Phobia

by Dean Crawford

  Honor leaned back in her sofa and took a breath. ‘I think I know what’s driving him.’ ‘The killer?’ Danny asked, cautious. ‘We don’t know anything about the guy.’ ‘Hear me out,’ Honor replied. ‘He’s targeting people with phobias, and planning everything meticulously. That suggests he’s particularly sadistic and likes to watch his victims suffer for long periods of time.’

  Honor could hear Danny munching on a packet of crisps before he replied. ‘Nothing unusual for a fully paid–up member of the psychopath club. What’s your point?’

  ‘So, I’m starting to think that this guy is acting something out. He’s reliving something, something from his past maybe. People don’t just decide to go out and start hanging people from church spires – this is something he’s been building up to. It may not even have started here.’

  ‘You think he’s killed before?’

  ‘It’s possible, and if he was successful then so far he’s remained undetected. Maybe that isn’t enough for him? Maybe he decided that he wanted to start advertising his work, get some notoriety. He’s local to the city, we’re pretty sure of that, maybe lives right there somewhere in Spitalfields or Whitechapel.’

  ‘Ripper territory,’ Danny agreed, ‘but this guy’s not showing any signs of wanting to tear people up. If anything, the murders are gruesome but clean.’

  Honor nodded, thinking about that. Not once had they found blood on their victims.

  ‘It’s spectacle,’ she said, thinking out loud. ‘He wants the scene, he wants the attention, the thrill of the chase, just like a serial killer on a television show. He wants to play cat and mouse, but he’s not sadistic in the sense that he wants to bleed his victims. That suggests he’s more…’

  There was a brief silence. ‘More what?’

  ‘More down to earth,’ was all that Honor could say, unable to articulate precisely what she meant. ‘Look, killers in movies blow people up, hang them from meat hooks, cause all kinds of horrible torture, but we know that most real killers aren’t like that. They’re shooters and stabbers, definitely, but only crimes of passion tend to be the bloodiest. This isn’t about outright rage, the killings are too planned, too controlled for fury, right?’

  ‘Sure,’ Danny replied, remaining cautious. ‘You want to lead with that tomorrow?’

  Honor knew that she was speculating, that DI Harper would not bite on something as tenuous as her instinct, but she could sense a foreboding building within her, that something new was about to happen.

  ‘He’s out there, right now,’ she said with a conviction that surprised even herself. ‘He’s going to do this again and he’s going to escalate it.’

  ‘We need the media,’ Danny replied. ‘We’re not getting anywhere fast and if you’re right, we’re going to be in for hell when the story breaks.’

  ‘That’s what he wants,’ Honor insisted. ‘He wants the attention! If we go public with this, we’re giving him precisely that.’

  There was a long silence before Danny replied. ‘And if we don’t go public, and the story breaks without us?’

  Honor knew that she had nowhere to go. There would be an outcry if they kept a lid on this for too long. But then they couldn’t just play into the killer’s hands and give him the notoriety that he wanted.

  Honor’s racing mind got the better of her. ‘How many victims did Jack the Ripper kill?’

  Now, the silence on the other end of the line was deep. Honor waited, and for a moment she thought that Danny had cut the line off, but then his voice reached out to her from what felt like a universe away.

  ‘We need to stick to what we know.’

  ‘How many?’ she asked again. ‘I can Google it, but I know you’re into all the history stuff. How many?’

  Danny sighed softly. ‘Five canonical victims, all supposedly East End prostitutes although that’s now been pretty much proven false, slashed and dissected with possible surgical or butchery skills, although even that too is now contested. Lots of suspects in the case both then and now, but as everybody knows, Jack the Ripper was never knowingly caught and convicted. Several killers at the time were captured and hanged for murder, and any one of them could in theory have been the Ripper, but we’ll never know.’

  Five known victims. Sebastian and Amber were dead. Honor felt certain that there would be another tonight.

  ‘Do we have dates, for the murders that the Ripper was known to have committed?’ Now, the silence before Danny replied was charged with tension.

  ‘August 31st and November 9th, 1888.’

  Honor felt the hairs on the back of her arms and neck rise up, tingling as insects of loathing scuttled beneath her skin.

  ‘This started August 31st,’ she said. ‘Sebastian Dukas was murdered that night.’ Danny said nothing, but Honor was not waiting for a reply. Same time of year, same location, Whitechapel, but a very different method of killing – less bloody, but no less terrifying for the victim and just as deadly. No sexual assault, no known links between murderer and victim, all victims abducted by night, their bodies on display in one way or the other the following day.

  ‘Unique murders,’ she said down the line, ‘highly visual, something that the press can really get their teeth into. This is a modern–day Ripper, somebody who wants to emulate the Victorian killings for today’s audience, and put them on display for all to see.’

  She could hear Danny’s agitation on the other end of the line, the occasional sound of a ringing phone in the background.

  ‘Let’s say you’re right,’ he replied finally. ‘You can’t walk into a press conference with that – it’ll drive the media wild, for sure, but nobody’s going to be able to use it. It doesn’t tell us anything about his next move, and if he is somehow attempting to emulate the Ripper then he’s probably using some deranged interpretation of history to do so.’

