There was no gate at this point, just a blue-painted barrier to stop children running too quickly towards the nearby roads. We dodged round it and found ourselves on a small side road. Cars were parked along one edge. No sign of Joesbury or his prey.
‘We should split up,’ I said.
‘No fucking way.’
With no clue which way to go, we jogged forward to a street of red-brick Victorian houses. Queen’s Gate Villas. There were several pedestrians, a cyclist went past us faster than the traffic. No one we recognized. We waited as footsteps behind told us that colleagues, alerted by Stenning’s radio call, had come to join us. On his radio, we could hear that others had left the park at different gates and were heading our way, hoping to cut our suspect off. We heard Joesbury’s voice giving instructions. It didn’t sound hopeful. After a few minutes, we saw Joesbury himself appear on a large, grassed area at the other side of the road. He shook his head at us and then dodged his way through the cars until he reached us.
‘Lost the bastard,’ he said. Then he bent over and spat in the gutter.
39
Monday 10 September
‘KETCHUP, ANYONE?’ ASKED KRISTOS.
Across the table DI Tulloch looked startled. At her side, Joesbury’s jaw was tight. Next to me, Stenning was staring at the blood-red bottle being offered to us. Then Joesbury and I made eye contact. As I bit back a giggle, he reached out for the bottle.
‘You eating that bacon, Tully?’ he asked.
Tulloch peeled back the white bread from her sandwich, lifted out three rashers of bacon and dropped them on Joesbury’s plate. She licked her fingers, before replacing the bread and cutting the now empty sandwich into quarters.
‘I’m a veggie,’ she said, seeing Stenning and I staring at her. ‘I just can’t resist the flavour of bacon fat.’
It was after two in the morning and the four of us were in an all-night café not far from the station on Lewisham High Street. It was the first time I’d been here, but the proprietor, a young Greek Cypriot called Kristos, obviously knew the others well. He’d made us large mugs of coffee and put bacon on the grill without being asked.
‘Wife-swapping,’ announced Stenning, taking the ketchup bottle from Joesbury.
‘Excuse me?’ said Tulloch.
‘It’s a wife-swapping ring gone wrong,’ Stenning went on as Joesbury leaned back in his chair and raised one eyebrow. ‘Middle-class women in their forties. They’re all at it. Read the Mail on Sunday. So, one of the husbands has had second thoughts. Decided all the women are whores and that he’s going to butcher them.’
Almost to the second, Joesbury and I bit into our sandwiches. Tulloch nibbled the corner of hers.
Stenning was leaning across the table, as though physical proximity to the two senior detectives might help persuade them. ‘We’ve seen weirder things,’ he said.
‘If that bloke I chased had been middle-class and in his forties, I’d have caught him,’ replied Joesbury.
I looked up and caught Tulloch’s eye. Difficult to say which of us smiled first.
‘Both victims were the same type.’ Stenning wasn’t one to give up easily. ‘Ladies who lunch.’
There had been no clue, either on the body or in the shed, that would tell us who our latest victim was. All we knew was that she was probably early to mid forties, slim and healthy looking, with manicured fingernails and professionally cut and coloured hair.
Arriving back in the incident room, I’d been asked to check the missing-persons list. There had been several possibilities, although none of the photographs I looked at bore much resemblance to the woman I’d seen. Nevertheless, first thing in the morning, we’d start the grim task of contacting relatives.
The name and details I’d been given by the man who’d phoned in the original call about the boat shed had turned out to be bogus.
All the time we’d been back at the station, we’d had regular reports from our colleagues out on the streets. The man we’d chased from the park – we were calling him Samuel Cooper until we knew otherwise – had disappeared. Joesbury’s guess was that he’d leaped into a garden and doubled back to the main road. A helicopter had been called out, but by the time it arrived we knew it was hopeless; he’d had plenty of time to get away. Cooper’s details had been wired around London, though, and every patrol car on the streets would be looking for him.
