Requiem for the Ripper

by kindels

  Nowadays, Hamish told me at that time, the island was privately owned and only rarely visited by bird-watchers and conservationists. The owner, a philanthropic millionaire, had decreed that the quay be kept in good repair so that those who wished to land and take advantage of the sights and sounds of the island could do so.

  I think my father knew I'd be captivated by the place. He knew only too well that his son had a love for the natural world and for all the creatures that inhabit it, the puffins and the myriad gulls, terns, skuas, and petrels that swirled in the skies above us made the whole place seem alive. I felt as though I'd stumbled onto one of the last, truly wild places on Earth and, perhaps I had.

  The place left such an impression on my receptive young mind that memories of Skerries Rock filled my head so many times during my teenage years. I would beg my father to take me there whenever he visited Scotland. My mother, reconciled to the knowledge that her husband and son were about to embark on one of their treks to the north, would usually remain home, at our comfortable house in the Port of Hull on the east coast of Yorkshire. I'd cheerfully wave good-bye to her, yet sadly, scarcely give her another thought as we headed towards the border, following the coast road along the east coast, then traversing the width of Scotland once Edinburgh trailed in the wake of our exhaust. I say sadly because, shortly after I'd attained the age of sixteen, my mother fell victim to a cruel cancer. Within six months of her contracting the dreaded disease, she passed away. My father and I were left alone with our joint grief and horror at the ravages the illness had wrought upon my poor mother.

  So, it transpired that years passed without another visit to Skerries Rock, years in which I attended university, gained a degree and slowly built a career for myself. I became successful in my chosen profession, able to afford to ensconce myself in a house overlooking the North Sea in the coastal resort of Scarborough. A brass plaque on the wall announced my trade and my surgery hours, from where I carried out my work as a consultant psychologist. I carried out much of that work, of course, at the local hospital, and as time passed and my professional star rose, I became known to the police as something of an expert in the field of criminal psychology, not only in the local area, but across the whole north of England. I was often called in to provide suspect profiling in cases where such expertise was required or desired.

  As with many childhood dreams, my thoughts of Skerries Rock remained firmly embedded in my mind, though they grew fainter and less vivid with the passage of time. Occasionally, I would promise myself that I'd visit the place again one day, but, after the death of my father (another awful cancer, damn it), fifteen years after the loss of my mother, such ambitions assumed less of a priority in my life.

  My success continued until, one day, then at the age of fifty, while idly reading through a copy of 'The Times' as I waited for lunch to be served in my favourite restaurant, my eyes were suddenly drawn to an advertisement on the property page. The words Skerries Rock leaped out at me from the page as I read the advertisement offering my dream island for sale!

  I could scarcely believe my eyes. The millionaire philanthropist, who originally bought the place, had died and the executors of his estate were selling Skerries Rock for a knockdown price. After all, they'd probably surmised, who the hell would want to own such a place, even less likely, who the hell might want to live there? They probably saw the tiny island as an encumbrance to the estate and seemed to be determined to off-load it quickly, or so the asking price implied.

  From that day forward, the idea of owning Skerries Rock, of having the opportunity to live my childhood dream, became an obsession. I'd become financially sound; certainly I could afford the asking price. I quickly came to the conclusion that I could easily give up my general practice in Scarborough and augment my income through consultancy work, which could just as easily be conducted from a home on the island. After all, most of such work came via the Internet and the telephone; therein, I realised the enormity of what I'd just suggested to myself. Skerries Rock possessed no mains electricity supply, no gas, no telephone links to the mainland. It would take some creative thinking and a fair amount of investment to install a private generator and arrange for a telephone line to be installed.

