‘Whatever you wanth, dar …’
The blade made a squelching sound as it split open her throat. Blood sprayed out of her, hitting the wall. A few drops caught me in the face and got into my eyes. I cursed and let her fall at my feet. Her bonnet slid to one side. Bending down, I turned her face towards me. Her eyes were glazed over and her mouth was moving silently. That was when I first saw the light, at the very edge of my vision. I spun round and could just make out the figure of a policeman holding his lantern at arm’s length. The light from it illuminated his face — high cheekbones, bushy brows — his helmet with its silver badge, his voluminous cape revealed under the arm holding aloft the lantern. He saw me. I turned and ran.
There was a low brick wall at the end of the lane. The place was so dark I only saw the wall when I was almost upon it. Under normal circumstances, scrambling up the wet bricks would have been difficult, but I was fiercely energised, my heart racing, every muscle tensed. I heard the policeman blow his whistle, its shrill sound ricocheting from the walls around me. His lantern bobbed around, sending patches of light sliding here and there. I could see his silhouette as he crouched down beside Catherine Eddowes. In less than a second I was over the wall. I could hear his footsteps pursuing me now. He had reached the wall. ‘Stop!’ he screamed. ‘Stop! Murderer!’ He blew his whistle again. This time the sound was twice as loud. I heard voices, the beat of running feet, men answering the summons and looking for me. I sped off into the darkness.
Something crunched underfoot. I tripped, but just managed to maintain my balance. My outstretched hands came into contact with a large wooden object: a barrel of some sort. It fell to one side and clattered away. The whistle sounded again, and I sped through the narrow opening at the end of the alley.
A group of rowdy fellows was passing by. They were all extremely inebriated, swaying this way and that. I ducked past them and they remained completely oblivious to the commotion coming from the alley behind me. Sliding into a shadowy doorway, I gulped for air. It felt like the first full breath I had taken since slitting the throat of Catherine Eddowes. I noticed blood on my shirt. Pulling my jacket together at the front, I succeeded in covering up the crimson patch, and with my handkerchief wiped away the blood from around my eyes and drops of the stuff from about my mouth. I tasted a speck of it on my fingertip, relishing the iron tang. It was a flavour redolent of what the common herd would call ‘sin’. But as you are, of course, by now aware, dear lady, I have little respect for prudish taboos.
I did not have long to linger. I peered out of the doorway and noticed that there were a number of people around. I decided to cross the street, and was about to turn down a narrow lane when I heard that dreaded sound again — the policeman’s infernal whistle. I turned towards it involuntarily and there he was, at the end of the alley opposite, staring straight at me. I saw his mouth move and knew what he was about to yell.
‘Murderer!’ The bellow cut through the shuffling footsteps of drunks and silly giggles. After a second’s pause I ran as fast as I could down an adjacent lane.
It was dark, as are all those lanes and byways, the alleys and brick passageways and foul-smelling gaps between tenements. I was becoming heartily sick of the place … and the zeal of its local constabulary! A narrow strip of light told me I was heading towards a main thoroughfare, but I had no idea where I was. I ran on and finally burst into the light of Whitechapel Road. I glanced back and, to my horror, saw two police lanterns bobbing along, approaching me fast.
I dashed left, past a shop, and then saw a chained-up door with next to that an opening above which hung a sign METROPOLITAN DISTRICT RAILWAY, WHITECHAPEL AND MILE END. I ducked inside, leaped over the gate to the platform and sped along an echoing tunnel straight on to the platform.
I had never before been in an underground railway station, and if the circumstances had been different I think I would have been quite fascinated. But not at that moment. Without breaking stride, I sped along the platform, barging past the few people waiting for a train. Some way along the platform, I heard the loudest sound I had ever experienced in my life. I thought for a moment that the earth was caving in and ready to fall around my ears; that by some great misfortune I had decided to dive into this subterranean world just as Whitechapel Station was about to collapse. But it was nothing so dramatic. It was merely a train roaring into the station. Like a bellowing, trumpeting demon from the pages of a horror story, it shot out of the tunnel in a burst of light and steam and smoke and fumes.
I had no idea if the enthusiastic members of H Division of the Metropolitan Police Force were still hot on my tail, and I was not about to wait around and see for myself. The train stopped and I jumped into the nearest compartment which happened to be First Class.
It was empty and I threw myself into a nearby seat, ducking down as best I could. The train started to move off and I felt a wave of relief sweep over me. Forcing my heartbeat to slow, I took deep breaths and looked around my new surroundings. The compartment was quite beautiful: brass fittings, mirrors on the walls, gas lights at the end of each row of seats. Then I heard the door at the end of the compartment start to open.
I thought I was immune to surprise, but when I saw the blue cape of a policeman appear at the edge of the door as it opened inwards, and then a domed helmet, I was confounded. I sprang up from the comfortable green leather seat and propelled myself along the central aisle towards the other end of the compartment. Reaching the door, I yanked on its handle. It gave and I plunged into the cool and the noise and the fumes and found myself on a narrow metal bridge between two carriages. I slammed the door behind me, jumped across the coupling and opened a door into the next compartment. It was another First Class carriage. The train lurched and I almost fell as I slammed the door shut behind me. There were just two people in the compartment. I ran along the aisle, hearing the door behind me open. Using the seat backs for additional impetus, I hurtled along the centre of the compartment with no thought for where I was going or what I hoped to achieve.
Standing on the footplate between the two carriages, I looked down and saw the walls slithering away. I sensed the vehicle starting to slow. I glanced back to the carriage I had just exited. There were two policemen running towards me, halfway along it and swaying with the movement of the train, grasping at the seats to steady themselves as I had done.
I stretched my hand towards the handle of the door to the next compartment, pulled down on it and pushed. It would not budge. I felt a spasm of excitement rush along my spine and smiled. I was enjoying myself. But what to do? I could run back and attack the policemen, but it was risky. Two against one. I had a knife, but they had truncheons. It would be a matter of percentages, and to be honest, dear lady, I was wondering if my luck was slipping through my fingers. I looked down again at the floor of the tunnel. The train had slowed considerably now, and as we approached a station light appeared in the tunnel. I turned to face the wall. There was a gap of perhaps a yard to either side of the train. Would it be enough? If I jumped, I could be caught under the wheels of the speeding train. If I did not, I would have to fight and would almost certainly lose. My heart was racing. I had never been in such a dangerous position and it was absolutely intoxicating. I knew then that if I survived, this would be a moment I would relive in my mind over and over again.
I took a deep breath and stared back at the police officers. The one in the lead — I was sure he was the man who had stumbled upon Catherine Eddowes — was almost at the door. I could see his eager face lathered with sweat, his truncheon raised. Turned back to the sight of the ground rushing by under my feet, my mind was filled with the roar of the train. Smoke blurred my vision. I took a step forward and jumped.
Chapter 37
Essex, Tuesday 27 January, early evening
Pendragon and Turner barely exchanged a word as they left Braintree and headed back to London. Turner drove and Pendragon reported in to the station as they pulled away from Macintyre’s rundown council house. Hughes was in a meeting, but Rob Grant took down as many of the details as Pendragon was willing to offer over the phone.
It was overcast and snow had started falling again, melting to nothing as it hit the tarmac of the southbound dual carriageway. Each man was lost in his own thoughts, mulling over unanswerable questions, each trying in his own way to untangle the knotted threads of what they had learned today, a day that, by five o’clock, had started to feel interminable.
The ringtone of the car phone startled them. ‘Pendragon,’ the DCI said, after stabbing the green ‘Incoming’ button below the dash.
