Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  This morning, Deakin had notified all the main TV and radio stations that Terri was the person the Whitechapel murderer had elected to speak through.

  “Don’t we want to keep any information he gives us to ourselves?” she’d asked, naively.

  Deakin had responded with a sly grin. “We’ll only tell them what we want them to know, darling. We won’t be giving any exclusives away. All we’re really doing is using them to get free publicity for your articles in the Echo.”

  “Oh!”

  Deakin had tapped his skull knowingly. “You’ve got to use your noggin in this game, Terri,” he said.

  “Surely they’ll realise that we’re only using them?” Julie chipped in.

  “Of course, but what choice do they have? Don’t you think they would do the same to us, given the chance?”

  Sure enough, within minutes of spreading the word, the first broadcasting company had called to arrange an interview. After that, the phone lines went into meltdown. And that was how Terri had ended up being interviewed at Capital FM today.

  As soon as the news finished, she pulled out her phone and called her researcher. When he answered, she asked him to pull some stuff about the original Jack the Ripper from the archives. He’d already done that, he told her, clearly unimpressed that it had taken her so long to come up with such a basic request. She commended his initiative and asked him to run background checks on the three victims of the nineties version. That was next on his list, he said. Lastly, she instructed Clive Cullen to make a few discreet enquiries about Jack Tyler. She suggested that he should start with the Metropolitan Police Central Press Office, and ask for an official resume on Tyler’s career. Cullen thanked her for the tip and sarcastically pointed out that he would never have thought of that on his own.

  Smarmy git, she thought, as she finished the call.

  The next thing on her list was to phone Deakin and ask him to start pumping his contacts for any gossip relating to Tyler. Deakin, she knew, had a half-dozen well-placed moles that the paper regularly quoted as ‘a reliable source within the Metropolitan Police Service’.

  She finished the call and looked at her watch again, conscious that she had a tight deadline to meet. Terri had been allocated the front page and a double page spread in the centre of tomorrow morning’s paper. That’s not too shabby for a girl still fighting to become accepted, she thought, allowing herself to feel a trifle smug.

  The killer had been right when he said this was a big chance for her. With a little luck, and a lot of hard work, the story would establish her as a credible investigative journalist, and even the diehards would have to stop treating her like the new girl on the block. She had also decided to go with Paul’s brilliant suggestion about keeping a diary and writing a book when it was all over. A quick glance at her watch revealed that the time for daydreaming was over; she had to crack on, while she still had some chemical induced energy left. Stifling a yawn, she left a decent tip on her table and set off towards Charing Cross Road, where she could hail a taxi. There was a lot of work to be done.

  ◆◆◆

  James Sadler was watching the evening news bulletin on a large, wall mounted TV in the practice’s staff room. His receptionist, Doreen, was also there, preparing them both a cup of tea before the evening surgery got underway.

  On screen, interspersed by snippets from the earlier press conference at NSY, Terri Miller was doing a sterling job of answering questions about the New Ripper killings.

  “What do you think about these murders?” Doreen asked him as she waited for the kettle to boil.

  “I don’t think about them at all,” he said.

  “It’s alright for you blokes,” she continued, undeterred by his apparent lack of interest. “You’re not the ones in danger, unlike us girls. Honestly, it’s getting to the point where I’m terrified to go out alone.”

  As he often did when she rambled on, Sadler ignored her. He had been tied up dealing with patients for most of the day, and this was the first time that he’d seen the footage.

  At that moment, Porter appeared on screen. “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.”

  Sadler yawned. That was the standard police response in a case like this.

  “Secondly,” Porter continued, “I would like to speak directly to the killer, who I am convinced will be watching this broadcast.”

  Sadler used the remote control to turn the sound up. “Be quiet, please, Doreen,” he snapped at his receptionist, who seemed to have developed a bad case of verbal diarrhea and was completely oblivious to the fact that he was trying to follow what was being said in the broadcast.

  “You think you’re cleverer than us,” Porter declared, staring straight into the camera lens for greater effect, “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.”

  “Bravo,” Doreen said from behind. “It’s about time one of them coppers had the balls to say something like that.”

  Sadler shook his head is despair. The woman really could be stupid at times. “Do you honestly think anything good can come possible out of an outburst like that?” he sneered, “because I would have thought it was blatantly obvious to anyone with half a brain that goading the killer can only make a bad situation worse.”

  Doreen crossed her arms defiantly. Unlike the other two doctors in the practice, who were both lovely, she found Sadler to be very opinionated at times. No wonder he was going through such an acrimonious divorce, if the rumours were to be believed.

