text: David Burgess The Samsara Project 
   
   
     
   Chapter 1 
  Tuesday 3rd April 2006 – 14:30, Wimbledon and District Ladies Society 
  John Reynolds stood behind the podium facing his audience; He involuntarily cleared his throat, the rasping sound clearly picked up by the microphone just in front of him. The audience hushed and the room fell silent. John, realising he now had their attention, quickly glanced around the room and pressed the left button on his mouse and started up his Powerpoint presentation. The first image to flash up on the screen behind him was of a pretty 17 year old girl, taken around the late 1880’s in London’s East End.  
  “Emma Smith was 17 years old when this picture was taken and like many young women living in Victorian London she made her living as a prostitute in the Whitechapel district of London. It was rumoured, though never confirmed, that at the time, one woman in four was a working girl and most were able to make a reasonable, if not good living from their profession.” 
  Tuesday 3rd April 1888. 
  Emma had just left a ‘tom’ as she called her punters, and was walking back to her the damp, dark and foul smelling one room she called home. Emma though considered herself lucky; at least she had a room of her own. Many of her friends did not and she was only able to afford it because she was good at her work. “Why shouldn’t I feel good about myself”, she thought, “if I was in a normal job I’d feel proud if I was good at it? At least my ‘toms’ appreciate me, thank me, are good and kind to me. Well, at least most are. Not like those factory bosses, they’re the worst. At least I don’t have to work fourteen hours a day, seven days a week to bring home enough money to just about exist on.” 
  Emma turned into Osborn Street. She knew the area well, and despite what she had been warned about Whitechapel had never felt scared of walking through the streets alone. Here she felt safe. 
  The attack when it happened was as swift as it was brutal. The attacker hit her from behind with such force and power that she immediately hit the solid pavement beneath her. Emma felt her head hit the ground and bounce off it, jerking her neck upwards in the process before flopping down again. She felt herself go dizzy, her head begin to spin. Without warning her vision became blurred and her hearing muffled. She was still face down; the weight on top of her was like nothing she had experienced before, so heavy and so concentrated. She could feel the weight on her back forcing her chest into the ground, crushing her, forcing the air out her body and there was no way to replace it. She had heard that if you had to choose a way to die then lack of air was better than most, at least that’s what her brothers had told her. “It’s just like drowning at sea,” they said. “You just feel faint and then drift off to sleep.”  
  At this moment Emma knew that it was nothing like that, her body was screaming out for oxygen. Her lungs felt as though they were on fire, her agony was unbearable. 
  Emma felt a hand grab her hair. Her head and neck jerked up in a swift and sharp movement. The grip on her was strong. She could now smell her attacker. A strange thought entered her head, she could smell sweetness in the air, not strong but not unlike the faint scent of the flowers from the flower sellers she passed each morning. 
  The attacker had just made their first mistake, by pulling her neck up they had allowed Emma to catch her breath, not by much, but enough to put some fresh oxygen into her body, enough, with a rush of adrenalin, so she could force her body off the ground. This was something her attacker had not expected and it was more the element of surprise in her actions than anything else that caused the attacker to loosen his grip on Emma’s hair. Emma shook her head violently from side to side finally pulling her hair free from her attackers grip. Her attacker then leant back to try and regain his balance banking that his superior strength and size would be enough to hold the girl down. It wasn’t. 
  The element of surprise had now passed and Emma realised that she was now in a fight for her life. Emma had come from a large, rough East End family and was the youngest and smallest, only five feet two inches tall and a little over eight stone six pounds in weight. But what Emma lacked in size she more than made up for in strength and stamina. Emma had four brothers, all much bigger, stronger and tougher than she was and the one thing she learned from them was ‘winners don’t fight fair’. From a very young age Emma had learned that life was going to be hard for her and if she was to have any chance of surviving she would have to be as rough and tough, no, rougher and tougher than whatever was out there.  
  For the first time since the attack began Emma let out an ear piercing howling scream. At the same time she jerked her body round. The element of surprise was now starting, slowly, to turn in Emma’s favour. Her attacker had expected to make a quick getaway; he had not though taken into account the inbuilt survival instinct that we all possess. Emma continued to use every ounce of adrenalin fuelled strength she had and continued to twist and turn in every direction at the same time. She was now more like a trapped wild animal than a young girl. The attacker fell to the floor; Emma jumped up, still screaming, and kicked him hard and often. It did not matter to her where the kicks landed just so long as they did.  
  The attacker started to get up of the floor. He noticed Emma’s bag, lying on the ground where she had dropped it at the start of the attack. He made a run for the bag. This time he was just a bit too quick for her. Grabbing the bag he ran off into the shadows of Whitechapel. 
  Emma stood up, gasping for breath. Every nerve in her body was tingling. She felt cold and shivered. Looking around her she saw no one. Emma started to slowly walk but the enormity of the attack overwhelmed her and she dropped to the floor and started to cry, a small sob turning quickly into a flood of uncontrollable tears.  
  After what seemed an eternity Emma stood up and still sobbing ran the rest of the way home to the sanctuary of her one room. 
  Emma Elizabeth Smith may have considered herself to have been very unlucky that night in Whitechapel. She was in fact very lucky for this attack is considered to have been the first attack carried out by the serial killer who later became known as Jack the Ripper. The ripper must have learned a hard lesson himself that night because as far as we know Emma Smith was the only person ever to survive. From that point onwards, whenever the ripper attacked he was the only one ever to walk away and each murder scene he left behind was more gruesome and more grisly than the last. 
  John looked at his audience for the first time since the start of the presentation. Experience told him that he had kept their attention during the opening sequence. That did not surprise him. As a time served investigative reporter and crime writer for over fifteen years this was a presentation he had delivered on many occasions. In fact far too many to remember just how many. He now had his delivery down to an art form, knowing when to stop, when and what to emphasise and when to shock. That, he secretly admitted, was something he enjoyed. Tonight he had been invited by the ladies of the Wimbledon and District Ladies Society, a long established group of middle to upper class ladies who prided themselves on the charitable events and functions they put on throughout the year. Maybe giving something back gave them a sense of ‘doing the right thing’ although John suspected it was more likely to be a feeling of superiority. With associations such as this one that was usually the case.  
  What John was not aware of was that there was more than one lady in the audience who did not care at all about Jack the Ripper but had come along simply to see and hopefully meet John Reynolds. John was thirty eight years old, always immaculately dressed, made to measure suit, crisp, freshly pressed shirt, silk tie fastened with a Windsor knot and highly polished handmade leather shoes. A trim five feet ten inches tall and a respectable thirteen stone four pounds in weight ensured he looked as good in his clothes as the tailor had intended. John had a good growth of well groomed dark brown hair and hazel coloured eyes. He also had a classical Roman nose, slightly out of shape due to a playground fight when he was thirteen. Despite the fact he did not exercise on anything like a regular basis John was in good physical shape. Toned and athletic without being overly muscular he was, according to most of the women he worked with, drop dead gorgeous. John though had never thought of himself as being anything special and most of the time he found the female attention and flirting made him feel uncomfortable. Flirting and small talk was something he had never quite mastered.   
  John continued with his presentation. On the screen behind him came a photograph of Dannielle Eddowes. “Dannielle Eddowes is believed to be the rippers’ sixth victim. The photograph behind me clearly shows the extent of the escalation of violence and mutilation the ripper had worked up to. This photograph was originally black and white but thanks to the photography and IT specialists at the National Daily Herald we can see the scene as the detectives who first arrived would have found it.  
  The photograph on the screen was a very graphic account of what must have happened. The mutilation and gore was clear for everyone to see. Dannielle Eddowes stomach had been sliced open spilling intestines and guts out over the floor. Her uterus and left kidney had also been surgically been removed, in her case without any anaesthetic and while she was still alive. The picture clearly showed the expression on her face, the horror and abject terror of what was happening to her was clear for all to see. The only hope for her was that death came quickly, although this is doubtful.  Around the audience John heard the familiar sound of coughing, followed in one cases by a retching noise. A Chair was moved quickly backwards as the women ran for the toilets at the rear of the hall.  
  John concluded his presentation twenty minutes later. The group politely applauded and John left the stage to join them for a buffet supper and to answer the many questions that came his way.  
  The evening had been organised by the Secretary of Wimbledon Ladies Association Mrs Janet Costello. Janet was also a long time family friend of Anne Reynolds, John’s mother. The two women had in fact attended school together and Anne knew John well. Despite being well into her late sixties Janet was a very lively sprightly woman and many of the associations younger members had a hard time in keeping up with her on the charity fun runs she organised. Janet also had a mean sense of humour that some found hard to understand or appreciate.   
  “An excellent evening’s entertainment”, she said, “and I do like those new photographs you showed. How did you manage to get hold of those? Or shouldn’t I ask.” 
  “Of course you can ask,” Replied John, “our photographic staff at the paper worked on them with a new Photoshop programme. Scan in a black and white picture and out comes a colour one; apparently it matches up the grey tones to a specific colour tone.” 
  “I have to say John that all sounds very fascinating but a little too Hi Tec for me I’m afraid. Now, shall we go and get something to eat. Those sandwiches look divine. 
  **** 
  Suzie Reeves was a creature of habit. She was thirty nine years old and due to turn forty tomorrow, the fourth of April. It was not a day she was particularly looking forward to. To Suzie being a thirty-something was fine, she was quite happy with that but being forty! Old people are in their forties and the one thing she did not feel was old, in fact Suzie had to admit to herself that she probably felt better now than she ever had.  
  Suzie Reeves was a health nut. A member of her local gym for the past three and a half years she was one of the few members who actually got her money’s worth from the thirty five pound monthly subscription. Suzie was not a body builder but she did like to keep in shape, her arm and leg muscles were firm but not bulky, her stomach flat with just a hint of a ‘six pack’. Suzie had never had any children so was also free of stretch marks and unusually for a woman of her age, cellulite. Five years ago had made the life choice decision to become vegetarian. At the age of thirty nine Suzie ‘upgraded’ from vegetarian to vegan. Up until five years ago Suzie had enjoyed meat as much as anyone, a prime rib roast for Sunday lunch was her idea of a perfect meal, along with all the trimmings of course. It was a few weeks after her thirty-forth birthday that Ron Reid started work for the City of London Investment Bank that Suzie worked for. It did not take long for the two of them to become a couple. The attraction for Ron was quite obvious. Suzie was five feet seven inches tall, a slim but athletic nine stone three pounds. She also possessed a perfect size ten figure. Her hair was natural ash blond, just past shoulder length complemented by deep blue eyes. To Ron they were the kind of eyes that you could just dive into. Her skin was flawless with a light olive complexion that gave her a slightly Southern European appearance.  
  Suzie was the darling of the office, even though she did not know anything about it. Every time she walked into her office every male and more than a couple of females had her mentally undressed and in a hot steamy shower. Had she known about the thoughts and wishes of her colleagues she would have been mortified. Her personality was very bright, breezy and bubbly. In many ways Suzie was an ideal man’s girl. She enjoyed most male sports and for her an ideal Saturday would be spent in the stands of Watford FC, a team she had support since childhood, and not wandering the aisles of Asda or Sainsburys. 
  The romance between Suzie and Ron took everyone at the bank by surprise. The whispers started very early on but had been dismissed as wishful thinking on Ron’s part. They were though true. The office grapevine had recently picked up one snippet of information that had spread like wildfire, to everyone except Suzie. Ron was going to propose, he had decided that it was now to settle down and to make an honest woman of her. Suzie would be walking around the office and conversations would stop abruptly, people would just smile and quickly change the conversation. “Hi Suzie, we were just saying how nice your looking just now. You’ll have to let us in on your secret”.  
  Suzie was more than a little puzzled by her colleague’s strange behaviour. She certainly could not think of anything she had said or done to upset or offend anyone so decided to find out what the reason behind it was. It would though have to wait until tomorrow. Tonight, Ron had told her, they were going out on a special date. To Suzie every date with Ron was special. She had no idea how special this date would be, or that most of the office would also be there for the big surprise. 
  Suzie finished work for the day at lunchtime, having arranged the afternoon off to give her plenty of time to get herself ready for her night out. If one thing annoyed Suzie it had to be rushing to get ready, being late or being made to wait came a close second. Checking the time when she got home Suzie decided there was just enough time to go for a jog on the local common. Having missed out the last three days she did not need much of an excuse for a quick thirty minute training run. 
  Dressed in a light blue Addidas track suit and white Reebok she set off for her run. A light blue headband kept her hair in place and completed the outfit.  
  Towards the end of the run she felt the presence of, more than noticed another figure running behind her. She was not worried; lots of people used the common for jogging so she ignored it. After a few more minutes the figure was noticeably gaining on her she could hear the panting of the runner behind her. Suzie slowed down, stopped then turned around.  
  In real time everything then happened very quickly, for Suzie though it seemed like an eternity. The first thing that struck her when she saw the runner for the first time was their clothes; they were not dressed for running. Maybe whoever it is running away from someone or something. They could just be trying to catch up to me for company or safety. Suzie then noticed something in the right hand of the runner.  
  What’s that? She thought.   
  The runner’s right arm started to rise up to head height, not straight but bent at the elbow, hand close to and just above the runner’s right ear. The runner was only yards away from her now. She then realised, what the runner was holding. It was a large rock, the kind that was scattered all around the common. Suzie wanted to turn away and run but she was transfixed on the rock, she couldn’t move. Her head was telling her to run, her body just would not respond. 
  From three yards out the runner’s right hand started to extend out in front and to their right, then, still at head height, the arm was then pulled back about forty five degrees from the shoulder. Two yards away and the runner’s waist turned the top of their body a further forty five degrees. From a ninety degree angle the runner’s body started to turn forward again, the arm started to move forward, slowly at first and then increasing in speed and power as the hand and the rock homed in on the target. With one yard to go the act was almost complete. 
  The speed of the runner plus the speed and power over their arm and waist movement combined into a devastating blow. The rock hit Suzie just above eye level and right centre of her forehead. On impact her head went numb, she felt giddy then dizzy, her head spinning it flew up and back to the right, her neck muscles straining against this sudden sharp movement. Her head came back to the front and dropped down so Suzie was looking towards the floor. Suzie though could not see the floor, the impact of the rock has caused her vision to disappear and be replaced with a vivid, bright white light. The brightness was so intense that by muscle reflex along her eyes shut tight.  Her arms were limp and just hung down by her sides. Her legs became numb; they could no longer hold or support her slender frame. Suzie’s knees buckled and she fell to the floor, she stayed in the kneeling position for a few moments, her head still looking downwards. Blood was now running down the side of her face and dripping onto her blue track suit top as it flowed freely from a large gaping wound in her forehead. She then fell forward, her hands staying by her side and doing nothing to help lessen the impact as she hit the ground. Suzie was now starting to drift in and out of consciousness; there was a small, almost imperceptible moan from her mouth. She felt a hand grab her hair, pulling up her head. Tape was roughly wrapped around her head, covering her eyes. More tape was roughly put over her mouth. Her hands were pulled up onto her back and more tape wrapped around her wrists. Her attacker then sat on her back facing her feet, grabbing Suzie by the ankles she pulled both legs towards her and using the same tape bound them together also. Suzie was now completely helpless and immobilised, unable to call for help, unable to realise what was happening. A boot pushed her over onto her back. She fights for consciousness but it is a losing battle. “Ron”, she thinks, “I’m so sorry my love. I’m so sorry.” 
  Suzie then felt as if she was floating, her mind became crystal clear. Suzie was a little girl again; she was with her Granddad in the large back garden of his detached house in Boxmoor just outside Hemel Hempstead. She was running around the garden, laughing and shouting, “Come on Granddad, try and catch me.” Suzie ran behind an apple tree just by a large patch of wild flowers. Suzie’s last thought was the sweet smell of the wild flowers. She then drifted into unconsciousness for the last time.  
  *  *  *  * 
  John Reynolds started to make his way towards the buffet. The last time he had eaten was breakfast, over nine hours ago, and that had been just a quick cup of Nescafé instant and two rounds of cold toast. The buffet looked like a feast to him, cold cut meats, spicy rice, an assortment of sandwiches on brown or white bread cut into quarters with the crusts removed, gala pie and hot spicy chicken wings. John picked up a paper plate, knife, fork and serviette. Walking slowly along the line he put a good selection of sandwiches on his plate along with cocktail sausages, some chicken wings and an assortment of salads. He then made his way to the end of the table were the tea and coffee was being served. The tea would quench his thirst for now but what his taste buds really wanted was an ice-cold premium German lager. His thoughts went back a few years when he and his wife Pamela had been regular visitors to the Oktoberfest Beer Festival held in Germany. Pamela was the only girl John had ever known who truly appreciated the stunning German countryside and the finer points of premium German lager.  
  Despite the pain John felt over the loss of his wife he was now able to look back on the times they had together with a warm glow. He knew that he would never be able to hold, touch or smell her again but in his head she was every bit as real to him as she had ever been. His love for her was even stronger now than it had ever been. To John that was exactly the way it should be. 
  “Penny for your thoughts John” said Janet, “You’re miles away, back in Victorian Whitechapel by any chance?” 
  “No” replied John, “Germany as it happens, you know its two years since I was last over there. Time flies, so I’m told” 
  “John” said Janet “You know I’ve been a friend of the family for years now, in fact far more than I care to remember. I know how special Pamela was, such a sweet young thing. I mourned with you when I heard about her terrible accident. She was far too young and too full of life to have died that way but you are still a handsome young man and I’m sure that somewhere out there is a woman who is looking for the love of a good man. Don’t give up on life John because if you do then life will give up on you.”  
  “You always did have a knack of getting straight to the point. It’s just that I feel Pamela is still with me, I can sense she’s around. I look in a shop window and I think I can just see her reflection. I turn around and she’s gone. I know it’s all in my head bust it just seems and feels so real. To be truthful I don’t want it to stop. It’s as though we are playing a game of spiritual hide and seek. All I have to do is find her.” 
  Janet held his hand and gently stroked the back of it with her thumb; “I’m sure you will John, I’m sure you will. Now, what I came over to say was there are a couple of ladies over there who would like to have a word with you about Jack. But then again it just might be an excuse to get you on your own.” Janet winked at him as he looked over to the two ladies over the other side of the room. 
  “Thanks very much Janet.” Said John, “I suppose they’re both single and available.” 
  “I have no idea.” replied Janet, with a sly wink. 
  At that moment Status Quo’s ‘Rockin’ all over the World’ could be heard. “Looks like there is a God after all,” said John, quietly to himself. He took the mobile from a pocket inside his suit jacket. The caller ID gave him advanced warning that the paper was calling. He flipped open his Motorola Raza phone, “John Reynolds”. 
  On the other end of the phone was Andrew Cleaver, a bright up and coming twenty two year old reporter in the last year of his University Media Studies degree. Andrew had managed to latch onto John during his placement at the Daily Herald. At first John had not been very keen on working with a ‘green’ reporter but had slowly come round to the idea as he got to know the young cub reporter. 
  “Andrew”, said John, then he whispered into the phone “Please tell me you have something for me, I feel as though I’m just about to be fed to the lions by some well meaning Romans.” 
  “This could be your lucky night then John. We’ve just had tip off from one of our sources in the Met that a body’s been found in Whitechapel. The source thinks it’s a young woman but that’s not confirmed yet.” 
  “Any other details Andrew?” asked John. 
  “Well that’s the thing that’s a bit odd. We normally get far more detail than this but for some reason there’s no information at all on this one. It doesn’t matter who we call or speak to there’s no information. The shops not only shut on this one but the shutters are down and the drawbridge is up.” 
  “Shops don’t have drawbridges” said John “Have you not learned anything at that expensive University of yours?” 
  “Yes, a lot and yes they do especially where this murder is concerned.” 
  “OK Andrew, have you got an address. I’ll go down there and see what I can find out.” 
  “I’ll just get it for you, it’s Broughton Common, just past the Royal Oak Pub.” 
  “Thanks Andrew. If I leave now I should be there in just over half an hour. I’ll call the desk in about an hour with whatever I can find out.” 
  John walked over to Janet, “Sorry Janet, I’ll have to leave the two ladies for another night but thanks for thinking about me. I’ll have to leave my things here for now, OK to pick them up tomorrow?” 
  Janet looked at him with a look of disbelief on her face. “It’s a good job I know you” she said scornfully, “Go on then, be the good reporter and make your excuses to leave just before it gets interesting. I’ll make sure your things are safe. You get off and save the world.” 
     
  Chapter 2 
  John flicked the lid of his phone closed as he walked towards his car. He put the phone back into his pocket and then took out his car keys. Pressing a button on the key fob de-activated the alarm and twin locking mechanism of his two thousand and six Jaguar X-Type three litre. The Jaguar, and anybody who ever called it a Jag in front of John were soon told in no uncertain terms that is was a Jaguar and to always make sure in future that they never uttered the demonic three letter word in his earshot again. It was always said ‘tongue in cheek’ and with a smile and that’s how most people took it. But nobody ever said the ‘three letter word’ in front of him again.  
  The car was finished in highly polished British Racing Green, an SE model with cream leather trim complemented by burr walnut woo, very British. John settled himself into his seat, turned the ignition key and fired up the three litre V six engine. The sound of the car firing up was like music to his ears. Mozart, Haydn, Brahms or even the Beatles have never penned anything that sounded more soothing. John had owned this car for the last two years and the pleasure of driving it was every bit as great now as it was the first time. He could never see himself owning anything else again. John then programmed the onboard Sat Nav with his destination, shifted the gear lever into drive. 
  “In fifty yards, turn left” said the soft female voice from the Sat Nav. John indicated left and followed her directions. 
  Eighteen months ago John had been promoted to the Daily Heralds Chief Crime Reporter. He enjoyed his job and the responsibility that came with it but he did miss being ‘out in the field’. This was now left to his staff reporters. That was unless the Duty Editor thought the story was a ‘developer’. John knew that this was newspaper speak for an on-going investigation, one that would develop over an undetermined period of time. This could be days, weeks or months. At this stage you could never tell. John though was just relishing the thought of being back on the streets again. The streets after all are where the stories are and he was a reporter.  
