Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  Tyler let out an impatient sigh. “What can you tell me about the motorbike,” he asked. Surely Pritchard would be able to recall its colour or the brand or a part of the index.

  “Well, it had an engine and two wheels,” Pritchard said, and immediately regretted doing so when he saw that Tyler’s face had clouded with anger. “Forgive me,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to sound flippant. It’s just that I really don’t know anything about motorcycles. Not my thing, I’m afraid. The only thing I noticed was that the engine sounded powerful.”

  Tyler ignored the apology, which he suspected was as false as the man’s smile. “Have either of you actually handled the notes or touched the cellophane wrapping on the meat that’s inside the shoe box?”

  Porter and Pritchard exchanged guilty looks, like a couple of choirboys who had just been caught looking at a dirty magazine by the vicar.

  “Well,” Porter said, and then cleared his throat. “We both handled the notes, but we didn’t touch the meat inside the box, did we, Simon?”

  Pritchard squirmed uncomfortably. “Actually, Charles, I did prod it a couple of times,” he admitted sheepishly “out of professional curiosity.”

  Tyler gave him a piercing stare. He could completely understand them handling the box, and even the notes to a certain extent, but what sort of fuckwit would start prodding a package of human flesh? The cellophane would now potentially be contaminated by his DNA and his sodding fingerprints.

  Pritchard must have read his mind, or more likely the scathing expression on his face, because he stared back indignantly. “I am a doctor, you know,” he proclaimed, as if that justified his actions.

  “I think the meat in that box is beyond needing a doctor,” Jack pointed out acerbically, “don’t you?”

  ◆◆◆

  It was almost six o’clock by the time Tyler arrived back at Arbour Square, and after making himself a strong cup of coffee, he rang Holland to give him an update. “At a guess, I’d say the meat will turn out to be Geraldine Rye’s missing breast and one of her kidneys,” Jack said. He shuddered as he recalled the rancid smell wafting out of the shoe box; no matter how many times he was exposed to it, he would never get used to the sickly sweet odour of rotting flesh.

  Holland wasn’t pleased by the revelation. “Let’s hope the press doesn’t get hold of that, Jack. I’m sick of seeing this case plastered over every newspaper I read.”

  After ending the call, Jack went straight to the CCTV viewing room and found Paul Evans. “Paul, drop what you’re doing and come with me.” When they were in his office, Tyler explained all about the latest development. “It stands to reason that the motorcyclist Pritchard spoke to was the killer, so I want you to hot foot it over to the Borough CCTV control room and see if you can pick him up on camera.”

  Evans face dropped. “What, now?” He had been hoping the team would be dismissed at a reasonable hour today. After all, this was their thirteenth day at work without a break. Dillon had recently broken the news that the entire team was having its leave cancelled again, and would have to work a second weekend on the trot. Some of the money grabbing bastards had been chuffed to hear the news, but not Paul Evans – he had a life.

  “Sorry, Paul,” Tyler said, “but needs must, and all that. The front of the station isn’t covered by camera, but surely the surrounding area will be.” He repeated the generic – and totally useless – description Pritchard had provided of the courier and his motorcycle, and then, as an afterthought, described the good doctor. “Pritchard doesn’t recall the exact time he arrived at the nick, so you might have to do a bit of work to pick him up before he gets there.” He gave Evans the most likely route that Pritchard would have taken if he had come straight from the Sutton Mission. “I don’t need to tell you how important this could be for us,” Tyler said. “Even if you can’t follow the bike back to an address, at least try and get me a registration number.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Evans promised, hurriedly donning his jacket. Tyler clearly had a bee in his bonnet over this; he wanted answers, and he wanted them quickly. Paul Evans realised that he was in for a very late finish.

  ◆◆◆

  “Good evening, London Echo offices, how can I help you?” The singsong voice of the telephonist grated on The Disciple. He tried to put a face to the voice and imagined how nice it would be to silence it once and for all.

  “Put me through to Terri Miller,” he demanded, tapping the glass pane of the telephone kiosk in agitation.

  “Who shall I say is calling, sir?” The receptionist’s manner became frosty; no doubt she was annoyed by the tone of his voice.

  “Tell her that it’s Jack. And if you value your scrawny little life, be quick about it,” he hissed menacingly.

  “Jack? You mean…? Hold on, please.” He sensed her fear and realised she had been primed to expect his call.

  He smiled in satisfaction.

  “The line’s ringing for you, sir.” She told him, unable to mask her discomfort. The phone was picked up after the fourth ring.

  “Terri Miller speaking.” The tautness in her voice told him that she already knew exactly who was calling. It was possible that the receptionist had forewarned her, although he didn’t think there had been enough time for her to do that. Perhaps they had set an extension aside purely for incoming calls from him. That would make more sense. “Cut the crap. You know who this is. I’ve got a newsflash for you: Jack Tyler received a little present from me this afternoon at Whitechapel police station. You know the sort of gifts I send, don’t you?” Her sudden intake of breath answered that question nicely.

