Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  Tyler studied his partner from across the room. “What’s happening, Dill?” he asked, anxiously.

  “We need to move fast, Jack,” Dillon told him. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  ◆◆◆

  The Disciple had cleared the one-way system in one piece, as he’d known he would, but he had left a trail of carnage in his wake. Still, what did it matter if a few sheep got hurt along the way, as long as the ritual sacrifices were completed according to satanic scripture and he attained a higher level of consciousness?

  He took a series of left and right turns through the quieter side streets, until he reached cobbled roads lined with large warehouses. They were near the river Thames now, and well away from the main drag.

  The police were no longer in pursuit. His flight had caused a major pile up, grinding the road behind him to a messy halt, and the cops would have to stop and deal with that.

  He knew the chasing officers would have circulated his details over the radio, and that their colleagues would be out in strength, scouring the streets for him. They would expect him to remain in Whitechapel, which was why he was now heading towards Limehouse. He would scan the local channels on his ‘borrowed’ radio as soon as he got the chance.

  A single set of headlights appeared in his mirror, causing him to miss a heartbeat. He studied them intently, half expecting flashing blue lights to come on. He made a left turn. The car followed at a distance but made no effort to gain on him. As he turned another corner, he saw that it was a dark blue Ford Escort with a single female occupant.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. It was just some silly cow going about her business, leading her humdrum life, oblivious to the fact that she was following the most dangerous man in London.

  An idea came to him. He knew of an abandoned warehouse further along the river, near a pub he used to frequent in his misbegotten youth. He would take the Queen of Whores there.

  He continued into Wapping High Street, towards West Pier, leaving the affluence of the Docks far behind. The third bitch responsible for ruining his life continued to moan in the back, presumably calling for help.

  He yelled at her to be quiet.

  Her constant whining was making it hard for him to think clearly.

  He continued for some distance, finally pulling into a dead end turning that led down to an old quay. The Escort drove straight by, its driver not even looking in his direction.

  He got out, locked the van and walked along the path that meandered down to the tall decaying warehouse. The smell of the river was very strong, here.

  He looked at his watch: Ten o’clock.

  If he killed her here, down by the river, he would be able to make his way back to the Sutton Mission later and come back in the mini-bus to collect her corpse, which he could drop off at his chosen deposition site sometime over the weekend.

  The Disciple paused in the shadows, studying the warehouse carefully. He wondered if it really was as abandoned as it looked. He’d have to check; it wouldn’t do to gatecrash a vagrant’s home or stumble across a pair of young lovers who had nowhere better to go.

  The rain was easing off, and it looked as if it would soon stop altogether. That was good – he was convinced that the rain only came when he needed its protection.

  Treading carefully, he made his way forward along the quayside. He wasn’t worried about the third bitch responsible for ruining his life. Before leaving the van, he’d given her another, stronger dose of chloroform, and he had rebound her far more securely. He had also swapped the rigid handcuffs from a front stack position to a rear back-to-back position. Even if she woke up, she wouldn’t be able to move, and she could literally scream her lungs out around here and no one would hear her. Anyway, he wouldn’t be gone long, and then she wouldn’t have any lungs left to scream with.

  He smiled at that.

  ◆◆◆

  Sergeant Robert Beach surveyed the wreckage in front of him. The carrier’s path was completely blocked by a twisted pile of metal that had once been four cars and a French registered articulated tractor-trailer unit that had slewed sideways.

  It sickened him to watch as the Sherpa van faded from view, having cleared the one-way system fifty short yards ahead.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Ron Stedman yelled, kicking the iron grill of his vehicle.

  “It’s alright, Ron. It’s not your fault. You did well not to end up embedded in that lot,” he gestured at the damaged vehicles littering the road.

  “I’ve circulated its last known location and direction, but no one’s managed to pick it up yet,” Reeve told them.

  “Right then,” Beach said, tilting his cap back on his head, cowboy style. “We’d better start dealing with this mess.”

  ◆◆◆

  Kelly sat in her car nervously covering the junction that the Sherpa had turned in to. She had almost followed it in, but had spotted the dead-end sign at the last moment.

  Driving straight by, she had turned around at the next junction and driven back with her lights out. She now faced a dilemma: did she wait where she was in the hope of picking him up again when he left – assuming he did – or did she venture in after him?

  Kelly had picked the van up purely by accident. It had simply pulled out in front of her as she sat in her car waiting for Tyler and Dillon to arrive. She had immediately tried to warn the MP radio operator and summon assistance, but to her horror the microphone on her Main-Set was defective and she couldn’t transmit. Instead, she’d had to listen with mounting frustration as units converged on all the wrong places.

  She had set off after the van without thinking it through, and by the time it occurred to her to use her phone, it had unhelpfully slid off the seat during a turn and was sliding around in the passenger footwell.