CCTV footage from late Saturday afternoon showed someone dressed exactly as our suspect had been earlier, walking into the park in the company of a dark-haired woman. The woman had been wearing a brown coat with polka dots on it and could easily be the victim. The two had been walking close together and the woman appeared to be going willingly enough.
After we’d watched it, Tulloch had sent for the footage from the Brendon Estate on the night of Geraldine Jones’s murder. After thirty minutes, we’d been rewarded. A figure, again dressed exactly like our suspect, had walked into Kennington Tube station just over five minutes after Geraldine had collapsed in my arms. I’d sat watching the two clips of footage for some time, flicking from one to the other.
‘Same clothes on three separate occasions,’ I’d said, almost to myself.
‘Different trousers on the night Geraldine Jones was killed,’ Tulloch had replied from directly behind me. I flicked back to the right piece of footage. ‘Those look like cargo pants to me,’ she went on. ‘And maybe he only has the one jacket.’
‘Maybe,’ I agreed. There was something bothering me, I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Eventually, Tulloch called me away.
Although we couldn’t be sure he was the killer, Samuel Cooper’s photograph had been released to the papers. More than one national was reprinting its front page to carry the image of the man suspected of being the new Ripper.
‘So you think he’s choosing Victorian locations?’ Tulloch said now, glancing sideways at Joesbury.
He nodded. He’d just put the last of the sandwich into his mouth and couldn’t talk.
‘Or with a Victorian connection,’ I said. ‘The pool building and the park were built during Victoria’s reign, but obviously not the Brendon Estate. It was the block name that was important there.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Stenning. ‘He can’t replicate the original locations, most of them don’t exist any more. They’ve been knocked down and built on and look nothing like what they did a hundred years ago.’
‘And look how many rubberneckers were out in Whitechapel two nights ago,’ agreed Joesbury. ‘He’d have been playing to a packed house.’
‘So we identify Victorian buildings and stake them out on 30 September,’ said Stenning.
‘How many of those do you think there are around London?’ asked Joesbury. ‘The Victorians practically built this city. There are over forty streets in the A – Z with Victoria in their name. I checked before we came out.’
‘So we do the prominent ones, the well-known ones.’ Stenning wasn’t giving up easily.
Tulloch was chewing her bottom lip. ‘That piece of wood,’ she said, and her eyes fell to the tabletop. ‘That didn’t happen to Annie Chapman.’
I gave the two men a moment to chip in. Neither of them did.
‘It did to Emma Smith,’ I said.
‘That’s a new one on me,’ said Stenning, looking my way.
‘Emma Smith was the first Whitechapel murder victim,’ I said. ‘She was killed some time in April that year. A thick piece of wood was pushed up inside her, causing extensive internal injuries. She survived the attack but died the day after in hospital.’
Stenning was looking confused. ‘So, hang on …’
‘No one really believes she was a victim of the Ripper,’ I said. ‘She herself said she was attacked by three men. It was probably some sort of revenge thing or punishment.’
‘So what is Cooper playing at?’ said Joesbury. ‘He’s not an out-and-out copycat, that’s for sure. It’s like he’s sorting through and picking the bits he likes best.’
&nb
sp; Tulloch glanced at her watch and I wondered if she were looking at the date. It was 10 September. Just twenty days before a Ripper copycat would strike again.
‘We’ll catch him,’ I said, wondering who I was trying to convince. ‘I saw him. He’s real. We know who he is. We’ll catch him.’
I could see her trying to smile.
‘We need a plan,’ said Joesbury.
‘Tell me about it,’ she muttered.
Joesbury was looking at me. ‘I mean a plan for young Ripper-bait here,’ he said.
I sat a little more upright in my seat. ‘If that becomes my nickname around the station, I will personally—’ I began.
‘Not the testicles to the pigeons again,’ he said, as his face relaxed and those great teeth appeared. ‘That one’s getting tired.’
‘I will wear them as earrings,’ I said. ‘And when they start to rot, I will skewer them, alternating with your eyeballs, and give them to Kristos to serve as shish kebabs.’
