by Ricki Thomas
“Sir.” Spencer felt like an idiot now.
“I want a full report, on my desk, by five this evening.”
The telephone on Krein’s desk began to ring, he didn’t move to answer until Brannigan and Falder-Woodes turned to leave. “Krein. Yes, he’s here.” Krein moved the phone from his ear. “It’s for you.” He passed the receiver to Barry Harner, whose face paled as he listened. He motioned to stop the superiors leaving, Spencer tapped Brannigan and nodded to Harner as he ended the call.
Harner’s voice was quiet and resigned. “I know what caused the error. The buck stops with me. Can I talk to you in private, Sir?”
Krein came through the doors, he took a cigarette from the packet, lit it, and inhaled deeply, his head instantly dizzying, his throat tempting a cough. The doors opened once more, and Spencer stepped out, his own cigarette packet in his hand. “I didn’t know you smoked, Krein.”
“I don’t, I nicked these from Panton.” Krein took another drag, he’d given up tobacco ten years before, but knew that the nicotine buzz was the only thing that would relax him right now. “Bloody idiots!”
“I haven’t heard the full story, have you?”
A mother pushing a buggy wrinkled her nose with a disgusted glare as she walked by, but Krein just returned her rudeness: he didn’t care. “You won’t believe it, well, I don’t. The Black Museum Bunch gave us the wrong date.”
“No they didn’t, I checked myself on the Net. Polly Nichols was killed on the thirty first of August, eighteen eighty eight.”
“At three thirty in the morning.”
Comprehension slowly passed over Spencer’s face, soon replaced by disgust. “She died on the night of the thirtieth, not the thirty first as we were instructed.”
“You’ve got it. And I would bet my life that the autopsy will show that Adelaide Smith died in the early hours of the thirty first.” Krein took a final drag, the tobacco now burned to the filter, he held his breath in for a while, before exhaling slowly. He had no idea whether to light another or just leave smoking at the miniscule blip of one paltry mistake. He threw the butt, extinguishing it with his foot.
“Shit. Harner’s going to be on the firing line then.”
Decision made. Krein pulled out another cigarette. “Deserves to be too. He’s a great bloke, but that stupid error, or assumption, whatever it was, that led to a woman’s death. Somebody’s got to be accountable, and as he said, the buck stops with him.”
“No it doesn’t, it stops with Falder-Woodes.”
Krein’s face was grey, he felt the guilt as keenly as every other member of the team. His smoky sigh was deep and regretful. “It stops with each and every one of us. We all should have spotted the mistake. We’re all to blame for Adelaide Smith’s death, and you know it.”
Linda threw the newspaper on the table, finished her tea, and stood, stretching away her hangover. Stepping across the room, she refilled the kettle as Mary strolled in, a towelling turban coiled around her head, showcasing her delicate features.
“Morning, love. Cup of tea?” Mary nodded, seating herself at the table. She dragged the newspaper over, the headlines bringing a grimace. “The Kopycat Killer’s struck again.” Linda needlessly quoted the words.
“I can see.” Mary’s banality halted the ‘I told you so’ that was about to follow. “That guy, the one who used to be my father until he fell in love with a serial killer …”
“Mary!” Although she stuck up for Krein, Linda understood the sentiment.
“Was he there?”
She wanted to lie, to make everything rosy, but she couldn’t. “I don’t know where your father is any more. I haven’t spoken to him since Friday, and even then he was distant.”
“You want to divorce him, don’t you?”
Linda was completely taken aback, she had no idea where that had come from. She shook her head glibly, unable to answer. In fact, she was scared of the answer.
Mary’s matter of factness was back, and her hypocrisy took over. “I think you’re being selfish. The Kopycat case is horrid, and you should support him more, instead of harping on about yourself all the time.”
Horrified, and despairing, Linda placed a mug of tea before her daughter, she took her own and left the room, only just making through the door before the first tear of many tumbled down her cheek.
Paula woke, soon realising she had spent the night in the driver’s seat of the stolen Audi. Her neck was stiff and her back ached from sleeping in such an awkward position. Unsure of her location, Paula glanced through the window, the sky was uncommonly grey, tepid raindrops pattering gently on the roof of the car, which was surrounded densely by trees. She had no recollection of where she’d driven to, but was grateful it was private.
