Jack took it and studied the text, which had also been inked in blood.
Chief Superintendent Moron,
I’ve sent you a little souvenir to remind you that this woman’s blood is as much on your hands as it is on mine. When you’re done with it, give it to Jack Tyler. He, at least, is a worthy adversary, and I think of him as my very own Inspector Abberline.
Jack the New Ripper.
“How and when was the box delivered?” Tyler asked Chief Superintendent Moron.
“Well,” Porter said, looking across to Pritchard, “I think Simon is probably better placed to explain that.”
“Yes,” Pritchard said. “I suppose I am.”
“I’m listening,” Tyler said, wondering why Porter had deferred to the civilian.
“I popped into the station this afternoon to speak to Charles about Henry Boyden, who I understand was charged with murder earlier in the week. Because of the voluntary work he’s been doing for the charity over the last couple of months, Sarah and I wanted to make sure that his terrible conduct won’t reflect badly on us. I mean, can you imagine the headlines: Sutton Mission charity worker murders prostitute! Anyway, as I was about to walk up the station steps, a motorcycle courier pulled up and called me over. I assumed he was going to ask me for directions, but I was wrong. What he actually wanted was for me to drop that –” he indicated the shoe box “– into the station office on his behalf as he was running late and still had loads of deliveries to make. He assured me it was nothing valuable and didn’t need to be signed for, so I thought I’d do the chap a favour. When I noticed it was addressed to Charles, here, I bypassed the station office and brought it straight up to him. It was only when he opened it that we realised what it was.”
“Can you describe this man for me?” Tyler asked.
“Well, not really,” Pritchard said. “He was wearing a helmet with the visor down, and he had on black leathers, gloves, and motorcycle boots.”
“What about his eye or skin colour?” Tyler asked.
Pritchard shook his head apologetically. “I couldn’t see either. The visor was mirrored, you see, so all I could see in it was my own reflection, and every inch of his body was covered by his biking outfit.”
Oh great! Tyler thought, struck by the similarities between this conversation and the one he’d had with Porter the other night. “What about his accent?” he asked, without any real hope.
“Well, it was sort of normal; not posh, not cockney, not any accent that I could recognise to be honest,” Pritchard said. “It was a little muffled by the helmet, which didn’t help.”
Tyler let out an impatient sigh. “What can you tell me about the motorbike,” he asked. Surely Pritchard would be able to recall its colour or the brand or a part of the index.
“Well, it had an engine and two wheels,” Pritchard said, and immediately regretted doing so when he saw that Tyler’s face had clouded with anger. “Forgive me,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to sound flippant. It’s just that I really don’t know anything about motorcycles. Not my thing, I’m afraid. The only thing I noticed was that the engine sounded powerful.”
Tyler ignored the apology, which he suspected was as false as the man’s smile. “Have either of you actually handled the notes or touched the cellophane wrapping on the meat that’s inside the shoe box?”
Porter and Pritchard exchanged guilty looks, like a couple of choirboys who had just been caught looking at a dirty magazine by the vicar.
“Well,” Porter said, and then cleared his throat. “We both handled the notes, but we didn’t touch the meat inside the box, did we, Simon?”
Pritchard squirmed uncomfortably. “Actually, Charles, I did prod it a couple of times,” he admitted sheepishly “out of professional curiosity.”
Tyler gave him a piercing stare. He could completely understand them handling the box, and even the notes to a certain extent, but what sort of fuckwit would start prodding a package of human flesh? The cellophane would now potentially be contaminated by his DNA and his sodding fingerprints.
Pritchard must have read his mind, or more likely the scathing expression on his face, because he stared back indignantly. “I am a doctor, you know,” he proclaimed, as if that justified his actions.
“I think the meat in that box is beyond needing a doctor,” Jack pointed out acerbically, “don’t you?”
◆◆◆
It was almost six o’clock by the time Tyler arrived back at Arbour Square, and after making himself a strong cup of coffee, he rang Holland to give him an update. “At a guess, I’d say the meat will turn out to be Geraldine Rye’s missing breast and one of her kidneys,” Jack said. He shuddered as he recalled the rancid smell wafting out of the shoe box; no matter how many times he was exposed to it, he would never get used to the sickly sweet odour of rotting flesh.
Holland wasn’t pleased by the revelation. “Let’s hope the press doesn’t get hold of that, Jack. I’m sick of seeing this case plastered over every newspaper I read.”
After ending the call, Jack went straight to the CCTV viewing room and found Paul Evans. “Paul, drop what you’re doing and come with me.” When they were in his office, Tyler explained all about the latest development. “It stands to reason that the motorcyclist Pritchard spoke to was the killer, so I want you to hot foot it over to the Borough CCTV control room and see if you can pick him up on camera.”
Evans face dropped. “What, now?” He had been hoping the team would be dismissed at a reasonable hour today. After all, this was their thirteenth day at work without a break. Dillon had recently broken the news that the entire team was having its leave cancelled again, and would have to work a second weekend
