Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  Pritchard bristled. He was so incredibly fed up with this interfering cow always thinking that she knew better, of her constant criticism of every idea and plan that he had ever come up with. Even now, as she cowered down before him, begging for her worthless life, she was still managing to find fault. Unbelievable! He knew he should wait until they were safely ensconced in his lair, but he couldn’t allow her to speak to him like that anymore – she needed a reality check, and he was going to give her one, right here and now.

  “In a minute I’m going to make a phone call. If you scream, I will kill you on the spot. Do you believe me? It’s important that you do,” he said, and nodded towards a huge serrated hunting knife that had magically appeared in his left hand.

  Sarah nodded, hesitantly at first and then more forcefully when she saw how angry her feeble response was making him. Releasing her hair, he reached into his jacket and removed a mobile phone. She watched in fearful fascination as he keyed the buttons.

  “Now remember, no screaming,” he warned.

  While watching his every move fearfully, Sarah rubbed the side of her face. Her jaw still ached terribly, but she no longer thought it was broken. By now, her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she was confident that they were in the back of a van. She considered screaming for help but dismissed the idea almost at once. She had no way of knowing where they were. For all she knew they could be out in the middle of nowhere, a field or an abandoned building in which she could scream until she was blue in the face and still not be heard. Besides, there was no doubt in her mind that she would be dead before the first cry ended. The deranged man in front of her was a complete stranger, not the husband she had loved for so many years.

  “Please,” she said, desperately trying not to let her fear show, “I’ve only ever loved you. Why are you doing this to me? Surely we can sort this out without you hurting me?” She tried to keep her voice calm and reasonable, appealing to his better nature. He was a doctor, for Christ’s sake. Weren’t they sworn to protect life?

  The Disciple smiled indulgently and held a finger to his lips while making a shushing noise.

  “We’ll talk after,” he promised.

  A flicker of hope danced across her heart. Maybe there was a slim chance of surviving this after all.

  And then he was through to the newspaper again.

  “Get me Teresa Miller at once…”

  ◆◆◆

  Miller was still at her desk in the main office, putting the finishing touches on her latest article covering the Ripper case. It was infuriating that Tyler had declined to confirm that the flesh delivered by the Ripper was human, as the killer had inferred, and not a pound of stewing steak from the local butcher’s shop, but she had managed to find a way around that.

  As luck would have it, after being blanked by Tyler, she had spoken to a rather naive trainee lab technician who had been present when the ghoulish shoe box full of human flesh had been delivered for forensic examination. Claiming to be a police officer calling for an update on behalf of DCI Tyler, she had been told that the box contained a human kidney and a neatly severed mammary gland.

  The article made splendid reading if she said so herself – and she did – and, as Tyler hadn’t asked her to withhold any of the details, she would print the story in all its glory.

  Deakin suddenly ran out of his office and began jumping up and down like a Jack in the box. When she frowned at him quizzically, he began waving his arms frantically. “Terri, it’s him again. Get your arse over here now,” he bellowed across the room, causing heads to turn.

  “Shit!” she exclaimed, as a jolt of adrenaline flooded through her.

  “Miller speaking,” she said, a few seconds later, having sashayed her way through an obstacle course made of desks.

  “Who was that?” the now familiar voice hissed suspiciously. “Who answered the phone?”

  “It was my editor, Giles. He was manning the phone for me. It’s cool. You can trust him,” she soothed, mentally kicking herself for not staying by the special phone line they’d set up.

  “I’ll decide who I can and can’t trust, Terri, and it’s not fucking him,” the sinister voice reprimanded her fiercely.

  “I – I’m sorry,” she told him, recoiling at the ferocity of his anger.

  “I have someone here I want you to listen to. Don’t ask her any questions. Don’t say a word. If you speak, I will kill her and it will be your fault. Do you understand these instructions, Terri?” He said the words so casually that she thought she’d misheard for a moment.

  “I asked you a question.” The anger was back in his voice.

  “You want me to listen to someone speak, is that right?” she clarified.

  “Just listen. Do not talk. Understand?”

  “Okay. Whatever you say, but who am I going to be talking to?” Miller asked, not really understanding what the killer wanted from her. A new voice came on the phone. It was a woman’s voice, utterly terrified, and it was possibly the saddest thing Terri Miller had ever heard.

  “Help me, please. Tell him he doesn’t have to do this. I don’t want to die…” The sheer desperation in Sarah Pritchard’s words broke Terri Miller’s heart. The phone was taken away, and the woman’s pleas for help faded until all Miller could hear was the killer’s breathing.

  Terri clasped her hand over the mouthpiece to prevent the killer hearing. “Jesus Christ, he’s taken another one. Oh God! Giles, I think he’s going to kill her over the phone. Quick, call the police,” she urged her editor.

  She could hardly breathe; it felt as though the killer’s hand had reached into her chest cavity and was now squeezing her heart.

  “Are you sure?” Deakin asked, paling.

  “Just do it, will you,” Terri pleaded. In the background, on the other end of the line, she could hear the Ripper speaking to his captive.