  My mind was made up; I knew I had to try. So, with an abundance of help from my solicitor, even though I found myself placing such a ridiculously low bid for the island of my dreams, I was surprised to find it was accepted by the executors of the estate. The generator cost less than I'd anticipated and the telephone line wouldn't be a problem with the advances in modern technology. All I had to do was build a habitable house for myself and Skerries Rock could become my home. I hired a team of builders from Balnakiel, in fact, the only builders in Balnakiel, owned oddly enough by Angus Foyle, with whom I'd first set sight on the island. In less than six months, Angus and his men had converted two of the old crofts into a single, warmly insulated and completely adequate dwelling for a single man such as myself. Power came from the use of the newly acquired generator, the telephone and computer links were soon established and, in far less time than I'd imagined, I found myself unscrewing the brass plaque from the wall outside my Scarborough home. As I took it down from its place of prominence, I read it one last time. Listing my name, David Hemswell, and my professional qualifications, that plaque seemed, at that moment, to stand for everything I'd worked so hard to achieve and was now poised to leave behind. I placed it, almost reverently, into one of the packing cases that were being used to transport my goods and chattels northwards, finally leaving the house on a warm Saturday afternoon in June, without looking back once as I drove towards my future.

  ***

  In less than a year, I'd made myself feel totally at home in my new environment. As I'd expected, consultancy work came my way on a regular basis and I found myself easily able to attend to most of it through the mediums of computer or telephone. Only twice did I deem it necessary to leave the island and conduct hands-on inquiries in connection with a couple of rather complicated cases that had been presented to me by the police. I'd spend time each day walking and observing the life that abounded in and around my own personal dream world. Little appeared to have changed since my childhood days. Puffins and gulls, and all the other seabirds still used my island as their home, at least for the time they required to set foot on dry land. Entire pods of dolphins continued to make their presence known, occasionally leaping from the sea, riding the waves in playful abandon until they appeared to become bored with their game and disappear, once more, beneath the cold, watery mantle of the Atlantic waves. The wind would howl, not fearfully, but as a lullaby that would gently send me to sleep each night, blissfully happy and content with my place in the world. Skerries Rock had become my world at that point, and I felt as though nothing could ever bring discord or disharmony into my new life. I found myself living the idyllic life I'd dreamed of living since my childhood. I felt supremely happy, happier than I'd ever believed possible. With no wife, no family ties, and no one to answer to except my own conscience, I now entered, without doubt, into the happiest period of my life.

  The only thing I hadn't factored into my new life, my world of tranquillity and being at one with nature, was the telephone call I received one dark winter's night in January.

  "Doctor Hemswell?" a stranger's voice inquired when I picked up the receiver.

  "Yes, who's speaking, please?"

  "You don't know me, Doctor, but I've heard of you and your reputation. I got your number from Chief Inspector Gould of the Strathclyde Police. He said you were the best man to help with my, er, problem. I wondered if I might visit you and talk to you about a matter of the gravest importance."

  "I'm sorry, but I don't even know your name yet, or what this matter of importance is. Could you please enlighten me before I agree to any sort of meeting? I don't usually receive visitors here, you know. I am rather isolated."

  "Yes, I know. You live on a private island off the coast of Cape Wrath. Chief Inspect
or Gould told me about it."

  "Correct. Now, your story?"

  "Oh, yes, I'm sorry. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Forbes, William Forbes, and, until recently, I was a solicitor. That is, until something odd began to happen and I found myself becoming embroiled in something I didn't, and still don't, understand."

  "Mr. Forbes, you're not making a lot of sense," I said, in an attempt to force the caller to get to the point.

  "Yes, I know, I apologise. Look, have you heard of Jack Reid, Doctor?"

  "Yes, of course, I think almost everyone has. He was accused of a series of copycat crimes that mirrored Jack the Ripper's Whitechapel murders, was convicted, then released from a secure hospital due to new evidence, then years later he was convicted of another series of murders. Is that the Jack Reid you mean?"

