Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  He left the engine running, and hurriedly climbed through the dividing curtain. He knew that, in the half-light, his advancing form would appear as a menacing silhouette to her. As she tried to back away from him, eyes wide with terror, and screaming like a demented banshee, he punched her on the point of the chin. To his immense satisfaction, she dropped like a stone and the awful noise immediately stopped.

  He loomed over her, ready to lash out again if she so much as moved, but to his relief she remained still and silent.

  His fist ached from the jarring impact of the punch, and he flexed it gently to make sure that nothing was damaged. Then he knelt down and checked her pulse and pupil dilation. She wouldn’t be out for long but, hopefully, he would have enough time to get her into his lair, where he could sedate her properly. He put the blindfold back on, and stuck an even bigger wad of clothing into her mouth – now, when she came around, she would be far too busy trying to breath to even think about screaming – and then tied her feet together, wishing he’d done that in the first place.

  To his great surprise, the third bitch responsible for ruining his life was already beginning to stir as he stood up, and he watched without pity as she drunkenly struggled into a sitting position, resting her back against one of the plastic-coated sides of the van. He briefly considered striking her again, but it quickly became apparent that she was far too dazed to cause him any further problems.

  ◆◆◆

  Tyler was writing furiously when the telephone rang. “Oh, for goodness sake,” he snapped, staring daggers at it. The bloody thing hadn’t stopped since he’d upgraded the threat assessment for the killer striking again to imminent; at this rate he would never get his decision log up to speed. “DCI Tyler,” he said.

  “Sir, Paul Evans here. Sorry to disturb you, but I’m a little confused.”

  The Welshman sounded tired, Tyler thought. “I know how you feel,” he said. “That’s my default setting these days. How can I help you to become less confused, Paul?”

  “Can I confirm that you wanted me to see if I could pick up Dr Pritchard on his way to the nick, and then follow him there?”

  “That’s right,” Tyler confirmed.

  “And then, once he arrived, I was going to wait until this motorcycle courier turned up and see if I can follow him off?”

  “Yep, you’re on the money so far.”

  “So, here’s the thing: I finally managed to acquire Dr Pritchard on CCTV walking along Cambridge Heath Road towards Bethnal Green tube station. Then I followed him along Roman Road on a different camera and actually watched him turn left into Victoria Park Square, which is where the nick is. It’s a bit of a long-eye view, so not ideal, but I can see him clearly enough for my purposes.”

  “That’s excellent work, Paul,” Tyler said, impressed.

  “I figure it would take him a minute at most to reach the front office after he turns the corner and I lose sight of him.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Tyler agreed.

  “So why is it that I’ve watched the CCTV for half an hour either side of his arrival at Whitechapel nick and not one motorcycle turned into or out of Victoria Park Square during that time?”

  “Are you sure?” Tyler said, replaying Pritchard’s account in his head. “It must have done.”

  “I’m absolutely positive it didn’t, boss. And there’s one other thing – I only got a brief glance of it, but I’d swear that Pritchard has got a white shoe box tucked under his arm in the footage from the Cambridge Heath Road camera. Who took Pritchard’s statement, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Mr Porter took his statement, as a matter of fact,” Tyler said. “He was halfway through writing it when we arrived so I let him finish it.”

  “That probably explains it then,” Evans said. “It must be a mistake. Old man Porter probably wrote the events down out of sequence.”

  Tyler couldn’t help but smile. “Actually, Pritchard gave me a verbal account of what happened, which correlates to what’s in the statement, so unless you think I made a mistake too…”

  “I would never even dare think such a thing, boss,” Evans promised hastily.

  Tyler’s mind had gone into hyper-drive. “I have a nasty suspicion Simon Pritchard deliberately lied to us, Paul. And I can only think of one reason for doing that.”

  “Fuck me! Does that mean what I think it does?” Evans asked.

  “I think it does, Paul,” Tyler said, suddenly very excited. “You’ve done great work, and you might have just given us the break we so desperately need.”

  ◆◆◆

  The Disciple’s latest victim was very groggy, and very confused. She tried to focus her eyes as she sat up, but the world around her was in darkness. Head throbbing unmercifully, she sagged back against something cold and hard. She couldn’t close her mouth; it was as though her jaw had been wedged open. There was vibration all around her. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember what had happened.

  Was she ill?

  Had she collapsed?

  Where was her husband?

  A bittersweet odour permeated the air; a strange cocktail of different smells, the like of which she had never before encountered. It seemed to consist of a mixture of gasoline, disinfectant and, what else…?

  Plastic…?

  Yes, that was it, plastic. There was something else, too – something chemically. It reminded her of hospitals.

