Random

by Craig Robertson

  Some people think they know who Jack was but they don’t. They can’t know.

  They call themselves Ripperologists, those who study Jack. Those that are into him in a big way. Ask ten Ripperologists who killed those women and you will get eleven different answers.

  We know the women’s names.

  Polly Nichols.

  Annie Chapman.

  Liz Stride.

  Kate Eddowes.

  Mary Kelly.

  Five prostitutes of Whitechapel. Victims of life. Victims of Jack. Jack killed them, ripped them. But we don’t know why and we don’t know who.

  They say he was Queen Victoria’s whoring grandson Eddy, the Duke of Clarence, driven mad by syphilis. They say it was the Queen’s physician William Gull. They say it was her obstetrician John Williams.

  He was the painter Walter Sickert. He was Carl Feigenbaum, a German sailor. He was an insane Polish Jew, Aaron Kosminski.

  It was the Ripper diary confessor James Maybrick or the bogus doctor Francis Tumblety. It was barrister Montague John Druitt, the abortionist Dr Thomas Neill Cream, the Polish poisoner George Chapman or Mary Kelly’s lover Joseph Barnett.

  It was them and it was a hundred others but it was none of them. It was Jack. No one knows who he was.

  Jack did what Jack had to do then he stopped. Disappeared. Slipped back into the London fog. Untouched.

  Know what though? Jack’s biggest secret is that maybe he didn’t even exist. There is a theory that says there was no psychopath stalking the streets of Whitechapel, no madman hunting down prostitutes to kill and dissect them. Those women died all right but this theory says that there was no Jack.

  It goes that three men worked together to do the murders. Their plan, if you believe it, was to cover their true intentions by creating the myth of the Ripper. These men were high establishment, variously connected to the Royal Household and were set on protecting its interests. Whether it was mad Prince Albert Victor that needed protecting or Gull or Williams, you can take your pick.

  The bottom line is that one of the five whores, Mary Kelly, knew too much and was prepared to tell. She had to be silenced. But the killing of Mary alone would have left a trail back to the palace. Maybe the police would not have bothered their arses too much about a murdered prostitute but if they had looked into it seriously then motive could eventually have led them to the truth.

  So the plan was devised. A story spun. A play performed.

  Mary Kelly and her friends were slaughtered and the murders made to look the work of a complete monster. The silencing of Mary Kelly was hidden amidst the other four. She was the needle. They were the haystack.

  The beauty of it was that it was made to look like madness but in reality it was clinical, reasoned and sound.

  So was it true, this theory among theories? I didn’t know but I understood it. I respected the logic.

  Rationale. It was where the others – West, Bundy, Nilsen, Dahmer – messed up. They were wild beyond reason and mostly insane. Jack was sane enough not to get caught. Ever.

  Dahmer was a drunken, morbid obsessive. West was a sexual compulsive with a gruesome fascination for mutilation. Brady was power-driven and bitterly resentful. Nilsen was a self-absorbed fantasist, another suffering from an addictive compulsion.

  All were off their heads in their own crazy ways even if they had a competent sort of insanity that let them pass for sane. The detective who arrested Nilsen described him as ‘frighteningly normal, an ordinary sort of man’. Shipman was mad enough to kill maybe more than 300 old people yet sane enough that none of them suspected him. Dahmer was able to convince cops that a fleeing victim in the street was a liar, a lover scorned.

  But they could only play at being sane. And they could only do that for so long. It kept tugging at them. Their addiction, their obsession, their compulsion, it always made them do it one more time. No rationale.

  The urge they couldn’t resist was what undercut any kind of normal thinking and what drove them to do what they did. Not evil or any such pish, just uncontrollable obsessions.

  There is a lot of rubbish talked about evil when it comes to serial killers. Numbers mess with people’s moral outrage. The thinking goes that someone who kills twenty people is more evil than someone who kills two. The man who rips his victims apart is more evil than the man who doesn’t. The woman who kills is more evil than the man. The man who mutilates one victim is more evil than a politician who sends millions to their death in the name of patriotism or oil. It’s all bollocks.

