Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  “Unless you fuck up, which you won’t,” Holland said. “Don’t worry, I’ll be watching over you. Pull out all the stops and keep me updated as it develops.” Holland shook Tyler’s hand again and gave him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. With a final nod to Dillon, he left them.

  As they crossed the road towards Steve and the car, Tyler turned to Tony Dillon.

  “I think this killer is in a different class to anyone we’ve ever come up against before, Tony,” he said.

  Dillon stopped in mid-stride and turned to face his friend. Jack hardly ever called him by his first name, never had in all of the years that they had worked together. It was a sign that he was worried. “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s the message,” Jack explained as they resumed walking. “He’s proud of what he did and he wants us to know that it was just the start. He’s going to strike again. The only question is when? We’re racing against the clock with this lunatic, playing a game that only he knows the rules to.”

  “So, we do what we're good at, Jack. We go out on the streets and crack a few heads together until we get a lead. And who cares if we don’t know the rules to his game. We make our own rules, remember?”

  As the two detectives climbed back into the dark green Omega, Steve Bull glanced expectantly from one to the other. “How bad was it?” he asked.

  “As bad as it gets, Steve,” Tyler answered.

  Shouting from across the street interrupted their conversation, and Tyler glanced out of his window to see young Constable Grier gesturing angrily at a beat-up van whose driver had stopped to gawk at the scene. He wondered why people had such a morbid fascination for death and gore. A large cloud of grey smoke spewed out of the van’s blowing exhaust as it drove off noisily.

  When it had quietened down outside, Tyler gave Bull the full rundown on what they had discovered at the murder scene. Steve was shocked. As Case Officer, he had been itching to go inside with them. Now, having heard the gory details, he was glad he’d remained with the car.

  “Where to now, boss?” he asked, keying the ignition.

  “Whitechapel nick, please Steve,” Tyler Instructed. “We’ve got a lot to do.” At this rate, he wasn’t sure that he would make his mother’s birthday dinner this evening after all. “What a day,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

  ◆◆◆

  As the Omega pulled into the cluttered rear yard at Whitechapel, Steve Bull spotted six murder squad colleagues waiting for them by the entrance to the custody suite. “Looks like the cavalry’s already here,” he grinned, pulling up next to them.

  A few minutes later, Jack Tyler and his staff were shown into an open plan office by the Station Reception Officer. “You can use this room all day, sir,” she said. “It doesn’t officially become operational until next week.”

  Jack smiled his thanks. Everything in the room looked brand new; from the dark blue heavy-duty carpets to the four rows of rectangular beech desks that ran along the left-hand wall; from the high-backed chairs, still neatly wrapped in the manufacturer’s cellophane, to the shiny silver filing cabinets. Even the walls were newly plastered and freshly painted.

  There were no grubby handprints or scuff marks from dirty shoes, no ugly gouges where people carrying heavy items or awkwardly shaped exhibits had dented the walls as they rushed down to the custody suite or out to the lab.

  On the downside, because it was so new the room was completely devoid of all the clutter that gave it personality; there were no photographs of loved ones; no pin-up posters, not even the odd jokey cartoon or topless calendar.

  But that would all soon change; nothing was policeman proof and within a couple of months the desks would be overflowing with case files and riddled with etchings and doodles, the walls would be dented and dirty; the velvety smooth swivel chairs would have squeaking casters and dodgy backs; the carpet would be covered in coffee stains and the incessant scatterings of little white dots that spill from leaky hole punches and make a cleaner’s life hell.

  “Pull up a chair and make sure you’ve got something to write on, and we’ll start the briefing,” Dillon told the six newcomers.

  “Wait,” Tyler said, signalling for his team to hold fire. “Before we get started can someone please organise some teas and coffees?”

  ◆◆◆

  Exactly fifteen minutes later, after Bull had managed to scrounge some hot drinks from the canteen, Tyler started the briefing. It was pretty basic because the information they had was so scant, but it was enough to get the wheels rolling.

  With only six people available, Tyler had to prioritise the taskings. DC Kelly Flowers, the dedicated Family Liaison Officer for this investigation, was told to contact the CAD room and find out how the call-on had gone in South London. If the victim was confirmed as the Phillips girl she was to get straight over there, update the family regarding what had happened and how the investigation would be carried out, and to obtain as much background information about the victim as she could.

  DC George Copeland, the exhibits officer, was dispatched to the scene to liaise with Sam Calvin.

  The house-to-house enquiries would have to wait until he had more staff at his disposal.

  DC Paul Evans was told to get his arse straight over to the local authority base and establish what CCTV coverage the borough had in the vicinity of the scene. He wanted last night’s footage from any camera covering the scene, and any that covered the various approach and exit routes, downloaded and viewed immediately.

  That left three detectives: DCs Colin Franklin, Reg Parker, and Richard Jarvis.

