Hands of the Ripper (22 page)

‘Sorry?’

‘I was just remembering. I was there on that night. “What does he want?”, that’s what the man kept shouting. I thought it was strange at the time.’

‘Well, the man was obviously deranged, the things he did to them all. He didn’t just kill them, it was drawn out and cruel, he took real pleasure in it.’ Which in turn made Probert think of the Barrowman brothers and he lost himself for a moment. ‘Sorry,’ he said, pulling his thoughts back together. ‘I found the body, you see. Alasdair’s brother Glen, that is … in the back of Court’s car. He had spent a long time working on it with a screwdriver.’

The two men sat in silence for a moment, the words needed to settle down before either was willing to step over them.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ John admitted finally. ‘I mean … well, it’s just horrible. I don’t know how I’m going to tell Anna.’

Mention of her name shook Probert out of his funk. ‘Well, yes,’ he admitted, ‘but there’s a lot more about her you need to know first.’

Anna was getting used to freedom. Some days she couldn’t quite bear the idea of wandering around outside, big open streets, crowds everywhere, it was too much. It was an environment a person could get lost in,
maybe
lose their sense of solidity and float away into that endless sky. Other days,
better
days, the wide open was what she craved. Those were the days when the memory of that soundproofed cupboard beneath the stairs was fresh in her head and the only thing she could do to brush it away was to get out in the bright light and noise of the city. Now the weather had finally take a turn for the better walking was a pleasure. She would head out and take her time over planning what she could cook for John and Laura. She made it an event. Something to make a fuss of. It was a simple act, something she could control and focus on, getting better each and every day one meal at a time. Small steps. The presenter on one of those morning chat shows had talked about the importance of those: ‘Walking back to mental health takes small steps,’ they had said, looking into the camera in that earnest way they all had. Anna could sense the charlatanism in most of them, she’d lived with one long enough after all, but she still enjoyed having the shows on. It was another little freedom she could allow herself, even if Laura would insist on turning the volume down whenever she walked in the room. ‘It’s like having a football crowd in the house,’ she would say.

Anna stopped at a farmers’ market and lost herself in a stall selling homemade jam.

‘Who knew you could make so many different types, eh?’ asked a voice behind her and she turned around to see Davinia Harris.

‘Oh,’ said Anna, startled by the woman’s presence. For a moment the world pressed in on her: the jumble of
stalls
, the shuffle of the customers, voices everywhere … were they all in her head or were some of them on the outside?

‘Sorry, dear,’ said Davinia, ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump.’

The older woman reached out and took Anna’s arm to stop her falling over.

‘It’s all right,’ said Anna, slowly getting herself back under control. ‘I was miles away.’

‘No bad place to be these days,’ said Davinia. ‘Let me buy you a cup of tea to say sorry.’

‘Oh don’t worry, there’s no need …’

‘I insist,’ said Davinia, ‘there’s a lovely little place on the next street along, they do cakes to die for!’

Feeling she could not refuse, Anna followed Davinia out of the market and around the corner to a small teashop. It was laid out over three tiny floors of a Victorian terrace. Bored waiting staff stared into thin air. Perhaps, thought Anna, all of their clientele had finally given up and died of old age.

Clearly the archaic nature of the place appealed to Davinia. ‘Like they used to be,’ she said, gesturing around vaguely. ‘Would you like a scone? Or a toasted teacake?’

‘No, I’m fine thanks. Just a cup of tea.’

‘Oh,’ Davinia sounded disappointed. ‘Well, I might just have a little something … an Eccles cake or a bit of shortbread perhaps. Tea’s too wet without a little something.’

‘Eccles cakes are nice,’ Anna agreed, feeling she ought to say something.

‘Quite right dear, that’s the spirit,’ Davinia replied and promptly ordered two Eccles cakes and a large pot of tea. ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ she suggested, ‘it’s full of old things.’

Anna guessed that Davinia meant this as a recommendation and followed her up a narrow, dark wood staircase that led to a second floor. It was, indeed, filled with old things. A perfect hiding place for lace or faux Wedgwood, there was so much of it already there nobody would notice more. The walls were covered with prints of old London street maps. On one, a fireplace dressed in heavy green tile was decorated with knick-knacks and dusty teddy bears.

‘Lovely,’ confirmed Davinia, settling into a chair near the window.