  I doubted there was any such thing as evil. I used to think there was but then I used to think there was a God. If God represented good and there was no God then why would there be evil?

  Even if there is evil then it is in a man’s actions not in his soul. Whatever someone has inside is irrelevant. Only deeds matter.

  I knew plenty of absolute bastards who never killed anyone. Harold Shipman, if you believed him, was a nice old man who eased people’s pain.

  I didn’t claim to know anything about evil. I just knew my serial killers.

  I knew my ain folk too.

  Scotland gave the world television and the telephone, penicillin, the pneumatic tyre, the steam engine and the bicycle, radar, insulin, calculus and Dolly the sheep. But we are also right up there with the best of them when it comes to killing people.

  America’s first recorded serial killers were ours. Two cousins, pretty much unheard of over here, named Bill and Josh Harpe. Born in Scotland, they changed their names when they moved to America. They became known as Micajah and Wiley, Big and Little Harpe.

  In the late 1700s they slaughtered at least forty-one people in a blood spree lasting a year. Their favourite trick was to beat or stab someone to death then gut them, rip out their insides and fill them up with rocks. The body would then be thrown in the river and allowed to sink.

  They killed their own children too, poor little bastards born to the three wives they had between the two of them. One eight-month-old wee girl cried once too often and the father grabbed the poor wee thing by its ankle, smashed its head on a tree and threw it dead into the woods.

  Then there was old Sawney Bean, the man who washed his hands in the blood of a thousand souls. But just like Jack, all was probably not as it seemed. Alexander Sawney Bean. Said to have been the head of a forty-eight-strong family of cannibals in Ayrshire. An incestuous, murderous bunch who are supposed to have lived in a cave during the day, venturing out at night to slay unwary innocents and drag them into their lair to be dissected and eaten.

  Some tales have it that as many as 1,000 were killed and devoured by Bean’s incestuous band but more likely the whole thing is just another load of bollocks. Chances are Sawney and his brood were just an invention. A figment of an English imagination determined to damn the reputation of the Scots in the wake of the Jacobite rebellions. Everything is the fault of the English, don’t you know.

  Then there was Bible John, another one that maybe was and maybe wasn’t.

  In the late 1960s, the spectre of the scripture-quoting killer in a dark suit haunted Glasgow’s dance halls. Three murders, countless sightings, umpteen police interviews and a city living in dread. It sounded vaguely familiar.

  Patricia Docker in 1968, Jemima McDonald and Helen Puttock in 1969. All went to dances at the Barrowlands ballroom and all ended up dead. They were said to have last been seen talking to a tall, well-dressed, red-haired fellow. A man named John that liked to quote the Bible.

  John was the Scottish Jack in more ways than one.

  Now some cops believe that there never was a Bible John, that the killings of Patricia Docker, Jemima McDonald and Helen Puttock were never linked except in people’s minds. And in the minds of the cops. They now think that the whole climate of fear, the idea of a serial killer stalking the dance floor, was misplaced and misleading.

  The three killers of those three women may even have escaped because Glasgow’s finest were looking for one man. One seria
l killer where none existed. There were three needles alright but the cops were just looking in one haystack.

  Even if the Bible-quoting John was not the Scottish serial killer champ, there were plenty others to step forward and stake their own claims.

  Robert Black killed at least three little girls, perhaps as many as nine more. Nilsen murdered at least fifteen men. Brady killed five children and claimed to have killed five more. Peter Manuel was found guilty of seven murders but probably committed fifteen. Angus Sinclair had just two murders on his record but was being investigated for a string of others. Peter Tobin, brutal killer of Angelina Kluk and Vicky Hamilton and probably more besides. Thomas Neill Cream, abortionist, Ripper suspect and poisoner. Born in Glasgow and killer of five. Staff nurse Colin Norris, angel of death and killer of four.

  It’s hardly what you would call a fine tradition but a precedent nevertheless. A lot of serial killers for such a little place. The best small murdering country in the world. Stick that on your tourist posters.

