Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  ◆◆◆

  How did you get on?” Dillon asked, passing Jack a can of Seven-Up and a soggy paper bag containing fish and chips. He had just returned from a trip to the local chippie to get them some much-needed food. When he’d left, Jack had been about to start phoning around to try and muster some additional uniform patrols for the coming night.

  Tyler grimaced. “I spoke to George Chambers, but he reckons the Late Turn relief at HT paraded under minimum strength today, and there’s a stack of outstanding emergency calls that need to be answered. It’s the same story at all the surrounding divisions. In short, the cupboard’s empty.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Dillon said, sagging into a chair opposite Tyler. “We can’t realistically expect them to abandon their core business on the off chance that our killer might strike again.” Yawning, he arched his back and stretched expansively, reminding Tyler of a cartoon bear awakening after its winter slumber. Yawn over, he began tearing open his food in a manner that would have done a grisly proud.

  This was, Dillon realised, the first time he’d eaten since breakfast and he was suddenly famished. It had been a particularly gruelling day. He’d arrived at Poplar mortuary at eleven-thirty. After a cup of cheap instant coffee, provided by the ever bubbly and undeniably attractive Emma Drew, and the customary small talk about football, TV shows and who-was-shagging-who according to the gossip columns, he’d delivered a detailed briefing to the pathologist. That done, they all descended from the tiny first-floor office and crossed to the mortuary, where they donned their greens in Trigene scented silence. Dillon had then been forced to watch on as two human beings were systematically sliced and diced by Ben Claxton. Each procedure had taken approximately four hours, with a forty-five-minute break between the two autopsies. He had felt far too sick to eat during that time, unlike George Copeland, who found the whole experience deeply fascinating and had worked up quite an appetite by the time they broke for refreshments.

  While Dillon had detested every second that he’d spent inside the mortuary, at least today’s prolonged exposure to the gruesome sights and smells hadn’t affected him to quite the same extent as they had during the post-mortem of Tracey Phillips a few days earlier. That said, he seriously doubted that he would ever be able to face eating spaghetti bolognese again, having seen and smelt it in Geraldine Rye’s stomach contents.

  At one point, towards the end of the day, he’d found himself mentally undressing Emma Drew as she stood next to him in her bloodstained greens. That had been a surreal experience!

  Apart from the two of them, the office was empty – Jack had dismissed his flagging team at nine o’clock, which was by far the earliest they had finished all week. The poor sods had looked half-dead as they’d shuffled listlessly out of the office under strict instruction to return in ten short hours to start another gruelling shift. To their credit, not one of them had complained about the ridiculously long hours they were being asked to work. Tyler was proud of them, and he suspected their bank managers would be too when their wages were paid in!

  Dillon had been tempted to stop off at the off-licence and grab a couple of cans to wash his dinner down with, but he had somehow resisted the urge. If the wheel came off – God forbid – it really wouldn’t do to attend a crime scene smelling of booze.

  “What about the TSG?” Dillon asked as he stuffed a huge hand full of chips into his mouth.

  Jack shook his head. “I’ve spoken to the Chief Inspector at Information Room. The Commissioners Reserve are on a call-out in South London, dealing with a major public order situation, and are likely to be tied up for some time. As soon as they get released, he’s going to send them to Whitechapel, but who knows when that will be, and they finish at two a.m. anyway.”

  Dillon took a long swig of his Tango and burped contentedly. “Well, we’ve done all we can. At least our arses are covered if anything does happen.”

  “True, but it doesn’t sit well with me, knowing that sick bastard is out there just waiting to strike again, and there’s fuck all we can do about it.”

  They ate in silence for a short while.

  “Changing the subject slightly,” Dillon said, wiping grease from his mouth with a paper napkin, “have you spoken to Fiona at all since the other night?”

  Jack eyed him suspiciously. Dillon had a habit of trying to play cupid for him, and it always ended badly. “I haven’t had a chance to even think about it,” he said. “Why?”

  Dillon shrugged. “It’s just that I phoned Karen yesterday, and she suggested that the four of us do dinner sometime soon.”

  “Sure,” Jack said, but he sounded very non-committal. “Next time you speak to her, explain how busy we’ve been and say we’ll try and sort something out as soon as we wrap this case up.”

  “Leave it with me and I’ll arrange something,” Dillon said, knowing that was probably the only way he would ever get Jack to go. “Well, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind for tonight, but cheers anyway,” he said, raising his can to toast the occasion.

  Tyler wearily raised his own can and clinked it against his partner’s. “Here’s to hoping the bastard decides to wait until next week before he makes another move. At least then the streets will be flooded with Old Bill and we might have half a chance of catching him.”

  “Amen,” Dillon said, and burped again.

  Just then, Chris Deakin popped his head around the door. “They smell amazing,” he said, sniffing the air like a dog following a scent. “Mind if I nick a couple? I haven’t eaten since lunchtime.” Without waiting for a reply, he snatched up a fistful of chips and stuffed them into his mouth.” For a moment he stood there, making appreciative noises as he chewed.

