by Ricki Thomas
The old man didn’t have a chance. Aware in his sleep of a presence, his eyes had sprung open, fear already radiating from his face. In the darkness he could distinguish a tall woman, he struggled up the bed, but she moved hastily. The blow on his head blackened his eyes, he felt no pain, just surprise, and he could feel the warm liquid flowing through his white hair. Everything went blank. He was gone.
Paula opened the antique oak wardrobe with gloved hands, stripping her soiled clothes simultaneously. The brown tweed trousers that she shook from the hanger would be short and tight, but they would transform Paula into Paul once more. She grabbed a thick jumper, the heat wave was long gone, autumn was advancing. A couple of vests, shirts, a cloth cap, some socks, pushing them into the red bag. The new disguise collected, Paula traipsed to the bathroom, snatching a final glance at the dead man. She’d have a good scrub, spruce herself for the duty the next night, and reassume her alter ego, Paul.
Monday 8th September
It had been a long, tedious night. The church bells tolling midnight had welcomed the chilly, damp Monday, and Krein was exhausted, weeks of stilted sleep behind him. The past six and a half hours had been spent in an unmarked car in Hanbury Street, and nothing out of the ordinary, as far as he and Panton could surmise, had happened.
According to the detailed notes from the recently chastised Black Museum Bunch, Annie Chapman, Jack the Ripper’s second acknowledged victim, had been murdered between five and five thirty in the morning, so, if Kopycat’s attention to detail was still important to him, then they still had hours to wait. If, indeed, he planned to recreate the murder at all. There was no guarantee he would.
Krein sighed deeply and glanced over at Panton, who nonchalantly picked at the skin on his fingers, he sighed again. They’d barely exchanged a word all night. There was no animosity, just nothing to say, talking would reduce concentration, and that was integral. Krein opened the door. It had been too cold to leave a window open in the car, and the atmosphere was stuffy, reeking of male odour, uncomfortably thick. The pollution of London swooped through the car, but it was fresher than the air it chased out. Krein moved to a low wall, sitting, clearing out his lungs deeply with each deep breath.
A movement in the corner of his eye grabbed Krein’s attention. He could see an old man limping into the street at the junction. He jumped back to the car, closing the door quietly, praying the man hadn’t spotted him. Through the windscreen Krein logged the man’s description into his memory. Fairly tall, his hair was pale. Pale? It wasn’t white, maybe ginger. He was balding but it wasn’t the usual male pattern, and that intrigued Krein. He hadn’t grown through the top of his hair, the patches were sporadic, clumps were missing in irregular places. The tweed trousers were short and tight, revealing white socks, and tatty trainers. Strangely, he carried a scarlet backpack. There were too many anomalies about this character, and Krein’s interest was heightened.
The man was level with the car now, walking on the opposite side of the street, and Krein, who had sunken into his seat, was watching in the mirror. The man turned the corner into Brick Lane, and Krein radioed for assistance, he wanted the man tailed.
Immediately after putting out the call, a plain clothed constable arose from behind a low garden wall further along the street, and followed the suspect. He spoke quietly into his radio, detailing his movements, on the seldom-used radio wave the team were using to avoid interference and unwanted hackers.
Paul had a strong suspicion he was being shadowed, he could feel eyes boring into his back. He glanced, but no one was apparent. He listened, but only caught white noise. His intuition told him that he needed to escape, even if it meant losing the duty. But he also needed to be discreet, he had no way of knowing how intricate the surveillance was.
On the other side of the road a welcoming light brightened the dank night, a twenty-four hour shop advertised its wares. Without even checking for traffic, Paul crossed, stepping through the glass door and into the fluorescent lighting. His suspicions were confirmed, Paul noticed the black shadow hovering outside. Calm, he checked products on the shelves, acting as a shopper convincingly, while he located an escape route. The door at the end of the shop was his answer. In a split second, his arm swept along the shelf, the neatly stacked cans, packets and sachets tumbling to the floor, and he was through the door.
