I fish out my phone and open WhatsApp. Those fags'll be the death of you. Tee hee.
- It's him! I scream silently. It's that fucking son of a bitch!
I show them my phone.
- Get IT on the line right now. He's been sending me messages! I didn't know what they meant up until now. It must have been him!
Lopez's face is drawn with horror. Malasana almost crushes my hand, gripping it as he reads and re-reads the message.
- It's got to be him. This can't be a coincidence. The weird number you can't send messages to. The disturbingly playful, taunting message. You can seek, but you won't find, tee hee
- Boss. He's near. Very near,' says Malasana, cold as ice.
We sit around the des and I leave my phone in the middle of it as if it were to suddenly emit a definitive revelation with a puff of smoke and a bang. But also as if it contained the world's darkest terrors. It's not just a phone anymore. It's a direct line to the killer.
Lopez is trembling with fear.
My eyes on his, the best police officer of us all, I try and untangle the torment:
- He knows me. He knows who I am. At some point he was so near me he picked up a cigarette butt I threw on the ground...
- He's just waiting for the day he can start sending us letters, says Malasana detachedly.
- What letters? Lopez leans forward.
- The same letters the Ripper sent the police and press in 1888. He's going to make this a big fucking mess, boss.
- He's humiliating me. If we don't catch him, I'll never be able to show my face again.
- We've got to kill him, Malasana says.
No one knows what to say. The AC unit fills the silent room with maddening white noise. I feel the heat emanating off me in waves, sweat pouring down my forehead. Threatening to trickle down into my eyes until I reach up a hand and wipe it away.
Death, the most final, solemn sentence, burying us in horrific silence. But no one protests.
I did not know Hell would be so quiet.
A scant two hours later I'm shouting at an officer at the Cyber Crimes Unit because what do you mean you can't trace the number the killer sent the messages from? He sent them from here! Streets away! I shout. It's a bloody disgrace. Any two-bit hacker can back up our operations but we can't get him.
The officer stares back at me matter-of-factly, holding back his urge to tell me to stick it where the sun don't shine. My rank keeps him quiet. He looks at my phone, hooked up to his laptop.
- Have you heard of the Darknet? he asks, not looking at me.
- No, I bloody well haven't, I spit back rudely.
- It's the dark zone, he explains, an expression of fatalistic patience on his face as if he were explaining the existence of evil to a child. The dark side of the Internet. 95% of it is part of the Deepweb, any part of the Internet not connected to regular user traffic flows. But there's an even darker part, Darknet, much more highly organised and better hidden. Its main priority is protecting the identity of its users. There are lots of networks, like CJDNS, that were set up to hide people's identities. You can access the Darknet via the TOR browser, which is now accessible to basically anyone.
- So what does that mean? You can't trace the messages?
- It uses routing between servers to hide the original IP address, he carries on with infinite patience, encoding all the traffic in every connection to make it impossible to go back and check who's connected.
He pauses to see whether I get it. Finally, he closes his eyes, indifferent to my frustration.
- It's perfect for scammers, paedophiles and drugs or arms traffickers. All jurisdiction is based on a country's territory, so we can't take action until we know where exactly the servers are based. And these ones could be in Yemen or Afghanistan.
- So basically it's impossible.
- Almost. Even more so in such a short timeframe.
- What a fucking mess.
- Either way, we'll tap your phone, see if there are any traces there.
Finally, they copy the contents of my mobile and SIM card to their computer and hard disk and leave, apologizing and making empty promises of hope.
I order Lopez, Malasana and Martin to take all the materials we've gathered down to a room in the basement hidden away in the labyrinth of corridors. I order a few other officers to bring us a few giant panels and a while later the four of us are pinning up photos and maps, jotting own leads, names, places, ideas, flow charts with fat black markers.
I tell them to print off all the old photographs and engravings, including the drawings from the 1888 papers, and put them up on a panel next to ours, to visualize every possible comparison. Lastly, we put up a list of the original Jack the Ripper's feats (change), from his first crimes to his last, with the dates the letters were sent and any other relevant details in his story.
We pin up a list of the imitator's exploits next to it. It's strikingly short in comparison, and looking at them side by side, we shiver at what he may yet do if we don't catch him.
I get a call from Braulio, the pathologist (change to this), and ask him to come down.
- Welcome to our chamber of horrors.
Braulio has the final reportwith him. He looks around.
- This is all a bit much for me.
He examines the autopsy pictures, then looks carefully at the photos of the original Ripper victims: Mary Anne Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddows and Mary Kelly.
- Except for Kelly, the profile is different. Ours likes them younger. Why? He turns to look at us. His thick glasses usually do the job of hiding his emotions, but today the grief and exhaustion are plain to see. 'He always tries to keep everything exactly the same.
