The Murder Bag

by Tony Parsons

  ‘You do rehab here?’ I asked Monk.

  ‘One afternoon a week,’ he said. ‘I’m mostly down the road. I’m the senior physio at Barrington Court. Or the senior physio’s assistant. Yeah, that’s more like it.’

  I had heard of Barrington Court. It was a rehabilitation centre for severely wounded veterans, most of them victims of IED blasts in Afghanistan.

  ‘Mr Waugh lets us use the running track on Thursday afternoons,’ Monk said. ‘Quite funny really, lending us a running track when most of us don’t have any legs.’

  I automatically looked down at his faded jeans. Monk laughed.

  ‘Oh, not me,’ he said. ‘I’ve still got all my parts. Some of them are just a bit overcooked.’

  I smiled weakly.

  ‘How’s he doing?’ Monk said, suddenly serious. ‘Mr Philips.’

  I shook my head. ‘You know what? I really don’t know, Tom.’

  Because on the other side of the playing fields I could see the flag of St George being lowered, and stopping when it reached half-mast. The phone in my jacket began to vibrate.

  I pulled it out and saw that it was PC Greene, and that he had already tried to call me five times.

  Peregrine Waugh was crossing the playing fields towards me, his gown flowing behind him.

  But I already knew.

  Piggy Philips was dead.

  19

  I WAS WAITING for Ben King in the central lobby of the Palace of Westminster, the most beautiful space in London – a high-vaulted octagonal hall with a giant central chandelier and an intricately tiled floor, lit by natural light that pours through massive windows.

  The central lobby bustled with life. Constituents waited to talk to their MP. Political journalists gossiped and snickered and fawned. MPs and peers came and went from the corridors that led to their chambers – the Lords to the south, the MPs to the north.

  With its statues of kings and queens and a national saint over each of the four exits – St George for England, St David for Wales, St Andrew for Scotland, St Patrick for Northern Ireland – the central lobby felt like more than the core of Parliament, more than the place where all the corridors of power converged.

  It felt like the ultimate seat of British power.

  I watched Ben King emerge from the corridor that led to the House of Commons. He was in a group of men surrounding the Prime Minister. King saw me and peeled away from the crowd.

  We shook hands and walked out to the Terrace Pavilion, where there were white tables and chairs and people drinking tea. We stood with our backs to them all, the Palace of Westminster rising above us, and the Thames flowing far below.

  ‘My condolences,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You were with Guy Philips when he died.’

  ‘Yes. I spent the last night in his room.’

  ‘Did he say anything? I’m sorry but I have to ask you.’

  Ben King stared at the river without seeing it.

  ‘It was four in the morning. He was sleeping. I was sleeping. I awoke because the machine that monitored his heart rate was making a different sound. I called the nurse. She was sleeping too. When she came to the room she immediately called the doctor. But it was too late.’ At last he looked at me. ‘Guy died in his sleep. I know what you’re asking. But he never woke, he never said anything about who attacked him and he passed away peacefully. And I am profoundly grateful for that small mercy, detective.’

  ‘And you were with him every night he was in the hospital?’

  ‘Yes. Guy never married. His parents were dead. My brother and I – all of his friends – were what he had instead of family.’

  ‘I think he saw his killer’s face. I’m certain of it.’

  ‘He didn’t say a word.’

  A young blonde woman was standing in the entrance to the Terrace Pavilion, trying to attract King’s attention. He raised his hand to show that he understood. But his manners were too good to rush me.

  ‘There’s something else,’ I said. ‘You – and your brother, and Mr Khan – you’re all going to be issued with Osman Warnings.’

  ‘Osman Warnings?’

  ‘If the police have reason to believe that someone is at risk of being murdered or seriously injured we issue an Osman Warning – it’s both an official warning and an offer of police protection.’

  King almost smiled. ‘It sounds rather like a way of the police trying to protect themselves from future accusations of negligence.’

