Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  How strange, he had thought, that even the closest families could drift apart without realising it was happening. It was understandable, of course. Life in the twilight of the twentieth century was complicated and hectic, and if you lived your life in the fast lane something had to give. Quite often, Jack felt totally drained by the end of the week, and it took him the entire weekend to recover, just so that he could start the whole process all over again on Monday morning.

  Back in the seventies, when Jack was a kid growing up in the East End, it had been different. His parents had drummed it into him that family was all-important. His grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins all lived within walking distance. His relatives were always popping in unannounced, and he spent as much time in their houses as they did in his. More importantly, there was a real emotional bond; the adults relied upon each other to get by, to survive.

  During the eighties and the nineties, city life had changed for the worse, and many of his relatives had moved away from their London roots. Nowadays the family only came together for special occasions such as christenings, milestone birthday and anniversary celebrations, weddings and, increasingly as the elder generation dwindled, funerals.

  ◆◆◆

  The continued presence of uniformed officers in high visibility jackets was bad for business, and it was hardly surprising that the working girls who had shown up in this part of Commercial Street had all buggered off pretty sharpish once they’d been spoken to. After all, drug habits didn’t pay for themselves. Word had obviously got out that plod was there for the night because no new faces had turned up in ages.

  Steve Bull and Charlie White decided to go for a little wander. They headed south-east along Commercial Street for a while and then branched off into the side streets. They had just discovered a narrow lane that looked like it might be a cut through to Spittalfields and were debating whether or not to take it when they spotted Sandra Dawson, who was leaning against a wall at the far end, smoking a cigarette.

  “Is she one we’ve already spoken to?” White asked.

  “No, she’s fresh meat, if you’ll excuse the pun,” Bull replied.

  “Aye, well, we’d better go and have a word in her shell-like,” White said.

  Sandra looked up when she heard the echo of approaching footsteps, and immediately clocked the two men walking purposefully towards her as police officers – they couldn’t have been more obvious if they had flashing blue lights strapped to their heads and were shouting, ‘nick, nick, nick…’ à la Jim Davidson. Under normal circumstances, their presence wouldn’t have bothered her in the slightest. After all, she was just having a quiet fag and minding her own business so they couldn’t even do her for soliciting. However, because she still had the two rocks of crack in her coat pocket, Sandra panicked. Being arrested for prostitution was one thing, it went with the territory, but a drug bust was something else.

  And so, as the two detectives strolled amiably towards her, Sandra did something very stupid. Making no attempt at subtlety, she tossed the wrap containing the two rocks into the gutter and ran off. They were slow to react, which gave her a few seconds head start, but when Bull finally sprang into action it didn’t require much of an effort to catch her up. In the meantime, White stooped to retrieve the evidence.

  “What was the point in running? You’re bloody old enough to know better,” Steve said, taking a firm grip on her arm as she reached the other side of the road.

  Sandra Dawson was thinking the same thing herself. One of her stilettos had caught in the grill of a drain cover as she negotiated the road. It had snapped off, and she now stood lopsided. Sandra shrugged her shoulders, feeling extremely silly. “Gawd knows love. I don’t suppose you’ll believe me but it’s not mine. I was just looking after it for a mate.”

  “What’s not yours?” Steve asked.

  White dangled the wrap in front of Bull’s face. “Crack,” was all he said.

  The two detectives exchanged troubled glances. Tyler wasn’t going to like this. They were supposed to be coming across as non-threatening, trying to gain the working girls trust. This incident wasn’t going to help their cause.

  “What happens now?” Sandra asked, racking her brains for a way to explain the drugs without grassing her friend up. She was unaware that Tracey no longer needed her protection.

  “It’s simple, love,” Bull informed her miserably. “You’re nicked and we’re going to get our backsides kicked.”

  “Less of the ‘we’ if you don’t mind, Stevie,” White was quick to point out. “You nicked her, old son, not me.”

  “Thanks a lot, Whitey,” Bull said as they marched her back to their car.

  ◆◆◆

  By eleven-thirty, a low ceiling of cloud had completely blocked out the moon. Luckily, the neon vapour of a hundred streetlights was more than capable of compensating for its absence. Plenty of cars were still whizzing up and down Commercial Street, but all pedestrian activity had dried up ages ago, and with nothing to do the uniformed officers had huddled together by their carrier waiting for further direction.

  It had been a long and extremely tiring day, and Tyler was painfully aware that this was probably just the first of many to come. As he needed the team back at the office for an eight o’clock meeting, he reluctantly decided to call it a night.

