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As soon as he’d put the phone down on Paul Evans, Jack Tyler scrabbled together every available body he could find. A team of detectives, led by Steve Bull, were dispatched to the Sutton Mission. Another team, this one commanded by Charlie White, was sent to Pritchard’s home address in Loughton. Wendy was tasked with circulating him as wanted-missing on the Police National Computer. After that, she was to ensure that his status and description was circulated on all local and Met wide radio channels. Locating and arresting Simon Pritchard was now their overriding priority, and pretty much everything else had been put on hold until this was achieved.
The Chief Inspector at IR had been rather annoyed when Tyler had called a few minutes ago to request that a carrier be sent to each of the addresses to support his officers. “I don’t have a limitless supply of policemen,” he’d told Tyler, testily. “You’ve already used up every floating resource I have. The only way I can give you two carriers is if I redeploy some of the aid that’s already patrolling Whitechapel, which might actually be a good thing. We’ve got so many police vehicles driving around that bloody division that the roads are more clogged up now than they normally get at the height of the rush hour!”
The moment the two arrest teams left the building, Tyler settled himself in his office and started reviewing his notes. Pritchard’s story about helping out a courier who was running late was pure fiction – they could prove that, and the only conceivable reason for lying about how and when he received the box was that he was the killer. The more Jack thought about it, the more sense it made: Pritchard hadn’t been in practice for many years, but he had the requisite medical knowledge; he had easy access to the area’s street workers – they all knew him from his charity work so he would be able to move amongst them without drawing attention or suspicion.
What didn’t make sense – at least not yet – was why he was doing this. What possible motive could he have?
Tyler dug out the notes he’d made while speaking to the forensic psychologist. The quack had explained that, although there might not be a discernible relationship between the serial killer and his victims, that didn’t mean there was no motive. The trick was to think less like a detective and more like a psychotic. Often, for people suffering from psychosis or other forms of mental illness, the anger, rage, and hostility they felt towards a particular subgroup of the population – in this case, women, particularly sex workers – provided all the motivation they would ever need. Sometimes, it was the power and thrill of what they did, or the need to act out repressed sexual desires that motivated them. The psychologist had suggested it was probably a combination all of these factors that drove the New Ripper to commit his atrocities.
Talk about hedging your bets!
Tyler was cautiously optimistic that Pritchard was indeed their man, but he wasn’t going to allow himself to get carried away until they had irrefutable evidence – he had made that mistake twice already, with Winston and Boyden. Both had looked like extremely good suspects on paper, but neither had turned out to be the man they were after.
Dillon appeared, carrying two steaming hot mugs of coffee. “There you go, mate,” he said, handing one over. “You’ll feel better with some caffeine inside you.”
“Cheers, Dill,” Tyler said, taking a sip and burning his lip.
“Oh yeah,” Dillon said, seeing his friend wince. “Julia said be careful, it’s hot.”
CHAPTER 36
Simon Pritchard viciously pulled the blindfold off. Even in the darkness, he could see the fear in her eyes. For once he was the one in control, not her. It generated a feeling of warmth in the pit of his stomach. He knelt down and leaned over her, studying her face intently, wondering what the third bitch responsible for ruining his life was thinking now that the tables were turned. He caressed her cheek, relishing the way she flinched at the contact. When she tried to edge back, he grabbed hold of her hair and yanked her head around until he was staring straight into her terror-stricken eyes. When he was satisfied that she wouldn’t scream, he removed the gag from her mouth.
Sarah Pritchard gasped, and then gratefully filled her lungs with air. “Please, don’t kill me,” she pleaded. “I don’t want to die.”
The Disciple shrugged. “No one ever does.”
“I told Charise we were having dinner together tonight,” she sobbed. “When my body turns up it will be obvious that you did it. You would never get away with it.” Surely, he could see that murdering her would cost him his freedom?
There was a maniacal intensity to his laugh. “Simon Pritchard won’t be killing you,” he purred. “Jack the New Ripper will have that honour. Trust me, Sarah. No one will ever consider me a potential suspect when your corpse shows up.” He said this with absolute confidence. “Don’t worry, though, I promise to play my part as the grieving husband perfectly. I’ve already chosen you a lovely tombstone.”
“But it makes no sense. Why would the Ripper kill me? He only kills prostitutes.” Sarah knew that wasn’t strictly true. She had read about the woman who had been abducted on her way to the train station after finishing work, but surely that had been a case of mistaken identity.
“Ah, but the Ripper has a very good reason to kill you,” he explained, knowingly. “Tell me, what’s
