Ritual in the Dark (29 page)

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He woke up and stared at the door. For a moment he was uncertain whether it was not the climax of some dream that had wakened him so abruptly. As he listened, he heard a murmur of a voice. He peered at the luminous dial of his watch in the dark: it looked like six o’clock. He turned over, and buried his face in the sheet. A moment later he heard footsteps on the stairs. He raised his head, listening. Someone knocked on his door. He called:

Yes?

The door opened slightly. A man’s voice said:

Someone on the phone for you. You’re Mr Sorme, aren’t you?

Yes. . . thanks. My God. . . what an hour! I’m awfully sorry. . .

He pulled on his dressing-gown, and went outside. The man was going downstairs ahead of him. He was saying:

Phone’s right opposite my door. He woke me up.

I’m really terribly sorry. . .

He was thinking: F----- that bloody Austin!

He said: I can’t tell you how sorry I am. . .

Chap said it was an emergency. . .

He went towards the phone, thinking: I’ll tell him he’ll get me chucked out if he goes on like this. . . Six o’clock. . . bloody fool.

He snatched up the phone, and restrained an impulse to shout into it. He said, controlling his voice:

Hello?

Hello, Gerard. This is Bill Payne.

Bill! What do you want?

You told me to ring you if anything happened. There’s been a double murder in Whitechapel. . .

His hair stirred, as if he had received an electric shock. For a moment he let the phone drop to his side, and heard Payne’s voice talking in the distance. After a moment, he raised it again, and heard the voice:

. . . that was an hour ago. So, if you want to get over you’d better come right away.

Where is it?

Mitre Street. It’s on the left near Aldgate station. There’s a little café about two doors away from the station. I’ll meet you in there.

He said—OK. I’ll be with you as soon as I can get over.

He replaced the phone and sat on the edge of the table. The cold made no difference. It seemed that the beating of his heart must be audible to everyone in the house.

CHAPTER TWO

IN SPITE of two pairs of gloves, his hands were numb before he reached Holborn; he pulled off the left-hand glove and rode with the hand in his trouser pocket, pressed into the hollow of his thigh. The streets of the City were deserted. The cold had wakened him, yet he felt an internal exhaustion that was almost a luxury, as if all his emotions had been short-circuited. It made him feel strangely free. Before he arrived at the end of Leadenhall Street he had forgotten his reason for riding out so early. The sight of an old man, crouched in a bus shelter, covered with an overcoat, started a train of thought on the difficulty of human life, and on the human tendency to increase its difficulty by useless movement. The thought that, in three hours’ time, these streets would be crowded with people who possessed no motive beyond the working day, no deep certainties to counterbalance the confusion, made him grateful for the silence of the streets, and the inner silence of his own exhaustion.

He recognised Payne, standing by the entrance to the Underground. He was lighting a cigarette and stamping to warm his feet. Sorme called: Hi, Bill!

Hello, Gerard. Glad you made it.

Sorme leaned the bicycle against the wall and groped in the saddlebag for its chain.

I thought you were going to wait in the café?

I’ve only been out here a minute. I wanted a breath of air. You leaving your bike here?

I expect so. It’ll be OK.

Good. Come on, then.

Where is this place?

Mitre Square. It’s on the other side of Houndsditch.

What happened?

Don’t know yet. Another woman found. And, half an hour before, they found another one over in Berner Street. . . that’s on the other side of the Commercial Road.

The killer’s been having a gala night!

This’ll cause some trouble, you see, Gerard. It’ll be the biggest manhunt England’s ever seen. The police daren’t let him get away with another.

Have you seen the bodies?

I got a look at the one in Mitre Square. The other one’s been taken away.

What time was it found?

This one? Only about an hour ago. We were just on our way back to the office when we got the flash. We got here before anyone else got on the scene.

Thanks for ringing me.

That’s OK. This kind of thing can be very useful to a writer. As a matter of fact, it’s the first murder I’ve ever been engaged on so closely. But it’s fantastic, you know, Gerard. He must have killed the woman in Berner Street, and then come straight on down here, and killed again within fifteen minutes.

