Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  Although Doreen seemed riveted, Patricia was less impressed. “I see,” she said when he had concluded. “Well, I will have to discuss it with the doctor they were registered with, and then we can make an informed decision. I’ll get back to you sometime next week with an answer.”

  White shook his head. “Sorry, but that won’t do. We have a killer on the loose and we really need to make this happen today, even if it means getting a production order from court.” He looked across at Dr Sadler, who had watched the exchange with detached interest. “I’m sure Dr Sadler will be sympathetic to our request, what with him being an FME and all. And I’m sure he’ll vouch for me when I say that patient confidentiality goes out the window when said patient has been murdered. What do you say, doc?”

  Being awarded an FME contract was a very good earner, White knew, and he very much doubted that Sadler would want to be seen as obstructive when the police were conducting such a high-profile murder investigation. After all, you don’t bite the hand that feeds you, as the saying goes.

  Sadler appeared to consider his stance on the matter, but White could already see in the other man’s eyes that he was going to give in.

  “I’m sure we can accommodate your request today,” Sadler declared a moment later. “Doreen, can you check the system and confirm which GP these ladies were registered with, please,” he asked the receptionist without taking his eyes off the detective.

  White affected a look of boredom, but inwardly he was feeling mightily pleased as he listened to the receptionist tapping away at her computer keyboard behind him.

  “They’re both shown as your patients, Dr Sadler,” she stated as soon as the typing stopped.

  “I see,” Sadler said. “In that case, Patricia, I have no objections to their release. I’ll leave you to prepare a copy of the two women’s records for the officer as I have to prepare for my first appointment.” With that, he was gone.

  “If you’d like to take a seat in the waiting area,” Patricia told him, frostily. “I’ll print out the information you require. We will, of course, require a receipt.”

  Of course,” White said, wondering if she planned to suck any more lemons while she was out of the room.

  When he was alone with the receptionist, the atmosphere immediately became friendlier. “You know, it’s strange that Dr Sadler didn’t recognise those women’s names,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

  “Is it?” Charlie asked. “Why’s that?”

  “Well, Ms Pilkington, was always coming in here and making a right nuisance of herself. Between you and me,” she said, looking around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard, “she was a vile woman. She was always drunk, and she had such a foul mouth on her.”

  White raised an eyebrow. “Interesting,” he said. “And what did Dr Sadler think of her?”

  “Oh, he couldn’t stand her,” Doreen said. “He was always complaining that once she was in his office, he couldn’t get her out, and sometimes she was up there with him for absolute ages.”

  Is that a fact?”

  “Oh yes,” Doreen confirmed. “God knows why he didn’t strike her off the surgery register. She did more than enough to justify his refusing to treat her anymore.”

  Perhaps it was because the randy old sod was sticking more than his thermometer in her mouth when he was examining her? White kept the thought to himself.

  ◆◆◆

  The day passed by uneventfully, and with Daylight Savings Time having ended on 31st October, the clocks had gone back an hour, so it was almost dark by five-o’clock.

  There had been intermittent showers during the early afternoon, but they had finally cleared up and it looked like it was going to stay dry for Bonfire Night.

  Although a lot of the organised displays weren’t taking place until tomorrow evening, it wasn’t long before the fireworks started. They were sporadic at first; just a few Bangers and Rockets, but by eight-o’clock the racket was almost incessant as the night sky was repeatedly lit up by explosions of bright colour.

  Tyler and Dillon were oblivious to what was going on outside as they sat in the office, going through the information that had come in during the day. Unfortunately, there was nothing to get them even remotely excited.

  Deakin’s buddy from Complaints had given them everything he had on Sadler, which was basically a copy of what the GMC had given him. It took them precisely nowhere.

  The GMC had confirmed that an anonymous female had rung them at 13:00 hours on Wednesday 27th October. Refusing to provide any personal details, she had made a rushed allegation and then hung up. The voice had sounded muffled, as though the caller had wrapped a handkerchief or something around the mouthpiece to disguise her voice. The only good news was that the GMC did, in fact, have a note of the incoming number. The call had been made from a 020 number, which meant it had originated from within the Greater London area.

  Reggie, the team’s resident phone expert, had already submitted a subscriber check, but that wouldn’t come back in until Monday at the earliest. This was because the SPOC – Single Point of Contact – at the Telephone Investigation Unit was unwilling to treat it as a priority submission. Apparently, he had explained, it didn’t meet the criteria laid out in their Standard Operating Procedures.

  The GMC had made some enquiries into Sadler’s prescribing history following the accusation, but nothing untoward had been revealed.

  According to the investigator at the GMC, Sadler had been qualified for nearly twenty-years, and had been on the FME approved list for five. He had an impeccable record, and in the absence of any additional material to corroborate it, this allegation was likely to be resulted as malicious and unfounded.

  Despite what Charlie had told them upon his return from the doctor’s surgery this morning, Jack knew they didn’t have enough grounds to interview Sadler.

