Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  “What about vehicles?” Dillon asked.

  “I did a VODS check on the home address and found one vehicle, a Ford Mondeo.” Dean read out the registration number.

  “No Sherpa vans?” White asked hopefully.

  “Afraid not,” Dean said. “But, if he is the killer, he’d hardly be stupid enough to register his death wagon with the DVLA, would he?”

  “I suppose not,” White allowed. “It would have been nice though”.

  “The only other thing you need to know about Boyden,” Dean said, “is that he’s on Chris Deakin’s list of people making withdrawals from the Nat West ATM. He withdrew fifty-pounds on Saturday 30th October.” When Jack had phoned in earlier, asking for fast time research to be carried out, the first thing Dean Fletcher had done was walk through to the MIR and run his eyes down the list that had been pinned up. “Fuck me,” he’d said to himself when he came across Boyden’s name. “We could be onto something with this Herbert.”

  “Boyden is now a named suspect,” Dillon told them. “The intention today is to arrest him at his home address in Vallance Road, and to secure the premises as a crime scene. I want us in before his wife and kids get home; it’ll be less grief that way. The method will be for an arrest team led by Charlie White to attend the address straight after this briefing. I’ve arranged for some uniform to meet you there to assist with entry and to secure it when we’re finished. Once he’s arrested, I want him taken to a police station off the division – can’t exactly bang him up in the nick where he works, can we. We don’t think our killer’s working with anyone else so there’s no need to apply to keep him incommunicado. Let’s move onto roles: DCs Evans and Jarvis will arrest; as George Copeland is still tied up at the scene of the latest killing, DC Murray will be the exhibits officer; you two,” he nodded at Dean Fletcher and Colin Green, a stony-faced detective in his mid-thirties who had been seconded in from another team over the weekend, “will act as searching officers.”

  Both men nodded their understanding.

  Dillon then went through the more mundane aspects of the IIMARCH briefing – covering the risk assessment, methods of communication to be used, admin protocols and any Human Rights Act issues that might have a bearing on their actions.

  “Anyone have any questions?” Dillon asked when he’d concluded the briefing, looking at each man in turn. There were none. “Good. In that case, go and arrest yourselves a serial killer.”

  The arrest team filed out of the office, clearly excited by the prospect of catching the killer. They quickly organised themselves for the impending operation, grabbing log books for cars, checking their officer safety equipment and making sure their radios had fully charged batteries. Murray put together an exhibits bag, making sure they had everything they needed for a search. Colin Green asked if anyone knew the way to the target address as he didn’t have a clue. Luckily, several of the others knew the area well.

  Brian Johnson observed them preparing to go out and arrest his friend with a heavy heart. There was no way that Henry could be the Ripper. He might like a bit of kinky sex, and he might even be a little rough with the prostitutes he used, but a killer? Never! Besides, hadn’t Boyden recently told him that he was happily married these days and had no interest in using prostitutes anymore?

  Johnson knew that he wasn’t exactly an easy man to get along with, which was probably why Henry was the only real friend that he had left. He desperately wanted to help the poor fool, but what could he possibly do? What would Boyden do in his place if their positions were reversed?

  The answer came to him surprisingly easily.

  Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Brian Johnson slipped out of the office and made his way along the corridor until he came to DCI Quinlan’s office. The lights were off and no one was inside. He glanced up and down the corridor to satisfy himself that no one else was around, and then he opened the door and stepped inside. Closing the door quietly behind him, Johnson moved swiftly to the desk and snatched the phone from its cradle with a trembling hand. Keeping his eyes fixed on the door and praying that no one would walk in on him, he dialled a number from memory and waited impatiently for it to be picked up at the other end.

  “Listen to me,” he whispered the moment it was, “I haven’t got time to explain, but the police have got it into their heads that you’re the Ripper. They’re on their way around to your house right now.”

  CHAPTER 31

  “This is all a terrible mistake,” Boyden sobbed. “I’m not the Ripper. I didn’t kill those girls.” He was finding the tiny interview room hot and oppressive, and the walls felt as though they were slowly closing in on him. Susan Sergeant and Steve Bull stared at him in detached silence from the opposite side of the table.

  They had found Boyden hiding in the tiny loft of his house, crouching between the rafters; a half-packed bag had been discovered lying open on his bed, along with a train timetable and some cash. It looked like he had been preparing to do a hasty runner.

  As per the instructions Dillon issued when they’d phoned in to confirm they had their man, Paul Evans and Richard Jarvis had driven him straight to Walthamstow police station in Forest Road, where a cell had been reserved. After relating the facts of the arrest to the custody sergeant and going through the booking-in procedure, they had escorted a dazed-looking Boyden off to a detention room to strip search him and bag all his clothing. A variety of samples had been authorised. Jarvis had taken the non-intimate samples himself: hand swabs, nail cuttings and scrapings, hair follicles and mouth swabs for DNA. Surprisingly, Boyden had readily consented to provide intimate samples as well, and the FME had been summoned to take blood, urine and lastly, penile swabs – no matter how tough a criminal was, or how much of a fight he put up upon arrest, Evans was yet to encounter a man whose eyes didn’t show fear as he was led away for penile swabs.