Have you phoned your story through?

Of course! We nearly got a scoop. First on the scene, photographs and everything.

Sorme had a sense of speaking in an excited babble; there were a dozen questions he wanted to ask, but they crowded one another out of his mind. He said:

Tell me about it in detail. Tell me exactly what happened.

I can’t. We don’t know the full story ourselves yet.

I mean—tell me what’s been happening to you all night.

In a moment. We’re nearly there.

How was she killed?

This one? Throat cut. But she’d been mutilated pretty badly.

How?

Her face slashed and stabbed all over.

Christ!

Payne said shortly: Made me feel pretty sick.

They turned into a narrow street; looking up at the sign, Sorme saw its name—Duke Street. Payne said:

Ugh! They’ve started to crowd already.

In the faint light, they could see people crowded halfway up the street. Payne said:

We’d better go round the other way. There’s only a narrow alley leading into the square from this side.

Sorme asked: What do you think will happen now? It’s bound to cause a panic.

There’s no telling. I’ve got a suspicion the Government wants the papers to keep the murders in the headlines to distract attention from the international situation.

That’s an interesting idea! You think it might be the Foreign Office behind the murders?

Wouldn’t be surprised! They say it’s full of sexual perverts. . . not the kind that are interested in women, though.

They turned off Aldgate again, and into the street that ran parallel with Duke Street. It was a narrow street, and the crowd blocked it from pavement to pavement.

Payne said resignedly:

You won’t see much, I’m afraid. You should have come with me last night.

Fear and excitement stirred his intestines. The street was silent; its stillness produced an atmosphere of tension and foreboding. As they came nearer, he realised that people were talking to one another in low voices, standing in groups. One of the largest groups was made up of photographers with flashlight cameras. Payne approached these. He asked:

Anything happened, Ted?

A short, plump man with a red face said:

Hello. Back again? No—nothing yet.

His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of a heavy overcoat. Outside this, knotted around his neck, he wore a woollen scarf with bands of colour like a school scarf.

Macmurdo here yet?

Yes. Came ten minutes ago. He’s in there.

He nodded towards the rope barrier that separated the street from the square.

Get a picture?

Yes. He didn’t like it.

About time he got used to it! one of the photographers said. He spat into the gutter.

Sorme approached the barrier. It was not difficult to get close; the crowd was not packed tightly. There was nothing to see. On the left-hand side of the square was a tall warehouse, labelled ‘Kearley and Tonge’. The only exit from the square seemed to be a narrow alleyway in the far right-hand corner. The police were crowded in this corner; two of them were doing something with a tape measure, crouched on the pavement. Between the legs of the police, Sorme could see the body, covered with a cloth.

Somewhere on the far side of the square a woman began to howl; it was not a scream, but a harsh cry from the throat. The people standing near Sorme began to take an interest. One of them said:

‘EIlo! Somebody recognised her?

A woman answered: No. Nobody’s been near it.

The howling stopped suddenly. Payne came over to him.

Any idea what it was, Gerard?

No. It came from the alley over there.

Payne approached one of the policemen standing by the rope barrier; he held out his Press card, asking:

Can I go across?

No. I’m afraid you can’t, sir. My orders is to let no one across. Not till the pathologist comes.

Is that what they’re waiting for?

That’s right.

Who is it? Simpson?

I dunno, sir. All I know is, ‘e’s being a ruddy long time.

Another policeman came over from the group in the corner. Payne asked him:

Any idea what the yelling was about?

The policeman, a middle-aged sergeant, said indifferently:

Just some woman havin’ ‘ysterics.

One of the men standing near the barrier pressed forward belligerently. He said:

I should bladdy well think so too. What are you blokes doin’ for your wage packets, I’d like to know?

A fat woman, wearing a shawl over her head, said:

Now, Bert, don’t start gettin’ nasty. They’re doin’ their best.

The man said dogmatically:

I’m not nasty. I got a right as a taxpayer to know why the police haven’t done nothing, ‘aven’t I?

The sergeant seemed unperturbed.