  ‘There’s an element of that,’ I agreed. ‘My superiors will be writing to you to offer protection and to give advice on the steps you can take to ensure your safety.’

  ‘Is that really necessary? Perhaps for Salman – who, I understand, is now too afraid to leave his house. But I’m surrounded by high security in the House. And Ned is out of the country and has the entire British Army watching over him. I think he’s more at risk from the Taliban.’

  ‘We have a duty of care to warn people when they are in mortal danger,’ I said. ‘On Hugo Buck’s desk there was a photograph of seven boys at Potter’s Field. You probably know the photograph.’

  ‘Yes, I know it.’

  ‘Now only four of you are still alive.’

  He was watching the river again.

  ‘Three,’ he said. ‘James Sutcliffe killed himself in Italy.’

  ‘Of course. My apologies. Three of you.’

  Then he looked at me. ‘I want to put an end to this,’ he said. ‘I want to help you in any way I can. I want to assist you in apprehending this murderer.’ He gripped my hand and he held my eyes.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know you do.’

  We walked back inside and said goodbye.

  As he crossed the central lobby, people approached him – lobby journalists, other MPs, women and men, all of them with the half-smile of the truly smitten – and he had a word for each of them. But he kept walking, he never broke that long easy stride, eventually disappearing into the northern corridor that leads to the House of Commons; and for the first time I appreciated his true power, and how much he had to lose.

  It’s a five-minute walk from the Palace of Westminster to New Scotland Yard, and even though I did not have an appointment in Room 101, I thought it would be all right. They don’t get many visitors in the Black Museum.

  ‘I saw your film,’ said Sergeant John Caine, the keeper of the gate. He looked at me with his hard eyes, but there was no mockery in them. ‘Everybody saw your film, didn’t they?’

  ‘Will you watch it with me again?’

  He was startled. ‘Why?’

  ‘It only lasts a minute. I want to ask your advice about something. I know you’ve seen it already, but will you watch it with me?’

  There was an old computer on his desk. He pressed some keys and it wheezed into life.

  ‘My one might be quicker,’ I said.

  He snorted. ‘All mod cons at West End Central, eh?’

  I took out my Mac and we waited in silence as it powered up. We remained silent as I went to the social network site and found the profile page of Bob the Butcher. I began scrolling down all his postings about killing pigs and destroying worlds.

  ‘This one,’ I said.

  I clicked on the link, and there it was, the mirth with no mercy of ‘The Laughing Policeman’ as the camera watched me crawl. Just as the pig appeared, I hit pause.

  ‘You see that?’ I asked Sergeant Caine. ‘By my right hand?’

  He leaned closer. ‘A white line.’

  ‘A straight white line painted on grass,’ I said. ‘It’s a touchline. It’s the edge of a rugby field. The rugby field that’s closest to the trees at Potter’s Field.’

  We stared at the image together. Then he shrugged.

  ‘So what?’ he said.

  ‘Doesn’t it prove that Bob the Butcher isn’t the killer?’

  ‘Why does it prove that?’

  ‘That film wasn’t shot when I got a good hiding. Whatever Bob tells his
devoted followers, he had nothing to do with it.’

  Sergeant Caine had a think.

  Then he said, ‘You reckon that whoever had a knife to your throat is not the same person who stuck a camera in your face.’

  ‘He can’t be, can he?’ I said. ‘Whoever put me down wouldn’t have followed me across a ploughed field and through some woods just to shoot this funny little film, would he?’

  ‘How far did you crawl?’

  ‘I was running through those woods for perhaps five minutes. It would have taken a lot longer to crawl back. But that film wasn’t taken anywhere near where I was attacked. It wasn’t taken at the pigpen at the farm. It wasn’t taken in the ploughed field. It was filmed when I was back at Potter’s Field. It was filmed on the edge of the playing fields.’

  ‘So who put it on the internet? Where did Bob get it from?’

  ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. That school has a thousand boys and they all have phones with cameras. There are reporters crawling all over the place. The staff. Everybody’s walking around with a camera crew in their back pocket. What it proves – what I think it proves – is that Bob the Butcher is full of bullshit. Whoever took that film didn’t kill anyone. And neither did he.’

  I closed my laptop and we looked at each other. Sergeant Caine folded his heavy arms. Then he nodded once.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think you’re probably right.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. What’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem is they’re chucking everything they’ve got at Bob,’ I said. ‘All of our resources are being poured into looking for Bob the Butcher, serial killer of the year. Operation Fat Boy is being led up a dead end.’

  A spasm of pain travelled up my spine and I ground my teeth together, arching my back until it passed.

  ‘You want to find whoever messed up your back,’ Sergeant Caine said.

  ‘I want to find the killer.’ I took a breath and let it go. ‘And you can help me.’

  ‘How can I do that?’

  ‘I want to see the From Hell letter,’ I said.

  He looked away, then looked back at me. Suddenly he was angry.

  ‘The From Hell letter? Do you know what you’re asking? The From Hell letter was lost.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I think it’s here. I think it’s somewhere in this room. I think it’s in your possession.’

  ‘What do you know about the From Hell letter, detective?’

  ‘I know that it was also known as the Lusk letter,’ I replied. ‘It was a letter posted in 1888 by a person unknown who claimed to be Jack the Ripper. What made the police think it was the one genuine correspondence from Jack the Ripper was that it arrived with part of an internal organ from a human body.’

  ‘Where do you think you are,’ Sergeant Caine said, shaking his head with disbelief, ‘Madame Tussaud’s? This is a training facility for officers who put themselves in harm’s way. Not a freak show.’

  ‘I just want to see the letter.’

  ‘What makes you think it’s here?’

  ‘I just don’t believe it was lost. I can’t believe that. The only letter from Jack the Ripper? Come on. I think it would have been filed, saved, preserved.’

  ‘Why lie about it?’

  ‘Don’t want the public getting too excited about some unholy relic, do we? Don’t need them turning a serial killer into a bigger cult hero than he is already. But I think we would have saved it.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The law. The Met. The good guys. And I think that if it is anywhere in London, then it will be in some secret corner of the Black Museum.’

  He laughed. ‘I suppose you might just make a detective one day. But why do you want to see it – assuming it’s in my power to show it to you?’

  ‘I want to see what the real thing looks like.’

  He moved towards the door and I thought he was going to call for some help and have me kicked out. But Sergeant Caine wouldn’t have needed any help to kick me out.

  I watched him lock Room 101.

  ‘There were hundreds of letters claiming to be from Jack the Ripper,’ he said. ‘The Dear Boss letter. The Saucy Jacky postcard. The Openshaw letter. What made the From Hell letter different was that, as you say, it came with a small box containing half a human kidney.’

  I watched him remove a calendar from the wall that said MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM THE METROPOLITAN POLICE.

  There was a safe in the wall.

  ‘Turn away, detective,’ he said, and I turned my head as he tapped some numbered keys. ‘It was addressed to George Lusk, the head of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. You can turn back now.’

  There was a dark green folder on his desk.

  He opened it. Inside the folder was a plastic envelope. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper, rust-coloured with age, as brittle as something scorched, like something pulled from the fire at the very last moment.

  Large red letters, a dozen lines, words written quickly, words written in a fever.

  ‘Somebody slung out the kidney,’ Sergeant Caine said. ‘Sorry about that.’

  From hell

  Mr Lusk

  Sor

  I send you half the

  Kidne I took from one women

  Prasarved it for you tother piece

  I fried and ate it was very nice, I

  may send you the bloody knif that

  took it out if you only wate a whil

  longer.

  Signed

  Catch me when

  You Can

  Mishter Lusk

  ‘It’s real, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘You can tell. It’s from him. It’s from Jack the Ripper.’

