by Ricki Thomas
He knew she was right. He knew he’d have to be graphic with Mary to make her understand she mustn’t return to Whitechapel. Ever, as far as he was concerned. And he knew he’d have to get over himself and get back on the case. Millions of daddy’s babies walked the streets, each of them a potential victim of the worst serial killer in Britain’s history. He felt a resurgence, he felt his strength return.
He’d deliberated for long enough. Andrew Hope lay the newspaper down, he took the phone and dialled the number that stared at him. “Incident line. Can I help you?”
“Hi, I, er, I, well, I’ve just read an article in the Evening Standard about that murder last night, that woman in the taxi.” Andrew had no idea why he felt so stupid, as if he was wasting police time.
“Yes sir. Do you have some information?” Hope.
“I think I might have seen the bloke that jumped in the canal.” Andrew fidgeted with the greying coverlet on the arm of the sofa, aware he had the woman’s full attention. “I was on the tube and this weird looking geyser gets on, he was soaking wet.”
“What time was that?” She was waving her arm, she wanted Spencer’s attention.
“Mmmm, about half one in the morning, something like that.” A needless glance at his watch.
“Sir, I’m going to send someone over to take a statement from you, can I please take some details from you?” Spencer was now hovering behind her.
“Sure, no probs.”
“Can I have your name and address?” The pen was poised, ready.
Spencer had gone in person to take Andrew’s statement at his flat in West Hampstead, having considered, and ruled out, contacting the nearest station to delegate the task to. He had a gut feeling about the sighting that belied rational explanation. His hunch had been right, the statement was detailed, fantastic, the witness spot on, the information encouraging.
He dialled Krein’s home number, interrupting a fiery discussion with Mary, who stormed out of the front door as soon as he picked up the phone. Linda mouthed ‘I told you so’ before taking her bag and leaving the house. Desolate, Krein’s hopes failed to rise as he listened Spencer’s new lead, his colleague’s enthusiasm not travelling. Replacing the receiver, Krein was faced with a choice. He either stay back and save his family, or he commute back to London and brainstorm with the team to clear the streets of an incomprehensible madman. He waited an hour, neither Mary or Linda showed any signs of returning, and the decision became easier. He jumped into the car, heading for the station to return to London. It was ten in the evening by the time he sat at his desk, Andrew Hope’s statement was, as requested, waiting for him. Krein was impressed, the detail was tremendous.
He read the words quietly to himself, speaking them helped to imprint them on his memory. “His hair was a mess, it was pale, but not blond, not white, almost a slight orange tinge, but he had brown eyebrows which looked odd. His hair was patchy, not like a bald geyser, but sort of clumps of it were missing.” This correlated with the man Krein had watched, he was certain Andrew was describing the hunted man.
He continued. “His scalp was red and sore, looked a bit scabby, bit gruesome. He wore tweed trousers, they didn’t reach his trainers, and he walked with a bad limp. Had a young face, but dressed like he was old, and his shirt was ripped at the shoulder. There was a fair bit of blood and dirt on it, like he’d had a fall or something. Quite tall, well, my height, and he was soaking wet, he was shivering.”
The voice made him jump, he had no idea he had company. “Keep going, it gets better.” Spencer was standing behind him.
“He got off at West Hampstead, my stop, and I walked behind him out of the station, he went the same way as me. I held back because I wanted to see what he was doing, he looked really suspicious. He didn’t seem to know his way around. He went along West End Lane for a while, then went down Inglewood Road, the road I live in. I was walking slowly behind him, he knocked on the door of a house, across the road from mine.
I started to cross the road to go to my flat, I wasn’t watching him any more, but I heard the door open and the old guy who lives there said ‘Yes?’ then there was a thud. I looked round but the door slammed. I thought it was odd, but not worth calling the coppers. But I think it might be the geyser you’re looking for.”