Another journalist had pushed up behind Sorme. He asked:

Any idea who she is yet, Sergeant?

Not yet.

Well, why do they keep on gettin’ murdered, that’s what I want to know?

A tall, skinny man had taken up the argument from behind the woman in the shawl; his voice was nervous and high-pitched. The sergeant looked at him slowly, then shrugged:

That’s what we all want to know.

He turned, and began to walk back towards the body. The man called after him:

And that’s what you buggers are paid for—to find out!

Payne said in Sorme’s ear:

There’s a lot of feeling against the police.

I’m not surprised.

Payne began to edge out of the crowd. He said:

Come on. There’s nothing to see.

A heavily built man with a blond moustache came up behind Payne, and clapped him on the shoulder. Payne said:

Hello, Tom! Only just arrived?

The big man chuckled:

Not likely. I was here before you were awake.

You weren’t, you know! We were first on the scene. We were already in Whitechapel when the alarm came.

Were you? In that case, I apologise.

That’s all right, old boy. Ask me any questions you like. I charge a small fee, of course.

Payne turned to Sorme, saying:

You don’t know Tom Mozely, do you, Gerard? This is Gerard Sorme, Tom.

Is he on the Chronicle too?

No. Gerard’s a writer. . .

Mozely interrupted:

By the way—did you hear that woman shrieking?

Yes. What was it?

Somebody started a rumour that the police had found a crowbar with blood on it, and this woman just started to yell. I was standing a few yards from her. . . made my hair stand on end.

Have they found a crowbar?

No. It was just a rumour. Did you see the other body?

Yes. We were there when the news of this one arrived.

Is it true she’d been bashed over the head?

Yes. Looked like just one blow.

Hmmm. . . Doesn’t sound like our bloke, does it?

I don’t know. He was probably interrupted.

Sorme said:

What happened?

Before Payne could reply, someone began to call:

Make way there!

An ambulance was nosing into the barrier. Flashlight cameras began to explode, revealing the square for a moment as if by lightning. Payne said:

It looks like Starr.

Who?

The pathologist.

Sorme looked with interest at the square-shouldered man, with the good-tempered face of a farmer, who was pushing his way into the square. Payne immediately pushed after him, grasping Sorme by the sleeve. The constable stopped them, replacing the rope; whereupon the crowd re-formed in packed ranks across the entrance to the square. Payne said:

I wanted to get a place to watch this.

What happens now?

Nothing much. They just shift the body. Look at the faces of some of these people.

Sorme looked cautiously around him and saw set, unemotional faces. There was none of the curiosity or morbid excitement he had expected. He whispered:

They look pretty grim.

Payne nodded briefly, staring across, the square. The police formed a circle around the body, and the pathologist knelt beside it. His examination was brief; he dictated something to a girl, who scribbled on a notepad. He stood up and made a sign to the ambulance men, who carried a grey metal shell and placed it beside the body. Their legs masked it as they lifted it; Sorme could see only the torn hem of a skirt that trailed on the ground as the body swung into the shell. A moment later the doors of the ambulance closed behind it, and the engine started. The policeman removed the rope again, saying: Make way there.

The crowd began to break up. From the warehouse across the square an old man emerged carrying a bucket and a sweeping brush; he splashed water on the pavement where the body had lain, and scrubbed at it with the brush. The ambulance moved slowly out of the square. A sudden feeling of chill passed down Sorme’s back, making him shiver. He turned away, past the window of the small shop, meeting briefly the cardboard smile of a girl in a toothpaste advertisement. For a moment, he experienced an intuition of the state of mind of the murderer, the revolt against the abstract blandishments, the timeless grimaces, the wooden benedictions that preside over railway carriages and roadside hoardings.

Payne said:

Let’s go and get some tea.

Good idea, Mozely said.

Coming, Gerard?

Yes.

You look all in. Tired still?

A little.

A group of photographers walked in front of them. The sky was light now. He allowed himself to lag behind both groups, anxious to concentrate on the insight until it faded, aware of his inability to express it in words. He was hungry: in the café he would eat. How could any insight survive the unending tides of the blood, the body’s seasons? The struggle was lost in advance.

