by Mark Romain
“Do we have to?” Julie asked, nervously.
“Yes, we bloody well do,” Teri snapped. “C’mon, and make sure your camera’s ready.” She grabbed hold of the photographer’s arm, dragging the reluctant woman after her.
They tiptoed through the dank passageway, ready to turn and run at the slightest sign of danger. Terri didn’t really know what she was hoping to achieve by doing this. Perhaps, she admitted, she was just trying to prolong the inevitable moment when they tried the front door.
There was hardly any fencing left at the rear, so they had a clear view into the back yards of several houses on either side of them. They were all pretty much identical: small, overgrown with weeds, a coal bunker at the far end and several steps leading up to the house’s rear door. A black cat sat on the bunker nearest them, eyeing them suspiciously. Julie pressed closer to Terri. “It’s spooky back here,” she whispered.
“Will you be quiet?” Terri scolded. She was trying to concentrate, and it was hard enough without having to endure stupid interruptions. “Okay, you win,” she eventually conceded, realising there was nothing to be gained by staying there. “Let’s go back to the front.”
Julie was more than happy to oblige, and a few seconds later they found themselves back outside the front door of the abandoned house.
“Oh well, I think we’ve put it off for as long as we can,” Terri said, as much to herself as to Julie. Taking a deep breath, she approached the door, steeling herself for whatever might come. From a distance, the door had appeared quite secure, but as they reached it Terri realised that it was slightly ajar. There were fresh indentations in the frame. Had the mysterious Jack forced it open during the night? A padlock and clasp had been discarded in the nearby gutter, which tended to suggest that he had.
Terri’s heart was pounding as she reached up to push the door. The hinges were stiff, and they creaked loudly, as though in pain.
“Hello….” Terri called meekly.
No response.
Clearing her throat, she tried again, louder this time. “Hello. Is anyone in here?” The words echoed back at her and then there was silence.
The two women exchanged worried looks. “Let’s call the police,” Julie suggested, and she tried to pull Terri away from the door.
Terri wrenched her arm free. “We’re going in,” she said firmly. Before Julie could argue the point further, she took a step into the darkened hall, dragging her friend with her. As soon as Terri let go of the door it swung shut, trapping them in stygian darkness.
The air inside was foul.
Julie whimpered.
Terri hushed her, feeling along the wall for a light switch. When she finally found one, it didn’t work. She cursed in silence. “Can you hear that?” the reporter asked as something deep inside the house started clanking. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Julie said, her voice quivering. “But whatever it is, I wish it would stop.”
“Wait there,” Terri said as she edged forward nervously, following the line of the wall towards the rear of the house. There had to be a light somewhere. The floorboards groaned and creaked with every step she took.
Something scuttled across the floor in the dark, something fast.
“Terri, where are you?” Julie called from beside the door; she was becoming more stressed with every miserable second they spent in the house.
“I’m over here,” Terri snapped, irritably.
“I can’t see you.”
“I’m looking for a light switch.” Teri was beginning to think that Julie had been right: they should never have entered this dreadful place.
Just then, Julie had a moment of inspiration. “Wait a minute, I’ve got a pencil torch in my camera bag,” she said, excitedly.
“Now she tells me,” Terri mumbled, angrily. She could hear Julie fumbling in her bag, but she seemed to be having trouble. “What’s happening?” she demanded.
“It’s caught in my camera strap and I can’t get it free,” Julie explained in a fluster.
“Bring it over here,” Terri snapped. Did she have to do everything herself?
“Okay,” Julie said, clearly not enthralled by the prospect. “Hang on, I’m coming over.” She moved into the interior, an arm outstretched to probe the blackness. “I think I’ve untangled it,” the photographer said, fighting her way through the darkness. As she pulled the torch free, her right foot collided with something heavy that had been left on the floor. She tripped, and her forward momentum sent her tumbling to the ground, where she landed with a thud.
“Julie! Julie, are you okay? Speak to me!” Terri called out in alarm. She envisioned all sorts of terrible things happening in the dark.
“I’m alright, Terri. I just tripped over something in the dark.” Julie sounded embarrassed but unharmed.
“Stay there and turn the torch on,” Terri instructed.
Julie realised that she had landed in something wet. She rubbed her fingers together. Yuck! They were sticky. “What the hell…?” Sitting up, Julie turned the torch on, shining it over her palm.
It was red.
Julie directed the flashlight beam across the hall floor to find the object that had tripped her. What she saw would haunt her for the rest of her life. At first, she simply couldn’t take it in.
Staring in wild-eyed shock from her blood-covered hand to the dead body beside her, Julie began to scream, and scream and scream.
Chapter 21
Jack Tyler had just started briefing the photographer when his mobile rang.