  With her only means of communication out of reach until she could stop and retrieve it, she had trailed the van through unfamiliar streets, becoming increasingly lost.

  Now that the van had stopped, she needed to phone in and summon the cavalry – but first, she needed to find a street name and get her bearings.

  She switched off the car’s internal light and then opened the door, slipping out of the Escort as quietly as she could. Kelly padded past the turning the killer had driven into, looking for road signs.

  There were none.

  SHIT!

  The van was parked about one hundred and fifty yards in, against a narrow path that led down to an abandoned looking warehouse on the quay. The layout made the footpath difficult to spot from the road.

  She scanned the road, hoping to see a pedestrian; anyone would do as long as they could tell her where she was, but it was like being stranded in a ghost town. A thin mist was creeping in from the river, making the air damp.

  Kelly jogged further along the street until she reached the main road. There, at last, was a sign: WAPPING HIGH STREET, E1.

  Relief flooded over her as she reached into her pocket, fumbling for her mobile phone, which she had recovered from underneath the front passenger seat before leaving the car. Now that she had a road name, she could get some much-needed help. Kelly unlocked the keypad and dialled Tyler’s mobile from memory.

  Nothing happened. “What the…?” She looked down in horror, to see that the signal strength read zero bars. “You have got to be joking,” she said to the phone, moving it around to get a signal.

  Still nothing.

  She began to jog back towards her car, hoping to pick up a signal along the way. Once inside, she checked it again. One bar was showing; a weak signal, but hopefully it would be enough. Kelly pressed redial. “Please work,” she begged it. She immediately heard a ringtone, thank God, but why wasn’t Tyler answering his bloody phone?

  ◆◆◆

  Tyler felt strangely redundant as he stood beside the police carrier, watching in silence as the TSG lads dealt with the accident with practised ease. Two traffic cars had also arrived, one containing a scowling Traffic Sergeant. Hopefully, no blame would be attach
ed to the carrier’s driver when the mean faced Traffic Sergeant had finished his investigation.

  They had stumbled across the vicinity only POLACC purely by chance, on their way to RVP with Kelly. Upon arrival, both detectives had expected to find the Sherpa at the epicentre of the crash, its driver safely detained. Unfortunately, that hadn’t been the case.

  Jack showed his warrant card to one of the TSG lads, a bald-headed man with a droopy ginger moustache, and asked what was going on, only to be informed that the van had been lost and that numerous units were scouring the area for it.

  Jack described Kelly Flowers to him, asking if he could shed any light on her whereabouts. PC Reeve scratched his bald head thoughtfully and then said that he hadn’t seen anyone matching that description.

  Grim-faced, Jack hurriedly returned to the pool car, where his partner waited impatiently.

  “Give her another ring, will you, Dill,” Tyler instructed as he climbed in. He was seriously worried about Kelly. They had been trying to call her back for ages, but all they could get was her damned voice mail service, and until the road was cleared, they couldn’t get to the agreed RVP to meet her.

  The only pool car that had been available was a diesel Astra that was ready for the scrap yard. It didn’t have a Main-Set, and neither of them had thought to bring along a portable.

  As they were walking back to their ride, Tyler’s Nokia suddenly rang, making him jump. “Hopefully, this is Kelly,” he said.

  “It could be.” Dillon agreed, holding up his own phone. “I’m still getting her bloody answer machine.”

  When he finally managed to pull his cell phone out of his pocket, Jack keyed the green button with gusto. “Tyler speaking…”

  “Guv, it’s me, Kelly. Just listen, I haven’t got a very good signal. I’m in Wapping High Street, E1. I’ve followed the van here. It’s parked up but I need some –” The line went dead.

  “Damn!” Tyler cursed, trying to get his bearings. Where was Wapping High Street in relation to their present location? And what did she think she was doing following the van on her own? “Get in the car,” he ordered, unlocking the doors as he spoke. “I think Kelly needs our help on the hurry up.” He turned the ignition, and the car started clunking like the unrefined beast it was. Fighting the lumpy gear stick, he eventually managed to find first and gunned the accelerator. “Plot me the fastest route to Wapping High Street,” he instructed as the car surged forward and stalled.

  ◆◆◆

  Oh no! The signal had gone again. Had he heard her? Had he managed to get her location? What was she going to do now? It was decision time. She didn’t dare wait any longer. If she was following the Ripper, as seemed likely, he could be in the back of that van now, cutting up his next victim. She couldn’t just sit there and do nothing simply because she had no backup. She was a police officer, after all. This was what she was paid to do.

  With trembling hands, she reached into her bag for her ASP gravity friction lock baton. Somehow its weight didn’t give her as much comfort as she’d hoped it would, but it would have to do. She got out and closed the door quietly.

  Treading as softly as she could, hugging the building line, where the shadows were thickest, she slowly crept towards the van.