  John pressed the remote CD player button on the steering wheel and Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours album started to play. John turned the volume down until the music was nothing more than background noise. He liked to have music on when he was thinking, he found it helped him to relax and when he was relaxed he could think more clearly, more rationally.  
  “At the roundabout ahead turn right, third exit.”  
  John followed the Sat Nav’s directions. Even though he knew London like the back of his hand he still followed the directions given. He had been surprised a couple of times in the past by the Sat Nav’s choice of route It had taken him down roads he had not used before but he had to admit it had been quicker than the way he would have gone himself. Unlike people Sat Navs are not slaves to habit, they will not always go the same way simply because they had taken that route before.   
  John arrived at the scene of the murder twenty eight minutes later. This was confirmed when he heard;  
  “You have arrived at your destination.”  
  John almost said thank-you. He pulled over to the side of the road. There were no official parking areas on this stretch of road so he parked half on the road and half on the grass verge separating the pavement from the road. John quickly looked around at the scene. Police vehicles were everywhere, blue flashing lights bouncing off the surrounding buildings and the large glass windows of the small neighbourhood shops. John slowly got out of his car, closed the door and pressed his key fob twice to lock the car. He walked around the back of the Jaguar, across the grass verge and stood on the pavement. Just looking at and taking in the atmosphere of the area, especially the crime scene. 
  Across the road and about a hundred yards ahead was the crime scene. It looked more like the set of a new Stephen Spielberg science fiction movie than a Metropolitan Police investigation site.  
  The outer perimeter of the crime scene was cordoned off with yellow tape with angled thick black stripes. Written in bold white lettering were the words ‘Police Crime Scene – Do Not Cross’. This perimeter was guarded by a uniformed constable stationed every ten yards around the entire perimeter. The entire area was lit up by twelve high intensity high rise light units, each unit rising thirty feet into the air from the roof of a Police Special Incident Transit van. Each unit consisted of three lights; the Police operator, using a small remote control much like a game console joy stick, was able to control the position of each individual light. A small movement of the joystick and the lights could be moved in a full circle or ninety degrees up or down or any combination of the two. The lights were independently powered by the specially built Transit vans. Each contained two generators, one main and one backup.  
  John looked at his watch and saw it was six fifteen. The evening was just starting to draw in and John though it would be dark by seven. The crime scene though looked in a different time zone, the lights making it as bright as noon on a summer’s day. At some time during the late afternoon there must have been a shower of rain at the crime scene as the heat from the overhead lights was drying out the ground resulting in a ground mist about six inches in height. To John the effect looked similar to stage-produced dry ice. 
  Off to the right and back from the perimeter tape was a yellow and white tent. It was covering the spot where the body had been found. The tent was a ridged frame aluminium construction, about eight feet high by twenty foot square. The tent had been set up so the entrance was facing away from the road. This was designed to stop not only the public from seeing what was going on but also the press. What were visible though were the two machines attached to the rear of the tent. The first was a portable air conditioning unit that kept the interior temperature stable, the second a dehumidifier that would take out any moisture from the tent. While both made the working conditions inside more bearable for the scene-of-crime officers their main function was the preservation of evidence. Despite the tents generous size the officers working inside would all give off body heat. Exhaled air contains moisture that would quickly build up if not removed.   
  John could see three officers; all dressed in one piece white coveralls including a full hood to cover their head. Each officer also wore protective plastic goggles and a face mask that covered their nose and mouth. John knew the mask had a dual purpose, firstly to stop contamination of the scene and secondly to function as a deodoriser that partly, though not completely, stopped the foul smell of a decaying and rotting body from affecting the officers on scene. Emergency service trainers all knew that the smell of a dead body caused more of their trainees to retch, faint or both than the actual sight of a body itself.  
  John walked up to one of the constables at the perimeter tape. 
  ”Hello Constable ….” 
  “MacKay, sir, Constable MacKay” 
  “Constable MacKay, my name is John Reynolds and I’m a reporter for the Daily Herald. Do you have a press area set up where I can find out some details as to what is going on here?” 
  The constable looked straight at John, eye to eye. John was not sure why but he felt uncomfortable.  
  “Press. No sir we do not have a press officer here just now and I’m sorry but I cannot give you any details about this operation. If you would care to wait I’m sure someone will be available for you to talk to in due course.” 
  “Do you know who the senior scene officer is? Just so I have a name.” 
  The Constable thought for a minute, “Detective Inspector Bales is the senior officer just now.” 
  “Just now?” said John, “Are others officers on the way?” 
  Constable MacKay was quiet for a moment, “Off the record?” 
  “Of course, strictly, I won’t say a word” 
  “Detective Chief Superintendent Hughes is expected. I’m not sure when but he’s expected.” 
  “DCS Hughes, that’s interesting, very interesting. Thank you Constable, Thank you, much appreciated and don’t worry I always keep my word, off the record means off the record.” John turned to walk away, then turned back to face the Constable. He reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. Opening the wallet he took out his business card and handed it to the police officer. “Just in case you ever need to get in- touch. You can get me on this number at anytime, day or night.” 
  The Constable took the card and looked at it. “Can’t promise anything.” he said 
  “I wouldn’t expect you to,” John said. 
  John was one of, if not the first reporter to arrive. A crowd was also stating to build up as people returning home from work stopped to see what was going on. The one thing that’s guaranteed to attract a big crowd is a small one. Other members of the press were arriving. TV crews were setting up their equipment, radio reporters were looking for sound bites and anyone who looked as though they may have anything to say, relevant or not, seemed to have a microphone in front of them.  
  If there’s one thing Joe Public likes, it’s to give an opinion thought John. Truth was that what Joe Public wanted more than anything else was their fifteen minutes of fame, and it did not matter to them how they got it. Bragging rights in work the next day increased to astronomical proportions when the individual had been interviewed the previous evening for the lead story on News at Ten. It never mattered to them, or apparently the TV reporters that they knew nothing about what had happened, the victim, the circumstances surrounding the crime or who had done it or why. Just as long as they “Would never feel safe on the streets of London anymore” or “They should bring back hanging. What do we do? Lock them up for a few years then let them out to kill again, that’s what. We should be more like Texas, no messing about there.”    
  Rent a mouth, gutter journalism or sensationalism had never been John’s style. He took a pride in his work, in what it could achieve. For John the pen was indeed mightier than the sword. This did not mean that he shied away from a sleazy story or exposé but for John exposing someone’s indiscretions, especially if they happened to be a national figure just for the sake of it or to fill a few column inches was journalism at its worst, a modern day version of the Roman amphitheatre, with the victim cast as the Christian, the journalist as Caesar and the reader taking on the role of the lion. In the course of his career John had discovered the sexual preferences of a number of politicians, actors and TV celebrities but their secrets were safe with him, so long as their partner or in some cases partners were of age and consented then he would leave them alone. He left that side of his profession to those whose morals were, in most cases, lower than those being exposed. John also knew that certain journalists had preferences that may be thought of as ‘odd’. People, glass houses and stones came to mind. 
  Inside the tent there was a strange calm, each investigator was going about their grim task with a practiced professionalism that could only be achieved by years of training and experience. As with most jobs that deal with the after effects of human beings at their worst there was an air of detachment between the investigator and the victim. Each specialist, and all were specialists in one field or another went about their job quietly, efficiently and methodically. 
  Untrained observers walking into a crime tent for the first time were initially surprised by the lack of noise, the lack of any hustle and bustle. No one seemed to be in any hurry. The investigators all worked in near silence, there was no small talk or “Did you see the match last night?” Communication was mainly by well rehearsed hand signals and gestures. A full crime scene sterile suit makes talking and hearing difficult for everyone concerned and a misheard order or request could be the difference between a successful conviction and an acquittal due to a legal technicality. Any conversation would wait until the investigators were outside, away from the immediate area. 
  John’s attention was fixed on the tent, his mind wondering what was going on inside. His concentration was broken by the sound of two loud but fairly short blasts of an air horn. John looked around as two of the uniformed officers guarding the perimeter of the crime scene walked quickly over to a large white articulated wagon that had just pulled up. They approached the driver who wound down his window to talk to one of the officers. After around thirty seconds of talking the first officer made a call on his radio, then he gestured with his arms to his colleague that the wagon would be entering the cordoned off area and to move the tape. Charades was not this officer’s strong point and the gentle arm movements became more exaggerated the more the officer became exasperated with his colleagues inability to understand what it was he was supposed to do. In the end officer number one turned to the driver, told him to stay where he was and strode over to the cordoned off area. If a picture can tell a thousand words then his face certainly could. Any farmer would have been proud to have ploughed the frown lines that were on the constable’s forehead; his eyebrows almost touched the bridge of his nose and his lips were shut tightly together. His gait was very strong and purposeful as he quickly made his way to the tape. When he arrived, still glaring at his colleague, he grasped the tape with both hands and tore it through from top to bottom. Both sides of the tape floated gently to the ground. The second officer did nothing to help the situation, his facial expression started as one of bewilderment changing to complete disbelief at his colleague’s actions. The final straw came when officer number two could no longer stifle his feelings and a wide grin broke out on his face, quickly followed by a fit of laughter. Officer number one just glared at him, turned towards the driver of the articulated wagon, pointed at him and very deliberately waved him through the broken tape. Very deliberate gestures followed so the driver was in no doubt as to where he should park. The driver gave a quick wave of thanks and drove through to park up.  
  The two officers just stood there looking at each other, one stony faced the other still trying to stifle his laughter. The standoff lasted around fifteen seconds after which the first officer also started to laugh. The second officer then started to make some very odd and exaggerated arm and body movements caricaturing his colleague’s actions. Officer number one just held up his hands to say, “OK I give up.” “Let’s get this tape sorted out then,” said the first officer.” 
  “Good idea,” said the second. 
  With this job done both walked back to their perimeter stations, number two still grinning and number one slowly shaking his head and reluctantly admitting to himself that it probably was quite funny after all. He did though make a promise to himself that he would get his revenge. His colleague could count on that! 
  The Metropolitan Police mobile crime lab came to a halt in an area specially set aside for it. Scene-of-crime investigators had already thoroughly checked the area to ensure the vehicle would not interfere with the crime scene or destroy any evidence that may have dispersed from ‘crime zero’ after the attack.  
  M.O.S.C.O.W., or to give it its proper title the ‘Mobile Scene of Crime Operations Wagon, was a state-of-the-art mobile crime laboratory. At thirty nine feet long and twelve feet wide it was roughly the same size as a holiday caravan in most sea side resorts. The unit contained everything that was needed for the investigators to carry out their preliminary analysis and evaluation. The lab is self contained and is able to stay on site for as long as the investigators think is necessary. It is equipped to carry out, amongst other things, DNA analysis, fingerprint and shoe comparisons, drug testing and identification, toxicology tests and firearm examination including ballistic testing. Onboard also is the latest in satellite communications covering landline, Sat phone, Internet and e-Mail facilities. Heating, air conditioning and lighting are self contained being run from on on-board generator powerful enough to supply ten average size semi-detached houses with electricity. As an added bonus ‘Mo’ also boasted a kitchen and rest area.  
  John knew that this was the jewel in the crown of the Mets fight against major crime and for it to turn up here indicated that this crime scene was far more than just a run of the mill murder enquiry. 
  At this time though ‘Mo’ was empty, all the technicians and investigators were inside the tent. A typical CSI team consisted of four people, a photographer and three field technicians.  Although called technicians they are highly trained and highly qualified scientists. Others involved with the work of CSI’s include doctors, nurses, and paramedics occasionally, in certain cases, the Coroner. Crime-scene-investigators are not police officers, they are civilian staff employed by the police to find, analyse and preserve evidence at a crime scene. They can also be called as expert witnesses during a trial. For the most part they take fingerprints, analyse blood samples and carry out the vital day to day tasks that a modern police force requires to secure a conviction. For the most part this is not the glamorous work, as depicted on television programmes, but a hard slog with very little gratitude from the public. 
  It is sad, but a fact of life none-the-less, that careers can be made or broken by tragedy. Reputations can be made or broken on the outcome of an investigation. Although none would ever publicly admit it they what they all desired was to have the chance to work on a high profile murder, and to be the one who found that ‘vital piece of evidence, to crack the case. The CSI team assigned to this crime scene were all very aware that this could be their one and only chance to shine. On this case they would all go well beyond their job description.      
  Ryan Morgan was twenty seven years old and has worked as a CSI with the Met since graduating from Salford University with a two-two degree in Forensic Sciences. Ryan had never wanted to work in any other field and had always been fascinated by the ‘behind the scenes’ work of the police science division. As a teenager when other kids his age were reading Football Weekly, Pop Hits or Playboy Ryan was searching through the shelves of his local library looking for anything he could find on crime scenes and forensic medicine. Ryan was also fascinated by the psyche of a murderer; especially a serial killer and his ‘five year plan’ included being accepted back by Salford University to work on his PhD. He was not exactly sure on what yet but he knew it would have a lot to do with serial killers.    
  Ryan was quickly gaining a good reputation within the force, he always did a very thorough job, even when it was a more mundane job. Two years ago Ryan was promoted to CSI grade two, grade three was the highest level and Ryan knew he was not far of that. This could be the case that would help him take the next step up his career ladder. If that did happen then Ryan would be the youngest CSI grade three in the Met. 
  Ryan examined around the area where the body was lying. He made careful notes of the terrain, ensures a large amount of photographs were taken. Bagged up samples of hair and clothing fibres he found, again meticulously logging the position of each one and placing markers on the ground.  
  Ryan then crouched down besides the victim. He had seen a lot of murder victims over the years and even more dead bodies, but he had never seen anything like this. Ryan thought he was a hardened veteran of forensic police work but even this made his stomach turn. Ryan though had enough self control not to let the situation get the better of him. He had a job to do and how well he did it could have an impact on how soon the attacker would be behind bars. 
  Suzie was lying on her back and Ryan spent the next forty five minutes examining her. He found more hair samples, more fibres. Tissue papers were on the ground besides the body, they looked as though they had been used so each was catalogued and bagged. Satisfied that he had sufficient evidence he decided in to turn her over onto her side. He wanted a closer look at her hands. Turning her over Ryan came across something he had not expected. An intricately shaped white cross with an inscription. The cross was about seven inches tall by four and a half inches across. He would get the exact measurements later on.  
  Ryan gestured to the photographer to come over and take yet more pictures. He also signalled Alan Jones, the CSI team leader. Both knew the significance of the cross. At the instant both had the conformation of what they already knew. This was not a random killing and this was not a random victim. This was planned, the victim had been targeted. They also knew that this was not a one off killing, nor was it the first. Everything was screaming at them that this was the work of a serial killer and that more victims would turn up. 
  *  *  *  * 
  DI Bales was forty three years of age, six foot four inches tall and seventeen stone. In his younger days he had played first team rugby for the Met. His hair was closely cropped in a vain attempt to disguise the fact he had lost most of it, now there was only a small growth around the ears and back of his head. Bales once dark brown hair was now mostly all grey. He face had a weather beaten appearance about it and his large grey eyebrows were in urgent need of a trim. Playing rugby in his younger days may have kept him fit but it had done nothing to help his looks, his nose had been broken on at least two occasions and it was now a very unnatural shape. Despite his height he did not carry his weight well, most of it was either fat or flab and it had been a few years back since DI Bales had last seen the inside of a gym. He wore a blue two piece suite that had been bought off the peg. It was old, worn and well passed its replacement date, as were his shoes. Bales did though look intimidating, his sheer size and bulk saw to that, and when dealing with the kind of people DI Bales dealt with on a daily basis that was no bad thing. The DI had been in the Metropolitan Police for twenty three years and a DI for the past eight. It looked as though this was as far up the ladder he would go having been passed over for promotion on the last three occasions. Fortunately he was a more realistic officer than an ambitious one. In his time with the Met Bales had seen many a promising career ruined by over ambition. “Everyone,” he would say, “has a natural level of ability at which you work at you best. Never be seduced by a title or a position into going one level higher than your ability.”   
  Bales was a natural leader, he had a way about him that inspired those who worked under him to ‘go the extra mile’. Bales had no idea why, it was just a talent. When questioned on it he would reply, “Some people play the piano, others can act. I find murderers.” At this moment that was something he wanted to do more than at any other time in his life. He wanted to do it so much that right now, it hurt.  
  DI Bales and his team were looking down at the body of Susan Reeves. No one made any gestures, no one moved. During the past hour and a half the initial examination of the body had been completed by the duty coroner. Police photographers had taken all the pictures they could of the body and the immediate area. Forensics had examined the body and cleared it for removal from the site.  
  Bales felt a tap on his right shoulder. He turned around. It was Detective Sergeant Paul Stephens. The DS pointed towards an area by the entrance of the tent. This was known in the field as the ‘Board Room’. This small area cordoned off inside the tent allowed officers and CSI teams to talk without having to leave the immediate are or contaminating the crime scene. The two men walked over to the board room. Bales removed his face mask. 
  Stephens spoke, “Sorry Guv. Thought you might like to know that DCS Hughes has just arrived. He’ll be on site in a few minutes, just getting suited up in the MM.” 
  “Thank-you Sergeant.” said Bales; “I’ll let the team know. By the way has the sir been given any details of the murder?” 
  “Not sure guv, I’ll see what I can find out.” 
  “Yes, do that” 
  Without any further conversation Stephens left the tent and walked towards MM.  
  John Reynolds had watched ‘The Sir’ arrive. The two men knew each other very well and over the years had worked together on many times. John knew that it would only be a matter of time before he would be able to find out ‘from a police source’ what had happened. 
  DCS Hughes left the MM and walked over to the tent. He was met at the entrance by DI Bales, “Evening sir.” 
  Hughes nodded his head once “Chief Inspector” he said in acknowledgement. “Right then, what have we got”. 
  “Before you go over sir, has anyone spoken to you about the murder?” 
  “Not in any detail just that the body of a woman had been found on the Common. They did say the murder was unusual.” 
  “Just prepare yourself sir, this is not ordinary murder.” 
  The two men walked over to the body, they looked down. DCS Hughes just stared at the body. “Good God,” he said, then looking up to Bales said “Tell me she knew nothing about this.” 
  “Let’s go over to the board room sir, we’ll talk there.” 
  DCS Hughes took another look at the scene. A tear formed in the corner of his eye. DCS Hughes removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes then turned away and shaking his head from side to side walked over to the board room.  
  *  *  *  * 
  For the third time in the past fifteen minutes Ron Billington looked at his watch, then the digital clock on his computer then over the large radio controlled clock on the office wall just behind him. The time was four seventeen.  
  “Relax Ron,” said Sharon. 
  Sharon sat at the desk in front of Ron. They had shared this office space for the past thirteen months and had got to know each other well. They had become very good friends, true friends in fact. Some people find in very difficult to believe that a man and woman could have a close friendship without there being anything sexual about it. Many find the idea that a true platonic relationship is a myth, that one party will always have an ulterior motive. In this case they would be very wrong.  
  “Ron, relax, everything will be OK. Suzie’s going to say yes. In fact she’ll probably shout it. I think half of London will be able to hear her.” 
  “I hope so,” said Ron, he had a slightly worried look on his face and his right eye had a slight tick. This only happened when Ron was nervous and that was not very often. “I’ve been thinking, dreaming about this day for a long time now. I just want everything to be perfect. I want Suzie to remember tonight for the rest of her life, and for all the right reasons. I … I wish it was this time tomorrow.” 
  Ron had never understood how Suzie and he came to be a couple. Suzie could silence a room when she entered. Ron was nothing special, not bad looking but average at best. A few hard knocks in the past had dented his confidence and he was never that sure of himself anymore. Ron did not get that what attracted Suzie to him was that Ron was Ron. There was no pretence to be something or someone he was not. Ron had never thought of Suzie as a trophy, someone to have on your arm like a piece of jewellery and to possibly discard as quickly as a new design is available. Ron never knew it but he was not the only one with a few hard knocks in the past. With Ron Suzie felt relaxed, safe, secure and loved. To her those feelings meant more than anything. 
  “Listen Ron, and don’t ever let on to anyone that I’ve told you this, especially Suzie.” 
  Ron looked serious as he held direct eye to eye contact with Sharon. 
  “I won’t, tell me.” 
  “You think that when girls go to the loo they never talk to each other. Well, we do. All girls talk, none of that football or sport stuff. OK then Suzie did go on about last night’s match sometimes, but that’s Suzie. She’s kind of one of a kind.  Well when she was talking girly talk you did crop up in the conversation from time to time, OK most of the time. Look, take it from me, your best friend; I know that Suzie has been dying for you to ask her to marry you. So don’t worry.” 
  Ron smiled at her, “Thanks Sharon, but I know your only trying to cheer me up.” 
  “Anyway, we’ll all be there tonight. Keep plenty of Champagne on ice for the celebrations. Tonight Ron we will be celebrating.” 
  Just then Ron’s team leader walked over, putting his hand on Ron’s shoulder he said “All set for the big night tonight Ron. Got everything you need, ring, kneepads that sort of thing.” 
  Ron looked at Steve. “Thanks, I’m fine.” 
  “I don’t think so,” said Steve. “I’ve been watching you on and off this afternoon, your anything but alright, so, in the interest of the bank and its customers I think it may be best if you finish up for the day, go home, relax and get ready for an amazing night.” 
  “I can go now?” asked Ron. “You’re sure?” 
  “Yes now. Don’t worry it’s a Friday. We’re covered. Now go.” 
  Ron did not need asking twice. “Thanks Steve, I owe you.” 
  “Yes you do, an invite to the wedding should cover it.” 
  “You’ll be on the list anyway.” 
  Ron shut down his PC, put his paperwork away. Looked at Suzie and smiled.  
  “See you later.” He said. 
  “You can count on it.” She replied. Suzie then made a shooing motion with her hands, “go leave now before he changes his mind.” 
  Ron walked through the office. At once and without any cue’s the office burst into “here comes the bride da da da daaa. 
  Ron stopped the first taxi he saw. “Glenstone Place please.” Ron said to the driver. 
