Legacy of the Ripper (17 page)

The sergeant nodded, but said nothing as Holland continued.

"The thing is, if he sticks to the original Ripper's timetable we have less than two days to try and work out who he is and a way to stop him. The Chief Super has given us extra manpower, as many men as he can spare and it's up to us to use them the best way we know how. That meeting we had with him went better than I thought it would, but he was a little hesitant to admit to a real-life Jack the Ripper copycat being loose on the streets. He did say he thought the dates might have been coincidental, but you and I know better, don't we?"

Carl Wright nodded again. The Chief Superintendent had indeed granted Holland the extra men, both uniformed and plain clothes that he needed, but had qualified the grant of the extra manpower by demanding that his D.I. produce results and fast. No-one needed to tell Holland or Wright about the requirement for speed in their inquiry. Both men were well aware that the Brighton killer, if he was slavishly following the original Ripper's timetable of events would claim his next victim in just over twenty four hours. Whatever methods they decided to employ to identify the murderer and bring about an arrest would have to be formulated and put into effect almost immediately. Holland and Wright spent the next hour deliberating on the problems they faced. They were both agreed that the killer would strike somewhere in the red-light district of Brighton at sometime during night of the following day. That left them with just over twenty four hours in which to either catch the killer, or at least to do enough to dissuade him from carrying out the next murder in his re-creation of the Ripper murders.

"The Chief Super gave you the extra men you asked for, sir. Why don't we send them all out on the streets tomorrow and even put the plain-clothes guys in uniforms. It might be sufficient of a deterrent to put the bastard off."

"And then again maybe it won't, sergeant. Can you imagine the field day the press and TV people would have if we flooded the streets with police officers and the murderer still managed to carry out the next killing? They'd bloody well want to string us up if that happened."

"I know, sir, but what do you suggest? We can't just sit back and do nothing can we? Some poor woman's life is depending on what you decide to do."

"You think I don't know that? The trouble is, he's a clever bastard and always seems to be one jump ahead of us. We could get the media to announce that we know he's ready to strike again and why, but that might just cause a bigger panic than we need right now. Can you see it? "
Jack the Ripper comes to
Brighton" or some such headline blaring out from the newspapers and the TV screens? The people would go crazy and it would kill off the tourist trade overnight. As for the prossies, some of them might stay off the streets but there'll always be the hard core who are so in need of cash that they'll brave the streets whatever the risk, just to earn enough to pay for their next fix."

"At least, as you say, some of them might stay at home even for one night. It would narrow down the numbers we'd have to try and protect. I can't see how we can avoid telling the press something, boss. They might be our only hope of avoiding the third murder. You never know, he might even target some innocent holidaymaker who strays into the wrong area after dark and at least this might keep that particular section of the population away from the target area."

"You're right of course, sergeant. I'll go and see the Chief Super after we've finished here, get him to liaise with the press and TV people. He'll come up with something diplomatically and politically expedient that won't scare the populace too much, I'm sure."

"I'm sure he will, sir, I'm sure he will."

Both men were only too well aware that the Chief Superintendent was tied to a varied set of rules and regulations and had to be almost as adept as a politician as he was as a police officer in his dealings with the press and the public. If anyone could get the words just right, he was the man to do it.

"We'll get to that in a few minutes, sergeant. For now, you and I need to decide what we're going to do with the manpower we have available tomorrow night."

Over the next thirty minutes Holland and Wright slowly came to the conclusion that the only option they really had was to follow Wright's suggestion and to flood the streets with uniforms in an effort to deflect the killer from his intended purpose. Both men were only too aware of the fact that over one hundred years ago, the police in London had done the very self-same thing in their search for Jack the Ripper and had met with total failure in their attempts to catch him, or even to find a reliable witness to his presence in the killing grounds of Whitechapel, where he appeared to be able to roam and kill at will with absolute impunity. By the time Holland left the office for his meeting with the Chief Superintendent another hour had gone by, an hour that brought the killing of the third victim that much closer to becoming a reality.

Alone in Holland's office Sergeant Carl Wright pored over a street map of the area they would have to patrol in their attempt to foil the killer. As he did so, he couldn't help but feel that although forty men, the number of officers at their disposal, might sound a lot, they would be hard pressed to adequately cover the labyrinthine streets that made up the killer's hunting ground if indeed he intended to stick to the red-light district. Holland and Wright's biggest fear was that the killer, who was clever enough to realise that the police had worked out his strategy, might move beyond the boundaries of the area and commit his next murder in a totally different part of the town. He began to make notes, to draw up a patrol roster that he hoped would give them the best coverage of the area possible given the manpower available. The day had warmed considerably and bright shafts of penetrating sunlight now lanced through the large plate glass window of the office, their rays bouncing off the polished floor and reflecting from the walls. Wright felt little of the warmth, however, as his mind wandered to thoughts not of bright, sun kissed days, but of cold, dark nights, and the spectre of death that hovered over every one of those streets on the map.

Who are you bastard? Where are you? Come on, give us a clue, you bloody fiend. Where the hell are you going to strike next? were the thoughts that ran through his mind as he looked at his watch, the second-hand inexorable ticking off the next minute. Carl Wright knew without needing to be reminded, that time was running out and that the clock was inexorably ticking away towards what could be yet another grisly and very bloody murder. Despite the warmth of the office, the sergeant shivered.

The Man in the Dark Room

At precisely five minutes before eleven in the morning, the taxi carrying Jacob and Michael drew to a halt on the street outside number fourteen Abbotsford Road. Michael had been pleased when Jacob had insisted they use a taxi for the journey. In truth, after the treatment meted out to him by the other man the previous day Michael had felt in no mood for the long walk up the hill in the rising heat of the morning. His throat was still painful from the pressure exerted upon his windpipe and his whole body felt as though it no longer belonged to him. Michael was running on empty, though Jacob appeared to be on a high, pumped up by an adrenalin rush at the prospect of solving what he saw as the riddle of the reason for Michael and the stranger combining to place him under the influence of drugs. Neither man had spoken on the journey from Michael's flat to Abbotsford Road.

