The Severed Streets (7 page)

‘Plus, from our point of view, the silver goo,’ added Sefton.

‘And,’ said Costain, ‘the wife is talking about an invisible assailant.’

They paused for a moment, taking in the scene.
Quill’s team’s speciality was now being tested against a
very
mainstream,
very
high-profile,
series
of murders.

‘This is going to set London on fire,’ said Costain.
‘I mean literally.’

‘Where’s this message they were talking about?’
Stepping carefully, Ross followed the trail of blood across the room.
She got to the enormous splatter of it across the far wall and stopped.
Quill and the others joined her.
She was pointing at the fine detail that the chaotic enormity of the splatter concealed.
Among the blood was written, in awkward, blocky characters:

THE JEWS ARE THE MEN WHO WILL NOT BE BLAMED FOR ANYTHING.

‘What is that?’
said Sefton.
‘I recognize that.’
He started to tap at his phone.

‘So this is almost certainly from the killer,’ said Costain, ‘but—’

‘Making assumptions,’ said Ross.

‘You said we could—’

‘Only when we remember to mark them as such.
This is me doing that.
Yes, it could be from the killer, but there might also have been person or persons unknown here, associated with the killer or otherwise, who might have left what they regarded as a useful, or just anti-Semitic, message for the many Londoners who will read it when they get a news camera in here.’

‘Next time you make an assumption, I’ll make sure I mark it.’

‘I hope you will.’

‘Would you just bloody finish the sentence you originally started?’
Quill asked Costain.

‘Just that it’s really weird,’ said Costain, ‘to use “are the men” in what’s otherwise a natural-sounding phrase.
It feels like … pretence to me.
A front.’

‘You’d know,’ said Ross.

‘I would.
There’s the fingerprint.’
He pointed to the very end of the words, where the fingers that had daubed the message had paused for just a moment, leaving a single smeared print.

Ross took a photograph of it.
‘I’ll ask to hear from the investigation about the comparison of that to the prints found in Spatley’s car.’

‘Oh, my God,’ said Sefton.
‘“The Jews are the men”!’
He held up his phone as the others clustered around.
He read from it, keeping his voice down so the uniforms all around couldn’t hear.
‘Those words, or something like them, were what was written on a wall in a place called Goulston Street in Whitechapel, in 1888.’

‘So?’

‘It’s the message left by Jack the Ripper.’

THREE

‘Jack … the Ripper?’
Sarah Quill slowly lowered her cup of coffee to the kitchen table.

‘Such is my glamorous existence,’ said Quill.
‘Celebrate my diversity.’

‘What does that even mean?’

‘I don’t know, I just say these things.’

‘I mean, is it that the Ripper’s …
ghost
has started to attack people?’

‘We don’t know anything beyond the message, not yet.
But it makes sense of the shape of the attacker.
That Toff image of the protestors is also very like the archetypal image of the Ripper.
And, thanks to the press—’

‘Ahem.’

‘Present company excepted.
Thanks to them, everyone thinks the protestors have now started murdering people, though they can’t quite work out how.
The original version of what’s become the Toff mask was, so the people at the factory tell us, part of their “Jolly King” costume.
That costume company have gone from employing a publicity person for the first time, and neither condoning nor condemning the protestors, to slamming the doors and hiding behind press releases.’

‘Royalty?
Like in some of the mad Ripper theories?
Could that be a thing?
One of your lot will have said that, right?’

Quill loved it when she deduced something.
She didn’t do analysis exactly in the way his team did, but like the news editor she was, always casting around for a lead.
‘Sefton.
He’s been reading up on this stuff.
Ross said that when she first got the Sight, she felt a certain gravity from the direction of Buckingham Palace.
I bloody hope this Ripper business doesn’t take us there.’

‘Jack the Ripper.
God, Quill, I wish I could have this story.
Can
I have this story?’