  “OK sir,” said the driver “Glenstone Place it is. 
  The taxi arrive eighteen minutes later having manoeuvred its way through London traffic in a way that only taxis can. Ron thanked the driver, paid him adding a more than generous tip. Ron felt better now than he could ever remember feeling before. 
  Ron went into his two bedroom second floor bachelor pad. Taking off his jacket and tie and throwing them both over the back of an armchair as he passed. Then he walked over to the open plan kitchen area, put on the kettle and made himself a good strong cup of tea. “That’s better.” He thought to himself. For the first time in a while he knew tonight would be fine. He felt good about it, excited. He now had butterflies in his stomach.  
  Ron looked at the time again; it was two minutes to five. That gave him three hours. “Plenty of time” He thought.  
  Ron finished his tea, washed, rinsed, dried and put away the mug. He was if nothing else, domesticated. 
  Ron switched on his new forty two inch Toshiba LCD television. He still could not get used to the size of the screen or the clarity of the Sky, High Definition picture. Flicking through the channels, he stopped at a news report on BBC Twenty Four. A reporter was standing in front of ‘Police, Do Not Cross’ tape. In the background was a tent with a large trailer to the right. 
  “I know where that is.” Ron thought. 
  Turning up the sound he listened to the reporter. 
  “Police have not confirmed any details yet but reliable sources have told the BBC that the body of a woman in her thirties was found earlier this afternoon. In the tent just behind me police crime –scene-investigators are searching for clues that will help lead police to the killer. It is expected that a press conference will be held later when further details will be released. We will keep you up to date with developments as soon as anything further.” 
  The reporter then signed off. 
  “Poor woman,” muttered Ron, “How could you cope with being told news like that.” 
  He thought of Suzie and thought how lucky he was. 
  Ron then took a long hot shower, the TV report now far from his thoughts. Stepping out of the shower he dried himself, put on his boxer shorts and had a shave. He then sprayed himself with body spray and put on Suzie’s favourite aftershave.  
  Tonight was going to be a special night and he had bought himself a new outfit for the occasion. New dark brown tailored suit, beige coloured shirt, duel tone matching tie. Light brown socks and brown shoes finished off the look.  
  Looking into a full length mirror Ron tugged down at the shirt cuff of each sleeve then pulled the cuff of each jacket sleeve into the perfect place so they just showed the right amount of shirt cuff underneath. A quick shrug of his shoulders and a final adjustment to the front of his suit jacket and he was ready to go. A quick check of the time, seven nineteen. He would be picking up Suzie in forty minutes at eight o’clock.  
  “OK Ron,” he thought, “Let’s go.” 
  Ron went out into the hall; through the glass in his front door he could see flashing blue lights outside. Ron watched the lights dance off the wall in the hall but did not pay that much attention. Then he saw the outline of two figures walk towards the outside of his door. They stopped and rang the bell.  
  Ron opened the door to find two police women.  
  “Hello,” said Ron, “Can I help you.” 
  “Mr Ronald Billington?” asked the first officer. 
  “Yes.” Ron said “That’s me.” 
  “Mr Billington, can we come in for a minute please, we need to ask you a few questions.” 
  “Of course, come on in.” 
  The officers went into the house; Ron closed the door and followed them in. 
  “I don’t know how I could be of help to you,” Ron said. 
  The second officer spoke quietly and in a gentle tone, “Mr Billington, my name is PC Andrews, this is my colleague PC Jameson. This afternoon the body of a woman was found on the common in Whitechapel. The victim did not have any form of identification on them but she was wearing a small bum back. A small photograph was found in the bag with your name and telephone number on the back.” 
  The officer started to hand Ron a photocopy of the photograph showing both the front and back of the picture. 
  “We we’re hoping you’d be able to help us identify who this person is.” 
  Ron looked at the photograph. He knew straight away it was Suzie. His hands started to shake as he just started at the picture. It was the one taken in a small photo booth on their very first date. Suzie had written his name, the date, and his phone number on the back of it. Suzy he murmured, it’s my Suzie. He then lost control of his body and he started to cry uncontrollably. Ron cried as he had never cried before.  
  *  *  *  * 
  DCS Hughes and DI Bales walked over to the board room, both looked at each other with a look that only twenty plus years of investigating the worst crimes that one human being can possibly do to another. It was a ‘I thought I’d seen it all, till now’ look.  
  DCS Hughes started the conversation, “Have you managed to identify the victim yet.” 
  “We’re working on that as we speak sir. There was a photograph, probably a boy friend in a waist bag she was wearing. On the back of the photo was a name and telephone number. We traced the address from the number and two constables are on their way round to interview him now. In fact they should be there as we speak.” 
  “You think the boyfriend’s responsible for this?” 
  “Too early to say at this stage sir, most murder victims are killed by a close friend or relative so until we speak to him, find out if he has an alibi that’s watertight, we can’t rule him out. At this stage sir we can’t rule anybody out” 
  “Right then Chief Inspector, what do we know?”  
  “I’ve spoken with the Duty Coroner. Cause of death is undetermined at this time. We’ll have to wait for the full autopsy results to be absolutely sure. It appears the victim was initially hit on the head with a rock. We have found the rock and it is covered in blood and skin. There are also some hairs that match the victim. Whoever did this sir was not too worried about us finding the evidence.” 
  DCS Hughes made a quiet grunting sound. “Either very sloppy or he thinks we’re very stupid.” 
  “Or he was disturbed and had to get away.” Bales said. “The victim was then bound around her arms and legs. She was also taped across her eyes and mouth. We do know that the victim was still alive at this point. The killer then cut open the front of the victims track suit top, through the t-shirt underneath. Her bra was also cut open and thrown away but as far as we can tell sir there was no sexual motive to this crime. At least not a straight forward one if it is.” 
  “Go on Bales.” Hughes said. 
  DI Bales cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “The victim was then cut open from just below her neck to just below her stomach. A second cut was made from just under the left arm, under the breast area finishing just under the right arm. The skin was then peeled back. According to the doctor these were precise incisions. Whoever did this knew what they were doing and had probably done it before.” 
  “Done what before? Are we talking about murdered, butchered or operated?” 
  “I’m sorry but we don’t know that just yet sir, it’s possible though that whoever did this could have had some medical training. The doctor said that the wounds were caused by a very sharp instrument, possibly a scalpel, although again we will have to wait for the full autopsy for conformation. The attacker then carried out a number of surgical procedures on the victim; her spleen and left kidney were removed, again, according to the doctor with some surgical skill. Then the attacker slowly and precisely surgically removed the victim’s heart. What we don’t know is how much of all this the victim knew about. We have no idea if she was conscious, semi conscious or unconscious. All we do know is that she was still alive when her heart was removed. The amount of blood lost and the blood splatter confirms this. This woman, who was doing nothing more than taking an afternoon jog on the common is attacked and assaulted in the most violent way imaginable by someone we have no prior history or knowledge of and nobody saw anything. No witnesses at all, not one.” 
  DCS Hughes was quiet for a moment. “Any sign of the missing organs?” 
  “No sir, souvenirs, every one.” 
  “What have forensics got to say? An attack of this magnitude, something must have left something behind, they must have left some leads for us. 
  “That’s the thing I’m finding a bit strange sir, according to the CSI’s who ever committed this crime has left forensic evidence all over the scene. The tape used to bind the victim is still there, fibres from their clothes have been found on the body. Hairs not matching the victim have been found. The rock used initially to render the victim unconscious has been found. There’s sweat from the attacker on the victims clothes. At some time the attacked wiped their sweat onto a cloth and that cloth is over there. We have been able to lift clear fingerprints from a number of different places. This perpetrator is either very confident, very stupid, wants to be caught or simply has no idea of forensic evidence. Then there is the ‘calling card’ the cross. 
  “That’s the main reason why I’ve come down here Inspector. How many people know about this cross?” 
  Just ourselves and the CSI team, Morgan found it when he turned the body over onto its side.” 
  DCS Hughes nodded at little. He started to stroke his chin with his right hand. “Anyone outside of the immediate investigation team know about it?” 
  “No sir,” replied Bales, “No one.” 
  “Good, OK. That’s how it has to stay. Under no circumstances are any details about the cross to be given out to anybody outside of the immediate investigation team. Inspector, I’ll hold you personally responsible if there is any leak from anywhere and anytime about the existence or significance of this cross. Make sure everyone knows. I’ll say again, no leaks, no hints, and no exceptions. To the outside world the cross does not and never has existed. Is that clear?” 
  “Yes sir.” 
  There was a slight pause, an uneasy moments silence, not too long but enough for both men to notice. Hughes sighed then said. 
  “Look Inspector, I’m sorry if I seem a little off handed about this but if anything about the cross leaks we’ll have every weirdo, crackpot, evangelical supremacist and religious nut claiming they had carried out the murder after being told to do so by whatever god they believe in. We’ll be told that this is a warning for humanity to change its ways or the wrath of the almighty shall bear down upon us.” He then looked up to the sky, “Please God, spare us from that.” 
  Bales nodded, “This is a very unusual case sir.” 
  “It is Inspector, it is. Now then we have two main priorities. Firstly get one of your men to find out if, or when a press officer will be here. We have to tell the press something about what’s going on here. You know the press Bales, if they’re not told something before their precious deadlines then they’ll just make up something just to fill the column inches. I think I’ll give the briefing together, just a statement for now, and no questions. In the morning we’ll arrange a full press conference, nine thirty, New Scotland Yard Media Centre.” 
  Bales waved over Sergeant Williams, quickly explaining what he was to find out and to get back with some news ASAP. 
  DSI Hughes then continued, “Secondly, this cross, let’s have a look at it.” 
  “It’s safe in MOSCOW,” said Bales.  
  DC Peter Malone, the junior detective on DCI Bales team, walked over to the board room area. DC Malone was twenty four years of age, five feet seven inches tall and slim build. He had medium length blond hair, slightly longer than police regulation length, blue eyes and a number one length blond moustache. Malone looked more like a teacher than an up and coming Scotland Yard detective wearing light brown corduroys, brown loafers, a beige shirt with brown check tie and a casual jacket. 
  “Sorry to interrupt sir but the men from the Coroner’s Office wanted to know if they can take the body?” 
  “Have anyone checked with the crime lab people, do they have any objections?” asked DCI Bales. 
  “No sir, they’ve said it’s OK with them,” replied Malone. 
  “Give them the OK then,” said Bales. 
  “Yes sir.” Malone turned around and walked back to where the three men were standing. After getting the OK the three men place a large blue plastic sheet onto the ground. Gently, they picked the body up and placed it on the plastic sheet. The bottom of the sheet was then lifted over the body’s feet, the sides pulled across. The two sides were then fastened together with a full length zip that finally completely covered Suzie’s head. The three men then lifted the body onto a gurney, fastened Velcro straps around the feet, waist and chest area. After a final check everything was secure the body was wheeled out to a waiting black Ford Transit. The large gold lettering on the rear door read “Private Ambulance.” 
  The body of Suzie Reeves would now be examined in minute detail to see if there were any other clues or secrets that could be revealed. 
  “I’ve had a change of mind Inspector. I think it would be better if we got the press statement out of the way now. Most of the press will then leave. They’ve just watched the body being taken away so there’s not going to be much for them to stay around for.”  
  DCS Hughes rubbed his hands together and then ran them through his hair clasping them together at the back of his head. Looking down he lowered his hands. He looked up at Bales and said, “Come on Inspector, let’s get this terrible business over with.” 
  The two detectives then walked out of the tent towards the press area. John Reynolds had a good vantage point at the front of the main press core. From here he had an excellent view of the tented area, ‘Mo’ and the main road running past the common. John also followed the journalist’s number one rule, ‘When you have a good vantage point, never give it up.’  
  As soon as the detectives exited the tent and started walking towards the press area there was an immediate buzz of excitement. TV crews immediately turned on the cameras. The bright lights needed by the cameras lit up the whole area. Photographers, balancing precariously on small extendable ladders while trying to hold their cameras still, tried to get the best shots of the two detectives. Radio journalists, earpieces in place, had their portable recorders held at the ready. The majority of the press though, like John, were print journalists. They were jostling with each other to get a better position in the hope of hearing better what would be said. Nearly all the journalists knew what would happen. The police would give a statement, request no questions, at the end of the statement everyone would start to shout out as many questions as they could just in the hope of getting that one ‘off the cuff’ sound bite. It hardly ever worked, modern police officers all go on extensive ‘How to handle the media’ courses, mostly run by ex journalists mainly to give the course some credibility and themselves some extra income. 
  The two detectives stopped behind the cordon tape just in front of the journalists. DCS Hughes spoke. “I have a short statement. Earlier this afternoon a body of a woman in her mid to late thirties was discovered on the common. Police and Crime Scene Investigators were called to investigate and as you can see the investigation is still ongoing. I can confirm that due to the nature of the injuries the woman suffered we are treating the death as suspicious. A full press conference will be held at New Scotland Yard’s media centre at nine thirty in the morning when we hope to be able to give you more details. Thank you for your time.” 
  As expected everyone wanted to have at least one question answered.  
  “Have you identified the victim?” 
  “How was she killed?” 
  “Have you any leads?” 
  ”Have you made any arrests yet?”  
  DCS Hughes held his hands up at shoulder level and gestured slightly forward with them. “I can only reiterate what I said before. There is a press conference tomorrow morning and I hope to have more details for you then. Thank-you all for your time and patience and I look forward to seeing you tomorrow at half nine.” 
  At that both men turned around and walked towards ‘Mo’. Behind them the press were still shouting in a last, vain attempt to find out something else. 
  “Inspector, Chief Superintendent” They could hear as they walked into the sanctuary that was ‘Mo’. 
  “I know we need the press on side Inspector but sometimes I just wish they would go away and let us get on with our job.” 
  “I understand what you are saying sir,” replied Bales, “The fact is though we live in a media age, an age of instant communications, twenty four hour news channels, satellite and cable TV in every home. The Internet even keeps ex-pats living in all four corners of the earth up to date with live real time news. Like it or not this is the modern age, and I’m sorry to say sir I don’t like it.” 
  “You and I both Bales, you and I both,” DCS Hughes replied.  “Isn’t there a kitchen of sorts in this thing, you’d think so with all this equipment” 
  “Yes, there is sir,” Said Bales, “Tea or coffee?” 
  “I don’t mind Inspector so long as it is hot, sweet and has two sugars, preferably in a mug.” 
  The two men sat down, drinking their tea. “This is going to be a right mess Inspector,” DCS Hughes said, “I can feel it in my water, and, between you and me I don’t think this is the last we will hear of the ‘white cross killer’. 
  “Don’t let the press get wind of that name sir, they’ll have a field day. …It is a good one though.” Inspector Bales said, then after a short pause and a large gulp of hot sweet tea, “I wonder what the press will christen him, bound to give him a catchy name of some sort. Bet that’ll make him feel good…Shall I get the cross sir?” 
  “Best had Inspector.” 
  DCI Bales shuffled along the cushioned bench seat, swung his legs from underneath the fixed tables. Walked over to a safe fixed underneath one of the small worktops, keyed in the electronic lock security code and opened the safe. He took out a vacuum sealed plastic bag containing the white cross. A white bar code sticker was on the outside of the bag. This code linked to the Metropolitan Police’s crime scene database that contained the crime scene details surrounding the cross.  Bales then carefully carried the cross over to DCS Hughes and laid it gently down on the table in front of him. Bales then walked back, locked the safe and re-joined DCS Hughes. 
  Hughes studied the cross, the concentration on his face was clear to see. He handled the cross as though it were a new born baby, as if it was the most precious item in the world. To DCS Hughes and to the case, it was. 
  “Any prints Inspector?” 
  “As many as you could wish for sir, the crime lab has lifted three different prints from the cross. They have also taken samples of the ink and card. They seem very confident they can identify the type of card and certainly the ink. Maybe even down to a supplier.” 
  “I have to admit Inspector I’m worried by the amount of forensic evidence. There’s too much. Psychologically, Inspector, most serial killers want to be caught. Deep down in their psyche there is a tiny glimmer of light. Imagine a forty watt light bulb trying to light the inside of a large warehouse in the middle of the night. It’s almost insignificant but it is there shining away, trying to bring some light into an otherwise dark abyss. This glimmer of humanity keeps fighting its way to the surface and then a part of the brain that is way beyond my understanding takes over. The end result is the killer leaves behind clues. They taunt us with letters, phone calls telling us when or where the next killing will be or, as in this case, they leave behind a signature card.”  
  “The cross” 
  “Not just any cross Inspector, a Fleur Delys Cross. Different types of this cross are found all over the world although most people associate them with France. This one is very intricate; the balance between the left and right side is very difficult to get right.”  
  Hughes looked up at Inspector Bales.  
  “Look Inspector, can you see the symmetry, perfect, and not machine cut either. This was a labour of love for someone.” 
  “What do you make of the inscription sir?” asked Bales. 
  DCS Hughes leaned across and looked closely at the writing on the cross.  
  “’The son loved his whore, now it’s the fathers turn.’  
  “Interesting, again very carefully done, very precise, nothing hurried or rushed, hand written, very skilled calligraphy using a nib pen and pot of ink.” 
  “What did you mean by ‘again’ sir; you said ‘again very carefully done’?” 
  DCS Hughes put the cross down. “Whoever we are dealing with here is very precise, they think of themselves as an ‘artist’. To you and me the mutilation of the victim is abhorrent. The killer though uses very sharp tools, the incisions neat and precise. The remove of the organs was exact. We are dealing with a very depraved mind but do not underestimate who ever this person is. Everything was planned with almost military precision, right down to the last detail. This was not a random act; our victim was not in the wrong place at the wrong time. For her every place was the wrong place, every time the wrong time. This murder was one of two things. It was either an execution or a sacrifice. The next victim should let us know which.” 
  “The next victim sir?” said the Inspector. “You expect more?” 
  “Unfortunately yes, there will be more, you can bank on that. The only way that the killings will stop is when we stop them. What worries me more though is where the previous victims are? This was not our man’s first kill, far too brutal. Our killer Inspector is well practiced at his art with an absolute belief that what he is doing is the right thing. He does not see any wrong in his actions. That is why he will kill again and it is also why he has killed before. Inspector, we have a serial killer on our patch. God help us. 
  Chapter 3 
  After the brief press statement given earlier most of the press contingent has packed up their equipment for the night and left the scene. There crime scene was now very quiet with only a couple of CSI’s on site and two constables keeping watch on the perimeter. Even the members of the public, who had earlier been out in force, had decided Coronation Street or the local pub would be far better way to spend the rest of their evening. Many a story would be swapped in the local pubs tonight, mostly greatly exaggerated by the end of the evening. After a few pints of Guinness followed by whisky chasers more than one brave sole would be telling, to anyone who would listen, how he had chased after the killer and ‘would have almost caught him if it hadn’t been for my dodgy knee. Always gives in at the wrong time. Have a pint with you, don’t mind if I do. What paper was it again you said you worked for?’ 
  John Reynolds was someone who not only ‘though outside the box’ but knew how big the box was and more importantly what was in it. After the press statement John had watched the two detectives go into ‘Mo’. He had not seen them come out. There had to be some reason why they had gone into the mobile lab. They could have returned to the tented area or simply left altogether and left the lower ranks to carry on with the work. They had instead gone into the lab. This intrigued John and he decided to wait around a bit longer. 
  John took his mobile phone out from his jacket pocket, flipped it open and punched in the number that would go directly to his desk. The call connected, before the phone had finished the first ring it was picked up. 
  “Its Andrew, we’ve been waiting for your call. What’s happening there?” 
  “Any reports yet on the TV Andrew?” 
  “All the stations seem to be giving it top coverage but they’re spending a lot of the time repeating the same news or filling in time with talking heads and vox pops.” 
  “That makes sense” John said; “The police have not released a lot of detail yet, just one statement with the promise of a full press conference in the morning. By the way I want you there with me in the morning, nine thirty, New Scotland Yard Media Centre.” 
  What John did not see was Andrew’s reaction to being asked to attend the press conference. If he had been told he had just won the Lotto jackpot he would not have been more excited. This was to be Andrew’s first major press conference, a milestone in anyone’s career. 
  John continued; “I’ve got a gut feeling that this case is not a run of the mill murder. There’s a tension in the air around here that I’ve not felt at other murder scenes I’ve been to. There’s a lack of information and that usually means the police want to keep a lid on things for now. Andrew, have you got a pen and paper?” 
  “Just a second” Andrew lent over the desk and picked up a spiral note book. Sticking out from the springs was a yellow fine nib pen. He quickly took out the pen, opened the notepad and picked up the phone; “OK John … ready.” 
  “Do a search for any information you can on previous murders in or around this area. Who were the victims? What did they do? Where did they live? Find details of the murder, was there anything unusual about the killings. Was anyone charged or convicted? If so, who? Get as much background on them as you can, trial transcripts, police reports. Even if you think something is not relevant get it anyway. Times like this it’s better to have too much information than not enough.” 
  “OK John. I’ll dig up as much as I can. How long have we got for this?” 
  “We need to be up to speed before the press conference in the morning. I’m going to stay here for another hour or two or until there’s nothing to stay for. I’ll come back to the office and we’ll see where we’re up to then. Andrew” 
  “Yes John.” 
  “This will be a long night, make sure there’s plenty of coffee. We’ll need it.” 
  John hung up. The temperature was now starting to quickly drop. John looked around, there was nowhere to shelter that would offer any protection from the quickly cooling night air and also allow him to keep a watch on the scene. He cupped his hands together, held them up to him mouth and blew. His warm breath brought some mild relief to his hands and fingers. He rubbed them together then putting them into his trouser pockets he started to walk up and down the perimeter area.  
  John’s patients finally paid off forty eight minutes later when DCS Hughes left the mobile crime lab and started to walk towards the perimeter fence, just by where John was standing. It was no accident that John was waiting at this particular spot, he had simply made a mental note of the car DCS Hughes arrived in and where it had been parked. It was logical that Hughes would use the same car after his visit to the crime scene.  