  A wet set of Boyden’s fingerprints were taken, and these were rushed straight up to the Yard by young Terry Grier for urgent comparison against the prints found on the three ten-pound notes that had been in the first victim’s purse.

  Nothing ever happens quickly when someone is taken into custody. When they arrived at Walthamstow police station at four-thirty p.m. there had only been one other person in front of them, a crappy shoplifter from one of the shops in Walthamstow market, but it had still taken over an hour and a half to book their prisoner in and bag all his belongings. Then they had waited a further two hours for the FME to arrive and take the intimate samples.

  Although the interview team, DS Bull and DS Sergeant, had arrived at six p.m., it was getting on for half-past eight by the time they finally sat Boyden down for interview. The good news was that Boyden had consented to be interviewed without a solicitor present. Generally speaking, people tended to do this for one of two reasons: firstly, because they were innocent and wanted to clear their name; secondly, because they thought there was no evidence against them and the police were just grasping at straws. They wondered which scenario applied to Henry Boyden.

  “Mr Boyden,” Susie began. “Can you confirm for the benefit of the tape that you understand the caution that I have just given you?”

  Wiping a long trail of snot along the back of his hand, Boyden nodded. The accompanying whimper could hardly be called a word.

  “It’s an audiotape, not a video. I need you to speak,” Susan said with studied patience.

  Boyden sniffed again. “Yes, I understand,” he confirmed.

  “And can you tell us why you have chosen to be interviewed without legal representation?” she asked.

  Boyden shrugged. His bottom lip was trembling and he was looking so sorry for himself – or perhaps he was just sorry for being caught – that it was verging on the pathetic. “I don’t need a solicitor,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I’m not the Ripper.”

  Dillon had chosen Bull and Sergeant to carry out the interviews because of their vast combined experience in this field. It had also occurred to him that, if Boyde
n was the killer, he probably wouldn’t react well to having a strong, confident woman like Susie interrogate him. With luck, it would provoke a reaction. So far, all it had provoked was tears.

  The first interview was all about getting an account from him. They began by asking him to tell them about his job, the voluntary work that he did, and his family; as soon as he started talking about his family the waterworks started all over again. Understandably, Boyden was desperate to know what his wife had been told and how she had reacted. When Susie explained that they hadn’t told her anything yet, he latched onto this, pleading with them not to reveal the nature of his arrest to her.

  “It’s going to come out, Henry,” Steve said, “whether we say anything or not.”

  Henry Boyden buried his head in his hands and let out a howl of pain. His world was falling apart around him and he was powerless to do anything about it. “Can’t you at least refrain from mentioning the girls I’ve been seeing?” he wept. “It would break her heart. Please, please, please don’t do that to her.” There was desperation in his voice.

  Sergeant eyed him with disdain. As Steve Bull had already said, Boyden’s wife was going to find out; there was no way of avoiding it, and he needed to face up to the fact that the devastation, shock and betrayal she would feel would be his fault, and his alone.

  When the self-pitying wailing finally stopped, they asked him about his service in the army medical corps and discussed the extent of his training and the depth of his knowledge. Once that topic was exhausted, they moved onto each of the four victims: did he know them? Had he ever met them, either socially or through work? Had he, perhaps, dealt with them while volunteering for the Sutton Mission? What about Cassandra Newly, did he know her? What about a red-haired prostitute called Trudy, who hung around Middlesex Street with Cassandra and Sonia Wilcox? Had he ever assaulted any of them or made threats to harm them? Had he ever given them any money or other gifts? The questions went on and on. Eventually, they asked him to account for his movements on the nights of the four murders, encouraging him to provide alibi evidence that would help clear his name, if it existed.

  Bull had asked Reg Parker to make an urgent application for Boyden’s phone records from the TIU as soon as he’d been declared a suspect, but like the DNA, these results wouldn’t be back until the following day. Annoyingly, the fingerprint results hadn’t come back yet, either, so that would have to wait, too.

  At nine-forty-five they reached a point in the proceedings where it seemed appropriate to break for the night and, after updating the custody officer, an exhausted Boyden was returned to his cell to be bedded down for the night.

  “Tell my wife I love her,” he called out as they slammed the cell door shut and closed the wicket.

  “What do you think?” Steve asked Susie as soon as they were out of the custody suite. “Is he our man?”

  Susie scrunched her face up in thought. “I don’t know, but I’m not getting the sort of vibe I’d expect from a man who’s just killed four women. And he doesn’t seem to have any trouble talking to me.” There had been no displays of hostility, resentment or anger towards her from Boyden.

  Steve Bull shrugged. “I can’t call it either way,” he admitted, which was unusual for him. He could normally tell if a suspect was guilty within minutes of commencing an interview. “Tell you what, let’s give the boss an update and then we can grab some food and Foxtrot Oscar back to base.”

  ◆◆◆

  “What did Steve say?” Dillon demanded the moment that Tyler put the phone down. They were sitting in Jack’s office discussing the day’s progress over a cup of coffee. The door was closed to reduce the noise from the outer office, which was still a hive of activity.