  And she could hear the gentle pitter-patter of rain on metal. Was she in a shed with a corrugated roof? She tried to move her arms, and then her legs, but neither responded and she began to panic. Had her neck been broken? Was she now a paraplegic? She tried to cry out, but only a muffled squeal escaped. That was when the realisation that she was bound and gagged hit home.

  Oh my God I’ve been kidnapped! She thought, beginning to hyperventilate.

  Where was she?

  How long had she been there?

  What was going to happen to her?

  Somebody help me! She screamed, but her gag muffled the words and she almost choked from the effort. Hot tears began to prickle her eyes.

  A rustling in front of her broke the silence; the noise told her that she was not alone. Someone was there with her, watching her.

  Oh, my good God!

  And then, in a moment of spine-tingling clarity, it all came flooding back to her. Her husband had done this to her – her own husband!

  But why?

  It made absolutely no sense whatsoever. He was an intelligent man – a man of science, and he had never demonstrated the slightest capacity for violence in all the years she had known him – which begged the disturbing question: had she ever truly known him at all?

  They had been chatting quite amiably, and he had gallantly held her coat open for her as she slipped it on. Standing behind her, he had tenderly placed his hands on her shoulders and whispered that he was really looking forward to spending some quality time with her tonight. There had been affection in his voice, or so she had thought. And then, in the blink of an eye, his arm had wrapped itself tightly around her neck like a python crushing its prey. Pulling her body against his, her husband had used his free hand to clamp a foul-smelling cloth over her face. The powerful chemical it contained had immediately made the world around her spin.

  She had a blurry recollection of him lowering her down to the floor, but after that, there were only uncoordinated snippets of consciousness. She vaguely recalled him ranting about not being the pathetic ‘yes man’ she thought he was while he was securing her hands and applying the gag. There had been something else, too – something about how she was a controlling bitch who had ruined his life – but she had passed out before his diatribe had finished.

  What could possibly have made him say those terrible things? All she had ever done was to try and help him become a better person. She had given him love, money, a purpose in life; she had even forgiven him for shagging one of the street workers he was supposed to be helping. Of course, she had given h
im hell over it, but what had he expected her to do, turn a blind eye and carry on like nothing had happened? Ironically, in spite of his abhorrent transgressions, she had never given up on him, and she had fought so hard to salvage their marriage. How many other women would have done that?

  And then she recalled the weird singing – well, it more like chanting really – she’d heard as she’d drifted back into consciousness a few moments ago, only to find herself laying on her back and being bumped around in the darkness. “What a ride! What a thrill! I’m Jack the New Ripper, and I love to kill, kill kill…” She had recognised the toneless voice immediately – her husband couldn’t sing in tune to save his life.

  Hot bile rose to the back of her throat as she truly began to comprehend the futility of her situation.

  She was going to die.

  The man she had so naively – so bloody foolishly – believed still loved her was, in fact, a demented serial killer. He had already slaughtered four defenceless women and she was going to be the fifth.

  She was going to be made to suffer miserably, and then she was going to die a dreadful, unholy death at her the hands of her own husband, the man the media had reveled in labeling ‘Jack the New Ripper’.

  Like countless others, Sarah had read Terri Miller’s gripping articles in the Echo, and she had followed the TV coverage avidly, so she knew exactly what to expect from this demon.

  She knew she should try and escape, but there was absolutely no fight left in her, and all she could do was lean back against the cold wall of the van and await her fate. And then she heard a new sound, a sound that froze the blood in her veins. It was the sound of laughter, soft and sibilant. The twisted bastard was enjoying this.

  ◆◆◆

  As soon as he’d put the phone down on Paul Evans, Jack Tyler scrabbled together every available body he could find. A team of detectives, led by Steve Bull, were dispatched to the Sutton Mission. Another team, this one commanded by Charlie White, was sent to Pritchard’s home address in Loughton. Wendy was tasked with circulating him as wanted-missing on the Police National Computer. After that, she was to ensure that his status and description was circulated on all local and Met wide radio channels. Locating and arresting Simon Pritchard was now their overriding priority, and pretty much everything else had been put on hold until this was achieved.

  The Chief Inspector at IR had been rather annoyed when Tyler had called a few minutes ago to request that a carrier be sent to each of the addresses to support his officers. “I don’t have a limitless supply of policemen,” he’d told Tyler, testily. “You’ve already used up every floating resource I have. The only way I can give you two carriers is if I redeploy some of the aid that’s already patrolling Whitechapel, which might actually be a good thing. We’ve got so many police vehicles driving around that bloody division that the roads are more clogged up now than they normally get at the height of the rush hour!”