  Detective Chief Superintendent Hughes was just about to press the ‘unlock’ button on his car’s remote fob when a voice spoke behind him, “Simon Hughes, you thought you were going to solve a murder, but you’re wrong because tonight, ‘This is Your Life’.” 
  DCS Simon Hughes turned around towards the direction the voice had come from; “John, you made me jump for a moment then. I should have known that you’d be here. It’s been a while now. How are you?” 
  While John and the DCS could never be called close friends they both had a professional respect for each other that could only be developed after many years of working alongside each other. The two had first met when John was a cub reporter on the ‘London Weekly’, a free paper available in supermarkets, garages and train stations in the inner London area. 
  “I’m fine. Thanks for asking. No need to ask how you are. I see you’re still looking after yourself.” 
  “You know how it is John, old habits die hard although I’m not as in shape as I used to be. Old age catches up to all of us at some point.” 
  DCS Simon Hughes joined the Metropolitan Police aged twenty nine. For the previous ten years he had been an officer in the Royal Marines. Rumour had it, although never confirmed or denied, was that for the last four years of his military service he had been a member of the Navy’s elite SBS. He was five feet eight and a half inched tall weighed eleven stone three pounds and was solid muscle. Not a surplus amount of fat on his body. The half inch in his height was very important to Simon. In his day, the police required all recruits to be over five feet eight inches tall, Simon Hughes, SBS officer or not, only made it in by half an inch.  
  Simon was born and brought up in Barnsley, a rough and tough Yorkshire town. Simon was the forth son of a Yorkshire miner, fiercely loyal to the NUM and Arthur Scargill. The National miners’ strike had caused a rift between son and father that no one could resolve and in true Yorkshire style it had carried on until three days before his father’s death, five years ago, from miners ‘lung rot’. Not wanting to meet his maker with any bad blood left behind, it was only then his father decided then was time to make peace with his son. There were no tears, no big reunion, no party to welcome back the prodigal son, just a brief “Hello son, make sure your mothers OK after I’m gone.” Followed by Simon’s reply; “I will dad.” These two men did not want, need or ask for anything else. The bad blood was no more.  
  Simon was fiercely proud of his Yorkshire heritage. He was someone you had to get to know, his personality was not one that people could take too easily. He had a gruff Yorkshire accent, was straight to the point and did not suffer fools at all. Hughes did not believe in calling a spade a spade, to him a spade was a ‘bloody shovel’. For all that he was very loyal to his friends and would back his colleague’s actions to the hilt. There was many a senior officer in the Met who had felt the wrath of Simon Hughes when was of his junior officers been, unfairly in Simon Hughes’s eyes, reprimanded. The same man would also ball out any officer who ‘crossed the line’ regardless of the reason why.  
  “You know it’s always good to see you John, we should really meet up more often, especially when work is not involved. I may be Chief Superintendent but I think even my newest and greenest recruit could work out that our meeting here is for business, not pleasure.” 
  “Yes, you right, but I had no idea when I was sent over here that I would bump into you. That was just luck. Nice statement by the way. Straight to the point as usual and also as usual telling us absolutely nothing we didn’t already know.” 
  “Too early John, the investigation needs to get into top gear. I’m not going to speculate on anything at this stage. Between us the victim has not been formally identified yet. The coroner has still to officially state the cause of death. My hands are pretty much tied just now.” 
  “There must be something Simon, anything.” 
  “Let me find out more overnight then see me after the press conference. All I can say just now is I will need the help from the press with this one. That may also include what not to publish as much as what to publish.” 
  John gave Simon a quizzical look. 
  “Don’t look at me like that; I’m not talking censorship of the press, just co-operation. Please John, trust me. This is one killer we have to get off the streets and fast. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
  DCS Hughes got into his car, started the engine then pressed the electric window wind down button. The driver’s side window silently opened. John was still standing by the driver’s door. 
  “John, I’m not shutting you out. When I know something you’ll be the first person I’ll call. I give you my word. Trust me.” DCI Hughes then closed the window; put the dark blue Ford Mondeo into first gear and drove off. 
  John had not pressed DCS Hughes for information. He knew when to push but more importantly when not to. John also knew DCS Hughes and he knew tonight he had been speaking with a troubled man. That troubled John. 
  John started walking back towards his car, he got his phone and called Andrew, “I’m on my way back, should be about forty five minutes.” With that he hung up, got in his car, switched on the engine, turned the heat onto full and headed towards Canary Wharf and the offices of The Daily Herald. 
  Even at this time of the evening London was a busy city and the drive took John longer than expected. He did not mind though, it simply meant he got to spend more time behind the wheel of the second love of his life. John arrived back in his office seven minutes later than planned.  
  “Coffee’s on the desk, John, might be a bit cold now though. Would you like me to zap it in the microwave for you?” 
  “No thanks Andrew,” replied John, “Right now I don’t care. I could drink anything so long as it’s sweet and wet.” 
  Andrew raised his eyebrows, “Really?” 
  “Youthful whit,” replied John; “I remember it well. Now what have you dug up for us?” 
  “I’m sorry to say that that area of London has been fairly quiet as far as murders are concerned. There has been the usual assortment of family feuds, wives cheating husbands, husbands cheating wives. During the nineteen sixties three teenage girls were reported missing over a six year period but there was never any indication of foul play. Reports at the time seem to think that they ran away. Probably to get away from abusive parents, things like that were never reported back then. You know, best kept in the family, along with the best china and Sunday suits.” 
  “More or less what I thought,” said John; “What ever happened out there today was something new or something new to this area. Fancy a bit of speculation?” 
  Andrew looked puzzled. “I’m not sure what you mean?” 
  “Simple, we have no hard evidence about what happened today; in fact all we know right now is that a woman was murdered. That’s it. When I was at college, way before political correctness took over the world; we used to have ‘speculation’ sessions. The idea was to make you think of ‘may bees and could bees’ then it was called ‘brainstorming’. The group would be given a scenario and the idea was we would say what we thought might have happened. Anyone could jump in with an idea at any time. You’d be surprised how many times we were on the right lines with what we came up with.” 
  Andrew looked around the large open plan office. In the top left hand corner was a meeting room. “There won’t be anyone in there at this time and it’s got a large whiteboard on the wall. I think I’ve got some dry wipe pens in my drawer.”  
  Jogging over to his desk he came back with two of the special pens.  
  “Let’s speculate.” Andrew said, walking towards to the meeting room. John followed a few steps behind trying desperately not to spill his coffee. 
  In the room John wrote ‘Murder Victim’ in the middle of the board. The two then verbally jousted with each other as to why she was the victim. Lines came away from the centre with labels such as cheating wife; random act; drug dealer; prostitute; debt; targeted; had upset someone who followed her. Then from each of these speculative possibilities they expanded the options. Cheating wife; jealous husband; boy friend; girl friend; random, just in the wrong place; drug dealer; prostitute; debt and target all worked on in a similar way. 
  The two stood back and looked at the board. “Take out the least likely,” said John, “Loose debt. It would have to be a massive debt to be killed for. People who owe loan sharks can get roughed up but even they fall short of murder. Not good for business, no referrals.”  
  “I think we can also scrub off ‘random’ said Andrew. “Most murders are targeted at the victim for whatever the reason, mainly by someone who knows them and that’s usually a family member. I’ve heard of lads out for a Saturday night’s drinking and getting into a fight, someone’s punched, knocks their head against the corner of a wall. That splits open the skull and they collapse, dead on the floor. Not intended, but not random.” 
  John walked over to the board with a cloth in his hand. He started to rub out the selected categories. “Let’s rub out ‘being followed’. Most people have a feeling of being followed. Ninety nine point nine percent of the time it’s just two people going the same way. I don’t think this is that point one percent.”  
  John then told Andrew about his meeting with DCS Hughes, how he looked and sounded. How long Hughes and Bales had stayed at the scene plus the time spent after the press release in the crime lab. “They were either having a very long talk about something or looking at evidence from the scene. In any event they took their time.” 
   “Let’s leave out the cheating group.” said Andrew; “That then just leaves targeted and prostitute.” 
  “Could be one and the same,” said John, “Unhappy punter, pimp. Just now we have no idea who she was, could have been an illegal from Eastern Europe. Plenty of women from Eastern Europe are forced into prostitution in this country. Most are threatened that their families back home will be beaten or worse killed, if they don’t work the streets.” 
  Andrew jumped in. “The girl could have tried to stand up to them, threatened to go to the Police or Immigration. Chances are her pimp or handler was an illegal as well, the last thing they’d want is immigration crawling all over them.” 
  “This is starting to make sense,” said John. “I’ve heard the Russian Mafia is behind most of London’s illegal prostitution, and they have a reputation of being very inventive when it comes to dishing out punishment. They like to send out a message to anyone else who might be thinking of doing the same thing.” 
  “So” said Andrew, “The victim was an illegal prostitute about to blow the whistle on her pimps. They find out about her plans. Send a hit man after her who, not content with just killing her, mutilates the body as a sending out a clear message to the other girls.” 
  “We’ve missed out one other option,” said John, looking over to Andrew. 
  “What’s that?” 
  John tried to put on his best Halloween voice but ended up sounding more like a Caribbean pirate, “Jack the Ripper’s come back from the dead, back to carry on his evil killing around the streets of Whitechapel.” John then started to laugh. “Got you that time,” he said, “I wish I’d had a camera, you should have seen your face. That’s it for tonight, time to go home. Tomorrow morning we’ll meet at the press conference, get there for nine.  
  *  *  *  * 
  By six fifty five AM the incident room of the Metropolitan Police Serious Crime Squad had filled up. The room is usually fairly quiet with no more than five or six detectives working, especially at this time of the morning. It was a very plain room, even by police standards. The walls were painted with matt white emulsion, the floor covered in an inexpensive dark blue cord carpet. The one redeeming feature was the views afforded by large sixth floor widows. The room this morning was filled with forty eight officers, a mixture of detectives and uniformed constables. Standing at the front was DCS Hughes, to his left stood DCI Bales. Both men had been up all night, and looked like it. DCS Hughes started the briefing at exactly seven AM. He went over the events of the previous day and using a Powerpoint presentation illustrated the main points with graphic ten mega pixel colour photographs of the crime scene and the victim. At the start of the session the atmosphere in the room had been a mixture of expectation and excitement. For many of the young constables this was their first taste of what they called ‘real police work’. Issuing fines to motorists for travelling at thirty six miles per hour on a thirty mile an hour duel carriageway may well be the daily lot for many a constable but to help in a murder enquiry, now that’s what they joined for. Now they felt they were doing something to keep the streets safe. Just now though the thoughts that there was a crazed killer on the loose and that anyone coming after him would be in the line of fire brought with it a large dose of reality. For some the thought of giving out speeding tickets became a very desirable option.  
  DCI Bales then took over the briefing explaining that everyone in the room would be put into a ‘Task Group’. Each group was then assigned specific tasks such as: speaking with the victims work colleagues; background check on the victim; door to door enquiries around the area of the common; had anyone recently moved into the area; any religious groups been canvassing the locals; background checks on Ron Billington to include friends, likes, dislikes, bank and credit details.  
  Ron was still in shock. What he did not appreciate at this stage was that unless proven otherwise he was the number one suspect in the enquiry. The police knew he had not carried out the murder himself but had not ruled out the possibility that he had paid or arranged for someone else to do it for him. The only other option open to the police was a random killing and as this killing was so vicious it was almost certainly the work of a psychopath. That would mean a serial killer was loose in Whitechapel.  
  DCS Hughes closed the briefing by saying; “This is a most savage murder and one that will affect every person working on it deeply. I pray and hope that we are able to apprehend and put behind bars whoever is responsible for this as soon as possible, before he has the urge to kill again.” 
  At no time during the briefing was there any mention of the cross. 
  *  *  *  * 
  John arrived at New Scotland Yard at sixteen minutes past eight. John knew that a New Scotland Yard press conference, especially one for a murder enquiry, was rare and that a lot of journalists would turn up just for the networking opportunities the conference would offer. John pulled up to the security barrier at the entrance to New Scotland Yard’s car park, showed the attendant his press pass, then gave his name and the name of the paper he worked for. The attendant checked the photograph on his card, handed it back, smiled and said, “Thank you sir, please park on level three. From there you can take the lift up to the ground floor. The Media Centre is on the right, room one seven four.” 
   	John thanked the attendant and drove as directed. Visiting high profile buildings always amused John. As he drove into the entrance to the car park number recognition cameras had already captured his car registration, facial recognition cameras had checked his facial features against the photographs stored on both DVLA and The Passport Office databases. By the time he arrived at the security checkpoint the attendant had on his screen Johns name and address, when his car tax was due, who he was insured with, when his cars MOT was due and any outstanding fines, warrants or court appearances. John was cleared by the system and allowed in. John also knew not to be fooled by the attendant. This was not after all an NCP car park. Here, the attendant was a highly trained MOD security officer; the ‘hut’ was built to stop a standard NATO rifle round from twenty yards. The drab metal door to the right of the hut concealed a High-Tec control room. From here a team of MOD armed response personnel would be able to surround any suspect vehicle as soon as it reached the hut. Not, he thought, a good way to start your day. 
  As he had hoped John was one of the first people to arrive, the designated car park area was still fairly empty. He reversed the Jaguar into a parking bay, locked the car then made his way towards the lift. John had a quick look around; cameras were discreetly located throughout the car park so any thoughts he had of doing some exploring was now out of the question.  
  This was the first time that John had been to the Yards new Media Centre. The entrance was at the top left side of the room. John made a quick mental calculation that the room was laid out to seat one hundred and forty journalists. Fourteen rows of seats, ten seats per row with ample elbow and leg room in-between and dividing the rows in half was a three and half foot aisle. The floor area around the seats was covered with a good quality deep blue Metropolitan Police Blue carpet. The seating area itself was covered in light laminate flooring. Around the left hand side of the room were four large picture windows looking out onto the manicured gardens at the rear. The windows themselves were fitted with pastel shaded vertical blinds. Each window had three shades; blue, cream and yellow, of blinds each shade covering one third of the window. The false panelled ceiling was finished in cream, between each twenty four by twenty four inch tiles runners finished in a brass tone gave the room a quality feel. Spot lights were fitted into the ceiling. Every third tile was fitted with a central spot light, the brightness of each being controlled by the ‘gallery’ at the rear of the room. The opposite side of the room had a number of platforms. These platforms were two feet of the floor and angled towards the raised podium area at the front of the room. Sound absorbing dividers separated each cubical. This arrangement allowed TV crews to have an unobstructed view of the podium area as the sight line was above the journalists seated in the centre of the room. Fixed to the ceiling, just in front of the podium was a professional lighting rig so TV crews no longer had to bring in their own.  
  The podium itself was raised three feet off the floor; the front area was covered with a large banner advertising the Metropolitan Police and its commitment to London. A twelve foot long table was set out in the centre of the podium; behind the table were six chairs. The table itself was covered in a crisp white under cloth with four smaller blue cloths, evenly spaced,  placed diagonally over it. Fixed onto the wall behind the table, for presentation purposes, were three, forty two inch plasma screen televisions.  
  John was pleased to see that a refreshment table had already been set up. He walked over to it. On the table was a good selection of Danish pastries, doughnuts and biscuits. Drinks included tea, coffee, a variety of plain or flavoured waters and fruit juices. John chose a fresh coffee served, he was pleased to see, in a china mug instead of the usual Styrofoam cup. He also picked an apple and cinnamon pastry. 
  John had the pick of where to sit. He walked over to the seating area and chose three rows from the front on the left hand side, facing the podium area.  
  The room was starting to get busier now as more journalists and television camera crews arrived, the quiet calm of earlier replaced by the sound of chatter and tools. It seemed the room was full of lifelong friends who had not seen each other for the past twenty years. Hearty handshakes and hugs seemed to be the order of the day.  
  John checked his watch. It was eight eighteen. He heard his named being called. He looked around to see Andrew trying to attract his attention, he was pointing towards the refreshment table, and then breaking into a game a charades asked John if he wanted a drink. John shook his head and held up the cup he already had. Andrew gave the thumbs up sign and headed for the queue.  
  Six minutes later Andrew sat next to John.  
  “You look set for a long conference,” said John looking at Andrews’s plate filled with two Danish pastries, a doughnut and three packets of biscuits washed down with a coffee.  
  “I’ll keep the biscuits for later on,” Andrew said putting them in his pocket. 
  Andrew took a sip from his coffee, “Any more news about the murder?” 
  “No nothing yet, let’s see what happens this morning. Have you had any more ideas?” 
  Andrew shifted slightly in his seat and turned towards John. “I had a thought on the way home last night. That remark you made about Jack the Ripper.” 
  “I was kidding,” said John, “I don’t think Jack’s back, besides he’d be a bit old by now.” 
  “I agree,” said Andrew, “Jack mark one would be, but what about Jack mark two? Just suppose we have a Jack copy cat. Someone out there wants their fifteen minutes of fame and they think this is the best way to get it. Plus, if this is what’s going on it would explain the mutilation.” 
  “We don’t know there was any mutilation. That was just an assumption we came to last night. We don’t know if its fact. I like the way you’re thinking though. We’ll make a journalist out of you yet”  
  The press conference started at exactly nine o’clock. DCS Hughes, DI Bales plus a pretty, young twenty two year old Met press officer took their seats behind the podium. DCS Hughes started the conference, “Ladies and gentlemen. First of all I’d like to thank you for your time this morning. I’ll keep this conference as brief as possible. I know you are all busy people, but there will be time at the end for questions.” 
  DCS Hughes then handed over to DI Bales, who with the aid of the same Powerpoint presentation he had used earlier brought the press group up to date. John and Andrew both briefly looked at each other when they learned about the mutilation.  
  It was not hearing about the mutilations that sent a massive shiver through John Reynold’s body it was the graphic images that flashed up on the three large screens behind the podium. At first John thought he was imagining things. The images were all familiar to him. He stared at them, not thinking anything, just staring. DI Bales continued with the briefing but John did not hear any of it. As each new image flashed up onto the screens his stomach became tighter and tighter.  
  John was now certain of two things; firstly, he did not know the victim but what disturbed him deeply was the second. He recognised the killers work. Art historians spend their entire careers hoping to uncover a newly discovered masterpiece by any of the masters of art. They would know immediately that it was not a copy purely by the delicacy or boldness of the brush strokes, by the texture of the paint. But most of all by the overall feel of the painting. John, though, recognised something he had never wanted to recognise again. Without any doubt what-so-ever John knew that the victim in the photographs he was looking at on the screens had been murdered by the same person responsible for the Whitechapel killings of the 1880’s, the Victorian serial killer known as ‘Jack the Ripper’.  
    
  Chapter 4 
  The rest of the press briefing was a blur for John, his mind was trying to cope with the enormity of the conclusion he had come to. A conclusion that made no sense what so ever, a conclusion that he doubted he could ever tell anyone but deep down knowing he would have to otherwise he would drive himself mad.  
  John started to regain some control just in time to hear DI Bales thank everyone for attending and that he would keep the press up to date with regular briefings from the Yards press office.  
  The hush of the room was shattered as over forty journalists, in unison, all fired up their mobiles, hit their speed dial button and then dictated their copy to the news desk.  
  Andrew had been working with John for over six months now and in all of that time he had never gone with John to see one of his ‘Jack the Ripper’ talks. This was Andrews first police briefing of any kind and to be thrown in at the deep end on a major murder case, especially one as brutal as this, had made him wish he had not been so adventurous with his choice of breakfast. Right now his stomach was feeling a little queasy.  There had been a number of times during the briefing when Andrew had closed his eyes or looked away. He hoped John had not seen him or thought he was not up to the job. Once, during the briefing, he had taken a quick glance in John’s direction. John’s eyes had been fixed on the screens, not even flinching for a moment. In Andrew’s mind, John was the ultimate professional, never letting personal feelings get in the way of the job. Andrew wondered if he could ever be so professional. Deep down he hoped he would. He knew that only time would tell and that this case would play a major part in it. 
  John shifted in his seat and turned towards Andrew, “How did you enjoy your first major press conference?” 
  Although Andrew had been assisting John for just less than six months he had never attended one of his ‘Jack the Ripper’ lectures and was not yet accustomed to the un-sanitised images of real life crime.   
  “Some of the pictures were a bit too graphic for me” Andrew answered, “I’m sorry, but I had to look away a couple of times. I’ll send a suggestion in to the Met that in future they should rate their briefings, you know PG or eighteen. That was definitely an eighteen.”  
  “Not to worry, you’ll get used to it. Sorry but it tends to come with the job. We can’t spend all our time writing about finding homes for cute little kittens.” 
  John smiled, not saying that he too had missed a large part of the briefing but for entirely different reasons. He then looked at his watch. Their meeting was not due to take place for another thirty eight minutes. They had time to kill.  
  “Still hungry Andrew?” asked John. 
  “Not just now, a bit thirsty though.” 
  “We’ve got a bit of time before our meeting and I’ve got a quick call to make. There’s a café just over the road. Get two coffees and I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.” 
  “Sounds good to me,” replied Andrew. 
  John watched as Andrew left the room and headed out towards the café. He did not particularly want a coffee but he did want privacy. John tucked himself away in a quiet corner of the room, as far away from anyone else as he could. Under normal circumstances this may have looked suspicious but in a room of journalists all looking for a story no one took any notice of him at all.  
  John took out his mobile; punched in the number he wanted and waited. The phone rang six times before a broad Scottish voice answered. “Hello there John, my, it’s a long time since I’ve had a call from you.” 
  “Hello you old goat, how are you?” 
  “Nice of you to ask John, I’m fine thanks and less of the old if you don’t mind. So, when is it you’re looking to pay me a visit?” 
  ”What makes you think I want to pay a visit?” 
  “Let’s just say that I’ve been expecting a call from you ever since that unpleasant business on the common last night. You have heard about that haven’t you John?” 
  “Am I that obvious Pat?” 
  “You are old son, you are. So, what time will you be round then? I’ve this excellent fifteen year old malt that needs two to give it the respect it deserves.” 
  “How does twelve fifteen sound?” 
  “Look forward to it, John.” 
