They died quickly, those girls, one after the other. And as they died the newspapers became more and more excited. Jack the
Ripper, they said, had never been caught in Whitechapel. What if he’d moved to the lonely countryside, taken refuge on Dartmoor
and been unable to contain his bestial urges?
However, these girls were innocents compared to Jack’s London victims. Country girls; girls who would wed their rustic clods
of sweethearts and bring babies into the world to toil in farms and fields and maybe even to die in terrible wars. If he had
chosen them, Jack the Ripper’s grim tastes in female flesh had much altered.
The terrible mutilations suffered by these Dartmoor maids differed greatly from the Ripper’s frenzied butchery. The victims
were strangled first, rather than slashed and stabbed. Then their organs were removed and placed in dishes beside them before
the bodies were wrapped with great respect in linen and amulets placed on their chests for protection in the afterlife. All
was done according to the ancient rites of the Egyptians and when the police realised this, it was to Sir Frederick they came
with
their questions. He confirmed their suspicions. The killer was indeed familiar with the customs of those ancient people.
This was no Jack the Ripper, wild with his hatred for whores. There was a purpose to these deaths and the bodies had been
treated with respect, even love.
John Varley rarely ventured out these days, except for at night when he prowled the fields and the countryside. I watched
him closely now as his mind descended into a spiral of resentment and hatred for his father and myself. His mother, I believe,
had ended her days in an asylum. And it is said that these things are passed on to the next generation. A terrible inheritance.
Wesley could see the DCI sitting at his desk staring at the jackal mask that squatted on top of his heap of paperwork, swathed
in a plastic evidence bag. They had just spoken to Guy Kitchener who had clearly been in shock. There had been tears in his
eyes as he spoke – true emotion of the kind that is hard to fake. All his expert speculation about the killer’s identity had
come to nothing and the last person he’d suspected was his own mother. There was a kind of hideous irony to it, Wesley thought
as he went over the conversation in his head.
‘Of course I don’t think Mother ever really recovered from my brother’s death,’ Guy had said. ‘Ben had always been a little
…’ He hesitated, trying to find the right word. ‘Unstable. And when he died Mum went to pieces. I tried to keep an eye
on her but … I never thought for one moment that anything like this would happen.’
‘Your brother drowned?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And this was up in Liverpool?’
‘He was studying there. It was just after his finals. I was up there at the time doing my postgrad work. I felt guilty – still
feel guilty – that I didn’t keep in touch with him more and do something to help him.’
‘How did your mother know about the killings in 1903?’ Wesley had asked.
‘After Ben’s death she became obsessed about us being related to the Varleys. She read everything she could about the family
and Varley Castle and she must have found out about the murders that way.’
‘So you knew about the 1903 murders before all this happened?’
Guy had shaken his head. It had been his mother’s secret. If he had known, he would have told the police. He sounded sincere
but Wesley wasn’t sure that he believed him.
When Wesley asked Guy how exactly he was related to the Varleys the reply was vague. Guy had never taken much interest in
his family tree but he thought the relationship was on his mother’s side rather than his late father’s. He had opened his
mouth as if he was about to add something else, but then he’d thought better of it. The exact connection with Varley Castle
still remained unclear. Wesley hoped that Mary would be willing to clarify matters when they next spoke to her.
He suddenly realised that he should really be with Pam, providing some comfort and support. After all, she’d probably been
selected as a victim because of his job. Mary had hinted as much: the wife of one of the investigating officers would have
been her greatest prize. The idea seemed to amuse her; but then many people enjoy getting one over on the police.
Pam had merely been unconscious when she’d been stripped and wrapped in the sheet and with interruptions from passing cars
and Karen Mayers, it had proved impossible to ensure she was dead and to carry out the ritual mutilations. Wesley thanked
God for Karen and those cars and tried not to think about what might have been.
His phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. He picked up the receiver absent-mindedly and said hello.
‘Is that DI Peterson?’ The female voice on the other end was familiar. And it held a note of excitement. ‘It’s Gemma Fielding
here. Remember?’
Of course he remembered. But in view of recent events, it looked as if his tentative theories about Isobel Grant had crumbled
to dust.
‘What can I do for you, Gemma?’
‘It was on the news that you’ve made an arrest. Is it true?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case I’m probably wasting your time.’
‘Did you have something to tell me?’
She hesitated for a few seconds. ‘It’s probably not important now but I’ve found out more about the person Isobel was blackmailing.
I managed to get in touch with that other boy who lived in that house – Dominic. He’s working at a dental practice in Mossley
Hill and I tracked him down through friends of friends like I promised. He told me that the boy who killed himself was called
Ben.’