  Wha’s like us? Damn few and they’re all deid. That’s Scottish irony.

  But they are not like me. And I am not like them.

  CHAPTER 17

  He stirred slowly. His head bobbing up and down on his chest as he fought to clear his head.

  When his eyes were fully opened and focused he saw me sitting in front of him. He jumped. His eyes spread wide. I was pleased to see that he looked as scared as he was confused.

  It was only then that he seemed to realize that he was bound hand and foot. His arms were tied securely to the chair, his legs to the legs. He struggled but got nowhere. He was going nowhere.

  He looked around but in the dim light all he could see was me. And that suited me fine. I wanted to make myself smile at him but I couldn’t. The best I could muster was a glare. Wallace Ogilvie, his limbs bound, his mouth taped shut, his confusion total, was in front of me. He did not know who I was.

  ‘Pierre Ambroise François Choderlos de Laclos.’

  Wallace Ogilvie shrugged as best he could.

  ‘Pierre Ambroise François Choderlos de Laclos,’ I repeated. ‘He was the author of Les Liaisons Dangereuses. You’ll have heard of the film.’

  Wallace Ogilvie just looked at me.

  ‘He wrote it in 1782. You know a quote from it though. La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid.’

  Wallace Ogilvie continued to look.

  ‘No? I thought you might know a bit of French.’

  Wallace Ogilvie shook his head warily.

  ‘Hm. How about Klingon then?’

  Wallace Ogilvie’s eyebrows knitted tight in bewilderment.

  ‘Stupid but it’s often quoted as being a Klingon phrase. You know, from Star Trek. bortaS bIr jablu’DI’, reH QaQqu’ nay. It took me ages to learn that.’

  I was trying to be glib. Trying to scare him with it. Using it to stop my anger spilling over. Control. I was the one in control.

  ‘No Klingon either then?’

  Wallace Ogilvie shook his head. Very scared.

  ‘It is also said to originate in Sicilian. La vendetta è un piatto che si serve freddo. Others believe it has its roots in Chinese, Spanish or Pashtun. The Internet is great, isn’t it?’

  Wallace Ogilvie was talking now behind the tape. I couldn’t make out a word. His eyes were talking too. They were telling me that I was mad and he was terrified. Perhaps. There is a fine line between the appearance of madness and insanity itself. Even I didn’t know which side of the line I stood on.

  ‘Got it yet?’ I asked him.

  When Wallace Ogilvie shook his head again I wanted to slap him or kick him. No touching though. I had kept our contact clean until now and did not want to dirty my hands or feet on him. Control.

  ‘La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid.

  ‘bortaS bIr jablu’DI’, reH QaQqu’ nay.

  ‘La vendetta è un piatto che si serve freddo.’

  I put my head very close to his. I whispered. ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’

  His eyes opened wider at that. He was trying to speak again. I didn’t need to hear the words. Revenge? For what? Who are you? Where do I know you from?

  Then there it was. Recognition.

  Oh, he knew now all right. I nodded and managed a smile at last.

  ‘Yes. That’s right.’

  Wallace Ogilvie shook his head furiously. His eyes were pleading, begging with me. No need to beg, I thought. And no point.

  ‘I’m not going to lay a finger on you,’ I told him.

  I saw hope in his eyes. Faint, short-lived hope. A bit cruel maybe. The hope disappeared when I reached for the switch on the wall and flooded the room with light.

  ‘La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid.’

  His eyes took in where he was and it filtered through to his brain.

  We were in a freezer room. A huge industrial meat plant room that could house a whole herd of frozen cattle. But for now there was only me and Wallace Ogilvie. The white walls shone brightly under the fluorescent lighting, giving little indication that the meat plant had lain empty for nearly a year. The owners had taken a subsidy offer from Lithuania and upped sticks, leaving behind a workforce and a factory they couldn’t sell. Everything was in working order in case a buyer could be found but that hadn’t happened.

  Security, such as it was, was easily bypassed. There was nothing to steal, nothing to use. No carcasses.