  ”One last thing Pat, is there any chance that this fifteen year old malt will help me to find out how a ‘Braveheart’ loving Scotsman ended up with an Irish name?” 
  “I doubt it John, I truly doubt it, till this afternoon then.” 
  At that John ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He then walked over to the door and headed out towards ‘Enid’s café and a cup of coffee that he was now looking forward to. 
  It must have been a good few years since Enid’s café had seen Enid as it was now run by a forty eight year old second generation Pakistani called Raj Patell. Raj was born in East Ham and had a Cockney accent as strong as the coffee he served. Raj had owned the café for the past twenty years and had built up a very loyal customer base. He had done what many a budding entrepreneur hadn’t, and as a result they’d failed. Raj had done nothing. Not a thing. The décor, the furniture nor the menu had been altered. As a result what he had done was to keep the atmosphere and ambience of a nineteen fifties ‘greasy spoon’. When asked if he ever would update the place he would always reply “It was good enough for Enid so it’s good enough for me.” With the modern retro trend in full swing Raj was in the ideal position, after all, his was not retro, his was period classic. 
  John walked in through the wooden half glazed door. Covering the glazed section was a net curtain that looked as though Raj was taking his retro look just one step too far. The originally white, now nicotine yellow painted walls, had traditional mock Tudor beams. Lighting was three fluorescent strips, each covered with a plastic diffuser.  The café did not have lot of floor area and this made for a cosy atmosphere between the eleven small round wooden tables, each covered with red and white chequered cloth. Each table had four wooden chairs, no cushions to sit on and wicker backs. Not the most comfortable way to enjoy a mug of tea and full English.  
  John joined Andrew at his table. A large mug of coffee was waiting for him. He took a sip, it felt good. Another sip, the rush of caffeine through his body put some life back into him. He was normally a decaf man so the effect was very noticeable to him. 
  “Nice coffee,” said Andrew. “Fancy some toast before we go?” 
  “Thanks, but no thanks,” replied Andrew. “I can’t believe a place like this stays open, or is allowed to stay open.” 
  John leaned over towards Andrew so he could whisper to him. “Never judge a book by its cover Andrew; this is a great little place. Don’t forget what’s over the road, New Scotland Yard. In here you will find a lot of people who work over there, and not just police officers, a building that size has to have a large civilian staff to keep it open.  Cleaners; maintenance; catering; telephonists; secretarial; I.T. staff the list goes on. This place is close to ‘home’ for them. Here they are comfortable and happy to speak freely amongst their colleagues. They think that when they are talking that they are talking quietly. They’re not. Traffic noise, café noise, people coming and going raises the noise level. People think they are whispering quietly when in fact they are talking louder than they would do in their office or home. They just don’t know it. This is the type of place you will visit a lot, get to now Raj and make sure he gets to know you. This place, for a journalist, is a gold mine for information. Just remember to keep your head and the full English down.” John had a quick check of his watch, “Time to leave. With DCS Hughes you can be one minute early, but never one minute late.” 
  After once again checking through the Yards security systems, John and Andrew were escorted to the office of DCS Hughes on the seventh floor. His secretary was expecting them as they walked in through the large double doors and into a smartly furnished and decorated waiting area. An L shaped couch was opposite the secretary’s desk, a coffee table had on it a good assortment of magazines. Just off to the side was a water dispenser. “Mr Reynolds and Mr Cleaver, the Chief Superintendent is expecting you. He is on a call just now and apologises for any delay. Please have a seat and I’ll make sure the Superintendent is aware that you have arrived.” 
  John thanked the secretary but did not manage to get her name. “Well trained,” he thought. 
  John and Andrew sat down as the secretary sat back behind her desk. John looked over towards the anonymous secretary. She was about five foot four inches tall; slim with a neat trim figure. Her face was framed with neatly trimmed blond hair that was just below ear length and she had the most amazing green eyes and a captivating smile. John smiled and unable to help himself kept glancing over towards her, there was something about her that ignited a fire inside John that he had not felt in a long time, It was a feeling he never though he would experience again and its intensity frightened him. John suddenly became conscious that he was staring at her, he quickly looked away not sure what to do next, he had never made the first move in any relationship, he didn’t know how. For some people it came perfectly naturally but not for John, he had no idea at all how to read women. His friends had joked to him that if he walked into his bedroom and lying on his bed was an alluring and very naked woman he was likely to ask if she would like a cup of tea to warm her up. The thought that she might find him attractive and that she was desperately waiting for him to ‘get the message’ would never occur to him.  
  Although John would never admit it, this inability had caused him more than his fair share of problems over the years. Not knowing when, or if, a girl was interested in him was bad enough but it was nowhere as embarrassing as thinking a girl, or a woman in later life, was interested in him when she wasn’t. Pure friendship, or a potential lover, was too complicated for him for handle so in the end he would say nothing and just wait and hope.       
  He looked over again, trying not to be too obvious; she wore a nicely tailored two piece navy blue trouser suit, a white blouse with the top button open and what looked like a gold brooch in the shape of a rose fastened neatly to the left lapel of her suit jacket. She looked over towards the two of them, smiled, and then returned to her work. John guessed her age to be late twenties to early thirties. He had also noticed that she did not wear any rings on her left hand. At one time this would have been significant but today, with many couples living together as ‘partners’, a term that John detested, that meant nothing.  
  John was just about to return the smile when the door to DCS Hughes’ office opened and the man walked out and straight over to John and Andrew. 
  “John, Andrew,” he said, shaking both of them vigorously by the hand. “So sorry to have kept you, follow me.”  
  As they approached his secretary’s desk he said, “Tracy, can you arrange tea and coffee for three and a few chocolate biscuits as well if you can find any?” 
  “Certainly sir,” she replied. 
  “Tracy” thought John. At that moment he had no idea why but for some reason he felt slightly nervous.  
  He smiled as he walked past her desk towards the office.  
  DCS Hughes stood by the door as they walked in, then closing the door behind him DCS Hughes gestured for them to sit on chairs angled towards him but placed at the right top corner area of his desk.  
  The office was bright, very neat and tidy. On the desk was a multi line phone, a computer, a diary, pens and paper. All the walls were half glass fitted with the same style of vertical blinds as the Media Centre. An interior designer would have called the office ‘minimalist’. If something had no official use or purpose, it was not there. No pictures, no executive toys, nothing personal at all. 
  “Dreadful business this murder,” said DCS Hughes in his broad Yorkshire accent, getting straight to the point as ever. Even his conversations tended to be ‘minimalist’. “I thought I had seen everything there was to see both as a copper and in the forces. This though makes me sick to the bones. This evil monster has to be caught John, I’m going to need your help. I know you’re a journalist and that you have a job to do but we’ve helped each other in the past.” 
  “We have” John managed to say, more to get a word into the conversation than for anything else. 
  “As I was saying, I’m not going to ask you to compromise any of your sources, but I do need you to let me know as soon as you hear anything that may help. Intelligence from ground level is what will crack this case open. You can ask questions we can’t, ask people we can’t ask, go places we can’t go. At least not without probable cause, a judge’s signature and a search warrant. I’ve got to bypass the system on this one John. You understand?” 
  “I understand,” John gestured across to Andrew, “No we’re happy to help in any way we can. We’ll keep you up to date with anything we find that could be useful. Chief Superintendent, you have to be straight with us as well. Anything you find out I want to be the first journalist to know about it. No names mentioned, I’ll just quote a reliable source.” 
  At that moment there was a short double knock on the door, it opened straight away and Tracy entered the room pushing a small tea trolley. The conversation in the room changed. 
  “Ah! Thank you Tracy.” Said DCI Hughes, “And I see you found the chocolate biscuits as well, excellent.” 
  Tracy smiled. John looked over at Tracy as she walked over towards him. He noticed that her blouse now had the top two buttons undone.  
  “Would you like tea or coffee Mr. Reynolds?” 
  “Coffee please,” replied John. 
  “With milk or cream?” she asked 
  “Cream please.” 
  Tracy walked over to John with the cup of coffee. “Sugar?” she asked as she leant forward to give John the cup. 
  “Please.” John said. 
  As she leant forward the front of her blouse opened slightly revealing just a tease of cleavage. She didn’t move. “Would you like one lump or two?” 
  John wasn’t sure if he blushed slightly or not. He looked up and their eyes met. Just for a moment. 
  “I’m a two lump man,” replied John in a far quieter voice than he expected. He then swallowed and was sure his Adams apple moved far more than usual.  
  “Two it is,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. John was sure he could also smell freshly sprayed DKNY pour femme.  
  Tracy then stood up, and without any ceremony handed the refreshments out to Andrew and DCS Hughes.  
  “Will there be anything else sir?” 
  “No thank you Tracy, that’s fine.” 
  Tracy then turned around, collected the trolley and left. 
   “Let’s get back to business then John. I’ll make sure you get the information you want but, and I’ll not back down on this, I’ll not give any information that is sensitive to any on-going operation or that I think will put any of my officers in danger. I’ll not compromise on that. Take it or leave it.” 
  “That’s fair. Andrew will be working with me on this. He’s in his final year at university so the experience will be invaluable to him. I want Andrew in the loop. You can trust him as much as me.” 
  “No offence, Andrew, but you and I don’t know each other yet. I’ll decide who I can trust or not. I advise you to do the same. I’ll keep in touch with John, he can pass on what he feels is relevant. See how that goes then, maybe.” 
  John nodded. “There is one thing I would like though, the photographs shown as the press conference just now. Could I have a copy of them? You have already shown them to the media so they’re not operationally sensitive.” 
  “May I ask why you want them? Not to put into your lecture talks I hope.” 
  “No, nothing like that, I would like to study them more closely. I am sure there is something about them but I can’t put my finger on it just yet. Call it instinct if you like. I could be wrong, but you never know.” 
  After a few moments thought DCS Hughes agreed, John handed him a 2GB data pen and the photographs were electronically transferred in under nine seconds.   
  “Thank you, Chief Superintendent, just one last thing though, what about off the record information?” 
  Again there was a pause as the DCS thought. “Maybe, but as before’ I’ll not put at risk any ongoing operation or my officers.” 
  “Agreed,” said John as he held back his surprise. That was one concession he had not expected, at least not this early into the investigation.  He continued; “You know me well enough by now Chief Superintendent. Off the record means just that.” 
  “I’ll bear that in mind John” 
  John knew not to push any further. They all then discussed the two theories they had come up with.  
  “We’ll look into the Eastern European Mafia theory. I don’t think it’s one we’ve thought of. A Ripper copy cat, too early to say.” DCS Hughes looked at his watch. “Sorry gents but I have another appointment. I’ve a favour to ask.” 
  “What’s that?” asked John. 
  “Can you go through your papers archives for the last two years and see if there are any reports of missing women. Our people are going through the Yard’s files but you may have something we don’t. I know it’s a long shot but I just can’t believe that she was the first. I’m afraid we’ve missed a link to past murders.” 
  John turned to Andrew, “Can you look into that this afternoon?” 
  “Sure, no problem, I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.” 
  “Thanks for coming in” said DCS Hughes as he walked them to his door. He opened the door. “Tracy, can you see the gentlemen out for me please?” 
  “Certainly sir,” she replied. 
  John glanced over towards Tracy. Her blouse now had only the one button undone.  
  “Mr Reynolds,” said Tracy, “The Superintendent asked me to give you his direct line number in case you need to get hold of him without going through the switchboard.” 
  Tracy handed John a business card. 
  “Thank you Tracy.” 
  “You’re welcome” 
  They both smiled. John caught up with Andrew who had gone on ahead. They got into the lift and headed towards the ground floor. John still had the business card in his hand. He looked at it for the first time. It was DCS Hughes official business card. He turned it over. On the back it said, Tracy Rae, her mobile number and ‘sorry to be forward but if you’d like a drink sometime call me xx’. 
  John smiled and gently bit his bottom lip. The lift stopped at the ground floor, they got out. “Can you give me a minute?” asked John. 
  “Of course” said Andrew. “I needed the gent’s anyway, all that coffee.” 
  John took out his phone, punched in a number. It was answered after three rings;  
  “Hello, Tracy Rae,” said a cheery voice on the other end of the line.  
  *  * *  * 
  John and Andrew met in the foyer of New Scotland Yard. John checked his watch. He was fine for time. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out his wallet. Opening it, he took out a well used card and gave it to Andrew.  
  “This afternoon Andrew I want you to go round to the address on the card. Geoffrey Adamson is one of London’s best private detectives. Don’t expect a stereotypical PI either. Adamson works from very plush offices in Soho. Hi Tec and high rent. He’s the kind of guy who should have been an officer in the Queens Guard. Eton educated with a degree in Criminology from Oxford University he likes to get amongst the gritty, grimy and seedy side of London. This should be right up his street.” 
  “Do you know any normal people?” Andrew asked, mockingly. 
  “Some, I know you and you’re fairly normal. Don’t upset Adamson either. He won a Blue at Oxford for martial arts and would have represented England in the Olympics if he hadn’t broken his leg in a stupid accident four weeks before the games.” 
  “Anything else?” asked Andrew. 
  “Yes, don’t say anything about him to his receptionist, she’s his mother. Although for business reasons he calls her Sylvia at work. Mummy just wouldn’t do.”  
  Andrew shrugged, “What do we want him to do?” 
  “A couple of things, do you want to write them down?” 
  “Best to, you never know. Dot the i’s, cross the t’s.” 
  “Firstly, I want a full background check on Suzie Reeves and the boyfriend. I want to know everything from the day they were born. Secondly I want you to go back to the office and do a web search for anything unusual that happened on or around the thirteenth of February eighteen ninety one. Check up to two weeks after.” 
  “OK but give me some clue as to what I’m looking for and why that particular date?” 
  “That was the date of the last ‘Jack the Ripper’ murder.  
  Twenty five year old Francis Coles was murdered at about two fifteen in the morning in Swallow Gardens, off Chamber Street. She was found by PC Earnest Thompson. It must have been very soon after the murder that she was found because the police reports state PC Thompson as saying that, ‘Blood was flowing profusely from her throat.” PC Thompson also reported that he witnessed the victim open and closed her eyes while he was with her. Francis Coles had suffered injuries to the back of her head and, her throat had been cut. Many people who have studied the Ripper killings also believe that while PC Thompson did not prevent the death of Francis Coles he did stop any mutilation of her body, and as with Suzie Reeves, Francis Coles was still alive. She too would have known what was happening to her. It is also believed that that was the closest the police ever came to catching the ripper. What is really strange though is from that day to this no one ever heard of or from ‘Jack the Ripper’ again, and nobody knows why?  
  The editor is bound to want some background link into yesterday’s murder. Best be prepared, but don’t go for the tried and tested stuff, people have read that all before. Even ‘Jack the Ripper’ can get boring after a while. Use your gut instinct. What is it they say today? ‘Think outside the box.” 
  “Any idea how big the box is?” joked Andrew. 
  “The secret of the box, Andrew, is that it is as big or as small as you make it. Remember that and you’ll never go far wrong.” 
  “Thank you master, you are so wise and I have so much to learn.” 
  John bounced back with “Very true little insect, and when you have completed your tasks you will wait for my return at the office.” 
  “What are your plans for this afternoon, anything I need to know about?” 
  “I’m meeting a good friend of mine that I haven’t seen for a long time and if it wasn’t for this murder it would probably be a lot longer. I’ll introduce you to him sometime, his names Pat Wallace and he’s the curator of the ‘Black Museum’. 
  “The Met’s museum, the one that everyone knows about but doesn’t officially exist?” asked Andrew 
  “Don’t tell anyone, Andrew, but it does. Pat Wallace has been a friend for many years and he knows a thing or two about the dark undercurrent of London’s past. I just want to run your theory past him about a Ripper copy-cat. See what he makes of it.” 
  “Sounds good to me, I’ll see you later then and if anything breaks I’ll give you a ring.” Andrew then turned, checked the road was clear and ran to a taxi stand opposite. There were three taxis in the stand. He jumped in the first one and headed towards Soho. 
  John watched the taxi drive off, went back to his car and drove less than eight minutes to the museum. 
  From the outside the museum is a very nondescript building. It blends in with the surrounding buildings to such an extent as to be totally anonymous. Outside the building is very plain, so is the solid wooded double width door. No number, no name. It was a building you would not find by accident. The only visitors to this building were those who intended to be there.  
  Right in the centre of the right hand door was a large Victorian circular ring knocker. This too was painted dark blue so to the casual observer it was not there. John knocked three times. The sound seemed to echo in the hollowness of whatever was behind the door. 
  After just over a minute the door was opened. “Come on in John, come on in.” A hand was thrust out towards him. John took it and returned the greeting. Patrick Wallace was fifty seven years old; standing up straight he would be five foot five, maybe six inches. No one really knew his true height because of a permanent stoop that reduced his height to around five foot two. Pat claims it was because he had spent so much of his life crouched over a desk examining museum artefacts. It may well be true but John had his doubts. Pat was dressed as usual in a well worn lab coat that, at some time in the past, had been white but was now a very nondescript grey. Underneath the coat was a well worn brown suit, a grey open neck shirt with button a down collar. On his feet were his favourite tan coloured hush puppy shoes. John had never seen Pat wear any other shoes and was convinced that, at some time in the past, he must have bought a ‘job lot’. 
  John had a soft spot for Pat; he was the last of one of the true eccentrics that the modern world somehow failed to produce.  
  “It’s been too long Pat. I just don’t know where the time goes. Even good intentions take up time.” 
  “I know John, I know. Right, follow me through to my office and we’ll have a good chat in there. I’ve cancelled all my appointments for the afternoon so we’ll not be disturbed.” 
  “You needn’t have gone to that trouble,” said John. 
  “No trouble at all my boy, no trouble at all.” 
  “Just out of interest Pat, how many appointments did you have this afternoon?” 
  “Let me see now.” Pat took a diary out from his lab coat pocket. He thumbed through the pages to today’s date, “This afternoon, err, none, isn’t that lucky then, perfect timing. Come on now, this way.” 
  John followed a few steps behind Pat as he led the way to his office. This was not the first time that John had been to the museum but the place never failed to fascinate him. On the wall to his right wooden shelves that looked as though they had been installed when Queen Victoria was a little girl held specimen jars with the strangest looking samples inside them. John had thought about asking exactly what some of them where but had decided against it. The wooden floor had not seen any polish for many a year, it was not dirty, but well worn. On the other side of the room examination tables were laid out in rows. John’s always thought of his schools old science lab, complete with Bunsen burners, glass jars containing various acids and sinks with oddly shaped taps. Pat opened one door after another, went down one corridor, up some stairs. Along another corridor, turned left through a door and finally they arrived.  
  John had never been into Pat’s office before, this was obviously his private sanctuary, and by the look of it his escape from the twenty first century.  
  “Have a seat my boy,” said Pat pointing vaguely towards a corner of the office. 
  Pat looked around and hidden under a mound of ‘Modern Science’ magazines was a chair. He started to move the magazines when he noticed the front cover of one of them. ‘Why Betamax will win the home video war.’ John went to say something then decided it was best not to. He moved the rest of the magazines from one pile to another pile. Dusted down the chair, then, sat down.  
  Pat had a chair behind his desk and he sat there. “Pull yourself up here”, said Pat “You’re not here for an interview.” 
  John shuffled his chair as far forward as he could. Both men looked at each other. Pat started the conversation; “Still giving the Ripper lectures I hear.” 
  “Yes,” replied John, “In fact I was giving a talk yesterday afternoon when I got a phone call about the murder. I used some newly photoshopped photographs for the first time. They really make a difference to the detail. You’d love them” 
  “Oh yes, I’d love to see those. Bet they made a few ladies swoon though.” 
  John moved closer in towards Pat. “The thought must have crossed your mind about last night’s murder, the whole mutilation thing, leaving the body where it would easily be found. My assistant, Andrew, thinks it’s a Ripper copy cat.” 
  “Andrew you say his name is. That’s a good strong Scottish name. I’d listen to him with a name like Andrew.” 
  “I need more to go on than Andrews’s name, and yes, he is good.” 
  “I knew it. You don’t seem convinced John, you have a better theory?” 
   
   
   
   
  John knew he had to be careful. Patrick Wallace may seem to be an eccentric old man but he was not. Professor Patrick Wallace OBE was acknowledged as the country’s leading expert on serial killers and unsolved crimes from the past. He regularly went on lecture tours both in the UK and aboard The Americans can’t get enough of him, and treat him like a Hollywood star. At this moment John felt that maybe he should keep his thoughts to himself. 
  John took out the data pen and handed it to Pat. Pat in turn handed John a very generous glass of his favourite fifteen year old single malt scotch, straight, no ice and no water. 
  “Thank you,” said John. He held the glass up to his nose and savoured the rich aroma of the scotch. He took a gentle sip, the scotch slid smoothly down his throat leaving behind a gentle warming sensation. 
  Pat put the data pen into his laptop, opened the file and started to look at the pictures. For seven minutes, with the exception of the sound of the mouse clicks, the office was in absolute silence. John was first to speak. 
  “Is this the first time you have seen these pictures?” 
  Pat looked up from the screen. “It is” he continued, “Have you got the photographs you told me about earlier, the photoshopped ones?” 
  “Yes, they’re on the drive in a file called ‘rippic’” 
  “Good, thanks. Would you give me a minute please John?” It was more a statement than a question, John did not answer. 
  Pat opened the file and studied the newly enhanced photographs. He studied them for forty eight minutes, flicking from one file to another, one photograph to another. He looked up at John. “To the best of your knowledge has anybody tampered with these photographs, changed them in any way at all?” 
  “No Pat, I got DCS Hughes to download them for me when I saw him this morning. He did it in front of me. They are genuine.” 
  “Come on John, were going to the lecture theatre, they’ve a rather good screen there, bit like a cinema. Let’s hook this computer up in there and have a proper look at what we’ve got here.” 
  With that he unplugged the laptop, picked it up and walked out of the office. John had never seen Pat move so fast and John almost had to jog to keep up. They reached the lecture theatre. It was set up just like a small private cinema.  
  “I’ll just set this up” said Pat, “Should only be a minute then I’ll come down and join you. It’s all remote control. Nice piece of kit.” 
