Hands of the Ripper (9 page)

And John could see that was true, Sandy – or whatever she was really called – paid Aida Golding in quite another fashion. She was the ‘shill’, the inside man in the con. Her testimony helped lend conviction and no doubt her ears were always open for anything that could later be put to use.

He was aware that he was transferring all of his anger on to her, the safer target. Aware that he was being unreasonable and that he didn’t have the first idea what had forced her into this life. At that point he didn’t altogether care.

‘And yet you owe her so much?’ he said, sitting back down at the table so as to be able to stare right at her.

‘More than you could imagine,’ she replied and in that moment, all his anger, so recently built, dissipated
away
to nothing. There was such a clear hurt in her, something that went way beyond even those scars on her arms, that he couldn’t even begin to imagine how it must feel. In that moment he wondered whether this girl was the most cruelly treated of them all.

They reconvened after about ten minutes. Aida Golding wafting incense-sticks around the dining room that couldn’t quite mask the fresh smell of pipe tobacco that clung to Father Goss. The cleric had loitered on the medium’s front door step for a smoke, casting a silhouette like that of Sherlock Holmes across her floor tiles.

‘Right then,’ she announced, once they had all taken their seats, ‘let’s see if the rest of the evening can offer something more pleasant.’

‘Shouldn’t be difficult,’ said Davinia, though all gathered knew she was enjoying herself immensely.

Once again the lights were turned off and the candles lit. They linked hands and waited as Golding took several deep breaths and settled into what she called her ‘receptive state’.

It was only a few moments before the room was visited by its next spiritual guest.

‘Is it come to this, Father?’ the voice asked, ‘meeting again after so many years? Is your hunger for confession so pronounced you hunt it beyond the grave?’

‘Dear Lord,’ said Father Goss, his voice as fragile as the thin wisps of smoke shed by the extinguished candles. ‘Is that Douglas?’

‘Of course, Father,’ the voice replied. ‘You’d know
my
voice anywhere, surely? Whispered through vented confession booths, velvet curtains, the wall between life and death. It seems we’ll never stop talking, you and I.’

John’s eyes were starting to become more accustomed to the darkness. He could pick out vague shapes in the light offered through the undrawn curtains, the distant streetlights spreading their amber light thin by the time it passed through the wet glass. Nobody was moving; Father Goss in particular was rigid, his aged, bulbous profile jutting forth.

‘Douglas?’ the priest asked, ‘what do you want from me?’

‘Nothing more than your company,’ the voice replied and John struggled to place where it was coming from. Was it recorded? Surely it must be … or maybe performed live from elsewhere in the house. Could it be Alasdair? Presumably the young man was still in the room, without shifting around it was impossible for John to tell. With the lack of light and all of them forced to maintain their positions it was impossible to be sure what was going on around them. Still, even if Alasdair was with them who knew how many other players took part in this evening’s demonstration? The house could be full of people for Golding to call on.

‘It gets lonely out here,’ the ethereal voice continued, ‘lonely and cold. It’s nice just to know you’re close by again. To imagine we’re back in the warm velvet box, my admitting my delicious sins to you while you weep to hear them.’

‘Douglas,’ the priest’s voice was distinctly frail,
‘where
is she? If you want any kind of forgiveness then tell me. Her parents have a right to bury her.’

‘Forgiveness? What makes you think I have any interest in your forgiveness?’

‘Think of your soul, man!’ Goss shouted, ‘just tell me and you will be one step closer to absolution.’

‘I think not. I think I like the way things are. Anyway, who cares about her body? I have her spirit close to hand. She still likes to play …’

‘Dear God, no!’ Goss screamed the words, his hand snatched from John’s as the priest jumped to his feet.

‘Please!’ said Golding, her voice harsh and croaky, ‘don’t disrupt the flow … ah …’ she gave a long sigh, ‘he’s gone.’

‘You’ve got to get him back!’ begged the priest, ‘we can’t let him keep her!’

‘Please, Father,’ said Golding, ‘try and retain your calm. I sensed the spirit’s dishonesty most strongly and have no doubt that everything he said was designed to cause you upset.’

John could only agree.

‘Who was it?’ he asked.

‘My Lord …’ the priest shook his head and sank back into his chair.

‘Alasdair, be a darling and pour the Father a glass of water would you?’

‘I’m all right,’ the priest insisted, ‘it was just … Douglas Reece was a young man in my first parish, St Luke East in Tower Hamlets.’