Payne said:

You sit down, Gerard. I’ll bring the teas over.

I want something to eat too.

All right. I’ll get it. Cheese roll?

He sat beside Mozely at a corner table; the reporter was making shorthand notes on a pad. The photographers were occupying a table near the window. He felt tired, discouraged by the prospect of the ride back to Camden Town. Mozely looked up at him suddenly:

What did you think of it?

Of what?

The way everybody reacted?

They all seemed pretty subdued, I must say.

That’s the word. Subdued.

Payne sat down opposite them. He said:

Can you wonder? This makes six murders in a few months. They’re beginning to wonder how many more.

Do you think it’s the fault of the police?

What can they do? They can only follow up every clue and keep hoping he’ll slip up.

Happened in the Cummins case, Mozely said.

What was that? Sorme asked.

During the war. He was a sexual maniac. He killed four women—mostly prostitutes—in the Soho area. Finally, someone interrupted him while he was strangling a girl in a doorway in the Haymarket. He ran off and left his gasmask case behind, so they got him. . . But the interesting thing is this. When he was interrupted in the last case, he promptly went off and found another girl in Paddington, and tried to kill her too. She got away as well.

Payne said:

That was before my time. Anyway, do you really think this bloke’s a sexual maniac?

Mozely said, shrugging:

He’s a maniac of some sort; that’s a dead cert.

Sorme ate the cheese roll hungrily; when he had finished it, he crossed to the counter and bought another. When he returned to the table, Payne was saying:

. . . and he saw someone bending over the body. He shouted Is there anything wrong? And the man said: Yes. I think she’s dead. Go and get a copper, quick! When the man got back five minutes later, the man had gone—there was only this woman.

What’s this? Sorme asked.

The first murder last night.

Do they think the man was the murderer?

I don’t know. It sounds likely.

Mozely said:

They’ll soon find out when they discover how long she’d been dead.

Sorme said:

Could the man describe the bloke who sent him for the policeman?

No. It was in the dark, and he says he didn’t go within ten yards. I shouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t afraid of bumping into the murderer!

How was she killed?

A blow on the head. It must have been a tremendous blow with a bar of some kind.

And the other woman had her throat cut? He certainly varies his methods!

Sorme asked:

Do you think it sounds like the Greenwich killer?

Mozely shook his head.

I doubt it. You know what it sounds like, don’t you?

Payne interrupted:

As if the killer got a bit fed-up about the headlines asking if he’d moved south of the river?

Exactly.

The three of them drank their tea in silence.

Mozely said finally:

What I can’t understand is this. He must have got blood on his clothes after that second murder. And he must have passed a policeman as he was getting away. The place was alive with them. How did he do it?

He could have had a car parked near the scene of the murder, Sorme said.

Too dangerous. The police take the number of every car parked around here at night. The risk would be too great.

Payne said:

Whoever he is, he either has amazing courage or he’s insane.

Insane, Mozely said.

But he must be after something in Whitechapel. . . either that, or he lives here. Or why should he stick to this area?

He’s not after anything, Mozely said. How could he be? He doesn’t seem to pick his victims. He just takes anybody who comes along. Have you come across this Leather Apron idea?

No. What’s that?

Oh, a lot of people think it’s a chap called Leather Apron. Nobody seems to know who he is or what he does, except that he’s a foreigner, and terrorises some of the whores around here.

Payne asked:

Have you mentioned him in your story?

Yes. I don’t think it’ll come to anything, but I heard his name mentioned half a dozen times this morning.

Did you ask any questions?

Of course. No luck. He seems to be just a name.

It might be worth following up, Payne said.

Have you heard this story about the foreign crime experts? They say there are several on the case now.

Sorme said:

I’ve heard about that. There’s some German. . . I forget his name. . .

Mozely said: By the way, did you read that letter in The Times yesterday?

No.

Very interesting. Apparently there were several murders at a place called Bochum in Germany after the war—just like these. The man apparently wrote a letter to the police saying he’d kill six more women, then stop. The murders stopped immediately after his letter.