‘No.
Because you and I have a deal—’

‘I know, I know: you all need to have someone you can talk to about this stuff.
But, bloody hell, of all journalists, only I know that there’s a connection between these two incredibly high-profile murder cases.
Only I know about the message on the wall.
And I’m going to go back into my office this afternoon, and my editor’s going to ask how you are, and I’m going to say, “He’s fine, he expressed sympathy about the ongoing decline of the
Enfield Leader
and the redundancies that are bound to start happening soon—”’

‘Love—’

‘Fuck, I could string this story to the
Mail
or the
Herald
or something.
I could make a fortune.
They still give people who dob in for them serious money.’
She made grim eye contact with him again.
‘I’m only having you on.
Really.
No, I am.’

The media were, of course, even with the little they knew, going apeshit about the killings.
The
Independent
was calling this second murder ‘the final failure of authority’ and the
Sun
had gone with ‘Day of the Mob’.
The
Herald
was still very much implying that the Toff protestors must somehow be to blame, and that the CCTV footage from the car attack had somehow been tampered with.
Quill wondered how many news stories over the years had been influenced by stuff from what was now his area of expertise, and how much impossibility, before the blinkers had been taken off, he’d seen euphemized or made ‘sense’ of.
That paper, and a couple of others, had long since wandered away from facts into what Sarah called ‘opinion leads’ – meaning, so far as Quill could see, fiction – which the
Herald
usually used to cover half the front page with furious wordage that led up to a big headline.
‘People don’t buy newspapers for the news now,’ she’d said.
‘They buy a voice that agrees with them.
The
Herald
knows that best of all and is angling itself towards a future when all the papers will be like that.’
Quill hoped that by that point some kind soul might have put him out of his misery.
The
Herald
regarded the Coalition government, incredibly, as far too middle of the road and wishy-washy, and it wanted a crackdown on, well, everything, as far as he could tell.
Every now and then, someone on the news would opine that the paper might soon declare its support for some other, currently minor, party further to the right.
That would, people said, be a game-changer.
Quill wasn’t sure and didn’t care very much at the moment.
To him it was all bloody people doing what bloody people did.

‘At the end of all this,’ he said, ‘when I retire, maybe you can write the book.’

‘By then we’ll be living in a land where what you lot deal with is accepted, will we?
I don’t know if I’m looking forward to that.
I keep thinking that we should send Jessica to school somewhere outside London when she’s old enough.’

‘But—’

‘I mean boarding school.
You have to stay here to fight this stuff.’

‘But—’

‘And we can talk about this sometime in the next five years.’
She picked up her iPad.
‘I’m just checking on the headlines.
Not contributing to them.
At all.
Just looking.
Shit.’

Quill didn’t like how her expression had changed.
‘What?’

She held up the front page of the
Herald
site so he could see the headline.
This time it was short and to the point:

YOURS TRULY, JACK THE RIPPER

Quill grabbed the tablet off her.
‘How the fuck did they get that?’

‘Well, this is the
Herald,
the cleanest newspaper in Britain, as they proudly state.
So they’ll just have been looking through the window of that house with a long lens.
Or had an anonymous photo emailed to them.
Or something equally ethical.
Dear God, I could have beaten the
Herald
to what’s turned out to be an exclusive for them.
By about a minute.
It’s an exquisite form of torture.’
She gave him a deliberately manic grin, threw back her tea and banged the mug down on the table.
‘Have a nice day at work, dear.’

*   *   *

Quill knew exactly what he was going to see when he entered Lofthouse’s office at Gipsy Hill.
Sure enough, there it was: the
Herald
on her desk.

‘In case I hadn’t heard,’ he said.

She gave him a wry look and daintily dropped the newspaper into the wastebasket.
‘Tell me.’

Quill paused for a moment, returning her calm expression.
He wished he could ask her to tell him what
she
knew.
But he had learned from their first few regular meetings that it wouldn’t get him anywhere.
He was still getting used to being able to talk to her about impossible things.
‘We found traces of the silver liquid that you can’t see on the exterior wall at what would have been the exit point of the assailant.
There were a few drops of it in the garden, but no major deposits, and nothing had been disturbed, suggesting, once again, an airborne escape route.’

‘You’ve talked to the wife?’

