by Ricki Thomas
Krein wasn’t expecting this, words failed him for a while. Eventually he managed. “What makes you think that?”
Burns was grave. “The content of the single saved file has comprehensive details of past murders. Several are ones that Kopycat has recreated.” Silence again, Burns could not hear the excitement flushing through Krein. “I could forward the file, if you like?”
Krein nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes please, I’ll give you my email address. And bag the organiser immediately, have it couriered here. We need to run it through forensics.”
Burns followed instructions, adding to the email the statement that Craig had given, and Burns’s plans to investigate the remains of the boathouse. He sent constables to the three remaining boys to take statements, and arranged for two forensic experts to accompany him to Boveney to scour the site for evidence. The area was already cordoned off, arson having already been suspected, but the investigation had not been a priority. It was now.
He’d been there literally moments when he spotted the pale pink, charred paper, the plastic folder that contained it partly melted. Using tweezers, he dropped the document into a plastic bag, sealing it to avoid further contamination. Inspecting the writing through the clear pocket, it was apparent that the form was a driving licence. The print was almost totally illegible, but further examination in a controlled environment may reveal more than was currently evident.
The fire had been ferocious, the intensity assisted by the heat-wave, but initial observations showed that it had probably been fuelled with petrol, the molten green plastic container near where the door had been suggested so.
Before sending the licence to the forensic department, Burns noted what he could from the details. Later he discussed them with his colleague. “Come on Sarah, get your thinking cap on. Let’s work this out.” They scrutinised the notes.
‘MR J - - K - - - / - REDER - - - / - - - OKS
FLAT -
WAR - - N - - - - - / COUR -
BEDF - - D
B - - - - -
BRO - - 90 - - - 3- F 9 - -‘
Sarah’s initial thoughts came quickly. “Well, it’s definitely Bedford, and the first five letters of a driver number are the first five letters of the surname, so the surname must be Brooks.”
“Nice one. Right, copy it down, I want you to contact the DVLA, see if their computer can do a search with the details we have, and contact the Bedford station, see if they can help.”
Krein printed the emailed attachment, reading the pages avidly. The recreated murders on past dates corresponded with the murders Kopycat had completed, and the next one was dated thirty first of August, the Jack the Ripper mutilation of Polly Nichols. Their suppositions had been right, Kopycat planned to be in Whitechapel tonight, and their vast operation was going to catch him. Krein forwarded the email to a colleague, requesting she send it to every member of the investigation team, and he basked in his new complacency.
Spencer drew a chair to Krein’s desk, he listened intently, gradually smiling as he heard about the find in Windsor. He then produced a folder, and discussed the details of tonight’s operation with Krein. The exercise would be concentrating on Brick Street, Whitechapel Road, and Durward Street, as that was the route Jack the Ripper had supposedly taken a hundred and twenty years before.
Obviously the area was totally different now. Whitechapel Road was now a main thoroughfare with heavy traffic travelling day and night. Durward Street, which had been Buck’s Row in Jack the Ripper’s day, was reasonably busy too. Krein considered how Kopycat was planning to kill in the open, without being seen by one of the many passers by. Spencer explained there were many alleyways along the route, and they would ensure that each and every one was policed.
The day was long and slow, Krein yearned for the evening to come, he couldn’t wait to finally come face to face with the man he had hunted for so long.
Linda was distraught as she recapped the latest argument with her once wonderful daughter. She poured a large white wine, and turned the oven off, her appetite gone. She had been so proud when Mary had sailed through adolescence with barely a tantrum, she’d had no obvious interest in drugs, although Linda suspected some of her friends weren’t so sensible. Mary had a healthy respect for alcohol, and if she drank at all, it would be in moderation. She had a lovely face and a superb figure, and had avoided the trend of bulimia or anorexia. She was uncomplicated, funny, and clever. Quite simply, she had been a joy to raise. Until now.