- But he's made a few changes. No DNA samples, no prints, different locations to the original.
- He likes them younger because they're easier prey. No fifty-year-old prositutues around here. That's all there is to it, interrupts Malasana.
I open the case file and feel the urge to gag at the photos.
- Worse than the first one, remarks Braulio.
- Anything else that's different? From what we know about the original.
- He followed the same pattern in the disembowelment. Organ to organ. There you go. There's just one thing.
He pulls up a photograph of the thigh. Into the flesh, the murderer has carved a triangle containing an oval with a central dot.
- Another bloody occult symbol. Not a clue what it might mean.
- You need help, he says simply.
- I know, I admit.
- They're saying you're getting taken off the case.
- "News gets around fast," I complain.
Malasana, Martin and Lopex just stare.
- "Can't be true," says Malasana bitterly, violently.
- They're sending in a UCO unit from Madrid. And a different one from the General Comission for Information. They haven't notified me yet that I'm to be taken off the case.
- Well, they're not giving me the boot, says Malasana. This is a drawing of the All-Seeing Eye.
I sent for Ramona and stood her in front of Bogdan's cell, in full view. Contrary to expectations, Bogdan didn't threaten her. Ramona didn't say a word. Just stood there in front of her former pimp, looking him full in the face, her fear gone.
Bogdan must have got a fright, because a while later he asks me to come down. He's still in the corner cell. He barely has room to stand up in the tiny, stinking hovel. He stinks, too.
He makes as if to leave, but I grab him.
- His name. And I want to know where he is. Til then, nothing.
He stops moving. Blinks, the strip lights from the corridor blinding him after hours of darkness. His mouth open, jaw slack. For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him, the forlorn pimp. He's taken off his shirt and I see the sweat gleaming on his tattooed torso.
- Not here. I'm going mad. I can't
breathe.
- His name and the best cell is yours. It's practically a hotel.
- Radu Ribokas, he says suddenly. From Ocua Mures, born in 1978. That's all I know.
- Where is he? Tell me and the suite is yours.
- I don't know. He looks down in defeat.
I slam the door behind me and Bogdan screams, begging, saying he doesn't know and has never been to his house. But he can give me the location where they used to meet.
I open the door again and wait.
- If you can guarantee my safety, I can tell you more.
I take him to a big room with a skylight. He lifts his face towards it and closes his eyes. It's not a cell, but I have a cot brought in for him. He can stay here if I like what he tells me.
- Malasana joins us. Is he singing, then?
He asks for a cigarette and we wait for some chairs to be brought in. Then the cot arrives.
- I want to have a wash, asks Bogdan limply.
- You will,I promise.
- And something to eat.
- Yes.
Bogdan is caught between fear and desire. His face tenses up, and for a moment I see the face of a much younger man, a headstrong teenager who might never have got in so deep if he hadn't got stuck on the wrong side of the tracks. Observing him, I see that without the violence etched into his face, now dissipating, he would be handsome, if not fine-boned.
I ask Malasana to check the name he's given us right away. I want to make sure he's not feeding us a tall tale.
Malasana is back almost immediately and plunks himself down next to me.
- He's got another officer to look it up. I want to see what our little puppy's got to say.
He looks at Bogdan, still visibly shaken by his ordeal, fidgeting on his chair, his hands working.
- You stink, so let's make this quick. Unless you need some encouragement?
Malasana's threats get Bogdan talking. He sniffs loudly and begins.
- He's really scary... he says hesitantly. Smart. You won't get him.
- Why not?
- He hasn't got a house.
We stare at him, not understanding.
- He doesn't... try out the women. We do.
- Rape, I warn him.
Bogdan shuts up for a minute. Then protests.
- I'm doing what you said.
- Go on.
- But...
- Go on!
He grinds the cigarette butt into the floor with his foot and carries on.
- He lives with his wife. Moving around. No fixed address or location. Sometimes in a caravan. I saw him in a caravan at the beach once, like a tourist. Sometimes in an empty unit at the industrial estate.
- Abandoned?
- Yes.
- Where?
He shrugs.
- Lots of different places. Here... in Roquetas. In Almeria. He always does the same thing. Gives us a meeting, time and place, and we meet there. He takes the money and gives us our orders.
- Why do you obey him? Why don't you just keep the money, the women, the business?
He smiles coldly, a scornful look in his eyes.
- One of the guys tried that.
Silence.
- Nothing left of him. All he brought us was his head. So we'd see. He put it on the table while he talked to us. Then, when he'd finished, he told me to throw away the rubbish.
- Have you got his number?
- He changes it every three or four days. Sends a text from his new number. Always different.
Bogdan's starting to loosen up now, sprawling in his chair. He smiles to himself thinking about how clever Radu is. He holds us in contempt because we haven't caught him yet - and he doesn't think we ever will.
