by Mark Romain
April’s bottom lip began to quiver. “Now that mummy’s gone to heaven to be with Jesus, my nanny will be too sad to play with me,” she whispered.
“Oh April, I’m sure that’s not true. Your nanny is under a lot of stress right now, but by the time your birthday comes around she’ll be a whole lot better.” Kelly tried to sound positive, kissing the girl’s head gently. It occurred to Kelly that she wasn’t doing a particularly good job of looking after April. She was supposed to keep the child happy and amused while the inquest went on, not reduce her to a sobbing wreck. She could feel her own eyes welling up now. What a fine chaperone she was turning out to be! She checked her watch. Oh God! They’d only been in the court for five minutes. If she carried on like this, the poor girl would be suicidal by the time they broke up!
◆◆◆
Jack escorted Rita out of the courtroom after the inquest and led her to a secluded corner where they could talk freely. He could tell that she was still in a daze.
“Are you alright, Rita?” he asked, staring daggers at a reporter who had followed them out and was now lingering nearby. The man got the message and wandered off to re-join his colleagues who were milling by the exit, no doubt comparing notes and trying to come up with some eye-catching headers for their stories.
“No, I’m not.” Her complexion turned a pale shade of green and she looked around with a sense of urgency. “Excuse me, Jack. I – I think I’m going to be sick.” Clasping her hand to her mouth, Rita Phillips rushed off in the direction of the ladies toilet.
Damn! Jack thought. He looked across and signalled purposefully for Kelly to join him.
She came straight over, with April in tow.
“What’s up, sir?” she asked anxiously.
“Rita’s in the loo, throwing up. I think that you should go in after her.”
Kelly looked down at April. “What about…?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.” Tyler smiled, hoping that he wouldn’t live to regret his words.
“Are you sure?”
“Just go,” he said, firmly.
When they were alone together, Jack led April back to the bench. She sat down obediently, staring up at him with her big blue eyes.
“Listen,” He began, searching for the right words. “I know that you’ve met a lot of bad men, but I’m not like them.” He smiled again, conscious not to invade her personal space in case that intimidated her. She continued to view him sceptically, her expression one of distrust.
Probably heard it all before, huh, kid? Tyler thought, trying to see things from her perspective. He frowned, aware that he was totally out of his depth with children. Boy, this was going to be tough! None of the hardcore villains he’d dealt with over the years; none of the acid-tongued barristers who cross-examined him in the witness box, dissecting every word that he said in the hope of tripping him up, had managed to make him feel this uncomfortable in their presence.
“Okay, let’s start again,” he suggested, wishing that he had more experience with kids. April folded her arms across her chest, and the way she suddenly jutted her little chin out stubbornly reminded him of her grandmother, who had displayed the same mannerism earlier.
“Look, April, I didn’t know your mummy, but I do know your granny. She’s a very special lady and I want to help her. I want to help you too if you’ll let me. I promise that I won’t ever do anything to hurt either of you. I don’t have any children of my own, but if I did, I would want to be as close to them as I could be, like your granny is to you.” He paused, trying to marshal his thoughts. The harder he tried, the worse he seemed to be making it. With a dejected sigh, Jack Tyler sat down next to the little girl, pulling his tie loose. He scratched his head in frustration, wondering if he should just admit defeat and sit there quietly until Kelly came back with Rita.
“She’s not my granny.”
“What?” Jack asked, wondering what she meant by that.
“She’s not my granny, silly. She’s my nana.” April explained this as if speaking to a retard.
Jack tried not to smile. “My mistake,” he conceded, delighted that she had actually spoken to him.
April eyed him critically. “I thought policemen were s’posed to be clever.”
Jack gave an apologetic shrug. “We’re meant to be, little one, but I think I’m having a bit of an off week.”
◆◆◆
Tyler made it to the Gold Group meeting by the skin of his teeth. Having been caught in bad traffic earlier, he had decided to avoid the roads and catch a train, but there had been delays due to a signal failure. It was obviously going to be one of those days. Holland had given him a scathing look as he’d walked into the canteen, face flushed and breathing heavily.
The meeting was chaired by Chief Superintendent Porter, and held in the conference room at Whitechapel police station. Porter ushered the murder squad detectives into seats around the large table that dominated the bland room and introduced them to the other board members. Apart from Holland and Tyler, there was a stern-faced uniform Chief Inspector called George Chambers, who explained he was the Borough Operations officer, Inspector Ray Speed, who greeted them warmly, and several prominent members of the local community who formed the Borough’s Lay Advisory Group. One of these was Dr Simon Pritchard from The Sutton Mission. Pritchard was delighted to inform the Gold Group that his wife had liaised with DS Bull earlier in the day and arrangements had been made for a small group of volunteers to be put at the detective’s disposal over the weekend. The last person in attendance was Brian Johnson, the analyst. His presence had been specifically requested by Porter, and he had been tasked to prepare an intelligence overview for the meeting.