  “I know you’ve done some terrible things,” she began, reciting the speech that she and Giles Deakin had prepared in anticipation of him calling her again, “but we can get you the very best psychiatric help if you’ll just turn yourself in. You don’t have to be afraid of the police. You could come here and we would ensure you had legal representation…”

  Miller rattled him with her meaningless talk. What was she playing at? It didn’t make sense to provoke him like this. Unless, of course, the call was being taped and she was planning to use it as propaganda to promote her newspaper. Well, wasn’t that what he had effectively told her to do? To get him the publicity he craved. He allowed himself a small, malicious smile. She was playing a dangerous game, one that could not end well for her…but, if that was what she wanted, then so be it.

  “Let me tell you what I need. I need to feel the warm blood of the damned flow through my fingers. Don’t play games with me or you could find yourself becoming a donor! If you want to live, call Tyler and ask him about my gift.”

  “I’ll call him,” Miller promised, “but first I want you to tell me why you’re doing this. If you really want me to do your story justice, the least you can do is give me something to work with.”

  The Disciple thought about this for a moment. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps there was a way of giving her an insight that she could draw inspiration from. “Very well,” he said, as an idea struck him. “You want something to work with? I’ve got just the thing in mind. Wait by the phone; I’ll call you back later tonight.” With that, he slammed down the receiver and stormed out of the phone box.

  ◆◆◆

  “Dear God, did he threaten to kill me halfway through that conversation?” Terri asked her editor the moment the Ripper hung up. She felt her knees starting to buckle, and quickly sank into the easy chair beside Deakin’s desk before they gave way altogether.

  “Yes, he did, and on audio tape too!” Giles Deakin beamed. Looking very much like the cat that had swallowed the canary, he raised his glass of wine to salute the three other people who had gathered in his office when the Ripper’s call had come in.

  “By Jove, old girl, you just got another exclusive for the paper. I wasn’t sure about letting you run with this at first, but I’m glad I did now. When this is all over, we’ve got to seriously consider doing a serialisation of the case, or perhaps a pu
ll out for the Sunday issue.” He stroked the side of her face and handed her a glass of white wine.

  Still in a daze, Terri automatically took the glass. “I’m going to write a book,” she informed him, downing its contents in one.

  “A book,” Deakin said, grinning enthusiastically. “What a super idea.”

  “Are you okay, Terri?” Julie asked, taking her friend’s hand. Like everyone else in the room, she had listened to the conversation via a desk-mounted speaker. But, unlike Giles and his pompous solicitor – whose only concern was whether what they were doing was technically legal – she had accompanied Terri to the house of horror in Hanbury Street, and she had seen the gruesome gift the Ripper had left outside Terri’s apartment.

  “I’m fine, just fine,” Terri said, sounding anything but.

  ◆◆◆

  “Major Incident Room, DCI Tyler speaking,” he said into the receiver.

  “Hello Chief Inspector, it’s Terri Miller here, from the Echo…”

  Tyler grimaced. “What can I do for you?” he asked coldly.

  “I’ve just had a call from the Ripper. We recorded it on the equipment Paul Evans had installed.”

  Tyler sat up at that. “What did he say?” he asked, a little surprised that she had actually called this in so quickly.

  “He told me he had made a delivery to you at Whitechapel police station and he ordered me to ask you about it. He threatened that something unpleasant would happen if I didn’t.”

  Jack found himself wondering whether she’d added the last bit for effect, or as an excuse to phone him and sniff around, but he dismissed the idea almost at once. She wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t say anything that could be easily disproved by listening to the tape.

  But what should he tell her? Whatever he said, she would almost certainly publish it. He thought carefully before answering. “Miss Miller, I did receive a delivery this afternoon from someone claiming to be the Ripper. I’m not in a position to disclose what it contained. Suffice to say we are treating the matter as serious, and we’re exploring all avenues to prove or disprove its authenticity.” He made as bland a statement as he could, speaking without actually saying anything.

  “I see,” she said, clearly disappointed.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Miller. I appreciate your call and I’ll send someone straight over to collect the tape, but I can’t disclose any more details at the moment,” he explained, knowing he couldn’t ostracise her completely; they needed her continued co-operation too much.

  “Will you be able to tell me more about this later?” she asked, hopefully. He rolled his eyes. Reporters! Didn’t they ever let things drop?

  “We’ll have to see,” he informed her, noncommittally. “Now, if that’s all, I’ll say goodbye.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Miller said, uneasily. “He told me he was going to call back later tonight, and that I should wait by the phone. I have a horrible feeling that he intends to do something terrible.”

