The Sterling Directive

by Tim Standish

  ‘It is,’ I said, then put my glass down on the table. ‘Do you think you can help us? We are interested in anything that looks like mistakes were made and covered up; where the self-image of the police was put ahead of the safety of our citizens.’

  ‘I don’t know that I can, Mr Wilkinson. It seems like such a long time ago and I wasn’t really that involved, just wrote some advice to the papers. I’m not sure that there is much I can tell you.’ He sipped his glass then realised that it was empty. ‘Oh, would you mind?’ he asked Church brightly.

  ‘Please,’ I said, ‘allow me.’ I stood and reached behind Richardson for the bottle and filled his glass up, a touch too quickly. ‘Sorry about that,’ I said to him as I put the bottle back in its bucket.

  ‘Oh don’t worry at all.’ He waited till the bubbles receded before he took a sip.

  ‘We appreciate that you may not be able to bring all the details immediately to mind,’ I said to him, ‘but Mr Dent and I were hoping that you might be able to give us some pointers. Any ideas about where to start looking would be most helpful. For example, were you aware of anything untoward in the investigation?’

  ‘Only if you would describe mislaying paperwork as untoward,’ said Richardson. ‘I mean things were chaotic – the Met and the City teams were getting in each other’s way, the press were having a field day. All kinds of citizens’ groups were up in arms.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ll be much help to you. I just can’t really remember much at all.’ He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Lily,’ said Church. Richardson looked up at him. ‘We know you ran an on-wire salon called the Ripperography Club. Is that correct?’

  ‘It is,’ replied Richardson. ‘Do you know Mr Dent, I am having the oddest compulsion to call you Inspector. Were you ever a policeman before you became a lawyer’s agent?’

  ‘I was… ma’am,’ Church said.

  ‘How funny! I suppose I must have met enough in my time to know!’ Richardson’s tone was one of breezy jocularity, but his hand was shaking as he took another sip. ‘Ripperography. I haven’t thought about that for years. I did take part in a few discussions there but that was so long ago. You might be better off seeing if there is an archive of the salon on an engine somewhere.’

  ‘It’s funny you should say that,’ said Church. ‘We’ve got a girl in our office. Genius with engines. She looked for an archive, called it exactly that, but couldn’t find it anywhere. Said the only explanation was that it must have been completely erased after it was shut down. Which is unusual, apparently, for that kind of thing. It happened at about the time you moved up here to Blackpool.’

  ‘Well I don’t know what to tell you, Mr Dent. I don’t think I can help you,’ said Richardson.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘you could just give us a sense of the kind of discussions that were happening in the salon. What sort of topics were popular?’

  ‘Oh. Well. A lot of it was quite far fetched,’ said Richardson. ‘Speculation. Thought experiments I suppose you could call them.’

  ‘You mean conspiracies,’ said Church.

  ‘Yes, or you could call them that.’ Richardson smiled uneasily.

  ‘What sorts of things were people saying?’ I asked.

  ‘Just the sort of things that were in some of the papers,’ Richardson replied. ‘You know, guessing who the Ripper was and why he did it. He was a religious fanatic, or perhaps a foreigner from one of the embassies, or maybe a Mason carrying out some esoteric mission. But in the salon we did more than just pass around ideas, we tried to test them as much as possible to see what was and wasn’t feasible. Sometimes it meant research. Sometimes it meant going out in the field.’

  ‘Out in the field?’ I asked. ‘You mean Whitechapel?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied Richardson. ‘For example, a few of us walked different ways between the September double murders, to try and gauge which route the Ripper took.’

  ‘Did they ever mention more than one person working together?’ I asked.

  Even in the warmth of that small room and beneath his make-up, Richardson visibly paled. ‘What? Why do you ask?’ he managed to stammer out.

  ‘Well. We came across this photograph, you see.’ I reached into my inside pocket and took out the Miller’s Court photograph, turned it so it faced Richardson and passed it across to him. He took it and held it in both hands, staring at it. His head dropped slowly towards the photograph as if mesmerised by what he saw.

