by Adam Croft
Wendy looked at Culverhouse. He seemed to be desperately trying to process it all.
‘I’m not convinced,’ he finally replied. ‘The number 29 thing is a bit weird, but the rest of it doesn’t strike me as odd. Do you know how many prostitutes and heavy drinkers there are in Mildenheath?’
‘Alright, guv,’ Debbie said. ‘Then what about this? The first murder was committed on 31st August 1888. The second was on 7th September 1888. Do those dates ring a bell?’
‘Of course they fucking do, but that doesn’t mean anything. So they were killed on the same day as our two. That’s the only similarity as far as I can see.’
‘Are you serious, guv?’ Wendy said, by now far more convinced it could be a possible lead than Culverhouse was. ‘The deaths of Lindsay Stott and Keira Quinn look completely unconnected, right? What’s to say they are totally connected, but only in the mind of the killer? If they match some sort of bizarre pattern he’s trying to create, it all makes sense. If he’s a copycat killer, trying to follow the canon of Jack the Ripper is just perfect. It’s the ultimate murder mystery for most people.’
‘Are you two shitting me?’ Culverhouse barked. ‘Jack the bloody Ripper? This isn’t deepest, darkest, nineteenth century Whitechapel, Knight. It’s sodding Mildenheath.’
‘Guv, I think we should take it a bit more seriously. Look into it. See what other parallels could be drawn,’ Wendy said, seeing that Debbie’s bubble had clearly been burst.
‘You can draw any parallels you like. You can see anything you want to see,’ Culverhouse replied. ‘They were all women. They all had long hair. They were all British. They all lived in a town. They all had fannies. See? Piece of piss, this.’
‘I think you’re being facetious, sir,’ Wendy said, firmly.
‘Sir? Since when do you call me fucking sir?’
‘When I’m angry at you, sir,’ Wendy replied, only half-jokingly.
‘Right, well “guv” is fine with me when you’re not getting all pre-menstrual. Perhaps now you could both get down to some real work?’
Wendy shook her head and snorted. She could see she wasn’t going to get anywhere by pushing him, but she knew exactly how to play Culverhouse.
‘Come on, Debbie. We’ll get the kettle on. Like good little girls.’
Wendy turned back as she reached the door and addressed her DCI. ‘Sir, might I just add that if our killer seems to be recreating the Ripper murders, we should hope it’s the canonical five he’s following and not all of the ones which have been rumoured to be his. Because if there’s more, they could have been happening for years, and anywhere across the country. And they’ll be happening for a long time yet. Your call.’
As Wendy left the incident room, Culverhouse noticed that they’d left the Jack the Ripper book on the desk. He looked at the door and then back at the book.
25
16th September
Culverhouse was kicking himself for having told Hawes he’d know within a week whether the murders were linked or not. He hated committing himself to timeframes, knowing that most complicated CID cases were completely outside the normal realms of time. More often than not, things would be resolved when they were resolved.
He planned to try and steer the Chief Constable away from that particular line of conversation today, even though he’d been specifically called in to see him exactly six days after he’d promised him a decision within a week.
His plan to skirt around the conversation was thwarted straight away as Hawes got straight to the point once again.
‘So, what are you going to do, Jack?’
‘How do you mean, sir?’
‘The two cases. What have you got? Are they linked or not?’
Even though he’d been expecting the question for days, Culverhouse still didn’t have an answer. Saying yes would potentially spark a media frenzy and local panic, as well as increasing the pressure on him and his team to get results. Saying no would mean that he’d be kicked off at least one of the cases and Malcolm Pope would be parachuted in to take over. Saying he still didn’t know would lose him an enormous amount of face and probably result in both the media frenzy and the end of his leadership of both cases.
‘I’m starting to think they might be, sir,’ he finally replied. There was only one thing for it; he’d have to stand up to the media and ensure the shitstorm was kept to a minimum.
‘You think they might be? Can you be a little more definite, perhaps?’ the Chief Constable asked.
‘Okay, yes, I’m now running with the assumption that they’re linked.’
‘I see. And can you tell me why?’
Culverhouse made a small grunting noise. He wasn’t about to say Because Debbie Weston’s reading a book about Jack the Ripper and there’s a couple of similarities.
‘The forensics and pathology reports seem to indicate some aspects of both deaths which are similar. The anatomical precision, both bodies being left away from their homes in places they weren’t familiar with. Both women being divorced or separated, heavy drinkers, either not working or working as prostitutes.’
Chief Constable Hawes nodded, not taking his eyes off Culverhouse. ‘But what’s new? This is all stuff we knew within hours of the women dying. Why weren’t you immediately certain of a link? What’s changed?’
Culverhouse swallowed. ‘In my experience, sir, I find it’s always best to sit back and take an objective look. Taking an extra couple of days to be sure is always preferable to jumping the gun.’
‘Are you sure the families of the victims would agree with you, Jack?’
‘With respect, sir, the two victims don’t have families.’
