Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  When he had assimilated as much as he could, Tyler signalled for Calvin to send the pathologist over. Jack watched in silence as the boffin went through his usual routine. A chemical thermometer was inserted into the victim’s rectum to take the internal body temperature. Next, the ambient temperature was taken. A corpse tends to lose body heat at one and a half degrees Fahrenheit an hour for the first twelve hours following death.

  The pathologist then checked to see how advanced rigor and livor mortis was. Rigor is hastened by muscle mass, loss of blood and the prevailing temperature of the environment in which the body is found. Tracey, in her semi-naked condition, would have cooled faster and stiffened slower out here then she would have done had she been discovered laying in her bed inside a warm room.

  An external examination was made of the body to note the injuries and state of her clothing. A search was then made of the body, the immediate area surrounding it, and underneath it. Photographs were taken and any obvious trace evidence was collected to prevent it being lost during transit.

  Dillon turned to address Speed. “Just out of interest, where are her knickers?” he asked. The pathologist, who was just about to call the morticians over, hesitated.

  “As far as we know she wasn’t wearing any,” Speed answered calmly.

  “Either that or our ghoulish friend likes to keep souvenirs,” Dillon suggested, glancing at Tyler.

  Jack nodded his agreement but said nothing. He was too absorbed in his own thoughts to speak. He had the oddest feeling that he was being watched. He nodded for the removal to continue, and then carefully made his way over to the side of the Portakabin, where he began to examine the message. He read it several times, lost in thought. “Who’s ‘Jack’?” he asked at last.

  “The obvious answer is ‘Jack the Ripper’ but that doesn’t make much sense,” Speed said.

  “On the contrary,” Jack Tyler said, miserably. “I hate to say it, but having seen the body I think it makes perfect sense.”

  Dillon frowned. He could see what Tyler was hinting at, but he wasn’t convinced they were witnessing the dawn of a new Ripper style series. But if that were the case the investigation would quickly become a logistical nightmare, and unless it was properly handled right from the start it would cause widespread panic amongst large sections of the public. At least he now understood why Holland had felt obliged to attend the scene. “Bloody hell, Jack!” he whispered. “We need to catch this freak before he strikes again.”

  But Tyler wasn’t listening. Studying the skyline, he swivelled in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree arc until he found what he was looking for.

  A few streets away stood a single tower block. It was undoubtedly high enough to give someone on the roof area a good view down into this yard. Maybe he was imagining things, but the spooky feeling just wouldn’t go away. And then, just as he was about to turn away, sunlight suddenly glinted off something reflective on the roof, momentarily dazzling him. It was gone in an instant, but it was enough to alarm him. He turned to Ray Speed.

  “I’m probably being a little paranoid, but I’ve had the eeriest feeling that we’re being watched since we arrived here. That tower block over there is the only place high enough for someone to observe us from, and I thought I just saw something glinting up there, as if the sun was reflecting off the lenses of a pair of binoculars. Can you get someone to go over there, right now, to check out the roof?”

  Speed looked up at the block and then at Tyler. Normally, if someone said something like that to him under circumstances like these, he would put it down to their having an overactive imagination, but he recalled Nick Bartholomew having exactly the same feeling about being watched when they first arrived. Speed didn’t believe in coincidences. He raised his radio and began to issue orders.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Disciple sat on the roof of Richmond Point watching the drama unfold down below. He had been there since five-thirty and had thoroughly enjoyed the show so far.

  After carefully arranging the body and writing the message, he had fled up here to await the arrival of the watchman. One of the unexpected highlights of the overall experience was the elderly man’s reaction when he unwittingly stumbled across her dissected remains. Clutching his chest in shock, the old fool had nearly keeled over, and it had given The Disciple such a buzz to watch.

  So far, the experience had surpassed all his expectations. The pleasure he’d derived from his time with the girl was nothing short of exquisite. Just thinking about the things he had done to her produced a warm, tingly feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  He reached down into his rucksack and removed the lace underwear he had taken from her lifeless shell. Slowly, almost reverently, he raised the keepsake to his face and gently breathed in her scent. He could smell her cheap perfume, her body odour and, best of all, her fear.

  After gutting her like a fish, he’d extracted samples from the whore’s Duodenum, Jejunum, and Ileum, and he planned to eat a mouthful of each immediately after sunset this evening – when the veil that separated this world from the Otherworld was at its thinnest – while chanting the specific words of power that accompanied the cannibalistic stage of the ritual.

  All in all, he was feeling mightily pleased with himself, and although he still had another four whores to kill, he felt that he was entitled to give himself a little pat on the back for the way things had turned out so far.

  Tenderly, almost lovingly, he lowered the dead girl’s undergarment to the floor and reached back into his rucksack for the powerful Zeiss binoculars. Lifting them to his eyes the killer studied the cyclone of activity below. Nothing had changed; the police were still running around like headless chickens.