She had a vague memory of getting into the car, of the lecherous man, and a smile spread widely as she saw the bloodied knife lying on the passenger seat. Now she remembered what she had done. He had wanted her, had tried it on, so she’d stabbed him and stabbed him, stabbed him and ripped. His face was a picture, and she laughed at the memory of throwing him from the car. Jack the Ripper had described slashing his victims as ‘opening them like a ripe peach’, and she now knew what he meant. She hadn’t enjoyed the girl anywhere near as much as the man. And now she had a car to live in until the next duty. She was sure God wouldn’t mind her doing an extra job, he’d understand it was necessary. She hoped he would speak, but he didn’t.
Her tummy growled, she opened the red bag and pulled out an apple, stolen from Adelaide’s fridge, biting into its freshness, the crunchiness tickling her taste buds. She took the notes out, eager to re-read the details of the next duty.
The atmosphere was overly subdued in the incident room. Every member of the team reeled with guilt, with stupidity, with lack of attention to detail. Krein doubly felt the angst, because it was he, and he alone, who had cocked up on the Katherine Black shooting. He’d promised himself that he would check every fine detail from then on, and he hadn’t. If he’d had been a better officer, dotting the ‘i’s and crossing the ‘t’s, two innocent women would still be alive. His wretchedness caused physical pain.
Everyone involved with the hunt for the Kopycat Killer felt keenly idiotic, the error was so gaping, so simple.
Spencer perused the details of Michael Ayr’s stabbing the night before. He’d died during surgery, and was now classed as a murder victim. It was Spencer’s choice whether to attribute it to Kopycat, or treat it, like it probably was, a group of youths out for a bit of ‘fun’ and some extra money. He picked up the phone. “Is that forensics? I want you to do comparisons on the injuries of both Michael Ayrs and Adelaide Smith before the post-mortems, specifically to know if the same weapon was used on both.”
Replacing the receiver, Spencer glanced at Krein, who had overheard. They both knew he was being over-cautious, but they both knew why as well.
The heat wave had finally broken, seemingly for good, and the sky was as grey as the mood in Scotland Yard. Rain had pelted constantly throughout the day, hammering on the windows, relentless. Krein didn’t want to stop working. He didn’t want to eat, he didn’t want to sleep, he didn’t want a drink, a cigarette, a coffee, anything. He knew from the personal organiser that Kopycat’s next planned ‘duty’ was the eighth of September, and once more a massive operation was in preparation. He needed to ensure that everything was correct, and they would finally end the hunt for the horrific murderer.
Big Ben had just struck six when two separate reports were thrown onto Krein’s desk, he glanced at the disappearing sergeant, and took a look at the paperwork. Autopsy reports. Keen, Krein took the first: Adelaide Smith, at London Hospital. She was forty-three, a hundred and fifty eight centimetres tall, a hundred and thirty four pounds in weight. All internal organs intact, except for her uterus, which was absent.
Krein re-read the last sentence, a sickening gnawing at his stomach, he knew that Jack the Ripper removed the wombs of a couple of his victims. But read
ing further, Krein was relieved to see that Adelaide had had a hysterectomy four years before.
Adelaide’s last meal had been taken approximately at nine in the evening, it wasn’t a full meal, a couple of handfuls of peanuts, a bag of crisps. She had approximately eighty milligrams of alcohol per litre of blood in her system at the time of death, so she had been too tipsy to drive legally, but not drunk.
Adelaide had been strangled, the cause of death was asphyxiation. It had been done with bare hands, that was apparent from the bruising on the parts of her neck that were still intact. She was dead before her neck was cut, and before her body was stabbed. There were three deep cuts to the neck, one of them so deep it scratched the cervical vertebrae. There were twelve stab wounds in her abdomen, the knife had been thrust from directly in front, with a right hand, which they could tell by the angle of the stab wound. Before removing the knife, the killer had dragged it down, leaving gaping wounds. One wound, the largest at just over thirteen centimetres long, had been forced open and her bowels had been pulled through and left on top of her skin.