Although Mary was in touch with her childhood contemporaries, she now favoured Natalie and Tara who she’d met at her first job in a fast food restaurant. Linda had hoped her daughter would hanker for a high profile career, but she was lazy, she was happy to earn enough money to get by and have fun, not understanding how heavily her parents subsidised her lifestyle. Sadly, Linda realised that five months was too long to be ‘just a stage’.
Tired from her fitful sleep, Linda had awoken too late, and Mary had already breakfasted by the time she appeared, swollen eyed, downstairs. Initially Mary had excitedly whooped about the fun she’d had the previous night at the fantastic club in Whitechapel, innocently oblivious that she narrowly escaped drug rape. Linda, not anticipating the overdramatic response to come, mentioned the Kopycat Killer, and suggested visiting London on the anniversaries of the Ripper murders was probably not a good idea.
Mary threw a major tantrum, accusing her mother of ruining her fun, her life, stating she didn’t want to be tied to Linda’s apron strings, and that she must understand that Mary was now an adult, was entitled to go out whenever, and wherever, she wanted.
With the benefit of maturity, Linda remained calm, she reiterated that she was simply concerned, as any mother would be. Mary’s selective hearing continued, and after declaring she would rebel if she wanted to, she snatched her jacket and stormed through the front door, slamming it for effect. Linda, lonely, worried, and pouring another drink to drown her fears, had no idea where her child was going.
Paula sat on the bench, her feet were aching, the walk to Victoria Park had been long and her ankle painful, accentuating the limp. She hadn’t been unaccompanied, God had chatted away as she travelled, congratulating her on the previous night’s duty, justifying its necessity, insisting on the work’s importance and how she needed to continue because she was so lucky to have been chosen. Paula had discussed the issues, animatedly, unaware of the consternation in the people surrounding her, and she especially inquired why the duties were so far apart, reasoning that she enjoyed killing so much, she was eager to do it more often.
This had angered her Lord, his voice had boomed, vociferous in her head. She was to stick with the plans. If somebody got in her way, fine, get rid of them, but she was not to question his authority, ever. Paula had thanked God, out loud.
Now comfortable on the bench, she pulled out her notes, re-reading, and instilling the details in her mind once more. Just over a week to go.
Ivan unlocked the doors of the Wallingford Bar, sighing inwardly at the thought of yet another boring Sunday night, with the same boring people, the same boring jokes. At forty three he was jaded with bar work. Eleven years before he had achieved a dream, becoming the manager of, what was then, a run down pub. He’d spruced it up, turned the clientele around, changed the losses into profits. But, now the bar ran smoothly, there weren’t any goals left to achieve, and he found each day increasingly tedious.
The work was unchallenging yet hard, the extended hours from the new legislation long, and being the boss came with a distinctive alienation. Ivan now wanted a peaceful life, he wanted a wife, and he wanted to leave the polluted city to enjoy a more rural existence, just take things easy. Maybe next year. He said that every year.
As always, Jim McRae was first in. A downcast, aging man, divorced, grown up kids, small room in a small house, an equally small job. His existence was having a brew or six at his favourite pub every day. He sat on the familiar bar stool he liked to call his own, leaning on
the bar, facing the door to watch the punters entering. Without being asked Ivan brought him a pint of Guinness.
Jim gulped half the pint, and breathed out heavily with pleasure, licking the froth from his lips. “You pour a good pint, Ivan. No Adelaide tonight?”
Ivan glanced at the clock on the wall. “She’s probably running a bit late. You know what she’s like!”
Jim finished his pint, slamming the glass on the bar. Regular as clockwork, he stood up and went to the Gents, Ivan took the glass and refilled it, muttering. “Work was bloody awful today, I bloody hate it.”
And Jim returned to his seat, stating. “Work was bloody awful today, I bloody hate it.” Not realising that Ivan, his back turned to Jim, was mimicking.