  He looked up at me, eyes wide in a mixture of wonder and alarm. ‘Where did you get this?’ His voice was low, disbelieving.

  ‘We have police contacts who are sympathetic to what we are trying to achieve. One of them provided us with this picture.’

  He looked up at me in a daze. I saw the beginnings of tears in his eyes.

  ‘You don’t understand. This shouldn’t exist.’ All the artifice was gone from Richardson’s voice and fear was in its place.

  ‘Why? Tell us, Lily, what does it mean?’

  ‘One to cut them and one to mask his work.’ Richardson gripped the photograph tightly. He was talking almost to himself now and whatever he was seeing as he spoke wasn’t in this room.

  I reached over and gently took his wrist. ‘The people in your salon. This was something they talked about?’ He nodded. ‘Explain it to us.’

  Richardson pulled his hand away from mine and looked around his dressing table. I took a handkerchief from my pocket and passed it to him. He thanked me quietly, took it and dabbed gently at his eyes, then held it tightly in his lap. Took a deep breath. ‘You’re not lawyers,’ he said to us. ‘Who are you?’

  Church stopped leaning on the wall and stood up straight, arms held loosely by his side, suddenly looming large in the room. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘You want us out of here and we want to be on our way. So. Tell us what you think this means and you can go back on stage and pretend you never saw us.’

  ‘Or what? You’ll arrest me?’ Richardson moved the chair away from Church

  ‘For what? Singing in a dress?’ Church replied. ‘No one gets arrested for that these days, especially not in Blackpool. And we’re not police. But let’s say we are something similar. Maybe we’d have a word with the Branch, get them to come in and close this place down for good. Because I bet there’s enough going on in here for someone to get arrested. If that’s what you want.’ Richardson stayed silent and Church waited for a few seconds before continuing. ‘But we don’t want to do that. We just want to know about the men in the photograph. So have a good think. What did your salon have to say about them?’

  Richardson closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. When he spoke it wasn’t as Lily any more but in his own voice, quiet and level.

  ‘Most of what we argued about was who he was. What his occupation was. Where he was from. Early on people were saying he was a slaughterman or a butcher. Then, when some of the details from the post mortem reports came out people were saying he was a doctor or surgeon, perhaps a medical student. And on the salon we debated it back on forth until someone suggested that maybe it wasn’t a choice, maybe it was both. But we found it hard to describe a realistic man who could be a surgeon skilled enough to remove organs so cleanly and at the same time a clumsy slasher to make such a mess of the bodies. Especially Miller’s Court.’ Richardson shuddered and I filled his glass up again and handed it to him. ‘Thank you.’ Poise regained, he took the merest of sips and carried on. ‘So. One of us hit upon the idea that it didn’t have to be a solitary man of two halves, that it could have been two people working together.’ He pointed to the picture. ‘A brute to kill and mutilate and a surgeon to remove the organs.’

  ‘But why remove the organs?’ I asked. ‘As keepsakes of some kind? And wouldn’t two men be more difficult to hide than one?’

  Richardson handed me back the picture. ‘Two men would be easy enough to hide if they were careful. Even more so if you involve others: people who can spiri
t your killers away and obfuscate the evidence. We knew that the picture the newspapers published was altered. We had someone in the salon who developed pictures for a living and he could tell it had been substantially cropped. But no one could find the original. Even one person who I’m almost certain was a policeman. They were perpetuating the idea that it was a lone killer you see.’

  ‘Who was?’ I asked.

  ‘The same conspiracy that doctored reports and misdated evidence and statements to keep the killers’ alibis intact.’

  ‘And what was the surgery for?’ Church asked.

  Richardson looked at us both. ‘What are you going to do if you find out? If you catch the men? Will you put them on trial?’

  ‘I told you,’ said Church. ‘We’re not police.’

  ‘Then why do you care? Why bother now?’

  ‘Because what happened wasn’t just,’ I said. ‘And finally someone has taken notice.’

