Brian Johnson observed them preparing to go out and arrest his friend with a heavy heart. There was no way that Henry could be the Ripper. He might like a bit of kinky sex, and he might even be a little rough with the prostitutes he used, but a killer? Never! Besides, hadn’t Boyden recently told him that he was happily married these days and had no interest in using prostitutes anymore?
Johnson knew that he wasn’t exactly an easy man to get along with, which was probably why Henry was the only real friend that he had left. He desperately wanted to help the poor fool, but what could he possibly do? What would Boyden do in his place if their positions were reversed?
The answer came to him surprisingly easily.
Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Brian Johnson slipped out of the office and made his way along the corridor until he came to DCI Quinlan’s office. The lights were off and no one was inside. He glanced up and down the corridor to satisfy himself that no one else was around, and then he opened the door and stepped inside. Closing the door quietly behind him, Johnson moved swiftly to the desk and snatched the phone from its cradle with a trembling hand. Keeping his eyes fixed on the door and praying that no one would walk in on him, he dialled a number from memory and waited impatiently for it to be picked up at the other end.
“Listen to me,” he whispered the moment it was, “I haven’t got time to explain, but the police have got it into their heads that you’re the Ripper. They’re on their way around to your house right now.”
CHAPTER 31
“This is all a terrible mistake,” Boyden sobbed. “I’m not the Ripper. I didn’t kill those girls.” He was finding the tiny interview room hot and oppressive, and the walls felt as though they were slowly closing in on him. Susan Sergeant and Steve Bull stared at him in detached silence from the opposite side of the table.
They had found Boyden hiding in the tiny loft of his house, crouching between the rafters; a half-packed bag had been discovered lying open on his bed, along with a train timetable and some cash. It looked like he had been preparing to do a hasty runner.
As per the instructions Dillon issued when they’d phoned in to confirm they had their man, Paul Evans and Richard Jarvis had driven him straight to Walthamstow police station in Forest Road, where a cell had been reserved. After relating the facts of the arrest to the custody sergeant and going through the booking-in procedure, they had escorted a dazed-looking Boyden off to a detention room to strip search him and bag all his clothing. A variety of samples had been authorised. Jarvis had taken the non-intimate samples himself: hand swabs, nail cuttings and scrapings, hair follicles and mouth swabs for DNA. Surprisingly, Boyden had readily consented to provide intimate samples as well, and the FME had been summoned to take blood, urine and lastly, penile swabs – no matter how tough a criminal was, or how much of a fight he put up upon arrest, Evans was yet to encounter a man whose eyes didn’t show fear as he was led away for penile swabs.
A wet set of Boyden’s fingerprints were taken, and these were rushed straight up to the Yard by young Terry Grier for urgent comparison against the prints found on the three ten-pound notes that had been in the first victim’s purse.
Nothing ever happens quickly when someone is taken into custody. When they arrived at Walthamstow police station at four-thirty p.m. there had only been one other person in front of them, a crappy shoplifter from one of the shops in Walthamstow market, but it had still taken over an hour and a half to book their prisoner in and bag all his belongings. Then they had waited a further two hours for the FME to arrive and take the intimate samples.
Although the interview team, DS Bull and DS Sergeant, had arrived at six p.m., it was getting on for half-past eight by the time they finally sat Boyden down for interview. The good news was that Boyden had consented to be interviewed without a solicitor present. Generally speaking, people tended to do this for one of two reasons: firstly, because they were innocent and wanted to clear their name; secondly, because they thought there was no evidence against them and the police were just grasping at straws. They wondered which scenario applied to Henry Boyden.
“Mr Boyden,” Susie began. “Can you confirm for the benefit of the tape that you understand the caution that I have just given you?”
Wiping a long trail of snot along the back of his hand, Boyden nodded. The accompanying whimper could hardly be called a word.
“It’s an audiotape, not a video. I need you to speak,” Susan said with studied patience.
Boyden sniffed again. “Yes, I understand,” he confirmed.
“And can you tell us why you have chosen to be interviewed without legal representation?” she asked.
Boyden shrugged. His bottom lip was trembling and he was looking so sorry for himself – or perhaps he was just sorry for being caught – that it was verging on the pathetic. “I don’t need a solicitor,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I’m not the Ripper.”
Dillon had chosen Bull and Sergeant to carry out the interviews because of their vast combined experience in this field. It had also occurred to him that, if Boyden was the killer, he probably wouldn’t react well to having a strong, confident woman like Susie interrogate him. With
