it’s a miracle no-one has written in linking Keira Quinn and Lindsay Stott to the original Ripper yet,’ Frank Vine said.
Culverhouse replied to him without taking his eyes off Wendy. ‘Yeah, well I’ve got a feeling that’s about to be blown out the fucking water.�
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32
28th September
They say that knowledge is power. Knowing that two women were about to be murdered certainly didn’t help anyone on the investigation to feel anything but powerless, particularly as they didn’t know where the killer was going to strike or who his target was. They only knew when.
The scale of the operation was unprecedented in the town, and all whilst trying to avoid panicking members of the public. Culverhouse had agreed that the public should at least be told that the police were now linking the deaths of Keira Quinn and Lindsay Stott, and that their killer might pose a danger to other women in and around Mildenheath. To that effect, women were advised not to leave the house alone and to ensure their home security was more than adequate.
Culverhouse was keen to ensure that a balance was achieved between caution and panic. Local residents needed to be aware of the dangers — they had a right to be aware of them and their caution could help the police to catch the killer — but he knew from experience that public hysteria would be counterproductive.
The Chief Constable had agreed that patrols in the town needed to be stepped up. As the most underfunded police force in the country, they couldn’t rightfully pull numbers of police officers from other areas of the county, and the decision had instead been taken to halt and rescind all booked holidays and off-days. All police officers assigned to the county’s force would be required to report for duty immediately, provided they weren’t breaching health and safety laws on working hours.
Uniformed PCs had also been drafted in from neighbouring forces, with the increased numbers being used to form foot and vehicle patrols in and around Mildenheath. The intention was not only to reassure the public but to use the vastly increased police presence to try and scupper the Ripper’s plans. Knight and Culverhouse knew from experience that killers tended to make mistakes when they were forced to change their carefully-laid plans. And when killers made mistakes, they were caught.