  Richardson leaned back, started to sip his drink, then thought better of it and put it down on the dressing table. Church and I waited in silence for him to speak. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I’m sure the sudden urgency wouldn’t have anything to do with the election, would it? Don’t tell me this is going anywhere near a court room. What are you going to do if you find these men, and whoever protected them? Just take them away nicely and quietly and lock them up where no one will ever see them again?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say nicely,’ said Church, ‘but they’ll disappear, you have my word.’

  Silence again from Richardson. Then he seemed to reach a decision. ‘The surgery was to remove organs for transplant into a human recipient. The mutilation was to mask the fact. It’s true,’ he said, responding to the look that Church and I exchanged. ‘You don’t believe me but I can explain. I have papers in my room that prove it. It’s been tried in South America and there have been trials on animals here in England.’ He waited for a moment again. ‘I know it sounds preposterous, the idea that a surgeon in this country would dream of carrying out such a procedure but that’s why it had to be done in secret. In the limited examples I have read about, the donor in the operation never survives. That’s why they used the kind of girls they thought wouldn’t be missed.’

  ‘Preposterous is the right word. Who would go to all that trouble for something that might not even work?’ asked Church.

  ‘Someone very rich and very powerful and very desperate,’ I said. And somewhere, out on the furthest reaches of my long out-of-service imagination, warmed by the whisky and helped along by the Bollinger, the tiniest of bells rang for the briefest of moments, and the merest suggestion of an idea flared and faded before I could fully grasp it.

  ‘You’re right, Mr Wilkinson. I can show you a dossier of papers and other materials that demonstrate what I’m saying is feasible.’ Richardson smiled eagerly. ‘And there’s something else.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘The member of our salon who worked with photography, he said he had proof that it was two men. He had photographs taken at a crime scene with a hidden camera that showed how they escaped. Before I left he gave them to me. They’re in my dresser. If you come and see me tomorrow morning in my lodgings I can show them to you. Can we say ten o’clock?’ I nodded. Richardson let out a sigh and breathed in deeply, relaxing in his chair as if something heavy had slipped from his shoulders. When he spoke again it was once again with Lily’s voice.

  ‘Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have to be on stage in five minutes and my eyes are simply a travesty.’ He span his chair around and viewed himself in the mirror.

  I stood. ‘Thank you for trusting us,’ I said.

  Richardson’s reflection gave a thin smile at me. ‘Do I really have an alternative?’

  ‘Not one that ends well,’ said Church.

  ‘Tell me something, Mr Dent,’ said Richardson as he squinted at the mirror and picked up a brush.

  ‘What’s that ma’am?’ Church stopped on his way to the door.

  ‘Would you have arrested me back when you were an inspector? For doing this I mean? Being in club like this?’ Richardson put down the brush and picked up a small jar of something from the box.

  Church thought for a moment. ‘No. No, I wouldn’t have.’ He opened the door then turned back. ‘But some of your friends out there, the ones that are along tonight looking for a young lad in trouble, impressionable, maybe short of cash, I’d have locked them up without a second thought.’ He paused. ‘And I’d have made sure they fell down the stairs a few times on the way.’ He stood silently for a short moment then gave a brief nod. ‘Good night to you.’ And he stepped out through the door.

  ‘Goodnight.’ Richardson said. ‘And thank you for the champagne!’ he called.

  ‘Goodnight to you, Lily. We’ll see you tomorrow,’ I said and closed the door behind me.

  Church and I were a few paces down the corridor when we heard Richardson start singing. It was nothing special, just arpeggios, but he sang it very well, all the same.

  12. Dresser

  My first CO in Canada, Major Harrington, was a lifelong soldier who, unlike most of the troops under his command, was in Canada through choice rather than as an alternative to some worse punishment. An amiable man, he was more a conversationalist than a reader and, when called back to headquarters for a briefing every now again, would usually take myself or one of the other officers along with him. This was ostensibly to give us ‘a feel for the responsibilities of higher command’ but I rather got the impression that we were mainly there to help him pass the time on the journey. It was no great chore: he had served in almost every corner of the Empire, amassing a wealth of anecdotes that he was happy to relate with very little prompting.

