Unlikely Killer

by Ricki Thomas

  Checking her watch, Adelaide stood up, tugging her leather mini skirt over her heavy thighs. She shrugged the tight leather jacket over her shoulders, covering the skimpy vest top. “I’d best get going, I’m dead tired tonight.” Ivan nodded, smiling kindly, he grabbed his keys and they went through the door, Ivan locking up once they’d stepped into the unusually chilly night.

  The breeze was up, Adelaide trotted ahead, her skinny heels clicking against the pavement, and she hugged the jacket tightly over her ample bosom, whilst Ivan finished securing the bar. He strode his massive, manly steps, and caught up with her in moments. Walking in silence along Old Montague Street, deep in their own thoughts as they travelled Vallance Road, and soon they had reached Whitechapel Road. Adelaide’s steps quickened, her arm reached for her boss. Relaxed by the wine she had forgotten Roger and his intimidation, but now the memory chilled her.

  “Ivan, I can feel someone’s eyes boring into my back.” Adelaide, scared, didn’t look behind her, but Ivan did.

  “I can’t see anyone.” He took her hand, clenching reassuringly, her fingers like a child’s compared to his. “Don’t worry, I’m with you. You’ll be home safely in no time.” And she squeezed him back.

  They had been dancing most of the night, they’d come to chill out completely and that’s exactly what they were doing. Every hour or so they’d head for the bar, order a refreshing drink to stave away the dehydration. Mary, Nat and Tara, brows glistening with unladylike sweat, shook their booties, lost in their own worlds, lost in the booming beat, lost in the rhythm.

  Mary, oblivious to how seductive her hip swinging could be, was pleasantly surprised when an attractive man sidled up and fell into step with her. He caught her glance, and they danced flirtatiously, eyes locked together, the rest of the room forgotten. No words were exchanged, they were unnecessary, their hips and their eyes held the conversation.

  After the minutes that felt like hours had passed, Roger Andrews took Mary’s hand and led her away from the dance floor, dragging her in the direction of the bar. “I’ll get you a drink.” His smile beamed, eyes flashing as he undressed her with them, and he fingered the plastic package of GHB in his pocket.

  “Thanks, I’ll have a Diet Coke please.” Roger ordered the drinks, he nodded when the barman offered a glass, but Mary stopped the man. “I’ll have mine in the bottle, please.”

  Fuming, Roger removed his hand from his pocket, bringing a ten pound note with it. He’d have to find some way of getting the drug into her drink. Adelaide had already refused him, and there was no way he intended to go home alone tonight. They took their drinks to a table, Mary’s hand shielding the top of the bottle at all times, to his dismay. He broke the ice. “My name’s Roger, what’s yours?”

  The conversation continued, and Roger was surprised at how intelligent Mary was, he wasn’t used to clever girls, and he was amazed at how sexy it was. Brief thoughts every now and then made him pleased he’d not managed to administer the drug yet, she was excellent company. But then his penis would stir, and he’d reassuringly feel the plastic pouch.

  Tara and Nat had been chatting for a while, neither were getting good vibes about their friend’s choice of companion. Eventually, Tara felt the need to intervene. She strolled to the table and, grabbing Mary’s arm, yelled “Toilets. Now.”

  Confused, Mary followed her friend. Walking past the lengthy queue of scantily clad women, they moved to the mirrors, and Tara opened her clutch bag, rooting around for a lipstick. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Mary?”

  “What? We were only messing around.” Haughty, Mary combed her deliciously long, glistening hair with her fingers.

  Tara surprised herself with her unsubstantiated anger, and in turn stunned Mary. “Don’t be such an idiot. You were leading him on. You’ll get yourself into trouble playing games like that. The Oxford Clubs are bad enough, but this is London remember. You’ve got to be careful.”

  The unusual outburst was enough to bring Mary to her senses, she checked her make up, agreeing to lose the guy and stick with her mates for the rest of the night. And no more flirting.

