“In that case, we’ll say goodnight,” she said. “I would shake your hand but…” she let her words trail off. There was no need to state the obvious.
A devilish grin had lit up Murray’s face. “I wouldn’t have shaken your hand even if it had been clean,” he said, winking at the solicitor.
Leaving Clarke to rant and rave, Murray followed Susie through to the back yard. If the solicitor thought this was bad, Murray couldn’t wait to see his reaction when he discovered the large dollop of dog shit that had been placed inside his precious chariot’s exhaust pipe. When that heated up, it would produce an aroma that would cling to his car’s interior for weeks to come.
“You seem particularly pleased with yourself tonight,” Susie observed, having noticed the skip in his step as they crossed the yard towards their pool car. It was quite out of character, and her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Anything I should know about?”
“No,” Murray said with a carefree shake of his head. “Just feeling satisfied after another gratifying day of solving crime and keeping London safe.”
Chapter 19
Tyler didn’t like press conferences much at the best of times, but this one promised to be a real doozy. It was being held in a cramped conference room at Whitechapel police station. The media circus had turned out in full force, and it had now reached a point where it was oversubscribed and there was no more room inside for the stragglers who were still arriving in dribs and drabs.
“I’m quite happy to let one of the reporters take my place,” he whispered in Holland’s ear.
“Nice try,” Holland replied, “but you’re not going anywhere.”
Having made it to Whitechapel by the skin of his teeth, Tyler now found himself sitting at a long table that had been draped in a layer of thick blue cloth embroidered with the MPS crest. To his immediate left sat George Holland. Beyond him, Charles Porter, the ambitious Borough Commander, was busily preening himself so that he would look his best for the public.
Behind them, providing a more aesthetic view than the room’s drab wallpaper, a set of large concertina screens with the Met’s ‘Making London Safe’ logo plastered all over them had been unfolded to provide a corporate backdrop. Directly in front of them, on the other side of the table, an intimidating line of cameras bore down on them, ready to capture any mistakes that they made on film.
“I didn’t realise this was being recorded,” Jack whispered, nodding at the TV cameras. He shook his head at his own naivety. “I thought it would just be a few reporters.”
He’d already caught sight of Terri Miller, the London Echo’s star reporter. She was sitting in the middle of the front row, pen poised like all the other journalists. The sight of them all clustered together, licking their lips in hungry anticipation, reminded him of a big cat enclosure moments before feeding time.
The pretty brunette, looking resplendent in a stylish and vibrant two-piece red suit and dark blue silk blouse, had had the temerity to smile at him like they were old friends when he’d entered the room a few moments ago.
She seemed to have conveniently forgotten how, in her desperation to get a story about the New Ripper, she had thoughtlessly trounced her way through a major crime scene back in November, contaminating vital evidence. Her buddy, the clumsy photographer who had helped her, was also there, standing amongst her fellow snappers and chatting away as if she didn’t have a care in the world. He struggled to remember her name. Was it June or Julie? It was definitely something like that.
Having manhandled the grey thatch atop his head into some semblance of order, Chief Superintendent Charles Porter now turned his attention to his bushy eyebrows, using a spit laden forefinger to flatten them down. When he was finally satisfied with his appearance, he leaned back in his seat and started cleaning his glasses with a white handkerchief, squinting like Mr Magoo as he did so.
Tyler leaned in conspiratorially and indicated Porter with a flick of his eyes. “I hope he’s not being allowed to speak this time?”
Holland grimaced as he recalled the last press conference that they had done together, in which Porter had gone off-script and started ranting at a serial killer on live TV. Porter’s tirade had infuriated the man they were after so much that he’d struck again the following evening.
“No, he’s only here as a courtesy because he’s the Borough Commander and the hospital is on his ground. He’s been told in no uncertain terms that he is not to engage with the media.”
“That’s a relief,” Jack said. He hadn’t had an opportunity to discuss the impending conference with Holland and he was feeling woefully unprepared. He raised a hand to shield his mouth in case anyone from the media was a lip reader. “Please tell me we’re not going public with the fact we’ve identified the fake nurse?”
Holland gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “No, we keep that to ourselves,” he said, following suit and covering his own mouth. “We will, however, formally announce the death of Errol Heston and link him to the hospital murder.”
“That makes sense,” Tyler agreed. The media had already begun openly speculating that the man who had died during a shootout with armed officers near the BTNA might have been involved in the earlier breakout. Officially releasing the man’s name couldn’t hurt the enquiry. In fact, throwing them a few titbits might keep the newsies off his back for a little while and allow him to get on with the job in peace. The last thing he wanted was to have rogue elements of the press breathing down his neck at every turn, the