Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  Steve Bull didn’t have much faith in psychologists. “You’d have got more insight from reading one of Mr Dillon’s Beano comics, boss,” he told Tyler.

  “Let’s get on with it, shall we, Jack,” Holland instructed, giving Tyler the feeling that the boss was starting to get a little tetchy. Maybe it was just the fact that the cost of using the NCF recommended expert to prepare a profile was probably going to be in the region of several thousand pounds, and he didn’t take kindly to one of his staff effectively saying the whole thing was a complete waste of time and money.

  “Quite often, or so I’m told, serial killers don’t have a discernible motive, although they do tend to follow a predictable pattern. On reflection, I think that describes our suspect rather well. They usually operate in defined geographical areas –”

  “Like Whitechapel?” Jarvis asked.

  “Yes, Dick, like Whitechapel. Often, but not always, the killings are sexually motivated. They certainly seem to be in this case. Unlike in the films, where the killer is always a dysfunctional loner, the majority of serial killers don’t live alone; they hide in plain sight by having families and being gainfully employed. And it’s a misnomer that once they start killing, they can’t stop. My greatest fear with this bastard,” Jack confided, “is that he will stop killing as suddenly as he started and disappear back into the woodwork without a trace.”

  “Don’t worry, Jack, we’ll get him, even if he goes to ground,” Dillon said, and the sentiment was immediately echoed around the room with such passion that it made Tyler feel humbled.

  “Serial killers tend to have a type,” he said when they had quietened down. “For instance, Ted Bundy’s victims were all pretty young girls, college students if I remember correctly. They were all similar in appearance to a woman who had jilted him because she thought he was all mouth and trousers and was never going to amount to anything.”

  “Who’s Ted Bundy?” Grier asked.

  “He was a famous American serial killer who kidnapped, raped and murdered numerous women in the seventies, long before you were born,” Holland said.

  “As for having a type, I thought our killer had a vendetta against prostitutes, at first,” Tyler said, “but I’ve had to recalibrate that theory in light of Geraldine Rye’s murder. Now I’m wondering if he just hates all women. Either way, something must have set him off. I mean there must be a catalyst that triggered his spree.”

  “Realistically, I don’t think we’re going to find any answers until he’s in custody,” Dillon said. “And while all this mumbo-jumbo is enlightening, none of it is going to help us catch him. For instance, knowing his crimes are sexually motivated, and that he only operates in Whitechapel, didn’t help us anticipate that he would kill two women in one night.”

  “Come on then, Sigmund bloody Freud,” Tyler challenged, “tell us why do you think he did that?”

  Dillon shrugged. “Personally, I don’t think he had a reason. I wouldn’t be surprised if he only set out to kill one, the prostitute, and something happened afterwards to make him kill again.”

  “Like what?” Charlie White asked.

  Dillon shrugged. “No idea. Perhaps it was road rage or something. Perhaps she looked like the woman who jilted him years ago for being all mouth and no trousers, à la Ted Bundy.”

  DC Wendy Blake raised a hand. “I might have an idea about why he did that,” she said timidly. Wendy didn’t like being in the spotlight. She was quite content to work in the shadows and let others take centre stage.

  Tyler smiled encouragingly. “We’re open to suggestions, Wendy. The floor is all yours.”

  “Well,” she began nervously, “I started reading a book about Jack the Ripper when we took on this case,” she told the assembled detectives, “and a couple of the things that have come out during the meeting have struck a chord with me. The original Ripper had a double event too. I wonder if our man is just copying him. Also, the original Ripper left bodies in the back yard of a house in Hanbury Street and at Mitre Square. Again, maybe the new Ripper –”