Lukewarm coffee and stale biscuits had been provided, but no one seemed interested in the refreshments.
Porter looked pale and tired, and he appeared to have lost a little weight; he was obviously feeling the strain.
After Holland’s opening remarks, Tyler gave the Gold Group a general overview of the investigation to date. He wasn’t prepared to disclose specific operational details in the presence of the civilian lay advisors, but he gave them enough of a flavour to make them feel involved. Porter made all the right noises, and showed concern and resolve in all the right places, but Tyler could tell he was far from happy.
They discussed resources; Holland pledged to increase the size of the investigation team and stated that all leave had been cancelled for the coming weekend and every available officer would be working. Chief Inspector Chambers informed them that he had liaised with the TSG, who would be supplying two whole units to the borough for a two-week period, starting the following Monday. In addition, also from Monday, all sector officers would have their shifts changed to provide extra cover during the evening hours. The streets would be flooded with officers, he said, which pleased the Lay Advisors, especially Dr Pritchard, but worried the detectives; their concern was that the drastically increased police presence would merely displace the killer.
Johnson then delivered a death by power-point presentation, showing graph after graph to demonstrate crime trends on the borough in the wards where the Ripper had struck. There were no surprises and nothing that took the enquiry further forward, but Porter and the LAG members seemed impressed.
Halfway through, Tyler leaned into Holland. “Like the old saying goes: ‘bullshit baffles brains,’” he whispered.
Eventually, the meeting turned political, and Tyler was pretty much ignored while Porter and Holland discussed community impact issues with the LAG members.
After the meeting finished there was just about enough time to rush to the canteen and grab a takeaway coffee before setting off for the press conference at the Yard. A train was pulling in as they walked onto the platform. To Jack’s relief, the Central Line was running without any delays, although the way the day was panning out, he wouldn’t be surprised if something happened during the journey and they didn’t make it to the Yard.
The press conferenc
e was to be held in the ground floor briefing room at NSY, which was already packed to capacity. As Tyler walked past the room, he spotted Miller standing in one corner talking to a colleague; she seemed to be following him around like a bad smell today.
The two detectives were led into an ante-room, away from the press, and told the assigned Press Liaison Officer would be with them shortly. Jack hoped it wouldn’t be the same one whose pager messages he had repeatedly ignored after Winston’s arrest. He was surprised to discover that Porter had also been invited and was due to address the camera when the individual interviews were given.
“What’s he going to say?” Jack asked.
Holland shrugged. “Someone’s got to do the community reassurance stuff, and that’s never been your strong suit.”
“I joined the job to catch villains, not be all pink and fluffy.”
Holland sighed. “Jack, assuming we still have jobs by the time this investigation is over, you really will have to broaden your outlook and start thinking more globally if you want promotion.”
“You say ‘think globally’, but I hear ‘kiss arse’,” Jack said, and immediately regretted it. Holland was right; the Job was changing, and if he wanted further advancement he would have to learn how to ‘play the game’.
Holland shook his head in despair. “Think globally, Jack. We’ve got a serial killer roaming the streets of Whitechapel, killing and mutilating female victims. That’s terrifying for the local community, and we need to reassure them before a general state of panic sets in.”
“Good job Porter’s here, then,” Jack said dryly. “I’m sure he thinks globally all the time.”
Before Holland could respond, a young Press Liaison Officer called Archie breezed into the room. He was pencil thin and exuded nervous energy from every pore; an unruly mop of brown hair bounced up and down as he walked. As soon as introductions were made, he began coaching them on what to say and how to respond to tricky questions. Jack noticed that the PLO’s eyes glinted with enthusiasm, and guessed that he was fresh from university. Give him a few more months and he’ll be as jaded as everyone else, Jack thought.
After running through the rules, Archie opened the door and peered into the corridor. “I just need to pop next door and get something,” he told them. “I’ll be back in two minutes. Don’t leave the room until I return.”
“Where do you reckon he’s going?” Holland asked, thinking it was probably a quick trip to the loo.
“Probably gone to get us some more eggs to suck,” Jack said.
When Archie reappeared five minutes later, he wasn’t carrying any eggs, but he did have a shiny new clipboard. “Forgot my notes,” he said by way of explanation, and promptly began flicking through them. This was to be a live broadcast, simultaneously filmed by all the major networks, Archie told them excitedly. The running order was: Holland, Tyler and then Porter. When the filming concluded, the detectives would be ushered away to sit down for a short question and answer session with the various tabloid reporters. Archie would invite anyone with a question to raise their hand, and he would nominate the lucky few who got to ask questions. That way, he could filter out potential troublemakers. Only when Archie was completely satisfied that they understood what was expected of them did he lead them into the crowded briefing room.
