18

Sunday 2 September

‘WHY DIDN’T YOU MENTION THIS EARLIER?’ ASKED Joesbury. It was an hour later, just coming up for four in the morning, and he was standing behind Tulloch’s desk, leaning over her shoulder, both of them staring down at the letter that Emma, true to her word, had scanned and emailed to me at work.

‘I wanted to be sure,’ I replied, knowing how feeble an excuse it sounded. ‘I needed time to do some reading.’ Feeble as hell, but still a whole lot better than ‘I didn’t want to make an idiot of myself in front of you.’

Tulloch looked like she was struggling not to yawn. ‘Did you see the original?’ she said.

I nodded.

‘The handwriting is red?’ she asked. ‘Please tell me it’s somewhere safe.’

‘Emma wouldn’t give it to me,’ I answered. ‘But she seems to be looking after it. She has it in clear plastic. Saved the envelope as well. And I’m pretty certain the writing is in red ink.’

‘That smudge on the bottom corner doesn’t look like ink,’ said Joesbury. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell us about this in the pub?’

‘Mark, back off,’ sighed Tulloch. ‘You know as well as I do the switchboard’s been jammed with crank calls since Friday night.’ She looked at me again. ‘I know nothing about Jack the Ripper,’ she said. ‘What did you say the five murders were called? The ones that are supposed to be the work of the Ripper?’

‘Canonical,’ I said.

‘What does that mean? It sounds religious.’

‘Conforming to the established order,’ replied Joesbury. ‘Reducing things to their simplest form.’

Tulloch looked blank. ‘I still don’t …’

‘Nobody really knows why they’re called that,’ I said. ‘It’s just tradition among people who describe themselves as Ripperologists. Five of the murders, between August and December, are called the canonical five.’

Joesbury raised an eyebrow. His right eye was still bloodshot. ‘How do you know so much about Jack the Ripper?’ he asked.

I didn’t tell him Jack was my favourite character from history. Somehow, I doubted that would go down too well. ‘I told you I’m interested in criminals,’ I said. ‘I always have been. Isn’t that why lots of people join the police?’

‘And the first of the canonical five was called Polly?’ Tulloch asked. ‘Are you sure about that?’

I nodded. ‘Strictly speaking, her name was Mary Ann,’ I said. ‘But everybody knew her as Polly.’

Tulloch shot a glance at Joesbury. He stared back at her for a second and then shrugged.

‘Why is that …?’ I began.

Tulloch waved me to be silent as she picked up the phone and dialled an internal extension. ‘Find the record of all calls coming into the switchboard since Friday,’ she ordered. ‘Have somebody do a count-up of how many mention Jack the Ripper. Yes, you heard me, Jack the Ripper. I need it now.’

She put the phone down and looked at me again. She opened her mouth, but Joesbury got in first.

‘Didn’t the original Ripper send letters?’ he asked. ‘Taunted the police with them, from what I can remember.’

‘Lots of letters were sent at the time,’ I said. ‘Not just to the police, but to newspapers as well. Even private citizens. They’re generally believed to be fakes. Not actually from the killer.’

‘I saw a film once. Didn’t one have a body part in it?’ asked Joesbury. He was leaning back against the window ledge now. ‘Mind you,’ he went on, ‘the Ripper turned out to be Queen Victoria’s grandson.’

‘Someone did send a human kidney to the head of one of the vigilante groups,’ I said. ‘In a letter described as coming “From Hell”. And one of the victims was missing a kidney. But at the time, there was no way to establish whether it was really hers or just another prank.’

‘Geraldine Jones wasn’t missing any body parts,’ said Tulloch.

‘Whoever killed Geraldine Jones didn’t have time to take souvenirs,’ replied Joesbury. ‘DC Flint saw to that. I think we need to see these letters. Come on, Flint, you seem to be our resident Ripperologist, find us a website.’

It wasn’t easy with Tulloch and Joesbury breathing down my neck, but after a few false starts, I found the site I was looking for. It dealt specifically with the hundreds of Ripper letters.

Text at the top explained what I’d already told Tulloch and Joesbury, that most of the ‘Ripper’ letters were considered fakes, either the work of journalists trying to stir up a story or of fools intent on wasting police time. Just three, according to the site, may have been genuine.

The first of these, the infamous Dear Boss letter, had been sent to the Central News Agency on 27 September 1888 and had been the first to use the term ‘Jack the Ripper’; the second was a postcard, in similar handwriting to the Dear Boss letter and referring to details of the crimes that, supposedly, only the killer would be in a position to know; the third had been the From Hell letter that accompanied the human kidney.

The phone rang just as I was pulling one of them up on the screen. As Tulloch answered it, her face seemed to tighten. She muttered her thanks and put the phone down.

‘Six callers mentioned the date as that of one of the Ripper murders,’ she said.

‘You need to see this, Tully,’ said Joesbury, who’d been staring at the screen. He lifted my hand from the mouse and enlarged the image. Written in rather elegant copperplate hand, it was the letter of the 27 September 1888, the one sent to The Boss of the Central News Agency. We read it together, Joesbury speaking the words in a just audible voice. Before we were halfway through, I was feeling sick.

Dear Boss

I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won’t fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about leather apron give me such fits. I am down on whores and I won’t quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can’t use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope. Ha ha. The next job I do I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp. I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck.

Yours truly

Jack the Ripper

Don’t mind me giving the trade name.

Mark Joesbury picked up a pink highlighter pen from Tulloch’s desk and started highlighting words and phrases on the letter Emma Boston had emailed to me earlier that morning. I keep on hearing … How I have laughed … clever … on the right track … lady … squeal … clip … ears off … funny little games … proper red stuff.

In the short note pushed through Emma’s front door in the early hours of Saturday morning, twenty-two words had been directly lifted from the original letter. When he’d finished going through it, Joesbury drew a big circle round the misspelling of Emma Boston’s name. Dear Miss Bosston.

‘Christ,’ muttered Tulloch.

‘Bastard’s sent us a Dear Boss letter,’ said Joesbury, in case one of us hadn’t got it. From the look on Tulloch’s face, and the ache at the back of my jaw that usually means I’m about to vomit, it seemed fair to say we both had.

Tulloch looked at me. ‘Do you have her address?’ she said.

I nodded, fished around in my bag for the note I’d made and handed it over. Tulloch headed for the door.

‘Dana, you don’t have to go yourself,’ Joesbury began.

Tulloch turned, glanced at me and then spoke to Joesbury. ‘Do not let her out of your sight,’ she told him, before disappearing.