The taxi driver had tried and failed to make polite conversation with the two young men, concluding from their silence that perhaps they were a pair of gay lovers who'd had a row and now refused to speak to each other. He couldn't have been more wrong of course, though his only real concern was whether the pair would be able to pay the fare on their arrival at their destination. He had an inbuilt instinct that the scruffier of the two, the one with the longer hair and facial growth was a junkie. He'd carried enough of that ilk in his cab over the years to know them on sight, and Michael certainly fitted into his conception of the archetypal junkie without a doubt. He was unsure when it came to the other man. He appeared quite clean-cut and well-groomed and didn't give off the usual aura of the drug abuser. It was a relief to the driver when he pulled up at the address the scruffy man had given him. He was ready to chase them if they made a run for it.

The two men alighted from the cab, the heat of the day meeting them as they exited the cool air-conditioned interior of the car. Jacob made no effort to put his hand in his pocket and reluctantly, much to his chagrin and the driver's relief, Michael found himself paying for the ride.

Gravel crunched beneath their feet as the two young men traversed the driveway and approached the front door of number fourteen. Michael was sweating profusely, a mixture of the heat of the day and his nervousness about what may or may not take place. In truth, he'd no idea what the man waiting in the house was likely to do. He'd been backed into a corner by Jacob's demands, or so Michael believed and anything might happen once he and Jacob entered the domain of his strange acquaintance. Following the man's instructions, given to him over the telephone the previous day Michael refrained from knocking on the door. He simply turned the door knob and walked in, closely attended by Jacob who'd felt a sense of exhilaration as he'd looked up at the old house on their approach along the gravel driveway. He whistled through his teeth as he took in the appearance of the house, sensing its former grandeur but also recognising the rather dilapidated state of the place as it now stood before him. Whatever the state of the place he was anxious to meet the strange inhabitant of number fourteen. Jacob knew he was close to finding out what the hell was going on. He was sure of it.

As Michael closed the front door behind them Jacob was at once aware of a change in the atmosphere of the day. While the outside world was warm and bright, suffused with rays of the bright sunshine the house seemed to be pervaded by a chill that reached out and gripped him as he walked across the hallway. There was little light and the tiled floor added to the overall felling of coldness.
Could Michael have been right about the place, about the man?

Jacob quickly banished the thoughts as he followed Michael to an interior door at the far side of the entrance lobby. Now, at last, he did knock. A voice seemed to come from far away bidding them to enter and Michael led the way once again as they stepped into the room that lay beyond the door.

The room that Jacob entered took him by surprise. It was large, high ceilinged, and dark. Heavy velvet drapes curtained off the windows blocking off the sunlight that warmed the outside world. He could make out the shapes of the furniture, make out the bookcases and the large mahogany table that formed the centrepiece of the room though he couldn't quite make out the objects that festooned its surface. At the far end of the room, in front of the curtained window stood a desk, behind which Jacob could make out a figure sitting, waiting for them. Suddenly a bright light flared from the desk, a high intensity shaft of light catching both he and Michael in its beam. He shielded his eyes with his hands but couldn't see what lay beyond the light, in other words the man who sat behind the desk.

"Welcome, Jacob. Do come in and sit down," said a voice from behind the desk. "Forgive my precautions but I'm not ready to let you see my face at this point, as welcome as you are."

Jacob tried to place the voice, which had a slightly familiar ring to it, but the man had obviously used some means of disguising his voice, as he had his face, which even in the darkness Jacob could see was shielded by a mask of some kind.

"Welcome? You bloody well welcome me with a blinding light, refuse to show your face and expect me to just sit down and exchange pleasantries with you? I'm not a damned fool you know. Just what the hell is going on here? What have you been doing to me?"

"Now, now, so many questions and such an attitude. Ah well, perhaps that can be forgiven in light of certain circumstances that only we are aware of, eh Jacob, or rather, perhaps you wouldn't mind if we dispense with the charades and call you by your real name? That would be much better for everyone, don't you agree, Jack?"

Jacob, or rather Jack looked stunned. He whirled round to face Michael, ready to accuse him of somehow discovering his secret but the man was gone, slipped out the door while the man had been speaking.

"Don't bother looking for Michael. He had instructions to leave us to talk in private as soon as you were inside the room. He can be quite obedient at times, rather reminiscent of a faithful dog, wouldn't you say?"

"Never mind him. How the hell do you know me, or rather how do you know my real name? And what do you want with me? Why the hell have you been using your faithful lap dog Michael to drug me until I've been incapable of remembering anything I've done?"

"Oh dear, like I said, questions, questions, so many questions. But please don't worry, Jack. You'll get your answers soon, lots of answers, but first please sit down. You'll find the chair on your left quite comfortable, and there's a carafe of fresh water and a glass on the side table beside it that you might find refreshing during our little talk."

Jack grudgingly took a seat in the armchair the man had indicated. He couldn't help himself. There was too much he needed to know.

"Look, just who are you? At least tell me that, and how you know my real name."

"Listen, Jack, as to who I am, that really isn't important, not right now. As to you, well, I'm afraid you can blame Michael for that one. When you first went back to the flat with him you slept for a long time and he was able to go through your belongings as you slept. He found the journal Jack and the letters from your uncle and you're your great uncles and so on. I know
who
you are, Jack Reid, and I know
what
you are. I know
everything.
"

"What do you mean, you know who and
what
I am? Just who are you?"