  Dillon’s jaw dropped. “So, do you actually want anything from us, Chris, or have you just come in here to steal all my food?” he demanded, testily.

  Deakin smiled sheepishly, swallowed, and then licked his fingers. “I was going through Pilkington and Rye’s nominal pages on HOLMES earlier, and I noticed they both used the same doctor’s surgery in Whitechapel, so I’ve created an action for someone to pop along tomorrow morning and collect their medical records.”

  “Fair enough,” Tyler said. “Was there anything else?”

  “Well, it struck me as a strange coincidence that two of our victims should be registered at the same surgery, especially as one of them – Rye – lives in Chingford.” Deakin said, eyeing Dillon’s chips hungrily.

  “Will you stop drooling over my food,” Dillon complained, shooing him away.

  “Sorry,” Deakin said, “but they’re very moreish.”

  “Maybe she just decided to register with a GP near her place of work because it’s easier for her, especially if she often works long hours,” Tyler suggested, dragging his OM back on topic.

  Deakin nodded, and then quickly picked up some more chips, earning himself a fierce scowl from Dillon. “I think that’s probably the case,” he agreed, “but it was nagging at me so I did a bit of digging on the practice and saw that they have three doctors on the books: Dr Ahuja, Dr Agarwal, and Dr Sadler. Apparently, Dr Sadler is also an FME.”

  “Is this actually leading anywhere, or are you just stalling so that you can pilfer more of my chips?” Dillon asked. As he spoke, he pulled the remainder towards him and hovered over them protectively.

  “A bit of both,” Deakin admitted, grinning naughtily. “Anyway, I know it sounds a bit random, but earlier today I was on the phone to a mate of mine who works for CIB up at the Yard.”

  Dillon’s eyes narrowed. “Why were you talking to the rubber heelers?” he asked, suspiciously. Like most rank and file officers, he instinctively distrusted anyone connected to the Complaints Investigation Bureau.

  “We were just catching up,” Deakin explained, “and when I asked him what case he was working on at the moment, he told me he’d just been assigned to look into an FME who works in East London. Apparently, the General Medical Council are conducting an investigation of their own
following an anonymous tip off from a woman that a London based doctor is supplying drugs to local addicts in exchange for sexual favours. Obviously, as the man in question was one of our FMEs, they were obliged to notify the MPS.”

  “I don’t suppose you managed to get this doctor’s name?” Tyler asked.

  “I did, actually,” Deakin said, snatching a chip from under Dillon’s nose and smiling triumphantly. “It was James Sadler.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Friday 5th November 1999

  Friday morning began as every other morning did during a live enquiry, with an office meeting. They were six days into the investigation, but they were no nearer to catching the elusive killer than they had been on day one. Still, that was the way it went sometimes, Tyler told his team. The trick was not to let it get you down, which was easier said than done when your suspect was still out there killing people.

  Office meetings could sometimes run for an hour or more, but today there was nothing majorly new to discuss, and it only lasted twenty-minutes. After going through the latest developments, and receiving updates from his team on how their growing piles of actions were progressing, Tyler adjourned to his office to update his Decision Log, leaving Dillon to task the team with today’s priorities.

  He sat at his desk, pen poised. It was important that he marshal his thoughts properly before documenting an investigative strategy around Dr Sadler, and he took a few moments to do this.

  Clearly, there was no evidence against the man, just an uncorroborated allegation from someone who wouldn’t even provide their name, let alone make a statement, and therefore there was no justification for making him a suspect. However, given what Deakin had told them last night, Tyler thought that it was appropriate to declare him a Person of Interest.

  He was mindful that he needed to tread carefully. According to GMC statistics, malicious allegations from disgruntled addicts were becoming more common, and he didn’t want to set off a chain of events that could ultimately tarnish a good man’s reputation without having something more substantial to go on than an anonymous tip off.

  However, the tip off had been made just before the murder spree began, and it was too much of a coincidence for him to ignore, so although investigations by Complaints and the GMC were already underway, Tyler wanted his own people to check it out thoroughly.

  With that in mind, he had instructed Chris Deakin to contact his friend at Complaints straight after the office meeting in order to set up an urgent conference. Ideally, he wanted all the information that CIB had on Dr Sadler to be made available to the enquiry team by close of play today.

  Steve Bull had been tasked to touch base with the GMC and to grab everything that they had. Tyler was particularly keen to establish the date and time of the anonymous call. It was probably too much to hope that the GMC had logged the telephone number the informant had called in from. However, if they did have it on record, there were immediate lines of enquiry that Jack needed to set in motion.

  First on the list was a subscriber’s check. From this, they should be able to obtain the user’s name and billing address. Even if the number belonged to an unregistered pre-pay mobile, the owner might have been dumb enough to have purchased the handset, or a subsequent text and minutes bundle with one of the major networks, with a credit card.