  He dispatched these to Commercial Street with specific instructions to look for any hookers, pimps, dealers and homeless types still floating about, and to see if any of them could shed some light on the victim’s last movements. He also wanted to know if any of the working girls could tell them who her friends and associates were and if she had any regular punters who might be weird enough to do something like this. They could say that a working girl had been found dead in suspicious circumstances, but they were not to reveal the nature of her death or the extent of her injuries. As soon as the local Safer Neighbourhood officers and anyone from the division’s small vice team came on duty, Jack promised he would get them to make contact and join up with his own people.

  Bull went down to the briefing room, where he gathered up the early turn officers who were arriving back at the station in dribs and drabs. When he finally had them all assembled he commenced the hot debrief. That took him the best part of an hour.

  ◆◆◆

  By four o’clock that afternoon very little progress had been made. The detectives who had been dispatched to Commercial Street had quickly reported back that, thanks to the ongoing police activity, it had become a ‘dross free zone’ by the time they arrived. They had promptly been redirected to commence preliminary house-to-house enquiries, but so far all they had to show for their efforts were sore feet.

  Not long after the briefing, a few more staff had arrived, and Tyler had dispatched two detectives to see the old watchman at the hospital. That hadn’t yielded anything significant either.

  DC Dean Fletcher and DC Wendy Blake, the two researchers from his Intel cell had been sent back to Arbour Square to start researching the victim and her known associates, but nothing was jumping out at them yet, much to Tyler’s displeasure.

  South London officers had conducted a call on at the address on the benefit book found in the victim’s purse, and they had spoken to Tracey Phillips’s mother, who described the clothing her daughter had been wearing when last seen; it matched their victim exactly. She had also given the officers a recent photo, which had been brought over to Whitechapel and shown to the continuity officer when he returned from escorting the victim’s body to the mortuary. Although a formal identification would still have to be made when the victim was cleaned up, there was no doubt that their victim was Tracey Phillips. DC Flowers, the FLO, was with the family now,
but they had no idea who might have done this to her.

  After the hot debrief, Inspector Speed popped his head around the door and asked if there was anything else he or his team could do before they left for the day. Tyler said no, thanked them for their hard work, and told the Inspector to go home and get some much-earned rest.

  “Oh, one last thing,” Tyler said. “I’ll need a leg up for a week or two from someone who knows the area and the local working girls. Have you got any idea where I might find a suitable candidate?”

  Speed smiled. “Well, funnily enough, I think I have the perfect person for you in Nick Bartholomew. He was on the Safer Neighbourhood Team covering Commercial Street for a year and knows all the main faces fairly well. Also, he has expressed an interest in applying for the TDC scheme next time it comes out, so this would be a good chance to gather some evidence, I suppose.” The Trainee Detective Constable scheme came out once a year, and it was the only route into the Criminal Investigation Department. Successful candidates were required to sit various exams and undertake a comprehensive training syllabus before becoming substantial detectives and pursuing a career within the CID.

  “What’s he like as a copper?” Jack asked.

  “He’s very good. He’s switched on and he’s been involved in this right from the start, which is a bonus, I suppose.”

  “Would my borrowing him cause you any hassle?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle. We go off core shifts for a few days now anyway so he would only be walking around doing Sector based stuff. You might want to consider taking Grier as well. They’re currently partnered, and the kid has a lot of potential.”

  Tyler nodded thoughtfully. “Okay,” he told Speed. “Tell them to be at Arbour Square for an 8 a.m. meeting tomorrow, and to dress smartly.”

  ◆◆◆

  Tyler was lost in thought as he sat in the back of the car during the journey back to Arbour Square. The first few days of a murder investigation were always the most crucial.

  George Copeland and Dillon would have to attend the special post mortem. Sam Calvin had called him to say it was being carried out at Poplar Mortuary in the morning.

  Other than that, tomorrow’s main thrust would be to push on with the CCTV. They would have to identify and seize all CCTV in the area, private systems as well as the local authority ones. So far, there was no news from the Paul Evans, the feisty Welshman he’d put on CCTV duties earlier today.

  House-to-house would have to start in earnest, but he’d been promised additional resources for that.

  His team would have to go out on the streets again tonight, canvassing the local prostitutes. He suspected it would be hard to gain the girls’ confidence and he anticipated that they might have to go back several nights on the trot before anyone started to talk to them. Perhaps Bartholomew would be able to help with that if he was the known and trusted face of the local plod. He would also speak to the people on ‘Clubs and Vice’, see if they had any ideas on how to break down the barriers between his team and the working girls. A sudden thought occurred to him. “I wonder if she was freelance or if she had a pimp?” he said.

  “Maybe we’ll find out later,” Dillon suggested. Hopefully, Kelly would get detailed background information about the victim from her family.