‘Charming area,’ interrupted Probert.

‘It had its problems,’ Goss admitted, ‘but where
doesn
’t? The majority of my parishioners were fine, spiritual people, Douglas amongst them, I had thought. He helped regularly at the services, was a very active figure in the church. He was a charming and considerate fellow.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Davinia, ‘Douglas Reece … I know that name!’

‘There aren’t many over a certain age that don’t,’ admitted Goss, ‘he killed a great many people.’

‘The East End Ripper!’ Davinia explained.

‘Not a name I would endorse,’ said the priest.

‘Oh come on,’ scoffed Probert. ‘A nutter chops up women a stone’s throw from Whitechapel, what else are the papers going to call him?’

‘That’s as maybe, but what Douglas did … it’s not something to be sensationalised.’

‘Maybe not,’ John admitted, ‘but people always will, it’s a common enough defence mechanism.’

‘Says our resident psychologist,’ Probert laughed. John shrugged.

‘Perhaps,’ Goss continued, ‘but you must remember I knew the victims; I can’t help but take the whole matter seriously. These were not statistics to me. Grainy photographs on the front of tabloids. They were people, people who were singularly dear to me.’

‘Of course, dear,’ said Golding, finally speaking to the man she had so disturbed with her act. ‘You mustn’t feel you have to discuss it.’

At the thought of this Davinia Harris turned quite pale, she could imagine nothing worse than the conversation stopping before it had even really started.

‘I’d much rather we didn’t talk about it,’ agreed Sandy.

‘It does him good to get it off his chest,’ insisted Davinia, ‘no use bottling these things up.’

The priest waved their comments away with a flick of his hand. ‘There’s not much to say, I was the one who informed the police of Douglas’s guilt.’

‘How did you know?’ asked Davinia, positively thrilled at this turn of events.

‘He told me,’ said Goss, ‘in unceasing detail, during the Sacrament of Penance.’

‘He told you in confession?’ said Probert. ‘He was mad.’

‘Of course he was,’ agreed the priest. ‘He slaughtered eight women with a set of mechanic’s tools, he was extremely ill.’

‘Not as ill as they were by the time he finished,’ Probert replied.

‘Perhaps we should take a few minutes’ break,’ the medium suggested, ‘while I clear the atmosphere and recharge.’

‘Please don’t feel it’s necessary on my account,’ insisted Father Goss, ‘I’m quite all right, just a little shaken.’

‘Then for goodness’ sake let’s carry on!’ said Probert. ‘If we keep stopping it’ll be midnight before you get to me.’

‘And that would never do,’ Davinia muttered.

‘Very well,’ agreed Golding, closing her eyes and gesturing for everyone to hold hands once more. ‘Let us see if we can finally find someone to talk to Lord Probert.’

‘Preferably not a doormat or a psycho,’ Probert replied, to the audible disapproval of the others.

‘It is difficult now,’ said Golding, ‘the air is thick with the stains left by that unpleasant creature. I must tread carefully. The other spirits are likewise cautious, he has scared a number of them away.’

‘Here we go,’ muttered Probert, ‘more excuses.’

‘Do shut up,’ snapped Davinia, ‘your attitude is not at all suitable for this kind of thing. One should be genteel and respectful.’

‘I’ve never felt the need to be so in life thus far,’ the Lord replied, ‘I’m certainly not going to start now.’

‘Hush!’ shouted Golding, gripping the hands of both of them so tightly that they flinched. ‘They come!’

‘Helly?’ asked a voice, ‘are you there, Helly?’

‘Oh God …’ every ounce of Probert’s pomposity was drained away.

‘Helly?’ asked Davinia. ‘What sort of name’s Helly?’

‘It was her nickname for me,’ Probert replied, surprisingly forthcoming, ‘instead of Llewellyn.’

‘I can hear you, Helly,’ the voice continued, ‘but I can’t see you … why can’t I see you?’

‘No …’ the lord’s face fell even further. ‘Her eyes, her eyes …’

‘It’s dark, Helly, always dark … why did you leave me in the dark?’

‘Oh God!’ Probert writhed in his chair, trying to tug his hand from Aida Golding’s and Sandy’s, they held fast.

‘I didn’t want this!’ he said and jumped to his feet, his knees hitting the underside of the table and causing
the
candelabrum to topple and the candles to go out.