The press conference started promptly and, although it felt oppressive at times, both Holland and Tyler stuck to the party line, being helpful and informative without giving anything away. Like a proud parent, Archie gave little nods of approval to each of them as they came off camera. When it was Porter’s turn, he cleared his throat and began to speak. “I want to say two things,” he began, looking suitably solemn. “Firstly, I want to reassure the community of Whitechapel that we are doing everything humanly possible to catch the perpetrator. With immediate effect, there will be significantly increased patrols throughout the area, and these will remain in place until he is in custody.” He paused for a moment, looking straight at the camera while considering his next words. “Secondly, I would like to speak directly to the killer, who I am convinced will be watching this broadcast.”
Tyler and Holland were standing to Porter’s side, just off camera. “What’s he doing?” Jack whispered, alarmed.
“I don’t know,” Holland said quietly, “but this hasn’t been sanctioned by me.” Using a media broadcast to address a dangerous perpetrator directly was something that was generally best avoided. On the rare occasion that it was deemed necessary, the content had to be carefully scripted and properly approved.
Jack glanced around and spotted a very stressed looking Archie desperately trying to catch Porter’s eye so that he could signal the Borough Commander to stop speaking. Porter either didn’t see him or wilfully chose to ignore him. “You think you’re cleverer than us,” he continued, “but you are not. You’re just deluded. You think you have power, but you don’t. You are beyond pathetic. You think you can do anything you want. Well, take it from me, you can’t. Start looking over your shoulder in fear, because we are closing in on you and we will not rest until you are safely behind bars, where you belong.”
Jack grabbed Holland’s forearm. “You need to stop him,” he warned. “If the killer sees this, it will just antagonise him.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Holland hissed, pulling his arm free. “But I can’t exactly drag him away while the camera’s rolling, can I?”
Poor Archie had given up on subtlety and was now openly waving his clipboard at Porter to get his attention. Porter must have finally seen him because he gave a subtle nod and abruptly terminated his speech.
“Well,” Jack said as Porter walked towards them, “If that’s thinking globally, maybe I can manage it after all.”
◆◆◆
At exactly five to six, Terri Miller left the studios of Capital Radio in Leicester Square, having just recorded a short interview for the next drive time news bulletin. She went into the Radio Café at the base of the Capital building, and by the time the news started she was sitting comfortably at a little table, sipping an extra frothy cappuccino and watching the world through a tinted plate glass window. The Square itself was filled with the usual mishmash of tourists, shoppers, and office workers. Outside the café, two skateboarders were making a nuisance of themselves, and one of the waiters went outside to shoo them away. She watched them skate past a man doing a Little Tramp style shuffle for his girlfriend as she photographed him next to John Doubleday’s 1981 statue of Charlie Chaplin. The girl laughed at his antics as she put her camera away, and then looped her arm through his and dragged him off towards the Empire cinema on the north side of the Square.
Terri followed their progress until they disappeared inside the cinema, which had a massive billboard up for the latest Schwarzenegger blockbuster, End of Days. It had been ages since Terri had done something normal, like going to the cinema, and she found herself envying the couple.
When no one was looking, she slipped a pill into her mouth and washed it down with a mouthful of cappuccino. She disliked taking stimulants, but it was the only way to keep going at a time like this. As the only person yet to have spoken to the killer, she was being treated like a minor celebrity, much to the ire of some of her journo colleagues. She had already recorded brief slots for LBC and the BBC earlier in the day, and her next appointment was at the London offices of CNN, where she was due to film a live piece for them.
Since the police had taken her home, yesterday afternoon, her life had become unbelievably manic. She had remained at the apartment with Paul Evans, who was sweet, and Kelly Flowers, whom she wasn’t sure she liked, until the telephone intercept and the panic button had both been installed.
The moment they left, she picked up the phone and, as Kelly had done earlier, dialled 1471 to obtain the number the killer had called her from. She knew it was local from the code, and instinct told her it would be close to the apartment block, so she went on a tour of the area, finding the kiosk on her third stop
.
Smiling at her minor triumph, she’d immediately called Kelly on her mobile and asked her to return. The detectives arrived forty minutes later, this time with a different fingerprint man in tow. He examined the kiosk with his brushes and powders and managed to lift eight separate sets of prints, none of which were realistically likely to belong to the killer.
Terri had then made a mad dash to the Fleet Street office of London’s newest daily for a crisis meeting with Giles Deakin, her esteemed editor. He had agreed that this situation, as deplorable as it was, presented the newspaper with a golden opportunity. Henceforth, Terri was to concentrate solely on this story; everything else was to be put on the back burner, at least for the time being. Deakin had even assigned her a researcher, who was to be at her beck and call for the duration. Julie Payne, who had reluctantly agreed to sleep over at her place for a few nights, was also posted to the small team. After enduring a painfully boring lecture on sub judice from a member of the legal team, to clarify what she could and couldn’t print, Terri had finally started work on her first Ripper story. It had gone right down to the wire, but for the second time in a week, she had somehow managed to deliver her finished article minutes before the deadline.