Legacy of the Ripper (20 page)

"You know, sir, it's often been assumed that Jack the Ripper had an in-built hatred of prostitutes, perhaps because he'd caught a venereal disease from one of them at some time. Do you think it's possible that our current Ripper is also infected with something he's picked up from one of the local girls and is carrying out some sort of revenge attacks using Jack the Ripper as his model?"

"By God, sergeant, you just might have something there. If we're dealing with some prat who's picked up a dose of V.D. from a local prossie then we might just have a chance of nailing the bastard."

"But how, sir? The clinics at the local hospitals treat everyone confidentially. They won't tell us a bloody thing about the patients they've treated and even if they did there'd probably be too many for us to check out in the space of twenty four hours."

Holland, who a moment ago had actually believed his sergeant had hit on a possible theory to explain the reasons behind the killings had to agree with Wright. Even if it were true that the Brighton Ripper was killing prostitutes out of a perceived need for revenge against women of the street in general, there was no way he could force the medical profession to divulge confidential patient records to him on the basis of a hunch or a theory.

"You're right of course," said Holland to his sergeant. "But I do think you may have hit on a potential motive for our killer. I want you to speak to the boys in vice. Try and see if they have a list of all known users of the local girls, those who've maybe been picked up for kerb-crawling in the last year, say. If they've picked up one or more men on a number of occasions and we can compile a list of regular frequenters of the red-light district we just might find our man lurking somewhere on it. It's along shot I know and we don't have much time, but we have to try something."

Carl Wright wasted no time in leaving Holland's office and making his way to the office of the vice Squad where he was soon involved in deep conversation with Sergeant Mary Kelleher, a seasoned detective who'd spent the last two years working in vice and who knew the local scene as well as anyone in the local force. Irish by birth, Kelleher wore her hair long, the fiery red, wavy locks speaking of her ancestry as if her soft lilting brogue wasn't enough of a giveaway.

"So, there you have it," she said as her computer printer spewed out a two page list of known users of the local red-light district. "Page one is a list of the men who've not only been caught picking up girls, but who've actually been prosecuted and fined or bound over by the magistrates. The second page lists those who've been let off with a police warning. In all cases on the second page they were first offenders. I doubt you'll find your man there."

"Hey, come on, Mary. You know as well as I do that it only takes once with an infected girl in order to pick up a case of something nasty."

"That's true," Kelleher replied, "but I'm thinking that the man you're looking for is more likely to be a seasoned user of these girls. From what I've heard about your case he seems to be a man on a mission and there haven't been any signs of trauma on the bodies to indicate that he physically forced them to go with him to wherever he killed them, am I right?"

"Yes, but I fail to see the significance of that."

"Listen, Carl, trust me," said the pretty vice cop. "A beginner, someone with little knowledge of the scene down there would probably be nervous. He'd in all probability approach the girls from his car, drive to a secluded spot where he'd think they couldn't be seen and then screw the girl in the front or back seat before dropping her off back on the streets. I think the man you're looking for is more confident than that. He probably picks the girls up on foot, walks with them for a while, talks to them, leads them on a bit and before the poor girl knows what's happening he directs them to wherever he wants to do the deed and then kills them in his own time. No, if your man is a user of prostitutes then I'd stake my life on the fact that he's a serial user. Concentrate on page one if you want to stand a hope of finding him, assuming you and your boss have hit on a workable theory."

A short while later, after saying his thanks and offering to meet with Mary Kelleher for a drink one evening after work in order to keep her up to date on the case Carl Wright made his way back to Holland's office. Knocking and entering, he was surprised to see that the D.I. had a visitor, one who bore a face that Wright knew very well indeed.

