Blood Work

She picked up the phone and dialled her own work number. When her assistant answered, she asked if the blood-work report was in. She listened, making some notes as she did so. There were high levels of tranquilliser in the first victim's blood, and she'd bet her mortgage that the second victim's blood work would show the same.

She thanked her assistant, told her not to make any appointments and hung up the phone. She sorted through the other photos and looked at them, shuddering to see her own scarf hung about the throat of the mutilated woman like some kind of macabre decoration. She looked at the next photo, a close-up of the victim's right hand which was holding a small, broken mirror.

She looked at the report again. It was the sort of compact mirror you might find in a handbag. And it was broken. Suddenly her synapses started firing like fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night and she put the pieces together. She remembered what Jack had said and she looked at the second photo once more, the woman laid out, posed for the camera, with her scarf as a final flourish. And she remembered.

'Sweet Jesus!'

Delaney was heading towards his office. The newscast had generated hundreds of calls, people phoning in claiming to know the identity of one of the dead women, and each one had to be checked out. It wasn't what Napier had in mind but maybe some good had come out of the news piece after all. He had his hand on the office door when his mobile phone rang. He looked at the caller ID but didn't recognise the number. 'Jack Delaney.'

'Jack, it's me.'

Delaney didn't need to ask. He could hear the lazy, hypnotic lilt to her accent. He remembered it as a voice filled with mischief, with amusement. But today, her voice was as serious as a heart attack.'

'What do you want, Stella?'

'I saw you on the television.'

Delaney sighed. 'I'm a little bit busy here.'

'One of those women. I know her. She's in the life, cowboy. At least, she was.'

Jack didn't even stop to consider the irony of the expression. 'Who is she, Stella?'

The lightning cracked through the air like a jagged spear. Moments after the thunder rumbled overhead and the rain started in earnest, splattering against the window like a hailstorm. Kate looked at her watch, it was only five o'clock.

She pushed the print icon on Jack's computer and watched as the sheets began to spill from his printer. A couple of desks down Sally looked up from her computer monitor and saw her expression.

'Something wrong?

'Yeah, Sally. Something's very wrong.'

Delaney pushed the door of the CID room open with the flat of his hand.

'The second victim's name is Jennifer Cole. She was an escort. High-class call girl. She had her own website.' He pulled a chair out and sat next to Sally. 'Type in London Angel, one word, dot co dot uk.'

Kate collected the papers she had printed out and walked over to Delaney, as an image appeared on the screen. A healthy, sexy, vibrant image of the woman who had been butchered like a sacrificial cow.

'You better have a look at this, Jack.' Kate handed Delaney the documents she had printed out.

Delaney skimmed his eyes over as he read the first page. 'She wasn't missing any teeth. What is this?'

Kate took the pages off him and read sections aloud. ' "The left arm across the left breast. The instrument used at the throat and abdomen was the same. It must have been a very sharp knife with a thin narrow blade, and must have been at least six to eight inches in length, probably longer. He should say that the injuries could not have been inflicted by a bayonet or a sword bayonet. They could have been done by such an instrument as a medical man used for post-mortem purposes, but the ordinary surgical cases might not contain such an instrument. Those used by the slaughtermen, well ground down, might have caused them. He thought the knives used by those in the leather trade would not be long enough in the blade. There were indications of anatomical knowledge—" '

'What is this?' Delaney interrupted her.

'It's a report, Jack, but not from our murders.'

'Whose then?'

'They didn't come from my office, I just printed them off the Internet. He's been sending you messages all along. Start with the man in the mirror, Jack! It's your namesake.'

'What is?'

'The scarf instead of a handkerchief. The mirror found with the second body. The guy is dressing the victims up like Jack the Ripper victims.'

Delaney looked up at her, taking it in. 'He's copycatting.'

'Not exactly, no. But . . .' she shrugged.

'How many were there?'

'At least five,' said Sally. 'All prostitutes. Some reckon as many as eleven.'

'Jesus!'

The lightning flashed again. The thunder was almost simultaneous now; they were right under the storm. Delaney looked across at the pane of glass and back at Kate. 'You can't be fucking serious.'

'There's another thing,' said Sally.

'Go on.'

'As you know they never found the identity of Jack the Ripper.'

'Yeah, of course I know that.'

'One of the suspects, not one of the main ones but one of them nonetheless . . .'

'Go on.'

'Walter Sickert.'

'The artist.'

'Some people claimed he was the Ripper himself. A lot of people thought he might just have been an accessory. An accomplice to the real killer.'

'And?'

'And, Jack . . . He had several operations on his penis,' Kate interjected.

'That's right,' said Sally. 'He had what Jimmy Skinner would call a deformed wing-wang.'

He leaned his forehead against the pane of glass. He hated the rain, but the cool glass seemed to ease the heat in his forehead. He looked at his watch, five o'clock, but it was already as dark as if it was midwinter. He didn't mind the dark. He rubbed his hand over the handle of the gun he was holding, the wood as warm beneath his touch as the glass was cold. The phone rang, jangling him out of his reverie. He had been expecting the call. It was time to go to work again. There were names on a list. Names that had to be crossed out. He cupped one hand instinctively on his crotch and felt his cock stiffen as he put down the gun and answered the phone with the other.

'It's me.'

Delaney watched as Sally flashed the blinking cursor around the website. She clicked on a hyperlink titled 'Double Dates' and read aloud.

'"For some of the more adventurous, or just plain greedy, amongst you I also offer a double-date service with one of my gorgeous girlfriends. Click on the links left to see just how gorgeous. Double the honey and double the fun."'

Sally did as she was told, moving the cursor to a list of four names on the left-hand side of the screen. Crystal, Amber, Melody and Rose.

Crystal was a blonde, Amber was a brunette and Melody had black hair. Black skirt, top, and black make-up. Goth-style.

Bingo.

James Collins opened his locker door in the changing room and yawned as he changed out of his surgical scrubs. It had been a long and difficult day. He had had to perform an emergency C section on an illegal immigrant. A failed asylum seeker from some godforsaken country the government was keen to return her to. Back to poverty, malnutrition, all manner of abuse and, most likely, an early death. With a baby born in the UK, however, her status would be reconsidered. They had delivered the baby, but it was premature and struggling from the start. Two hours later and the baby died. The mother came through surgery fine, but he could see in her eyes, as she came round from the anaesthetic, that something else had died that afternoon for her. Hope.

James reached into the back of the locker and picked up a small teddy bear, dressed in surgical scrubs. His daughter, Amy, had given it to him as a good-luck gesture when he moved to the hospital, from the North Norfolk and Norwich, eighteen months ago. The surgical cap on the teddy bear's head was in Norwich City colours. He jiggled it in his hand.