Krein laid the statement down, he was lost for words. He mulled the words in his head, and slowly turned to Spencer, who had pulled up a chair. “Bloody hell!” Spencer nodded, his enthusiasm beaming with his smile. “Have you sent someone round to the house?”
“Of course! An elderly couple live there, the husband’s in hospital with a head injury, his wife won’t leave his side.”
“Don’t tell me, hit on the head with a blunt object.”
Spencer’s smile abated. “The woman swears he just fell and hit his head. It doesn’t make sense.”
“So she didn’t see Kopycat?”
“She’s old, Krein. She says she didn’t hear the doorbell, just assumed her husband had gone downstairs for a glass of water. But she says she did hear a thud, and that’s when she came downstairs. It probably took her a while, she’s slow on her feet. Said her husband was on the floor, bleeding from his head.”
“This doesn’t make sense. If Andrew Hope says the door slammed, then that means Kopycat was in the house. And why hear a thud, but not the doorbell? I don’t like this.” Spencer shot a knowing look, he was uncomfortable too. Something felt wrong. “Have forensics checked the scene? Has she been through the drawers to see if any clothes are missing, we all know Kopycat will be after another disguise now his last one’s been blown.”
Spencer shook his head, and, at that moment, Krein wished he’d never returned to his hometown. Something was hugely wrong, and his stupid breakdown had wasted valuable time. He checked his watch, ten fifteen. How could he justify calling out forensics at this time of night, for a case nearly a day old?
The two men, both exhausted, both wide awake, discussed the latest anomalies. They both knew that events hadn’t panned out as described by the old lady, and they needed to speak with her. Unfortunately that would have to wait until the morning.
One thing was certain. Kopycat wouldn’t have knocked randomly at that door, ready to knock out whoever answered. Somehow he knew that the owners were aged, that he could issue violence without the threat of being overpowered. This was a major breakthrough. Krein was convinced that by discovering more about the elderly couple, they would find the trail back to the killer. His identity, not his movements. The conversation was long. They shared a bottle of Teachers, knowing the next day would be pivotal. Both slept on their paperwork.
Tuesday 9th September
Michael Dennison, his head swathed in bandages, lay, broken, mute, slumbering, life ebbing in and out of the frail body with each struggled breath. His wife, Elizabeth, didn’t notice Krein approaching as she kept Michael’s hand clasped inside hers, praying her life would transfer and bring his strength back. He’d been such a sturdy man for so many years, tall and athletic, and now he was a weakened shell.
Krein stooped beside her. “Mrs Dennison?”
Her weary, bloodshot eyes gazed up at him, indifferent. “Yes.”
“Mrs Dennison, I’m Detective Inspector Krein, from the Major Investigation Team. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” Krein swore he noted a hesitation. This woman was definitely hiding something. She knew who the killer was. How was he going to appeal to her common sense, extract the sentiment and replace it with sanity?
“They tell me he was hit. I just assumed he’d fallen.”
“Do you know the man who did this to your husband?”
The brow furrowed, her eyes shot to the left. She was lying. “I thought he’d fallen. I called an ambulance.”
He was about to tell a lie himself. Not big enough to lay his job on the line, and anyway, he’d laid the rest of his life on the line for this case already, he had nothing left to lose. “Mrs Dennison, this morning I obtained a warrant to break
into your house, to enable a forensic team to investigate your property. We believe that the man who struck your husband has committed a number of vicious murders over the past three months. If you are protecting that man, it would be easier for everyone involved, including yourself, to just tell the truth.”
Elizabeth struggled to her feet, her arthritic hand loosening its grip from Michael’s. Krein was amazed how tall she was for a woman her age. She stepped, frail, to the water jug, and poured a small amount into the waiting glass. Sipping. Buying time. “Mr Kipling, I’m not protecting any man. I thought Michael fell. End of story.”
She was good. But so was he. “Krein. My name is Krein. Okay, can you tell me exactly what happened last night, please?”
