by kindels
Mary Ann 'Polly' Nichols had received such a wound to her throat that the incision completely severed the tissues down to the vertebrae. The lower part of her abdomen had been subjected to a number of wounds, deep and violent in their execution. In addition, bruising was apparent on her face and jaw, as though caused by a blow or blows, and possibly by pressure from fingers on the side of her face. Though not as grotesque as some of the wounds inflicted on later victims in the killing spree that had begun in Whitechapel, they were sufficient to raise the spectre of horror and fear that was soon to engulf the whole of London, and capture the attention of the nation as a whole. The infamy of the killer's reputation would soon spread abroad, far and wide, though as yet, the killer was unknown, nameless and little more than a shadowy figure in the night, unseen and unheard as he went about his grisly work.
With no progress made in the hunt for killer, Mary Ann Nichols was buried in the cemetery at Little Ilford on 6th September 1888.
***
Returning to the present, it is worth noting that Marla Hayes was in no way similar in looks or background to Polly Nichols. She was twenty four years old, not forty-three, and she came from a reasonably well-to do family in Hastings. Her father was a doctor, her mother a librarian and money had never been a source of trouble for the Hayes family. The one thing the two women shared, despite the passage of time between their time on Earth, was the fact that both worked as prostitutes. Marla had fallen in with a bad crowd after leaving school and attending her local college where she initially began a course in animal care and welfare, hoping to one day realise her ambition of working in the veterinary industry.
Soon, she had descended, as do so many others in modern society into the world of the drug addict. Her habit grew worse until she was caught stealing from a local shop in order to fuel her growing habit. A period of probation followed and her father did his best to wean his daughter from the drugs he was only too aware might bring about a sad and sorry death for her one day. Sadly, his efforts were in vain and Marla became more and more embroiled in the world of drugs and drug addicts. It soon became plain to the bright and pretty young girl that there was an easy way of funding her habit. She began to sell herself for sex at the age of nineteen, and a series of arrests for soliciting followed. Her parents were at a loss as to how to deal with their wayward daughter and it probably came as no surprise to them when, soon after Christmas following her twentieth birthday, Marla disappeared from their lives.
She simply left home one evening and never returned.
Mara's crumpled body was found by boat-builder Andrew Mitchell as he walked along Catherine Steer on his way to work at five thirty a.m on the morning of 31st August. It lay in a doorway about halfway along the street, and at first he'd thought the body to be a drunk, sleeping off a heavy night on the front step of her own, or someone else's home. The river of blood that had poured from the girl's gaping neck wounds as he drew closer soon dispelled any such thoughts, and Mitchell stepped back in horror as he realised the full horror of his discovery. Her black mini skirt had been pulled up around her waist and the man had no difficulty in seeing that a series of terrible mutilations had been carried out upon the poor girl. Pulling his mobile phone from his pocket Mitchell quickly summoned the emergency services and waited for the arrival of the police and ambulance teams.
The squad car that arrived on the scene within twenty minutes of the call contained two uniformed constables and, upon seeing the extent of the murdered girl's injuries and realising the similarities between this and the murder of Laura Kane, P.C. Donald Stone quickly placed a call in to headquarters. It wasn't long before the telephone in Mike Holland's bedroom woke him from a deep sleep and within half an hour of waking, the Detective Inspector was on the scene, quickly followed by his sergeant, Carl Wright.
As Wright so aptly understated as he and Holland looked down at the pitiful remains of the once beautiful young girl who lay cold and lifeless on the ground before them, "Bloody Hell, sir, this is getting serious."
Chapter 9
Catherine Street
Doctor Charles Murdoch, known to those who worked closely with him simply as 'Chas' surveyed the scene of death that greeted him upon his arrival at the Catherine Street murder scene. There was little doubt in anyone's minds that this was indeed the site of the actual murder. The amount of blood present at the scene was sufficient to testify that the girl had met her end right there, on the doorstep of a stranger's house sometime during the night. Chas Murdoch was forty two, and had been a medical examiner for over fifteen years. Tall, and slim, brown-eyed, with a shock of light brown hair that never seemed keen on responding to any sort of combing or styling, in the style of Carl Wright, he resembled an archetypal mad professor though his colleagues and members of the police force knew him to be professional, exact and never prone to making snap judgements, thus avoiding the pitfalls of having to change his mind at a later date. Though it could be frustrating sometimes for a detective who was pressing for quick answers, Murdoch never guessed and always ascertained the facts before revealing even the hint of a suspicion about any case he was called to assist with.
Now, as he knelt by the body of the deceased girl he worked slowly and methodically, making sure that nothing pertinent to the actual death scene escaped his gaze or his examination.
"She didn't live here, then?" he asked, looking up at Holland.