  “Hold on a sec,” Tyler said as he finished off the last of the notes that he’d made during his fifteen-minute conversation with Bull. There were reams of them. He took a quick sip of coffee when he finished and then sat back in his chair, flexing the cramped fingers of his right hand. “Well, at least Boyden’s talking,” he said, which was better than being met with a string of ‘no comment’ replies.

  “Has he made a full and frank confession?” Dillon asked, mockingly.

  Jack chortled. “His stance is that he hasn’t killed anyone and this is all a big mistake.”

  Dillon snorted. “Well, that’s hardly surprising, is it? If he is our man, he’s not going to roll over just because we’ve got him in the bin. He’s far too arrogant for that.”

  Tyler grunted his agreement and drank some more coffee. “He denied knowing Tracey Phillips, Alice Pilkington or Geraldine Rye and showed no signs of recognition when their photographs were produced. He initially denied knowing any working girls called Sonia, Trudy or Cassandra, but when they showed him an old custody image of Sonia what’s-her-name his face went as white as a sheet.”

  Dillon scoffed. “I bet it did.”

  “Anyway, in a nutshell, his story is that he met Sonia through the voluntary work he does for the Sutton Mission but he never learned her name.”

  “Did he admit to banging her?”

  “He was a bit coy at first, but he eventually confessed to having sex with her several times over a period of weeks.”

  “Is he claiming she’s the only one he’s been seeing to?”

  “No, he admitted to having sex with a couple of other girls he picked up in the vicinity of Middlesex Street, but of course he doesn’t know their names.

  “And what about the allegation this Cassandra bird’s made about him knocking them about and threatening to cut them up?”

  “He was unhappy about that, indignant even. While he accepts that he might have been a little rough at times, he’s adamant that it was always with their prior consent. He claims it was all just a harmless sex game. All the girls were well compensated for indulging him in his fantasy. He swears it was all consensual role-play and that he would never have harmed any of them.”

  “Yeah, right,” Dillon sneered, contemptuously. “So, why does he think she would go crying to Sarah Pritchard about him and make something like that up?”

  “Steve told me he sees himself as the victim of a malicious allegation, which has been made out of spite because he refused to start paying them double when they decided to up their prices.”

  “What a fucking sleazebag,” Dillon said, shaking his head in disgust. “Why is he saying they put their prices up?”

  “He reckons that when the Ripper murders started, the girls got together and told him he would have to double their money if he wanted to keep playing his sordid little games with them. They called it danger money.”

  “What, so they suddenly felt threatened by him? Why, did he start upping his levels of aggression towards them?”

  Jack shook his head. “Not according to Boyden. He claims they just sensed a business opportunity, and when he wouldn’t go along with it, they decided to ruin his life. He blames them; he blames us. The one person he won’t attribute any blame to is himself.”

  “What did this reptile say about his movements during the nights of the murders?”

  Jack checked his notes. “He said he was home asleep with his wife.”

  “That should be easy enough to check,” Dillon said. “Who’s taking a statement from her?”

  Jack’s face clouded. “I lumbered poor little Kelly with that,” he said, guiltily.

  Dillon grimaced. He didn’t envy her that task one little bit. “I bet she’s gonna really thank you for that.”

  There was a knock on the door and Chris Deakin popped his head in. “Sorry to disturb you, boss, but Terry Grier is on the line asking for you.”

  They followed Deakin through to the MIR and Jack picked up the phone lying on Deakin’s desk. “Hello, Terry. Have you got a result for me yet?” He listened carefully for a few seconds, digesting what he’d been told, and then he thanked Grier for letting him know and told the youngster to get back as quickly as he could. Hanging up, Tyler turned to find everyone in the MIR staring
at him expectantly.

  “Well?” Dillon demanded, impatiently.

  “The fingerprints aren’t his,” Jack told them, feeling numb.

  ◆◆◆

  After receiving the bad news from Terry Grier, Jack sent everyone home. “Get some sleep,” he told them wearily. “We’ve still got a lot of work to do before this case is over, and unless we get some rest, we won’t be able to function properly.”

  Disheartened, he’d hardly said a word to Dillon during the drive home. He was beginning to wonder if they would ever catch the fiend. They had never caught the original Ripper, after all, and Peter Sutcliffe’s reign as the Yorkshire Ripper had lasted for five whole years. His capture, when it eventually came, had been something of a fluke. A routine patrol had stopped to check out two people sitting in a parked car; the driver was Sutcliffe and his passenger was a twenty-four-year-old prostitute called Olivia. One of the officers, a probationer, had carried out a PNC check on the vehicle, which revealed that it was on false plates. Sutcliffe was duly arrested for this and taken to Dewsbury police station, where he was questioned in relation to the Yorkshire Ripper murders because it was felt that he matched many of the killer’s known physical characteristics. On the afternoon of 4th January 1981, following two days of intensive questioning, Sutcliffe had declared that he was the Yorkshire Ripper and had gone on to provide detailed accounts of all the attacks he’d carried out between 1969 and 1981. Tyler wondered how long the monster they were hunting would remain at large, and if he’d be caught out so innocuously.