“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Tracey. What’s yours?” Searching her bag for a condom, she thought he looked like a ‘Keith’ or a ‘Kenneth’.
He smiled as he reached for something just behind him. This time it did reach the eyes for he was about to begin his work, and that made him truly happy. His song was being played at maximum volume in his mind. It was so loud that he was sure she would be able to hear it.
What a ride, what a thrill. All I’m gonna do is KILL, KILL, KILL…
He remembered that she’d asked him a question. What was it again? Oh yes, now he remembered. “My real name’s not important, but I suspect after tonight most people will be calling me… Jack. I’m sure you can guess why.”
She stopped fishing around in her bag and looked up, concerned by the nasty tone that had crept into his voice.
“Ta-da!” The man announced theatrically. At first, she thought he was doing Jazz Hands at her until she realised he was brandishing a huge knife in his left hand.
“Oh my God!” she murmured, dropping the bag.
◆◆◆
Sandra Dawson was a bit of a mother hen to the younger girls in Winston’s stable. She was always looking out for them, forever nagging them to eat properly, constantly encouraging them to get fresh needles from the needle exchange in Cambridge Heath Road rather than reusing or – worse – sharing; and she never tired of preaching about personal hygiene and the dangers of not using protection.
When Tracey had come flying across the road, as though the devil himself were breathing down her neck, she’d instinctively known that something terrible had just happened. As soon as Winston drove off Sandra tried to get her to talk about it, but Tracey was clucking so badly she could hardly string a sentence together.
Sandra detested drugs. She had seen too many lives ruined by them, but seeing the state Tracey was in she had agreed to get her a couple of rocks to prevent her body from shutting down. How ironic, Sandra had thought, taking drugs would kill Tracey, and sooner rather than later, but her dependency was so great that she could not function without them.
As she hurried back towards Quaker Street, she tried to avoid handling the foul cellophane covered substance in her pocket, as though contact with it alone could infect or contaminate her. She almost soiled herself when a police van drove by.
There was no sign of Tracey when she finally arrived back at Quaker Street, out of breath and sweating despite the chill. Angela, the black girl with the scar, had returned, and from the glazed look in her eyes had already spent the money she had earned on crack.
“Angie, ‘ave you seen Tracey anywhere?”
Angela gave a lazy shrug. “She’s probably off with a punter.” She didn’t give a fuck about Tracey and couldn’t, for the life of her, understand why Sandra did.
“Poor fucker’s gonna want a refund, state of her,” Sandra told herself, conscious that she would have to keep the awful stuff in her pocket for a little while longer. Still, it shouldn’t be a problem as long as the fuzz didn’t come back.
In her peripheral vision, she registered movement and realised a car was pulling up beside her. Sandra had been so lost in thought that she hadn’t heard it approach. For a moment she assumed the worst: that the police had come back, and that she had tempted fate by thinking about them. Shit! Sandra thoughtas her heartbeat returned to normal, I’m definitely too old for this game. Pushing her tits out, she took a deep breath, sucked in her stomach and went into the old familiar act.
“‘Ello dear. Fancy some fun, do ya?” Sandra flashed her best smile at the driver, hoping he would only want a quick wank.
CHAPTER 4
As he entered the ground floor briefing room at Whitechapel Police station, Inspector Ray Speed surveyed the ensemble of bleary-eyed officers sitting in three neat rows facing the lectern, and then glanced down at his watch. It was a minute before six, and he was half hoping that someone had overslept; it was customary for latecomers to buy doughnuts for the rest of the team, and a Krispy Kreme glazed original really would go down a treat this morning.
They all stood up as he entered the room, but he waved them back to their seats. It was far too early for formalities.
The briefing room was a mess, he noticed, which was hardly surprising seeing as the cleaners hadn’t been in since Friday morning. Under the chairs, he spotted crumpled newspapers, old copies of The Job, sweet wrappers, soft drinks cans and even a sodding pizza box.
His Section Sergeant did a quick head count, and then checked the numbers tallied with those in his duties binder. “All present, sir,” he said with satisfaction.
“Thank you,” Speed said, nodding curtly. He made his way down the centre aisle to the briefing lectern at the far end of the room, only to find it cluttered with polystyrene cups containing foul-smelling coffee dregs. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “This place is a bloody pigsty,” Speed said, passing the offending items to his Section Sergeant for disposal. “Right, let’s begin,” he said, wiping his hands on a tissue.
The team had already been stripped to the bone in order to meet a heavy aid commitment up town, so, when Speed announced that the flu epidemic sweeping through the station had claimed another three of their colleagues overnight, there were a few disgruntled groans.
Speed ignored them. In his experience coppers were only happy when they had something to moan about, and by that rationale his remaining troops ought to be bloody ecstatic this morning.
