Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  Sitting in the driver’s seat of his van, engine running, The Disciple closed his eyes and focussed on his breathing, counting up to ten with each inhalation and down from ten to zero with each exhalation. After a couple of minutes, the stress related pain began to subside and his head began to feel a little clearer.

  Once the van had cleared the archway, he stopped and ran back to close and lock the double doors. Climbing back into the van, he checked his watch.

  It read: 20:45 hours.

  It was finally time to go and get the third bitch responsible for ruining his life, but first, he had to find a phone box and make a very important call.

  As if on cue, the rain started.

  ◆◆◆

  Several minutes later, The Disciple pulled up sharply outside a bright red telephone kiosk. It was the third one he’d tried; the other two had been vandalised and were no longer usable. He had stopped on a double yellow line, but it was nearly nine o’clock and he didn’t anticipate being there very long. Thankfully, this one was still in working order and he quickly dialled the number from memory.

  “Good evening, New Scotland Yard. Can I help you?”

  “Yes, you can put me through to the Incident Room dealing with the Ripper murders, please.”

  “One moment, please, while I try to connect you…” The line went dead on him and he wondered if the idiot had cut him off. He was considering hanging up and redialing when a new voice suddenly came on the line.

  “Incident room, DC Jarvis speaking, can I help you?”

  The Disciple quickly wrapped a handkerchief around the mouthpiece, to disguise his voice in case the call was being recorded. He spoke very slowly, trying to make his voice sound deeper. “I want to speak to Jack Tyler,” he said.

  “I’m sorry but I can hardly hear you,” Jarvis told him. “You’ll have to speak up.”

  “I want to speak to Jack Tyler,” the killer repeated irritably, keeping his voice to a whisper.

  “I’m sorry but Mr Tyler’s office is in another part of the building. Can I take a message and get him to call you back? Hello…? Hello...? Are you still there, caller?” but the killer had already hung up.

  ◆◆◆

  In the Incident Room, Jarvis stared uncomprehendingly at the handset for several seconds before replacing it in its cradle.

  “What was that all about?” Kevin Murray asked from across the room, where he was sitting with his feet up on a desk.

  “I don’t know. We got cut off. Still, I guess they’ll call back if it’s important.”

  “I guess they will.” Murray agreed, turning his attention to more pressing matters, namely the centrefold pinup in the latest issue of Playboy Magazine.

  ◆◆◆

  The Disciple phoned New Scotland Yard again, this time requesting to be transferred straight through to DCI Tyler at Arbour Square. The line briefly went dead, and then it was ringing again. He licked his lips nervously. In his mind, he went over the monologue he’d rehearsed earlier.

  The phone continued to ring.

  Where the hell was Tyler?

  “Come on, you clever bastard,” he hissed. “Where are you?” Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a fit of rage engulfed him and he found himself banging the phone against the side of the kiosk as hard as he could, cracking the plastic around the earpiece. The pain behind his eyes had returned with a vengeance. Struggling to regain control, he looked around, fearful that someone passing by might have seen his outburst. Luckily, there was no one nearby.

  The ringing continued, and he began to wonder if Tyler had already left.

  “Hello, Jack Tyler speaking,” a voice suddenly announced, and The Disciple was so surprised that he almost dropped the phone.

  “Hello?” the voice continued. “Is anybody there…?”

  ◆◆◆

  Inside his office, Tyler shrugged his shoulders at Dillon, who impatiently mimed hanging up.

  They had been on their way out of the office when the phone had started ringing, and although Dillon had done his level best to dissuade him, Tyler had dutifully returned to answer it. He had been feeling a little skittish since his earlier conversation with Terri Miller, and every time the office phone or his mobile had rung, he had instantly been filled with dread.

  “Aw, come on, Jack. Put the bloody thing down and let’s go grab a beer,” Dillon complained, moodily. The intensity of the investigation had been relentless, and he had persuaded Jack to stop off for a quick one on the way home, just to unwind.

  “Hold on, Dill, just in case there’s been a development,” Jack insisted.

  Dillon rolled his eyes. The Yard’s Press Bureau had run a massive publicity campaign to ensure that everyone and their dog was aware of the significantly increased patrols, and he found it hard to believe that the killer would be stupid enough to try and snatch another victim tonight.

  “I’m sure that what the killer said to Miller was just an empty threat to impress her,” Dillon said. “And, anyway, there’s probably more coppers roaming the streets of Whitechapel at the moment than there are civilians.”

  Tyler motioned for him to be quiet. Unless he was mistaken, he could hear breathing at the other end of the line. “Is anyone there?” he asked again, and this time he tried to sound less aggressive.

  “Jack Tyler?” The words were little more than a whisper.

  Tyler sat down, holding a hand up to silence his friend, who had annoyingly started to whistle the tune for the football chant ‘why are we waiting’.

  “Speaking,” Tyler said, and Dillon immediately noticed the edge that had crept into his voice.

