Legacy of the Ripper (22 page)

With lunch over, Alice left the two policemen to formulate their plan of action for the following night. She needed to check in to her hotel and would return later, she promised. Holland, grateful for her intervention and assistance promised to buy the attractive solicitor the best lunch in town if her help did in fact lead to them laying their hands on the beast who was terrorising the streets of Brighton.

With Alice busy arranging her accommodation for the next two nights, Holland and Wright set to work. With concealment out of the question and enlisting local co-operation from the residents of Hastings Close dismissed as too risky, Holland instead decided to concentrate his manpower on Dorset Street itself. The killer had to approach his intended killing ground from the street and unlike Hastings Close, Dorset Street was an older and more cosmopolitan area, with houses of varying sizes and architecture along its length. There were numerous places where a car could be parked at the roadside and residents and their visitors would often leave their cars parked on the street for hours at a time. This would be Holland's chief means of watching the approaches to Dorset Street. A few well-placed unmarked police cars containing well-hidden officers or in some cases a 'courting couple' might just be his best way of being able to spot the arrival of the killer and his intended victim. They would need to be in place well before the time that the killer might be expected to arrive and Holland wanted to err on the side of caution just in case his target decided to vary his plan for whatever reason. He and Wright would ensure that the unmarked cars would be in place before midnight, as this would also cause less local suspicion as they had no desire to alert the locals to their operation by allowing the arrival of a number of strange cars in the neighbour hood after midnight with couples kissing and canoodling into the wee small hours. What would the good citizens of Dorset Street think? Maybe one of them would call the police, complaining of lewd and lascivious behaviour in the street. That would really screw things up.

No, Holland decided to place all his resources on Dorset Street in their respective surveillance positions at varying times between ten-thirty and eleven thirty p.m. again to allay suspicions by either the local residents or, he speculated by the killer himself who just might try reconnoitering the area one more time in order to familiarise himself with his prospective murder site. Carl Wright suggested the use of the Force's helicopter. With its thermal imaging array it would be able to spot any potential suspects approaching from its position high in the sky but again, as Holland pointed out, the chopper might be seen or heard from the ground and the killer would know just what it was and perhaps who or what it was looking for. He did agree to have the helicopter and its crew on standby in case they needed it if their quarry somehow carried out his plan or was interrupted before carrying out the killing and managed to elude the officers on the ground.

By the time Alice Nickels returned from her hotel, having secured a room with a sea view Holland and Wright had fine-tuned their operation as much as they both felt they were able to do. Holland had run it by the chief superintendent who'd approved it wholeheartedly and sanctioned the use of the helicopter as and when it might be required. The team would be assembled and briefed the following morning, so for now there was little they could do. The inquiry would continue, of course, with the officers detailed to the case all working hard either in the station or out on the streets, asking questions, searching for anything that might lead them to the killer without the necessity of the next night's operation. Holland felt in his heart, however, that they were destined to find nothing until such times as the killer showed himself in the flesh. Later events were to prove him correct in his assumption. Meanwhile, he took the opportunity to quiz Alice Nickels on the make-up and purpose of The Whitechapel Society, to which both she and his own sergeant belonged.

"Carl never mentioned it to me before," said Holland. "It's not some kind of secret society is it, like the Masons or such?"

"Of course not," Alice replied, and Wright chuckled as he replied.

"No sir, nothing like that. You've been reading too many of those books I loaned you. I just never thought to mention it to you, that's all. It's something those who study the Jack the Ripper case would be interested in, that's all. I didn't think it would be something you'd be interested in."

"Well, I'm interested now," Holland went on. "Especially after the little bit you told me when you arrived, Alice. I'd really like to know more and even better, I'd like to know who you think Jack the Ripper really was."

Alice Nickels spent the next fifteen minutes happily relating the workings of the society to him. To give it its full title she explained, it is known as
The Whitechapel Society 1888.
As she'd already told him upon her arrival the purpose of the society is to promote the study not only of the Whitechapel Murders of 1888, and the massive social impact that the murders had on the area, but also Victorian and Edwardian life and culture in the East End of London.
The Whitechapel Society
, she went on, is made up of a diverse and eclectic mixture of members drawn from all walks of life and from varied countries around the world. Members range from peers to the ordinary man in the street and is open to anyone with an interest in the subject matters relating to its existence. In short, far from being a 'Secret Society' as Holland may have thought
The Whitechapel Society
is an open forum dedicated to furthering the study of any and all aspects of its remit.

"So you see, Mike, with meetings held every other month in Whitechapel itself and with regular talks and lectures from various members and visitors we have quite a lively and convivial time when we gather to discuss whatever takes our fancy. The Ripper murders are, of course, a part of it, but anything pertaining to life in the period we are interested in is fair game for our members. We also produce our very own magazine,
The Journal of The Whitechapel Society 1888
, and it is distributed to all of our members every three months. As for Jack the Ripper himself, I have my own theories, but none of them lend themselves to me being able to make a positive conclusion as to who he was. His identity is, and I fear will always remain a mystery, my dear Inspector Holland."

"Well, thanks, Alice. I appreciate you filling me in on the Society. I'm impressed. I never knew it existed until today and I must say that you, my dear sergeant, have been hiding your light under a bush for a long time." Holland smiled at Wright as Alice fell silent. "I had no idea you were quite such an intellectual."

"Oh, hardly that, sir. I simply have a great interest in the Jack the Ripper case, as you know and this was a great way to find out more. I've only managed to attend a few meetings over the last three years, but Alice here has always been around and we've always got on rather well. I spend a lot of my spare time studying the case using an internet forum, the Jack the Ripper Forums as well and I must say I've made a lot of damn good friends through doing so."

