Requiem for The Ripper

2. Preparations

TWO

PREPARATIONS

Repairing the generator had proved a simple task, even for a ham-fisted townie like me. The power failure had resulted from nothing more sinister than a blocked fuel line, caused by a build-up air in one of the bends of the pipes that fed the diesel oil into the generator. The comprehensive instructions supplied by the makers enabled me to get the machine up and running again in just under an hour and I cleaned up and spent most of the remainder of that day preparing the spare bedroom for my expected guest.

My converted croft houses comprised my own bedroom, the spare, a living room, library/office and a well-appointed kitchen, in addition to a couple of outbuildings, one of which I’d utilized as a garage for my all-terrain Range Rover, and the other as a general workroom for any necessary D.I.Y jobs that might be required from time to time, and where I also kept a large deep-freeze that held enough frozen food to last through an entire winter if necessary. I’d found it easy to forget that Skerries Rock, though lonely and isolated most of the time, stood in fact only a stone’s throw from the mainland and any essential supplies and equipment I required could be obtained by boat in the space of a few hours. My motor launch was modern and fast and housed in readiness at all times in a boathouse I’d had specially built for it beside the landing quay. In truth, I had the best of both worlds. No intrusions by strangers unless invited, and reasonably close proximity to civilisation if I needed it.

The spare room stood sparsely furnished with a double bed, wardrobe, side table and a rather old-fashioned but eminently practical dressing table, with four drawers provided for the user. It took no time at all to make up the bed with fresh linen, and to run round the room with a duster, and to vacuum the carpets.

As I sat down to a late lunch, I reflected that there remained little more I could do with the room to make it any more habitable for my guest. It gleamed, clean, comfortable and as ready as it could be, so the rest of the afternoon would be devoted to a little research into the case he’d mentioned.

The internet provided most of what I needed to know to give me a brief background on the case. Jack Reid had been the nephew of a psychiatrist who had been involved in a road accident, one in which his own father died. After the accident he’d come into possession of some papers that appeared to have caused some disturbance of the mind, and Robert Cavendish died sometime later, convinced that he’d been haunted by the ghost of Jack the Ripper during the coma he’d lain in during his time in hospital. On reaching the age of maturity, young Jack Reid had also received a legacy, this time from his Uncle Robert, and his life had immediately entered a downward spiral. It seemed that Reid had led a disturbed childhood and whatever happened to him after the receipt of the bequest from his uncle; it certainly did nothing for his state of mind. He’d disappeared from home one night, apparently going in search of something or someone, though no-one knew who or what, or where he’d gone. He wasn’t heard from again until his parents were informed by the police that he’d been arrested in Brighton, suspected of the murders of three women, all of whom had been slaughtered in the manner of Jack the Ripper.

Found guilty by reason of insanity at his trial, Reid had been incarcerated in the Ravenswood Secure Hospital, a facility built specifically to house the criminally insane. Somehow, a leading ripperologist had become involved in the case and she began to cast doubts on Reid’s guilt. After the police re-opened the case following her intrusive intervention, they eventually found that Reid may not have been the killer after all and during an extensive retrial, it emerged that Reid had been the unwitting dupe of a person or persons unknown who’d framed him for the murders, and Reid had been released from Ravenswood soon afterwards, against the advice of his psychiatrist, a Doctor Ruth Truman.

All appeared to go well with Jack Reid for a while, until he left his job and disappeared from sight once more. He wasn’t heard from again until the bodies of prostitutes began turning up in the Whitechapel area of London, as they had during the reign of the original Ripper. This time, Reid had been clever. He didn’t try to use the original murder sites as defined in the original Ripper case, but simply picked his targets at random in the red-light district. He knew that if he stuck to the original area used by the Ripper he would easily be tracked down and that the police would simply set traps and lie in wait for him, so he simply picked up his victims on the street and led them into the nearest darkened alley or parking area and carried out his gruesome killings. Of course, during the time of the killings the police didn’t know that Jack Reid was responsible, at least not for certain, but when the London Police received a contact from Inspector Holland in Brighton who had first arrested Reid in Brighton, they soon began to suspect that Jack Reid could be their man.

Three women had already died at the hands of the new Whitechapel Murderer before the police got lucky. Holland’s information proved vital and the authorities distributed a photo of Reid to every police officer in the Capital. It was a member of the British Transport Police who eventually spotted Jack Reid innocently waiting for a tube train on the London Underground. Rather than tackle the suspected killer himself the officer radioed his headquarters with confirmation of his sighting and then followed Reid onto the train. When Reid left the train, the officer notified HQ again and then followed the suspect, keeping in radio contact with his supervisor at all times as a tactical firearms squad from the Metropolitan Police deployed quickly to the area.

As Jack Reid entered a small apartment building less than a mile from the scene of the last killing, he found himself surrounded by armed police officers and arrested on the spot. He readily admitted to his crimes and once again he used the excuse of being a descendant of Jack the Ripper and having been compelled by the soul of the long-dead killer to carry out the latest series of horrific killings and mutilations.

Following extensive psychiatric examinations, Jack Reid had been declared unfit to plead at trial, diagnosed as criminally insane and promptly incarcerated once again in Ravenswood. What had happened to him after that, I had no idea as I found myself strangely unable to find any further information on the internet, after the time of his admission to the secure hospital. He’d simply dropped off the public radar.

I knew I would have to wait for the arrival of my guest the next day in order to discover more and to find out just what Jack Reid had done in the last years of his life in Ravenswood and how his actions, whatever they may have been, had resulted in such a dramatic impact on his solicitor. Obviously, Forbes appeared in fear of his life, or why else would he have contacted me and asked to visit me so urgently? At the same time I wondered how I, a psychologist, could possibly be the man to assist him in his quest, whatever that might be. As I laid my head on the pillow that night, with Forbes’s imminent arrival just a few short hours away, I confess to feeling a sense of excitement, tinged with an expectation that something out of the ordinary was taking place.

Whatever that something may be, I would discover soon enough, and as the darkness enfolded me as I turned out the bedside lamp that night, I slept better than the previous night, and didn’t stir until the hands on the clock read six a.m. once more.

Dawn brought with it a clear blue sky, a fresh but comfortable breeze and a hint of hazy sunshine. In short, a good day for Skerries Rock. After a good breakfast I dressed in my usual warm outer clothing and made my way to the quay. I soon had the launch’s engine fired up and as the gentle swells carried their white wave crests towards the rocky shores of my island home I set off against the current to my pre-arranged pick up point in Balnakiel, where I knew William Forbes would be waiting for me.

As I pulled up to the dock in the village of Balnakiel sometime later, I could easily identify the man I’d travelled to meet as he stood watching my arrival. Although I’d never set eyes on William Forbes before, this man could be none other than my client. The fear and the hunted look in his eyes as I drew close enough to discern his face identified him to me as clearly as if he’d carried a placard with his name emblazoned upon it. Never had I seen such a look on the face of a living soul. For the first time since Forbes’s telephone call, I realised the severity of his trouble and I perceived quickly that this may just prove to be no ordinary everyday case. This man appeared, by his very demeanour, terrified out of his wits!