Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  “At the time of her demise,” Barton said, “she was a self-employed private eye – having set up a tinpot firm called Regency Enquiries Agency in Mansell Street. Rye was single, lived in Chingford, and caught the train into Liverpool Street each day to work. Her elderly parents moved to Murcia in Spain a few years ago, and she has no other family in the UK. She had a season ticket in her pocket, and we believe she had just finished work and was heading for the station when she was taken. That’s supported by her phone records, which shows she had a fifteen-minute call that ended at 21:10 hours on Tuesday 2nd November. We traced the number and spoke to the caller, a client who had rung her for an update on a sensitive matrimonial enquiry she was conducting for him. He was miffed that she had terminated his very important call halfway through the conversation just so that she wouldn’t miss her train. Unprofessional, he called it.”

  Murray sneered knowingly. “It sounds to me like his wife was over the side.”

  “He wouldn’t elaborate on the nature of the work Rye was doing for him,” Barton said, “but reading between the lines I would say that seems likely. If the poor cow had stayed on the line to discuss his wife’s affair a few minutes longer she would probably still be alive.”

  “Yeah, but then someone else would be dead in her place,” Steve Bull pointed out.

  “Probably,” Tim agreed. “Anyway, Paul Evans has been plotting the route Rye took from the office to the station, and he will take you through the CCTV we’ve found of her shortly. Unlike Phillips and Pilkington, Rye was not, and never had been, a sex worker. She was wearing designer clothing and there is no way that anyone would ever mistake her for one. She had no STDs or other infectious conditions, and there was no sign of recent sexual activity.”

  Murray laughed wickedly. “I had a quick look through her diary when we searched her home address over the weekend,” he said. “From what I could tell, she hadn’t had it off for so long that her gash had practically healed up.”

  Holland’s eyes drilled into Murray’s. He wasn’t averse to a bit of smutty humour, but not when ladies were present. “Kevin, if you can’t say anything constructive don’t say anything at all,” he warned.

  “Sorry, sir,” Murray said, avoiding eye contact. “No offence meant; I was just trying to provide a bit of background detail for the team.”

  “Her body was found in Mitre Square by some poor sod taking a shortcut on his paper round at 07:15 hours on Wednesday 3rd November,” Barton said, resuming where he had left off. “The cause of death was strangulation. After he killed her, he slit her throat from ear to ear, again almost severing the head.”

  Bartholomew grimaced. “He must be using one hell of a sharp knife,” he said.

  “Sharp or not, it takes an incredible amount of force to nearly sever a head with one cut,” Steve Bull added.

  “He didn’t stop there,” Tim told them. “Both eyes were gouged out, and her nose, ears, and tongue were also removed. As if that’s not enough, he sliced off both breasts, and surgically removed her kidneys.”

  Richard Jarvis raised a hand. “How long would it have taken him to do that?” he asked. “I mean, I can understand him taking his time inside the house in Hanbury Street, but with Geraldine, he was working out in the open and must have been very exposed. Anyone could have stumbled across him while he was dissecting her. It seems way too reckless to me.”

  “It’s a good point, Dick,” Tyler said. “But we think he killed her in the back of the van and operated on her post-mortem. We think that’s why he strangled her, because he couldn’t afford her to bleed out inside his van.”

  “Yeah, but chopping a body up inside a van is still pretty ballsy,” Jarvis said.

  “Not when you take into account that it was one of the wettest nights of the year,” Dillon said. “The risks of him being interrupted would have been minimal.”

  “Was a message left at the scene, like with the others?” Susan Sergeant asked. DS Sergeant, or Sergeant Sergeant as her colleagues liked to call her, was one of the newcomers who had only joined the team on Saturday. She was a tall, slim girl in her late twenties with strawberry blond hair – woe betide anyone who dared to call it ginger in her presence – and a soft Irish lilt.

  “No message at the scene,” Barton said.

  “And I take it she was subjected to vaginal mutilation like the others?” Susie asked.

  “Actually, no,” Barton said. “We’re not sure why, but the hunting knife wasn’t used to shred her reproductive organs like it was with the other two.”

  “The killer deviated from his established pattern in three ways with his third victim,” Jack said. “Firstly, she isn’t a prostitute; secondly, there is no genital mutilation; thirdly, there was no message left at the scene. We’ve been trying to figure out why for days. The lack of a message doesn’t overly concern us. We think the letter and photographs he sent Terri Miller were his message to us. It’s the lack of genital mutilation that confuses us. Were her reproductive organs left intact because the killer only feels the need to mutilate prostitutes in this way, possibly because one of them infected him at some point? That’s DI Sigmund Dillon’s theory, by the way.”

  Dillon arched an eyebrow and affected a look of superiority.

  “I’m not just a pretty face, you know. There’s a mine of useful information stored in this computer-like cranium,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “Unlike you lot, I’ve read Freud’s theory that repressing your unconscious mind governs your everyday behaviour.”

  “Really, boss,” Steve Bull said, grinning mischievously. “I didn’t think they covered subjects like that in The Beano!”