Kavi Bhagwat jumped from his stool, furious and shouting, as the tailing officer darted through the door, leaping over the cluttering produce, chasing the suspect. Kavi grabbed at his shoulders, unaware he was a policeman, and the officer pushed him aside, desperate to catch the man.
Outside he sprinted, but the old guy was faster, scrambling easily over the wooden fence. The officer reached the fence, but everything was still, no sign of the man. He radioed for assistance, a brief summary of the fast-paced events, and the back alley swarmed instantaneously with bodies that had seemingly sprung from nowhere.
Krein had left Panton, he was running with an agility he thought he’d lost twenty years before, and, yet again, was chastising himself. His gut had been right, he should have stopped the man before, when he’d had the chance. Why hadn’t he? He knew, and his heart saddened. Political correctness. If he’d stopped an innocent old man, walking by himself in the dead of night, the backlash would have been tremendous. Gutted, Krein realised he couldn’t win.
Searching redundantly through the back streets and alleys, Paul’s adrenaline hastened his heart as he crouched between the two wheelie bins, each one spilling rubbish, and breathed as silently as possible, praying they wouldn’t bring on the dogs. His ankle throbbed wildly, and he knew how close he’d come to losing this game. Worse, they were still out there, and now they knew the disguise they were looking for, his new identity was blown.
He needed to escape the area, and speedily, there were too many coppers, and he needed to alter his appearance. The commotion was happening so nearby, he silenced his heavy breathing, he could hear shouting, running, radios. Taking a deep breath, he checked his escape route, prayed instantly to his God, and ran.
Moments later he was in Seer Street, and heading for the church that loomed to the left. Into the graveyard, over to the church. The doors were locked, the windows railed, he swore, desperate. Footsteps running, getting closer, voices, shouting, Paul’s eyes bounced to the left, to the right. His thoughts pleaded, he needed God, he needed instructions. And God presented himself in the nick of time, in the form of a black hackney cab. Paul darted over the road, the driver pounded the screeching brakes, stopping, waving his fist through the window. Paul leapt in the car, his hunters closing in on him, and demanded the man drive.
Pissed off with advantage taking punters, he’d already had a fare dodger that evening, Ray Simmons wasn’t prepared to take any more crap. “Like fuck I will! Get out of my fucking car you fucking weirdo.”
The knife glistened in the streetlight, the female fare in the back began screaming beside the hijacker, Ray gulped, swallowing back the forthcoming tantrum. He lifted the clutch pedal and accelerated, dodging the two policemen who scrambled to the car, demanding he stop. The taxi shot into the distance.
Controlling his nerves, his feet shaking against the pedals. “Okay, mate, I’m driving. Where am I driving to?” The woman in the back was whimpering like a wounded dog.
“Shut up, you bitch! Just drive, anywhere, get away from here, and if anyone tails you, lose them.” Paul, leaning through the glass hatch, held the knife, the one he had wanted to use on his next duty that night, threateningly, to Ray’s bristly neck.
Ray, jolly in his middle age, raised a smile, typical of his kindly nature. Regardless of the knife, he didn’t feel intimidated. “Bit like cops and robbers, innit. What you done, mate? Killed somebody.” He chuckled, almost enjoying the unusual interlude to the mundane evening now.
He hurtled the car around a corner, forcing another taxi to brake heavily, horn blasting, and they had turned into Whitechapel Road. Paul spotted the road sign and g
rinned, God was definitely with him tonight. “Keep driving.” He demanded, and pulled the knife away from Ray’s neck.
Fiona Windpiper whimpered, the noise an irritation, and she squeezed her body into the worn leather seat, seeking its protection. Paul hovered over her, the knife clenched in his hand. Ray concentrated on driving, he hadn’t travelled London so quickly for years.
It didn’t matter that it was the wrong road, it was near enough under to the circumstances. Paul forced the knife into Fiona’s throat, it slit easily, blood shooting from the carotid, leaking from the jugular. A crack as the blood pressure forced her head back, snapping a cervical vertebrae. The noise disturbed Ray, he checked his mirror, and saw her crimsoned body slump. Her fat cheek hit the window, sliding down, mouth agape, throat agape. Horror. Fright. Terror. He realised what had happened. What did he do? Fright wasn’t his bag. Until now.