Joesbury was actually smiling at me. There was a tiny fleck of ketchup just above the left side of his mouth and I had an almost irresistible urge to reach out …
‘Wow, she’s nastier than you,’ he said, turning his grin to Tulloch. She smiled back, reached up her left ring finger to wipe away the ketchup.
‘I really need to get home,’ I said, before realizing I had no way of getting there. ‘If that’s OK, Boss?’
‘We should all go,’ she said, before turning back to Joesbury. ‘By a plan, you mean … ?’
‘We should get her to a safe house,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow if we can. I’ll sit outside her flat tonight.’
‘No,’ said Tulloch, her eyes flitting between the two of us. ‘You need some sleep. I’ll get uniform to do it. We can move her tomorrow.’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked.
Three pairs of eyes looked at me.
‘We’ve got twenty days,’ I said. ‘That’s not a lot of time to waste.’
Silence.
‘If he’s a traditionalist, he’ll kill twice next time,’ I went on. ‘Thirtieth of September.’
‘He’s not a traditionalist,’ said Joesbury. ‘We’ve just established that. He’s a pick-and-mixer.’
‘I’ll bet he finds it hard to resist the double event,’ I said.
Tulloch was looking at Joesbury, who was still looking at me. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Elizabeth Stride and Catharine Eddowes,’ I said. ‘Butchered within an hour of each other.’
He was shaking his head. ‘Not gonna happen, Flint.’
‘You were happy enough to dangle me in the snake pit earlier,’ I pointed out.
‘Completely different,’ he said. ‘It was a containable situation. We can’t keep you safe twenty-four hours a day.’
‘If I stay at home, he’ll make contact,’ I said. ‘You had CCTV cameras put in the garden, didn’t you? And over the front door.’
He dropped his eyes to the tabletop.
‘They’re linked to the station,’ I went on. ‘And there’s a panic button by my bed?’
‘Lacey,’ began Tulloch, ‘it’s not—’
‘There are intruder alarms across every door and window?’ I ignored Tulloch. I was talking only to Joesbury, as though he was in charge now. He was looking at me again but his eyes weren’t smiling any more. ‘He can’t get me inside,’ I said. ‘But he might try and get into the garden or put something through the front door. He might call me. He might try and contact me when I’m out and about. I’ll spend a lot of time out of the station for the next few days. I’ll go out on the streets again.’
Silence around the table. Over at the counter, Kristos had gone very still. He was listening too.
‘We have twenty days,’ I said. ‘If we haven’t got him by the thirtieth I’ll go to a safe house.’
Still no response, but I knew they were going to agree. If we hadn’t got him by the thirtieth, two more women were going to die. Tulloch dropped her head into her hands and Stenning’s hand settled on my right shoulder. Joesbury was still glaring at me, but he wasn’t arguing any more.
It was official. I was Ripper -bait.
40
I WAS WOKEN BY A SHRILL NOISE TOO CLOSE TO MY HEAD. I groped around and found my new phone.
‘Morning, gorgeous.’
‘What?’ I managed. ‘Who?’
‘It’s me – Pete. Expecting someone else?’
‘Whadayawant?’
‘Got something that’ll make your day.’
‘Go on.’
‘Semen.’
I struggled to sit up. ‘Stenning, don’t think I’m not flattered, but—’
‘Not mine, you dozy mare. On the corpse.’
Wide awake now. ‘Come again.’
‘Apt choice of words, Flint. DI Tulloch’s just got back from the post-mortem. The pathologist found semen on the corpse.’
I needed a second to take that in. It hadn’t been enough then, to slice her open … ‘He raped her?’
I heard Stenning take a breath. ‘Yeah, pretty heavy,’ he said. ‘But great for us. We—’
‘Hang on, they’ve already had the post-mortem?’ What the hell time was it?
‘First thing this morning. Another musical one, apparently. Tulloch and Anderson went. They’ve just filled us in.’
I leaned across until I could see my alarm clock. Nearly half past ten.
