The Smoke In The Photograph

by Kit Tinsley

  'I could do better than whoever took this.'

  Steven looked at it, frowning.

  'What do you think that is anyway?' he asked, peering at the shape.

  She shook her head.

  'I'm not sure,' she said. 'At first I thought it might be smoke from a nearby bonfire, but it seems too wispy for that kind of smoke. Then I thought Criar might be right that it was cigarette smoke, but the colour is all wrong and it's too disjointed.'

  Steven frowned at her, his hatred of smoking rearing its head again.

  'You're the expert of course.’

  'Yes,' she said. 'Even though I've given up, I can still remember what cigarette smoke looks like.'

  Steven rubbed his hands through his hair, and exhaled loudly.

  'You really want it, don't you? he asked.

  'Yes, I do,' she replied.

  She knew it was difficult for him to understand. He had always had a stable home. His parents had been married for fifty years and seemed closer than a couple of newlyweds. For Julia things had never been that easy. Her father had left when she was still just a baby, and she had not seen him since. Her mother had liked to drink far too much, and Julia was forever being passed from pillar to post of relatives. She didn't want that life if they were to start a family. She wanted to give them a safe, stable home, in a beautiful and magical house.

  'It's so much more than we were looking to spend though,'

  This was true, but it was still within the realm of possibility. They could easily pay half of the house straight off with the money from this one.

  'I know, but we can afford it. Once I start painting again it'll be fine. Plus you'd be able to walk to work. It would save a fortune on petrol.'

  The current house was in the small town of Darton. It was a good eighteen miles from their house to the hospital. Plus, at busy times, traffic through Lincoln proceeded at crawling speed.

  Steven was still shaking his head, but there was a chink in his armour. She could see it in the way he refused to make eye contact with her. She was winning.

  'You're a surgeon. In two years you'll probably be a consultant,' she said, stroking his professional ego. 'With the money that Fran has been getting for my paintings we will be fine. We won't need to worry. A house this good is never going to come along at this price again. If we don't go for it, we could regret it forever.'

  He threw his hands up in defeat.

  'Okay. You win,' he said. 'We'll go back and see Criar again tomorrow.

  She threw her arms around him and covered him in a rush of kisses all over his face.

  'You won't regret this.’

  'But you better start painting again in a hurry.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sam Fluting pulled his Audi A4 through the gates that led up to the common. He flashed his warrant card at the young constable manning the gate. He nodded and pointed Sam in the direction of the other parked cars. The young constable looked overwhelmed trying to keep at bay the throng of journalists and members of the public. All of them were baying for information and the Ripper's blood. Of course they had the right to feel angry. A brutal killer had been on the loose for too long, and there seemed no end to the carnage in sight.

  Sam knew that a lot of them were after his own head as well. He was, after all, the man who had for the last six years failed to apprehend the county’s most prolific serial killer.

  He parked the Audi and got out of the car. The major activity appeared to be taking place halfway up the hill. Forensics had already erected their little white tents, and he could see at least twenty uniformed officers combing the wider area.

  He started walking that way, turning a blind eye to the shouts coming from the crowd beyond the gate. He had heard them all before, the taunts, the curses, the pleas. They seemed to have been getting worse with every life the Ripper took.

  Detective Sergeant Graves was walking down the slope towards him. Sid Graves was a short stocky man, at least ten years older than Sam, but he never seemed bothered about climbing the ranks. Graves just wanted to get to retirement in one piece.

  'Why am I here, Sid?' he asked.

  'I was the first C.I.D. on the scene,' Grave said. 'It looks like one of his.'

  Sam shook his head.

  'No,' Sam said. 'My boy always leaves them in their own homes.'

  This was true. This was one part of the Ripper's pattern that hadn't changed in the last six years. Six years, and nine victims. It was no wonder that the baying mob outside the common hated him. This monster had butchered nine women and as far as anyone could see the police were no closer to catching the bastard.