  Concerned that another prick teasing bitch was going to get away with humiliating him that evening, Roger closely watched the door to the ladies for Mary, and finally she exited with her friend. Mustering his most dashing smile, his white teeth glittering in the dancing lights, he beamed at Mary as he strolled towards her, grasping the spiked drink to present her. But she blanked him, not even a shrug or a nod, no acknowledgement at all.

  He was furious, raging inside his head. Muttering under his breath, the venom more dangerous than the drug he’d prescribed. “Bitch. Bloody bitch. All fucking women are bloody bitches.”

  And he caught the eye of a timid, petite redhead leaning against the wall. His winning smile replaced the scowl, and he took the Diet Coke as a gift.

  Krein walked into the room, it was just past two in the morning, and he’d just packed up work at the Yard. He’d been mulling over the plans for the next evening, and the time had swum by alarmingly quickly. His mind whirred, he knew sleep wasn’t on the agenda unless he helped it along somehow. He was dog tired, he’d barely slept in the last week, but nowadays his mind never seemed to let work go. The only answer he knew was stupor, and the whisky bottle beside the bed could provide that. He brought a glass over, pouring an extra large measure. One slug was all it took, and, grimacing with the after-burn, Krein poured another. And another. And another. Still dressed in his casual, comfortable clothes, his shoes in place, his mind went blank, and he was on top of the covers, a drunken snore emitting from his throat. His sleep was peaceful, beautiful, undisturbed, and complete to the next morning.

  Ivan and Adelaide reached the front door of Adelaide’s small, rented house in Durward Street. She turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, stepping through. In afterthought, she turned back and gave Ivan a fleeting, grateful hug.

  “Thanks ever so much, Ivan, it was really good of you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “No problem, mate, I’ll see ya.” He turned, his bear like stature ambling towards the streetlight at the end of the short path, and Adelaide watched briefly, before closing the door. Stepping into the kitchenette, she picked up the kettle, but set it back when the doorbell jangled. “What’s he forgotten?” Adelaide chuckled as returned to the hall to let Ivan in.

  She opened the door, and before her mind could register anything hands grasped her neck, squeezing, squeezing. She heard the door click shut. The pressure made Adelaide’s eyes bulge, she thought they might pop from the sockets, her chest ached with the lack of breath. She tried to recognise her attacker, but her eyes were blurred, the tall figure was blurred. Was it a woman?

  Adelaide thrust her hands at her attacker, fingers lashing out, scratching, flailing, but the pressure in her head was unbearable. Her chest craved air, it felt caved in, her energy was sapping but her kicking continued. Her body was losing the fight, but the hands squeezed harder, she felt a pop in the front of her neck, and a part of her realised the struggle was futile. Her eyes stopped seeing, the world had turned black. Her hearing was white noise, the world had become monotone.

  Paula was thankful to feel the body slump in her hands, but the vixen had put up a vicious struggle, so she continued to squeeze for a count of sixty. When Jack the Ripper had strangled Polly Nichols, he’d ensured she was dead before he’d mutilated the body, that way there was less blood.

  Finally Paula relaxed her grip, and Adelaide’s lifeless form slumped to the floor, the open eyed look of horror still glaring on her face. Paula checked for a pulse. Nothing. Her hand hovered over Adelaide’s mouth. There was no warm breath.

  Paula smiled, she was enjoying this, it was going to plan and so much easier than she had expected. She’d suspected the streets would be full of policemen, so maybe she wasn’t as interesting as she had thought she was. Or maybe God had spoken to them, and told them how important it was that she did her duties. />
  Paula cracked the front door slightly, checking there were no passers by, she leaned out and collected her carrier bag from it’s hiding place on the porch. Closing the door, she bolted top and bottom, and fed the chain across. After checking the back door and windows were secure, Paula knelt by the mottling body, noticing for the first time how much older the woman was underneath the heavy make up. She scanned her slowly, digesting every detail of her face. Reaching out a finger to touch her still warm skin, Paula’s words were tender. “God will be pleased again, you look about the right age, if I remember rightly.”