  Not yet.

  I think Wallace Ogilvie had worked it out by this point. That would explain why he had begun to cry. He shook and sobbed. He wailed in protest deep behind the tape.

  I’d often wondered about pity. Wondered how I found it so easy not to give it room. I was supposed to feel it. I knew that. It was the natural, human response and I still clung to my humanity.

  But my capacity for pity died the day she did. It disappeared along with hope, dreams and faith. I had no time and no use for pity. I compartmentalized. It’s easier than you might think.

  Anyway, given that I had no pity for the others then it was never likely I’d have any for Wallace Ogilvie. I’d risen above any temptation to offer compassion to the rest so it was no effort to do the same with the man before me.

  Pitiless. Merciless. Hard-hearted. I could do those. But not unfeeling. Right then, I was awash with feelings.

  So was Wallace Ogilvie. He had pissed himself, a telltale pool at his feet and a dark stain at his groin. The stench was awful. Urine, fear and sweat swirling together. Disgusting but strangely pleasing in the circumstances. I was glad to know that Wallace Ogilvie was so scared he couldn’t control his bladder. That he was so pathetic.

  It would have been good to think it was remorse but you don’t pish your pants out of guilt or repentance. Fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. He cowered before his Lord out of dread and his Lord was me.

  There was plenty I could have said to him but nothing came out. It was all there in my head but unsaid.

  I looked at him. Stared at him. His head was on his chest now. It would have been so easy to hit him. Punch him, strangle him, kick him in the head, break his legs. So tempting. But I already knew what I was going to do and so it seemed did Wallace Ogilvie. Or perhaps he simply knew that he was going to die.

  I stood over him, waiting until he lifted his head and looked at me with his red, pleading eyes. I nodded at him. It was now.

  I turned and walked away, closing the door behind me. There was a window cut into the door so that I could see Wallace Ogilvie and he could see me. I stood for a few moments, looking at him and catching my own reflection in the glass. I looked calm apart from my eyes. They looked strained, wild.

  I threw the switch. It was out of Wallace Ogilvie’s view but he would soon know that I had done it.

  I stood, watched and waited. My eyes were on his, his on me. I wanted to see the reaction, the first sign of realization. I wanted to see him twitch.

  Ten minutes and nothing. Maybe the unit had lain idle too long. I began to won
der if it was working properly.

  Fifteen minutes and I was sure it wasn’t operational. I began to wonder if I could fix it. I’d no idea where to start. It would be terrible. It was all going wrong.

  Then he twitched. It was just a shake of a shoulder. A single shiver. It was enough.

  A surge of exhilaration and anticipation ran through me. He shivered with cold and I shivered with excitement.

  I spoke to the glass in front of me. I spoke to him knowing that he probably couldn’t hear.

  ‘The normal body temperature of an adult human is 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. Your core temperature is already less. But I guess you know that by now.

  ‘Feel that tightening across your shoulders and neck? That’s known as pre-shivering muscle tone. It means your body temperature has hit 97 degrees.’

  He began to move more. His legs shook against their bindings, his shoulders trembled, hunched and flexed. He was rubbing himself against the chair, the little that the ties would allow. His feet were shaking and kicking as best they could. His head swaying side to side.

  ‘Colder now,’ I told him. ‘Perhaps 96 degrees. Your body is shivering so that you generate heat by increasing the chemical reactions required for muscle activity. Amazing but that can actually increase surface heat production by 500 per cent.

  ‘The bad news is that you can only keep that going for so long because your muscle glucose gets depleted and fatigue kicks in.’

  He was shivering so much now that the chair was dancing, shuffling an inch here and there as he did anything he could to get warmer. It was hopeless though.

  ‘Your hands are especially cold, aren’t they? Your palms will be no more than 60 degrees. Painfully cold. That’s because your body is instinctively sending blood coursing away from your skin, deeper inside you. It is deliberately letting your hands chill to keep the vital organs warm. It won’t be enough though.’

  Now he was really shaking, trembling violently. It was almost as if he was having a fit.