Legacy of the Ripper (10 page)

"So, my big handsome husband, "she whispered in his ear." What do we do next then?"

"Well," Tom replied. "First thing in the morning I phone the solicitors and make an appointment. Then we take it from there. As for right now, it's getting late and I think it's time you and I turned in for the night my tired little lady."

"Is that an invitation?" asked Jennifer almost coquettishly.

"I suppose you could say that," smiled Tom. Five minutes later, the house locked up for the night Tom and Jennifer mounted the stairs, and within two minutes of falling into bed together the pair were both deeply asleep, arms locked around each other in a loving embrace. The emotional turmoil of the past few weeks was catching up with them. They were no nearer to finding their son, but the morning would bring fresh hope, and for the first time in a long while, the couple were both undisturbed by dreams as they slumbered.

Breakfast at Michael's

Jacob lay sleeping on the sofa in Michael's seedy, foul smelling flat. Michael sat opposite his new found houseguest, watching the sleeping form. Jacob slept a lot lately, and was constantly complaining to Michael that he could never seem to clear his head. Michael knew the answer to Jacob's problem of course, though he'd no intention of revealing that information to the sleeping man. The constant infusion of sedatives and other narcotics that Michael added to Jacob's tea, coffee and occasionally to the take-away Chinese meals they enjoyed from time to time ensured that Jacob had become highly susceptible to Michael's will, and also to some extent dependant upon his so-called benefactor.

In fact, Jacob had become everything that Michael had wanted him to be when he'd first seen him on the bench on the sea front. Armed with a street map, Jacob didn't seem to mind being put to work carrying messages from Michael to various contacts throughout the town. Occasionally there were small packages to be delivered too, which Jacob had no trouble in discerning contained drugs of some description. As far as Jacob was concerned, it mattered little to him. Michael had provided him with a home of sorts and in return for his efforts on Michael's behalf, Jacob effectively received a few pounds a week, free food, board and lodgings. Michael had long sought an accomplice who would be a convenient and cheap runner for his less than legal activities.

By ensuring Jacob's dependence on his goodwill, he'd ensured a degree of safety and immunity for himself from some of his competitors and from the police. Jacob after all was clean cut, well-spoken and best of all, unknown in town. That made him a valuable commodity to Michael, who had experienced one too many run-ins with the law and with some of the more violent small-time drug dealers of the area. Michael provided a service and for the most part, violence played no part in that service. There were times of course when a little strong-arm work was needed, but that was rare, and he avoided any such actions unless it was absolutely necessary. When he did deem it essential he could be as brutal as the next man, but like all such specimens of the human race, the thought of someone actually committing an act of violence against him was abhorrent and terrifying to Michael. He hated physical pain and Jacob was one way of ensuring that he didn't have to place himself in the front line quite so often.

The sleeping man had another use of course, one that Michael was already making very good use of. He'd need to be careful and vigilant in the way he handled Jacob in this respect however, and Michael even considered introducing Jacob to the world of the addict by slowly introducing something more addictive to his food and drink. That would be a last resort however, as Jacob would serve Michael's purpose far better if he remained 'clean' of such contamination. For now, everything was going well, and as long as things continued along their current path, there'd be no need to change the regime.

Michael knew that very soon, Jacob would wake and he'd soon be on his way out of the flat. Jacob had a daily routine that Michael knew very little about. He seemed to spend most of his days on the streets, searching for something or someone. Michael knew of course exactly what Jacob was searching for. His search of the young man's rucksack on their first night together at the flat had told him that.

Michael had put all he'd learned from his illicit search of Jacob's rucksack to good use since that night and now all he had to do was ensure that Jacob failed in his attempt to discover what he was looking for. That was going to be relatively easy to achieve, as Michael had already discovered. He'd barely believed it when he'd found the source of Jacob's goal, the reason for his arrival in Brighton tucked away amongst his personal belonging s in the rucksack, but, when he'd done so, and realised the significance of what he'd learned, the rest had come easily to Michael.