  “Do you know who this is?” the voice asked.

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me in your own time,” Tyler said, trying to sound bored. With his free hand, he urgently motioned for Dillon to pass him a pen.

  “It’s me: your nemesis. I thought it was about time for us to talk, one Jack to another, so to speak.”

  Tyler felt his stomach constrict into a tight ball. He scribbled frantically on a sheet of memo pad: I think this is the Ripper calling, and held it up for his partner to read.

  Dillon’s jaw dropped. Springing out of the chair he’d just flopped into, he mouthed the words: ‘Keep him talking’, and shot out of the room.

  “How do I know that this isn’t a hoax call?” Tyler demanded, stalling for time. He knew – he just knew – that this was for real.

  He could almost feel the darkness within the killer’s soul pulsating down the phone line. Without realising he was doing so, he moved the receiver slightly away from his face, as though the man’s madness might infect him if he held it too close.

  “I think you’re bright enough to recognise the real deal when you encounter it, Jack. You don’t mind if I call you Jack, do you?”

  Jack realised that the killer was enjoying this moment.

  “But just in case you’re not, I’ll establish my credibility by asking you how you liked the kidney and shrivelled breast that I sent you via Chief Superintendent Moron this afternoon.”

  Tyler’s heart missed a beat. It was the killer beyond a shadow of a doubt; no one else could’ve known what the gruesome delivery contained, or the precise wording he had used to describe Porter. “How did you know how to find me here?” Tyler asked, suspiciously.

  “Rest assured, I always know where to find you, Jack. I know everything there is to know about you. I could even tell you what you’re wearing today if you wanted me to,” the killer boasted.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Jack said, doing his best to sound unimpressed. The killer was letting him know that he was close, that he could see without being seen. It was an unnerving thought. Had the killer been watching him? Had he been following him? Did he know where Jack and his team lived? It was highly unlikely, but even the possibility that he might was enough to send a shiver down Tyler’s spine.

  “Why are you doing this? Why are you killing these women?” Jack asked. Perhaps, if the killer really wanted to tal
k, he might actually be prepared to answer a few questions.

  “Why? Because they are whores, that’s why. I thought that would be obvious, even to a wooden-top like you.”

  “Geraldine Rye wasn’t a whore, but that didn’t stop you from killing her,” Tyler said, angered by the killer’s callous disregard for human life.

  “Which one was she?” The killer asked, sounding confused. “I don’t have any idea who you are talking about. Surely you don’t expect me to know any of the strumpet’s names?”

  “The last woman you murdered,” Tyler told him through gritted teeth. “You snatched her from Brick Lane and dumped her body in Mitre Square.”

  “Ah, her,” the killer said. “Well, she looked like a whore to me, walking the streets alone at that time of night. What else would she be doing?”

  Tyler was appalled. My God, he thought. This fiend sees all women as whores, whether they are on the game or not. “Listen,” he began, forcing himself to speak calmly, “There’s no need for any further killing. Why don’t you give yourself up and let us get you the help you need?”

  At that point, Dillon reappeared, breathing heavily and holding a small portable tape recorder in his hand. He held it up in front of Jack and pointed at the phone. Tyler nodded and Dillon clipped the microphone to the receiver.

  “You think I need help?” The Ripper snarled, his voice climbing several decibels. “I’m not the one who needs help. If anyone needs help, then it’s you, because you really haven’t got a clue as to what I am, where I am, or what I’ll do next. You’re not in my league, Jack Tyler, not even bloody close to it.”

  Shit! He’s going to hang up, Jack thought, racking his mind for a way to keep the killer talking.

  “You’re right,” he said, quickly. “You’re absolutely right. I don’t have a clue about you, so why don’t you even the odds by giving me a hint – or are you scared that I might find you if you level the playing field?”

  ◆◆◆

  Inside the telephone box, the killer’s face grew taut. Tyler was mocking him. How dare the fool presume that he was afraid of a mere policeman! The murder squad detectives were intellectual insects, incapable of comprehending the magnitude of his genius. That they could threaten the outcome of his plan was inconceivable; that they had the sheer audacity to believe that they could catch him was an insult too great to ignore. It didn’t matter how many ‘clues’ they managed to scrape together, the end result would still be the same – and he would prove it to them, once and for all.

  “Me! Scared of you?” The Disciple ridiculed. “Don’t make me laugh. Was my namesake scared of Inspector Abberline? I don’t think so.” He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. “You can’t begin to understand the power that I now wield, Chief Inspector. I can’t be stopped, and I won’t be found. Mark my words, I will disappear after the fifth, when the final ritual is complete, and you will be left chasing shadows, absolutely no wiser than you are now.”

  The music was playing inside his head again, and the volume control had been cranked up to the max. He had to shout to be heard above the ear-shattering din it was making.