  Her chest was tight with fear, but she kept telling herself that everything would be okay, repeating the words like a litany.

  Doubt quickly began to erode her earlier resolve. Perhaps the van was empty after all. Perhaps the driver had gone to the warehouse for a reason that was totally unconnected to the Whitechapel murders. Perhaps there was a perfectly innocent explanation for all of this. Perhaps she should just wait for more units after all. Perhaps… What was that? There was a strange noise coming from the van.

  Oh my God, he’s in there! Kelly felt her blood run cold. She faltered and almost turned back. Her legs were refusing to obey her mental commands, but she willed them on, a step at a time, each one sapping her reserves a little more than the last. Please let it be my imagination, she prayed, or cats rummaging around for scraps. Cats would do nicely.

  There it was again, coming from inside the van: a low moaning sound. Flowers cocked her head to the side, listening carefully. The noise sounded human in origin. She racked her ASP. The extendable metal baton sounded crisp and businesslike in the silence of the night.

  Kelly was only a few yards away now. She could actually hear the van’s suspension springs creaking as its occupants moved around inside. Crouching low, she approached the Sherpa from the rear. And then she realised that she had a problem: to reach her objective she would have to break from cover and lose the protection of the shadows. Without any streetlights to illuminate her, it was relatively dark in the open space around the van, but the human eye is drawn to movement and she would be doing a lot of that.

  There was no easy way around it.

  Hell, there was no way around it.

  For a few brief moments she would be exposed and completely visible to anyone who happened to be looking.

  Did she go on or turn back?

  Was there really a choice?

  Taking several deep breaths, she broke into a sprint and dashed out into the open. Please God, don’t let him see me, she prayed as she ran on tiptoe.

  Dropping down beside the rear doors, she pressed her back against the van, listening for the slightest sound.

  Her nerves were raw.

  The engine was off but the exhaust pipe was still warm. Breathing quickly, she risked a glance around the passenger side, hoping to spot any movement inside the cabin by its reflection in the side mirror.

  Nothing.

  She edged across to the driver’s side and repeated the manoeuvre.

  Nothing there either.

  Phew!

  Okay, it meant that he was in the back and he probably hadn’t seen her, but was he alone?

  “Help me…please…help…me…”

  The voice, weak and disorientated, came from inside. Kelly nearly jumped out of her skin.

  The Ripper had a victim in the back of the van with him…and she was still alive.

  But for how long?

  “Please, if anyone out there can hear me, help me before he comes back… Please…” The voice faded into a final hoarse plea.

  Before he comes back…?

  The Ripper wasn’t in there.

  But how long would he be gone for?

  There was no doubt he would return.

  Kelly jumped up, hyped for action. There was no time to lose. Perhaps, if she moved fast enough, she could get the woman away from here. Then she could wait outside for back up.

  She tried to turn the handle, pulling hard. It was locked. “Hang on,” she whispered. “I’m a police officer. I’m here to help you.”

  There was no reply.

  Kelly ran around to the front, trying both the driver and passenger doors. They were also locked. She would have to smash the window to get in. Did she dare make that much noise?

  If she was going to do it then she had to move quickly. She looked around, scanning the horizon for movement. The warehouse was at least a hundred yards away, right on the edge of the wharf. The killer had to be in there; there was just nowhere else.

  Perhaps it was his hideout. That would make perfect sense. This was the ideal location: quiet and secluded, well off the beaten track.

  Kelly returned to the driver’s window. Leaning as far back as she could, shielding her face with her left hand, she struck out at the window with her ASP.

  WHACK. It made a hell of a noise.

  To her amazement, nothing happened and the window remained intact. “Shit!” she said breathlessly. She hit it again, harder this time.

  WHACK. The glass shattered in an explosion of sound, falling inwards, into the cabin. There was no time to worry about discovery now; she was too committed to even consider retreat, and hopefully, the deepening mist would act as a sound suppressor.

  Reaching inside, trying to avoid the jagged shards of g
lass that stuck up like stalagmites, she undid the lock. “Hold on in the back, it’s the police,” she called as she slid back the door and climbed in. Despite her great urgency, a small part of her mind was conscious of the need to avoid contamination or obliteration of forensic evidence. The van was a crime scene. It could yield all sorts of important evidence: fingerprints, DNA, and fibres, to name but a few. She had to move carefully, avoid touching anything unless she absolutely had to.

  The faint smell of chemicals pervaded the cabin, and she began to feel a little light-headed.

  A thick curtain separated the cabin from the rear compartment. “Hello – is anyone there?” she asked, drawing it to the side. It was pitch black inside. She ferreted around for a switch that might control the lights in the back. Where on earth can it be? She wondered, fighting the panic that was spiralling inside. She gave up after a short while, unable to find it.