“What are you fucking doing?” His words were quiet, pinched, tight. Paul’s face loomed through the partition, his hands bloodied, his face dripping with the red fluid that appeared black in the darkness. “Jack did it in Hanbury Street, but I did my best. It’s still Whitechapel, so she’ll do.”
Ray could understand now, the man was a psychopath. And he was clued up enough to realise he could be next. He determined he would do exactly what the weirdo told him to, and in the meantime, would pray. Pray.
The radio waves were full, and every officer on duty in London was aware that the Kopycat Killer was there, and trying to escape. His new persona was old news, the registration number of the taxi he’d escaped in was etched into every officer’s mind. Every officer wanted the glory of being the hero who caught the madman, but few were brave enough to really want a tussle with the hardened criminal. The City swarmed with flashing lights and inquisitive, watchful eyes.
The cab was spotted recklessly haring along Mile End Road, and several cars took chase, many more blocking the road ahead. Ray detected them in good time, he tugged the steering wheel heavily to the left, the car hurtled on two wheels into Fairfield Road, Tredegar Road, Parnell Road, leaving deep black tyre tracks at each corner. And it was in Parnell Road that Paul found a chance to escape. He struggled against the wind to open the door, Ray searching the mirror, curious to see what his passenger, his kidnapper, was doing.
“Slow down a bit, slow down, I’m trying to get the door open.” Paul puffed, exhausted, urgent, he pushed hard on the door. Instantly Ray braked, the police cars behind lighting the sky red as they followed his lead. Paul tumbled from the car, landing awkwardly on his shoulder, and yelled. “Keep driving.”
As Ray accelerated away, the wind forced the door to slam shut, and an intense relief flooded through him, meted with thanks to his Creator.
Paul’s body rolled and rolled, grit grating his clothes, entering his skin. The momentum finally stopped, the tarmac firmly embedded into his skin, and he struggled up, pain pulsing through his body. In an instant, he’d hurled himself over the bridge, the bracing water slapping his damaged body as he landed in the Hertford Union Canal.
Twenty seconds later, as his pounding head surfaced, he heard the wailing police cars on the bridge in pursuit of the cab, and in pursuit of him. Allowing a deep sigh of relief, he paddled through the freezing water towards the embankment.
It took a couple of adrenaline filled minutes for Ray to realise he could stop driving like a madman. He slowed to a stop, and, without warning, burst into racking tears. That was how the police found him, howling, distraught, into his palms, leaning against the steering wheel.
In between the wrenching sobs, he managed to describe where the killer had jumped out, and hordes of officers were on the trail. Kopycat couldn’t have got very far in such a short time.
Two constables remained with Ray as the others left to join the search, they called an ambulance, believing he would need sedation. Taking a thermal blanket from the squad car, they shrugged it over Ray’s shoulders, he shivered, desperately trying to quell his sobbing. Finally the words came. “In the back.” His large thumb pointed.
“What are you trying to say, sir?” The officers checked each other, and one opened the cab with trepidation. He could see a pile of clothes on the floor, then the metallic stench hit him. “Oh Christ.” His stomach was lurching as he tried to remain in control. “Oh Christ.” This was the first body of his career.
His more experienced counterpart stepped in, she leant over and checked the woman’s wrist, signalling no pulse, even though the body was still warm. The wound was fatal, the chubby neck had been slashed deeply from one side to the other. She radioed for assistance, the area needed to be cordoned off as soon as possible.
Thirty officers surrounded the canal, floodlights illuminating the scene. An officer shouted, he’d found a patch on the bank where the grass and mud showed signs of recent disturbance. The obvious route would be into Victoria Park, and the suspect would be sodden, thus easy to spot. Four officers remained by the canal, radioing assistance, helicopters with heat-seeking equipment and searchlights, whilst the others trudged into the park, vigilant and eager, wishing the heat wave hadn’t broken into constant rain, then they would have a wet trail to follow.