  “Or,” Jack said, keen to keep the meeting on track, “is the lack of injury to her nether regions simply because the sadistic bastard had no interest in committing genital mutilation on someone who was already dead?”

  “He’ll plead insanity when we catch him,” Holland predicted with the cynicism of one who had seen too many sane killers play that card before. “Full psychiatric evaluations will be carried out prior to trial, so we might get a better idea of what makes him tick then, but I seriously doubt it.”

  “Right, Paul, your turn to talk us through the CCTV,” Jack said.

  “As you know,” Evans said, grinning broadly, “me and little Kelly have been going at it non-stop all weekend.” This generated a welcome outbreak of laughter, which he acknowledged with a bow. Kelly laughed and blushed in equal measures. “But in between that we did manage to view some CCTV.” This resulted in more laughter from the team and more blushing from Kelly.

  Evans inserted a cassette into the video player, and Kelly obligingly turned out the light for him. Evans then pressed the play button and began his commentary. “This is footage of Rye crossing under the one-way system at Aldgate at 23:20 hours on Tuesday 2nd November. It’s absolutely pissing down, which affects picture quality somewhat, but you can just about make her out here.” He tapped the screen with his pen. “As you can see, she’s wearing a three-quarter length Burberry overcoat and carrying a dinky little umbrella.” The picture changed to show the view from another camera. “Now we have her walking along Petticoat Lane on her way to Liverpool Street.” The picture flickered and changed again, providing a view from a third camera. “Now, this clip is hot off the press. Although Rye is only a dot in the distance –” he tapped the screen again with his pen to pinpoint her for the audience “– I want you to concentrate on what happens next.”

  Sensing something interesting was about to happen, everyone leaned forward to get a better view of the footage. The camera was obviously mounted high on a lamppost. It provided a poor-quality long-distance shot of a solitary figure holding an umbrella above its head. The figure, Rye, was walking along the nearside pavement and moving away from the camera. As she approached a stationary van, which was parked with its bonnet facing the camera, the offside door suddenly slid open and a silhouetted figure emerged from the driver’s seat. The movements were masculi
ne, indicating it was a man. Evans paused the frame. “Anyone notice anything significant about this van?”

  In the darkness, both Grier and Jarvis raised their hands.

  “It’s got a headlight badly out of alignment,” Susan Sergeant said.

  “That’s right, it has,” Evans said, pressing play again. It was impossible to tell what colour the male from the van was, but he did seem to have quite long hair. Rye swerved around the driver and continued walking towards the rear of the vehicle without a backward glance. After a moment, the driver followed her and they both suddenly disappeared behind the vehicle. About forty seconds later, the driver came back into view, alone. He got into the van and within seconds it pulled away. There was no trace of Rye.

  “I’m convinced,” Evans said dramatically, “that what you just saw there was the killer abducting Geraldine Rye,” He rewound the tape as he spoke. “I’ll play that clip again for you.” This was the big find he had interrupted the bosses meeting for earlier.

  CHAPTER 29

  Henry Boyden was filling in the last few details on a lost property report when Simon Pritchard entered the station office at Whitechapel police station. He was a few minutes early for his nine o’clock appointment with Charles Porter so he waited patiently for Boyden to finish. As soon as Boyden buzzed him through, Pritchard looked around carefully and, seeing they were all alone, whispered conspiratorially in the station officer’s ear.

  “You may have a bit of a problem,” he said. “One of the whores you’ve been shagging has made a complaint to my wife about your behaviour.”

  Boyden felt his sphincter loosen. “Who was it?” he demanded, face ashen with worry. “What did she say?”

  “Sarah wouldn’t tell me, but I think she plans to report you to the murder squad.

  Boyden’s eyes widened. “Why would she report me to the murder squad?” he asked in a shaky voice.

  Pritchard laughed mirthlessly. “Because, you blithering idiot, she thinks you might be the Ripper,”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Boyden said, but he looked very worried.

  “I’ve turned a blind eye to your inappropriate shagging because we’re in the same lodge, but I can’t protect you if you step over the line and start hurting the tarts.”

  “I haven’t hurt anyone, I swear,” Boyden said, wide-eyed. “I might be a little rough at times, but I’ve never marked one of them.”

  Pritchard nodded. “I believe you, but others may not. I’ll try and convince Sarah to drop it but you should stay away from the Mission until this has all blown over.”

  “I will,” Boyden promised. But Pritchard was already heading for the elevator.

  ◆◆◆

  The meeting had been going strong for the best part of two hours and Tyler could see that people were starting to flag. He considered giving them a ten-minute break to grab a cup of coffee and take a leak, but on reflection, he decided against it. They were nearly finished now and it would be better to press on and just get it over with.

  “Okay,” Tyler said, “the killer left a cool bag containing human flesh outside Terri Miller’s plush Canary Wharf apartment. We still haven’t worked out how he got into the building unseen as there is a concierge on duty twenty-four hours a day. I’m guessing that the night duty bloke had slipped into the back office for a kip, but he swears he was wide awake and at his post all night. Unfortunately, there’s no internal CCTV, so we’ll probably never know for sure. The bag and the flesh have been sent to the lab for fingerprint and DNA testing. George, how is that progressing?”