One by one the special team of officers bundled into vans and squad cars for deportation to the designated streets of Whitechapel. The briefing had been intricate, and the officers were enthusiastic. Most Sundays were spent trawling the streets, diffusing bar fights, removing illegally parked cars, mundane duties. So hunting a national killer, the most dangerous man in Britain today, broke the monotonous tedium at every level. Spirits were high.
They were deposited in Brick Lane, each one strolling, vigilant, to their designated patch. PC Gooding sauntered into the Wallingford Bar, clocked Ivan, and went to meet him. Ivan had always found it paid to be friendly with the police, they turned their backs a little more easily. He issued a welcoming smile. “Evening.”
“Evening.” Gooding removed a photofit of Kopycat from a folder he carried. He passed it to Ivan. “Have you seen this man at all?”
“No.” Ivan shook his head, his clientele tended to be older.
Gooding continued. “Would you keep it behind the bar, please Sir, and if the man comes in at all tonight, or even a tall woman resembling him, could you please contact us on that number.” Gooding’s finger traced the incident line number at the bottom of the page.
“You want me to put it on the wall?”
“No, let your staff see it, put it under the bar, but keep it discreet.”
As Gooding left Ivan’s thoughts turned to his staff. Adelaide. It was half past eight, usually she would phone if there was a problem. And then he remembered Roger Andrews the night before, and a vivid shudder spiralled down his spine. He took Jim’s glass, as if on automatic pilot, and refilled it. Perhaps he should phone her?
Considering the ongoing heat-wave, it was surprisingly cold as the clocks ticked towards midnight. Krein sat with DS Panton in the unmarked police car on Durward Street, wishing he’d brought an overcoat. The pair observed life happening on the busy road, watching for unusual movements, irregular happenings.
The excited momentum of the day had long gone, Krein was overtired, and fed up. The adrenaline that had pulsed through his veins as the operation had begun had drifted away gradually, as nothing untoward happened. Krein sighed, it was going to be a long night. The original murder hadn’t happened until roughly three thirty in the morning. Hours to go yet.
Paula was freezing. Although her damp clothes had dried in the heat of the day, a light blouse and flimsy skirt weren’t enough to stave off the chilly breeze that rattled through the trees from Crown Gate Lake. Paula shivered as she walked briskly through Victoria Park. She’d spent the past few hours searching for a place to stay, an unlocked shed, boarded up house, anything to keep her from the cold and let her lay her head.
Money was never a problem, she’d replenished her pockets with Adelaide’s hard earned cash, but she wanted to avoid bed and breakfast if possible, too much risk of being recognised.
The path met Old Ford Road, and she exited the park, aimlessly walking to keep her blood flowing. A car horn tooted and she jumped, turning to spy the driver; a middle aged, smart suited, bespectacled man. He motioned for her to come over. Lowering the electric window on the passenger side, the driver leant over, and Paula peered in, her face questioning.
The ogling leer on his face answered her simply. “Do you want a lift, love?” His grin, displaying his uneven teeth, was lecherous. To his amazement and delight, Paula opened the door and climbed in. The blood flow increasing to his genitals, Michael Ayrs drove away.
Securing the doors, Ivan left the Wallingford Bar. He was increasingly worried, having tried Adelaide’s landline and mobile numerous times throughout the evening. She was a creature of habit, and this wasn’t like her. Something was wrong, and his concern was tinged with guilt. He shouldn’t have left her last night, should have slept on the sofa, that Roger Andrews was a predator and he was worried Adelaide had been his bait.
His steps were quick in the chilly air as he covered the distance to Adelaide’s home. Police officers littered the streets, something was going on, and he guessed it had something to do with the photofit from earlier.
Eventually Ivan reached Durward Street, he stepped up to the green door, his concerns growing as he noted all the lights blazing behind the closed curtains. Adelaide was a penny pincher, and electricity cost money. He knocked, and placed his icy hands in trouser pockets. Waiting. He tried again, but still no reply. Now fearsome, something felt badly wrong, he called through the letterbox. The brightly lit house was silent, so, regrettably, as the scene would not leave him for the rest of his life, Ivan peered through.