  'I think you better take a look at this, Sam,' Graves said solemnly.

  Sam followed Graves over to the first of the white crime scene tents. Inside were several officers, all of whom nodded at Sam upon his arrival. In the centre of the tent was a gurney, upon which lay the body, neatly hidden away in a black body bag.

  As Graves walked over to it, the uniformed officers left the tent. They had evidently seen enough for one day. Having seen all nine of the Ripper's previous victims close up, Sam couldn't blame them.

  Graves pulled down the zipper, and Sam saw the naked, mutilated woman. There was no denying it. The Ripper had done this. All of his trademarks were present. X carved into the forehead while the victim was still alive. The throat slit. Then after death the true horror began. Both breasts had been completely removed. No doubt left somewhere nearby. The bloody mess between her legs where her outer genitalia, along with her entire interior reproductive system, had been removed.

  'It's him, all right,' Sam said with a rueful tone. 'Have they found the missing items yet?'

  Graves pointed to the smaller bag on the floor behind him.

  'Her breasts are in there,' Graves said. It was evident just how distasteful he found the whole thing. 'They're still checking the area for the rest.'

  'They'll be there,' Sam said. 'They're always there.'

  Graves shook his head.

  'Why does he leave them behind?' he asked. 'I thought these sickos liked to keep them as souvenirs.'

  Sam shrugged.

  'According to the experts, only the ones who gain some sort of sexual thrill will take trophies,' he said, motioning for Graves to zip the poor woman back into her bag.

  'I thought they all did it for those sort of kicks?' Graves said, while closing up the body bag.

  'Not our boy,' Sam said. 'There's never any sign of sexual assault, other than the nature of the wounds, never found any bodily secretions to suggest he gets any kind of sexual pleasure from it. The psychiatrist I spoke to said it was probably some sort of deep seated hatred of women that led him to commit these crimes.'

  Graves looked as though he wanted to say something, but could not find the words. Sam understood that feeling. It was not possible to comprehend how someone could harbour that much hate towards anyone to do these things. Every time another body was found, Sam was more sickened by the nature of the Ripper's crimes. It was as though he was not even human, but some kind of monster, dreamt up in the nightmares of mankind.

  'Do we know when she was killed?' Sam asked.

  'No,' Graves said. 'Only that she was discovered by a group of school kids this morning. They're all being treated for shock at the hospital. We'll send her over to the pathologist when we're done here.'

  'Okay,' Sam said. He knew he was going to have to go and interview the kids at the hospital. Poor little buggers would probably never get over this.

  'How many is that now?' Graves asked. 'Nine?'

  'Ten,' Sam said. 'She's the tenth.'

  Ten girls in six years, and not one single clue as to who the Ripper was, or what his motives were. The bodies kept piling up and Sam never appeared to catch a break. No wonder the press was calling for him to be removed from the case. It was not his fault though. The Ripper was too good at this. Despite the brutal, almost frenzied, nature of the murders, the killer was very organised.

  'W
hy do you think he left her here?' Graves asked. 'You said he always leaves them at home.'

  'I don't know,' Sam said. The break in the pattern was puzzling to say the least. 'Perhaps he killed her at home, then brought her here for some reason.'

  Graves shook his head.

  'The amount of blood over there, where the kids found her, he did it all here.'

  Sam was shocked.

  'Out in the open? ' he asked.

  'There're a few trees for cover, but if anyone came by they would have seen, and certainly heard her screaming.'

  This was true, but Sam knew that the common was pretty much deserted at night. After ten, the last of the dog walkers had turned in, and by midnight even the underage drinkers had gone home. The Ripper would have known that too, but it still seemed like a big risk to take.

  'Perhaps when we find out why he did it here, we might finally have a shot at catching the bastard,' Sam said.

  They were interrupted by a nervous cough. Sam turned to see a uniformed officer standing at the door of the tent.

  'What is it, constable?' Graves said.