  “Please don’t call him that,” Holland said forcefully. “Perhaps he genuinely thinks he’s a reincarnation of that fiend, or his descendant, or maybe he just hallucinates that the Ripper’s ghost is telling him to kill in his name. Personally, I doubt all of that. Call me cynical, but I think he just wants the notoriety that comes with the Ripper tag. After all, it worked wonders for Peter Sutcliffe. The media are lapping it up. They use the Ripper moniker to sell newspapers, but a by-product of doing that is that they’re giving fame and notoriety to a deranged monster who will probably get a book deal out of it, and then make a mint selling the films rights after he’s banged up.” Holland was becoming more worked up as he went on. “I will not have my staff accord him that accolade. He is vermin. He is filth. He is just another unknown killer to us and I would be extremely grateful if everyone here refrains from calling him ‘The New Ripper’.” The room had gone completely silent, as tends to happen when a Detective Chief Superintendent loses his rag.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Wendy said, crestfallen.

  “Not at all, my dear,” Holland said. Having vented his fury he was feeling a little mean for snapping at her like that. “Please carry on.”

  Wendy fidgeted nervously in her chair. “I was just trying to make the point that the killer is duplicating some of the things the original Ripper did as some sort of tribute to him. That’s why he deposited two of his victims at locations the original Ripper used, and that’s why he had a double event of his own.”

  “Where did the original Ripper leave the other bodies?” Dillon asked. “Do you know?”

  “There were five canonical killings in 1888,” Wendy said. She held up an A3 sheet of paper. “I took the liberty of printing this street map off and cross-referencing it with the deposition sites for both the 1888 killings and the 1999 murders. The historical sites are all marked by red circles and the 1999 sites are marked with blue circles. There are red circles in Durward Street, which in 1888 was known as Bucks Row, Hanbury Street, Berner Street, Mitre Square and Whites Row, which is where Miller’s Court was. The blue circles are in Quaker Street, Mitre Square, and Hanbury Street.”

  “So, our boy isn’t following the exact pattern of his hero?” Jack said. “He isn’t leaving every victim at locations his namesake used in 1888, only some of them.”

  “Well,” Wendy said, “even if he’s clinically insane, and I’m not saying he is, it would be stupid to do that. After all, he’s got to realise that we will make the connection at some point. If he was mirroring the original Ripper that closely, all we’d have to do to catch him would be stake out the next deposition site.”

  “That makes a lot of sense, Wendy,” Steve Bull said, admiringly.

  “What about the dates of the murders?” Jack asked. “Do they match?” If they did, they might at least get an insight into the killer's intended timetable.

  Wendy shook her head emphatically. “No, they don’t. The killings we’re investigating bear no resemblance to those of the 1888 killings.” She opened her day book and read from her notes. “Mary Ann Nichols was discovered on Friday 31st August; Annie Chapman was discovered in Hanbury Street on Saturday 8th September; Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddows were the Ripper’s double event, both were killed on 30th September – Eddows was dumped in Mitre Square; and finally, Mary Jane Kelly was found at her home address, thirteen Miller’s Court, off Dorset Street on 9th November.”

  “Well done, Wendy,” Jack said. “What you’ve just said makes a lot of sense and actually makes things much clearer in my mind. If I had a gold star, I would give you one.”

  “And a gold star,” Murray sniggered under his breath. Grier made a mental note not to sit anywhere near him again in future meetings.

  “Right,” Tyler said, “I think everyone has had enough. Grab a coffee and then back in here in ten minutes for tasking.”

  “I’m bloody gasping,” Dillon said. “And as it’s your
turn to pay, I think I’ll have a Belgium Bun as well.”

  As the detectives stood up and began to file out, Derek Peterson appeared in the doorway, looking harried. When he spotted Holland, Tyler, and Dillon he waved a piece of paper at them and began fighting his way through the oncoming crowd.

  “Are you alright, Derek?” Tyler asked when he reached them. The older man was a bit flushed and breathing hard, as though he had just come from the gym, and judging from the girth of his waistline the gym wasn’t somewhere he went very often.

  “I’ve been looking all over the building for you, sir,” he said, panting and fanning his face with the sheet of paper. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but another mutilated body has been found just off Commercial Street. The HAT car is on its way there now.”