  Honor knew enough about the history of the Ripper’s killings, and the more recent revelations dispelling many common myths, that basing any modern crime on the historicity of Whitechapel’s most famous killer was a fallacy in itself: nobody could do so in any real sense, as there simply wasn’t enough known about the person behind the murders.

  ‘Okay, so put that aside for a moment. He’s killed a victim using heights, and he’s killed another using their fear of being buried alive,’ Honor replied. ‘What does that leave us with? There are hundreds of phobias out there. I’ve been reading about them, but most can’t kill a person.’

  ‘Christ, I don’t know. Snakes?’

  ‘Spiders,’ Honor added, ‘anything venomous usually has a phobia attached.’

  ‘And any other animals capable of killing a person,’ Danny added, ‘so maybe we should just label any kind of exotic pet as a possible target.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘It could be anything.’

  Honor closed her eyes. She knew that Danny was right, and that they couldn’t afford to waste too much time on what was essentially an exercise in speculation, but right now they had nothing else to damned well go on.

  Something rattled the apartment windows and she opened her eyes and looked out over the darkened city. Rain splattered against the glass and fell in rivulets, the colourful city lights twisting and contorting before her.

  ‘Water,’ she whispered down the line as she remembered the fog that had consumed Sebastian Dukas’s body. ‘The weather. There are floods forecast for tomorrow.’

  Danny didn’t reply right away, but when he did, he shared her conviction. ‘The river,’ he said, ‘he could use the river again.’

  ‘Call the River Police, I want them on high alert for any suspicious boating activity on the water, either tonight or in the morning!’

  Danny agreed and shut off the line. Honor set the phone down but she didn’t switch the lights on. Instead, she walked to the apartment window and let her gaze drift across the cityscape before her. The foreboding, the dread, it was still there, and she saw in her mind’s eye a shadowy figure once again stalki
ng the rain–sodden alleys of Whitechapel, murder on his mind.

  The rain was falling, squalls spilling through the glow of streetlights like diamond chips from an inky black sky. The streets reflected glowing windows in colourful halos of light, the splash of cars down nearby Mansell Street echoing through the apartment buildings that surrounded him as he walked with his hood up and his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

  There was nobody around, residents holed up in their homes, gangs hunkered down in flats, running their drug deals out of the rain. Not that he feared them at all. He was big enough that he had never been challenged, despite preferring to stay to the back streets of the city.

  The Duke of Somerset pub was busy as he walked down a narrow alley that led out onto Little Somerset Street, cutting around the edges of several large office buildings. He liked using the alleys. Although the days of Victorian London were long gone, with the most dangerous thoroughfares long since widened and forgotten, it still gave him a thrill to stalk these darkened recesses, wondering what it would have been like to have hunted there a century or more ago.

  He walked the length of the street and came out onto Aldgate, and there to his right was the Hoop and Grapes pub. The pub was a timber–and–beam building that had survived the Great Fire of London in 1666, the Year of the Devil, as it had once been known, the conflagration killing surprisingly few but in a single night turning half of the city into a blazing inferno. Just a couple of hundred metres from the Tower of London and the river, Jayden Nixx’s choice for her night out was perfect.

  There would be little time for him to make his move. Jayden and her friends liked to get to the pub early, to get a table at the back where they could chat without being swamped by people at the bar. He took his time walking to the front of the pub, scanning the windows to see who was sitting inside.

  His heart gave a little flip as he saw her, as though she were a new girlfriend awaiting him on a first date. She was sitting with her back to the pub, side–on to the windows and facing slightly away from him. Long, curly black hair, slender, wearing an off–the– shoulder cardigan that exposed tantalising smooth, dark skin. He had admired the images Jayden had posted with delight on her Facebook page, tempted to meet with one or two of her equally attractive friends at some point in the future, but for now he would have to stay the course.

  He sauntered up to the pub door, opened it and walked inside, pulling his hood off as he did so but keeping his head down and turned away from the pub’s cameras.

  The pub was busy, packed with mid–week drinkers elated to have once again passed what was termed “hump day” in the modern vernacular. He shouldered his way gently through the crowd and reached the bar, where he was soon served by a member of the staff.

  ‘Stella, please,’ he asked.

  ‘I got a please!’ the girl reported to her colleagues with a smile as she poured his pint.

  That happened a lot. He understood that being polite got people a long way, one of many life lessons that he’d learned from his dear old dad, who had spent most of his life being cruel and rude. He smiled his thanks to the girl as she handed him his change, an image of his father’s emaciated remains shuddering with the last pulses of life crawling through his veins causing his smile to widen. He noted the girl’s cheeks and throat flush with colour, her eyes wide and filled with light and life, and realised almost belatedly that she was coming on to him without saying a word.

  Although his smile didn’t slip, he cursed inwardly. He couldn’t afford to be too memorable, and so he turned and made his way back through the crowd. As he turned, his gaze swept the bar for security cameras and instantly identified two of them: one above the bar, looking down its length, and another on the beams at the far end, looking down the length of the rest of the pub.