  John sat down in the middle row. “Comfortable seats” he thought.  
  Three minutes later Pat joined him; “Now let’s see what we’ve got?” 
  Pat pressed the remote, the lights dimmed; the curtains opened and on the screen were two photographs side by side. On the left was Suzie Reeves and on the right, Dannielle Eddowes.  
  Pat stood up and, stroking his chin, walked towards the screen. Different images of Suzie Reeves and the Ripper victims flashed on the screen, always side by side. More images then back over the same ones again and again. 
  Pat then turned around, switched off the images and sat down next to John. He was quiet, thinking, churning the thoughts around in his head. Eventually he spoke; “Be honest with me John. You brought these pictures to me for a reason. What was that reason?” 
  “I saw the pictures of Suzie Reeves for the first time this morning at the press conference. There was something about the pictures that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, a wave of horror travelled through my body and it was not because of the pictures themselves. I could cope with that. I had this overwhelming feeling that I recognised what I was looking at. I don’t believe I’m saying this, but, I think Suzie Reeves was murdered by Jack the Ripper.” 
  John looked over at Pat and slowly shrugged in a vain gesture that said ‘please tell me I’ not going crazy.’ 
  From what you have just said John, you and I both had the same feeling. Human instinct is a very powerful weapon and one that we don’t use often enough. Instinct can warn us of impending danger such as a train or plane crash. Have you any idea how many people foresaw the Challenger and Columbia space shuttle disasters.  Ask yourself, John, Why did these people not come forward earlier? Fear, John because they were frightened of the reaction they would get. I for one don’t blame them. Instinct can also lead you to a lifetime of happiness. A brief glimpse of someone you have never met or seen before and you immediately know that you will spend the rest of your life with that person. Many don’t though because they don’t have the courage to follow their instincts, or in the case of love, follow their hearts.” 
  Pat took a long drink of his scotch, put the glass down and refilled it. He then refilled John’s half full glass. Pat took another drink from his glass, holding the glass in both hands he lent back in his chair, looked up towards the ceiling and sighed. He stared at the ceiling for a while before saying; “In my mind, John, there is no doubt at all that Suzie Reeves was murdered by Jack the Ripper. I know I don’t have to convince you because you already know that. You believed your instincts this morning, and that’s why you’re here. Your instincts and what they were telling you at that time frightened you.” 
  John nodded. 
  “My turn to be honest, John, just now my instincts are scaring the life out of me.” Pat paused again; “There are only two people in the world who know Jack the Ripper’s work so well that they would recognise his hand in this murder. Both of those people are in this office just now. You know what that means John? It means we have nowhere else to go and no one else to go and see. We’re entirely on our own.”  
  The glasses on the table were once again refilled. The two men picked up their drink, raised them into the air. “To Jack the Ripper,” said Pat. 
  “Jack the Ripper,” replied John, “may he rot in Hell.” 
  Both men took a long drink. “What are we going to do, Pat?” 
  “We are going to catch him, John. That’s what we are going to do. You and I are going to catch Jack the Ripper.”  
    
  Chapter 5 
  The taxi pulled up outside twenty two Castle Street, Soho.  
  “Eight pounds and twenty seven pence please sir.”  
  Andrew gave the driver nine pounds, “Keep the change,” he said. 
  “Thank you sir,” replied the driver. 
  The taxi drove away, just a little faster than it should have, thought Andrew.  
  Number twenty two Castle Street was a three story Victorian terrace style house. It was in very good condition, as were all the houses in the road. Andrew walked up to the red painted front door and pressed a button on the intercom. A few seconds later a buzzer sounded and there was a metallic click from behind the door. Andrew pushed open the door and walked in to a very plush reception area. Sat behind the main reception desk was a smartly dressed lady. Andrew guessed she was in her mid fifties. 
  “Can I help you sir?” she asked. 
  “I hope so,” replied Andrew. “If it is possible I would like to see Mr. Geoffrey Adamson please.” 
  “And your name please?” 
  “Andrew, Andrew Cleaver.” 
  The secretary looked in an appointment diary, running her finger down a page she looked up at Andrew. “I don’t seem to have you down for an appointment with Mr Adamson. Did you have an appointment?” 
  “No I’ve not made an appointment. John Reynolds from The Daily Herald asked me to see Mr Adamson.” 
  “John Reynolds you say, just one moment please I’ll see if Mr Adamson is available. Please, have a seat.” 
  The secretary gestured towards a comfortable seating area. Andrew chose a rich red chesterfield arm chair.  
  “Please help yourself to tea or coffee Mr Cleaver.” 
  Andrew stood up and poured himself a fresh coffee then sat down again. Picking up a copy of ‘Country Life’ from the coffee table he sat back and started to leaf through the pages.   
  “Mr Cleaver” called the secretary.  
  Andrew looked over to her.  
  “Mr Adamson will see you now. Will you follow me please?” 
  Andrew stood up and followed the secretary into a very large office. Andrew had grown up on a diet of Dick Tracy and Marlow, he was fully expecting the offices of a private detective to be very plain, sparse and run down. This was quite a culture shock for him. Whilst he had never been inside one Andrew imagined that an exclusive London Gentleman’s club would look something like the office he had just walked into.  
  “Thank you Sylvia,” said Geoffrey.  He walked from behind his desk to shake hands with Andrew. 
  Geoffrey Adamson was thirty two years old, standing five feet ten inches tall and a very healthy twelve stone three pounds. He wore a Saville Row tailored dark blue, two piece, business suit. A crisp white shirt and a plain navy blue tie. His shoes were hand made from the finest soft Italian leather. He had blue eyes that missed nothing and a full head of extremely neat light brown hair. 
  “Hello Andrew, good to meet you. Anything I get you, tea, coffee or something stronger perhaps?” 
  “No thank you. I’m fine,” replied Andrew. 
  “I believe John Reynolds asked you to see me, how is he?” 
  “He’s fine thank you.” 
  “I take it you work with John at The Daily Herald?” 
  “Yes, I’m a final year media student on a six month work placement and I was lucky enough to be offered a position with The Daily Herald.” 
  “That was lucky for you. You’ll learn a lot from John. He’s a good man, good journalist. Now what can I do for you?” 
  “We are looking into the death of Suzie Reeves, the woman murdered on the Common yesterday. John would like you to look into her and her boyfriend’s backgrounds. He asked if you could go back as far as possible with both.” 
  “Is there something specific about them or their past that John is looking for?” 
  “He hasn’t said, I think it’s just general for now. Once we have the information from you then he may want to look deeper into something.” 
  Geoffrey nodded, “Any thoughts yourself about the late Miss Reeves?” 
  Andrew was not sure if he should say anything or not, but decided it would not do any harm. “We have a couple of theories, but that’s all they are.” 
  Geoffrey looked interested “Such as” he asked. 
  “We thought that maybe the Eastern Europeans may be involved.” 
  “Interesting, what makes you think that?”  
  “Only the brutality of the murder,” relied Andrew, “sending out a message to others not to mess with them.” 
  “And the second theory” 
  “This one seems a bit farfetched but we thought there may be a ‘Jack the Ripper’ copy cat killer out there looking for his fifteen minutes of fame.” 
  ”Are both these theories John’s?” 
  “No, just the first one, well we came up with that one together. Jack the Ripper’s mine. I thought of it last night seems a bit odd now though, must have been a rush of adrenalin because of yesterday. It was my first murder scene. In fact it was my first crime scene at all.” 
  “Don’t knock yourself Andrew. Believe me stranger things have happened. Never dismiss a theory until it’s proved not to be the true. Under the circumstances, I think it’s a valid theory, and one worth looking in to. I’ll check to see who’s been released from either prison or a secure hospital over the past six months that could have ambitions about being a second ‘Jack the Ripper’. Is there anything else while you’re here.” 
  “No that’s it for now.” 
  “I’ll put a couple of people onto this straight away. I should have a preliminary report in about twenty four hours if not sooner. Tell John I’ll bill him the usual rates.” 
  Geoffrey Adamson’s door opened. Sylvia was standing just on the other side.  
  “Mr Cleaver, if you will follow me please I’ll show you the way out.” 
  “Thank you” said Andrew, wondering how she had known the meeting was over, especially when he didn’t. 
  Andrew thanked Geoffrey and followed Sylvia back towards the main reception area. “Good luck and we’ll see you soon.” She said as she opened the door and showed him the way out. 
  Andrew left the office. The door closed automatically behind him. As Andrew stood on the pavement he heard a metallic click as the door locked behind him. 
  Andrew looked around for a taxi. He flagged down a black cab driving towards him. It stopped and he jumped in. “Daily Herald offices please.”  
  “Certainly sir,” the taxi driver then made a sweeping U-turn, the type that only black cabs can make and headed off towards Canary Wharf and the offices of The Daily Herald. 
  *  *  *  * 
  John and Pat had finished almost three quarters of the scotch whiskey when Pat said, “You know John we have this theory about Jack the Ripper but what we need is proof. I don’t know about you but I even though I have seen it with my own eyes I am still having trouble believing it. If I am having trouble, and I know you are otherwise you wouldn’t have come to see me, how can we possibly expect anyone else to? We could be labelled as cranks, crackpots or worse. Our credibility would be shot to pieces; we’d be laughing stocks in both of our fields.” 
  John took another long drink from his glass. Picked up the bottle and poured out another generous shot. “Yes, proof. That’s all we need. Any idea how we can get this proof?  If you have I’d love to hear it because I can’t think of anything except a full blown public courtroom confession. Even then he’ll end up in a secure hospital at Her Majesty’s Pleasure because no one will believe him either.” 
  Both men laughed. At this moment everything seemed funny, there was humour everywhere, the kind of infectious humour that can only be brought on by an almost empty bottle of fifteen year old single malt. 
  “I can see the court room now,” said John. 
  “I Jack promise to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. So help me God.”  
  “Name” 
  “Jack the Ripper.” 
  “Age” 
  “One hundred and sixty three” 
  More fits of laughter filled the office. 
  Pat tried to be serious for a moment. “Listen John, there might be a way, at least to prove to ourselves that we are not wrong. I think we can prove that Suzie Reeves was murdered by Jack the Ripper.” 
  John looked intrigued, “how?” 
  “It won’t be easy, and if we’re caught we could both be in serious trouble.” 
  “I’m listening, go on.” 
  “Are you still in touch with your Brother –in-Law?” 
  “Peter, yes. It was only last week we spoke but, what’s he got to do with any of this?” 
  “Does he still work at Liverpool University?” 
  “Yes, he’s still there.” 
  “And what does he do John? What’s his job?” 
  “He’s a genetic researcher, not too sure exactly what he does.” 
  “DNA John, he works with DNA.” 
  “And that helps us how?” 
  “I’ll tell you, no better, I’ll show you. Wait here a minute.” 
  Pat tried to stand up, he tried a few times but the whiskey had a strange effect on his legs. What he wanted them to do, they didn’t want to. 
  More infectious laughter filled the office. 
  John managed to stand up he patted Pat on the shoulder. “Tomorrow Pat, we’ll meet up in the ‘Three Horseshoes’ at twelve thirty. It’s time we had a good meal together.” 
  He looked at Pat. His arms where folded together on the desk, his head resting on top of them. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open making a very gentle snoring sound. John looked around, found a pen and paper and wrote a note for Pat about lunch tomorrow. John left Pat to sleep of the afternoon’s session, made his way back to the street. John started to walk towards his car when he thought better of it; instead he flagged down a taxi, “The Daily Herald, Canary Wharf please.” John slurred. 
  “You going to be alright in my cab?” asked the driver in a not too friendly tone. 
  “I’ll be fine.” John replied. “No problem.” 
  The taxi pulled away and set off on the forty eight minute ride. Before the first minute had passed, John was fast asleep. 
  * *  *  * 
  The taxi pulled up outside the paper’s office. The driver turned around. “Wake up mate, we’ve arrived.” John stirred. It took a few moments for his vision to become focused. He looked at the driver, “That was quick,”  
  “You slept all the way here. Sixteen pounds even will cover it.” 
  John took out his wallet and paid the driver with a twenty. “Any discount then for keeping the cab clean?” 
  The driver laughed, “No mate, we don’t give discounts for that, just charge extra if you don’t.” 
  “Keep the change,” said John.  
  The driver thanked him then gave him his card, “Any time day or night. You need a cab, give me a call. I’ll not let you down. Always look after my good customers.” 
  John took the card and put it in his wallet. 
  “Thanks. See you again then” said John. He then turned around, as the taxi drove off, and walked into the offices of the Daily Herald. 
  Six minutes later John was sat at his desk having got himself a cup of coffee from the vending machine on the way. 
  “You look rough,” said Andrew, “Good afternoon then?” 
  “As good as could be expected. Enough of me though, how did you get on?” 
  “I went to see that private detective; he’ll get back to us as soon as he has any news. It looks as though that will be tomorrow.” 
  “What did you ask him to check?” 
  “The backgrounds of Suzie and her boyfriend, he said he’ll check back as far as he can. He asked if we had any theories or ideas so I gave him a quick run-through of what we came up with.” 
  “Any luck with the Ripper searches, anything new?” 
  “Don’t know if I found anything new or not because I’ve not looked into the Ripper killings before so I’ll need you to help me out a bit.” 
  “OK, what have you got then?” 
  “Do you think anyone knew who the Ripper was?” 
  John thought for a moment; “Probably, I think it would have been difficult for no one at all to know who he was. Did you find the list of usual suspects?” 
  “I did, there seemed to have been the usual main suspects. Kosminski, a poor Polish Jew resident in Whitechapel; Montague John Druitt, a 31 year old barrister and school teacher who committed suicide in December 1888; Michael Ostrog, a Russian-born multi-pseudonymous thief and confidence trickster, believed to be 55 years old in 1888, and detained in asylums on several occasions and Dr Francis J. Tumblety, 56 Years old, an American 'quack' doctor, who was arrested in November 1888 for offences of gross indecency. But, they were all speculation and with no hard evidence against any of them the police did not even arrest or question any of them. Soon after the last murder Dr Tumblety did leave the country very quickly to go and live in America. Some speculate that he carried on killing over there and became known as the ‘Boston Strangler’. Again that’s only speculation.” 
  “You know my thoughts on that Andrew. I think the Ripper died after the last killing. Take Nathan Kaminsky, he died from syphilis the following year. Suppose he caught it off a Whitechapel prostitute, could be enough reason to kill. Kaminsky could have been taking out his revenge on the victims. There were other suspects as well; some very influential people were investigated by the police. Prince Albert Victor was second in line to the throne; Sir William Gull was Queen Victoria’s personal physician. Prince Albert’s tutor from Cambridge University, James K. Stephen was another. Also soon after the last murder the body of another suspect, Montague John Druitt, was found floating in the Thames. One suspect almost managed a confession. Convicted murderer Neill Cream is believed to have shouted “I am Jack the …. “ We’ll never know the last word as the hangman’s rope snapped his neck before he could say it. Then there was James T. Maybrick, he was a Liverpool merchant who a year later in 1889 murdered his wife. The police had no shortage of suspects, in fact I think their problem was they had too many. Why is it that the Police had so many suspects?” 
  Andrew jumped in “So the real killer could get away, be just ‘another suspect. When Arrest a lot of people are arrested or questioned over a crime and nobody is charged the Police look desperate. Those questioned could say that the Police were picking up anyone they thought they could pin the murder on. The Police’s actions could even give public sympathy for those questioned.”  
  “Possibly, you could have a point,” John continued; “You see Andrew, all the murders took place over a three month period in a small area, no more than one square mile, of Whitechapel and Stepney. Also there were other murders in the area at the same time and it’s easy to put them all down to the same killer. I think there was more than one murderer at the time. There were the ‘Ripper’ killings and also the ‘Whitechapel murders’. Over time the two have blended together and now the lines between the two have blurred. Jack the Ripper is now getting far more credit than he deserves in the ‘serial killer league of victims’. There was a few moments pause, “Did you find anything else Andrew?” 
  “Sorry John, nothing, there was only one report of an accidental death, and that was a woman run over by some runaway horses.” 
  “Thanks for looking Andrew. I was clutching at straws hoping you might have found something new, but, after all this time I suppose everything that there is to find out about the Ripper killings has already been found.” 
  “Who was the Ripper John?” 
  “I don’t know Andrew, no one does.” 
  “Then everything there is to find out has not been found out. At least not until that question has been answered, and answered once and for all. By the way have you ever read the Ripper’s criminal profile?” 
  ”What profile? They didn’t have criminal profiles in the eighteen eighties.” 
  “So I have found something then.” 
  “Go on, you’ve got my attention.” 
  “Ever heard of the FBI’s Behavioural Analysis Unit based at Quantico in the US.” 
  ”Yes, they are the world’s leading criminal profilers. They’ve helped solve crimes all over the world by narrowing down who the local police should be looking for. They mainly deal with serial killers.” 
  “And Jack the Ripper was a ……..” 
  “Serial killer” 
  “Exactly, someone at the FBI’s School of Profiling though it would be a good idea to ask their class students to profile Jack the Ripper. Makes interesting reading. Here, I printed a copy off for you.” 
  Andrew handed John a piece of A4 paper. John started to read it. 
  F.B.I. Profile: Subject ‘Jack the Ripper’ 
  ‘Jack the Ripper was, in all probability, a single white male who lived alone in the Whitechapel area. This allowed him to come home after a murder without having to answer any questions about where he'd been, what he'd been doing, and why he and his clothing were bloody. His victims tended to be older prostitutes; therefore, Jack may have been somewhat older. While age is the most difficult component to profile, and no suspect should be eliminated because of an age discrepancy, Jack was probably 30-37 years of age at the time he committed these murders. In addition, he was in the same socio-economic class as his victims, perhaps one stratum above them, but no more. He was a quiet, withdrawn loner who worked in a menial job Monday to Friday. He likely drank in the same local pubs as did his victims and, therefore, may have been acquainted with them to a degree before the murders. He was nocturnal and prowled his Whitechapel neighbourhood on a regular basis. It is unlikely that these were his first attacks upon females. Earlier attacks may have been less violent, may have gone unreported or were not thoroughly investigated, especially if the complainants were prostitutes. He hated women and was fearful of them, but his quiet, innocuous nature kept him from becoming a viable suspect, as he seemed incapable of such horrific violence. While his knowledge of the neighbourhood was undoubtedly helpful to him in avoiding detection, he was generally luckier than he was good’. 
   	“Interesting reading,” said John handing the paper back to Andrew, “We’ll probably print that but leave it on the side for now. Let’s see how this pans out. Nothing matching the profile came up at all in your searches?” 
  “No, not even close.”  
  “Have you ever read a typical serial killers profile?” 
  “No” replied Andrew. “That’s the first one I have seen.” 
  “I’ve got it here somewhere.” John was looking through a filing cabinet behind his desk. “Here it is, not much to it but interesting. Might be worth comparing the two, could be a good angle for a story.” 
  John gave the profile to Andrew:  
  A "typical" profile of a serial killer is a white male aged between 18 and 32. The killer was probably abused as a child. In their early teen they probably had a period of bedwetting and abusing animals. Generally they also like starting fires. 
   Andrew handed the paper back to John. “I could come up with a general story on profiling and how it has helped the police narrow down their searches.” 
  “See what you can put together, I’ll look at it and we’ll take it from there.” 
  John leaned back and stretched his arms up over his head. “You sober, Andrew?” 
  “Yes, why?” he replied 
  John threw Andrew the keys to his Jaguar, told him where it was parked and asked him to pick it up for him. “Twenty pounds should cover the taxi fare and can you pick me up a six thirty in the morning. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.” 
  “You’re sure about this? I mean it’s your Jaguar, the holy of holies.” 
  “Normally true,” relied John, “but I’ve been drinking, a lot and I can’t drive it myself. Also, I don’t want the car left where it is overnight. The lesser of two evils says you collect the car for me. See you in the morning Andrew, and don’t be late.” 
  Chapter 6 
  Andrew arrived at John’s apartment at six fifty five. John was already waiting outside, pacing up and down the pavement like a father waiting for the birth of his firstborn. The Jaguar purred to a smooth stop. Andrew turned off the engine, got out of the car and handed the keys back to John. John walked around the car, pretending to get into the passenger side by mistake. “Forgot, I’m driving,” he said. He then walked around the other side of the car and got in the driver’s seat. Andrew by this time was already in the passenger seat, belted up and ready to go. John pressed ‘memory one’ on the seat and eight electric motors returned the seat to John’s pre programmed driving position. He put the keys in the ignition, turned the engine on, closed his eyes and savoured the sound of the muted power from the three litre engine.  
  Andrew looked at him, “Boys and their toys.” He muttered. 
  “Sorry Andrew, what was that you said?” 
  “I just wondered what we were doing today.” 
  ”Let’s get to the office, grab a coffee and something to eat then we’ll decide.” 
  	The office desk looked more like a McDonald’s takeaway than the desk of a national daily papers chief crime reporter. From the looks of people passing by it probably also smelt that way. John was busy writing down notes on his pad. Andrew was finishing a fresh brewed coffee with double cream. 
  “Andrew, I want you to get back to the Adamson’s and find out where they are up to. Don’t take a ‘we’ll get back to you later’ answer either. You can always remind him that we’re paying a lot of money for his services. That usually works. The man may have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth but that doesn’t stop him wanting to add a bit more into the family fortune.” 
  “And you will be doing?” 
  “I’ve a couple of calls to make this morning, time to call in a couple of favours from one or two people. Then, I’m meeting Pat Wallace for lunch. After that depends on what happens over lunch. I’ll keep in touch.” 
  ”I’ll be on my way then,” said Andrew. “Speak to you later.” 
  John’s took out his mobile phone. Tapped away on the keypad, ‘Alan, how are you. Not had a chance to catch up in ages. Let’s meet, when’s a good time for you? John.” 
  John pressed send. He sat back in his chair and for the first time admitted to himself that he had a king-sized hangover. 
