The Demons of Whitechapel

Chapter 2: History-1

Chapter 2: History

A visit to the morgue and a chat with Doctor Jones in the afternoon brought to light nothing new. The young man’s cause of death was still undetermined. He had died approximately twenty hours ago, the mutilations had been inflicted after death and had occurred with hasty, sloppy movements and a sharp knife. The work of someone who was too emotional for meticulous work. It was a hack job. It spoke of great violence or great frustration.

Without fingerprints or facial recognition the man was impossible to identify for now. All the team had to go on was the physical condition of the body, needle marks on a piece of intact skin that suggested regular drug use, and something that looked like a branding between his shoulder blades.

“I thought branding wasn’t cool anymore?” Heart asked when they were back in the incident room. “Nobody does branding anymore.”

“Yeah, but once you done it, you done it,” clarified Ralph. “It’s not like it goes away like a henna tattoo.”

“And what do you know about henna tattoos, Mister Cosmopolitan?” came the reply, at which point Simon cleared his throat to get everybody’s attention back on track. He couldn’t stand banter, he didn’t get the rules of it—how did people know what to say?

“There can’t be too many places in London that still do branding,” he explained. “Flemming, check out who still does. Start with the shops that are in or closest to Whitechapel. Take the photo of the victim’s mark, ask them if they remember who wanted a star and a number thirty-six on their back.”

“On it, boss.”

Simon sent Pollard to check missing persons. Ralph and Heart would hunt down evidence from the crime scene. As for himself, he was going to find the local library. There weren’t any current cases that were similar to the one they were working on, but he hoped to find some new insight from books. He preferred them to humans in most cases, he liked to learn new things from something that didn’t judge him. Simon was always eager to learn—unless the lesson involved getting dirty.

“Looking for something, son?” a frail voice next to him interrupted Simon’s study of the large map of Whitechapel in the Met’s foyer. When he turned around he recognized the janitor, a man who undoubtedly had been tall in his youth but was now bent from age. His eyes, Simon noticed, were nevertheless radiant and clear; no sign of senility or doddery.

“The library,” he replied.

But instead of giving him a helpful description, the man stared at Simon for a moment longer. Then a huge grin cracked his face in two and a finger appeared in front of Simon’s face to do a shaky little dance.

“You’re our new Inspector here at H Division,” he said, clearly pleased with himself, unless the grin was meant in a sarcastic way, which Simon couldn’t tell. “Stark’s kid.”

“I am Detective Inspector Simon Stark, yes. Can you tell me the way to the library?”

“I knew your father,” the janitor went on, ignoring Simon’s question. “What a funny coincidence—I’m just preparing a presentation on one of his old cases, you know.”

“You are preparing a presentation? On my father?”

“One of his cases, yes. Come. Come. Have a cup of tea with me. I’ll tell you all about it.”

“I really don’t have time—”

“Nonsense,” the man interrupted him with a sudden steeliness in his voice Simon found hard to resist. “There’s always time for a cuppa. This way. I’ll show you the way to the library, too, if you still need to go later.”

The janitor turned and simply walked away; perhaps secure in the knowledge that Simon would follow. Just as Simon would follow anybody else who lured him with the promise of sharing information about his parents. There wasn’t a lot Simon remembered about them, unless he counted the terrible morning he had found them, and he did his best to block out that particular memory at all times.

The current case a fading voice in his head, Simon followed the old man down the stairs and into a room that looked either like a very large janitorial closet or a very small work place. There was a cleaning trolley in the middle of the room that the man shoved aside almost impatiently. He was strong, Simon noticed. There wasn’t enough space left for the trolley to be out of the way completely—books and what looked like old police files covered every inch of the room. They were cramped into shelves along the walls, piled high on an old-fashioned davenport, and formed slender peaks on the floor. The air was stuffy and smelled of dust; a smell that made Simon reach for his sanitizer and rub it on his hands.

From somewhere in a corner the janitor procured an electric kettle and tea cups. Simon shook his head. If hell froze over and Whitechapel turned into Shangri-La, Simon would not drink out of an unsterilized cup.