  Caine nodded. ‘It’s at a much lower literacy level than the other letters they received, but back in the day they thought that was deliberate. What’s fake about it is the pretence of illiteracy. Look. He apparently can’t spell to save his life but he manages to observe the silent “k” in knife and the silent “h” in while. Unlike all the other letters, he doesn’t sign it “Jack the Ripper”. And I’ll say this for him – he did include a human kidney.’

  ‘He was sick of the fakes,’ I said. ‘He was tired of all the nutcases claiming credit for crimes they didn’t have the skill and the madness to commit. And it’s going to be the same this time. Sooner or later, the real killer will show himself.’

  Sergeant Caine watched me staring at the letter.

  ‘Bob the Butcher is not real,’ I said. ‘But this is real. May I touch it?’

  The keeper of the Black Museum stared at me.

  ‘Be careful,’ he said.

  20

  ‘ONE MURDER IS a tragedy,’ said Detective Chief Superintendent Elizabeth Swire. ‘Two murders are a tragic coincidence. And three murders are prime-time entertainment.’

  The call from the chief super had come just as Mallory was about to start the morning briefing at West End Central. Fifteen minutes later we were in a conference room on the top floor of New Scotland Yard. This high up the brass had a picture-postcard view of either St James’s Park or the Thames. This room overlooked the park. But nobody noticed the view.

  The death of Guy Philips had put Operation Fat Boy on all the front pages. Bob the Butcher was being called a serial killer and treated like a national celebrity. The popular press were going wild, but with a sneaking regard for Bob’s dysfunctional social conscience. BOB THE BUTCHER – FEARED BY THE RICH, LOVED BY THE POOR? asked the Sun. The unpopular press saw Bob as the embodiment of the seething resentments at the rotten core of an unfair society. BUTCHER BOB – IS HE A ONE MAN RIOT? pondered the Guardian, as if all Bob was doing was kicking in store windows and stealing plasma TVs.

  The chief super was not happy. And DCS Swire had a genius for registering her displeasure. She was a fifty-year-old woman with a ferocious blonde haircut, hair sprayed as stiff as a Spartan helmet. Swire looked like Mrs Thatcher’s recently exhume
d corpse, but with slightly less human warmth.

  She considered DCI Mallory with dead eyes.

  ‘You initially expressed doubts that Bob the Butcher was the perpetrator,’ she said.

  ‘That’s correct, ma’am.’

  ‘So have you eliminated him from your enquiries?’

  ‘Not yet, ma’am,’ Mallory said.

  ‘Not yet, ma’am,’ she said, her tone so caustic you could have used it to strip paint.

  DI Gane spoke up, his voice shaking just a little. He talked about anonymity networks, onion routers and layers of encryption.

  Swire cut him off with a short jerk of her head.

  ‘Let’s skip the tech talk, shall we?’ she said. ‘But tell me this: how likely is it that the average social network psycho would have security architecture that elaborate?’

  ‘It would be . . . unusual,’ Gane answered.

  Swire may not have cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. But that was the impression she gave.

  ‘Only unusual?’ she said quietly. ‘Really? No more than that?’

  ‘It would be unprecedented, ma’am.’

  Swire nodded, as if we were at last getting somewhere.

  ‘What’s the latest on prints?’ she said. ‘Are we working the prints?’

  Mallory’s fingertips brushed his SIO policy book. He cleared his throat.

  ‘The situation is unchanged, ma’am. We have no prints at any of the crime scenes.’

  Swire stared hard at him.

  ‘You mean you have smooth glove prints?’

  ‘No prints, ma’am. No smooth glove prints, no partials – no prints at all. The absence of prints remains . . . unexplained.’

  Swire let this sink in.

  ‘So he’s a ghost?’ she said.

  The base of my spine pulsed with pain.

  ‘He’s no ghost,’ I said. ‘Ma’am.’

  She nodded, as if she had only just decided something.

  ‘We’re rebooting Operation Fat Boy,’ she said. ‘I’m bringing in three new bodies.’