The attack had not been overly frenzied, which was odd for the severity of the injuries. It appeared that the killer had been taking his time to pay attention to detail, in recreating Polly Nichol’s wounds a hundred and twenty years before. Definitely the work of Kopycat, Krein thought to himself.
He put the report down, and took Michael Ayr’s results. Michael had been stabbed eight times, once through the heart, and that was the injury which had killed him. His spleen, liver, and left kidney were slashed. The knife had been thrust at him from his left hand side, probably with a left hand. Seven stab marks were clean cuts, in the eighth the knife was dragged down before being retracted. This had caused his torn intestines to fall from his body.
Michael’s killer was believed to be left handed, Adelaide’s right handed. But from the casts taken, they appeared to be perpetrated by a similar weapon. The summary, as yet, was inconclusive.
The phone rang, Krein answered automatically, his mind distant. “DI Krein? There’s a man in reception wants to see you about the woman who was killed last night. His name is Ivan Stulski.”
Krein knew the name, he remembered the man. He sighed and trotted towards reception, taking the huge man into an interview room. Ivan’s tired face was worn, the worries of the world etched deeply.
Seated, Ivan hung his head, his demeanour was nervous, agitated, and he fingered a newspaper in his hand. Eventually he threw it onto the table. “The papers say this was the work of the Kopycat Killer. I know who it was who killed her, but I don’t think he’s the Kopycat.”
Krein was astonished, he hadn’t expected that. “Give me a minute, Mr Stulski.” Krein located an inactive colleague, and a spare tape, which he fed into the recorder, clicking it on. “I am Detective Inspector Krein, also present are Constable Hopkins and Mr Ivan Stulski. The date is Monday the first of September, two thousand and eight, the time is,” he glanced at his watch, “eighteen twenty seven. Mr Stulski, could you please tell me why you believe you know who killed Adelaide Smith.”
“It was Roger Andrews, I’m sure about that. He often comes into my bar …”
“Your bar?”
“I am the landlord of the Wallingford Arms in Brick Lane. Roger Andrews is a rough bloke, he thinks he’s God with the ladies. Well, the night before last …”
“What date, exactly?”
“Um, it was Saturday night, would be the thirtieth of August. Adelaide was doing her Saturday shift, and Roger wouldn’t leave her alone. He kept pestering her, asking her to stay the night with him. Well, Addy isn’t, er, wasn’t that sort of woman, she was decent, and she said no, but he got angry, saying she’d led him on, she was a prick teaser, that sort of thing. Addy was used to problem customers, it was part of her job, but he was so abusive she got scared and asked me if I would walk her home. Of course I agreed.
“Anyway, after closing time, Roger was the last to leave, he kept glaring at Addy, in fact I was just about to ask him to go when he upped and left. We decided to wait a while before I took her home, so we shared a bottle of wine. We ended up leaving at about one in the morning.
“I walked her home and she said something odd. She said she could feel someone staring at her. I looked behind, but I couldn’t see anyone, but maybe we were followed, I don’t know. Anyway, she got back safely, I said goodbye, and she went in.”
“Did you see her shut the door?”
“No, but I heard it as I was walking away.”
“So you think that this Roger Andrews followed you both, then somehow got in and killed her?”
“I’m sure he did. As I said, he’s a rough guy. Let’s put it this way, I wouldn’t trust him with any woman, and he didn’t like to be turned down. He’s got a big ego.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Sorry, I don’t.”
“Thank you, Mr Stulski.”
Sarah had contacted the DVLA, and the Welsh lady had been extremely helpful, her comely warmth comforting. The driving licence had been deciphered easily, it belonged to a Mr Jackson Frederick Brooks, Flat 6, Warmingford Court, in Bedford. Sarah typed the details into the Police National Computer, and it was immediately tagged to the Kopycat Killer investigation, as expected.
Krein was obviously interested, this was enough to prove the killer had been in residence of a boathouse for the previous week, and he asked for the evidence to be couriered to him. But Krein still realised that the most important part of his job now was not hankering after the killer’s past, it was pre-empting the future, and ensuring another life wasn’t lost before they halted the twisted man.