  What they had against him was so flimsy that it would be stretching the imagination to even consider using the term ‘circumstantial evidence’ to describe it: An anonymous woman had complained that he was receiving sexual favours in exchange for prescribing controlled drugs to prostitutes and drug addicts a few days before the first murder occurred – not that his prescribing history in any way supported that claim; he just happened to be the GP for two of the New Ripper’s victims; he had claimed not to recognise Alice Pilkington’s name or her photograph, although his receptionist was adamant that the sex worker often came in to see Dr Sadler and spent ages his office each time she visited.

  Sadler and his legal representative would simply laugh at them if they interviewed him on the basis of that. No, unless supporting evidence came to light over the coming days, they wouldn’t be going anywhere near Dr Sadler.

  All they could do now was hope the subs check would identify a telephone kiosk that was covered by local authority CCTV, and that this would provide them with footage of whoever made the call. Even then, unless it transpired that the caller was Pilkington or Rye their enquiries would hit a brick wall.

  “This is so frustrating,” Jack complained. “I feel like we’re just wasting valuable time and resources following this Sadler allegation up.”

  “We don’t have a choice, mate,” Dillon told him.

  “I know,” Jack snapped, “but it seems to me that all we do at the moment is chase shadows and grasp at straws.”

  “Jack,” Dillon soothed, “we’re working in strict compliance with the Murder Manual framework, and we’re doing everything that’s humanly possible to find the bastard who’s murdering these women. Over the past few days we’ve taken a stack of statements, and we’ve seized a tonne of CCTV. God alone knows how long it’s going to take Paul Evans to view all that footage. We’re pursuing multiple lines of enquiries relating to telephone numbers, financial histories, and various vehicles that have been seen in the vicinity of the crime scenes during the relevant times. We’ve also carried out the requisite anniversary visits and leaflet drops. All the forensic material gathered from th
e three crime scenes is being processed, and we’ve had more publicity on this case than any other job I can ever remember working on. Something will eventually give, and when it does, we will catch him.”

  “I know, Dill,” Jack said, miserably, “but when?”

  “You’re still worried that he’ll strike again at any moment?” Dillon asked, studying his friend carefully.

  “I’m absolutely convinced he will,” Jack confessed.

  Dillon sighed. “All we can do is spread the word for everyone to be extra vigilant and try and get the uniform patrols in Whitechapel increased over the weekend,” he said.

  Jack gave a mirthless laugh. “I’ve already tried doing that. Apparently, Bonfire Night weekend is one of the busiest times of the year for the emergency services and they expect to be run ragged dealing with all the calls that come in.”

  “You know, having all those extra people out and about, enjoying themselves at firework displays and bonfire parties, means the streets are going to be buzzing tonight. That might just work to our advantage,” Dillon said, trying to sound positive.

  “It might,” Jack agreed, sounding incredibly morose. “Or it might work to his.”

  ◆◆◆

  It was nearly midnight, everywhere was shrouded in dense mist from where all the fireworks had been set off earlier, and it was raining again. Not that The Disciple was complaining. The rain was his friend. Statistically speaking, it was a known fact that far less crime was committed during periods of inclement weather than at any other time. It was also a known fact that even the most conscientious police officers were reluctant to get out of their nice cosy patrol cars without an extremely good reason when it was pissing down.

  Spookily, despite the weather forecast predicting a cool, dry evening, the downpour had begun within minutes of him starting tonight’s hunt. It was, he knew, yet another sign of his growing power.

  Now that all the fireworks had finally stopped, the streets seemed eerily quiet, especially for for a Friday night. That wasn’t going to be a problem; there was always action to be found somewhere in Whitechapel if you knew where to look, and The Disciple knew exactly where to look.

  He picked up his fourth victim in Middlesex Street. Her name turned out to be Sonia, and she was an anorexic mixed-race girl in her late teens with a face full of angry pimples. She seemed awkward and embarrassed when he broached the subject of sex, giving him the impression that she hadn’t been on the game for very long. As soon as a price was agreed he patted the passenger seat impatiently, indicating that she should join him inside the van. She climbed in, brushing water from the shoulders of her plastic jacket.

  Tonight’s disguise consisted of a black-haired wig, worn under a flat cap, a stick-on goatee and a pair of circular glasses.

  Given that he was the most wanted man in London, he wanted to get off the streets as soon as possible. With that in mind, he pulled away from the kerb the instant she closed her door.

  “Where are we going?” Sonia demanded, pulling her seatbelt on. There was a note of apprehension in her voice, but he knew her anxiety stemmed from the fact that no money had changed hands yet as opposed to any fears she might have over her safety.

  The rain was getting worse by the minute, and he increased the speed of the wipers to compensate, not that it made much difference.

  “I know a quiet place not too far from here, where we won’t be disturbed by the police.” He did, too. Tracey Phillips had very considerately shown it to him on the night he had killed her.