Once again plunged into darkness, the room was more chaotic than before, Probert still shouting.

Then one voice shouted out even louder, not a voice of one of those gathered but rather a voice they had heard only recently. Douglas Reece’s voice.

‘I forgive you, Father!’ it shouted and then all was drowned out by the sound of a scream. Father Goss squeezed John’s hand so tightly that he gave a small cry of his own, tugging free of the man’s grip and massaging the back of his hand.

‘The lights, Alasdair!’ Golding shouted. ‘Quickly!’

John was aware of footsteps in the floor above, hidden conspirators perhaps, running to assist.

The light switch was thrown but it didn’t calm them, far from it. The blood it illuminated made them panic even further.

Five

Politics

FATHER GOSS WAS
a ruin. His throat was a second mouth, bloody lips parted as if to yawn. His chest shined with blood.

Nobody could speak, all eyes staring at the mess of blood and peeping bone that sat at the head of the table. Suddenly the priest coughed. A small black lump, about the size of a golf ball, was ejected from the hole in his throat and exploded against the surface of the table.

‘He’s alive,’ said John, ‘call an ambulance, he’s still—’

But whatever life had been left in the priest’s body was swift to pass. A low hiss bubbled up from the man’s lungs and then ceased.

‘Oh God!’ cried Sandy, hands to her face, rocking back from the priest’s dead body. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God …’

She jumped up and ran for the door but Aida Golding grabbed her arm. ‘Wait,’ the woman said, all pretence of soft, maternal tones gone. ‘Just wait while I think.’

‘We’ve got to call the police,’ said John, looking around trying to process the obvious. ‘Someone must have—’

‘The cake knife,’ said Davinia, pointing at where the large kitchen knife lay on the carpet, ‘they used the cake knife.’

‘Or he did,’ said Probert, ‘much more likely, don’t you think? You saw what he was like. Full of guilt, the Catholics love a bit of fucking guilt …’ The lord was getting more and more angry, clenching his fists. ‘I can’t be here,’ he announced, ‘I simply cannot be here … not with this … think what the papers … what everyone …’ He roared and kicked at one of the chairs, sending it toppling.

‘That hardly helps,’ said John. ‘We need to get out of this room and call the police.’

‘I don’t want the police called!’ Probert shouted, his voice taking on the high-pitched squeal of an angry child. ‘I can’t be involved in this!’

‘But you are,’ said Golding, ‘you are involved. And you need to think about what you do next.’

‘Think about what? What are you saying?’

‘What connections do you have. Who can you call? Don’t tell me there’s not someone on the end of a phone line who can make this go away.’

‘I don’t like the sound of this,’ said John, ‘you can’t just brush this under the carpet.’

‘No,’ said Probert, ‘she’s right, that’s exactly what we do. He must have done it himself, he must have … why would any of us …?’

‘That’s for the police to decide, surely?’ said John, though he had to admit he found the idea of any of them being responsible beyond belief. He had been holding Davinia’s hand, she had been holding Golding’s, then
Probert’s
, then Sandy’s then, finally, the Priest’s. So the most likely culprits at the table were himself and Sandy. He knew he hadn’t done it and couldn’t believe Sandy had, the girl was shaking violently, Golding still holding her.

‘I can’t,’ the girl said, ‘I can’t …’ and then proceeded to throw up on the carpet, sobbing.

This is not the response of a murderer, John thought.

So what about Alasdair? Could he have done it and then turned on the lights? He certainly had a better opportunity than anyone else at the table. But opportunity or not, what was his motive? Admittedly John knew nothing about the people around him, not really. But even if Alasdair had wished to kill the old man this was hardly the way to do it. Surely better opportunities would exist than a seeming unpredictable moment of darkness in a crowded room. What about the others in the house? He knew they were not alone, he had seen the small boy at the top of the stairs and heard others running in panic after Father Goss screamed – though where they were now was another question. Had they taken a leap over the back fence in order to avoid being caught up in what was to come? Wherever they were, and however complicit they may have been in Aida Golding’s performance, the important thing was that they couldn’t have been involved in the murder. Let them run, he thought.

Then again, if it had been suicide – and it certainly seemed like the only viable option – perhaps they were complicit. What had driven the man to it if not the conviction that someone he feared was still reaching out
to
him from beyond the grave? If Father Goss had cut his own throat, Aida Golding and her team had passed him the knife and given him due cause.