  The moment the two arrest teams left the building, Tyler settled himself in his office and started reviewing his notes. Pritchard’s story about helping out a courier who was running late was pure fiction – they could prove that, and the only conceivable reason for lying about how and when he received the box was that he was the killer. The more Jack thought about it, the more sense it made: Pritchard hadn’t been in practice for many years, but he had the requisite medical knowledge; he had easy access to the area’s street workers – they all knew him from his charity work so he would be able to move amongst them without drawing attention or suspicion.

  What didn’t make sense – at least not yet – was why he was doing this. What possible motive could he have?

  Tyler dug out the notes he’d made while speaking to the forensic psychologist. The quack had explained that, although there might not be a discernible relationship between the serial killer and his victims, that didn’t mean there was no motive. The trick was to think less like a detective and more like a psychotic. Often, for people suffering from psychosis or other forms of mental illness, the anger, rage, and hostility they felt towards a particular subgroup of the population – in this case, women, particularly sex workers – provided all the motivation they would ever need. Sometimes, it was the power and thrill of what they did, or the need to act out repressed sexual desires that motivated them. The psychologist had suggested it was probably a combination all of these factors that drove the New Ripper to commit his atrocities.

  Talk about hedging your bets!

  Tyler was cautiously optimistic that Pritchard was indeed their man, but he wasn’t going to allow himself to get carried away until they had irrefutable evidence – he had made that mistake twice already, with Winston and Boyden. Both had looked like extremely good suspects on paper, but neither had turned out to be the man they were after.

  Dillon appeared, carrying two steaming hot mugs of coffee. “There you go, mate,” he said, handing one over. “You’ll feel better with some caffeine inside you.”

  “Cheers, Dill,” Tyler said, taking a sip and burning his lip.

  “Oh yeah,” Dillon said, seeing his friend wince. “Julia said be careful, it’s hot.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Simon Pritchard viciously pulled the blindfold off. Even in the darkness, he could see the fear in her eyes. For once he was the one in control, not her. It generated a feeling of warmth in the pit of his stomach. He knelt down and leaned over her, studying her face intently, wondering what the third bitch responsible for ruining his life was thinking now that the tables were turned. He caressed her cheek, relishing the way she flinched at the contact. When she tried to edge back, he grabbed hold of her hair and yanked her head around until he was staring straight into her terror-stricken eyes. When he was satisfied that she wouldn’t scream, he removed the gag from her mouth.

  Sarah Pritchard gasped, and then gratefully filled her lungs with air. “Please, don’t kill me,” she pleaded. “I don’t want to die.”

  The Disciple shrugged. “No one ever does.”

  “I told Charise we were having dinner together tonight,” she sobbed. “When my body turns up it will be obvious that you did it. You would never get away with it.” Surely, he could see that murdering her would cost him his freedom?

  There was a maniacal intensity to his laugh. “Simon Pritchard won’t be killing you,” he purred. “Jack the New Ripper will have that honour. Trust me, Sarah. No one will ever consider me a potential suspect when your corpse shows up.” He said this with absolute confidence. “Don’t worry, though, I promise to play my part as the grieving husband perfectly. I’ve already chosen you a lovely tombstone.”

  “But it makes no sense. Why would the Ripper kill me? He only kills prostitutes.” Sarah knew that wasn’t strictly true. She had read about the woman who had been abducted on her way to the train station after finishing work, but surely that had been a case of mistaken identity.

  “Ah, but the Ripper has a very good reason to kill you,” he explained, knowingly. “Tell me, what’s even worse than all those vile parasitic whores swarming through our streets like cockroaches?” He studied her face to see if she could guess, but she just stared at him blankly, her mind frozen by fear. “No idea? Well, the answer is a woman who empowers them; a woman who gives them money and shelter and arranges free accommodation and health checks so that they can continue to seduce, infect and exploit the unsuspecting, fundamentally good men who fall prey to their charms – a woman like you, Sarah. You are nothing but a Jezebel – a false prophet. Your so-called charity provides a safe haven from which the dregs of society are free to spread their filth and corruption, with you presiding over it like the Queen of Whores you are. Like it or not, Sweet Sister Sarah, you are every bit as culpable for the actions of the harlots you protect as they are themselves, perhaps even more so in some cases.”

  “No,” she said, sobbing quietly. “You’re distorting the truth. That charity is my life, and I thought it was yours, too.”

  He shook his head and made a horrible sc
reeching noise that was meant to imitate the electronic buzzer that TV game show contestants hear when they get the answer wrong. “Uhhh-uhhh.”

  “Simon, I’m begging you, before it’s too late, please let me go. You won’t get away with this. How are you going to keep my disappearance a secret?”

  He cocked his head to one side and stared at her in exasperation. “Why on earth would you think I want to keep it a secret?”

  “Because the moment someone finds out, you’ll be done for,” she said, desperately trying to make him understand.