  Tyler had telephoned Chief Superintendent Holland with an update before leaving. They would talk further in the morning.

  As Bull glided the car to a halt outside the gate at Arbour Square, Dillon leaned into the back.

  “You shoot straight off; go to your mum’s birthday party for a few hours. I’ll hold the fort here.”

  “Thanks, Dill.”

  “There’s no need for you to come back in later, either, Jack. I’ll be there and if we get anything, I’ll call you on your mobile.”

  “We’ll see.” Tyler was tempted to accept the offer, but he knew he should be there with them. “I’ll phone you in a couple of hours. I can delay any decision about coming back in until then,” he said, getting out of the car.

  “You’re the boss,” Dillon sighed.

  As soon as they got to the office, Tyler grabbed a log book and set of keys for a pool car and waved goodbye. He would try to put this case out of his mind for a few hours and concentrate on his family, but something told him it would be easier said than done.

  CHAPTER 7

  Claude Winston was in a foul mood when he awoke, just after six that evening. The side of his face hurt like hell, and when he glanced down at the pillow, it was smeared with dried blood. “Bitch!” he cursed, tentatively reaching a large hand up to explore the inflamed skin around the scratches.

  Wrapping a bathrobe around his great bulk, he stumbled into the toilet, bladder full. He caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror, and his hatred flared, “She’ll pay for this,” he promised as he relieved himself.

  Winston had returned to Quaker Street just before six this morning, looking for Tracey. His plan was to lure her into the car by pretending to have a client for her to service nearby. He knew the crazy mixed up bitch was stupid enough to believe him, and it would have been easy to take her somewhere quiet and give her a severe beating.

  He had checked all her usual haunts, but she seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Even her bosom buddy, Fat Sandra, had denied knowing where Tracey was. Then again, she wouldn’t tell him Jack shit if her life depended on it.

  Winston knew exactly what Tracey was up to; the little slag was lying low to avoid being punished. Well, she could hide all she wanted. Sooner or later, he would find her, and when he did, she would pay dearly for her disrespectful behaviour.

  Claude dressed hurriedly as he was running late. A consignment of cocaine was ready for collection from the safe house on the Isle of Dogs. A mule had brought the stuff in a couple of days ago, but he’d had to wait for her to shit it all out. Now it was ready to be moved to the washhouse in Limehouse, where his ‘chemist’ would cut it up. Then he could start to distribute the finished product through his small network of runners.

  He didn’t sell the merchandise himself anymore, preferring to make use of the tough young bucks that roamed the estate on which he still lived. They were well paid for their time, and the risks that they ran were small compared to the rewards they reaped. A lot of Winston’s runners were under the misapprehension that being in his posse gave them enhanced status on the street, and he was happy to encourage this myth.

  As he climbed into the BMW, he caught sight of his scarred face in the rear-view mirror.

  “Damn!” As soon as he’d taken care of business on the Isle of Dogs, he would hunt that bitch down.

  ◆◆◆

  Just after eight that evening Dillon took six murder squad detectives back to Commercial Street, where they met up with half a dozen uniform officers that the division had provided. Working together, they began the thankless job of canvassing for witnesses.

  During the next few hours, the officers spoke to numerous girls. The reaction they received was consistent; the hookers were all shocked and upset by what had happened, but none of them were willing to speak to the police, although one girl did offer a discount to the detectives for group bookings. “How times have changed,” remarked DS Charlie White, a diminutive Scotsman whose nose had been broken so badly in his youth that it was now almost forty-five degrees out of alignment with the rest of his face. His naturally bowed legs were wickedly accentuated by the drainpipe trousers of his suit and the winkle pickers on his feet. “When I joined the Job, we used to get offered freebies, now all we get is a poxy discount. There’s just no respect anymore.”

  Tyler joined them just before eleven o’clock to find his team showing signs of annoyance and frustration.

  “This is pointless,” Dillon exclaimed after summarising their lack of progress. “We’ll never get anywhere at this rate.” It was obvious that the girls feared and distrusted the authorities as much as they did the murderer.

  It was a sad state of affairs.


  “Someone must know something!” Kelly Flowers, who was feeling somewhat drained after an afternoon comforting the grieving family, complained. “What’s wrong with them?”

  Jack’s face softened. “These people live a complicated and dangerous lifestyle, Kelly,” he explained. “Traditionally, we’ve always been their enemy, and because they’re scared of us, they won’t open up, in case it drops them or their friends in the shit. We’ve got to gain their confidence somehow.” He had been giving this a lot of thought on the journey back in but was no closer to finding an answer.

  Having spent a few hours of quality time with his family, Jack’s spirits were much higher than they had been earlier in the day. The surprise dinner party had been a roaring success, and it had been simply wonderful to see the surviving generations of his family united under one roof again, for what felt like the first time in ages.