The search continued for the rest of the night, but once more Paul had rendered himself invisible. No sightings, no signs, no clues. Due to the rain, the dogs they employed to hopefully follow the scent, lost the trail.
For Krein, this was the end, he could take no more. He packed up his belongings, and remembered how close he had been to the man. Not even ten feet away. He’d blown it. Too scared of repercussions. Idiot. He realised now that he wasn’t up to the job. He was just a Detective Inspector from Oxford. He wasn’t capable. Perhaps if he’d taken a back seat earlier, another, more experienced officer would have solved this by now. Krein needed to back out now, before his involvement caused more loss of life. Desperate not to cry in public, but his frustrations flooding all the same, Krein thumped the train seat, wishing he could rip it out and throw it through the window.
Linda was harmonising with Katie Melhua’s honeyed tones, barely keeping a smile from her face as she kneaded the dough for a loaf of fresh bread, her jaw dropped as Krein walked into the room. “David! I’d almost forgotten you existed.”
He stepped forward, pecking her loosely on the cheek, the shallowness of the gesture speaking a thousand words. “I wish I didn’t.” He sank into the seat, elbows on the table, head in his hands.
And now her guilt came. Linda dusted off her hands. She soaked a tea towel in hot water, unfolded it over the bowl of dough, and set it to rise in the warmth of the boiler cupboard. She washed her hands, still unable to find any words: she’d heard the tragic news on the radio, which she turned off, the soundtrack not suiting the scene. Silence echoed from the walls. “Do you want to talk?”
He shook his head, climbed the stairs, Linda could hear him running a bath. Mary came in, concerned. “How is he?”
Guilty again. Why had she dated Gordon? “I’ve never seen him like this. Have you heard the news today?”
Mary nodded, and her face paled. “Mum, I got questioned by the police last night.” Linda took Mary’s hand, she led her to the table, ready to listen to the story.
Linda rapped on the door, she heard the water stop running. “David, I need to speak to you.” His sigh irritated her intensely, it summarised her unimportance to him. The lock clicked back and she stepped into the steamy room, seating herself on the toilet lid as he climbed into the bath. His nakedness stirred no emotion in her. “It’s Mary. She’s just told me that she was questioned by police in London yesterday.” Now she had his attention. “About a Roger Andrews.” Full attention, and horror. “I take it you recognise the name.”
Krein nodded, sitting straight and washing himself hastily. “He was initially brought in on suspicion of being Kopycat, but was quickly ruled out. However, he did admit to drug rape, although he’s denying it now. My colleague Spencer’s been dealing with it.”
“
Nice character then. David, I don’t like her going to London while the Kopycat Killer’s on the loose.”
“Then stop her going.” David dropped under the water, soaking the hair that was greying rapidly. The rapidity, the cockiness, Linda wondered if she actively disliked her husband. She didn’t credit him with a reply. He lathered the shampoo. “Well?”
“She insists that they’re careful, that they stick together, and look out for each other.”
“They?”
How little he knew, how little he cared. “She goes with her friends, Natalie and Tara.”
“Where do they go?” His hair was rinsed, he laid back luxuriously in the bath, the hot water steeping out London’s grime.
“I don’t know the name of it, some club in Whitechapel.”
A sudden jolt. His expression was anger, shoulders instantly tensed as he climbed from the bath, snatching a towel and aggressively rubbing the dampness from his body. “She is not to go again, do you understand?” The terseness came through gritted teeth, and Linda, weak once, but now strong, knew she didn’t deserve that.
“I’ve had enough of your attitude, David, and your half arsed attempt at being the concerned Daddy. You don’t want her to go, you stop her.” She was on the point of leaving, and he realised he’d gone too far, he suitably changed his approach.
“He’s too clever, Linda, he outwits us every step of the way. I couldn’t bear to lose Mary, she’s my baby.”
“Our baby, David, ours. But it’s me who’s had the sleepless nights waiting for her to come back every weekend. Me. Because you haven’t been here. Work’s been your baby, David, otherwise you’d have listened when I told you she was going to London in the first place.”