  'Sorry sir,' the uniformed officer said, 'but they've found something at the top of the hill.'

  'Is it the rest of her...' Graves paused, unsure at first how to end the sentence, before settling on, 'parts?'

  The constable shook his head.

  Sam looked to Graves, who shrugged. Sam set off running out of the tent and up the hillside, towards the group of officers waving their arms above their heads. Graves followed at a more sedate pace.

  When Sam reached the top of the slope he slowed down and walked over to the officers.

  'Well? What is it?'

  One of the officers pointed to the undergrowth next to a line of trees.

  'Over there, sir,'

  Sam headed in the direction the officer was pointing. They had marked the spot with a few small yellow flags. At first, Sam struggled to see anything but a tangle of grass and weeds. Then he saw it.

  'Oh, hello, beautiful,' a thin smile creeped over his lips.

  Graves caught up with him. He stood behind Sam. His shadow made the other detective turn around.

  'What is it?' Graves asked, squinting into the grass.

  Sam knelt down and pulled an evidence bag from his pocket. He used it to carefully pick up the object. He got up and turned back to Graves.

  'This,' Sam said, holding up a blood-covered scalpel.

  The little coffee shop stood in the middle of Lincoln High Street. The building itself was old, all white walls with black timber frames. From this vantage point, you could see most of the activity taking place in the city centre. It was a regular haunt for Julia and her best friend, Wendy.

  'You look awful,' Julia said.

  'Thanks,' Wendy said taking a little sip of her coffee. There were dark bags under her eyes, the remnants of her jet lag.

  'Why did you want to meet up so early?' Julia asked. 'We could have met up later in the day.'

  Wendy shook her head.

  'Do you have any idea how loud a six and eight year old are when they are getting ready for school?' Wendy asked. 'It's like the coming of the apocalypse. There was no chance of catching up on my sleep with that going on.'

  Wendy had been a runway model in her youth, but now at twenty-nine she had settled into a life of posing for the covers of magazines and adverts. She was still a stunning woman. Tall, and slim, her long blonde hair shone in the sun as though it were made of gold.

  She had only returned to the country in the early hours of that morning after spending the last month and a half on a working holiday in the USA. A trip like that would normally have put her out of commission for days, but since her recently divorced sister had moved in with her two kids, Wendy had found it harder to relax at home. She had told Julia that it was great having someone there to watch the house while she was away; suddenly living with her sister and nephews was taking some time to adjust to.

  Wendy opened her handbag and took out a packet of cigarettes. She offered it and her lighter to Julia who eagerly accepted.

  'Steven would go mental if he knew you were still smoking,' Wendy said.

  Julia took a long draw on the cigarette.

  'What he doesn't know won't hurt him, will it?'

  'Are you really not bothered about the murder?' Wendy asked.

  Julia shook her head.

  'No, it doesn't bother me. Steven is more worried about it than I am.'

  'What's wrong?' Julia asked.

  'I knew her,' Wendy said.

  'Really? How?'

  'She was a photographer. I worked with her a few times for Marie Claire. She did the fashion stuff for the money, but she was really an artist, you know.'

  Julia nodded. She knew exactly what Wendy meant. There was a big difference between a talented fashion photographer and a true artist.

  'He's killed nine women. The Ripper they call him. He slashes their throats.'

  For a reason she couldn't explain, Julia felt her own hand go to her throat, as if trying to protect it from an attack.

  'Actually, it's ten women now,' Wendy said. 'I heard on the radio that they found another one this morning.'

  'It's terrible,' Julia said, her hand still stroking her throat.

  'From what I've heard, the throat cutting isn't the worst of it. They're keeping the grislier details out of the press.'

  'How do you know?' Julia asked.

  'You remember that guy I went out with last year for a while, Tom?'

  Julia nodded.

  'He was a copper,' Wendy continued. 'He told me that the Ripper cuts off their breasts, and takes their insides out.'

