“Sandra…” Steve said, placing his hand on her arm. When she didn’t respond he looked at Charlie and shrugged, as though to say: what do we do now?
Sandra was having an epiphany. It was as if someone had placed the last remaining piece into a complex jigsaw puzzle, enabling her to see the full picture for the very first time. Her head was spinning from the process, but she realised that everything suddenly made perfect sense.
“Sandra,” Steve said, clicking his fingers in front of her face to get her attention.
When she didn’t respond, Charlie White leaned forward and shook her arm impatiently. “SANDRA!” He shouted.
This seemed to do the trick. With a gasp, she jolted forward. “Sorry, love,” she said, smiling apologetically. “I’m just a little shocked.”
“Is there something you want to tell us?” Steve asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.
“Yes. There is something,” she whispered as her eyes focused on her surroundings for the first time since hearing the news. “But I’d like a drink of water first if that’s alright.”
They had a short break while Sandra tidied her face up. A female PC accompanied her to the toilet, and she was given a drink.
“Do you think the daft cow’s trying to string us along to get out of the drug charge?” Charlie asked when she had left the room.
“I don’t know, mate, but we’ll find out soon enough,” Steve said with his usual stoicism.
While they waited for Sandra to sort herself out, Charlie White popped out to see the custody sergeant, a middle-aged man with greying hair and a world-weary face, who was scribbling away on a custody record that needed updating.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got any paracetamols handy, have you?” White asked. “Only I’ve got a splitting headache.”
“Sorry, we don’t keep anything like that in here,” the custody sergeant said without looking up. “Pity really,” he added as an afterthought. “I reckon I’ll be in need of a couple before too long, the way this bloody shift is panning out.”
As White turned to walk away, the custody sergeant looked up. “You could ask the FME,” he suggested. “Dr Sadler’s in his room examining a probationer PC who managed to get himself head-butted while restraining a drunk. I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige.”
“Aye, cheers,” White said, smiling gratefully. “I’ll do that.”
When the battered PC emerged from the FME’s room a few moments later, nursing a black eye that was going to turn into a real shiner before it faded, and looking mightily embarrassed about it, White popped straight in.
Dr James Sadler was a slender man in his early to mid-forties, with short brown hair and a high forehead that seemed set in a permanent frown. He was clad in the leathers of a motorcyclist, and a shiny black crash helmet sat on the desk next to him.
“Yes,” Sadler demanded, eyeing Charlie White suspiciously.
White smiled apologetically. “Hello doctor, sorry to disturb you but I’m just about to interview a prisoner and my poor head feels like some bugger’s playing the drums in it, so I was wondering if you had any painkillers you could spare?”
“You’re not a local officer, are you?” Sadler asked, running his eyes over the newcomer.
“No, I’m one of the murder squad officers investigating the death of the prostitute who was found in Quaker Street this morning.”
Sadler tilted his head. “Are you now?” he said, looking at White with interest. “And how is your investigation coming along?”
White shrugged. “Too early to say, really,” he said.
The doctor’s medical bag was sitting on the floor beside the examination table, and White noticed the corner of a thick book protruding from it. The title, written along the length of the spine, started with the words ‘Jack the Ripper’, but he couldn’t make out the rest as it was concealed by the bag.
“Bit of an amateur Ripperologist, are you?” White enquired light heartedly.
Sadler scowled at him. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing at all,” White said, hoping he hadn’t caused any offence. “I just noticed that you had a book on the Ripper sticking out of your bag.”
Sadler seemed impressed. “You’re very observant,” he said, bending down to tuck the book into his bag.
White shrugged disarmingly. “Nosey is the word you’re looking for,” he said, “but I can’t help it. It comes with the job.”
Sadler smiled. “I do find the subject rather interesting,” he said, straightening up. “In fact, I had one of those Ripper tours booked for later in the week, but I’m not sure if it’s appropriate now, given what’s just happened.”
“I don’t see why not,” White said. “What happened is very sad, but life goes on.”
Sadler bent down again and rummaged around inside his bag for a moment, producing a small bottle of pills. “Yes, it does,” he agreed. “Now, about those tablets, you’re not allergic to anything are you?”
“Only hard work,” White replied with a lame grin.
When the interview with Dawson recommenced, ten minutes later, Sandra proceeded to disclose information that, to put it mildly, astonished her captors. She told them how upset and afraid Tracey had seemed the night before, as they stood together on the street corner. She described the fresh scratch marks on Winston’s face when he came looking for poor Tracey in the early hours. She confessed her belief that Winston had eventually found her and killed her because of the incident in the car. He was, she explained, an evil bastard. Finally, she went on to explain how, to help Tracey, she had come to be in possession of the crack. Crying unashamedly, Sandra agreed to make a full statement for them, despite being scared shitless about reprisals from Winston and his lackeys.
When Steve Bull asked her if she was really sure that she wanted to do it: to put pen to paper, she nodded once, saying tearfully, “Tracey was my friend. I owe it to her