  A Shamrock green Ford Transit mini-bus drove past the police carrier, catching Tyler’s eye. It had the logo ‘The Sutton Mission’ stencilled along the side. The driver was a middle-aged man with greying hair. Several dishevelled looking men were dotted amongst the rear seats, all looking back at Tyler with the vacant stares of the downtrodden. A thought occurred to him as the mini-bus receded from view. Winning the street workers over was going to be a slow, laborious, task. Sure, local sector and divisional vice officers would be able to point them in the right direction, but what they really needed was someone who the street workers knew and trusted to act as a go-between. The Sutton Mission was probably a local charity. There would be others like it. Perhaps he should explore the merits of using one of these charities as an intermediary.

  As he slid into the rear of the Omega, Jack noticed a black BMW slowly cruising towards them. The driver, an enormous black man with dreads, appeared to be looking for someone in the various recesses that dotted the sidewalk. As the car drew level Jack noticed the tight cluster of vertical scratches on the driver’s face.

  Even if the uniforms hadn’t been out there with him, Jack knew he stuck out like a sore thumb, but the stranger slowed long enough to give him a cold, arrogant stare nonetheless.

  The BMW then increased speed and within seconds it vanished from view, but not before Tyler noted the registration number. He would run a check on it later.

  Was the man a pimp or a punter? Either way, Jack doubted that he had anything illegal on him; he had been far too cocky, almost seeking confrontation.

  “Did you see that ugly bugger in the BMW?” Dillon asked, popping his head into the car.

  “I did,” Tyler confirmed.

  “Well worth a stop, that one.” Sometimes Dillon longed for the good old days when they had been free to act on impulse and get involved with anything they came across.

  Tyler smiled nostalgically. He knew exactly what his friend meant. It was at this instant that he spotted Bull and White escorting the limping form of Sandra Dawson towards their car. The smile vanished instantly, and he got out of the car to meet them.

  One of his staff joked that her legs were almost as bandy as Whitey’s, and there was laughter, which Jack silenced with a stare.

  “What the bloody hell’s going on here?” Dillon demanded, guessing the answer and not liking it one bit.

  “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is, Steve,” Tyler asked. The calmness of his voice belied the anger he felt inside.

  Bull glanced at White for support, but his colleague’s gaze was riveted on the floor.

  “Excuse me, how long till we get to the cop shop?” Sandra inquired, b
reaking the awkward silence. “Only I’m desperate for a wee.”

  “Well?” Tyler said, irritation creeping into his voice.

  Bull shrugged apologetically. “It’s a long story, sir.”

  ◆◆◆

  Unexpectedly, the arrest of Sandra Dawson gave the Murder Squad its first break, although by the time this became apparent Tyler, along with the rest of the team, was at home fast asleep.

  As an unspoken punishment Bull and White had been left to process Dawson and make their own way back to Arbour Square, and Tyler had made it clear that whatever time they finished he expected them to be there for the meeting.

  The tape-recorded interview was to be conducted in a small, windowless and sparsely furnished room in the custody suite at Whitechapel police station.

  They waited impatiently for their turn, and even though they managed to pull some strings, there was still two hours between arrival and interview.

  Bull wrinkled his nose as he ushered Dawson inside. The room was a disgrace: rubbish on the floor, paper strewn across the small table, a crushed Seven-Up can lying on the floor right next to the overflowing trash basket. To add insult to injury, the previous prisoner – at least they assumed it was the prisoner and not the interviewing officers – had left a pungent legacy of stale body odour and rancid farts.

  Steve indicated that Sandra should sit down across the table from him. He let Charlie deliver the usual pre-interview spiel about what the process entailed, wondering if she could understand a single word he was saying; it wasn’t always easy to follow Charlie with his broken nose induced nasal problems and thick Glaswegian accent.

  As he unpacked the cellophane wrapped audiocassettes, Steve reflected that he was probably in for a roasting next time he saw the boss. Well, sometimes shit happened. All he could do was explain how circumstances beyond his control had forced his hand and hope that Tyler would understand.

  In truth, neither officer expected the interview to yield anything productive in relation to the murder. They just wanted to ask her about the Class ‘A’ drugs she’d thrown away and get her bailed as quickly as possible pending the lab results. Dawson waived her right to have a solicitor present, which they were grateful for because it would speed the whole process up.

  Steve opened the interview by explaining that he and White were part of an enquiry team who had been canvassing working girls in the area in relation to a murder investigation, and that was why they had approached her.

  “Hang on a minute, love. Murder? What murder? What are you talking about? I thought this was just about drugs.”

  “A working girl was murdered last night.” Charlie White explained impatiently. He was annoyed that she’d interrupted; the interview would only take five minutes if she’d refrain from speaking other than to answer a direct question.

  “What did he say?” Dawson asked, looking at Bull for help.

  “A working girl was murdered last night,” Bull translated.

  “Oh, my gawd. That’s terrible,” Sandra said, clearly shocked by the news. “But what’s it got to do with me?”

  “Her name was Tracey Phillips,” Steve said, watching carefully for any sign of a reaction. “Did you know her?”

  Sandra gasped as though she had just been punched, and the colour drained from her chubby face. “Oh gawd, no,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Please tell me it’s not true. Not poor little Tracey.”