Hawes nodded silently. ‘I’ll leave it to you, Jack. I’ll let you take the lead on this. But I’m warning you now, you don’t have time to keep sitting back and taking objective looks. The PCC’s not my biggest fan, nor am I his. I need results on this and — let’s be frank — so do you. If Malcolm Pope gets wind of this, his secondment will go well above my head. He’s about the only senior officer who’s in bed with Martin Cummings. If you’ll forgive the turn of phrase.’
‘I’ve no idea what you mean, sir,’ Culverhouse said, smiling sweetly. ‘But don’t worry. That prick Pope won’t even get past reception. I’ll make sure of that.’
‘There’s only one way you can do that, Jack. You and I both know that.’
‘It’s fine, sir,’ Culverhouse said, rising from his seat. ‘I’ll sort it.’
26
19th September
Helen stared out of the window of her hotel room at the passing cars, most of them with only one occupant but many with more. Happy couples, young families, groups of friends. People all going about their daily lives, happy and carefree. Something Helen longed for.
Even in her darkest moments, she knew she had to do what was best for Emily. The only problem with that was that she didn’t know what was best for Emily. After everything that had happened to the girl, how could she approach it?
She knew she couldn’t keep fobbing Jack off for long, that much was true. Sooner or later he’d demand an answer or, worse, find it out for himself. She couldn’t risk that. This had to be done on her terms. After so many years of being more than happy to play second fiddle to him, she’d only managed to regain her independence after leaving him. She certainly wasn’t about to risk going back to square one again.
She turned the handle on the window and pushed it open as far as it would go, which wasn’t far. The sounds of the outside world rushed in on a warm, humid breeze and it struck her how removed she felt from it all. It was probably the medication, she told herself, but that didn’t reassure her much. This stuff was meant to be making her better, but more often than not it just numbed her and left her feeling frustrated and confused.
She’d been turning it over and over in her head ever since she’d spoken to Jack over a week ago. The longer she left it the more comfortable she felt, but the chances of Jack taking matters into his own
hands would also grow day by day. It was a delicate balancing act.
He hadn’t found her up until now, but then he said he hadn’t been looking. Was that true? Jack was a proud man, she knew that much, but did that mean he was too proud to look or that he was too proud to have spent years in the wilderness without a clue as to what had happened? She realised she didn’t know how to read him any more. Too much time had passed. Too much had changed.
Sometimes she wondered why she kept going. It would be far easier not to. Deep down, though, she knew why. She knew that it was right to keep fighting, no matter what. It was one of the rare times she was thankful for her stubbornness.
There’d been good times, undoubtedly, but the memories were fading. Memories of long walks in the park, Jack pushing Emily on the swings, buying ice creams, walking home and flaking out in front of the TV. She couldn’t even be sure they were real memories. Were they just fantasies? She was sure she couldn’t actually recall a time when Jack hadn’t been so consumed with his work that he’d take a day off to become the family man. If he had, she wouldn’t have left. Would she?
The subjectiveness of memory frustrated Helen. How much did she truly remember and how much had been warped and shaped by her anger and feelings about Jack? Had her mixed-up emotions played on the fragile nature of memory and distorted it out of all proportion? The more time that passed, the less sure she was. That was why she’d had to go back. That was why she’d had to return to Mildenheath. She needed to know. She had to justify what had happened. Deep down, she knew that.
In many ways, she had her answer. Jack hadn’t changed, that much was clear. It still didn’t answer everything, but it was enough to put her mind at rest for now. The upset and opening of old wounds had left its mark on her, though, and there was still some closure needed.
Not now, though. Now was not the time.
27
22nd September
Jack Culverhouse, more than anybody, knew that sometimes you could just try too hard. That was why he often liked to sit in silence, eyes closed, nursing a glass of water, mug of coffee or preferably something stronger. At least he told himself that was the reason.
The investigation into the deaths of Keira Quinn and Lindsay Stott had entered what was referred to as the ‘dead zone’, the period after the initial discoveries, interviews and investigations and the point at which things started to go quiet. The truth was that most murder investigations were wrapped up pretty quickly following the results from forensics and speaking to family and friends. Once that phase was over and there were still no leads, it was time for the meticulous combing of bank records, previous employers, further door to door enquiries and an ever-growing mound of paperwork.
His few stolen seconds of tranquility were swiped from him when DS Frank Vine knocked on the office door and let himself in without waiting for an answer.
‘The Dear Leader wants to see you in his lair,’ Frank said. ‘Sounds important.’
‘It usually is. That’s what being the Chief Constable entails, Frank.’
Frank shuffled on his feet, shrugged his shoulders and left the room. After taking a couple of moments to compose himself, Culverhouse followed.
The Chief Constable’s office was situated on the top floor of Mildenheath Police Station, being both awkward to access and giving the psychological impression of Hawes being top dog — as well as the accompanying views across Mildenheath Common and beyond.