  And her mood changed, anger burgeoning as she recalled. “Those bastard children! Stealing my duties. If I ever find them I will cut them up into little pieces, one by one.” The outburst was over, the warmth was back as her concentration returned to Adelaide, and her horrified, wide eyed face. “God asked me to do this because I’m special. Your name is Polly now, it will be forever, and you are at peace. You were selected for this special privilege, you are so lucky. You will feel no pain now as I finish my duty.”

  Removing her gloves, Paula dragged the carrier bag towards the body, she rooted through the underwear and pulled out the knife, removing it from the sheath. She lay it on the floor, cupping her head in her hands as she delved through her memory to remember exactly how Jack the Ripper had mutilated Polly. Throat first, she was sure. She took the knife and pushed heavily against the delicate skin, the sharp edge penetrating swiftly. She forced it deeper until she felt the blade scraping the spine, and her pleasure was mounting.

  The next part was the abdomen, she withdrew the knife and plunged it through the leather skirt, her movements becoming frenzied as her gratification heightened. She tugged, and plunged, ripped, wrenched, sliced, slashed, the body yielding, falling apart.

  The ferocious attack finished as quickly as it had begun. Paula stood slowly, the blood on her hands mixing with the sweat that oozed, she wiped her brow, mopping the exertion with her sleeve. Regarding the body, she saw there was little blood loss, as with her predecessor’s first victim. Adelaide’s platinum hair tumbled haphazardly over the lino, blood escaping from the neck wound matting into the roots, and her innards spilled from the multiple stabbings and shredding wounds.

  Calm, Paula stepped to the kitchenette, her trainers marching the blood, she rinsed her hands, then the knife, replacing it in the sheath. She’d need it again soon. Paula tugged the gloves back on, she opened the fridge and tucked into a welcome feast.

  Mary stepped through the door at half past three, the hall light had been left on for her benefit. Linda was still awake, but after last night’s debacle she’d taken her worried waiting to bed, lest Mary’s newly vicious tongue should lash out again. The relief flooded through her, maybe she would be able to sleep now, and the welcome sound of her daughter moving around the house comforted her. She curled into a ball on her side, her ears willing to listen long enough for Mary to settle into bed. The fridge door opened. The fridge door shut. The fridge door opened, some rustling, some slicing, the fridge door shut. Footsteps up the stairs, quiet and cautious. Lights off, door closed. Linda drifted off.

  The gnawing hunger subsided quickly, Paula passed the body and mounted the stairs. Inside Adelaide’s bedroom, she felt comfortable, it was clean, it was tidy, the order relaxed her. She flicked through Adelaide’s clothes, she could do with a clean outfit, but her latest duty was a petite woman, and her clothes were tiny. The only thing of use that Paula retrieved was a small, red backpack.

  In the bathroom, Paula began running a cool bath, the atmosphere too humid to even cope with a tepid wash. She added bubble bath, the froth appearing across the surface of the water almost instantaneously. Whilst waiting for the bath to fill, Paula stripped off and washed the clothes, concentrating on the blood spatters, wringing them harshly, and hanging them up to dry. She stepped into the refreshing water, feeling the grime, the filth, the spilled blood melting from her body. Her first bath in weeks. It was bliss.

  Clean, freshened, revitalized, and relaxed, Paula climbed into Adelaide’s comfortable bed, she dragged the covers over her naked body, relishing the warmth and comfort of a real mattress and down pillow. Lights off, Paula felt an embracing sleep descending, she sighed and enjoyed.

  Sunday 31st August

  Adelaide’s body lay, tortured, broken, mutilated, on the cold linoleum floor of her hall. The crusted, blackened crimson spillage that surrounded, although minimal, was sickening. Silence echoed within her house, although outside life continued as normal, and children played delightedly, their voices chirruping happiness and laughter, oblivious to the horror lying behind the small green door they ran past frequently.

  Beside the lacerated body, Paula sat with her head in her hands, as she had done since waking at six. She had enjoyed the duty immensely, there had been a slight sexual stirring, but the greatest pleasure had arisen from the power she’d had. She’d felt in control. Although God had been the one to instruct her on the killing, it was she who had done the research, found the victim, carried out the act. Taking in the pulverised body, she knew she had recreated Jack the Ripper’s work perfectly.