The name caused Wesley’s heart to beat a little faster. It looked as if Gemma had succeeded where Merseyside police were still
struggling. He straightened himself up in his chair, suddenly alert. ‘Go on.’
‘Dominic said he remembers Izzy getting drunk one night and saying something about Ben killing someone. She told
him Ben had stabbed a man but then the next day she insisted that she’d made it all up.’
‘Who was this Ben supposed to have killed?’
‘Some man … a stranger. Dominic reckoned it was just a tall story and he said Ben was a bit weird so he didn’t have much
to do with him when they shared a house.’
Wesley frowned. Gemma’s words didn’t quite make sense. Or maybe he was just too exhausted to make the effort to understand
… especially when they had the culprit down in the cells. Dominic the dentist could well be right about it being a tall
story. This could just be a meaningless distraction.
Wesley looked round to make sure he couldn’t be over-heard. ‘Did this Ben have a brother called Guy?’
‘Dominic said he had a brother who was a postgraduate at the university but he couldn’t remember his name. Look, I don’t even
know whether the story was true or whether it was just a load of crap.’ Another hesitation. ‘But I went to the newspaper offices
and had a look to see whether there were any reports of deaths around that time that might fit. There was one that was reported
in the
Echo
: a homeless man was found stabbed in a derelict dock building. It probably has nothing to do with—’
‘We can check it out. And if you can give me Dominic’s number … I’d like to talk to him.’
Gemma recited the full name and phone number. ‘You think it could be important?’
‘I don’t know.’ He thanked her and ended the call. Then he made another call before hurrying to Gerry’s office.
Gerry received the news in silence before putting through a call to his counterpart in his home city of Liverpool. Wesley
sat opposite him as they waited for Merseyside police to call them back. Neither man felt much like talking. But it was Wesley
who broke the silence.
‘Where’s Guy Kitchener now?’
‘He’s gone back to his flat to arrange Mary’s legal representation. He said he’d be back later. I don’t see how he could be
involved, Wes. He couldn’t have abducted Pam ’cause he was in London at that conference. I’ve checked and double-checked and
he was there.’
‘What about the other murders?’
‘We had no reason to check his whereabouts, did we?’ Gerry said, almost defensively. ‘But we can get someone onto it.’
The phone rang. It was the DCI from Merseyside who’d dealt with the death in the derelict dock. Gerry put the speakerphone
on and Wesley sat down to listen.
‘I believe you’ve been enquiring about a murder back in 2005. Homeless bloke known as Rocky found stabbed in Olympia Dock.’
‘That’s right. Any suspects?’
They heard a sigh on the other end of the line. ‘We assumed it was just a drunken brawl. Another homeless chap went missing
shortly after and we worked on the assumption there was a connection and he’d done a runner. He had an alcohol problem and
a record of violence.’
‘What about the weapon?’
‘The pathologist reckoned it was a common or garden kitchen knife – the type available in every other high-street shop or
supermarket but it was never found.’
‘And the missing man?’
‘He was twenty-three and his name was Donny Narwell. Spent his life in care … usual story. He could be anywhere
now. He could even be dead.’ Wesley heard another sigh. It was clear that the death of Rocky and the disappearance of Donny
Narwell had defeated the investigative powers of Merseyside CID and had become just another statistic.
‘A student committed suicide around that time. Name of Ben Kitchener? He was found floating in the Albert Dock.’
‘Ah yes, not the best thing to happen at one of our major tourist attractions. The poor lad had a history of mental instability,
I remember. He’d just finished his finals and apparently he’d had a lot to drink so …’
‘Did you ever connect him with Rocky’s murder?’
The DCI sounded quite surprised. ‘We had no reason to. It was a straightforward case. His brother reported him missing and
then came to identify him – he taught at the university, I think. He took charge of everything. There was an inquest of course
but, as I said, it was straightforward. One of his housemates gave evidence that he’d been depressed. Tragic, though.’
‘What was the housemate called?’
‘Hang on.’ There was a rustle of paper as the Merseyside DCI checked the file. ‘Isobel Grant.’ There was a pause. ‘Wasn’t
that the name of one of your murder victims?’
‘Yes. That’s right. What was Ben studying?’
‘I can’t remember. History maybe … something like that.’
Gerry thanked him and asked for all the details to be emailed through. As soon as the call was finished Wesley stood up.
‘I’m going over to Guy Kitchener’s flat. Coming with me?’
Gerry followed him out of the office. Neither man had been to Guy Kitchener’s place but they knew the address. Guy had mentioned
that it was in a modern block with a balcony overlooking the sea. It wouldn’t be difficult to find.