  Jack felt his pulse quicken. “What makes you think that?” he asked.

  “Just the tone of his voice,” she said, knowing how corny that must sound. “There was something deeply unsettling about the way he told me to wait by the phone. It was as if he didn’t want me to miss out on whatever nastiness he had planned.”

  “Thank you for letting me know,” Jack said. “I really hope you’re wrong about this feeling of yours, but in the meantime, I’ll make sure all our patrols are fully aware of the need to be extra vigilant. If I give you my job mobile, will you call me straight back if you hear anything more?”

  “Of course,” she promised, and noted the number. “Good night, Chief Inspector,” she said, “and don’t take this the wrong way, but I really hope we don’t have to speak again tonight.”

  “Me too,” Tyler said. Shaking his head, he put the phone down.

  “Dean!” he shouted, as Fletcher walked past his office. “I’ve got a job for you.”

  CHAPTER 34

  The Disciple lingered on the corner opposite the lockup until he was completely sure that no one had followed him. When he was satisfied that it was safe to move, he crossed the road quickly, keeping his head tucked down and his face hidden by his collar.

  With nimble fingers he unlocked the heavy wooden door and slipped inside, cursing his neighbour’s security lighting as he always did.

  Re-locking the door from inside – you could never be too careful – he reached out into the cloying darkness, his fingers probing the cold wall for the lights, which were located just below an ancient fuse box that any self-respecting electrician would have condemned as lethal.

  Once found, he flicked the small row of switches down, illuminating the centre of the cavernous arch in a weak beam of yellowish light. For a moment he stood perfectly still, soaking up the atmosphere of his lair.

  The Disciple felt more at home here than he did anywhere else, including the house that he called home. Perhaps it was because everything in this crumbling place reflected the decay that festered in his soul. Perhaps it was just that here, unlike anywhere else, he didn’t need to wear theatrical props and cheap make-up to shield his identity from the rest of society.

  And while most people would have found the interior sinister and oppressive, to him it was a warm and comfortable place, one in which he felt secure and protected from the outside world. He enjoyed spending as much time here as he could.

  He crossed to the far side of the archway and sat down at the worktop he’d installed especially for his makeup and props. Switching on the small light mounted above his mirror, he studied his reflection thoughtfully. “Good evening, Jack,” he said to the image in the glass. “It’s time to go out hunting again.”

  He had decided against wearing a disguise tonight. There was no need as his intended victim already knew his name. In fact, she knew everything about him – well, he smiled, almost everything.

  He was about to head over to the van when he caught sight of the duffle bag resting against the old chest freezer. As eager as he was to get going, he couldn’t deny himself the few moments it would take to inspect its precious contents. Opening the drawstring, he reached inside, removing the panties he’d procured from his first four victims. For a moment he stared at them in reverence. Then, raising them to his face, one at a time, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A fantastic explosion of light and colour filled his mind as the sight, smell and touch of the material recreated the intense feelings he associated with each of the original events.

  “How am I ever going to give this up?” he asked the underwear. But give it up he must once tonight’s final ritual was completed.

  The Disciple reluctantly returned his trophies to the duffle bag and then went over to inspect his van. With a final glance around his lair to make sure that nothing had been forgotten, he turned off all the internal lights and pulled open the doors to the street.

  He had to assume that, by now, the detectives knew the type and colour of van he was using; they might even have the index number. Thankfully, it no longer mattered, not since he had stumbled across a burnt-out Sherpa in Shadwell during the night of the double event. Its discovery in such fortuitous circumstances had obviously been another omen – and in a moment of pure inspiration, he had swapped the number plates on the charred wreck with his own. The following day, he had spent several tedious hours spraying his van dark green. The paint job was blotchy in places but that was irrelevant. Unless anyone compared the VIN on the engine and chassis to the registration number, it would pass for the vehicle whose identity it had taken on.

  These simple precautions should ensure that the police didn’t give him a second glance tonight, and after that it wouldn’t matter.

  He had been sorely tempted to sacrifice the third bitch responsible for ruining his life at her place of work and then leave her mutilated body to be discovered on Monday morning. It would be easy, and it would negate the need for him to take the van out, but it didn’t fit in with his plan
to send her off in style.

  In 1888, the Ripper’s final victim, Mary Kelly, had been slaughtered in her grubby little Miller’s Court bedsit – it was the only one of the five canonical murders to have been committed inside a building. He intended to emulate that feat, only he wanted the building in question to be his lair. After all these years of marriage, it seemed only right and proper that she should be allowed to see this hallowed place before she died.

  A dull ache had formed behind his eyes, as it did every time he started thinking about the final ritual. Perversely, now that he was so close to achieving his goal, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going to go wrong at the last moment. As he massaged his eyeballs with his left thumb and forefinger, he could feel the little tendrils of pain spreading right back into his brain.