  "Yes, that's him. Look, Doctor Hemswell, I know it sounds preposterous, and you'll think I'm mad, but, well, Jack Reid was my client and he died a few weeks ago. Since then, I've come into possession of a document that makes me believe things I don't want to believe and, I admit, to being in fear for my life. Please, I don't want to say too much on the telephone. I'm begging you, Doctor, please let me come and see you and talk to you in person. Perhaps then you'll understand what I'm getting at."

  The Jack Reid case had become notorious in the recent annals of crime. Only a fool, or someone who'd been shut away on a desert island for years, could have failed to possess, at least, a rudimentary knowledge of the so-called 'Ripper Copycat' killer who stalked the street of Brighton and, finally, Whitechapel itself, in his fiendish lust to re-create the murders of Jack the Ripper. Somehow, this man had become embroiled in the life and the case of Jack Reid and, though he sounded agitated and afraid, his occupation at least gave merit to me granting him a little leeway.

  "Listen, Mr. Forbes. You say you feel as though your life is in danger, and yet, you also tell me that Reid died a short time ago. I hadn't heard of his demise, but please, all things being equal, who do you believe you're in danger from?"

  Just before the man replied, a sudden, howling gust of wind shook the house; perhaps that same blast of chilled Atlantic air caused the generator to miss a beat, and made the lights flicker briefly off, and then on again. His voice, when it came, delivered his reply in a deadpan, totally serious monotone.

  "Who? Why, Jack the Ripper, of course."

  From that moment onwards, life at Skerries Rock would never again be quite the same. Without knowing if my new client were deranged, or just deluded in some way, I gave him directions and agreed to meet with him two days hence. I'd rendezvous with him, on the mainland, in my own motor launch, and ferry him to the island. I explained I wasn't geared up for receiving guests, but he assured me he expected nothing from me except the opportunity to talk and to show me the document, which he insisted had been the cause of so much of his current grief.

  Finalising the conversation, I said my good-byes to the mysterious Mr. Forbes. and sat thoughtfully ruminating on our conversation for perhaps a minute. He'd said only too little and given away even less, and yet, here I sat, ready to receive this stranger into my home, a man who appeared to be under the delusion his life was in danger, from a serial killer who'd died over a hundred and twenty years ago.

  The lights suddenly dimmed once more, the wind gathered in intensity and the windows of my home, despite being triple-glazed to keep out the wind and the draughts, visibly appeared to shake in their frames. I made a mental note to check the fuel lines to my oil-fired generator, in the light of the following morning, and turned in for the night, though, in truth, my mind felt more disturbed than I'd imagined in response to the strange phone call from Mr. William Forbes. Sleep eluded me, until the sheer weight of exhaustion forced my eyes to finally close at a little before three in the morning.

  After a mere three hours of sleep, I woke, as usual, at 6:00 a.m., only to find the generator had failed during the night. I found myself without heat, light, and power of any description. Forbes would be arriving the next day and it appeared I had much work to do. The wind had died down and the sea rolled in to the island in a gentle, flat calm, unusual at any time of the year on Skerries Rock. As I worked on restoring power to my isolated home that day, even the sounds of the seabird's calls sounded muted, and an air of hesitant expectancy appeared to presage the arrival of William Forbes, solicitor, of London.

  Chapter Two

  Preparations

  Repairing the generator proved a simple task, even for a ham-fisted townie like me. The power failure resulted from nothing more sinister than a blocked fuel line, caused by a build-up of air in one of the bends of the pipes that fed diesel oil into the generator. The comprehensive instructions, supplied by the maker, enabled me to get the machine up and running again, in just under an hour. I cleaned up and spent most of the remainder of that day preparing the spare bedroom for my expected guest.