"No, we don't know who she is yet, but the people who live in the house were shocked as hell to find us all on their doorstep a little while ago. They've no idea who she is either so it's likely she wasn't from around here. Why do you ask, Chas? Is it important that she didn't live here?"
"Not really. I just wondered whether she might have been killed on the way in or out of the house, that's all. If she had been we'd have needed to carry out a thorough forensic examination of the property."
"We may still have to do that," Holland replied. "We only have Mr and Mrs Harland's word for the fact that they didn't know her."
"You think they may be lying?"
"No, but we might have to make sure."
"Where are the householders, by the way?"
"We've already evacuated them to the church hall, along with the people who live either side of the house. We don't want the locals treading all over potential forensic evidence, now do we?"
"I'm surprised they agreed to leave their homes at this time of the morning," said Murdoch.
"I don't think any of them really fancied the idea of staring out at a corpse and a whole herd of police and forensic officers while they ate their breakfasts or tried to get ready for work. They soon went quietly when we told them what had happened."
Murdoch changed the direction of the conversation.
"Have your men searched for anything that might identify her?"
"They haven't touched the body, if that's what you mean. They've looked around the street and there's no sign of a purse or anything that might have been hers. For now, she's a victim without a name."
"Poor kid," said Murdoch. "She wasn't very old, that's for sure. What a way to end up."
He said no more, and simply returned to his examination of the body. After five minutes, he stood and faced Holland, standing waiting patiently a few yards away, speaking quietly to Wright while the doctor carried out his initial examination.
"Well?" asked the detective inspector.
"Cause of death is almost certainly the deep incisive wound to the neck," Murdoch stated, matter-of-factly. "The other wounds were all inflicted post-mortem as far as I can tell. I'll be able to fully confirm that at autopsy. At least she was dead before the killer began his butchery."
"Any idea of the time she was killed, doc?" asked Wright.
"Judging by the state of rigor, and the lividity of the skin tissue, I'd say she was killed soon after midnight, maybe between then and two a.m."
"And no-one saw her until the boat-builder came along?"
"It's a quiet street in a quiet are
a, sergeant," Holland chimed in. "I'd imagine all the residents were tucked up in their beds by the time our killer brought the girl along here to carry out the murder."
"But surely she would have screamed, or struggled, made some sound or done something to alert the folks in the houses," an exasperated Wright went on.
"Not necessarily." This was Murdoch once again joining the conversation. "If the killer got her to turn around so her back was facing him, he could have grabbed her around the face, effectively gagging her, and cut her throat so fast she'd have had no chance to scream. A wound as deep as he inflicted on her would have made damn sure she had no way of crying out for help. All that would be coming out of her mouth would have been blood and gurgles as she gasped her life out."
"Oh, great, thanks, doc," said Wright. "You certainly know how to paint a pretty picture for us, don't you?"
"Sorry, sergeant," Murdoch grinned sheepishly, "but I thought you'd like to know just how he could have done it so silently."
"Yeah, but, there's something I don't get about that theory," said a quizzical Wright.
"And that is?"
"Why would she turn her back on him? The only reason I can think of for her doing that in a dark street in the middle of the night would be if she was about&"
"To have sex with him! If she was a prostitute, like Laura Kane, she would possibly have turned around, hitched up her skirt for him to do it from behind, and that's when he struck." Holland finished Wright's theory for him.
"Exactly, boss. Which means that we might have a serial killer on the loose, one who's targeting prostitutes."
"If that's the case, then this could possibly be just the start, sergeant. He's killed twice already. Why should he stop now? We're going to have to work hard to catch this bastard before he does it again. Chas, can you get those autopsy results to us as soon as you can, please?"
"No problem," said Murdoch. "Now that I've confirmed death and made my preliminary examination, the body can be removed. We'll leave the Scenes of Crime team to search for trace evidence at the scene and I'll get straight on with the autopsy as soon as I get her back to the lab."
"Let me know if you find anything to suggest she was working the streets will you?"
"Apart from her clothes you mean?" Murdoch gestured towards the body, now lying on a black plastic sheet, ready to be lifted into the equally black body bag that was being removed from the back of the waiting ambulance.
"She does look a bit obvious, doesn't she?" said Wright, looking at the girl's short black min-skirt, black patent high heels, and the almost see- through white nylon blouse that left very little to the imagination. The skimpy red thong she'd been wearing had been cut or torn from her body by the killer and had been found beside her body. Her lips were also painted in a vivid shade of red lip gloss that gave her mouth even in death, a lascivious and provocative appearance.
At that moment, a uniformed constable approached the scene, carrying what appeared to be a woman's purse. He'd sensibly picked it up using the end of his notebook pencil, thereby not eliminating any fingerprints or other trace evidence.
"Sir, look what I found in one of the litter bins at the end of the street," he almost shouted in his excitement at making his discovery.