  “Well, I think it was very brave. It might not impress the likes of you, but it makes working class people like me feel much safer knowing that a man like him is looking out for us.”

  Sadler scoffed at that. “I think you’ll find that he’s only looking out for himself,” he told her. He had never met Porter, but he knew the man was ambitious, and he was clearly trying to use all this free publicity to make a name for himself.

  “In my humble opinion –”

  “Sorry, Doreen,” Sadler interrupted, standing up. “I’ve just remembered I’ve got to make a quick phone call before surgery starts.”

  “What about your tea?” she asked.

  “Keep it warm for me,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  CHAPTER 25

  Porter was getting ready to leave the office when there was a tentative knock on the door.

  “Come in,” he called, wondering who could be calling this late on a Thursday evening. After all, he wasn’t the on-call senior; that was George Chambers. To his surprise, Brian Johnson poked his head around the door. “I was wondering if I might have a quick word,” he said nervously.

  Porter frowned, wondering what the buffoon could possibly want at this late hour. He didn’t even work here anymore. “Yes, of course. Come in.”

  Johnson entered the room and shut the door after him. He approached the desk meekly and stood there saying nothing. Porter stared at him, waiting for the loathsome man to say something. He glanced at his watch impatiently to emphasise the point that he didn’t have all night. “Well?”

  “I saw you on TV earlier,” Johnson said.

  “Did you?” So, that was it. Johnson had come to do what he did best – kiss arse. Porter enjoyed having his ego stroked, and under normal circumstances he would have been quite content to sit there and soak up as many compliments as his admiring subordinate wanted to lavish upon him, but not tonight. Tonight, he was in a hurry and couldn’t afford the time to indulge in small talk.

  Johnson wrung his hands together in agitation. “Forgive me for saying this,�
�� he began, “but I really don’t think it was a good idea to insult the Ripper the way you did. I’ve read quite a bit about serial killers, and what makes them tick, all the literature says it’s not a good idea to provoke them.”

  Porter’s face darkened. That was not the kind of feedback he had been expecting. Who did the presumptuous fool think he was speaking to? “Brian, we may have known each other for over a decade, but you need to remember your place. I’m a Chief Superintendent, you’re an analyst. I don’t think it’s for you to question my judgement in these matters.”

  Johnson flinched at the rebuke. “No, of course not,” he stammered. “I would never question your judgement, but I just don’t think you realise how dangerous this Ripper chap is. I hope I’m not speaking out of place when I –”

  “You are speaking out of place, Brian. I know exactly what I’m doing. Now, if there’s nothing else, I have a busy evening planned and I’m in a rush. So, if you don’t mind…” He pointed towards the door, making it clear the audience was over.

  As Johnson, leaving the room with his tail firmly between his legs, closed the door behind him, the telephone on Porter’s desk began to ring.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, now what?” he demanded, rolling his eyes in exasperation.

  ◆◆◆

  The general office was deserted when Tyler returned from the Yard so he switched the TV on and sat down in front of it, wearily plonking his feet up on the nearest desk. Unfortunately, when the screen came to life, the face staring back at him belonged to Terri Miller. His visage morphed into a mask of disdain as he quickly grabbed the remote and jabbed the mute button. If only it were that easy to silence the ambitious reporter in real life.

  His MIR staff had printed out a ton of actions for allocation over the weekend; Holland had promised he would have so many people at his disposal that he wouldn’t know what to do with them all. He seriously doubted that; there was so much CCTV still to gather and view, so many items of property to book in, and so many statements still to take that if a hundred officers paraded tomorrow, he would probably still be short.

  The trilling sound of a telephone drifted out from his office. With a groan, Jack heaved himself to his feet and rushed across the incident room. Leaning across his desk, he snatched the handset from its cradle.

  “DCI Tyler speaking.”

  “Tyler, this is Chief Superintendent Porter over at Whitechapel.”

  Tyler sat down, wondering why the Borough Commander was calling him at this late hour. “I’ve just had a very nasty experience,” Porter said, his voice trembling. “The killer.... He – he just called me up and threatened me, said he was going to make me pay for disrespecting him on TV.”

  Jack groaned inwardly. This is what happens when you go off script at press conferences, he thought, reaching for a notepad and pen. “Tell me exactly what he said.”

  “It was all very quick,” Porter spluttered. “He told me he’d watched my performance on TV, and he said that I was the pathetic and powerless one, not him. Then he said he couldn’t allow my insolence to go unpunished, and that the next blood he spilled would be on my hands. Then, without another word, he hung up. The man is goading us, Tyler, and I want to know what you are going to do about it?” Jack stared at the handset in disbelief. Porter had all but called the killer out on national TV, and now that his bravado had come back to bite him, he wanted to know what Jack was going to do about it. The fucking nerve of some people!