  Jack felt his stomach tighten. Every time the phone had rung over the weekend, he had feared it would be a call to notify him about another murder. When he’d woken up this morning, he had experienced a tremendous sense of relief; somehow, despite Porter doing his level best to push the killer over the edge, they had dodged a bullet – or rather a knife.

  Dillon’s shoulders slumped and he let out a pitiful moan. “Oh well,” he said, stoically, “I didn’t really want that coffee and bun you were going to buy me anyway.”

  CHAPTER 30

  The crime scene was a covered loading bay inside the grounds of a large distribution warehouse located within spitting distance of Commercial Street. The property was surrounded by a nine-foot perimeter wall. Entry was gained via a pair of wrought iron gates that opened inwards. Although the building was alarmed there were no other security features in place.

  The body, which had been left between two HGVs, had been discovered at nine o’clock that morning when one of the drivers inspected his rig in accordance with company policy to make sure it had no damage or defects that would stop him from taking it out.

  Inspector Speed was the duty officer, and his grim countenance told Jack that this wasn’t going to be pretty.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Jack said, shaking the duty officer’s hand. Dillon and Bull followed suit.

  “This is even worse than the last one I attended,” Speed warned. “The FME has been and gone, reckons the body has been there for a couple of days. That fits in with what the manager told me about their opening hours. Apparently, they shut up shop at six o’clock on Friday evening and, as no one works over the weekend, the place was deserted until this morning. The warehouse staff clock on at seven and the first trucks are normally loaded up by eight, but they had a big union meeting this morning to discuss some changes to working conditions that are about to come into force, so they didn’t start loading until nearly nine.”

  Jack grunted. That meant the killer would have either taken her late on Friday night or during the early hours of Saturday morning. Biting back his anger, he wondered how Porter would react when he discovered the killer had struck again so soon after his provocative comments were aired on TV. Would he be overcome with guilt? Or would he defend his outburst by claiming the killer would have done this anyway, regardless of what he said? And, to be fair, Jack admitted, maybe the killer would have.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any CCTV inside the yard?” Jack asked.

  Speed barked out a short, humourless laugh. “Apparently, they’ve been thinking about installing CCTV and motion activated lights because they’re sick of coming into work and finding used condoms strewn all over the loading bay floors, but they haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “I take it that means this place sees a lot of action from the local sex workers?” he asked.

  “Seems that way,” Speed said, “but to the best of my knowledge it’s not a location that’s ever been flagged up on our radar.”

  “Who found the body?” Dillon asked.

  “One of the lorry drivers found her. Poor sod fainted and cracked his head against the side of the truck on his way to the floor. The paramedics have already checked him out and he’s in the main office talking to one of my lads.”

  “I’ll get one of our lot to take a statement,” Steve Bull said, and slipped away to organise it.

  “How was she killed?” Jack asked.

  Speed blew out his breath and shrugged. “I really wouldn’t know where to start with this one,” he said. “Perhaps it’s best I just show you the body so you can see for yourselves.”

  That sounded ominous. “Well,” Dillon said unhappily, “I suppose we’d better get on with it, then.”

  Speed led them to the edge of the inner cordon, where they donned paper suits, rubber gloves, and overshoes. They were logged in by a bored looking constable, and then Speed walked them over to the two HGVs parked by the furthest loading bay.

  “She’s in there,” Speed said, stopping at the front of the first vehicle.

  “Aren’t you coming with us?” Dillon asked.

  Speed shook his head, emphatically. “Once was enough.”

  The two detectives swapped surprised glances. Was it really that bad?

  Jack cleared his throat. “Right,” he said. “We’ll catch up with you afterwards. Lead the way, Dill.”

  “After you,” Dillon insisted, waving Tyler forward theatrically.