“Excuse me,” he said, undoing the paper suit and reaching into his jacket for the phone. The photographer nodded understandingly and began to snap away. Tyler glanced down at his unfinished case notes, grimacing. They would have to wait, too. He answered the phone with an impatient sigh. “Hello…”
“Sir, DC Murray speaking –”
Tyler blinked as the photographer’s flash caught him off guard. “Who?”
“DC Kevin Murray, sir, from Mr Quinlan’s team.”
“Oh, right. What is it, Kevin? I’m busy.”
“I’m in the incident room, boss. Thought you’d want to know straight away, there’s been another one.”
“Yes, I know. I’m already at the scene,” Tyler said, impatiently.
“No! I mean there’s been another one on top of that!”
“What?”
Tyler’s features darkened as he listened to Murray’s update; by the end of the call, he was in a dangerously foul mood.
Damn reporters!
He stormed out of the inner cordon and stripped off his protective oversuit. He looked around in anger, quickly locating the four people he needed. Firstly, he dragged Charlie White away from the conversation he was having with the HAT crew who had responded to the initial call-out, and handed control of the scene over to him, giving the surprised Scotsman the quickest briefing he had ever delivered. Then he set off to find the others.
Nick Bartholomew was leaning against the side of a squad car when he spotted Tyler striding towards him. The look on the boss’s face was thunderous. “Sir?” he said pensively, hoping it wasn’t his fault that Tyler was so pissed.
“How far is Hanbury Street from here, Nick?” Jack asked.
“Not far, sir. I know the way if –”
“Good. Come with me,” Tyler said, and headed towards one of the Vauxhall Astra pool cars.
“Someone’s in for it,” Bartholomew observed as he moved into Tyler’s slipstream.
Tyler made a small detour to where Dillon and Flowers were quizzing the uniforms who had been first to arrive on scene. “That’ll have to wait,” he said. “I need your help, so hop to it.”
Kelly hastily took contact numbers from the bemused uniformed officers and told them she would be in touch before the end of their shift. “What’s the matter with the boss?” she asked Dillon once they were alone.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Dillon said, wondering the same thing.
&nb
sp; As soon as they were all inside the car it sped off, the diesel engine clunking like the ditch pig it was. Bartholomew sat in front, navigating.
“Where’s the fire, guys?” Dillon asked casually.
Bartholomew stayed silent.
“Another girl’s been found dead in Hanbury Street,” Jack explained, gripping the wheel harder as his anger fermented. “That’s where we’re going now. Kevin Murray just phoned me. Some prat of a reporter called Terry Miller found the body. He works for that new rag, The London Echo, and he’s been withholding this information since 5 a.m.”
“I don’t follow, sir,” Kelly said.
“At five a.m. this morning this twat, Miller, received a phone call from the killer, telling him where to find the body.”
“Do what?” Dillon exclaimed, sitting forward.
“Oh yeah, and not only does the fuck-wit withhold the information, he swans off down to the scene to check it out for himself.” Tyler shook his head incredulously. The more he thought about the dumb antics of the reporter, the more wound up he became.
Dillon said, “You’re saying the killer phoned this reporter up and told him about the murder over two and a half hours ago?”
“That’s the way Murray tells it, Dill.”
“Surely, no reporter would be that stupid?” Bartholomew ventured.
“Don’t you believe it,” Kelly said with the cynicism of one who knows better.
“If this idiot reporter’s had the scene to himself for a couple of hours, Nick, I dread to think what damage he’s done,” Tyler said.
“The whole thing could be contaminated beyond salvage,” Dillon pointed out.
“I’ll charge the bastard for obstruction if he’s done that, Dill. I’ll throw the bloody book at him,” Tyler promised through gritted teeth.
Hanbury Street runs in an east to west zigzagging direction off Commercial Street. Nick directed Jack via Brick Lane, so when they reached the junction with Hanbury Street they encountered two huge ‘no entry’ signs. “I thought you knew this area?” Jack growled. He switched the headlights on and drove on, ignoring the signs.
“Sorry, boss, I forgot it was a one-way street,” Nick said. He sounded crestfallen. Driving the RT car, with blue lights and siren on, he wouldn’t have hesitated to take this route if it was necessary, but going through a no entry sign in an unmarked Astra, with no flashing lights or audible warning system, was extremely risky.
“Don’t worry, mate,” Dillon said, checking his seat belt worked. “We’re only going one way.”
Jack drove straight past Truman Brewery without giving it a second glance. Before the large building had been erected in 1970, a row of houses had occupied the site, including number twenty-nine Hanbury Street, where Annie Chapman’s body had been left by Jack the Ripper in September 1888.