Prisoner

A pall of oppression weighed heavily on Jack Reid's shoulders. The stygian gloom of the room in which he sat combined with the awful and terrifying evidence he held in his hands served to add to the terrible sense of guilt that now gripped the young man's heart. The camera never lies, so they say and Jack couldn't fail to be convinced by the sight of his own image captured as it was at the scenes of the two murders, the blood of the young victims on his hands, the knife clearly held by no-one else but he. The beam of light from the floodlight positioned behind his tormentor served only to accentuate the darkness around him and despite its highly intense beam it failed to add illumination to the feeling of terror that held him glued to his seat. Jack couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to.

"I see you've changed your attitude considerably, Jack. Not quite so arrogant now, are you?"

The voice of the man behind the desk broke into Jack's thoughts, pushing aside the mind-numbing reality of the photographs as his words struck home.

"You mean that I&"

"The proof is there, in your own hands. Not only have you killed twice, but left unchecked, you will most certainly kill again, and soon."

"What d'you mean by soon?"

"By soon, Jack, I refer to the date of the killing of the next historical Ripper victim and that date is tomorrow."

"No!" Jack cried out in anger and frustration. "I won't kill again. I won't. You can't make me and if I stay indoors, locked in a room perhaps, you could do that couldn't you, then there's no way I could leave and go out and do it again? You have to stop me. Please."

"Now, now Jack, calm yourself, dear boy. You're rambling. Pull yourself together and listen to me. I've already told you that in the first instance, my knowledge caused me to want to see if I could hold back the urges that the journal had kindled in your mind. When I realised that wasn't to be, I instead decided to monitor and document your actions whilst under the influence of whatever power the pages have instilled within your mind. I have no intention of stopping you, Jack. You have a legacy to fulfil, and it will be my mission to note and to photograph every aspect of your transition into the being that lies within your soul."

Jack could hardly believe what he was hearing. This man who appeared to know everything there was to know about him was cold-bloodedly prepared to allow him to carry on what appeared to be his own re-enactment of the crimes of Jack the Ripper for whatever perverted reasons might lurk within his own, obviously twisted mind. Jack knew that he must have murdered the first two girls, but every fibre of his being screamed to him that he must do all he could to break the cycle of terror, to prevent himself from killing for a third time. Whatever the man behind the desk might say, Jack felt he had to find a way to stop his own murderous urges from getting the better of him. He had to try everything at his disposal, even it meant turning himself in to the police. Before Jack could speak again and appearing to be capable of reading the young man's thoughts, the man spoke, his deep voice resonating through the darkness of the room.

"And don't even think of going to the police, Jack. Do you think they'd believe your story? I think not. You'd go along to them with this preposterous idea that you're a descendant of Jack the Ripper, that a man in the house on the hill paid a drop-out small-time drug peddler to drug you and then took photos of you carrying out the murders. Let's see what they'd do, shall we? They'd ask you to produce the journal. I've made sure that Michael has removed the journal from your possessions, Jack. It's now in a safe place where only I can access it. By the time the police arrived here, I'd be long gone, I can assure you of that and so would Michael. There'd be no trace of us and no trace of the incriminating photographs, which I have no intention of allowing to leave this room. In fact, I think it would be highly advisable if you stayed right here until tomorrow. I don't think it would be safe for you to be allowed to wander the streets with all of that terrible knowledge in your head, do you?"

"Safe for whom? You or me?" asked Jack, his voice breaking as tears welled in his eyes.

"Let's say, safer for both of us," said the man.

"So you're going to keep me a prisoner here, is that it?"

"Not a prisoner, let's say more of a guest."

"A guest? Hm, that's rich. What sort of guest isn't allowed to leave a room, or a house? And how do you intend to keep me here against my will?"

The man fell silent, making no attempt to respond to Jack's last remark.

Suddenly, Jack sensed rather than heard a movement behind him. So intent had he been on the terror of his situation and the words of the older man that he'd failed to notice the almost silent re-entry into the room of Michael, who now hovered above him, a syringe strategically held in his right hand.

So stunned was Jack by the appearance of the other man that he had little or no time to react as Michael's hand moved quickly towards him and he felt the sudden stinging prick as the point of the hypodermic needle penetrated the skin of his neck.

