“Hopefully, the press interest will blow over,” Jack said, but his words sounded hollow, even to him. The New Ripper killings – the press was already calling them that – had received saturation TV coverage throughout the day, and he would be amazed if they didn’t headline tomorrow’s tabloids. The investigation been formally ramped up to Category A status.
Holland thumped his desk in anger. “No, it won’t, Jack. We’ve had three murders in a week and, unless we catch the deranged psycho responsible, there are likely to be more in the near future.”
“I appreciate that,” Tyler said tetchily, “but we’re doing our best.”
“That’s what every loser claims,” Holland snapped. “We need to do more than just try our best. We need to get a result, and we need to get it bloody soon.”
“Then I’d better get back to work and get you your bloody result,” Tyler said, standing up.
“Not so fast, Jack. You and I have meetings to attend together tomorrow, and I need to go through a few things with you to make sure we’re singing from the same song sheet.” Holland pointed to the vacated seat, and Jack obediently returned, feeling very much like a schoolboy who had just been given detention.
“But I’ve got to attend the inquest for Tracey Phillips at Poplar tomorrow morning,” Jack protested, hoping that would get him out of whatever Holland had planned.
“Send Dillon.”
Jack shook his head. “I can’t. He’s already tied up with the post-mortems for today’s victims.”
Holland took a moment to digest this. “Okay, but the inquest will be a formality. The verdict will be unlawful killing by persons unknown. You could send Steve Bull.”
Jack held firm. “I’ve promised to meet Rita Phillips, Tracey’s mother. I can’t let her down.” Holland looked annoyed. “Very well, what time does the inquest start?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“Not a problem, then. You’ll be finished by midday, so that shouldn’t interfere with our schedule,” Holland said.
“Oh good,” Tyler said, forcing a smile. “And what is our schedule, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Holland explained that a Gold Group meeting had been arranged for one o’clock at Whitechapel. “That should last an hour or so,” he said, “leaving us plenty of time to get up to the Yard for the 4 p.m. press briefing.”
Jack left the room feeling angry and disheartened. As SIO, he had to have a finger in every pie, and at the moment it felt as though he was running out of fingers. He was constantly playing catch up, and every time he gained a little ground another obstacle would appear in his path, slowing him down again. He accepted that tomorrow morning had to be written off for the inquest, but at least that was a constructive use of his time, unlike the wasted afternoon he would now have to spend kowtowing to people he didn’t give a hoot about. The burden of leading an investigation of this magnitude weighed heavily on him as he walked back to his office, leaving him feeling as though he was swimming against the tide; being pulled under relentlessly by an endless sea of bureaucracy, its treacherous currents running strong and deep.
CHAPTER 23
Thursday 4th November 1999
Although there was a distinct chill in the air, the sun shone brightly in a cloudless blue sky as Jack Tyler walked out of the District Line tube station in Bow Road.
The weather forecasters had predicted that today would be the finest day of the week, and it was looking as though they might be right for a change.
He made a quick stop in order to purchase a copy of the Echo from the small kiosk next to the station. Sure enough, Terri Miller’s story was plastered all over the front page. He would read the article later. Tucking the newspaper under his arm, Jack dragged himself across the main road and trudged wearily up the steps into Bow police station. He showed his warrant card to the officer on the front desk and was shown through to the canteen where he had arranged to meet Tim Barton.
Barton was already there, finishing off a fried breakfast. “Morning, guv,” he said, shovelling a fork full of bacon and egg into his mouth. Jack ordered tea and toast and slumped down next to him. “Is everything ready?”
“All good to go,” Barton said between chewing. “I’ve been on since six o’clock this morning, sorting out the paperwork for the inquest.”
“Good.”
After last night’s tumultuous meeting with Holland, Tyler had stormed back to his office. Quietly seething, he slammed the door and immersed himself in a pile of statements and forensic reports that needed his attention, hoping to find something significant buried amongst the mundane. After three hours of fruitless digging, he finally gave up and called it a night. By then he was too tired to drive home, so he booked into a local budget hotel, took a long shower and then fell into bed. Sleep had been difficult, and when it finally came it was very fragmented. He awoke looking and feeling like one of the living dead.
They left Bow police station thirty minutes later. Tim’s pool car was parked in the side road next to the station, MPS logbook prominently displayed on the dash to prevent the overly enthusiastic Traffic Wardens who patrolled the area issuing a ticket. Tim did a smart ‘u’ turn, drove up to the junction and pulled into Bow Road.
“This doesn’t look good,” Jack said. A line of cars stretched ahead of them as far as he could see. “Can we take a shortcut?”
“Afraid not, boss. It’ll be just as bad whatever route we take.”
“Terrific,” Jack said.
“No, traffic,” Tim responded wittily, only to be met with a caustic stare. “Sorry, no more jokes,” he promised.
Conscious of the time, Tyler glanced down at his watch, wondering if he should phone the court and warn them that he might be a little