‘Tulloch said we weren’t to wake you up,’ said Stenning. ‘But I thought you’d want to hear the good news. We’ll get him, Flint. We’ve got a name and DNA. He’s going down. Oh, and the papers have cottoned on to the Victorian connection. Your friend Emma Boston, of all people, worked it out.’
I was out of bed, wondering what I had to wear that was clean.
‘Now get your ass in here. The boss wants you bringing us up to speed on the double event. Just in case.’
41
23 December, eleven years earlier
THE DOCTOR IS SURROUNDED BY PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHILDREN. On her desk, on the shelves behind her, even on the window ledge. Some of them, the doctor’s own children, the girl assumes, were taken decades ago – she can tell by the clothes worn and the graininess of the print. Others, more recent, must be grandchildren.
It’s disgustingly tactless, the girl thinks, this excessive display of the doctor’s own fertility, given that she’s just told Cathy she will never be able to carry and bear a child.
‘The infection attacked the lining of your uterus,’ the doctor is explaining. If we’d caught it earlier, we might have got it under control. As it is, even without the damage to the fallopian tubes and the ovaries, I’m afraid the uterus simply won’t be capable of sustaining a full-term pregnancy. I’m sorry.’
She isn’t sorry, the girl holding Cathy’s hand can tell. She’s saying all the right things, the words that are expected of her, but her eyes are too steady, her stare too intense. At best, she doesn’t care one way or the other. At worst, because she’s mean and she takes pleasure in other people’s misery, she’s secretly rather gratified this has happened to them.
‘I can’t have children,’ says Cathy, for the third time. ‘I’ll never be a mother.’
Cathy, who has been a mother since she was three years old, caring for her dolls as if they were alive, cannot take in the news that she, of all females, won’t make the natural progression from looking after dolls to loving real live babies.
‘Well, you know, my dear,’ says the doctor, ‘there are more ways than one to be a mother.’
‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’ says the girl.
The doctor narrows her eyes and pulls back her shoulders. ‘There’s no call for language of that description, young lady,’ she says. ‘Perhaps I’d better speak to your sister alone. ’
The girl stands up. Is there anything else you need to ask, Cathy?’ she says.
Cathy’s eyes seem to have lost the ability to focus. She shakes her head and her sister takes her arm and pulls her gently to her fee
t. They move away from the chairs, towards the door. Then the girl stops, turns and steps back to the desk.
‘Put that down,’ says the doctor. ‘Put that down now, or I’ll call Security. ’
‘There is no Security in this building, you old fool,’ says the girl, as she walks over to the open window. In her right hand, she has a gold-framed photograph of the much younger doctor holding a toddler in her arms. The girl reaches the window, glances out and drops the picture. She hears the clang it makes on the roof of a red car as she steers Cathy out of the room.
Part Three
Elizabeth
‘For this time two victims have been required in a single night to slake what appears to be an absolutely demoniacal thirst for blood.’
Evening Standard, 1 October 1888
42
Monday 10 September
‘TWO WOMEN WERE KILLED IN THE EARLY MORNING OF 30 September 1888,’ I said. I pressed a button on the laptop and the photograph of a woman appeared on the large screen at the front of the room. Taken in the mortuary, it showed an oval face and clean, regular features. Her hair was dark, with a slight curl, and had been pinned up on the crown of her head. Her mouth was wide and generous, she might at one time have had a nice smile.
‘The first victim was Elizabeth Stride, a Swedish-born woman who moved to London about twenty years before her death,’ I said. ‘She was forty-five, separated from her husband and homeless. The murder took place in Dutfield’s Yard, a sort of courtyard that led off Berner Street in Whitechapel.’
The incident room was full, but more than one pair of eyes was drifting towards the open windows. I had a sense of people listening out of politeness. We knew who we were after now. And when we found Samuel Cooper, we could prove he was the killer. The case was all but over.
‘At twelve forty-five in the morning, she was seen arguing with a man in the gateway to Dutfield’s Yard,’ I went on. ‘That’s the last we see of her alive.’
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