Two constables had brought Roger Andrews in just after ten in the evening, after he had returned to his room in Buxton Street. He was drunk, he was abusive, and had refused to come initially. The officers had foolishly, so Krein thought, arrested him on suspicion of murder, which put a timely pressure onto the interview. In normal circumstances, Krein would have left him to sober up before interviewing him, but his need for answers, for explanations, was ripe, and only Andrews would be able to ease his mind enough to sleep tonight.
Andrews sat in the seat that Ivan Stulski had occupied earlier that day, his scorned mouth uttering venomous, irrelevant spewings. Krein turned the tape recorder on, he introduced the persons present.
“Mr Andrews. We have been approached by a witness who states that you were bothering a lady by the name of Adelaide Smith at the Wallingford Bar on Saturday night, the thirtieth of August.”
“Bothering her! Fuck off! She’s a tart and she was flirting all the way. She’s just a prick teaser, you know, make you think you’re gonna get it, then cry off. It’s bitches like her who get raped, that’s what I should have done, stupid tart.”
Krein marvelled at how Andrews was incriminating himself. “Are you aware that Adelaide Smith was brutally murdered on Saturday night?” A flicker of his own guilt passed quickly, and the enjoyment returned.
Andrews was openly shocked, his mouth dropped wide, his eyes startled, and Krein had to admit this guy was an excellent actor. Or innocent. Eventually the strangled words came. “You think it was me?”
“Did you murder Adelaide Smith?”
“No. No way. I didn’t touch her.” And at this point Andrews realised the only way he could prove his innocence would be to admit raping the redhead he’d picked up at the nightclub. The dilemma was terrific, murder or rape. Or maybe both? Roger Andrews had never felt so small.
“You were seen shouting abuse at her in the Wallingford Bar. We have witnesses to prove it.”
Andrews was shaking his head, violently, suddenly innocent and childlike. “No. I mean, I did, she wouldn’t come home with me, I fancied her, I wanted a shag. But I left when the pub closed, I went to the Vortex Club. Loads of people saw me.”
“Any names, addresses?”
Andrews was flustered, he felt trapped. He just wanted to scream, tell them all to go away, leave him alo
ne. His confusion remembered Mary. “There was a girl, Mary I think. Mary Crane, Creen, something like that. I was dancing with her. I’ve seen her there before.”
Krein managed to veil the discomfort of hearing his own daughter’s name from the mouth of a potential killer, but he realised it was probably an odd coincidence. He continued to bluff. “You’d better try and remember a bit more about the mysterious Mary, let’s just say if she doesn’t turn up to back you up, you’ll be going down for a long time.” Krein knew he had little on Andrews, but fear often produced the truth. “You can stay in the cells tonight, see if you can think a bit clearer tomorrow.”
As Krein left the room, he knew Roger Andrews wasn’t ‘also known as’ the Kopycat Killer, and he doubted he was guilty of Adelaide’s horrendous mutilation. But the use of his daughter’s name, however coincidental, made him uncomfortable. The shout behind him was unexpected. “I can prove I didn’t kill Adelaide.”
Krein turned back, popping his head back into the room. Andrews had sagged, his head was hung, his shoulders drooping, his stamina and fight long gone. “I was too busy drug raping a red-headed tart.” Krein thanked the God he didn’t believe in that his daughter’s hair was black.
Saturday 6th September
Krein had only returned to his temporary room three times in a week, simply to have a shower and catch up on his sleep. Most nights he spent sleeping restlessly at his desk, having fallen into a fitful slumber over his paperwork. Spencer was concerned, Krein was too deeply involved, but he also knew that Krein’s commitment, dedication, and obsession would help them to finally seek out the man they hunted.
A massive operation was being planned for the next night, an enhanced recreation of the previous week’s manoeuvre. The Black Museum Bunch had ensured that the details of Annie Chapman’s murder by Jack the Ripper were watertight, Barry Harner’s ears were still ringing from the disciplining he’d been given. The investigation team who worked from the incident room consisted of twenty-four police officers, and twelve assistants. An extra hundred officers were being shipped in to support the exercise the next evening. The heavy, and visible, policing would hopefully prevent a killing, acting as a deterrent. Nobody, except Kopycat, wanted any more deaths. The Home Office couldn’t object to the expense, the public outrage being so great.