"Well, I must say I'm impressed," said Holland, smiling at his sergeant. "I have to say that between you and Alice both have given us the best chance yet of cracking the case. I'm glad I have the good fortune to have a& what did you call it? Oh yes, a
ripperologist
on my team."

With Alice having been briefed on what they planned for the following night and she of course pledging to keep everything to herself, the attractive solicitor took her leave of the detectives. It was late afternoon and she decided to return to her hotel and make a few calls to her office. There was nothing more she could do to help the police for now and she agreed to meet Holland and Wright at the police station at ten the following morning.

Holland and Wright meanwhile made sure that they had sufficient copies of the map of the area in which they expected the killer to strike the following night. One would be issued to each of the men and women on the team. Wright was detailed to contact every member of the investigating team, uniformed and plain-clothes, with instructions to attend a briefing at ten-thirty the following day when Holland would introduce Alice Nickels to his team and explain her presence as an expert consultant on the case.

That done, and with little more they could achieve that day Holland gave instructions to the duty sergeant on the desk that he was to be called immediately if there were any further developments in the case overnight, though he expected none at all.

He then ordered Wright to go home as he also intended to do, and to get an early night and be at the station at eight a.m. the next day. As Holland said,

"Tomorrow is going to be a hell of a long day, Carl, and an even longer night."

Walking down the steps of police headquarters, Holland looked up to see a mass of sombre looking dark clouds scudding in over the town, obscuring the weak Autumn sunshine from view. A stiff sea breeze was blowing in towards the town from across the English Channel. As he shivered from the sudden drop in temperatures, Holland knew without a doubt that a storm was on its way. Perhaps, he thought, in more ways than one!

A Very Private Hell

Jack Reid was in Hell and the Hell in which he found himself held all the ingredients necessary to torment his mind and his soul beyond the capacity for which the human mind was designed. He lay, unsure whether he was alive or dead, his head filled with visions so terrifying, so unworldly that his entire body felt paralyzed with fear.

Twisted amorphous figure, female and yet not female with faces that constantly shifted shape so that they were never more than a blur floated across his line of sight. Their mouths, toothless yet menacing, larger in proportion to their overall size than they should have been, gaped to reveal blood soaked interiors, and the crimson flow of blood suddenly began to well up from deep within their almost transparent shapeless bodies in a rising torrent that spilled forth from their blanched white lips, teeming with waterfall-like grace through the short distance between them and the prone panicking figure on the ground. He tried to twist away, to avoid the cloying, sticky flood that fell towards him but his body couldn't, or wouldn't move. He screamed as the blood sprayed in torrents onto his face, but the scream remained locked within his throat, no sound issued forth. As the flow of blood increased, his eyes, his nose, his mouth began to fill with the vile tasting liquid until he felt he must surely choke to death. He gasped, retched, and suddenly the sound of laugher began to assault his ears, a laughter so demonic, so insane that Jack felt as though he were in the presence of Satan himself. Yet, was there not something familiar about the sound of that maniacal laughter?

And then it came to him. The laugh, the voice, they belonged to the man who'd caused all of this, the faceless man in the room in the house upstairs. He remembered the cellar and yet, if this were the same cellar, where had the harpies that tormented him come from? And who were they, who could they be but the souls of the women he'd killed, if the man were to be believed. Surely if he hadn't killed them they wouldn't be here now, torturing him with their vile rivers of deep red blood. It must be true then. He was a killer. They'd come to haunt him, to taunt him in his helplessness. He felt rather than saw the two forms draw closer to him, their mouths gaping, the blood cascading forth, soaking him from head to foot, until he felt as though he might drown in the torrent.

At last, he heard it, quietly at first, then growing slowly into a crescendo as the harpies let forth a cry so pitiful, so awful in its intensity that his mind virtually cracked and gave way to overwhelming madness there and then. The cries grew to a shrieking sound that filled every cell in his brain. There was no escape, no way to close his ears to the awful keening, the wailing that issued from those terrible gaping mouths. He wanted to shout at them, to implore and beg them to leave him alone, but the more he tried to form the words with his mouth the more blood ran into it. His throat began to fill again with the choking, gagging, sickly sweet nauseating liquid. He retched as he began to choke for what he thought would be the last time before he must surely join the harpies in the Hell to which he'd despatched them. He could take no more. His throat burned and his body, still paralyzed, lay on the verge of finally giving up and allowing the black veil of death to take him.

The harpies moved ever closer and Jack somehow knew that the second those awful gaping mouths came within touching distance, his own life would end. He had no doubts on that score. As the gaping chasm of eternity loomed large before his eyes in the form of those blood sodden lips, those gaping toothless jaws, Jack suddenly felt himself being lifted, carried away from the jaws of death by an unseen strength that seemed to appear from nowhere. It felt as though he were flying, his body felt lighter than air, his body no longer his own, but belonging to someone or something with the power to transport him from this awful place, away from the jaws of death itself, to&where?

He felt himself being carried upward, ever upward until he heard a loud rasping noise which was immediately followed by a blinding flash of light, then something warm and heavy fell across his face, over his head and all was darkness once again. Seconds later he could swear he felt a rush of fresh air, then a metallic clang and the sensation of being lowered onto a hard, cold metallic floor.

Indistinct voices carried in a muffled gabble to him as he lay in the darkness and then he felt the sharp sting of a needle as it was inserted into his neck and the warm flow of something liquid as it surged from the hypodermic into his bloodstream. At that moment, seconds before unconsciousness claimed him once again Jack Reid at least received the confirmation he required. Despite his earlier thoughts to the contrary, and through the drug induced stupor into which he was once more rapidly descending he knew that if it had been necessary for someone to inject him with God knew what, then he could be certain that he was still very much alive.