The office of the Chief Constable had once been permanently located at Mildeneath Police Station back when the town was the most prominent within the county, but most central business had since moved to plush new offices twenty miles up the road at Milton House. The vast majority of CID had gone the same way, but Mildenheath had been fortunate to retain a small CID team of its own, partly for reasons of political concession but perhaps more so due to the mechanics of supply and demand.
Hawes’s office was situated at Milton House, too, but he retained one at Mildenheath for times when it would be more practical, such as when Mildenheath CID had complex or prominent cases on the go.
As Culverhouse reached the office, he knocked on the door and waited for Hawes to answer before going in.
‘Ah, Jack. Do sit down. Tea? Coffee?’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Culverhouse replied, sitting in the black leather office chair nearest to him.
‘How’s everything going? Any progress?’
‘We’re always progressing, sir,’ Culverhouse said. ‘Perhaps not always as fast as we’d like, but you know these things take time.’
‘I do. I do indeed,’ Hawes replied. It was Culverhouse’s saving grace that Hawes had himself come up through the CID branch of policing and knew the pressures and unexpected deviations the job brought. ‘But unfortunately for us, the Police and Crime Commissioner’s not quite so knowledgeable in this area.’
‘What, policing?’ Culverhouse asked, only half joking.
Hawes chuckled. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Martin Cummings is a democratically elected official, don’t you know.’
‘Funnily enough, he has mentioned it once or twice. Is that what this is all about, sir? The PCC putting on pressure for results? Because I hate to say it, but this pissing about, dragging me into endless meetings for updates isn’t doing anything to speed up the process. If anything, it’s slowing it down. You know what I think about politicians meddling in policing, but when he’s in danger of fucking up a double murder investigation it’s more than a step too far.’
‘Oh, I agree, Jack. I quite agree,’ Hawes said, raising his hands in mock surrender. ‘You’re preaching to the choir on that one. But it’s... different this time.’
‘Different? How?’ Culverhouse asked, cocking his head.
Hawes sighed loudly and stood up from his seat, moving over to the window to look out at his exclusive view over Mildenheath Common. ‘We’re lucky to be here, Jack. In this building, I mean. Right in the middle of a bustling town. Right on the doorstep of the people we protect and the scrotes we’re out to nab. Very lucky. They shut down all the other CID departments and moved them to Milton House.’
‘I know,’ Culverhouse replied. He had always been thankful that Hawes had put his foot down when the government had demanded more ‘streamlined’ policing a few years back and had resisted what otherwise amounted to a complete takeover by county hall.
‘Out in the middle of bloody nowhere. Nearest civilisation, Lower Norton: population 42. Just where you want your finest crew of detectives. I didn’t have much say over that, but I was at least able to kick up as much of a fuss as I could. The Home Office weren’t keen on the prospect of being taken through the courts by people who knew better than them, which is why we got certain concessions. Concessions made to me as the Chief Constable. This CID department being one. But, as you know, the system doesn’t quite have the same... hierarchy any more.’
‘Cummings?’ Culverhouse asked, already knowing the answer to the question.
‘Cummings. I’m sure you already know — we all bloody know — this is the most underfunded police force in the country. Anywhere else, that’d be hugely disappointing. With our crime rate, it’s a bloody travesty. The PCC’s keen to cut costs where he can, and he’s not convinced that running a satellite CID office in Mildenheath is worth the money.’
‘Well he can go fuck himself,’ Culverhouse replied.
‘Quite. But the fact remains that it’s his decision. If the Home Office put pressure on him and he agrees, it happens. If he raises it himself, the Home Office will agree anyway, particularly if it’s going to save them money. My opinion counts for bugger all nowadays.’
‘So what, Cummings is putting the pressure on us to get results or he’s going to ship us all up to Milton House to keep an eye on us?’
‘Not quite, Jack. We’ve more or less got a full CID department here. And all the associated baggage. If he subsumes that into Milton House, there’s no way all the staff will be needed. There’
ll be redundancies. And big shake-ups. You practically run the CID show here. Do you reckon you’ll get the same deal up at county hall with Malcolm Pope in the building?’
Culverhouse didn’t say a word. He didn’t trust himself to.
‘And that’s not all,’ Hawes continued. ‘Cummings isn’t keen on me. Never has been. The feeling’s more than mutual, though. The only thing that keeps me from blowing up at him is being able to come and keep an eye on things down here and get away from him for a bit. If we had permanent offices next to each other, I’d be out on my ear inside six weeks. He’s just looking for a reason to do it.’
‘Don’t give him one, then.’
‘Not that easy, Jack. As you know, if someone wants to find a reason, they’ll find one.’
Hawes sat back down at his desk. Culverhouse stared at the telephone sat next to his computer keyboard, mainly because he didn’t want to make eye contact with Hawes.
‘What I’m saying, Jack, is I’m on your side here. What can I do to help?’
Culverhouse swallowed and stood up. ‘Nothing. I can handle it.’
28
25th September
He looked at his watch. Almost three o’clock in the morning.
He’d given them too much credit. Far too much credit. He was expecting a few links to have been figured out by now. Even the Victorian bobbies had started picking up suspects by now.