Quill recounted his interview with Jennifer Staunce.
She had had a terrible expression on her face, not just the grief and horror Quill had seen so many times before, but a dubious and suspicious look that he was starting to recognize: she was shocked that her home, her security, had been violated, but her rational mind still couldn’t see how it could be so.
‘Geoff … had just turned down the sound on the television,’ she’d said.
‘He turned it down, and so we could hear the noise from those … Toffs they call them, outside, chanting from the street.
So strange to have them here.
Disturbing.
He was about to make a phone call.
To his brother.
He’s in property, in Northampton.
They talk about this time every week.
That’s what he said he was going to do.
He’s a creature of habit: nap every afternoon, he always likes the same things for his dinner.
So I went into the kitchen to make some coffee.
The percolator is quite loud, I didn’t hear … I didn’t even hear him scream or anything like that, I just heard … some odd noises, sounds of movement.
So I went back in and … there he was.
Being … hauled around.
Already … already obviously … by something I couldn’t see.
I didn’t get to see who was doing it.
Geoff … must have been in the way.
All I could think of was … they’ve got in.
They’re in here.’

‘They?’
Quill had asked.

‘Those protestors.
After what happened to Michael Spatley, I’d been thinking that Geoff wasn’t safe on the streets.
But in here…!
I’ve been a copper’s wife for thirty years, Mr Quill.
I thought we were past him being in the line of fire.
High office never suited him; he’s had nightmares with every promotion in the last couple of years.
I’m rambling.
Sorry.
I ran, I’m sorry – I just thought of what he’d want me to do, and I was such a coward!’
She’d stopped and visibly steadied herself.
She’d known what Quill needed from her.
‘They … say there was … a message?
Something about Jewish people?’

Quill had nodded.
‘Is there anyone of Jewish ancestry in your or Mr Staunce’s family, ma’am?’

‘Not that I know of.
We have some Jewish friends.
Or I think we must do.
It’s not something you ask, is it?’

‘Thinking back, was there any sign of an intruder?’

‘No.
They must have … I don’t know.
I didn’t take more than two steps towards the … Geoff … the … I could see … I ran straight out of the room, not to the door, because I was thinking, If they’re in here, if they’re in here, I’m next, and I have to tell someone.
So I ran into the downstairs toilet, because that’s got a bolt on it, and I slammed it, and thank God I still had my phone on me, and I called Ben at the office.
And that’s where they found me.’

Lofthouse nodded in appreciation now.
‘Good for her.’

‘Very good, in the circumstances.
The first unit on the scene broke a window to get in rather than try to batter down a front door that was still deadlocked and secure.
If she’d gone to the body, if she’d got a single splash of blood on her, she might have already been arrested.’

‘And she might still be, despite, once again, the lack of weapon at the scene.’

‘She also doesn’t seem a likely fit for daubing messages about the Jewish friends she might or might not have.
There was CCTV in front of the building.
My lot got a look at the recordings, and we saw the same glowing figure leaving the scene.
But nothing new.’

‘What about the wording of the message?’

‘It’s spelled differently to the original version and has better grammar, but the records of the time give three different versions of what that message actually said.
So it might be that our Jack continues to write exactly the same thing he always did.
Or perhaps he writes it in whatever the current vernacular is.’

Lofthouse stood up and went to the window, as if she needed to see some everyday reality.
It wasn’t as if, Quill thought, she was used to thinking like this.
Whatever her mysterious knowledge was, it hadn’t prepared her.
‘So our … our …
suspect
: it looks like Jack the Ripper, it leaves the Ripper’s message—’

‘And it kills like Jack the Ripper.
The single slash across the neck, followed by multiple incisions in the abdomen, done with some medical precision – that’s pretty much the original Ripper’s MO.
Except that in this case the victims are male.’

‘So is this actually what it looks like?
Jack the Ripper is back, only this time he’s killing rich white men?’

‘Well, concerning the message, Spatley was Jewish, but Sir Geoffrey was not.
But they were both indeed powerful, relatively but not grandiosely affluent, middle-aged white males.
That’s certainly the connection the media are making…’