Bile surged into his throat, the sight of his former lover’s body ripped, shredded, brought the huge man to his knees. An uncontrollable wail surged from his throat, he was howling, baying, out of his macho control.
Krein had watched the colossal man approach the house, he’d noted the desperate knocking, and now he moved instantly towards the horrified figure, springing from the car, and across the street, up the short path. Pushing the hulk aside gently, Krein copied his movements, desperate to see what had broken the man. He saw, and his heart sank.
How could he have missed it? He’d been in Durward Street for over three hours. No one had entered the house. Nobody had left it. Panton, who had closely followed Krein’s lead agreed to these facts. Automaton taking over, Krein radioed for assistance, and within an hour the house was broken into, cordoned off, the street alive with flashing blue lights and the buzz of policemen, paramedics, forensic experts. And vultures.
The man staggered across the pavement, not sure where he was, or where he was going. His hand was clasping his stomach, holding his intestines inside. His blood oozed prolifically, pumping from the gaping wound. He was tired, exhausted, but he couldn’t stop. He needed a hospital. Now.
Michael Ayrs had been thrown, minutes before, from his own car. Events had happened so suddenly, he couldn’t remember much, and his head was getting muzzier by the second. Struggling to recall: there was the attractive woman. Bitch! A flash of metal, then shock. Not pain, just shock. She’d pulled the handbrake. The car skidded full circle. And stopped. She’d pushed him onto the road. Moved onto his seat. Stolen his car. No accident. No cars to help him. Alone. She drove away.
Michael had struggled to his feet. Wobbly steps took him to the pavement. His eyes screwed up as pain overcame the shock. Was this the end? Needed help. Bleeding to death. Headlights shining behind. Muster strength. Got to stop. Stop the car.
It didn’t stop. The car tooted angrily as the driver shook his fist through the open window, steering masterfully past the wounded man. Forlorn, Michael saw a ray of hope. A sign. Red sign. White H. Hospital nearby.
As Michael staggered through the doors of the All Saints Hospital in Lambeth his weary body finally gave up. He slumped to his knees, his body falling forward. A nurse shouted for assistance as she rushed towards him. She felt his pulse, it was speeding, signifying major blood loss. She moved his knee, forcing him into the recovery position, but his intestines spilled over the corridor, his grasp released. A hardened nurse, her stomach lurched. Assistance arrived, they needed to get the man into surgery immediately, and within seconds he was attached to a drip, generously donated blood products being pumped into his body, as his own gushed out.
It was
doubtful he would survive the night.
Monday 1st September
The crucial members of the investigation team were assembled in the incident room, heads down, shoulders drooping, nobody spoke although they all knew what was coming. The heavy footsteps neared the door, and the hearts of the twelve men leapt into their chests. Falder-Woodes, followed by Superintendent Brannigan, entered, and the men stopped slouching, needing to appear credible somehow.
The two superiors took centre stage, their presence daunting, and through gritted teeth, Brannigan spoke concisely. “What went wrong?” His words were quiet, although they may as well have been shouted for the effect they had. The twelve heads dropped again, feet shuffling, nobody could answer, because nobody knew. “Well?” His voice was rising, his fury palpable. He slammed his fist on the desk before him, and now his yelling could be heard across the first floor. “I’m asking a bloody question, damn it! What the bloody hell went wrong?”
Spencer was the bravest man in the room. “The operation was planned to perfection, I have no idea how Kopycat slipped through our surveillance.”
And he wished he hadn’t been brave, for the venom was now directed at him. “The newshounds are going to make bloody mincemeat of us. This isn’t bloody Mickey Mouse we’re playing with! Find out what went wrong, and sort it. I want no more killings, do you hear me! Enough of this. Enough of our time and money has been wasted playing bloody games with this madman.”