  My converted croft houses comprised my own bedroom, the spare, a living room, library/office, and a well-appointed kitchen, fitted with more than enough cupboards and drawers to suit not just a single inhabitant, but an entire family if necessary. I'd bought the largest, American style refrigerator I could afford, and the gleaming silver beast of an appliance stood almost ceiling high, next to the welsh dresser that had accompanied me from my home in Scarborough. In addition, a couple of outbuildings stood just to the rear of the property. One I utilised as a garage for my all-terrain Range Rover, the other as a general workroom for any necessary D.I.Y. jobs that might be required from time to time, and where I also kept a large deep-freeze that held enough frozen food to last through an entire winter, if necessary. I'd found it easy to forget that Skerries Rock, though lonely and isolated most of the time, stood, in fact, only a stone's throw from the mainland, and any essential supplies and equipment I required could be obtained by boat in the space of a few hours. My motor launch was modern and fast, and housed in readiness at all times in a boathouse I had specially built for it beside the landing quay. In truth, I had the best of both worlds. No intrusions by strangers, unless invited, and reasonably close proximity to civilisation, if I needed it.

  The spare room stood sparsely furnished with a double bed, a wardrobe, a side table, and a rather old-fashioned, but eminently practical, dressing table, with four drawers provided for the user. It took no time at all to make up the bed with fresh linen, to run round the room with a duster, and to vacuum the carpets.

  As I sat down to a late lunch, I reflected that there remained little more I could do with the room to make it any more habitable for my guest. It gleamed, clean, comfortable, and as ready as it could be, so the rest of the afternoon would be devoted to a little research into the case he'd mentioned.

  The Internet provided most of what I needed to know and gave me a brief background on the case. Jack Reid was the nephew of a psychiatrist, Robert Cavendish who was involved in a road accident, one in which his own father had died. After the accident, he'd found himself bequeathed, from his father, a set of papers that appeared to have caused some disturbance of the mind, and Robert Cavendish died some time later, convinced that he'd been haunted by the ghost of Jack the Ripper during the coma he'd lain in during his time in a hospital. His widow never got the chance to examine the papers, which Cavendish had sealed and deposited with his solicitor some time before his death with instructions that they be held in trust for his nephew.

  Thus, on reaching the age of maturity, young Jack Reid had also received a legacy, from his Uncle Robert, and his life had immediately entered a downward spiral. It seemed that Reid had led a disturbed childhood and, whatever happened to him after the receipt of the bequest from his uncle, it certainly did nothing for his state of mind. He'd disappeared from home one night, apparently going in search of something or someone, though no one knew who or what, or where he'd gone. He wasn't heard from again until his parents were informed, by the police, that he'd been arrested in Brighton, suspected of the murders of three women, all of whom had
been slaughtered in the manner of Jack the Ripper.

  Found guilty by reason of insanity at his trial, Reid had been incarcerated in the Ravenswood Secure Hospital, a facility built specifically to house the criminally insane. Somehow, a leading Ripperologist had become involved in the case and she began to cast doubts on Reid's guilt. After the police reopened the case following her intrusive intervention, they eventually concluded that Reid may not have been the killer after all and, during an extensive retrial, it emerged that Reid had been the unwitting dupe of a person or persons unknown who'd framed him for the murders. Reid had been released from Ravenswood soon afterwards, against the advice of his psychiatrist, a Doctor Ruth Truman.

  All appeared to go well with Jack Reid for a while, until he left his job and disappeared from sight once more. He wasn't heard from again until the bodies of prostitutes began turning up in the Whitechapel area of London, as they had during the reign of the original Ripper. This time, Reid had been clever. He didn't try to use the original murder sites as defined in the original Ripper case, but simply picked his targets at random in the red-light district. He knew that if he stuck to the original area used by the Ripper, he would easily be tracked down, that the police would simply set traps and lie in wait for him, so he simply picked up his victims on the street and led them into the nearest darkened alley or parking area and carried out his gruesome killings. Of course, during the time of the killings, the police didn't know that Jack Reid was responsible, at least not for certain, but when the London Police received a contact from Inspector Holland in Brighton, who had first arrested Reid in Brighton, they soon began to suspect that Jack Reid could be their man.