The Butcher of Whitechapel: Dead Cold Mystery 12 Read online

  I sighed and shook my head. “We are not going to agree, Harry. I still don’t believe he’s our man.”

  “I don’t care, you are the man for this job, and I would really appreciate your help.”

  I hesitated. “I need to think it over.”

  He stared me in the eye, but pointed at Dehan. “And, John, you need to discuss it with your wife. And I mean, everything!” He drained his glass and stood. “I’m going to go and attend to a few things. I will see you back here in about three quarters of an hour. Meanwhile, you ’fess up, me old mate.”

  He walked out into the leaden, gray light of the late afternoon. I could feel Dehan staring at me, but I couldn’t meet her eye. Finally, she said, “What the hell is going on, Stone?”

  I looked her in the eye. “I think Brad Johnson killed my wife.”

  TWO

  She stared at me for a long time while I stared at the large glass of dark beer on the table in front of me. Eventually, she said, “Your wife?”

  I nodded, still without meeting her eye. “We were only married a very short time.” I finally looked up at her. “I’m sorry. I should have told you a long time ago.” She frowned and I kept talking, trying to preempt her anger and disappointment. “There always seemed to be something else to talk about, or it was inappropriate, or it would have spoiled the mood. It’s not exactly something you bring up on a honeymoon. There never seemed to be a right moment.” I sighed. “Like I said, Carmen, it’s not that I didn’t want to tell you. I guess I’ve just grown used to avoiding it, not thinking about it… I’m sorry.”

  She was still frowning. “Hey.”

  I looked into her eyes. They were serious.

  “You’re my guy. Stop apologizing. I told you once, whatever it was you were not talking about, I’d hear it when you were ready. You don’t need to apologize to me for anything, Stone.”

  She held out her fist. I smiled and punched it gently. “You’re one of a kind, kiddo. I should marry you.”

  “So, do you still love her?”

  I shrugged. “I love her memory. I always will. She was a very special person, and we were good. But it was fifteen years ago. I have laid her to rest.” I shook my head. “It’s not the same…” I gestured at her and then at me. “I’m a different person now. What we have is not like anything…”

  She gave me a smug smile. When she spoke, her voice was quiet. “I know what we’ve got, Stone. You don’t need to explain.” Then she became serious. “But if we’re going to do this, investigate this murder, you’ll need to tell me what happened. You’ll also have to tell me, honestly, if you can do it. We don’t have to do this. We can go home.”

  I thought about it. Eventually, I gave a single nod. “Yeah, knowing you’re there.”

  “Always.”

  “I met Hattie…” I stopped.

  Dehan had given a little start. She smiled and shook her head. “It’s stupid, but, realizing she had a name…”

  “Yeah, Henrietta: Hattie. We met soon after I moved out here. We took it slow. I guess we were cautious about my job, and the fact that I lived on another continent. Plus, I was only supposed to be here six months.” I paused and gave a small laugh. “We’re supposed to be checking in and ordering martinis at Heathrow Airport. Instead we’re here, doing this… You sure you’re OK? It’s the past. It’s fifteen years ago…”

  “Stone. Look at me…”

  I realized I had been talking to the ceiling and sat forward to face her.

  “Sometimes, when we don’t confront something that we need to confront, life kicks us in the ass and makes us confront it.”

  I smiled. “Is that in the Torah?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, in those very words. Exactly like that. It also says, ‘Now cowboy up’.”

  I sighed noisily. “After I got my first six months extended, I guess we both decided it was time to get a bit more serious, and look at options. I could move here. I like England, the guys at the Yard were getting used to me. We had a good working relationship. Harry was a friend…” I spread my hands. “Or, she could move back to the States with me. She wasn’t crazy about that option. She was a talented artist and illustrator. She was known here, her publisher was here in London…”

  I stopped and took a long pull on my drink.

  She waited a moment, then said, “So by your seventh month here, you were beginning to get serious.”

  I nodded.

  “You always were rash and impetuous, even back then…?”