  “What time did the call come in?” Jack asked, trying to keep the rising anger he felt out of his voice.

  “A few minutes ago – I called you the moment he hung up.”

  “How did he come across?”

  “Well, apart from sounding mentally unstable, there was a lot of anger in his voice.”

  “Can you describe his voice? For instance, was it deep or high pitched? Did he have a regional accent?”

  “I couldn’t tell you, really. Everything he said was whispered, which made it sound very sinister, but there was no discernible accent.”

  “Were there any background noises that might identify where he was calling from?”

  “None that I could make out.”

  Jack closed his eyes. This was like trying to get blood out of a stone. Porter was a police officer, for Christ sake, he was supposed to be a professional witness, not a professional idiot. “I’ll send someone straight over,” he said. Maybe Dillon or Bull could get more out of Porter than he had been able to.

  “But I’m about to leave,” Porter protested. “It’s my wedding anniversary and I’ve got tickets to the theatre. My wife will give me hell if I’m late.”

  “That may be, but before you go anywhere, you’ll need to provide a detailed statement about the call. I can have someone there in –”

  “No, that won’t do at all,” Porter snapped.

  The pressure of the situation was obviously getting to the Divisional Commander; either that or he really was so under the thumb that he was genuinely terrified of upsetting his wife.

  Tyler took a deep breath and spoke slowly. “Sir, this is very important. Apart from Miller, you are the only person, and more importantly, the only police officer, to have spoken to the killer. We need to debrief you properly.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Porter sighed melodramatically. “I understand, really I do, but I can’t let my wife down.” There was a pause, and Tyler could picture Porter sitting there feeling conflicted, checking his watch anxiously. “If I hurry, I can type a holding statement and e-mail it across. I’ll put the signed original in a sealed envelope and leave it with the station officer for one of your lot to collect. I’m at the Yard all day tomorrow for a Borough Commander’s meeting, but I’ll write a more detailed account first thing on Monday morning. I’m sure that will be satisfactory.”

  It wasn’t at all satisfactory, but there was no point in making a fuss; not when he was powerless to do anything about it. “Very well,” Tyler conceded, “but I’ll be sending someone over to debrief you properly first thing on Monday morning.”

  “Of course,” Porter said, sounding relieved. “Look, I’m sorry if I seem a bit edgy, but that call was extremely disturbing.”

  “I understand that,” Jack said, “but what’s even more disturbing is that the killer has just announced his intention to strike again.”

  Porter immediately became ultra-defensive. “I hope you’re not suggesting it will be my fault if he kills again?”

  “No, I’m, not,” Tyler said with forced calmness. He should have left it at that, he knew, but Porter needed to understand how difficult his attempt to impress the public with his hard man act had made Jack’s job. “However, I do think your remarks today were ill-considered and inflammatory, and I do think you have antagonised him unnecessarily, which will undoubtedly put us under even more pressure.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line. “How dare you suggest that,” Porter shouted, losing his cool.

  Jerking the receiver away from his ear, Jack realised that he’d hit a nerve. Good, he thought.

  “My comments were considered and appropriate,” Porter continued, angrily, “and if you have any issue with anything I said, I suggest you go through proper channels and address your concerns to your superior.”

  “Don’t worry,” Tyler assured him. “I will. In the meantime, can you give me a contact number where I can reach you over the weekend if anything comes up?”

  “My contact details are in the Divisional Book One,” Porter snapped, reminding Tyler of a petulant child. “If you want them, you can get them from the Station Officer.” Without a further word, he hung up.

  For a moment, Tyler stared at the handset in disbelief. “What a cock,” he said, dialling Holland’s number. His boss needed to know about the call Porter had just received and the implications that came with it.

  ◆◆◆

  The Disciple had created something of a dilemma for himself by deviating from his
original plan, which had been to make one sacrifice during the first week, and two in each of the second and third weeks. Unfortunately, his little spree of taking three in a week had put the Yard under such intense pressure that it was now having to commit resources at an alarming rate. As of Monday, police patrols in Whitechapel would quadruple, making it far too risky to venture out next week. That left him with a simple choice: snatch his fourth victim before the patrols kicked in or go dormant for a couple of months and wait for life to return to normal. The problem with that latter option was that it required him to continue living a suffocating lie. He hated pretending to be someone he wasn’t and showing subservience to the third bitch responsible for ruining his life, and he genuinely didn’t think he could pull that act off for much longer. In the end, the decision proved simple. He already had commitments this evening, but he would go hunting again tomorrow night.