  He made his way to a spot where he could stand without being in easy sight of either camera, and watched the crowds. Many people were out with friends, but just as many were alone, reading, working on laptops with a quick pub–grub dinner beside them. He leaned against the wall and pulled out his mobile phone, set his pint on a mantelpiece above an old fireplace, and began messing about with the phone while watching Jayden and her friends at the far end of the pub.

  It would not take long. They were laughing and joking, four girls and two guys, work friends if he recalled correctly: Jason and Kyle, maybe Karl, he couldn’t remember for sure. The drinks were flowing, and he made a mental note to check that Jayden went home alone. He knew that she was single, but there was the chance that their night out could result in one of the young men returning with her, and that was something that he couldn’t allow, not on Jayden’s special night.

  He drank his pint carefully, timing it to roughly match that of Jason and Kyle, while also trying to see how far Jayden was through her own drink. This part of the game was luck and timing, and he waited for almost twenty minutes before Jason, the taller of the two men accompanying Jayden, stood and got his wallet out.

  As he watched, Jayden raised her glass at him. Although her back was turned, Jason was standing to her right, and as she spoke, he saw Jason repeat her request.

  ‘Pinot spritzer.’

  He drained his pint and moved only when Jason had almost reached the bar, sidling in nearby and making sure that Jason got served first. Then, he waited. Jason was a few inches shorter, making it easy to watch the order being placed and the drinks fetched. As soon as a space was available, he slid in alongside Jason at the bar and waited for a member of staff to catch his eye.

  Jason ordered two pints of Peroni, two dry Chardonnays and a Pinot spritzer with tonic water. As expected, the pints came first.

  ‘What can I getcha?’

  He turned to see his favourite bar girl waiting for him, her big brown eyes wide as he got his wallet out.

  ‘Another Stella, please.’ ‘Hey, I got another please!’

  He smiled, glanced to his left and saw Jason grinning. ‘I think she likes you, mate.’

  He smiled back, not wanting to keep the conversation going for too long. ‘I’m already taken,’ he answered, then his grin widened, ‘although I wouldn’t mind trying for that one.’

  Jason nodded his agreement as he turned to check out the other bar girl, with an enviable figure and long dark hair who was working down the far end of the bar. With Jason distracted, he flipped a tiny, clear crystal from his wallet into the throat of Jayden’s Pinot, the crystal vanishing amid spiralling bubbles as it dissolved.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Jason murmured in reply.

  Within moments, Jason had turned with his tray of drinks and was heading back through the crowds to Jayden’s table. He turned with his own pint and resumed his watchful post, staying long enough to see Jayden begin drinking her wine, and then made a show of checking his watch before he drained his pint and headed for the door.

  He pulled his hood up against the rain and stepped outside, and moments later he was walking back down Little Somerset Street and vanishing into the rain–swept night.

  Now, it was time to enact the second part of his strategy.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Jayden Nixx barely heard her friend’s question above the busy noise of the pub, but she turned and nodded, saying nothing. Everything had been fine before her second drink, but now she felt nauseous and weary, suddenly able to think about nothing but her bed and the chance to get some sleep.

  ‘You sure?’ Amanda asked. ‘You look pale.’

  ‘I don’t feel great,’ Jayden replied, glancing at her now half–empty spritzer. ‘I think I’m going to head home.’

  Jason overheard the conversation and downed the rest of his pint.

  ‘I’ll walk you back if you like,’ he offered. ‘I need to get home too. It’s been a long day and I’m up at seven tomorrow.’

  Jayden nodded vacantly, certain that she was going to be sick at any moment. Normally, she wouldn’t have accepted the offer of a walk home from Jason – she had known for some time that
he held a candle for her, but she had only ever seen him as a friend and didn’t want to encourage him. But she could also see that Kyle still had most of his drink left and the girls wouldn’t be leaving for another hour at least.

  She reached for her coat and umbrella, slid into the coat as she stood. The world tilted a little around her and she swayed, this time her friends standing up to support her.

  ‘Wow, that came on fast Jayden, you sure you’re okay?’

  She nodded, took a deep breath, and her head cleared a little. ‘Yeah, I think so, just really tired. I’ll see you all tomorrow, okay?’

  Jayden hugged each of her friends as Jason put a hooded jacket on, and then they left, Jason easing his way through the crowds to the exit with Jayden just behind. They walked out of the pub into the darkness, the door swinging shut behind them to mute the noise and allow her to hear the rain falling all around. The cool air cleared Jayden’s head and she felt a little better as they set off for her apartment, which was only a couple of streets away.

  ‘You feeling better?’ Jason asked as he pulled his hood up.

  Jayden nodded as she extended her umbrella. ‘Yeah, must’ve been the heat or something.’

  Jason shrugged as they walked, his features concealed behind the hood. Normally, Jayden would have avoided a man walking with his hood up like that, but she knew Jason from work and he was one of the kindest souls out there. Funny, how deceiving appearances could be – had she not known him, she would have taken him for a drug dealer or something.

  ‘Good night’s sleep will clear your head,’ he said as they walked. ‘You didn’t have much though, I’ve seen you tank down enough booze to sink an ocean liner before now and still walk home.’

  Jayden wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not, but she decided to take it as one. ‘Getting older.’