  He scanned the crowd gathered along the outside of the cordon through the binoculars, and smiled. They really were like sheep; if one went to look, the others all followed; if one waited to see what was happening, they all waited, even though none of them had the faintest idea what was going on.

  They would find out soon enough.

  Soon the mere mention of his stage name, ‘Jack’, would be enough to send spasms of terror through the heart of every whore in London. He could picture it all so clearly in his mind’s eye.

  The sudden radio transmission startled him, and he swung the binoculars back towards the centre of the yard. To his horror, one of the detectives was pointing up at the tower block. He quickly ducked his head down beneath the overhang, wondering if they had spotted him. The Disciple listened attentively to the increased radio chatter, and within moments his fears were confirmed: they were sending people up here. “Son of a bitch!” he growled, as surprise and then panic set in.

  He had to move quickly. If he didn’t, the game would be over before it had properly begun. Jumping to his feet, his joints stiff from having sat still for so long, he scooped up his bottle of mineral water and hurriedly wedged it into his rucksack between the carefully wrapped selection of knives and scalpels and the cool bag that contained the dead girl’s intestines. The binoculars went in next. When he tried to ram the Storno radio into the bag, its wire immediately snagged on the blade of the hacksaw he had used to remove the fire escape’s padlock when he’d climbed up onto the roof earlier.

  “Fuck,” he exclaimed, trying to untangle it.

  Crouching so that they wouldn’t be able to see him from street level, he began to scuttle crab-like towards the fire escape door, still trying to jiggle the radio’s wire free of the hacksaw blade so that he could close the blasted rucksack.

  As he reached the metal door, he checked over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t inadvertently left anything incriminating behind, and what he saw caused him to stop dead in his tracks. Somehow, the girl’s underwear must have fallen out of his rucksack as he’d stood up. He knew there was no time to retrieve the item, not if he wanted to guarantee his escape, but he couldn’t leave without his trophy, not after going through so much to get it.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he screamed. Dropping th
e cumbersome rucksack, he sprinted back to the spot he had just vacated, trying to keep as low as possible. Skidding to a halt, The Disciple stooped down and snatched the panties up like a relay runner collecting a baton. Spinning on the spot, he charged back to the fire escape, colliding painfully with the edge of the metal door. Scooping up the rucksack, the killer darted through the outer fire escape door and descended the narrow flight of stairs that led back inside.

  The radio continued to blare inside his bag. Somehow the volume had been turned up to the maximum as he put it away. A tinny voice informed him that two officers had just entered the lift and were on their way up to the top floor. He had to get into the main stairwell before they emerged from the lift or he’d be trapped. His heart felt as though it had swollen to the size of a football and was pounding fiercely against his ribcage, trying to break free.

  He wasn’t going to make it.

  He stumbled and almost fell down the last step. He slammed the heavy inner fire door shut and began fumbling desperately inside his jacket pocket. Where was the new padlock he had purchased to replace the one he had sawn through this morning?

  He glanced at the lift. The floor counter above indicated that it was nearly at the top.

  “Come on, come on!” he hissed, pulling the padlock from his pocket at last.

  With trembling fingers, he threaded the clasp through the hole and snapped it shut.

  The killer darted into the stairwell just as the lift door started to open.

  Had they seen him?

  He lingered long enough to catch a fleeting glimpse of the two uniformed officers through a crack in the door, and then he was gone, taking the stairs three at a time. He descended the upper floors as fast as he could, cannoning into walls as he negotiated one right angle after the next. When he got halfway down, and there was still no sign of pursuit, he began to feel a bit more confident, but he increased his pace anyway, just in case the clever bastards had gone back down in the lift. By the time he reached the bottom he was exhausted by his exertions and struggling for breath. Despite this, The Disciple began to giggle; the lift was still on the top floor. He had made it.

  If they only knew how near they had come to catching him.

  But how had it happened?

  He racked his mind for answers, finally concluding that it must have been pure luck; there was no conceivable way that they could have known he’d be up there. But did it really matter? He had outsmarted them and he was still ahead in the game, and that was the way it was going to stay. As he left the block, his face bright red and dripping with sweat, and his makeup running, he started laughing uncontrollably. A police car, the blue lights on its roof bar still flashing brightly, was parked right next to his van. He patted the patrol car’s roof as he slipped past it to reach his van.

  The killer climbed into the beat-up old Sherpa and started the engine, then reversed out of the parking space. It was time to go, but not before he took one last look at his work. He knew it was reckless to return to the scene of the crime, but the impulse was too strong to resist.

  He whistled merrily as he guided the ancient van back along Quaker Street, driving slowly past the length of the police cordon, just another motorist caught in traffic and following the queue of vehicles in front.