“What is all this?” He indicated the books and files, partly because he wanted to know, partly to distract the other man from asking why he refused the offering of tea. Using his handkerchief, Simon took a book at random from the shelf nearest to him and read the title: The Bank Holiday Murders.

“Why, it’s my office, son.”

“I didn’t know it was part of the janitor’s job description to be an expert on,” Simon carefully took out another book, making sure his skin didn’t come in contact with the object, “Jack the Ripper?”

“No need to be insulting. I am the janitor, yes, but I also happen to be the chairman of the Society Of People Who Are Interested In The Crimes Of Whitechapel. I happen to have founded the society.”

Simon, intrigued by the library the old man had collected, kept looking at the books on display while the janitor poured himself a cup of tea.

“It’s quite a collection, isn’t it?” the man asked.

“It is. Are those case files?” Simon opened one that was lying face up on the davenport.

“Indeed they are. Historical cases—they’re all in the computer system now, mind you, well, most of them are. But I prefer paper. We discuss them at the Society meetings. Fascinating, all of them. I’m Huw Stackpoole, by the way. Ex-sergeant of the police, long pensioned now, mind you.” He gave a little chuckle that Simon couldn’t place.

“You said you’re giving a presentation on my father?”

“Yes, that’s right. Next Wednesday at our weekly meeting. One of his cases, an intriguing one, but then again—they all are. Your father was a remarkable man and an extraordinary inspector. Please, consider yourself invited. We meet at the Blood And Bones.”

Simon wasn’t sure how he felt about a group of pseudo-criminologists discussing his father’s cases at the local pub. He didn’t want to think about his past or his parents, so he steered the conversation to safer waters.

“Are you familiar with any case in which the victim was skinned?” he asked. There was no safer territory than the job.

“Skinned, eh?”

Simon synopsized the case quickly.

“Of course, getting rid of the skin and the face has been done throughout the centuries,” Stackpoole began, visibly excited by the challenge, “for a variety of reasons—fairly few of which actually have to do with keeping the corpse unidentifiable.”

“Is there any way that you could find similar cases here?” Simon looked around the little room pointedly.

“Of course. But, son, why are you interested in the past to solve your case?”

Simon looked at him.

“I don’t believe past, presence, or future are entities on their own,” he explained. “I think they are connected. We need the past to learn from in order to prepare ourselves for the future. Do you disagree?”

“I happen to agree most wholeheartedly.”

Itching with the desire to clean himself up, Simon left Stackpoole to it.

* * * *

Faded and suppressed memories of Simon’s childhood tried to swim to the surface for the rest of the day. It made it difficult for him to stay focused, like there was a fog between the present and himself.

When he was ready to go home that night he switched the light off and on again thirty-six times before he was able to step out of his office, but he was too tired to think about it.

Simon’s car was the last one in the car park; it was after midnight when he finally made his way home. Images of the case stuck with him. Stackpoole hadn’t come up with anything useful by the end of the day, but had promised to be ready the next morning. Simon knew that facial mutilations were, as sad as it were, common, and hinted at a personal relationship between killer and victim. What did mutilations all over mean? What was the message? Why had there been no courses on that at the academy?

The questions stayed with him while he underwent his nightly ritual—shower, lotion, teeth cleaning, bed—and as he lay in bed waiting for oblivion, protected by the order of things around him—watch and mobile on the night stand, shoes next to the bed at a ninety degree angle. The bedroom was minimalistic in terms of personal objects, just like the rest of the flat. Some mementos—his father’s watch, a photo of his mother, an old toy car he couldn’t throw away because the Rules said it must sit on the kitchen counter next to the fruit bowl—nothing more. No knick-knack, no dust traps. Clean and orderly, borderlining on sterile. He liked it that way. It gave perspective. It was easier to breathe that way.

Now he wondered if his thoughts would be different with a memento to hang on to. Something to distract him from going over the details of his cases at night. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure which was worse: thinking about bloody crime scenes or pondering the fact that he was all alone in the bed but whished he weren’t. Sleep, as usual, was a welcome friend.