  	John had just sent a text message to one of his long established ‘external partners’ as they like to be called. To everyone else they were paid informers who, for the right price would spill the beans on all sorts of things. John had found that whilst money tended to loosen tongues it was still a matter of quality over quantity. For John both the source and the information had to be credible and reliable. In Alan’s case it was usually both. Alan Edmonson had spent the last thirty one years of his life working for the Home Office Pathology Department as a mortuary attendant, the politically correct term for a cleaner. Alan though was neither political nor correct. In his mind he had always been a mortuary cleaner and always would be. He was also in the perfect position to help out the press from time to time, depending on why a particular post mortem was being carried out or who it was being carried out on.     
  	After a couple of minutes and two paracetamol later John pulled himself together - hangover or not there was work to do. Just at that moment Status Quo could be heard from his inside pocket. “John Reynolds.” 
  “John its Alan, I just got your message. What’s up?” 
  “You OK to talk for a few minutes?” 
  “Fine, I’m outside having a cigarette, can’t smoke inside these days in case the smoke contaminates the bodies. Have you ever heard the like? They’re already dead. I mean what harm’s a bit of smoke going to do to them now?” 
  “I’m sure you can answer that far better than I can, especially with some of the lungs you get to see.” 
  “Listen John, I’m glad you called because I was waiting to give you a call this morning. Can you meet me in an hour?” 
  “You have something for me, usual place then at eleven o’clock?” 
  John agreed and ended the call. He had no idea what the information was but it had to be connected to the Suzie Reeves murder.  
  *  *  *  * 
  DCI Bales and Detective Constable Mick Wilding were sat behind a desk in a very sparsely furnished interview room at New Scotland Yard. On the table was a multi directional radio microphone that was sending everything it picked up to a digital data recorder securely locked behind a metal cabinet at the back of the interview room.  
  Up to a few years ago the interviewing detectives had set the recording equipment themselves, but it did not take long before enterprising defence solicitors challenged the validity of the tapes claiming ‘conflict of interest’. Politically correct judges, afraid of a verdict they had overseen being overturned on appeal or worse by the Court of Human Rights, had agreed with the defence teams and disallowed the recorded interview. To counter this, independent technicians were employed to ensure absolute integrity in all aspects of interview recordings.  
  On the desk were three cups of barely warm coffee. Sat opposite the detectives was Ron Billington. As far as Ron was concerned he was there to help the police with whatever background he could with regard to Suzie Reeves. He was more than happy to do this. Ron wanted justice for his dead girlfriend and to see his future wife’s killer put away for a very long time. Ron wanted to be in court every day of the trial, to look at his Suzie’s killer eye to eye. What Ron did not know, or expect, was at this moment in time he was the police’s main suspect. Ron would be taking part in an interview, just not the sort he was expecting. 
  The interview lasted for over three hours. Ron was quizzed on every aspect of his life with Suzie Reeves. It started off smoothly enough, but that was just to lead Ron into a trap, to make him relax and let his guard down. DCI Bales started by asking where the couple had met? 
  “At work,” replied Ron. He then talked for a while about how they had started out as friends and how that friendship had developed into something much deeper. 
  “When was this?” 
  “August fifteenth.Three years ago. It would have been our fourth anniversary this year.” 
  DC Wilding then asked; “What about any other girls in your life since then? You’re a good looking young man. There must have been the opportunity for a quiet office romance?” 
  “I was never interested in any other girl, well not in a romantic way.” 
  “A one woman man” responded DC Wilding. “What about Sharon, Sharon Morgan?” 
  “What about her,” asked Ron 
  “From what we’ve been told you two were very cosy, a bit too cosy for someone planning to get married.” 
  “That’s rubbish.” Ron replied, in a louder and more stressed tone. “There was never anything between Sharon and me. We were, are, just good friends.” 
  DC Wilding then took a photograph from out of a buff coloured file he had kept in a briefcase by the side of his chair. “Recognise this?” DC Wilding pushed a photograph towards Ron. The photograph was face down. Ron picked it up and turned it over. The colour drained from his face, he felt physically sick.  
  The photograph had been taken at the bank’s Christmas party two years ago. Sharon was sat on Ron’s knee. Her arms around his neck, he had one arm around her back, the other around the back of her neck, the two of them passionately kissing.  
  “There are plenty more,” said DC Wilding. “Want to see some more?” 
  Ron was now very agitated; “There not what they look like,” he said, his voice now slightly higher than before. The panic was clear, “It was a Christmas party and nothing happened, we were just larking around, a bit of fun in front of the camera. Suzie was there.” He pointed at the photograph, “Just out of shot, she was laughing to. In fact she was egging Sharon on.” 
  “Not what we’ve heard. Not what we’ve heard at all.” 
  DCI Bales then came in with the killer question. It was blunt, direct and spoken in a slow, deliberate, clear, harsh and precise voice. “Why did you kill Suzie Reeves? Come on Ron get it off your chest. You’ll feel better. Tell us now while we can still help you. Tell the judge how you co-operated.” DCI Bales then stood up and leaned forward over the table until he was only a foot away from Ron’s face. “Why did you kill Suzie Reeves?” 
  Ron’s mouth went dry, he couldn’t speak. Every muscle in his body was shaking. It felt as though he were inside a freezer, with no way out. It was only a few hours ago that he had to identify the body of the woman he loved more than life itself. He never imagined he could feel worse than he had at that time. Now he wished to have that feeling back.  
  Ron endured another two and half hours of intense questioning after which his clothes were stuck to his body. His shirt, soaked in sweat, was clinging to his chest and back. He felt as though he had been verbally abused, used and verbally bullied. The two officers had used ‘good cop, bad cop’. DCI Bales was ‘bad cop’. He’d tear into Rob telling him they had witnesses. How they knew Ron was clever enough not to kill himself, but that he had paid someone else to kill for him. They had signed confessions. Confess Ron confess. Then, for some reason, he’d leave the room. Wilding would apologise for Bales telling Ron how shocked he was about his boss’s actions, but, he was his boss so he could do nothing about it. Wilding offered John a drink, asked if he wanted a break, was he alright. He spoke gently to Ron, almost kindly. Then,” Look Ron, if there is anything you want to tell me, now’s the time. It’s just you and me. I want this to stop as much as you do. Come on Ron, talk to me. Why did you kill Suzie Reeves? I can help you, I want to help you.” Ron shook his head, “I didn’t kill her.” He said in a quiet, almost childlike voice. “I didn’t kill my Suzie.” 
  There had been moments during the interrogation when it just wanted everything to stop. He was emotionally, mentally and physically drained. He  so worn down, so low, so intimidated by everything going on that he even though for a moment of confessing. Not because he had killed Suzie, just to make it stop. To make them leave him alone, to leave him with his thoughts and memories of Suzie.  
  Despite everything though Ron managed to keep one faint thought in the back of his mind, the one thing that got him through the two and a half hours of gulling nonstop questioning. That was the absolute and certain truth that he had not killed Suzie Reeves. 
  At the end of the ‘interview’ DCI Bales looked Ron straight in the eye. “I know you killed Suzie Reeves, I don’t yet know why or how, but I will find out. You can go for now but you and I will be talking again. Now get out of my sight.” 
  Ron left the room a broken man. During the past twenty four hours his world had collapsed. It started off as what should have been one of the happiest days of his life, a milestone day. Twenty four hours later he had lost the will to live.  
  	Still in a daze from the events of the pat three hours Ron walked out of New Scotland Yard. He could not believe what had just happened. Ron had never so much as had a parking ticket, now he was being accused of murder. He started to shake again then he started to cry. Ron cried like he had never cried before. He sat down on the pavement, not caring or seeing the other people around him. Most thought he was a low life bum, a homeless beggar. After a short while he stood up and started to walk. Ron had no idea what direction he was going in or where he was heading towards. He just walked. Ron knew nothing at all as the number eighty eight bus hit him full on. Witnesses later said he was probably on drugs or had been drinking. There was no other explanation. Why else would you just walk straight out into the road like he did? There was absolutely nothing the driver could have done to avoid the accident. Paramedics arrived within minutes. And did all they could at the scene. Less than fourteen minutes later Ron arrived at the accident and emergency unit of Stepney Hospital. He was pronounced dead on arrival. 
  *  *  *  * 
  Sylvia showed Andrew into Geoffrey Adamson’s office. Geoffrey stood up from behind his desk, thrust out his hand towards Andrew and welcomed him as though he were a long lost friend.  
  “Let’s sit over here,” said Geoffrey gesturing towards a leather three piece, blood red chesterfield suite. Andrew chose to sit in the Queen Anne upright chair, Geoffrey sat on the three seat settee. There was a quiet knock on the door and Sylvia brought in a pot of coffee on a try with a selection of plain and chocolate biscuits. “Thank you Sylvia,” said Geoffrey. 
  “You’re welcome.” She replied. 
  Geoffrey poured the coffee, handed the plate of biscuits to Andrew, who took two plain chocolate digestives. Andrew thanked Geoffrey then asked if he had any news for him. 
  “Yes, but not as much as I had hoped for,” replied Geoffrey. “And that bothers me.” 
  ”Why’s that?” asked Andrew. 
  “Finding out about someone’s background is straight forward these days. Provided you know what you are doing and where to look there is information overload about all of us.”  
  “I thought that’s what the Data Protection Act was for, to stop people from finding out about you.” 
  ”It may stop Joe Bloggs from down the road checking up on you, but I’m not Joe Bloggs, and you are paying a very good fee for my expertise.” 
  “Point taken,” replied Andrew feeling as though he had just been told off for being a naughty boy. 
  “First things first, I have no idea who that woman was that was murdered on the Common the other day but I am absolutely certain that she was not Suzie Reeves. I am still working on the ‘who’ bit, but that’s proving to be a bit difficult and will take a while longer. I will find out but please be patient for a day or two.” 
  “How can you be so certain that it was not Suzie Reeve who was murdered?” 
  “Four and a half years ago, Suzie Reeves, the real one, went abroad on an extended backpacking holiday. She left the UK by ferry and headed for France. From there she went to Belgium, Germany, Czech Republic, Poland, Ukraine and then Russia. At this point the trail goes cool. Not entirely cold but cool.” 
  Andrew was busy taking notes. They both took another drink of their coffee. Geoffrey continued; “Up until that point Suzie’s mother had received regular post cards from her daughter and a phone call at least once a week. All of a sudden the post cards stopped and the calls went from one a week to one every month, then six weeks eventually to none at all.” 
  “You’ve spoken to her mother?” 
  “No, she died last year a very kind neighbour, who was a very good friend of the family, though was more than happy to talk to us.” 
  ”Any idea what happened in Russia?” 
  “I would guess, and it is only a guess but a good one, that Suzie was kidnapped almost as soon as she entered Russia. The local Mafia was probably tipped off by the border guards who get paid very well by the Mafia for such information. I believe that the current rate is the equivalent of two to three months wages providing the information is good.” 
  “In Suzie’s case it was,” said Andrew. 
  “It would appear so.” 
  “If she was kidnapped, was there a ransom demand?” 
  “No, no demands at all. There never is. These kidnappings are not about money, they are about information. Information about whomever they have kidnapped. It starts with simple questions; name; age; date of birth, occupation; where they live, just general basic things that are easy to answer. They are told that if they answer the questions and don’t cause any trouble they will be released and can go home. In truth that is never an option, they are never released and never get to go home.” 
  ”This happens a lot?” asked Andrew. 
  “I’ve never known it to make News at ten, but yes, it is a big problem and getting bigger. It works like this. Remember in the old movies, when someone wanted a new identity how they trawled graveyards looking for a child who had died. Taking the name and date of birth of the child they could apply for a new birth certificate, insurance card in fact anything they wanted. These days that won’t work. Government departments now talk to each other, at least electronically. When you’re dead these days, you stay dead. The only way now to take over an identity is to take one of someone who is still alive, or thought to be alive. Suzie Reeves was a perfect target, old mother, no other family and no ties. Miss Ivan whoever it was that took over her identity could have lived over her for the rest of her natural life and never have aroused suspicion.” 
  “She then lives over here as sweet Suzie Reeves when all along she’s Miss Ivan Mafia laundering money for the Russian Mafia” 
  “That’s one scenario. There are also plenty of other options, so don’t focus too much on that one for now.” says Geoffrey, he continues, “Meanwhile back in Russia the victim sends a message home saying they have met a local man and they have fallen madly in love with each other. It’s the real thing. Not to worry, they are fine. They’ll be in touch again but it could be a while. Generally that’s it.” 
  “Then why make the last call, why say those things?” 
  “It’s surprising what you’ll say with a gun at your head, or more likely pointing towards the head of another victim that you have befriended. If you don’t say what they want as soon as the call ends, the friend dies, their brains blown out in front of you. Then straight after, the same thing happens to you.” 
  “So whoever was killed on the Common was an illegal immigrant.” 
  “Not just any illegal. The victim, we’ll call her Suzie for now, was probably high up in the Russian mob. You say she worked for an investment bank?” 
  “Yes, the City of London Investment Bank” replied Andrew.  
  “That could mean she was probably laundering the mobs money through bogus accounts she’d set up. Take in the dirty money, give it a wash, quick spin, hang out to dry and hey presto, clean money.” 
  “On the night of the murder John and I suspected that the Eastern European Mafia may be involved, looks like we could be right.” 
  “Don’t pat yourself on the back just yet, Andrew. It looks highly likely she was part of the Russian mob, but even for them that was a brutal murder. Who she worked for may not have any bearing on the killing. It could just be a coincidence. I hope to have more this afternoon for you. I’ll keep in touch.” 
  Andrew took a final drink of his coffee. “Thanks for what you have done so far. I’ll bring John up to date. We’ll speak again later.” 
  As if by magic Sylvia walked into the office and offered to show Andrew out. “I hope you had a productive meeting,” she said on the way through to the front door. 
  “Yes, it was very interesting.” He said. 
  “We’ll see you again soon Mr. Cleaver. Do have a pleasant morning.” 
  Andrew started walking down the street. He took out his mobile and punched in John’s number. He answered on the third ring. 
  Andrew spent the next eight minutes summarising his meeting. John hadn’t expected any of what he was told.  
  “Andrew, I’ll call you back within the hour. I’m just about to meet with an old friend and I’m hoping he may have some useful information for us. Great work this morning.” 
  Andrew ended the call. “Yes”, he thought to himself, “This was turning into a very interesting case.” 
    
  Chapter 7 
  John walked into the ‘Red Lion’ pub on Harrington Road. It was a typical East End pub that had managed to miss out on the wine bar refurbishing hit list that had destroyed so many traditional pubs over the past twenty years. The Red Lion sat proudly at the end of Harrington Road and it had been Alan Edmondson’s local since he had moved into the area twenty seven years ago. The lounge, so called because it had a couple of padded chairs and a fire place that last seen a fire during the second world war, was Alan’s place in the pub. Regulars of the Red Lion all had ‘their seat’ and Alan’s was just underneath a large half frosted window. The top of the glass was clear to let in the light, the bottom frosted for privacy. His table and three chairs may not have had a reservation card with his name on it, but it may well have done.  
  John was pleased to see Alan. He genuine liked the man. Alan did not give out information because of the money, although it did help to buy a few extra rounds of ‘Collins Best Bitter’, he did it for moral reasons. Alan felt he was doing his bit in preserving free speech and the rights of the individual to be told the truth. Alan’s information was amongst the most reliable John ever received. He did not get a lot from Alan, but it was definitely quality over quantity. 
  John sat down at Alan’s table. There were two pints already in place. One for each of them, Alan believed in paying his way. Neither drink had been touched. “I knew you’d not be long Mr. Reynolds so I thought I’d wait for you. Now you’re here I’ll drink to your health.” Alan then raised his pint and took a long drink, almost finishing three quarters of the glass in one swallow. John picked up his glass, “Your health,” he said and took a far smaller drink. The effects of yesterday’s marathon session with Pat were still lingering on and John still had to meet the man again for lunch. 
  “Good to hear from you Alan, it’s been a while.” 
  “It has Mr. Reynolds.” John had long ago stopped asking Alan to call him John. Alan was of the ‘old school’ and he had been brought up to respect those above you. It had never been explained to him exactly what that meant but whatever it was John fitted that category.  “It’s been quiet lately Mr. Reynolds, and I never get in touch with any gossip. You know me, but I overheard something last that I thought you should know about. It’s something the police don’t want anyone to know about so it must be important. Even most of the coppers don’t know about it.” 
  “Don’t know about what Alan?” 
  “Well you know that girl that was murdered on the Common the other night.” 
  “Yes.” 
  ”Well, her body was brought to my mortuary for the autopsy. A right mess she was in as well. I’ve never seen anything like it before I can tell you. And I’ve seen a lot of nasty things.” 
  John gestured over to the barman for two more pints. As they were brought over Alan continued, “I was cleaning out one of the cubicles in the gents when someone called Hughes and another copper came in to use the stalls. I stayed where I was so as not to disturb them. Anyway, they started talking about a cross, a white cross they had found with the girl’s body. They reckoned it had some writing on it but I’m not too sure what they said it was. It was something to do with a whore, that’s all I can remember.” 
  “Did they say anything else Alan, anything at all.” 
  Alan thought for a moment, took another long drink. “Yes, they did Mr. Reynolds but it doesn’t make any sense to me, they said it was a signature. Does that make any sense to you?” 
  ”It does Alan. Look I’m sorry but I have to go now, another meeting. If you hear anything else, please let me know.” 
  “I will Mr. Reynolds. I hope you can make use of it.” 
  John got out his wallet and handed over one hundred pounds. This was twice what he would normally pay but this was worth it, not just for the information, but because he now had some leverage over the police. DCS Hughes had known about this all along and he had kept it from him.  
  A brief thirty four minutes later and John had joined Pat in the Three Horseshoes. There had been a pub on this site for the past three hundred and fifty years. Originally it had been a staging post for horses and coaches heading north. The pub had a number of outbuildings that would have been used as stables and the local blacksmith. The original cobbled stone yard was still in evidence. According to the landlord the cobbles had a preservation order on them all though most of the regulars thought this was just wishful thinking. Full refurbished some two years ago at a cost of just over half a million pounds, the Horseshoes had been transformed from a mediocre pub come restaurant, barely managing to survive, into a plush modern establishment. The pub now had a bright and airy feel about it compared to the dingy atmosphere it previously had. No expense had been spared in the refurbishment, and much to the credit of the landlord he had resisted the easy option of fibre glass beams and laminate flooring.  
  Fortunately, at the same time The Three Horseshoes was being refurbished and three hundred year old church was being demolished to make way for a new, low cost housing development. The church had been decommissioned by the Church of England some thirty years previously. Attendances had dropped and the parish had been losing money at an alarming rate. No one had come along to restore or convert the church so the local authority places a compulsory purchase order on it. For the Three Horseshoes the church was a ‘gold mine’. The original oak pews, the parquet flooring and the roof timbers were all made use of, ensuring an authentic feel to the pub.  
  Some locals had tried to stop the refurbishment on the grounds that Church property should not be used to tart up a drinking house. No doubt these were the same people who had not used the church and allowed it to close in the first place.      
  Pat and John sat themselves in a quiet corner of the restaurant area looking through the lunchtime menu. John had to admit that for the first time in a couple of days he was now quite hungry and was looking forward to a very pleasant meal. Pat returned from the bar. A pint of draught Guinness for himself and a pint of fine imported German lager for John.  
  “Thanks Pat,” said John approvingly. “Good health.”  
  Pat returned the toast. “The mixed grill looks good to me, what about you Pat?”  
  “I’ll have the same,” said Pat without really looking at the menu. 
  A very pleasant middle aged waitress called Shirley came over to take their order. “Good afternoon gentlemen. Welcome to the Three Horseshoes. Are you ready to order now or would you like more time to look through the menu?  “Yes, now will be fine thank you,” replied John. 
  “Is this your first visit?” asked Shirley 
  “It is,” answered John. 
  “Well, I’m sure it won’t be your last. Would you like a starter or are you just going for a main course?” 
  “We’ll have two mixed grills please,” said Pat. 
  “Excellent choice, you’ll love them.” Responded Shirley “should be with you in about ten to fifteen minutes. Can I get anything else for you gentlemen? a drink from the bar maybe?” 
  “No thanks, not just now,” said Pat. “We’re fine.”  
  “That’s fine sir.”  Shirley then left them and walked straight into the kitchen area and handed their order to the chef. 
  “Nice woman,” said Pat.  
  John grinned and mockingly shook his head at Pat. “It’s time you found a good woman,” he said, “everyone needs someone and you’ve been on your own for far too long now. Trust me, being married to your job and being married to a good woman are not the same thing.” 
  “The job doesn’t nag.” said Pat. 
  “Maybe, but it doesn’t keep you warm and cosy either.” 
  Pat shrugged. He knew better than to continue this conversation. It was one they had had many times before, each time he had lost. 
  John took a drink of lager, “Any more thoughts about yesterday?” 
  “I’ve thought of nothing else. I must have only had an hours sleep last night.” Pat paused looking troubled. “How can what you know to be true, not be true? How can the impossible be possible?” 
  “Just now, Pat, I’ve not got an answer. I know somewhere there is one. I just don’t know where” 
  “John, I’ve got something for you.” Pat looked around the pub, checking they were not being watched. 
  “Who are you looking for?” asked John, feeling slightly nervous at his old friend’s unease.  
  “I don’t know,” said Pat. “I just feel a bit uneasy. It’s a big responsibility knowing something that nobody else knows. Not only that, but knowing that it is true, even if anyone you tell thinks you’re crazy and should be locked away for a very long time in a nice padded cell.” 
  “You’ve not told anyone have you Pat?” 
  “No, have you?” 
  “No” replied John. 
  “Not even Andrew?” 
  “No not even Andrew.” 
  “Why not”  
  “He wouldn’t understand.” 
  “Exactly,” Replied Pat, “and that’s why I haven’t told anyone either.  
  John looked Pat, eye to eye. “You’re not on your own Pat, I know it too, and, I know something else as well. I’m not crazy. What we know may be crazy, but I’m not and you’re not.” 