  But somewhere inside her head was an odd sensation, a remorse, and this confused her. Last night she’d relished her task, but this morning she felt saddened as she looked at the result. The cheery voices chiming from the street enhanced her melancholy, they stirred a lost memory. She knew she needed to move on, find a quiet place to stay, remote and undisturbed, somewhere to talk to God in privacy. She needed his reassurance that she was the chosen one more than ever if she was to have the strength to complete the next duty. She pulled the handwritten notes from her pocket, checking. September the eighth was the next one.

  Paula stepped into the kitchenette, she prepared a sandwich with gloved hands, carefully cleaning up after herself. Emptying some food into a carrier bag, she placed it inside the new red bag, took a final look at her handiwork, and left the house, closing the door quietly, and walking towards the Whitechapel tube station.

  Several children noticed the tall lady, her dark hair scraped into a ponytail, her oversized clothes, scruffy trainers, a pair of black gloves, but they quickly returned to their games, unaware of the carnage the woman had left behind her.

  Mina and Craig remained at home while Craig’s father, Ronald Lockington, took the organiser to Windsor Police Station on Alma Road. He had severely reprimanded his remorseful son that morning, he wasn’t to steal, he wasn’t to pry, and he must remember that his father is a company director who isn’t willing to have his son tarnish his excellent reputation.

  Abruptly, Ronald explained the situation to the desk sergeant, apologising for his son’s behaviour, and promising to keep a tighter leash on him from now on. The desk sergeant appeared disinterested in the details at first, but something twigged in his mind. “Where did you say your son took this from?”

  “Some old boathouse, not far from Boveney Lock.” Ronald, impatient, checked his watch.

  “Did he describe it at all, colour, anything at all?”

  Ronald checked the door, anxious to get home. “I don’t know, blue, I think, wooden. Tatty, run down.”

  The desk sergeant stood. “I won’t be a moment, Sir.” He left the room, much to the irritated Ronald’s disgust. Returning promptly to the front desk, the desk sergeant took a pen. “Sir, we need to send a constable to interview your son, do you have any objections?”

  Surprise flickered over Ronald’s face, but he understood quickly, and his smile betrayed his advancing years. “To tick him off, make sure he won’t do it again. By all means, be my guest.”

  Within half an hour PC Adams and PC Granaski sat before Craig and his parents in the decadent lounge of the impressive three story town house. Adams began, his voice and expression gentle to comfort the boy. “I need you to be honest, Craig. Were you and your friends playing with matches or lighters?”

  Craig’s face was pale, he glanced at his parents, hoping they wo
uld believe the truth. “No, honestly, we didn’t, never, we wouldn’t.”

  “Do you know that the boathouse you took the organiser from has burned down?”

  The fright on his face was genuine. “No, we didn’t do it. The old woman was weird, she scared us, she probably did it.”

  “Craig, I need you to describe this woman, I need you to tell me everything about her.”

  Craig gave a surprisingly adult account of Paula, her comings and goings, and the oddness of the situation was enough for Granaski, who took notes, and Adams, to believe she may have started the fire to cover her tracks. This was definitely suspicious. They related the details and their hunches to Detective Inspector Burns, copying the statement for him to study.

  Burns was interested, arson was usually a destructive hobby or compulsion, but he took his subordinates’ suspicions seriously. He attached the Oregon Osaris Personal Organiser to his PC, and noted there was a single file saved, named ‘Duties’. He began to read, one page was enough to realise it may be important, and he printed the comprehensive details. Stapling the papers together, Burns returned to his desk and digested them, soaking the details in. Adams walked in, Burns nodded.

  “Anything interesting on the organiser, Guv?”

  His speech was drawn out, he was a man who liked to take his time, clear things in his mind before acting. “I need to contact the Met, can you find their number for me?”

  Adams was back within minutes, brandishing the number. Burns dialled the switchboard, and soon he was directed to the incident room. Krein answered the phone. They exchanged names, and Burns soon got to the point of the call. “I think we have a personal organiser here that may be something to do with the Kopycat Killer.”