As a warm blackness began to engulf his conscience mind, Jack saw only the gradually dwindling beam of light from the floodlight as darkness overwhelmed him and all sense of who he was, where he was and what was happening to him receded in time with the dimming of the light. All sense and memory of reality diminished entirely and then there was nothing but blackness.

"I think the cellar will do nicely," said the man as Michael slowly hoisted the inert body of the unconscious young man over his shoulder and turned to leave the room.

"And make sure the padlock's secure."

Alice Geraldine Nickels

"Alice!" exclaimed Carl Wright as he entered Holland's office. "Good to see you, but what on earth brings you all the way down to Brighton?"

The thirty-something year old woman who sat in the visitor's chair smiled back at Wright and rose to greet him, wrapping her arms around him in an affectionate, old-friend style hug. She was dressed in a smart black business skirt suit, with a white blouse, and a black and white polka dotted neck scarf tied at her neck. Her dark brown hair was neat, shoulder length, obviously expensively styled. Her attire was such as would identify her to most professional people as a solicitor, or perhaps a doctor. Stepping back from the sergeant she replied to his question, still smiling.

"Your case, Carl, is what brings me to Brighton. I had a feeling that your boss here might be in need of some help and he's been gracious enough to see me and to hear me out. You see, I've been watching the news about these killings and I have a theory."

Carl Wright was amazed to see Alice Nickels in his inspector's office. She was in point of fact a highly respected member of the legal profession, a solicitor with the firm of Macklin, Bennet and Cross in the city of London. Outside of her work however, Alice held as senior position within an organisation known as
The Whitechapel Society 1888
, an organisation set up to study not only the murders committed by Jack the Ripper but also life in Victorian and Edwardian London in general. Wright had met her on at least five occasions when he'd made trips to London to attend meetings of the society at their headquarters in Whitechapel itself. He knew only too well that the lady now standing warmly holding his hand in friendship was one of the leading authorities on the Whitechapel murders of 1888. There was little she was ignorant of, either in terms of the facts and the myths that surround the case of Jack the Ripper. For her to have taken the time to ditch her usually busy schedule to come in person to speak with Holland must mean that she had a good idea that she could be of assistance, a fact confirmed in Holland's words as he spoke.

"Miss Nickels has been most informative, sergeant," he said, as Wright released his grip on the hand of their visitor. "According to her, it appears that you and I have been almost spot-on in most of our deductions so far, few though they are, but we appear to have missed one point that may be of vital importance in laying our hands on the murderer."

Alice Nickels sat down once again as Wright seated himself in the only other chair in the office, a typist's chair that stood before the computer to the side of Holland's desk.

"It must be a very important point for you to have come in person, Alice," said Wright. "A phone call would normally have sufficed."

"Ah, Carl, my dear boy, a phone call would have been next to useless. You see, in order to show you and the inspector what I believe to be happening here, I really do need to be here in person so that I can physically
show
you what I think is happening. If I'm correct in my reasoning I believe I can show you pretty much exactly where your killer will strike again if you haven't apprehended him by tomorrow night."

"But, how?"

"Ah, sergeant," sighed Holland. "You and I have been a little narrow in our thinking, according to Miss Nickels."

"Please, Inspector, call me Alice."

"Very well, Alice it is." Turning back to the sergeant, Holland went on. "So, as I was saying, according to Alice, we have been correct in our assumption that our killer is a copycat, someone who is re-creating and copying the murders of Jack the Ripper in as great a detail as he can. The one thing we haven't taken into consideration in our case though is the
locations
of the killings."

A small chink of light began to burn in Wright's brain at those words. He had an idea where the conversation was about to lead, and he was soon proved to be correct as Holland beckoned him over to his desk, Alice Nickels stood at Wright's side and for the first time he saw the documents that lay spread out across the top of Holland's desk.