He held it out towards Holland, who stood back without touching the bag, until he'd removed a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket.
"Is it hers, sir?" said Wright as Holland tentatively opened the small black clutch bag with his gloved fingers.
Holland was silent for a few seconds as he examined the interior of the potentially crucial piece of evidence. There were six unused condoms, confirmation perhaps of the girl's line of work. Any money and credit cards she may have possessed were gone, and the purse appeared other wise empty. He looked again, probing the interior with his well trained eyes. In a small plastic window section at the side of the purse's interior, he saw something that caught his eye. Borrowing a pair of tweezers from one of the nearby forensic technicians he carefully removed the small photograph contained within the window.
"It's hers all right," he said solemnly as he held the photo out for Wright to see.
The smiling face that peered out from the photo was that of the dead girl, and on either side of the teenager were the faces of what most probably were her parents. The happy smiles belied the stark appearance of the dead girl now lying before them, lifeless and unfeeling. Holland felt a pang of sadness as he gazed at the happy family scene in the photo. What, he wondered, had happened to turn this young girl away from the bosom of her family, to end up selling her body on the streets of Brighton in the dead of night?
"He must have emptied it as he ran, taking her cash with him," said Wright. "And in the dark he probably didn't see the photo at the side."
"Either that or he didn't care whether we found out who she is," Holland replied. "Her identity was probably of no importance to him. The poor girl was just the target for his perverted lust, I'd think."
"Is there any sign that she'd indulged in sexual activity just before she was killed?" asked Wright, turning to Murdoch again.
"Let me get her back to the lab and get on with the autopsy. I'll be able to tell you more then," he replied.
"Right then," said Holland. "We need to get this photo copied and into the papers and media as soon as we can. Someone out there may have lost a daughter, and we need to find them and identify the girl as fast as we can."
Now that the prospect of a serial killer being on the loose in the town had been raised, and would probably be confirmed by the autopsy, Holland wanted to move fast. Whoever was responsible for the deaths of two women in the space of three weeks might just be ready to kill again, and soon.
"You'll check the wounds, right, Chas? If they were made by the same knife that killed Laura Kane&"
"Say no more. I'm on it." said the doctor. "You go find that poor girl's parents. They must be wondering where their daughter is by now, I would think."
"Let's hope they'll be the last grieving parents I have to confront in this damned case," said Holland, his wishful thinking betraying his own revulsion at the thoughts of the vicious and callous murderer who appeared to be stalking the streets of Brighton, his Brighton, his home town.
He and Carl Wright left the scene soon afterwards, his uniformed team of sergeants and constables left to carry out house to house inquiries and the forensic team of scenes of crime officers going about their task of attempting to glean information and trace evidence from the murder scene. Holland knew there was little more he could do on Catherine Street for the time being. His own net would have to be cast wider, his first priority being to identify the latest victim. As soon as the photograph had been copied and blown up to a larger size back at headquarters Carl Wright and two constables departed for the red-light district in an attempt to find someone who could identify the dead girl. It may be daylight, but there would always be people around in that area. And if they struck out in their day time attempts, they could always return at night when the victim's fellow prostitutes would be out in force. The weather was warm, and night not yet quite drawing in as autumn approached, and business would be brisk for those who plied their trade on the mean streets by night.
Calls to the local newspapers and television networks would lead to a high degree of co-operation from the media as each agreed to carry the photograph of the dead girl and her parents, as Holland believed them to be, in their late editions and news bulletins.
In the only piece of good luck he'd received so far in the case of the two dead girls, Mike Holland wouldn't have long to wait for the identity of the latest victim to be confirmed.
Chapter 10
The Parents
The sky, as seen from Holland's office window, revealed a patina of blue and white, thin clouds resembling the wave crests that rolled in atop the waves that broke upon the seashore of Brighton's famous beach. The detective inspector stared upwards, lost in thought as he awaited the arrival of the parents of t
he murdered girl. The television appeal had produced the desired result, in that within twenty minutes of the news broadcast being aired, a phone call to the police had given the police a name to apply to the second victim of the apparently frenzied murderer who now appeared to be stalking the dark night streets of the town.
Holland considered the possibility that he was getting too old for this sort of thing. Aged forty-eight and long divorced from Susan, who couldn't cope with the long hours of loneliness that accompany the role of policeman's wife, he'd had to cope with this type of situation too many times since he'd first joined the force at the tender age of twenty-one. His once luxuriant brown hair had thinned and now revealed traces of grey at the sides and back. His brown eyes had definitely lost some of the sparkle that had once made him attractive to the opposite sex, and he felt tired, tired of chasing the bad guys week in week out only to see many of those he arrested released through lack of evidence or sentenced to short derisory sentences by liberal minded, politically correct magistrates and judges who seemed to care more for the rights of the criminal than those of the victims.