  “Please, don’t hurt her…” Terri begged. She cast a sideways glance at Giles. He was on the other phone, gesturing animatedly.

  The sound of the slap was distinctive, even over the phone. It was accompanied by a scream, then silence. Terri flinched. She nearly called out to the woman, to make sure she was okay, but she stopped herself just in time. The killer’s words echoed in her mind: Don’t say a word. If you speak, I will kill her and it will be your fault.

  She rammed the receiver tightly against her ear, hardly daring to breathe in case the noise it made blocked out something important at the other end. And then, after what seemed an eternity, the killer spoke again.

  “My guest and I are going to bid you farewell shortly, but don’t worry, we’ll call you back again before too long.”

  “Wait! Is she okay? Have you hurt her? Can I talk to her again?” Terri had to know the answer to these questions.

  “Don’t fret about the Queen of Whores. She’s still alive – for now. I want you to pass a message onto Jack Tyler from me. Tell him that he should’ve taken me more seriously.”

  ◆◆◆

  In the back of the van, Sarah Pritchard cowered in the far corner, between the rear wheel arch and the back doors. A trickle of blood ran down the side of her face where he’d hit her. She watched as her husband casually turned his back on her and reached for something in the darkness. Dazed from the blow, she was only half-aware of the words he spoke into the mobile phone.

  “…tell him that he should have taken me more seriously.”

  When he turned to face her again, there was an insane glint in his eyes. She could have sworn that they were glowing red in the dark, like those of a demon. He advanced on her slowly, his movements purposeful and sinister.

  “No, keep back, please. Don’t hurt me again…” she pleaded, trying in vain to wriggle backwards. The Disciple sat astride her stomach, pinning her to the floor with his knees.

  “Listen to this, Terri. It’s the sound of my redemption,” he whispered into the phone. Then, holding the mobile towards her face with his right hand, the killer raised his left hand hig
h above him. Following the movement with her eyes, Sarah instantly recognised the fearful shape of the claw hammer. Wide-eyed, she opened her mouth to scream, but it was too late. With a sickening thud, the hammer crashed into her shoulder, shattering the clavicle.

  He hit her a second time for good measure. Sarah Pritchard’s screams stopped after the second blow, as she slipped into unconsciousness. “There,” The Disciple said in satisfaction. “Did you hear that, Terri? Are you enjoying the show?”

  “NO! Stop it, please. This is insane,” Miller’s voice screamed at him. He wondered why, if it was so bad, she hadn’t hung up on him. He knew she wouldn’t, of course. It was too good a story to pass up: holding a telephone conversation with Jack the New Ripper while he toyed with his latest victim. “I’m going to cut her throat, Terri,” he teased her. He wasn’t, of course. That would come much later, when they were back at the lair.

  “NOOOOOOO!” The anguish in Miller’s voice was simply delicious.

  He very much doubted that this is what Miller had in mind when she’d asked him to open up to her so that she could do his story justice, but her request had proved quite inspirational. To be able to share this moment with someone who would be alive to talk about it afterwards was just incredible. The third bitch responsible for ruining his life stirred. He had to admire her durability. The Queen of Whores was virtually indestructible.

  ◆◆◆

  “Oh my Lord, he’s going to kill her, Giles. I can hear him moving about, getting ready.” Miller was close to tears. She wanted a story of course, what reporter didn’t, but this went beyond the pale. If she thought it would have stopped him, she would have hung up, but she knew it wouldn’t. The only thing she could think to do was find a way to keep him talking until the police arrived. Maybe they could trace the call.

  “Please, talk to me,” she shouted into the phone. “Talk to me damn you or I’ll hang up,” she cried, hoping to call his bluff.

  The sound of movement stopped abruptly. There followed an uncomfortable silence and she began to wonder if the signal had been lost. She could tell he was using a mobile because of the intermittent echo. And then she heard his breathing again and a wave of relief flooded over her.

  “What’s the matter, Terri? I thought you wanted my story. Think of how many newspapers this will sell.” His voice, cruel and mocking, made her feel hollow and unclean. As if sensing her thoughts, The Disciple went on the attack. “You prove my point for me, Terri. All women are whores. You might not sell your body for sex, but you are willing to abandon your principles and sleep with the devil just to get your name in print and sell a few measly newspapers. What’s the difference? Tell me that, if you can.”

  “I –” Terri opened her mouth to refute the hurtful allegation, but somehow nothing would come out. There was a cruel perception in his words that had stung her. Surely, he was wrong? Surely, she was better than that?

  “Exactly,” he smirked. “Well, Terri, it’s been fun, but I’ve got a throat to slit so I’m going to say goodbye for now. We’ll talk again later.”

  “Wait, don’t go,” she pleaded, but the line had already gone dead. “He rang off.” Terri Miller said, appalled. She was close to hysteria and she felt thoroughly sick. Holding her head in her hands, Terri slumped forward on the desk. “Dear God, what have I done?” she asked, ashen-faced.

  “It’s not your fault, sweetheart,” Deakin told her.