Anna ran her finger along the mantelpiece, looking at the row of pretend antiquity. There was a selection of china rabbits, a cut-glass perfume bottle, a satin pincushion that held a cluster of long hat-pins. ‘It’s very nice,’ she agreed and sat down.

‘It’s ever so funny I bumped into you,’ said Davinia, ‘as I was only thinking about you the other day. I wonder how dear Sandy is doing, I thought.’

It hadn’t occurred to Anna that Davinia didn’t know her real name and she was grateful for the fact that it had been pointed out.

‘If anyone’s seen dear Aida of late, I thought,’ continued Davinia, ‘it’ll be her.’

‘Actually I haven’t,’ said Anna ‘I’ve …’ she had been about to say ‘left’ before correcting herself, ‘… stopped going to see her.’

‘You and me both, dear,’ said Davinia, ‘She’s vanished off the face of the Earth. There was a bit of fuss over a night she did at the Barret-Holden Memorial Hall in Bermondsey only I didn’t go.’ She leaned over and spoke in a whisper. ‘My Henry won’t be seen anywhere south of the river my love, he’s a terrible snob like that so when Aida’s down that way I just don’t go.’ She leaned back again. ‘But things seemed perfectly normal the next few nights. She was on her own, mind, no sign of that nice young man that helps out … And then, a few days ago … nothing! All the shows on the website are cancelled, she won’t answer her phone. Who knows what’s happened to her?’

Anna shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t seen her since that night.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Davinia gushing with enthusiasm, ‘
that
night. Who can forget that, eh? Though the police certainly seem to have. I haven’t heard a peep from them. That clever Lord Probert, I imagine, had something to do with that. He did say he was going to sort it all out, didn’t he? I must admit I didn’t take to him on the night but he certainly seems to have a bit of clout. Click of his fingers and the police were rushing around like he was the Chief Constable. Or is it Chief Commissioner? I can never remember. My Henry refused to have anything to do with the police … ever since those riots with the blacks. Said they were as bad as the crooks half the time. I dare say he was right. Here’s our tea!’

The waitress laid it out for them – paper doilies on the plate, Anna noticed, as if you couldn’t risk the Eccles cake staining the china.

‘Enjoy,’ she insisted with a slight Hungarian accent and vanished back down the stairs.

‘Oh I think we will,’ agreed Davinia, taking a big mouthful out of her Eccles cake and chuckling through a shower of pastry crumbs.

‘I’m sure Anna will tell me everything about herself that she thinks I need to know,’ said John. ‘I don’t think it’s fair to hear personal details from you.’

‘Oh, don’t be so bloody pompous,’ Probert replied, ‘I’m not just here to gossip, it’s important, I’d hardly bother otherwise. Anna is not quite the woman you think she is.’

‘I know all about that,’ said John. ‘Aida Golding adopted her, she told me.’

‘She told you about her parents?’

‘She doesn’t remember them.’

‘She remembers them only too well,’ Probert replied. ‘Her father was Douglas Reece.’

‘Who’s Douglas Reece?’ The name was vaguely familiar but John couldn’t place it.

‘Douglas Reece was the East End Ripper, remember? We allegedly heard from him that night.’

John tutted. ‘We heard from no such person, it was just one of Golding’s confederates putting on a silly voice.’

‘Yes,’ Probert agreed, ‘it was Anna.’

‘Anna? Don’t be ridiculous, she was sitting right next to you.’

‘Indeed she was, in the dark, if you remember, Golding is always very careful to ensure that we can’t
see
a thing at these affairs. Anna had been working with her for years, she’s always had a skill for voices. No, more than a skill really … perhaps a better word would be affliction.’

John stood up. ‘That’s enough. I have a lecture to get to and I don’t have time to sit listening to this twaddle. I presume Golding put you up to this did she? Trying to get her own back? Stir up some trouble?’

Probert didn’t move from his chair. ‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll make a nuisance of herself soon enough,’ he said, ‘but I’ve come of my own accord.’

‘A likely story.’

Probert snapped, that calm, noble air he so liked to affect was replaced by genuine anger. ‘I don’t make a habit of interfering in other people’s business, Pritchard,’ he shouted, ‘but this whole mess has gone on far enough. If I can help make sure nobody else is hurt – or worse – then I shall do my damnedest to see that it is so. Whether given your permission or not. Now sit down, you stupid man, it’s better for Anna that you know about all this because if Golding’s right then someone needs to be keeping an eye on her.’