The Astra pulled up outside the derelict house a few moments later. An RT car, roof light still flashing, had already arrived. The driver was talking to two women, one of whom had a camera hanging from her neck. Both women looked badly shaken. The RT operator was standing grim-faced by the door, making sure that no one entered without permission.
“Like shutting the door after the horse has bolted,” Dillon whispered to Kelly as they got out.
Jack showed his warrant card and introduced himself. He excused the uniform constable, making it clear he wanted to speak to the women alone. “I’m looking for a reporter named Terry Miller. Do you know where I can find him?” he said after dispensing with the formalities.
The women looked at each other uncomfortably. “I’m Terri Miller,” The taller of the two said. She noted the look of surprise that flashed across Tyler’s face and realised he had been expecting a man. “It’s short for Teresa,” she explained, getting the feeling that this stern-faced man wasn’t impressed with what he saw.
Although he tried not to let it show, Jack found himself momentarily thrown off track. He had assumed he would be dealing with a cynical, hard-nosed, male reporter. The two women in front of him appeared anything but. He glanced at the one with the camera. She was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Both looked as white as a sheet. “Where’s the body?” he asked, fighting to keep the anger from his voice.
Terri indicated the house with a forlorn nod of her head. “In there. It’s in the hall, by the stairs.”
“Wait there,” he said, pointedly. They regrouped at the rear of the Vauxhall. Jack broke open a new evidence bag and handed them each the customary paper suits, overshoes, latex gloves and white Victoria masks.
Once suited and booted, they entered the house in single file. Despite the trepidation he felt, Dillon took the lead, using a powerful Dragon Light Nick had purloined from the RT car to illuminate their path. Tyler and Bartholomew followed behind. Kelly remained at the door, keeping a watchful eye on the two women. One of the uniformed officers was writing up a scene log, the other began unrolling tape to instigate a cordon.
The rancid smell hit them as soon as they entered the hall; it was overpowering in the confined space. “Jesus!” Dillon exclaimed, his stomach turning. He had expected the cloying smell of death to be present, but it was the acrid stench of vomit that had stopped him in his tracks.
Jack pulled up the face mask, trying to filter out the worst of it. Bartholomew hurriedly produced a small jar of Tiger-Balm, which he frantically unscrewed while he held his breath. With a latex-coated index finger, he inserted a liberal amount into each nostril, and then passed it forward to the others.
The ground floor of the dilapidated old house was a mini disaster zone, with broken and missing floorboards everywhere. The body, which was hardly recognisable as human, was slumped in a heap at the side of a staircase that looked like it was about to disintegrate. Under the harsh light of the torch, it looked more like a tailor’s dummy then a person.
Predictably, the unknown victim’s throat had been cut. The nearly severed head sagged at an unnatural angle, resting in a large pool of semi-clotted blood. The woman’s tongue protruded from her slack mouth.
“Shine the light directly on her head, Dill,” Jack instructed.
Dillon nodded, and the beam settled on the dead woman’s head. He forced himself to look, hoping it wouldn’t make him feel giddy. The forehead had been partially caved in as a result of severe blunt force trauma.
“Jesus, talk about overkill,” Bartholomew said from behind.
An eye was missing. Was that down to the killer, or had the resident rodents treated themselves to a midnight feast? And if it was the killer, why had he only taken the one eye? At Mitre Square, he had removed them both.
The woman had been laid open from sternum to pubic bone. The skin of her abdomen was folded back and she had been systematically disembowelled. The killer had tucked both of her hands up inside the empty stomach cavity. Was this a sinister ritual or merely a depraved private joke on the killer’s part? A small bundle of intestines had been scooped out and placed on the left shoulder like a string of sausages. The detectives were mystified as to the significance of that. The pelvic region of her body had also been cut out. As with Tracey Phillips, it was obvious that something sharp had been violently inserted into her vagina.
As Dillon’s shaking hand scythed the torch beam through the darkness, they saw there was blood everywhere. The body and the surrounding floorboards were covered in it. The arterial spray saturated the lower walls and the staircase. Two sets of red footprints could be seen, leaving a trail from the corpse to the door, and it looked as though someone had been rolling around in the blood.
There were several pools of vomit in the hallway, one of which covered the dead girl’s feet. Jack wondered which of the two inept women waiting outside had thrown up.
“I bet it was the soppy tart with the camera,” Dillon growled, as if reading his partner’s mind. Jack didn’t bother replying. He was too busy trying to work out if the body had been disturbed as a result of Miller’s intrusion. He could just imagine them groping around in the dark, not
giving a toss about the crime scene.
Moving cautiously, they entered the main living room. As Dillon shone the light across the walls, he saw the message. It was written in bold red letters and the blood had run in several places. It said:
The blood of whores will continue to flow freely in Whitechapel until I am appeased.
Jack the New Ripper.