  “It is my fault, Giles. He’s only doing this to impress me. If I had refused to play his stupid games none of this would be happening. It’s no wonder that that cop, Dillon, looked at me with such contempt.” She angrily wiped a tear away from the corner of her eye.

  “Listen to me, old girl,” Deakin said firmly. “It is not your fault. This monster doesn’t do things to please you or anyone else. He’s mad, and he’s evil. It’s as simple as that. If the truth be known, you’re as much a victim as that poor cow he’s got trapped.” Deakin spoke with growing anger. Miller was a good reporter; she didn’t deserve to be reduced to this.

  “Oh Giles,” She said, looking across at him. “That poor, poor woman…” Unable to contain her anguish a moment longer, Terri Miller finally broke down and cried.

  Deakin placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. He knew there was nothing he could say to ease her pain, so he didn’t speak at all. He just knelt down beside her and wrapped his arms around her protectively. If need be, he would hold her like that all night. When the tears finally stopped, he would fix her a strong drink and try and get her to talk about it.

  At that moment the door opened and a stern-faced detective strode in.

  CHAPTER 37

  PC Patrick Reeve pointed at a battered green van parked with its rear end askew from the kerb, as though it had pulled over in a hurry. He couldn’t see anyone sitting in the cab, but the lights were on, and a plume of exhaust fumes could be seen coming from the rear of the vehicle, so the engine was obviously running.

  “What about that one?” he suggested.

  “There’s no one in it,” PC Ron Stedman said, dismissively. “It’s probably a delivery driver who’s stopped for a quick piss in the park.”

  “Or,” Reeve countered, “the driver could have seen us coming towards him and legged it because there’s a dead body in the back.”

  “Imbecilic comments like that are the main reason some of our colleagues call us the Thick and Stupid Group,” Stedman pointed out, his voice oozing sarcasm.

  Reeve wasn’t going to be put off that easily. “But they want us to stop Sherpa vans,” he protested. “We should stop and find the driver. He can’t be far.”

  The two men were polar opposites; Patrick Reeve – or Seventies Cop as he was referred to on the unit because his views and mannerisms could have been straight lifts from some of the classic policing shows from that era – was tall and skinny, although he did have a little beer belly that hung over the front of his belt. His uniform trousers were a couple of inches too short for him, and they looked as though he regularly slept in them. Although bald, he proudly sported a Pancho Villa style moustache that drooped miserably over the sides of his lips. Ronald Stedman, on the other hand, was tall, broad, with a military buzz cut; his uniform was always immaculate and the only thing sharper than his trouser creases was his tongue.

  “No, they want us to stop white Sherpa vans,” Stedman corrected his operator in a condescending tone. “White Sherpa vans with a headlight out of alignment, to be precise, not green ones. Honestly, you’re such a pillock!”

  Reeves face reddened and his moustache twitched angrily. “Well it might not be white, but it is a Sherpa, and it does have a headlight out of alignment, so I vote we should still check it out.”

  Stedman rolled his eyes. They were meant to be looking for a murderer, not giving someone a traffic ticket for leaving a vehicle unattended with its engine running. “Hello, is anyone in there?” He leaned over and rapped his knuckles against Reeve’s bald head several times. “Just as I thought, the lights are on but no one’s home.”

  “Get off,” Reeve said, sweeping Stedman’s hand away. He tapped his nose. “This is telling me something’s not right with that van and I vote we check it out.”

  Stead glanced over his shoulder at PS Beach. “Sorry about Reevo, Sarge. He recently went into hospital for a vasectomy but they gave him a lobotomy by mistake.”

  Beach smiled indulgently. Carrier humour was all right in small doses, but it could quickly become tiresome. Besides, Reeve did have a point, and more importantly, he had good coppering instincts. “Do a slow drive by,” he instructed. “Let’s see if the back doors are open.”

  Stedman reluctantly altered his course, and several seconds later they drew level with the old van. Reeve’s shoulders sagged in disappointment when he saw the rear doors were firmly closed.

  “See, no one’s in it.” Stedman gloated. “Like I said, the driver’s obviously been caught short and has nipped into the park to relieve himself.”

  �
�Yeah, right,” Reeve’s voice dripped with skepticism. “If he’s in the park, he’s more likely to be getting some ganja from a local dealer or to having it off with a prossie,” he argued.

  “Do we really care?” Stedman asked. He was bored with the conversation. Obviously, he would have had a very different view if the van had been white, but it wasn’t. It was green. He pressed the accelerator pedal and the carrier surged forward.

  “Hang on a second, Ron.” PC Sid Wallis called from the rear seat. “Back her up, will you.”

  “What’s up, Sid? What have you seen?” Ron Stedman asked, putting the carrier’s selector into reverse.

  “I just saw the van start rocking from side to side. Why is it doing that if no one’s in it?”

  Reeve smiled triumphantly at his driver. “What did I tell you?”

  “Oh shut up and wipe that silly grin off your face, you silly old git,” Stedman snapped. “If I wanted to listen to an arsehole, I’d fart.”