  “I will kill again, Jack Tyler, within the next twenty-four hours, and I’ll do it right under your very noses. Heed my warning, I’ll shred the next one like so much mincemeat, and there’s nothing that you or your pathetic minions can do about it. You’ll be eating humble pie the next time we speak; just you wait and see. You dared to challenge the New Ripper. Well, stop me if you can…”

  ◆◆◆

  The line went dead abruptly.

  Tyler stared at the handset in horror. “Oh, shit!” was all he could manage to say.

  “What’s wrong? What did he say?” Dillon demanded, hitting the rewind button.

  “I think I might have upset him,” Jack admitted, replacing the handset in its cradle.

  “What did he say?” Dillon repeated.

  “He said he’d kill again within the next twenty-four hours, Dill. He also said the fifth would be his last – and he said something about disappearing after completing the final ritual, whatever that means. I think I pissed him off by baiting him, but I didn’t know what else to do.” Tyler ran his hands through his short hair. “Did you manage to record anything he said?”

  “Let’s find out,” Dillon said, pressing the play button.

  “…Me! Scared of you? Don’t make me laugh. Was my namesake scared of Inspector Abberline?” The quality wasn’t the best, but it was plenty good enough for the lab to get a voice comparison from.

  “If you want a drink that badly, Dill, then I suggest you put the kettle on. I hate to say this, but we’re not going anywhere for a while.”

  With a heavy heart, Tyler reached for the phone. Holland was going to love this – not.

  CHAPTER 35

  At ten past nine, Sarah Pritchard was still sitting at her desk in the Sutton Mission, catching up with a few last-minute admin issues. Charise had gone home hours ago to get ready for a Friday night out with some old university friends, and all the evening volunteers had long since gone forth to help the less fortunate.

  The Mission had a completely different, more serene, vibe during the evening, and it was one that she rather liked. Once the hustle and bustle of the working day had petered out, and she no longer had to deal with a constant stream of interruptions from her staff and some of their more needy clients, she found that she could get so much more done, which was one of the reasons why she often worked late.

  Simon had called a few minutes ago to apologise for running late, and to reassure her that he hadn’t forgotten their date and would be there to collect her shortly.

  It seemed weird – but in a nice way – that they were actually going out for dinner together again. They hadn’t done anything like that since he had committed the indiscretion that had torn their marriage apart.

  She wondered if he was taking her somewhere intimate. Perhaps he wanted to say something to her – something important? But surely, if he was going to all the trouble of taking her to a restaurant, it was unlikely to be anything bad. Perhaps, she allowed herself to hope, they were going to turn a corner in their troubled relationship and he was finally going to try and put things right between them.

  Was that too much to hope for?

  As if on cue, Simon Pritchard poked his head around her office door. “Are you ready?” he asked.

  Sarah nodded. “Just give me two seconds to send this email and I’ll be with you,” she said, smiling up at him.

  ◆◆◆

  When the call-out arrived, the Commissioners Reserve were playing cards in the canteen at Limehouse police station, having just started their refreshment break.

  “Call-out!” PC Jay Smith shouted as he walked in from the Control Room, where he’d just been to collect a printout containing details of the call-out.

  Inspector Perry Twist, the unit commander, signalled for Smith to join him at the far end of the canteen, where he was enjoying a cup of tea with the four carrier supervisors.

  He read the printout and gave an unimpressed grunt. Then he passed it to Sergeant Bob Beach, who sat to his immediate left.

  “Load of bollocks if you ask me,” Twist said, dismissing Smith. “They already have two whole units of TSG posted to the borough every evening this week. That’s eight carriers. And that’s without all the local aid that’s been drummed up. Talk about overkill! What possible difference do they expect us to make? We won’t rush out from grub for that. What do you think Bob?”

  “You’re probably right, guv,” Bob Beach said tactfully, although the way he saw it, the Metropolitan Police was a disciplined service, and they had just been instructed to proceed immediately to Whitechapel division and commence high visibility patrols. It was wrong of Twist to ignore the order, although he was undoubtedly right about them not making a difference once they got there. “But my crew has finished eating. We could head over to HT and fly the flag for a while, just to be on the safe side. The rest of
the unit can join us after grub.”

  After considering this for a moment, Twist grunted a grudging approval. “Off you go, then,” he said.

  As he led them out into the rear yard, Beach could hear his crew moaning like a bunch of sulking children about having had their break shortened. He glanced at his watch as they climbed aboard the carrier. It was twenty past nine.

  “So much for a proper grub break,” he said, wistfully.

  ◆◆◆

  The Disciple angrily swerved the van over in Vallance Road, stopping opposite Vallance Gardens. He was only a few minutes away from his lair, but the bitch was stirring already. He had obviously miscalculated the amount of chloroform he’d given her because, somehow, against all the odds, she had pulled down her blindfold and staggered to her feet, and she was now trying to wriggle out of the rigid handcuffs. Having somehow removed the gag he’d rammed halfway down her throat, she was making a hell of a racket, and he couldn’t risk driving her into his lair while she was carrying on like that in case someone heard and called the police.