  I gave her a lopsided grin. “I guess I was. So we started talking about marriage. We got engaged and I asked for a second extension, got told yes, but that was the last: either I came home or I stayed in London. We decided, whatever we did, whether we stayed in London or moved to New York, we would have to be married. So, that was what we did. I don’t think her family were thrilled. A New York cop from the Bronx wasn’t exactly what they had in mind for their daughter, but they accepted me.”

  “Was she from a nice family?”

  I nodded. “What they call posh.” I smiled. “Port Out Starboard Home. That’s where the first class cabins were.”

  She laughed.

  I went on. “She was posh, yeah. Her parents had a house in the country and another in Chelsea. We used to visit them, and with time, they grew to like me, more or less. I don’t think they ever forgave me for not having a huge wedding, but Hattie told them she had better things to spend her money on, and bought me the Jag. She knew I would love it, and it was a subtle way of making it that much more difficult to go back to the States.”

  I fell silent. Dehan stood and went to the bar. She came back a couple of minutes later with two more pints and set one of them in front of me. It struck me that she could not have been more different from Hattie. But then, I was no longer that John Stone. She took a pull, smacked her lips, sighed and smiled.

  “So meantime, almost a year has gone by. What’s happening at work?”

  “That was more than a year. That was about fifteen months, by the time we got married. Meantime, the killer they were now calling the Butcher of Whitechapel was turning into a real nightmare. He had killed his fourth victim, just about everybody on the taskforce was convinced Johnson was our man, but I didn’t buy it. I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was a cultural thing. They were locked into the idea that they were ‘American murders’. The victims were American, serial killers are pretty rare here but common in the States, the first victim had had a relationship with an American who just reeked of killer…”

  “But you didn’t like him for it.”

  I shook my head. “No, because I knew he was more than capable of revenge killing, or killing some guy in a brawl in a bar, or shooting some guy in a heist. But he wasn’t going stick around to perform rituals. Johnson is just a primitive, brutish bad man. The guy who killed these girls is a paranoid schizophrenic. Johnson, in his simple, animal way, is perfectly sane.”

  “So what happened?”

  “There was a lot of frustration. There was no forensic evidence to move the investigation forward. We had no way of tying Johnson to any of the actual crimes. We pulled him in a few times and each time, they either had me present at the interview, or, the last couple of times, they had me interrogate him. By then, he was claiming police harassment and that we were out to frame him.”

  I took another pull and leaned back in my seat. “What made it more complicated was that Johnson was obviously involved in something. You could see that a mile away. I figured he was running small arms for radical, far right groups over here. So that made him look guilty.” I spread my hands. “Because he was. He was guilty, but he was guilty of something else.”

  “Did you ever prove anything, find out what he was into?”

  I stared over at the cold, empty fireplace and after a while gave my head a slow shake. “No. We’d been married just a few weeks. It was about a week after I had interviewed Johnson the last time. I got home to our apartment and…” I had to stop. I s
teadied my breathing and shrugged, then shook my head. When I spoke, it came out as almost a whisper. “She’d been murdered while I was at work. In our bedroom.”

  We were silent for a long time. Dehan didn’t speak, she just watched me. I waited for the images to subside, tried to see them in my mind as old, black and white photographs in an old newspaper; something that had been reported a long time ago, in another life.

  I breathed slowly and steadily, and eventually I was able to talk again. “Again, there was no forensic evidence, but somebody had written on the mirror, in her blood, the words, ‘back off’.”

  She reached across and took my hand. “Stone, I am so sorry. I don’t know what to say, what I can do…”

  I smiled. “There is nothing anybody can do. You did it already. You married me and gave me a new life.” I spread my hands, trying to stay cool and hold it together. “I went back to the States. I took the Burgundy Bruiser with me. After a couple of weeks, I went to pieces. I took three months, saw a therapist, who helped. Then I went back to work, with the determination that I would be the best cop I could be.” I paused and thought a moment. “And I always had this conviction that it’s not enough just to punish somebody. You have to punish them for what they have done, and they have to know that. Otherwise it is not justice, it’s just revenge.”

