The ringing continued, and he began to wonder if Tyler had already left.
“Hello, Jack Tyler speaking,” a voice suddenly announced, and The Disciple was so surprised that he almost dropped the phone.
“Hello?” the voice continued. “Is anybody there…?”
◆◆◆
Inside his office, Tyler shrugged his shoulders at Dillon, who impatiently mimed hanging up.
They had been on their way out of the office when the phone had started ringing, and although Dillon had done his level best to dissuade him, Tyler had dutifully returned to answer it. He had been feeling a little skittish since his earlier conversation with Terri Miller, and every time the office phone or his mobile had rung, he had instantly been filled with dread.
“Aw, come on, Jack. Put the bloody thing down and let’s go grab a beer,” Dillon complained, moodily. The intensity of the investigation had been relentless, and he had persuaded Jack to stop off for a quick one on the way home, just to unwind.
“Hold on, Dill, just in case there’s been a development,” Jack insisted.
Dillon rolled his eyes. The Yard’s Press Bureau had run a massive publicity campaign to ensure that everyone and their dog was aware of the significantly increased patrols, and he found it hard to believe that the killer would be stupid enough to try and snatch another victim tonight.
“I’m sure that what the killer said to Miller was just an empty threat to impress her,” Dillon said. “And, anyway, there’s probably more coppers roaming the streets of Whitechapel at the moment than there are civilians.”
Tyler motioned for him to be quiet. Unless he was mistaken, he could hear breathing at the other end of the line. “Is anyone there?” he asked again, and this time he tried to sound less aggressive.
“Jack Tyler?” The words were little more than a whisper.
Tyler sat down, holding a hand up to silence his friend, who had annoyingly started to whistle the tune for the football chant ‘why are we waiting’.
“Speaking,” Tyler said, and Dillon immediately noticed the edge that had crept into his voice.
“Do you know who this is?” the voice asked.
“I’m sure you’ll tell me in your own time,” Tyler said, trying to sound bored. With his free hand, he urgently motioned for Dillon to pass him a pen.
“It’s me: your nemesis. I thought it was about time for us to talk, one Jack to another, so to speak.”
Tyler felt his stomach constrict into a tight ball. He scribbled frantically on a sheet of memo pad: I think this is the Ripper calling, and held it up for his partner to read.
Dillon’s jaw dropped. Springing out of the chair he’d just flopped into, he mouthed the words: ‘Keep him talking’, and shot out of the room.
“How do I know that this isn’t a hoax call?” Tyler demanded, stalling for time. He knew – he just knew – that this was for real.
He could almost feel the darkness within the killer’s soul pulsating down the phone line. Without realising he was doing so, he moved the receiver slightly away from his face, as though the man’s madness might infect him if he held it too close.
“I think you’re bright enough to recognise the real deal when you encounter it, Jack. You don’t mind if I call you Jack, do you?”
Jack realised that the killer was enjoying this moment.
“But just in case you’re not, I’ll establish my credibility by asking you how you liked the kidney and shrivelled breast that I sent you via Chief Superintendent Moron this afternoon.”
Tyler’s heart missed a beat. It was the killer beyond a shadow of a doubt; no one else could’ve known what the gruesome delivery contained, or the precise wording he had used to describe Porter. “How did you know how to find me here?” Tyler asked, suspiciously.
“Rest assured, I always know where to find you, Jack. I know everything there is to know about you. I could even tell you what you’re wearing today if you wanted me to,” the killer boasted.
“That won’t be necessary,” Jack said, doing his best to sound unimpressed. The killer was letting him know that he was close, that he could see without being seen. It was an unnerving thought. Had the killer been watching him? Had he been following him? Did he know where Jack and his team lived? It was highly unlikely, but even the possibility that he might was enough to send a shiver down Tyler’s spine.
“Why are you doing this? Why are you killing these women?” Jack asked. Perhaps, if the killer really wanted to talk, he might actually be prepared to answer a few questions.
“Why?Because they are whores, that’s why. I thought that would be obvious, even to a wooden-top like you.”
“Geraldine Rye wasn’t a whore, but that didn’t stop you from killing her,” Tyler said, angered by the killer’s callous disregard for human life.
“Which one was she?” The killer asked, sounding confused. “I don’t have any idea who you are talking about. Surely you don’t expect me to know any of the strumpet’s names?”
“The last woman you murdered,” Tyler told him through gritted teeth. “You snatched her from Brick Lane and dumped her body in Mitre Square.”
“Ah, her,” the killer said. “Well, she looked like a whore to me, walking the streets alone at that time of night. What else would she be doing?”
Tyler was appalled. My God, he thought. This fiend sees all women as whores, whether they are on the game or not. “Listen,” he began, forcing himself to speak calmly, “There’s no need for any further killing. Why don’t you give yourself up and let us get you the help you need?”
At that point, Dillon reappeared, breathing heavily and holding a small portable tape recorder in his hand. He held it up in front of Jack and pointed at the phone. Tyler nodded and Dillon clipped the microphone to the receiver.
“You think I need help?” The Ripper