  As they entered the narrow passage formed by the two high bodied HGVs, they saw Sam Calvin standing with his back to them, clad as he always was in his Tyvek protective coveralls. A similarly clad photographer stood slightly in front of the Crime Scene Manager, legs akimbo as he bent over a figure lying motionless on the cold concrete floor. The photographer’s flash went off several times in rapid succession as they approached.

  “What’ve we got, Sam?” Jack asked, tapping Calvin on the shoulder.

  Calvin turned around. “Hello, Jack. You’re not going to believe what the sick bastard has done this time,” he said, moving to one side so that Tyler and Dillon could get a clear view of the corpse of the floor.

  “Sweet Jesus!” Dillon gasped.

  The sight that met their eyes was difficult to describe: grotesque; bizarre; warped; disgusting; reprehensible. All of these adjectives fit, but none of them came close to doing the macabre diorama justice. The victim had been arranged so that she was flat on her back with her limbs extended to form the shape of a star. Her clothing had been cut off and discarded all around her. Her legs had been pulled wide apart, and her decapitated head had been placed between them, its mouth forced open and pressed against what was left of her vagina to create a sickening parody of oral sex. There were multiple incised wounds, some shallow but most penetrating, visible on the front of her torso. In contrast, there were no signs of defensive wounds to the fingers, hands or arms, which indicated that she hadn’t been able to put up any resistance to the barrage of blows. The girl’s skin had turned a mottled grey from the loss of blood, making it impossible to determine what colour it had been in life. For his piece de resistance, the killer had skillfully flayed the skin that had once covered her face. Despite the rainfall that had beleaguered the city over the weekend, blood staining was clearly visible on the floor and across the sides of both lorries.

  The photographer ambled over to them, pulling his face mask down. He acknowledged Tyler with a nod. “Hello again,” he said to Dillon. “Guess we’ll both be going back to Poplar tomorrow for the PM. Mind you,” he said, grinning wickedly, “it looks like the Ripper has already done most of the work for the pathologist.” He chortled at his little joke and seemed disappointed when neither of the detectives joined in.

  Dillon mentally scratched his head, trying to remember the nerdy looking twat’s name. They had met last week, during the post-mortem on Tracey Phillips. And then it came to him. “Hello, Ned,” he said, forcing a smile.

  “Isn’t George here today?” Ned asked.

  Dillon recalled that the two sick fuckers had a bit of a bromance going on, which no doubt stemmed from their shared interest in all things gruesome. “He’ll be here shortly
,” Dillon told him.

  “Good, good,” Ned said, swapping the lens on his camera for a bigger one he’d just removed from his bag. “Well, I’d better get back to work. The body isn’t going to photograph itself.”

  “If it did,” Dillon told him, “you’d be out of a job.”

  ◆◆◆

  Sarah Pritchard stood at the edge of the outer cordon, looking in anxiously. She had pleaded with the constable on guard to be allowed inside so that she could speak with the murder squad detectives, but he’d told her she would have to wait until someone came out as he was under strict orders not to let any unauthorised personnel in. At least, when she’d told him that it was really important and that it related to the Ripper murders, he’d allowed her to leave the Mission’s mini-bus parked on a double yellow opposite the warehouse, under the proviso that she would move it straight away if the road got busy.

  When Charise had called through to her office forty minutes earlier, to inform her that another Ripper murder had just been reported on the radio, Sarah had immediately feared the worst. What if the victim was Cassandra Newly, the prostitute who had confided in her that Henry Boyden had been roughing her and a couple of the other girls up? What if Boyden was the Ripper and he had murdered her? If that turned out to be so, the knowledge that she might have saved the poor girl’s life by passing the information onto Steve Bull earlier would torture her for the rest of her days. Guilt twisted her insides as she dialled Steve’s office number, praying he would pick up and dispel her fears by confirming that the body wasn’t Cassandra’s. There was no reply, which probably meant he was down at the scene. She wasn’t comfortable speaking to anyone else about this, so she decided the only thing to do was attend the scene in person and find Steve. But how could she when she didn’t even know where it was?