Her eyes met his, the flash of green unsettling, and suddenly he realised she’d just challenged him. She may be old, she may be worn, but this woman was highly intelligent, and she was about to play him like a grand piano. He knew that whatever came from her mouth would be a fairy tale, she was only going to give him the truth she wanted him to hear. She was talking now, but he wasn’t listening. He had to arrange the warrant he’d told her he already had, he needed forensic scientists in that house, and he needed every person related, or known to, Elizabeth Dennison to be checked out.
Krein said his goodbyes, he left the hospital, and as soon as he’d left the room Elizabeth began to cry. For her wounded husband, for her family, for her lies. She would sort out the problems, her family’s dirty washing was not going to be aired in public. She was grateful when her daughter came in, elegant, sweeping, attractive. “Mum, oh, Mum.” Rushing over, hugging, tightly, desperately, so many months of unsaid words melting away. “I came as soon as I heard. How is he?” Gail took her father’s hand. He looked older than ever, smaller, weaker, vulnerable.
“He’s alive, darling, that’s a good place to start. But he is very ill.”
Gail pulled a chair up, she kissed her mother’s cheek lightly, and sat. “The police say he was attacked. Have you heard any more?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I just thought he’d fallen.”
Moira Delaney drove into the narrow driveway of her father’s home as she did every Tuesday afternoon. Sighing, she turned off the engine and, grabbing the groceries, stepped briskly to the front door, sifting through the key ring. Pushing the door wide, she breezed in. Instantly, something felt wrong. The smell was wrong. “Dad?”
She laid the carrier bags on the kitchen side, concerned. “Dad?” Louder. Ewan Davies wasn’t in his favourite fireside chair. She tripped up the uneven stairs of the two hundred year old cottage, and the odour became cloying. Knowing she was about to be shocked, Moira pushed his bedroom door wide, screaming before the sight registered properly. Somehow her fingers dialled the police, and her story was haphazard, laced with intermittent wails and howls.
When they arrived, less than ten minutes later, her face was swollen and reddened from the stunned crying, her shoulders juddering, shaking, and a large brandy in her hand. “He’s upstairs.” Her voice little more than a croak, before swigging back the alcohol, and lighting yet another cigarette in the usually smoke free cottage.
Ewan Davies lay, on his side, the covers up to his waist, on the bed. His white hair was matted with crusty blackened spillage, as were the blue cotton sheets. The blood loss had been tremendous, he’d survived the murderous blow for a long time, his heart pumping blood whilst his determined body fought death. Death had won.
Another murder scene. Another investigation. The house was cordoned off, the specialists brought in.
Jaswinder’s voice trickled over the crackling telephone line as if it were molten chocolate, and, strange as it sounded, Krein understood the logic in what she was directing him to do. He replaced the receiver, wishing he could open up personally to Jaswinder, tell her he had strong feelings for her. Every time a thought like that passed in his mind, he’d guiltily admonish himself: he had a wife already. But he couldn’t help it.
He called Panton across. “Could you contact the police department who initially dealt with the Davies murder, I need a SOCO to go back to the scene and check his wardrobe.”
“What, for woodworm!” Panton scoffed.
“Get a life! The clothes that Kopycat was wearing when we last saw him were the type of things an elderly man would wear. It could be that Davies was killed purely for his wardrobe, according to our criminal psychologist.”
Her hair was cut short, coloured believably, and shaped neatly into a bob. Linda stepped from the hairdressing salon feeling younger than her forty-five years: she felt glamorous, attractive. Now that the weight of her marriage was off her shoulders, she had a vibrant spring in her step, and she almost trotted along the Cornmarket towards Marks and Spencers.
After finding David had left when she’d returned from the library on Monday, she’d alleviated herself of any guilt, any doubts were gone. His heart was in the marriage as much as hers: not at all. She’d been to see a solicitor, Mr Graves, in the morning, and he would be preparing a divorce petition within the next week. Linda had no intention of being greedy with her demands, but she did want to keep the house. Graves had informed her that as long as Mary lived at home that shouldn’t be a problem.