  As he drew level with the site entrance, he spotted two men coming out of it. He recognised the taller of the two as the one who had pointed up at the tower block. Frowning, The Disciple eased off the gas pedal to give himself a better view of the man. He sensed that this man was determined and resourceful and that he would make a dangerous opponent. He would remember that face; store it away for future reference. The other man looked dangerous in a different way, like a bare-knuckle fighter.

  The two detectives – he didn’t recognise them so, presumably, they were from the murder squad and not locals – were engaged in conversation as they crossed to the big green saloon on the other side of the road. As they climbed inside, he wondered what they were talking about. While the killer covertly studied them in his side mirror, he became aware that a constable on the opposite pavement was shouting at him to move on. “Alright, alright,” he griped. Placating the hot-headed officer with an apologetic wave, The Disciple gunned the accelerator and drove away.

  As he entered Commercial Street he glanced down at his watch and saw that it was nearly ten o’clock; time to conceal the van and get some sleep. He wished the old heap’s radio still worked so that he could catch the hourly news bulletin. Still, there wouldn’t be much to report yet.

  He suddenly felt inexplicably tired, as though he had hit a wall of fatigue. For a moment he wondered if he would have the energy to make the journey back, so urgent was the need to rest. Despite the exhaustion, The Disciple was feeling pretty good. He grinned contentedly as he patted the dead girl’s panties, which were still safe in his jacket pocket. It would have been unthinkable to leave these behind.

  Now that the first killing had occurred the authorities would be looking for him, and he would have to hide under the mask of his other, weaker, persona for a little while. It wouldn’t be easy after the freedom he’d enjoyed these last few hours, but he’d just have to grit his teeth and get on with it. He understood that the disguise was a necessary inconvenience. Anyway, his return to anonymity wouldn’t last very long, he promised himself. The reign of Jack, the new improved ‘Ripper’, had finally begun.

  Long live the Ripper!

  ◆◆◆

  The two officers dispatched to check the top floor and roof area of the tower block reported back with a negative result. There was no sign of activity on the top floor stairwell and the entrance to the roof area was safely padlocked. There was no other way up onto it.

  Tyler thanked Ray Speed for his assistance and allowed the forensic technicians to get on with the scene examination. The victim’s head and hands were forensically wrapped by Sam Calvin, then she was placed in the black body bag and the zip was done up and security tagged.

  “I think I’ve seen enough for now,” Tyler said, nodding for the others to follow him. “Have we managed to identify her yet?” he asked as they walked back towards the site gate, Speed at his side, Dillon and Holland following behind.

  “She had a small bag, a purse with thirty pounds in it, plenty of condoms and a Social Security book. The name on the book is Tracey Phillips,” Speed informed him. “She’s a South London girl, from the look of it. We’ve arranged for someone from the local nick to call on the home address. We should have a result on that fairly soon.”

  “Let me know as soon as you hear anything, Ray. And as soon as you can, get your troops relieved and bring them back to Whitechapel for the hot debrief.”

  “I’ll get it organised right away,” Speed said, and promptly peeled off to make the arrangements.

  When they reached the gate the three detectives removed their paper suits and overshoes.

  Jack noticed a look of misery darken Holland’s craggy face. “Alright Jack, let’s get down to business,” he said. “I’ve got a nasty feeling about this one. If the media gets hold of this, which it will, you’ll be under a lot of pressure to get a quick result, so you’ll need to move fast. I know you’ve only had the rank for a few months but I’ve every confidence in you.”

  ”So I’ll definitely keep it, even if it becomes a Cat. A?” Tyler asked, excited and scared at the same time. The Macpherson report, published back in February, had focused on the Met’s handling of the 1993 murder of South London teenager, Stephen Lawrence. The report didn’t make for fun reading, and the organisation had been heavily criticised for, amongst other things, failing to recognise that this was a racially motivated crime and failing to react accordingly.

  Apart from being branded insensitive and institutionally racist, the organisation’s ability to investigate murder and other serious crime had come under close scrutiny, and a number of serious failings had been highlighted. The report concluded that a lack of proper training was being provided to senior
investigating officers to enable them to make informed investigative decisions, and a lack of training was given to officers carrying out specialised roles. It also bemoaned the lack of resources provided to effectively conduct murder investigations and talked about failures to document decision making and conduct evidential procedures in a manner that would stand up to close inspection.

  The Commissioner had been hauled over the coals, and the backlash from his political masters and the media had prompted an urgent review of the Murder Manual, resulting in the new Gold Standard for murder investigation being promptly published in Police Order 6/99, which had come out in March.

  The rumour coming out of the corridors of power at The Yard was that the days of the Area Major Investigation Pools were over and that a new centralised command would be formed within the Serious Crime Group to replace them. Jack wanted to be a part of that, and while he recognised that leading this case to a successful conclusion would pretty much guarantee him a spot in the new Homicide Command, anything less could pretty much ruin his future career prospects.