- Tell me about his wife.
He guffaws.
- You can't imagine. She's ugly. Fat and ugly. He can have the best women, whenever he wants, totally free. And he won't touch them. Not one. Just his wife.
- Describe her.
- Romanian. Speaks good Spanish, like Radu. Short, fat, ugly clothes. He makes a moue of scorn.
- Do you know her name?
He bobs his head.
- He calls her Crina. S'all I know.
Malasana looks for a map so Bogdan can point out the places they're met in the past.
- Here. Here. Here. Bogdan's stubby finger points to location after another, in the outskirts of Baria, Almeria, Roquetas de Mar and El Ejido.
Never the same spot. Scheduled meetings with his pimps so they can report back and Radu can maintain control of the business. Then Radu vanishes into thin air and his pimps take the hit if it comes. If one gets caught, he can easily be replaced. And the rest get on with the business.
- What kind of car does he drive?
He shrugs. Lifts his hands to his face, his tattooed arms on full show, crowded with too much ink. A woman's name. A skill. A Cross of Peter. An indecipherable Gothic drawing.
- He changes cars. Switches back and forth.
- Which one was he in last time?
- An old BMW.
- Number plates?
- Like I'd know.
- What does he do with the money? Malasana asks.
- He gets angry if there's less than what he expected. Distrbutes it depending on what you bring in. If my girls get more work, I earn more, get it?
- Where does he keep the money?
- How the fuck should I know?
I want a seat in the front row
The star of the show
And the best-seated spectator
The Master of Puppets
Ha ha ha hahahahahahaha
The power of imitation in Art
Mimesis
An artist sees scenery and transforms it into art
I see a whore
And make her a scapegoat
Myth. Nemesis.
Hahahahahahahahahahahaha
6
After we leave Bogdan in his new palace and head back to the offices, Garcia calls my name.
He motions to a man sitting in the entrance. He's about forty-five, tall, good-looking, well turned-out. He looks nervously from side to side, unable to hide his discomfort.
He trembles slightly as he introduces himself. 'Daniel Albala.
- I knew the victim,' he manages to stammer.
I let him stew for a while in the most desolate office in the building, at the very back of the station. Then Malasana comes in abruptly without saying hello and I stand to one side so Albala can't see me properly. Malasana begins.
- Did you know Cristiana Stoicescu?
He has trouble swallowing thickly before he begins, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He takes a breath and nods.
- Yes...
- How?
- Through some people I knew...
- Who?
- Some friends.
- Which friends?
Albala tears at his cuticles. He doesn't know how to be still, how to breathe, where to look.
- At Noom. Someone had hired her and the guy left her there on her own. One of my friends bought her a drink and she sat with us for a bit. There were three or four of us.
- And then what happened?
- Nothing. Someone took her home. But one of the guys got her number and...
- And what? Spit it out.
- I phoned her. I liked her...
- Did you know she was a prostitute?
- Of course.
- Go on. Or do you need some help?
Daniel Albala draws himself up indignantly.
- Excuse me. I came here of my own...
- If you hadn't come to us we would have come for you,' I cut him off.
I lean over, offering him a cigarette. He looks at it with surprise. Shakes his head slightly.
- My wife was on holiday with her parents. It was summer. And I phoned her and took h
er to dinner. We went to Atrio, in Carboneras.
- What else?
- Nothing.
- What do you mean, nothing?' shouts Malasana.
- We just had s-sex, that's all. I gave her a lift into town, dropped her off where she told me to and went home.
- Where did you take her?
- To a flat I have in Las Negras.
- Did you see her again?
- No.
- You really expect me to believe that?
- No. It was dangerous.
- Why?
- Because... I was scared I might start to really like her, without meaning to.
- And?
- That's all.
- That's all?
- Yes. Really. I swear. It was a one-off thing. She was gorgeous. But that's it. Just the once.
I move my head from side to side. Albala turns around to see my face, but it's too late. I leave the room, swearing under my breath. Nothing. He's telling the truth.
A while later Malasana tells me he's sent him to the Las Negras flat with a couple of officers to examine it and corroborate the story with Albala's friends. We both know it's true.
I'm the new Abberline. The failed policeman who couldn't catch Jack the Ripper. He might have failed, but what about me? One hundred and twenty-five years of technical, forensic and psychological investigation on him and I can't even find a decent lead.
Night falls and the journos come looking for scraps are still huddled under the arches of the old market, a hundred yards from where the killer disemboweled Diana Carolina Mieles. They move their cameras and microphones around in tandem, like the limbs of some voracious monster. I fear they want this nightmare to go on so they can carry on feeling important, more intelligent than the force failing to close in on the killer, to sell off their pseudo-informative nightmare scenarios wrapped in cellophane.
The Ripper Page 12