  “The flesh has been visually examined. Basically, he sent Miller one of the breasts he removed from Rye. It doesn’t appear to have any bite marks on it, but it’s been swabbed for DNA anyway, and I hope to have the results back by the end of play today. The bag has already been tested and is negative for prints and DNA.”

  “What about the handwriting comparisons, and the forensic testing of the letter and three Polaroid photographs he sent Miller?” Jack asked.

  “We’ve sent photographs of the two painted messages, the names written on the back of two of the Polaroids, and the letter up to Scotland,” George said. “There’s a woman in Edinburgh who’s probably the best handwriting expert in the business. I spoke to her on the phone last week and her initial findings are quite encouraging. We’re pretty confident we can prove the same hand wrote all three texts. The letter itself has been sent to the lab for ESDA testing and will then be chemically treated for fingerprints. Likewise, the three Polaroid photos that Miller received will also be tested for DNA and fingerprints.”

  “When will we get the results back?” Tyler asked.

  “Not sure, boss,” Copeland confessed. “I’ll chase it up after the meeting.” He made a quick note in his daybook to ensure he remembered.’

  Grier raised a tentative hand. “Excuse me,” he said, and then blushed when every head in the room turned to look at him. “Sorry to be so dim, but what’s ESDA?”

  “It’s an Electrostatic Detection Apparatus,” George explained. Grier stared at him blankly. George smiled indulgently and explained in layman’s terms. “Imagine a suspect wrote something down in a notebook, and because they didn’t want anyone else to know what they had written they tore out the page. How would we find out what they wrote?”

  “I guess you would either have to find the page they tore out or ask them,” Grier said.

  George nodded. “Or – if you had access to the notebook – you could have the page underneath the one that was torn out ESDA tested. The chances are that an invisible indentation of what was written on the missing page will be on it, showing you exactly what the suspect wrote.”

  “Cool,” Grier said, impressed.

  “Paul, has Miller received any more telephone calls?” Tyler asked.

  “No, sir,” Evans said. “But the recording equipment is all in place so, if he does call, we should get a good quality recording of his voice. Also, we’ve received permission from her editor to install a similar recording device at her office, and that goes in later today.”

  “Right, so we’ve now gone through all the evidence relating to the three victims,” Jack said. “As you can see, we are slowly putting together a very solid case against the killer, and I’m confident that when we do finally catch him the evidence will be overwhelming. The problem is catching him in the first place. At the moment, we have no suspects, although we do have one Person of Interest, Dr James Sadler.”

  “For those of you who don’t yet know,” Dillon said, taking over the narrative, “on 27th October, a few days before Tracey Phillips was murdered, the GMC received an anonymous tip off from a female who claimed Sadler was giving out controlled drugs in exchange for sexual favours. I should point out that his prescribing history has been checked and does not support this allegation. Sadler, it turns out, is the GP for two of our victims, Pilkington and Rye. Whitey obtained their medical records last Friday, and I feel obliged to say that Sadler made no effort to block the request. The only thing that bothers me a little bit is that when Charlie told him their names and showed him their photographs, he claimed not to recognise either one.”

  “In his defence, boss,” Charlie cut in, “he did say he sees so many people that they all blur into one.”

  “Also,” Deakin said, “the name James Sadler isn’t on my list of people who withdrew money from the ATM. The nearest match to it is someone called Nadia Sadler, and she made a withdrawal of one-hundred-pounds.”

  “Have you compared their addresses?” Jack asked. “Just to make sure she’s not his wife.”

  Deakin looked up from his list, and Jack could see that he was a little embarrassed. “Er, no, sorry, I didn’t, but I’ll do it as soon as the meeting is over.”

  “Reggie’s put in a subs request on the number the GMC were called from,” Dillon said, continuing from where he had left off. “That should be back in today or tomorrow. If it relates to a pay phone that’s covered by CCTV, we might get some
footage of the caller. If not –” he shrugged – “there’s probably not a lot more we can do in relation to Sadler at this moment in time.”

  “So,” Tyler said. “If anyone has any bright ideas about what else we could be doing to catch the swine responsible for killing these women we’d very much like to hear them.”

  Silence.

  A few coughs and someone’s shoe tapping against the leg of a chair.

  “No suggestions?” Tyler said.

  “I suggest we break for coffee,” Dillon said, stifling a yawn.

  There were universal nods of agreement.

  Tyler gave him a ‘well, that wasn’t particularly helpful’, look. “Before we stop, I want to briefly discuss what makes our killer tick. Yesterday, I spent an hour on the phone with a forensic psychologist the National Crime Faculty recommended, and I have commissioned him to prepare a profile for us. In the meantime, I’m gonna run you through the psychobabble he shared with me. It might help us to develop a better understanding of our quarry.”