John hesitated for a moment then resumed his seat. ‘All right,’ he agreed, ‘but only for Anna’s sake. And that’s not to say I believe any of it …’

But he did, of course, he believed it all.

‘I can’t stop thinking about what happened that night,’ said Davinia, much to Anna’s unease. The last thing she wanted was to discuss the death of Father Goss. ‘It was just so awful, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Anna agreed, ‘it was. I’d really rather not talk about it.’

‘Well, naturally,’ agreed Davinia, ‘who would? All that blood …’ she rolled her eyes as if feeling faint. Of course, in reality she was more alive than ever, there was nothing that invigorated Davinia more than the grotesque. ‘And the East End Ripper!’ Davinia gasped with pleasure, too wrapped up in her own excitement to notice the discomfort the conversation was obviously causing Anna.

‘I don’t suppose you remember it?’ the older woman continued. ‘You’ll have been far too young when it happened but the whole country was up in arms about it. “You make sure you get a bus home,” my Henry used to tell me, “don’t go walking around at night on your own, not with a lunatic like that on the loose.” Not that I would have been walking in the sorts of areas he tended to pick on, of course, we’ve always been North London, the closest we get to the East End is Albert Square! Do you watch
EastEnders
, dear?’ she asked. ‘Henry never used to allow it on but I have to say I never miss it now he’s gone. They’re addictive, aren’t they, the soaps? Moving wallpaper, that’s what Henry called it, nothing but moving wallpaper.’

‘I don’t really watch much television,’ Anna said, grateful of the change of subject.

‘Oh, very wise,’ Davinia replied, ‘rots the brain, I’m sure. Or the eyes, one or the other. You must excuse me.’

She rose to her feet and wandered purposefully up the stairs in the direction of the toilet.

Anna was left quite alone in the empty tearoom,
staring
at the steam that rose from the spout of the teapot.

‘What a gobby old bitch,’ said Bad Father, taking a seat at the table.

For a moment, Anna could say nothing, her fingers slapping her lips in shock as she looked around to make sure nobody else was here to see or hear him.

‘Go away!’ she begged him. ‘Go away! Go away!’

She hadn’t seen or heard from Bad Father since that night in John’s garden, had hoped, in fact, that he was gone for good, washed away by the rain.

‘It’s you that keeps bringing me back,’ he said, dabbing at pastry crumbs on the table with his finger, ‘thinking about me, talking about me …’

‘That was her, not me. I didn’t say a word.’

‘I noticed. Didn’t exactly stick up for your old dad, did you?’

‘Oh please …’ Anna began to cry, turning to look over her shoulder, terrified that Davinia would return at any minute and see them. ‘Please leave me alone.’

‘She’s a horror,’ he said. ‘“My Henry”’ this “my Henry” that. I bet he would have loved to shut her up. I bet every night he dreamed about taking an axe to the bitch just to stop that flapping mouth. I don’t know how he could bear it. I should kill her now, as a favour to him.’

Anna sobbed as upstairs the toilet door opened and Davinia began to descend the stairs.

‘Douglas Reece was an extremely disturbed man,’ said
Probert
, ‘textbook loon, thought he was doing God’s work by getting rid of all the “fallen women”.’

‘There’s no such thing as a “textbook loon”,’ said John.

Probert shrugged. ‘You’re the expert. What would I know?

‘He wrote letters to the police,’ he continued, ‘just like the original Jack the Ripper. That’s how they caught him in the end, a thumbprint on one of the envelopes. He had previous form after a rape accusation in the seventies. They tracked him down, religious mania, history of violence, he fit the bill. They stormed his flat one night, typical heavy-handed Met operation, clomping boots on the stairs, kicking in of doors. He was alerted and he beat his wife to death with a poker before they could enter.’

‘Oh God …’

‘He was likely planning on doing the same thing to his daughter, four-year-old Anna. They kept her in a cot in the living room, she was far too big for it, curled up in there like a panda in a cage. Makes you sick. When the police burst in, he changed his mind. Cut his own throat over the cot.’

John put his hand to his mouth, unable to say a word.

‘Dowsed the poor thing in his blood before the officers pulled him away and he bled out on the carpet. One of the men grabbed Anna, did his best to wipe the blood off her and got her out of there. Chap’s name was Sherwood, as in the forest, works in private security now. Passed over one too many times for promotion. I talked to him at length. He was relieved to know the girl
was
still alive, I don’t think he held out much hope for her. By the time they handed her over to social services she was screaming her head off.’