Now, everything was going well and would continue to do so as long as he could keep Jacob under his control until the plan was complete. Michael had help of course, of the best kind imaginable and he was confident that nothing could go wrong, and if it did, then what the hell, they had the perfect patsy ready and waiting, sleeping right here on the sofa, in front of him.

Jacob began to stir. Michael had no wish to be around as his guest rose, stretched and made his way to the kitchen for his regular daily intake of corn flakes and milk. God! The man's routine was interminable.

As Jacob finally opened his bleary eyes and rubbed his temples against the throbbing of the headache that never seemed to leave him nowadays, Michael quietly closed the door as he left the flat and made his own way into town. He had errands of his own to run that morning, and he needed to see someone urgently. There were plans to be made, and Michael knew his friend was eager to move on to the next stage of the game.

Jacob finally snapped wide awake and was immediately struck by the air of silence that pervaded the flat. Even without looking around he knew Michael was out. That was strange to him, as it was rare for the man to leave the flat during the morning. He rubbed his temples once more and slowly rose from the sofa. The pain in his head seemed worse when he was up and about, and he quickly made his way to the kitchen, fixed his breakfast and just as quickly returned to the sofa, where he set the bowl in his lap before devouring the corn flakes hungrily. Whatever was wrong with his head certainly hadn't done anything to diminish his appetite.

As he ate he tried to recall the previous evening. For some reason, he appeared to be experiencing a mental blank. He hoped that the thing that had happened to him once before hadn't happened again. Michael had helped him that time, would he have done so again, Jacob wondered? Then again, how could he have done? He wouldn't have known where Jacob was going, so would have been unable to assist him a second time.

Jacob paused in his eating to look at his hands. They were shaking, like the last time. He searched for tell-tale signs, but there were none. He was clean, absolutely clean. He sighed in relief. It couldn't have occurred again. He was sure of it.

Breakfast finally over and his mind clear of dark thoughts and the fear that had temporarily gripped him earlier Jacob washed, shaved and made his way out of the flat, remembering to lock the door with the spare key entrusted to him by Michael. Jacob wasn't sure he trusted Michael, but at least for now he had a roof over his head, and Michael's 'business' though not strictly or in fact in any way legal, at least provided Jacob with the means to go about his own task during the days.

He felt sure that the answers he sought were to be found here on the South Coast. He just wished to hell he knew how to go about finding them.

The House on
Abbotsford Road

Abbotsford Road stands atop a hill that runs almost parallel with Brighton's coastline. Situated about a mile inland, its height affords those who reside in the homes that line one side of the road commanding views of the town, the Royal Pavilion and the English Channel. Those who live on the opposite side of the road are not of course so lucky, though some of their upper storey rooms do afford a lesser view of the sea and perhaps a small fraction of the town, as seen through the gaps between the houses on the town side.

The houses on Abbotsford Road were at one time the height of elegance and refinement, being built during the height of the Regency period and affordable only to the rich and wealthy who took advantage of the town's royal connections to ensconce themselves in the vicinity of the wealth and opulence that those connections brought to the town.

In keeping with the original owners' desires to secure uninterrupted views, no trees were allowed to be planted along the road, unusually for the time, and today the treeless tradition continues, and though not enshrined in any local by-laws or council minutes, it would be unthinkable for anyone to consider planting a tree anywhere along the length of the road.

Most of the houses along the road retain their original names, having been grandly given such appellations as "Sussex House" or "De Savory Manor" and even a rather cheekily named "Regent's Folly". Some have had their names changed over the years of course, but the house that perhaps possesses the most fame, or perhaps infamy is the only one on the street that bears no name at all, just a number. It was here, at number 14, that 'Bertie' the Prince Of Wales, and later King Edward the Seventh, would enjoy a number of dalliances with one of his lesser known mistresses in the years prior to his assuming the throne of England. This was the home of Mrs Amelia Lassiter, widow of Colonel Henry Lassiter of the Royal Horse Artillery, who'd succumbed to fever during a posting to the Indian sub-continent. Introduced to the prince by one of his military friends, Amelia soon became close to Bertie, and his visits to her home continued for a period of over three years until he became bored with her increasing years and moved on to other, younger women who took his fancy.