  She made a face and nodded. “I get that.” Then she leaned back and studied me for a moment. “OK, so if you don’t want to do this, we tell Harry and the Inspector we are sorry, but it just ain’t going to happen, and we go home.”

  “No. I do. It’s…” I gave a one-sided shrug. “In some weird way, it’s timely. It will be good to tie this up and resolve it.” I gave her a smile, and couldn’t keep from it fifteen years of weariness, of exhaustion from living with that nightmare ever present. “In obedience to the Torah, according to Carmen Dehan.”

  She smiled with rare and genuine tenderness in her huge, brown eyes. “Asshole,” she said.

  “You know it’s mutual.”

  She leaned forward, with her elbows on her knees. “It’s a hell of a coincidence.”

  “That the feeling is mutual? Not really. We are both assholes. The whole precinct knows it and agrees.”

  “Shut up, Stone. The fact that the girl has been killed, in the same way, and that Johnson is back in the country.”

  I screwed up my face and shrugged one shoulder. “It’s only a coincidence if it’s a coincidence, and then…” I nodded. “It would be one hell of a coincidence.”

  She gestured at me with an open hand. “This is either a sign that you are, truly, brilliant, or that you have been drinking too much English beer.”

  “I mean, if it were a coincidence, it would be one hell of a coincidence. But what if it’s not? Because, you know, it probably isn’t.”

  “That is kind of my point, Stone.”

  “No, I know, but think about it. Assume, for the sake of the argument, that it is not a coincidence, but also that I am right and Johnson is not our man. Where does that leave us…?”

  She thought about it, frowning hard. “A frame up?”

  “That’s one possibility. Dehan, did you look at the note that was pinned to her eye?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t know what was going on yet, and I didn’t think I was invited to the party.”

  “Get Harry to show you. I want to know what you think. The other thing is, how tall would you say the victim was?”

  She thought about it a minute. “Five two?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

  “Shorter than the other four. Not a lot to go on.”

  I nodded. “I agree. Brad Johnson lives in Arizona. In a place called Three Points, west of Tucson.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I have kept a file on him for the last fifteen years, well… fourteen years, in fact. After I got back, I contacted Tucson PD and the Sheriff of Pima County, went to see him, the sheriff, and told him the story. I told him that Scotland Yard suspected Johnson of being a serial killer, but that I thought they were wrong. I did, however, suspect him of gun running, and of having killed my wife. He was sympathetic, and grateful for the heads up. He agreed to keep me in the loop if anything happened.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing happened. So either he’d just stopped killing or he was the wrong man, as I had always suspected.”

  She picked up her beer and sat holding it, staring out the window at the heavy, gray light outside. Finally, she gave a small frown and said, “Or he was killing away from home.”

  I made a doubtful face. “Not his MO here.”

  She made a doubtful face to match mine, then asked, “What about the gun running?”

  I gave a small laugh. “In Arizona, any person twenty-one years of age or older, who is not prohibited possessor, may carry a weapon, openly or concealed, without the need for a license. Arizona is one and a quarter times the size of the U.K., and has slightly less than the population of London. So, if he is buying guns in Arizona and shipping them to the U.K. on a fairly small scale, that would be hard to detect. When it comes to gunrunning, if your name is Ali, or Mustafa, and you have a big, black beard, you’re probably on the radar. If you’re white and blond and your name is Brad Johnson, you’re probably not a member of Al Qaeda, so nobody cares.”

  “So you have no hard evidence that he is or was selling guns to the U.K. far right.”

  “No. It was just a hunch. A strong hunch, but a hunch. He was doing something, that I am sure of. But that isn’t the point.”

  She nodded. “I know. The point is that for fifteen years, there hasn’t been another killing like those four, not near where Johnson was or here.”

  “Yeah, until now.” I hesitated. “And the killing is similar, but it’s not identical.”

  “Because the victim was a couple of inches shorter than the previous victims? That’s pretty thin, Stone.”