She fingered the dresses. Her date with Gordon was tomorrow, and she wanted something elegant, sophisticated, flattering, something that would ensure his eyes were fixated on her. Somehow she found herself in the underwear department, scanning the lace, the delicate filigrees, the sexiness, sleeping with Gordon hadn’t crossed her mind before, and she was surprised.
Mary was nearby, deciding which to buy of the three G-strings she held. She noticed her mother, her jaw dropped. The idea of her mother dressing sexily was atrocious, she was way too old. She’d believed that her parents had stopped that kind of behaviour years ago. And she remembered that her father was in London. And that her mother was going out the next night, she’d not said where, or who with. And she recalled the man holding her mother’s hand in the teashop. And she felt sick. Her mother was having an affair.
Mary dropped the G-strings, she needed air, her breath was stilted, she had to get away. She ran from the shop, standing in the rain, the thick droplets soaking her but not mattering any more. The icy water ran under her collar, down into her clothes, the discomfort meted by her desperation, and soon her tears intermingled with the downpour.
Another previous murder date was approaching, and the area was due to be heavily policed. Krein scanned the details again. Twelfth September nineteen oh seven. Emily Dimmock, known as Phyllis. Throat slashed, in her room, in St Paul’s Road, now known as Agar Grove, near Camden Town, in London. Robert Wood was tried. And acquitted. This was definitely Kopycat’s style, and stood out from the others in the Black Museum Bunch’s latest report.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to speak to Jaswinder for her professional opinion, or just to hear her voice again. He dialled her home number, she wouldn’t still be working this late in the evening. “Jaswinder, it’s me again, Krein.”
The line was silent, he kicked himself, feeling instantly foolish. Some crackling, and she was back, he guessed she’d just clenched the phone between her shoulder and cheek, her breathing stated she was multitasking. “Quickly, yes. How can I help you?”
Krein was amazed, a baby was crying in the background. “It’s about Kopycat, I just wanted your opinion on something.”
More crackling, and the crying stopped. “Yep, go on.”
He didn’t mean to, it was none of his business, but the words tumbled out. “I didn’t know you had a baby.”
Aggressively businesslike, hostile and abrupt. “Why would you? What can I help you with?”
Krein cringed, she was so professional it was excruciating. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, love her. Quickly, he checked himself. “Are you familiar with the Emily Dimmock murder? It’s known as …”
“The Camden Town murder. Yes.”
Krein was blushing involuntarily, w
hy was she being so curt? He needed to talk his way through this, it was nine in the evening, and there wasn’t another person on the entire planet that he’d rather be talking to. It dawned on Krein that he needed Jaswinder. So he was going to sound informative and adult. “That’s the next one, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “He’s getting savage. The attempt on Michael Dennison. The attack on Ewan Davies. I think he’s lost it. He’s past the attention to detail stage, I don’t know. Shit Jas, help me out here.”
The desperation in his voice was evident, and Jaswinder’s tone softened instantly. He had the Jaswinder he loved back. “I’m with you, Krein, I think you’re right. From the evidence I have seen with the past two murders, well, I mean the last two recreated murders, I think you’re right. He is definitely more savage. He’s long past the stage of caring any more, he has a blood lust, he wants to kill, he wants to rip, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t even wait until the twelfth. Having killed Ewan Davies and fatally wounded Michael Dennison, neither of them being recreations from what we can gather, I feel it’s likely he will just kill now, randomly.”
Krein felt his heart sink, his shoulders droop. He’d expected that, but not wanted to hear it. “Jas, help me here, I’m losing a grip. Where will he be now?”
She considered carefully, he loved her more. “It’s tempting to say Slough, he’s obviously familiar, but, and this is just my gut feeling Krein, so don’t be putting an official stamp on it, the last place he killed was in London, and I don’t believe he’ll be bothered to travel any more. He’ll stay there now, satisfying his blood lust, until you guys get him. Off the record.”