  The briefings I attended mainly concerned any new general orders, upcoming troop relocations, progress reports on railway construction and updates from the other Canadian provinces. These were always followed by a long and often boisterous lunch where the more senior officers, many of them Crimea veterans, would argue about Balaclava, swap tales of society’s moral decline and heatedly agree on the idiocy of politicians, particularly those situated in the War Office. The rest of us tended to stay as long as was politely necessary before slipping out of the dining room for a game of billiards and the opportunity to make the most of the Brigadier’s excellent cellar.

  It was on one of these visits to HQ that I met my first spy. His name was Talbot, introduced to us at the end of the briefing as an ‘exploring officer’. I had heard of them but never met one before. His role, we were told, was to scout out along the border in order to gather intelligence on enemy activity. He didn’t look much; a smallish man, in his forties, perhaps five-and-a-half feet tall, dressed in cheap-looking civilian clothes and with a short, straggly beard. At lunch he didn’t make of much an effort to speak to anyone beyond the Brigadier and the Major, who acted as his head of intelligence.

  In short this Talbot fellow didn’t make much of an impression on me or the CO at the time to the extent that, when he arrived out of the blue at our outpost a month or so later, I had to rack my brains to think where I’d seen him before. He had papers with him, signed by the Brigadier, instructing us ‘to extend every aid and courtesy’ to him. They gave his rank as major, though, as at the briefing, he was wearing civilian clothes and could easily be mistaken for a local. Much to the CO’s visible vexation, Talbot let us know that he intended to be with us for a few weeks. We had little choice but to find a bunk for him and put up with him as best we could.

  As it turned out, though, Talbot was very little bother to us. He spent most of his time away from the camp, often staying out overnight and when he was around he kept to himself. He didn’t go out of his way to make friends with any of the rest of us and even the normally genial Major Harrington didn’t take to him. One evening over supper he confided in me that he considered Talbot, and exploring officers in general, to be indulging in the kind of questionable activities that were entirely unworthy of Her
Majesty’s Army and, all things considered ‘best left to the French’. Talbot was nothing more than a spy, Harrington had declared, and the sooner gone the better. He had come across a few of them during his time in India apparently and, according to him, they were forever intriguing and stirring things up for no good reason. ‘More trouble than they’re worth, Maddox, you mark my word, more trouble than they’re worth,’ were his final words on the subject.

  Three weeks or so into Talbot’s stay, the CO and I were going through some of the seemingly endless paperwork demanded by HQ when Talbot interrupted us to request our help on the next of his trips. He went on to tell us that he might be meeting, and potentially bringing back, a vital source of intelligence. As a result, he said, he was requesting a section-strength patrol to escort him and the source back to camp.

  ‘And just where is this vital source?’ the CO asked him.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m not at liberty to say, and,’ Talbot replied. ‘you don’t really need to know. I just need a patrol to meet me tomorrow evening. I’ll give the time and place to the patrol lead and he can choose his men. They’ll need to be sharp; good scouts and good fighters if it comes to it. Though I doubt it will.’ He smiled casually, as if what he was asking for was of no consequence.

  Major Harrington pondered this, stern faced for a moment. ‘Very well, Talbot. Captain Maddox here will lead the patrol and pick the men himself. Be assured that every man chosen will be more than up to the task. Now,’ he picked up his spectacles and looked back down at the papers in front of him, ‘if that is all for now, the Captain and I must get this finished. I’ll send him along to see you as soon as we do, if that will suit?’

  It didn’t sound much like he was expecting any answer that wasn’t an affirmative and Talbot took the hint, gave a surprisingly smart salute and left us to it.

  ‘Odd sort of chap, don’t you think?’ said Harrington, once he heard the outside door close. ‘Keep an eye on him, won’t you Maddox.’