The Case of Ripper 37
Chapter Two
Inside a run-down, vacant house in Walthamstow, only the faintest streaks of light find their way through the grimy windows. A silhouette of a man is writing something on the wall, smearing it with his fingers. Once finished he steps back and examines his work. Satisfied, he turns and leaves the room, stepping over something as he does.
On the floor beneath him lies the body of a young woman.
Seven hours earlier, on Park Street, just outside Regent's Park, James Dinan was speaking with a young woman out for a walk with her dog, an enormous Irish Wolfhound. Dinan was perfectly average in every way. He was just tall enough not to be short, just heavy enough not to be thin. He was thirty years old and his close-cropped, dark hair was neither long nor short enough to be either stylish or dated. He just was, and he was incredibly easy to forget.
"My grandfather used to breed Wolfhounds," he said, kneeling down next to the massive dog. He had a merle."
"A merle? Really?" the woman asked. She seemed genuinely flattered by Dinan's attention.
He stood again and smiled at her, "The only one I've ever seen outside a book."
Over the woman's shoulder, Dinan caught a glimpse of Allison Reed, a university student in her early twenties. Her long, blond hair was pulled back into a pony tail that swung rhythmically with each step. She was moving quickly, late for work. Dinan paid her little mind. He was far more interested in his conversation.
"Was he a proper breeder or -" she was asking, but Dinan heard little of it.
He felt a sudden jolt from behind, an impact that for an instant felt as though he'd been hit by a bus. It was, of course, not a bus at all, but a large and imposing figure of a man named "Henry." Dinan never saw Henry. He wasn't even aware that it had happened. One minute James Dinan was having a perfectly pleasant conversation about Irish Wolfhounds, and the next, well, he wasn't.
The woman with the dog stopped speaking in mid sentence. She stared after Henry as he marched away, his eyes focused intently on Allison Reed, apparently oblivious to what had just occurred. "Uh, Hello?" she called out, shocked by his rude behaviour. When he didn't answer she grew even more indignant. "Unbelievable." she muttered.
Henry was a large man with clear, blue eyes, and the sandy blond, tussled hair of a California surfer. His eyes never left the figure of Allison Reed. He was glad when he'd put enough distance between himself and that ridiculous dog woman that he could no longer hear her.
Allison continues along Park Road, unaware that Henry is following her. She was hurrying to make up time, tying the small, black apron around her waist, then checking her mobile for text messages.
Henry begins to see and hear eerie, distorted images and sounds - flashes of a horribly violent crime scene . Walls are spattered with blood. He see's a large knife, repeatedly stabbing, blood flying. He sees a woman's blond hair. He hears screaming. The images are coming at a disturbing and disorienting pace. Henry blinks and shakes his head - trying to clear his mind. He follows Allison along Park Road and eventually to a pub, where she works. Allison goes inside and Henry stops and looks over the building, then the street. His eyes dart back and forth – planning.
It's Monday morning, a little after 11 o'clock in Walthamstow. Three boys, all about 14, and clearly not at all concerned about not being in school, are walking along a run down street. Some of the houses are vacant, the rest in need of repair. Upon reaching an obviously vacant house they head down the narrow alley that leads to the back garden.
They stop just outside the garden gate. Sean, a blond with chubby cheeks stops to light up a cigarette, then hands the pack to Bobby, a smaller boy with dark hair. As they are about to push open the gate into the overgrown back garden, they notice it is not as they left it.
"Oi, what's this?" Sean asks exhaling smoke from his first, long drag.
"What's what?" Mark, the smallest of the three chimes in.
"Gate's open." Bobby says, handing the pack to Mark.
"So?"
"So... I shut it last time, didn't I?" Sean says.
"Looks like someone else's been round," Mark says, nearly dropping the pack.
Sean snatches it from him. "Mental."
They push their way through the back garden, and trudge through the weeds to the house.
"Hold on," Bobby cautions. "What if somebody's inside?"
"What?" Mark laughs, "like Goldilocks? Somebody's been sleeping in-"
Pushing the door open, Sean, makes a rude gesture, and says, "Goldilocks can -"
"Cor!" Mark almost gags, "It don't half smell!"
"Shut it!" Bobby pushes him. "Your mum don't half smell."
"Piss off!"
They enter the house pushing and shoving one another and laughing. They are amused by the foul smell which seems to be growing stronger as they move through the kitchen and down the hall. They cover their noses and mouths now.
"What is that?" Sean asks in disgust.
"Dead animal, probably." Bobby answers.
"Oi, let's get rid of if, yeah?" urges Mark.
Finally, they emerge from the hall and stand in the empty living room. Their faces freeze in horror, overwhelmed by the scene. The images that had flashed through Henry's mind earlier are now displayed in all their gory detail here.
Police cars line the street in front of the vacant house in Walthamstow. A small but noisy crowd of local residents are being kept back from the scene by some of the uniformed police. The three boys, along with some of their parents are being questioned by investigating detectives.