  Julia was shocked. It all sounded so horrific.

  'And you're going to live there?' Wendy asked.

  'So?' Julia said. 'I hardly think he will want to come back to the same house, do you? It's probably the safest place to be.'

  'But, that terrible thing happening there. How can you just put it to the back of your mind? You know how delicate you are.'

  'I'm fine,'

  'I could always ask Madam Helga to check the place out for you?'

  'Who?' Julia asked.

  'The psychic I see.'

  Julia rolled her eyes.

  'Scoff all you want,' Wendy said. 'But that woman has a real gift. She would definitely be able to check the house for you.'

  'Check it for what?' Julia said. 'Ghosts? No, thank you, Wendy. I'm sure I can take care of myself, and I'll have Steven to protect me.'

  'The older girls are fine,' Doctor Claremont said to Sam as they sat in the psychiatrist’s cozy office.

  'That's Mary, and Alice, right?' Sam asked, writing in his notebook.

  'Yes,' Claremont confirmed. 'They didn't actually see the body. It was their younger sister, Victoria, who found it.'

  Victoria Reynolds, twelve years old, and the younger sibling of twins Mary and Alice Reynolds. They had been walking from their home, on the Washingborough side of the city, to the Priory Academy on Cross O'Cliffe Hill. The girls, along with many other kids from the school, made the trip across the common every day of the week.

  That morning though, Alice had thrown her sister’s backpack into the undergrowth to tease her. Victoria had run off to fetch it, only to trip and fall on the corpse of the Ripper's latest victim.

  She had run screaming to her sisters, one of whom had called the police whilst the other comforted the younger girl.

  It was horrendous to think about it. The poor kid was going to be scarred forever. Sam felt a knot of anger in his stomach. Yet another innocent life ruined by that bastard.

  'What sort of state is she in now?' Sam asked Claremont.

  The doctor shrugged.

  'It's hard to say,' he admitted. 'We've sedated her, but I think it's going to take a lot of time and counseling for her to move on from the shock. I would expect there will be plenty of nightmares in her near future. Maybe some regression as well. She's going to become more dependent on her
family, like a much younger child.'

  Sam shook his head in disgust.

  'I have to talk to her,' he said. 'See if there was anything she noticed that could help the investigation. Believe me when I say I hate the fact that I have to put her through that, but I have no choice.'

  Claremont nodded.

  'I don't know how much help she will be,' he said. 'The shock will have jumbled her memories. Her mind will be shutting things off so that she can't remember them. It's a defense mechanism.'

  Sam wondered if that was for the best, if the girl could forget the whole ordeal. He was aware, though, that the mind didn't work like that. Sooner or later the memories would come back to her, and they would need to be dealt with.

  'I appreciate that, Doctor Claremont, if there was another way I would take that option. However, I'm all out of options on this case. Ten women have been butchered by this maniac now. I have to stop him.'

  Claremont eventually agreed to let Sam speak to the girl. He was led to a cheerful room on the psychiatric ward, used solely for dealing with children.

  A woman, Sam assumed the girl’s mother, sat in a chair by the window. She nodded and offered a half smile when she saw Claremont.

  Victoria was sitting up in bed. She was twelve years old, but the combination of the shock, the room, and the sheer size of the hospital bed made her look much younger, and smaller.

  Claremont entered alone first, and Sam stayed back in the doorway. When Claremont had said they had sedated her, he had expected her to be asleep. Instead though she was just sitting, staring out of the window.

  'How are you feeling, Victoria?' Doctor Claremont asked.

  At first, the girl didn't seem to respond to his presence, let alone his question. She just kept on looking out of the window. Sam wondered if the doctor would ask again, but then the girl slowly turned her head towards Claremont.

  'Much better now,' Everything about the girl seemed to be slowed down, her reactions, her movement, even her speech. It was almost as if someone had put her in slow motion.

  'That's wonderful,' Claremont said. 'I have someone who would like to see you.'