  Secondly, there was a chance that if the anonymous call was made from a London phone booth the informant would be captured on CCTV. If they were able to get actual footage of the caller, and if it turned out to be either Geraldine Rye or Alice Pilkington, James Sadler would certainly have some very awkward questions to answer.

  ◆◆◆

  Charlie White stood outside the surgery entrance, waiting impatiently for it to open. He turned up his collar, tucked his hands into his pockets, and stamped his feet to ward of the cold. There was a biting wind sweeping down the High Street, and the recessed door of the surgery provided scant protection from it.

  The sign on the door, which he could hardly read through the grime stained window, proclaimed that the surgery opened for business at eight-thirty, but that was still fifteen-minutes away.

  He considered popping into a local café to grab a quick bacon sandwich and a cup of coffee, but he decided it would be more prudent to get the request in first. He knew from experience that attempts to obtain a victim’s medical records tended to go one of two ways, depending on the attitude of the practice manager and the relevant GP. Sometimes, they were quite happy to hand the information straight over, but there were occasions when a practice manager could be awkward to the point of being obstructive, forcing the requesting officer to obtain a court order before they would release any personal information. Charlie was hoping everything would go smoothly this morning; otherwise he would be tied up all day sorting out the paperwork required to apply to a court for a production order.

  It suddenly occurred to him that there was probably a staff entrance at the rear, and that he might be able to have a quick word with the practice manager before they opened for business if he could find it. If nothing else, it would get him out of this sodding wind tunnel.

  It took him a few minutes, but Charlie eventually worked his way around to the rear of the building, where there was a small staff car park. A door to the practice was ajar, and he set off towards this, pleased that his initiative had paid dividends.

  As he reached the door, a powerful motorbike pulled into the car park. The rider, clad in black leathers and a matching helmet, revved the machine loudly before switching it off and dismounting.

  After setting the motorcycle on its stand, the leather clad figure walked towards the staff entrance and Charlie White. “This is a private car park,” a muffled, male voice said from beneath the helmet. Its mirrored visor prevented White from seeing anything of the man’s face. “The public entrance is around the front.”

  “Yes, I know,” White said, producing his warrant card. “I wanted to have a quick word with the practice manager before the surgery opens.”

  James Sadler removed the helmet and starred at White in half recognition. “Don’t I know you?” he asked.

  White smiled. “Aye, you do. You gave me some painkillers at Whitechapel police station the other night when I had the headache from hell.”

  Sadler nodded. “Yes, I remember. You’re the murder squad chap, aren’t you?”

  “That’s me,” White confirmed.

  “You’d better come inside then,” Sadler announced, walking straight past the Scotsman.

  It was much warmer inside, and White undid his raincoat as he followed the doctor through to the reception area, where a slim, middle aged woman with fair hair stared at him in surprise.

  “Doreen, would you be kind enough to find Patricia for me. This gentleman is from the police and he would like a quick word with her.”

  “Oh dear, I do hope she’s not in any trouble,” Doreen said, giving White a worried look.

  “Don’t worry,” he reassured her. “I just need to speak to her about getting access to some medical records.”

  “Is this in relation to the prostitute murders?” Sadler asked after Doreen had gone off to find the practice manager.

  “Aye, it is,” White said. He produced two small photographs from inside his coat pocket and showed them to Sadler. “This one’s called Alice Pilkington, although she used the name of Natasha when she was working, and this one’s name is Geraldine Rye. She wasnae a sex worker, though. They’re both registered as patients here. Do the names of faces ring any bells?”

  Sadler studied the images carefully for a few seconds, and then shook his head. “No, I can’t say I recall either of them, but to be fair, I see so many patients that they all blur into one after a while so I’m probably not the best person to ask.”

  Just then, Doreen returned with a prissy looking, plump woman in her early fifties, whose expression could not have been any sourer if she had been sucking lemons.

  Oh dear, Charlie thought. This wee wifey doesnae look
the friendly type.

  “Hello, I’m Patricia Dolton, the practice manager,” she announced, as though she were royalty. “How can I help you, Constable?”

  White smiled inwardly. Dolton was a Scottish idiom for ‘idiot’.

  “Actually, I’m a detective sergeant. Charlie White’s the name,” he said, producing his warrant card for inspection. She donned the reading glasses that had been hanging from her neck and examined the identification carefully, as though she suspected that it might be a fake. When she had studied every word written on it – twice – she handed it back.

  “So, how can I be of assistance?” she asked, taking a liberal squirt from a wall mounted sanitiser and rubbing her hands together vigorously to get rid of any unpleasant germs that might be ingrained in the police officer’s warrant card.

  Charlie took a deep breath and launched into an explanation that started with some detail about the three murders they were investigating, and concluded with a request for copies of the medical records of the two victims who were registered at the practice.