When Watson arrives, she is already on her mobile, speaking to Holmes and carrying her take-away coffee, but not drinking it. Although the conversation seems silly and trivial, she is genuinely upset by it. She pushes through the crowd with a quick nod to the officers who move one of the temporary barricades, allowing her to pass.
"He hated coffee. Hated it," she says, then, presumably imitating her husband, continues, "Oh, no. I don't like it. Too bitter. I like how it smells, though..."
Then, returning to her normal voice, she goes on with even more irritation, "Course you like how it smells. Everyone likes how it smells, don't they?"
She tips her head back, acknowledging the detectives speaking with the boys without ever breaking off her conversation with Holmes. "The house is empty, vacant for some time, it looks like. Garden's overgrown. It's not boarded up, just neglected."
As she approaches the house, she tries to focus on each detail of her surroundings but is distracted somewhat by the story she's telling. Clearly it is a source of hostility, "So, I says, 'Let me make you a proper cup of coffee, right? With cream and sugar, and see if you like that.' And of course, miracle of miracles, Saints be praised! He loves it, yeah? So then, overnight, he's a regular coffee drinker, and -"
Holmes asks something that distracts her for a moment.
"Yeah," she says. "Right. So one night, he comes out of the kitchen with two cups of coffee and hands me one and we sit down to watch something. And after a bit, I notice he's still clinking away with a spoon in the cup, just clink, clink, clink, non-stop. And I'm thinking, 'Is he taking the piss?' Right? So I look over, and he's drinking black coffee, black!" She takes a breath, "What is that? I mean, really, black?"
Watson is getting truly angry by now, "Oh! And the worst part is, he's got the coffee in a big, glass mug! It's clear glass, right? So I can see that it's black! Just to sort of rub my nose in it. Like he's a better coffee drinker than I am."
She is so fixated and upset by this story that when one of the officer nods and raises his hand in a slight wave, she walks right passed. She continues round the corner of the house toward the back garden when she realizes she what she's just done. She stops and turns, "Oi!"
The officer turns.
"Alright, Tommy," she says with a tilt of her head.
Tommy chuckles to himself. Classic Watson, he muses.
Then, in an instant, she is right back to her conversation. "Yeah! And I'm thinking, 'Oi, I started you on coffee. Before me, you didn't even – now your drinking it black? Like all of a sudden, he's right hard? Like he's better than me?"
The rear of the house is now in view. "House is on the corner," she explains, "There's a little alley along side it. That's how you get round back."
She remembers something else, "Oh, wait! That's not all. You know the reason he gives? The reason he's drinking black coffee? Cos he don't like the powdered creamers."
She goes on, imitating her husband, "I don't like how it just sort of floats on top. It don't mix right." Then, in her own voice, "So he says he wants to get used to drinking black cos then he won't have to worry about it when we go out."
She listens to Holmes, then erupts in anger.
"No it's not reasonable! That don't make no sense at all. How many restaurants don't have proper cream? How often is that a problem, really? To change a person's whole way of drinking coffee for that? Your entire approach to coffee? That's not the reason. That was not the reason!"
She stops at the back gate and looks into the muddy, overgrown back garden. Then she looks at her suede boots. She winces and bites her lip, drawing a long controlled breath. "Bollocks," she mutters.
Holmes is speaking again.
"What?" she asks. "No, that's not why we're separated, smart ass. That's just one example of -"
She stops and listens. "Yeah, I'm at the gate. What? Were you listening at all? Any rational person would see my point here. You're not getting it. It's not even about the coffee." She pauses, "No, it's not. It's the principle. If he was doing ti for the coffee, I could respect that. He'd be doing it for the right reason. But to change your whole way of drinking coffee cos you don't like powdered creamers? Creamers? What is that? What the hell is tha? I can't respect that. No one could respect that. And it makes me question his motives."
She waits, listening, then triumphantly she says, "Exactly! Cui-bloody-bono! So that other people would think he's a better coffee drinker than I am."
Watson looks again into the back garden, "Right, look, I'm standing at the back gate, you ready to go in or not?"
She shakes her head, "No. No we're not bloody coming back to this." She huffs, "No, cos I think you're mocking me. Look I'm going in."
She steps through the gate, trying to pick her way through the muck, stepping only on the spots that look dry enough not to damage her boots. The police officers at the back door watch her with amused faces, but are careful to look away before she sees them.
Holmes is asking questions as she walks, and she answers them as best she can
Finally, she has reached the back door, "Glass in the door's broken ... What? ... Yeah. I'm going inside now. You can smell the decomp from outside ... not strong, no."
When Watson enters the front room, emerging slowly from the hallway her eyes take just a moment to adjust. SOCOs and a uniformed POLICE OFFICER are busily and quietly going about their duties. There is blood everywhere, on floor, on the walls, and on the ceiling. She takes a deep breath, and lets it out loudly. On the floor in front of her is the body of Allison Reed, lying on her back, drenched in blood, still clothed.
She imagines for a moment what must have happened in this room. The images flash through her mind; the same images that were in Henry's mind two days earlier.