  I sighed. “It’s not just that. There are other things. Where has he been for the last fifteen years? Why has he suddenly come back, at the same time as Johnson? That is weird. Too weird. It’s what I said to you, if you accept that it is not a coincidence, but also that Johnson is not the guy, where does that leave you?”

  “So, hang on, hang on there a moment. What are you saying? I’m getting two things from you. You’re saying you don’t think Johnson did it, you never did; but you’re going further. You’re also saying you don’t think the original killer, from fifteen years ago, did it either. You think this is a copycat.”

  I nodded. “I don’t know if it’s exactly a copycat, but this was not done by the same killer.”

  “How can you know? How can you be so sure? The height is not enough… That he was inactive for fifteen years doesn’t prove anything, Stone. There could be any number of reasons for that. He might have been ill, in China, in some kind of remission—hell, he might have been in jail!”

  I shook my head. “Because the original killer was probably an American, or at least he was really into Don McLean. And the man who killed that girl in Halcrow Street was English, and definitely not into Don McLean.”

  THREE

  Before she could ask me any more, Harry stepped through the door and approached us on heavy feet across the bare, wooden floor. His eyes flicked over my face and Dehan’s and he said, “I gather we have talked it all through.”

  I gave a single nod and stood, “Any news on the girl’s ID?”

  “Not much. The landlord said her name was Katie, that’s all he knows…”

  Dehan got to her feet too, frowning. “What about the rental agreement? Her name must be on that.”

  Harry grunted. “She paid cash, no questions asked.”

  We followed him to the door. As we stepped out into the leaden, gray heat, I said, “What about her accent? Was she American or British?”

  “I knew you’d ask that. He said she was very posh.”

  Dehan asked, “That means she’s British? Americans ca
n’t be posh?”

  Harry laughed. I shook my head. “We can have class, but to be posh, you have to be British. It’s to do with how you speak. Don’t even try to understand. Just accept that it’s so. She was British. More specifically, English.”

  “OK, so that is out of character with the previous victims, plus she was shorter.”

  Harry looked at her curiously, then turned to me. “How do you feel about talking to Johnson?”

  “Sure. You brought him in, or do I go get him?”

  “We have nothing to bring him in on, but it might be interesting to rattle his cage. From neighbor’s testimony, we’ve narrowed down time of death to the last twenty-four hours. The students on the ground floor, that’s the first floor to you, right? They saw her standing outside yesterday morning, smoking a cigarette.”

  Dehan said, “So where is this son of a bitch?”

  Harry smiled at her. “He’s at the Olympia, at Earl’s Court. He has a stand at the Dragons, Daemons and Dungeons exhibition.” He handed her two tickets and a folded, glossy leaflet. “Enjoy.” He turned to me and narrowed his eyes. “You sure about this? You want me to come along?”

  “Too late for that, Harry. I’m in. But I’ll be honest with you. I’m surprised they agreed to your request. I’d have serious questions about my objectivity.”

  “Yeah, the fact that you remarried helped. And I stressed you were only a consultant. That and the fact that nobody knows the case like you do swung it.” He pulled out the keys to his car. “It’s not a Jag, but it’ll get you from A to B. Try to stay on the right side of the road.”

  “You mean the left.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  We watched him run across the road, dodging the traffic, then made our way to the VW Passat he’d parked opposite the entrance to the pub. I leaned on the roof as she opened the passenger door to get in. “He’s right about one thing,” I said.

  She jerked her head at me. “What?”

  “It’s not a Jag.”

  London has one immensely long road that runs right the way through it and all the way out to Oxford. It has various names all along its length, including High Holborn, Oxford Street, Bayswater Road and Notting Hill Gate. We followed this road most of the way, except for Oxford Street, which is only open to big red buses and black cabs, and at Notting Hill Gate, we turned down Kensington Church Street and joined Kensington High Street. The traffic was heavy and the humid heat was oppressive. We didn’t talk, except that at one point Dehan asked me, “How do you want to do this?”