  “That’s all well and good, but you haven’t paid for my services yet.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” he promised, “I’ll make sure you get your just reward.” He tried to smile but it came out as a grimace. The music in his head was becoming louder again, and he made a conscious attempt to dull it down so that he would be able to hear her reply.

  “You’d better,” she warned him, “because I ain't performing till I’ve been paid.”

  “I’m a Capricorn,” The Disciple lied. “What’s your star sign?”

  She glanced sideways at him, the hint of a frown creasing her brow. Her face said: Are you for real?

  The Disciple took a deep breath and repeated the question, making a huge effort to sound friendly.

  There was an awkward silence, and he could tell from the vexed expression on her face that she was on the verge of having a strop. “I’m an Aires,” she eventually told him. “What’s it to you?”

  The Disciple shrugged. “Just making conversation,” he said, trying to keep the mood jovial. He wasn’t sure that she had answered truthfully, and as the ritual would be rendered useless unless he consumed the organ that corresponded to her Zodiacal sign, he decided to ask her again as soon as they reached their destination. Only the next time he asked, there would be a knife at her throat, and she would be made painfully aware of the consequences of lying to him.

  Sonia clearly wasn’t impressed with this feeble attempt at small talk. “Tell you what; you can talk to me all you want after you pay me. Till then…” She raised her right hand to her mouth, mimed zipping up her lips, and then crossed her arms defiantly.

  My, you’re a feisty one, he thought. She had seemed so demure when he’d first spoken to her. Well, he mused, it just goes to show how deceiving looks can be, and I should know.

  “Don’t worry,” he told her, using his most reassuring tone, “We’re nearly there, and I promise I’ll give you exactly what you deserve the moment we arrive.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Monday 8th November 1999

  “Heads up, everyone. Here they come,” Evans warned as he entered the conference room. He had just hot-footed it from Tyler’s office, where the DCI, Dillon, and Holland had been squirreled away since seven o’clock that morning, discussing the case. He had interrupted their meeting just as it was finishing, excitedly informing them about an explosive piece of CCTV evidence he had literally just found. He knew they would want to be forewarned before the main meeting started; bosses always liked to be told about new developments in advance of the plebs.

  Evans took a seat near the rear of the room, next to Kelly Flowers, so he could access the video when the time came. The chairs had been neatly arranged in rows of ten to form three semicircles facing the whiteboard.

  It was eight o’clock on the dot when Tyler, Dillon, and Holland entered the conference room. The extended team of thirty officers stood up respectfully and all conversation died.

  “Thank you. Please be seated. You might as well make yourself comfortable because we’re going to be here a while,” Holland informed them grimly. “Right, we’re entering the second week of Operation Crawley. I want to start by thanking you all for your hard work and your dedication to duty. I’m aware that some of you have already worked seven long days on the trot, and you will probably have to work another seven before you get a day off. The only consolation I can offer is that your bank balances will all be considerably healthier by the time this investigation concludes.” That was certainly true; most of the command had just worked two twelve-hour shifts at double time after he’d cancelled their weekend leave. In addition, he dreaded to think how many hours of time-and-a-third overtime Tyler’s team had clocked up during the first week, not to mention all the double time they had earned on the day that the case had broken, when they had been called in on their day off. At this rate, the command would be facing bankruptcy before the killer was put behind bars.

  “So far, all we’ve had to show for our valiant efforts are three victims and a shit load of bad press.” Holland allowed himself a brief smile. “But we’re still very much in the race. The forensic and CCTV work you’ve all been breaking your backs to get through is finally beginning to pay dividends, and a much clearer picture is emerging. We’re breathing down the bastard’s neck, and it’s only a matter of time before we take him down. DCI Tyler will update you on some interesting developments in a moment. First, the Commissioner has asked me to pass on his best wishes
and inform you that he has complete trust in you, even if you are bleeding his budget dry!”

  “Phew! That’s a relief,” Bull said, theatrically wiping his brow. Everyone laughed, including Holland, and the atmosphere lightened a little.

  “When poor Tracey Phillips died last Monday,” Holland continued, “we all hoped that she was a one-off. None of us expected another murder, let alone two, to happen so quickly afterwards. Since then we’ve all been on tenterhooks because we half expect another one to occur at any bloody second.”

  “Thanks to Chief Superintendent Porter goading the killer on TV,” Murray said, and his words generated several nods of agreement and a few derisive groans.

  “Indeed,” Holland allowed. “Now, it has to be said that AMIP has been put in an unenviable position. The eyes of the nation are focused on us, with everyone and their dog demanding a quick result. Well, it might not happen quite as quickly as everyone wants, but I have no doubts whatsoever that we’ll get them their bloody result in the end. So, that’s it from me. DCI Tyler and his core role officers are now going to talk us through what we’ve achieved so far.” With that, he sat down next to Tyler.