Much of the elegance of those days has now departed from the houses on Abbotsford Road, and number 14 is no exception. Still possessing its impressive wrought iron gates, solid oak front doors and high ceilings with wood-panelled walls, it does however exude an air of rather faded elegance, and the current batch of residents on the road are a far cry from the opulence and wealth of the original residents of Abbotsford Road. That's not to say that the houses here are cheap of course. They are in fact among the highest priced in the town, though perhaps the views that the homes on the ocean side of the road have something to do with that. Perhaps it's just that today's residents are less class conscious and maybe just that bit less able, in the current financial climate, to lavish thousands and thousands of pounds on maintaining the exteriors of their homes in the manner of their forerunners.

The late summer sun was at its Zenith as Michael reached the door to number fourteen. The day had grown warmer and warmer as he'd walked the two miles from his flat. He wasn't one to waste money on taxis when the weather was fine, though he did wish he'd taken one by the time he reached the top of the hill and walked those last few yards to the house. Sweat dripped from his brow and his shirt felt as though it was plastered to his back. Even his hair felt as wet as if he'd just stepped from a shower.

Michael reached into the pocket of his denim jacket, (wearing that had been a mistake in this weather too), and extracted a bunch of keys. Selecting the correct one, he inserted it into the lock of the heavy oak front door to the house, turned it and entered number fourteen as confidently as if he owned the place. He closed the door behind him as he entered, and walked slowly but confidently across the marble floored hall until he reached the door to what at one time would have been designated 'the drawing room', or perhaps, 'the sitting room'. He paused for a second, listening at the door, and then knocked quietly and waited until he heard the single word, "Come" quietly spoken from within.

"Welcome, dear boy," said the man who sat reposing in an old fashioned floral cloth upholstered armchair that was positioned beside the currently unused fireplace at the far side of the room from where Michael entered through the heavy brass handled door. "Do come and sit down."

Michael walked across the room and seated himself opposite the man in an identical chair to that occupied by his host.

"How are you?" asked the man, who Michael thought to be at least sixty years old but who was in fact just past his fiftieth birthday. His hair was greying at the temples, and his moustache had also lost much of its natural brown colour. About five feet ten tall when standing, he reminded Michael of a Victorian gentleman, sitting there in his plush red carpet slippers, a brown paisley patterned silk smoking jacket and black trousers that sported knife-edge creases down the front. The room in which the two men sat mirrored the look of fading elegance that the exterior of the property exuded. The oak panelled walls gave the place a dreary, overpowering air, and the three paintings that hung in heavy wooden frames all depicted historic sailing ships, one an un-named tea clipper in full rig, another the famed 'Cutty Sark', and the third an eighteenth century fully armed Royal Navy fifty gun ship of the line, its battle ensigns billowing from the rigging as it sailed to war against some unseen enemy.

Books of ancient origins lined the bookshelf that took up the wall adjacent to Michael's chair, and a heavy solid oak table stood at centre stage of the room, it surface covered with maps, an antique sailing compass and a host of very old seafarers navigation instruments.

To the casual visitor, though there were none at number fourteen, it would have appeared that they were in the home of some decrepit ancient mariner. They would have been wrong.

Everything in that room gave Michael the creeps. Something about the man and his house seemed steeped in the past. An almost ghostly air pervaded every wall, every inch of the slightly threadbare Axminster carpets. It was as if the house itself had been frozen in time, and that time was long, long ago. Michael knew it was stupid, it couldn't possibly be, but nevertheless the thought that the man he sat facing at that moment belonged to another time and place always leaped into his mind whenever he was called upon to make one of his visits to number fourteen.