Luckily the traffic was light as they drove out to Morbay and when they arrived they parked by the promenade over-looking
the slate-grey sea and the beach, deserted apart from a solitary man walking an elderly Labrador. Wesley, distracted by the
evening’s events, had forgotten his coat and when he emerged from the car he pulled his jacket close around him, trying not
to shiver in the biting sea breeze.
Soon they were at the entrance to Beach View Court examining the names on the battery of bell pushes beside the front door.
Guy Kitchener had written his name clearly beneath his bell and Wesley pressed it three times. It must have sounded urgent
inside the flat – and it was meant to.
A disembodied voice from the entryphone speaker told them to come up. It was hard to tell how Guy felt about their arrival
from those few words but when he opened his flat door to them his normally amiable face was solemn. But they’d just charged
his mother with murder so that was hardly surprising.
‘How is she?’ he asked anxiously.
‘A psychiatrist’s coming in to assess her later. There’s a chance she might be moved.’
‘Good. A police cell’s hardly appropriate. I take it you’re here to discuss what she’s done …?’
‘Actually we’d like to ask you a few questions.’
‘You’d better come through.’ He led them into a spacious living room with wooden floors and angular modern furniture.
Wesley perched on the uncomfortable black leather sofa and took out his notebook. ‘I believe you did your doctorate in Liverpool?’
‘That’s right. I taught at the university for a year or so afterwards.’
‘You never mentioned it,’ Gerry said accusingly.
‘Why would I mention it? I didn’t think it was relevant.’
‘You had a brother called Ben. He drowned.’
There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Yes, but I don’t see—’
‘Your mother’s third victim, Isobel Grant, shared a house with your brother in her second year at university.’
‘I had nothing to do with my brother’s housemates. He was five years younger than me and we didn’t mix socially.’
‘So you didn’t know Isobel?’
‘No.’
‘Isobel told someone that your brother had done something terrible.’
‘What do you mean?’ His voice had become a nervous squeak.
‘She claimed that he’d murdered a stranger … just to see what it was like to kill someone.’
Guy sat there with his mouth open for a few moments. ‘That’s absolute nonsense.’
‘He couldn’t keep it to himself. He got drunk and told Isobel Grant. Perhaps he killed himself because he couldn’t live with
what he did.’
‘This is nonsense.’ Guy spoke with confidence, almost as though he was trying to convince himself as well as the two policemen
sitting opposite him.
Wesley continued. ‘Isobel in turn told a friend what he’d said and I suppose the story got embellished with each telling until
nobody really believed it and it became a sort of urban myth. When Ben killed himself everyone assumed he’d made it up because
he was mentally unstable. But I think it really happened. And you knew about it, didn’t you, Guy? I think Isobel Grant recognised
you in the street and thought
she’d try and make some money out of what she knew. Did she ask you for money, Guy? Did she threaten to publicise what your
brother had done unless you paid up?’
Guy shook his head, trying to laugh it off. But his laughter was forced and unconvincing. ‘For your information, my brother
suffered from depression. He found it difficult to cope with life. What you’re alleging is absolute fantasy, Wesley. If I
were you, I’d see a good psychologist.’ He hesitated, as though he realised that he’d get nowhere with cheap insults. ‘Look,
it’s only natural that you’re still upset after what happened to your wife. In the circumstances you won’t be thinking straight.
I can only apologise that I didn’t recognise sooner that my mother’s mental state was so bad but—’
‘We’ve checked with Merseyside police, Guy,’ Gerry said. ‘There was a death that fitted with Isobel’s story. A homeless man
called Rocky was found dead in a derelict dock.’
‘So? Anybody could have killed him. He was probably stabbed in some drunken brawl.’
Wesley caught Gerry’s eye. ‘We didn’t say he was stabbed.’
Guy didn’t flinch. He merely gave a feeble smile and began to pick at his finger nails. ‘It was a guess. Let’s face it, Wesley,
you’re just fishing. You’ve no proof. And besides, my brother’s dead. Mother adored Ben and it was probably his death that
sent her over the edge. Of the two of us, he was always her favourite. I resented that for a while, of course, but … Well,
he is – was – my only brother.’
Gerry cleared his throat. ‘Liverpool Police found some DNA at the scene of Rocky’s murder. There’s no match on the national
database but it’s only a matter of time. You’ll be willing to give a DNA sample, won’t you, Guy?’
Wesley was sure that he saw a flicker of panic in the man’s
eyes, there for a second then gone. ‘I don’t see why not. Look, I’m expecting a call from my mother’s solicitor.’