  As the murder squad detectives shared a look of surprise, Sandra buried her head in her hands and began to cry uncontrollably. After a pregnant pause, Steve fumbled inside his pocket for a clean tissue, which he handed over awkwardly. Charlie White looked down at his watch and grimaced as he realised any hope they had of grabbing some kip before the meeting had just evaporated.

  Suddenly, Sandra looked up, her moist eyes wide with horror. “Oh, my gawd, I think I know who did it,” she exclaimed.

  “Who did what?” Charlie demanded impatiently, convinced she was still away with the fairies after smoking too much crack.

  Steve Bull placed a restraining hand on his arm. “What do you mean, Sandra?”

  Sandra Dawson didn’t respond. Tracey’s failure to come back and collect the crack she had been so desperate to get her hands on was completely out of character, and it had worried Sandra. So much so that she had popped over to the squat Tracey usually dossed down in this afternoon to make sure she was okay. No one there had seen her for a couple of days. The fact that this was not unusual did nothing to ease the fear gnawing at Sandra’s insides like a bad case of indigestion. Now, a disturbing chain of thoughts exploded inside her head, creating a graphic menagerie, through which she pictured the tragic sequence of events that had led up to her friend’s death, with astounding clarity.

  “Sandra…” Steve said, placing his hand on her arm. When she didn’t respond he looked at Charlie and shrugged, as though to say: what do we do now?

  Sandra was having an epiphany. It was as if someone had placed the last remaining piece into a complex jigsaw puzzle, enabling her to see the full picture for the very first time. Her head was spinning from the process, but she realised that everything suddenly made perfect sense.

  “Sandra,” Steve said, clicking his fingers in front of her face to get her attention.

  When she didn’t respond, Charlie White leaned forward and shook her arm impatiently. “SANDRA!” He shouted.

  This seemed to do the trick. With a gasp, she jolted forward. “Sorry, love,” she said, smiling apologetically. “I’m just a little shocked.”

  “Is there something you want to tell us?” Steve asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

  “Yes. There is something,” she whispered as her eyes focused on her surroundings for the first time since hearing the news. “But I’d like a drink of water first if that’s alright.”

  They had a short break while Sandra tidied her face up. A female PC accompanied her to the toilet, and she was given a drink.

  “Do you think the daft cow’s trying to string us along to get out of the drug charge?” Charlie asked when she had left the room.

  “I don’t know, mate, but we’ll find out soon enough,” Steve said with his usual stoicism.

  While they waited for Sandra to sort herself out, Charlie White popped out to see the custody sergeant, a middle-aged man with greying hair and a world-weary face, who was scribbling away on a custody record that needed updating.

  “Don’t suppose you’ve got any paracetamols handy, have you?” White asked. “Only I’ve got a splitting headache.”

  “Sorry, we don’t keep anything like that in here,” the custody sergeant said without looking up. “Pity really,” he added as an afterthought. “I reckon I’ll be in need of a couple before too long, the way this bloody shift is panning out.”

  As White turned to walk away, the custody sergeant looked up. “You could ask the FME,” he suggested. “Dr Sadler’s in his room examining a probationer PC who managed to get himself head-butted while restraining a drunk. I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige.”

  “Aye, cheers,” White said, smiling gratefully. “I’ll do that.”

  When the battered PC emerged from the FME’s room a few moments later, nursing a black eye that was going to turn into a real shiner before it faded, and looking mightily embarrassed about it, White popped straight in.

  Dr James Sadler was a slender man in his early to mid-forties, with short brown hair and a high forehead that seemed set in a permanent frown. He was clad in the leathers of a motorcyclist, and a shiny black crash helmet sat on the desk next to him.

  “Yes,” Sadler demanded, eyeing Charlie White suspiciously.

  White smiled apologetically. “Hello doctor, sorry to disturb you but I’m just about to interview a prisoner and my poor head feels like some bugger’s playing the drums in it, so I was wondering if you had any painkillers you could spare?”

  “You’re not a local officer, are you?” Sadler asked, running his eyes over the newcomer.<
br />
  “No, I’m one of the murder squad officers investigating the death of the prostitute who was found in Quaker Street this morning.”

  Sadler tilted his head. “Are you now?” he said, looking at White with interest. “And how is your investigation coming along?”

  White shrugged. “Too early to say, really,” he said.

  The doctor’s medical bag was sitting on the floor beside the examination table, and White noticed the corner of a thick book protruding from it. The title, written along the length of the spine, started with the words ‘Jack the Ripper’, but he couldn’t make out the rest as it was concealed by the bag.

  “Bit of an amateur Ripperologist, are you?” White enquired light heartedly.

  Sadler scowled at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing at all,” White said, hoping he hadn’t caused any offence. “I just noticed that you had a book on the Ripper sticking out of your bag.”