  At that moment Shirley came over carrying two of the largest plates that either of them had ever seen before. Laid out on the plate was a mixed grill that would satisfy anybody’s appetites. She carefully placed a plate in front of each of them. 
  “I hope you’ve brought your appetites with you today. This mixed grill is the house specialty. Customers come here from all over just for this. We’re very proud of it.” 
  “I’m sure you must be.” Replied John, “then let’s hope that we can both do it justice, I must say it looks delicious.” 
  “So long as you enjoy it, and don’t forget to leave some room for desert.” Shirley then walked away to serve another table that had arrived a few moments earlier.  
  	The Three Horseshoes was beginning to fill up now as staff working for the local offices and businesses started their lunch breaks.  
  “This looks a very popular place.” John said as he cut into his medium rare sirloin steak. It was also in his mind that this may be a good place to bring Tracy for a meal. It had a nice atmosphere. The food was good, not too pretensions for a first date but pleasing enough for her not to think of him as being ‘cheap’. Best of all for John though, probably even more than the food was the excellent premium lager. The Three Horseshoes was a free house, meaning the landlord was able to pick and choose the beers, wines and spirits he sold. John did not know who the landlord was, but he was obviously a man of impeccable taste when it came to beers. This pub was good find. He would defiantly be back. 
  Pat finished eating a piece of Cumberland sausage, “Can’t say I’m too surprised. I can’t remember the last time I ate a meal this good.” He picked up his napkin and patted his lips with it. “Delicious,” he said cutting into his steak. “You know John, food not only has to taste good and look good. It has to smell good. I tell you, this does. You can keep your fancy French and Italian foods. Give me good home cooking any day.” 
  “Fat, cholesterol and all,” replied John. 
  Pat raised his glass, “To fat and cholesterol.” 
  John laughed and raised his glass, “here, here”  
  John knew he would have to bring up the subject of proof sooner or later. “Pat. How are we going to prove our theory? You said yesterday that you may have an idea. Have you?” 
  “Pat swallowed,” then whispered, “I might have. It’s a bit complicated but I think it will work. I’ll need your help though John. I can’t do it without you.” 
  ”You’ve got it, one hundred percent,” whispered John. He then wondered why he was whispering. 
  “Whatever it takes?” asked Pat. 
  “Yes, whatever.” Replied John, still whispering and with just touch of exasperation in his voice. 
  “No one knows what I’m going to tell you just now, so let’s keep it between us for now.” 
  ”Agreed” 
  Pat then went on to tell John his plan. “Going back to the original Ripper murders in the 1880’s the Metropolitan Police were heavily criticized for the lack of evidence they collected from the crime scenes. It was said that this was one of the reasons why they could not catch the killer. The bad feeling towards the Police became so bad that it almost cost the Police Commissioner his job.  
  	What the public and the press did not know, and why it was never released I will never know, is that the Police were swamped with evidence. At least was passed for evidence in the 1880’s. They had clothing from the killer; they had blood samples; they had hair samples. What’s more they had this from almost every crime scene.” 
  John did not interrupt Pat at all. He just sat there enthralled. This was all new information to him on the Ripper killings. A piece of local history that he had studied, had given talks on and yet he knew nothing of what he was hearing. 
  Pat continued, “For some reason, and we have no idea why, the police decided to keep samples of everything they found. Maybe they thought that someday what they had collected may be useful in solving the crimes, or maybe they just collected and kept everything for some unknown reason.” 
  John interrupted for a moment, “Is it possible the police could have known who the killer was, but, because of their identity actually suppressed the evidence so they could never be brought to justice. If you think about it Pat there was some very high profile suspects. In one instance about as high as you can go.” 
  “At this stage, John, anything is possible. Whatever their reasons for doing what they did, just be glad.” Pat continued,” I spent most of the early hours of this morning searching through the Jack the Ripper evidence boxes looking for a good sample of the ripper’s blood. In one of the boxes I found a good sized piece of cloth. Looks like it may have been a shirt or something similar. I know it’s old and the blood has dried up and it’s a long shot, but I think. No, I hope, that a DNA match can be made against a test sample. If the two samples do match then there is absolutely no doubt that Jack the Ripper is responsible for the killing the other day.” 
  Now it was John’s turn to look around, “You have a test sample of the murderers’ blood from the Suzie Reeves murder?” 
  Pat grinned and raised his glass, “Of course my boy. You’re not the only one with a bit of influence in certain places. Anyway, there was that much the police will never miss the drop that I’ve got.” 
  “You hope” said John. 
  “Don’t worry; it can’t be traced back to me. Besides have you any idea how many pieces of evidence are misplaced every year?” 
  John looked at his empty plate. “I’ve no idea where that went,” he said, but I’m still hungry.” 
  “So am I.” answered Pat. He caught Shirley’s attention. She came over straight away. “Looks like you two gentlemen were hungry. Not many finish a ‘Mixed Grill De Lux Special.’ Would you like the desert menu?” 
  “Please.” said John. 
  The menus appeared and before they had a chance to look through it Shirley recommended the black forest gateaux. “I’ll make sure you get extra cream.” She smiled. 
  “Sounds good to me,” said Pat, “extra cream it is. And could we have two more drinks please?” 
  “Certainly, I’ll bring them over and put them on your bill.” 
  “I’m impressed,” said John. 
  “Thank you,” replied Pat, “I think it’s a plan.” 
  “I’m impressed with the service Pat, with Shirley, the waitress.” 
  “Ohh,” he said, “The service.” 
  “The plans interesting to, but I’m intrigued as to how I fit in?” 
  Pat lowered his voice as the couple from the next table stood up to leave. As they walked past Pat he kept quiet.  
  “We need someone we can trust to do the DNA test, someone we have absolute faith in.” said Pat when the couple were no longer in ear shot. 
  “Peter,” said John, “you want me to ask Peter?” 
  “Why not, he’s perfect. We can trust him. He’s one of the Country’s top experts in DNA research. If anyone can help, he can. If he says it’s a match, it’s a match” 
  “And if he says it isn’t?” 
  “Then we’ve saved ourselves a lot of embarrassment.” 
  John thought about it for a minute, “What excuse could I give? I can hardly tell the truth. Brother-in-Law or not I’d be escorted out of his lab quicker than you can say ‘DNA match’” 
  “You’re a journalist, you’re good at improvising. You’ll think of something. Have we got a plan?” 
  “I’ve no choice have I. Anyway, it’s time I had a trip up to Liverpool. I’ll give him a ring this evening and drive up in the morning.” 
  Pat rubbed his hands together. “It’s a plan.” 
  Shirley re-appeared. “Two Black Forests with extra cream and two fresh drinks enjoy” 
  Pat and John stayed in the Three Horseshoes for another hour.  
  The two left the pub and walked over to Pat’s car, the blood samples were in the boot of his metallic blue, year old Freelander. Pat opened the tailgate and took out a medium sized blue coloured picnic cooler box. Secure inside were the blood samples they hoped would prove their theory. Pat handed the cooler box over to John. “Take care of these John, they’re all we have.” 
  “I know.” He said, “Don’t worry; they’ll be safe with me. I’ll keep in touch; don’t switch your mobile off.” 
  “I won’t” he replied, “I’ll be waiting for your call.” 
  “What do you want from this Pat?” 
  “For now, John, I just want to know once and for all if what we think is true, is true. Then we’ll either think of ourselves as two gullible fools or try and figure out how to convince DCS Hughes he is actually trying to find ‘Jack the Ripper’.   
  John nodded and with that, the two men went their separate ways. 
  *  *  *  * 
  The intercom buzzed on DCS Hughes’s desk. “Yes Tracy,” 
  “DI Bales is here to see you sir.” 
  ”I’ll see him in a minute Tracy, ask him to wait please.” 
  Tracy turned to DI Bales. “Have a seat please Detective Inspector. DCS Hughes will be with you shortly. 
  DCS Hughes did not have to let DI Hughes wait. He just wanted to make him ‘sweat’ a little beforehand. News of Ron Billington’s accident reached DCS Hughes shortly after it happened. He had personally gone to the hospital to try and interview Ron to try and find out what had happened. He did not know until he arrived that Ron Billington had been pronounced ‘Dead on Arrival’.  
  	As soon as he had arrived back at New Scotland Yard DCS Hughes had requested immediate access to Ron Billington’s interview tapes as well as the CCTV surveillance tapes from cameras outside New Scotland Yard. Due to their length he was unable to listen to the content of the interview tapes in full. The sections he did listen to though had given him a very good insight into the state of Ron Billington’s mind as he walked out of New Scotland Yard. DCS Hughes was not a happy man, he wanted answers and a part of him felt like giving DI Bales as hard a grilling as he had given Ron Billington. 
  	The Superintendent pressed a button on his desk. “Yes sir?” answered Tracy. 
  “Send in DI Bales please Tracy, oh and Tracy, no refreshments or interruptions.”  
  Tracy looked over to DI Bales, “Detective Inspector, the Chief Superintendent will see you now.” 
  DI Bales stood up and walked past Tracy into the office. DCS Hughes was sat behind his desk flicking through some papers. He made the Inspector wait in front of his desk until he was ready. “Ron Billington, you interviewed him this morning for over three hours with DC Wilding.” 
  “I did sir.” 
  “You are aware DI Bales that Ron Billington is dead, run over outside the station by a route master bus.” 
  “I am sir, a terrible accident Tragic.” 
  “That’s all you have to say on the subject is it DI Bales? Tragic” 
  DCS Hughes had not asked DI Bales to sit he decided to leave him standing. Make him feel slightly uncomfortable. DCS Hughes leaned back in his chair and studied DI Bales face. No emotion, no sadness at what had happened and DCS Hughes determined any guilt. 
  “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight in my mind” said DCS Hughes in his gruff Yorkshire accent. “This morning Ron Billington, at your request had identified the body of his long time girlfriend Suzie Reeves. He did this only an hour or so after finding out she had been brutally murdered on the night he was due to propose to her. From all accounts she would have, without hesitation, said yes. You then ask him to meet you here at New Scotland Yard because you wanted to ask him a few questions, get a little background on Suzie Hughes, right so far?” 
  “Yes sir, I asked” 
  DI Bales did not get any further as DCS Hughes abruptly told him to be quiet. “You’ll get your chance later. Let me tell you DI Bales I have listened to the tapes of the so called interview you carried out with DC Wilding. I have to say I have never been so appalled at what I heard. You brought in a man, in an already vulnerable state and subjected him, without the benefit of counsel, to three hours of what I can only describe a verbal police brutality.” 
  ”I object to that sir” 
  DCS Hughes stood up and looked DI Hughes squarely in the face. “Do not interrupt me again DI Bales, and, bear in mind that I am giving you far more of an opportunity to defend yourself than you and your DC gave Ron Billington. He had no chance once the two of you laid into him with your pre planned assault. Do not be under any illusion DI Bales, as far as I am concerned you may have well have pushed him in front of that bus. It may have been better if you had because then he may have had a slight chance of some justice. As it is he probably won’t.” 
  DCS Hughes sat down again. “Don’t speak.” He snapped. 
  “You are aware there will be a coroner’s inquest into the death?” 
  “Yes Sir” 
  “If requested, I will have no option but to hand over the interview tapes, in their entirety. You do know those tapes will hang the two of you. That interview has already ended a young man’s life. At some point in the future they’ll probably end two careers as well. The two of you are going to need a miracle to get yourselves out of this one. I suggest you go and find one. That’s all.” 
  DCS Hughes then picked up some more papers from his desk and started to read them. DI Bales knew it was better to say nothing. He turned around and walked out of the office. 
  *  *  *  * 
  It was seventeen minutes past five and Andrew Cleaver was in Burger King, enjoying a double bacon whopper with large fries and a regular cola when his phone text alert went off. The sound of the William Tell Overture could be heard in the restaurant as Andrew struggled to retrieve the message. He had been intending for some time now to change the text tone but had never got around to doing it. If he was honest with himself he quite like the ring tone, Andrew always considered the height of intelligence was to listen to the William Tell Overture and think of the Lone Ranger. 
  Andrew was holding his phone in his left hand and his burger in the other. The text message was from Geoffrey Adamson, the private detective he had met earlier in the day.  
  The text read ‘Please call as soon as possible to arrange meeting, preferably today.’ Andrew took a bit from his burger and as he was chewing it dialled Adamson’s number. The call was answered by the very efficient Sylvia. Andrew explained about the text message he had just received and was immediately put through to Geoffrey Adamson.  
  “Hello Andrew, thanks for calling, you got my text then?” 
  “Yes, just now. You have some news for me?” 
  “I have, but not over the phone. How soon can you get over here?” 
  Andrew made a quick mental calculation. Ten minutes to finish my food, quick wash up in the gents, taxi ride. “I can be with you within the hour.” 
  “That’s fine, see you then.” 
  Geoffrey hung up leaving Andrew wondering what he had managed to find out.  
  	Andrew called John to bring him up to date. He had not heard from John since they spoke on the telephone earlier. The call was answered on the first ring. Andrew listened as John brought up to date with most of what had happened at his meeting with Pat. John though did miss out the part about testing Jack the Rippers blood for a DNA match. John did say that he was going to Liverpool the next day, possibly for a day or two and for Andrew to keep in touch. John also asked Andrew to check again for anything that might explain why the original Jack the Ripper murders stopped. At the end of the call Andrew hung up and wondered why John was so fixed on the original killings. “Must be some reason,” he thought.  
  	Andrew knocked on the door of Adamson’s detective agency six minutes earlier than he had expected. His taxi driver had made excellent progress through the busy streets of London. Andrew had been glad though that he was in the taxi and not one of the other drivers on the road who had the misfortune to be in the way of his taxi. The driver certainly had been a ‘man on a mission’. 
  	Sylvia showed Andrew into Geoffrey’s office. Tea and coffee was already laid out as well as a good selection of fresh cream cakes. “Geoffrey certainly knows how to look after his clients” Andrew thought. 
  	Both men were sat in the same chairs as they had done at their morning meeting. Andrew wondered if this was coincidence or territorial, he thought it best not to ask.  
  “Andrew,” said Geoffrey, I have a few bits of information for you. First of all, did you know that Ron Billington was killed this morning?” 
  “No, I had no idea,” replied Andrew. “Was he murdered as well?” 
  “No, apparently he was hit by a bus outside New Scotland Yard. I heard he was called in for an interview this morning and that they gave him quite a hard time.” 
  Andrew shook his head.  
  “The other piece of information is a bit more interesting.” 
  Andrew looked up. “Go on,” he said. 
  “Suzie Reeves or Natallia Kolinsky, to give to woman her real name came into the UK some four years ago. Originally she was brought in to run and expand the Russian Mafia’s prostitution racket. Apparently she was very successful turning what had been a ‘street girl only’ operation into a string of very lucrative lap dancing clubs and high end escorts. By all accounts the escorts were very popular with Middle East clients, some of whom had, shall we say, very diverse tastes.  
  Our girl became so successful that she was promoted within the organisation to look after all aspects of the mobs finances.” 
  “Hence the job in the bank” said Andrew. 
  “Exactly” 
  “How did Ron Billington fit into all of this then?” 
  Geoffrey replied, “From what I’ve been able to find out he was around purely as cover for Ms Kolinsky. He gave her credibility, made her a more believable person. At some point in the future Ron would either have found out what or who she really was. Not good for Ron or he would have killed just because he was no longer needed. Ron’s death was inevitable; it was just a matter of when and how.” 
  “Poor Ron, all he did was fall in love with her. By all accounts though, surprisingly, she loved him just as much.” 
  “I’ve managed to find out some background to Ms Kolinsky before she came over. It appears that she was a full Colonel in the KGB, the Russian secret police. As Russian became more and more liberal in its political views, the KGB became less important, or at least they were not needed in the large numbers of the old Cold War Communist days. This resulted in a large number of highly trained espionage agents being out of work. This by the way Andrew is one reason the Russian Mafia is so feared. Nearly all the top people are either ex KGB or GRU and you do not mess with them. Ms Kolinsky had a very specific role within the KGB. Her job was to innocently meet highly placed foreign officials and people who had special skills and knowledge, for example defence workers; scientists or military personnel working on black projects; ambassadors or even known intelligence agents. She was highly trained in the art of seduction. Like the Canadian Mounties, she always got her man. Then after the compromising pictures and videos had been shown to her mark, the blackmail would start. Nothing too much at first, just enough to get the victim on the hook, enough so that he or in some cases she, could never go back. After a while the demands for information would include sensitive or secret material. The mark could not refuse or else their past exploits would be revealed to their family and bosses. Some could not take the strain and killed themselves. Others went along with it and when they were no longer any use they would have an unfortunate accident, a car crash or drowning perhaps. This was one dirty business that nobody ever walked away from. Our Ms Kolinsky was the best of the best. You could say she was the pro’s pro.”  
  “So,” said Andrew, “she may have had an official rank within the KGB but in truth she was nothing more than a common prostitute with the state as her pimp.” 
  “Exactly, couldn’t have put it better myself. There is one thing you need to know. I have my contacts within the Russian mob, and they are very reliable. We have an understanding. Ms Kolinsky was not killed on the orders of the Russian mob. She was in many ways the ‘jewel in their crown’. This was an outside killing. It was not sanctioned by the Russians and nor did they have any prior knowledge of it. This has taken them by surprise as much as anyone else. Believe me, they want to get their hands on whoever it was even more than you or the police do and I don’t think they are going to be subtle about it.” 
  “Any ideas who might have killed her then?” asked Andrew. 
  “There are a number of possibilities, Firstly the London mob may be flexing their muscle. They’ve had their noses pushed out of joint by the Russians recently and they may have decided to fight back. If that’s the case then we’ll have a gang war the likes of which we have never seen before. It will make the nineteen twenties in Chicago seem like a childish playground spat. On the other hand it could have been a random killing; Ms Kolinsky could just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens.” 
  “Any other possibilities” 
  “Personal. If that’s the case then that could involve Ron. I have to be honest though, I don’t think that’s the case.” 
  ”What is your gut feeling?” asked Andrew. 
  “From the people I’ve got information from today I would go for a random killing. I don’t think she was a selected target, at least not for her Russian connections at any rate.” 
  “Any possibility there may be a long held grudge from someone in the security services. Maybe payback for a previous operation years ago when she was whatever she was in the KGB” 
  “Anything is possible Andrew and that’s a feasible theory, difficult to look into though. I’ll dig around a bit; call a few old school pals who owe me a couple of favours. I have to say I like the way you think. If journalism doesn’t work out for you, give me a call. I can always use a sharp mind.” 
  “Thanks,” said Andrew, not really too sure what to say. “I’ll bear it in mind.” 
  Predictably, as soon as the meeting was over Sylvia entered the office. “Mr. Cleaver, if you would follow me I’ll show you out.” 
  Andrew got the distinct feeling that was not a request, more a nicely phrased order. 	Everyone said their goodbyes; arrangements were made to keep each other up to date on new developments and Andrew was ushered from the premises with pre planned military precision. Once outside he called John and brought him up to speed. Then he then flagged down a taxi and went home. 
    
  Chapter 8 
  The next morning John joined the M1 motorway and headed North West towards the M6 and Liverpool; he set the Jaguar’s cruise control for seventy five miles per hour, the automatic climate control to a comfortable seventy four degrees, sat back in the leather upholstered seat and looked forward to the journey ahead. Using the remote controls on the Jaguars steering wheel he turned up the volume of the CD player. Phil Collins Greatest Hits played thought the cars twelve speakers, filling the car with music. John sang along to the tracks, this was the only time that he allowed himself to sing and then only when he was the only one in the car. While John enjoyed singing he knew he was tone deaf and his pursuit of perfection in all that he did would never allow him the opportunity of singing to an audience. Even his late wife, Pamela had never heard him sing.  
  The X-Type ate up the miles with ease, no fuss, no drama, no stress, no strain and at the end of the journey no aches or pains. Just the way long distance driving should be. John soon found himself passing Watford Gap service station, just a few miles away from the M6 junction. He was making good time.  
  The weather was perfect for driving; it was one of those crisp but sunny spring days. The sky was a clear blue with hardly a cloud to be seen. Every now and again John would look up to see the vapour trails of aircraft criss-crossing their way to who knows where. He wondered where the planes were headed for and why the passengers were on board. No doubt some would be heading off for an important business meeting others would be going away on holidays, parents with excited children counting down the time till landing. Others could be people who worked away from home flying home to spend time with their loved ones.  
  “Time,” though John, “is one of the most precious things we have and probably the one that we appreciate the least. With money you know how much you have, if you haven’t got enough or want more then you can borrow and pay it back. You can’t do that with time, you can’t have any more. You can’t go to friends or relatives and ask to borrow some time. Life was not like that. Time carries on even when you don’t so never waste a second of it.”  
  John was thinking of Pamela, more accurately he was thinking of the time they had together, how, in the overall scheme of things, it had been so little. Yet, given the choice of the little time they had spent together or not to have spent any time together at all, he would have always taken the time he had.  
  John looked across to the passenger seat. He had made this journey on countless occasions, taking Pamela up to Liverpool to visit her brother. In his mind’s eye he could picture Pamela sitting there. She’d be wearing her favourite white blouse, the one he had bought her for her last birthday. Her favourite cream coloured skirt, a shortish one with the subtle multi coloured pattern. Pamela did not like to wear miniskirts but a few inches above the knee was fine for her. Sitting down though did make the skirt ride up a little showing off her long, slim and lightly tanned legs that John loved so much, and on her delicate size four and a half feet she wore a pair of simple open toed sandals with a three quarter inch heel. She was wearing her hair back today, brushed back behind her ears into a ponytail finished off with a scrunchy that matched her skirt.  
  Pamela would, of course, be laughing, teasing him about his driving. How he was driving too slow. She’d be telling him that he made Miss Daisy look like a formula one world champion. She’d be asking if he had booked an overnight hotel stop in Birmingham, just in case the journey was too much for him. John would take all the banter in good fun. He knew she was only teasing. He also knew that Pamela was one of the few people who could take a ribbing as well as giving it out. John breathed a deep sigh, right now, at this exact moment he felt guilty about asking to take Tracy out for dinner. He felt as though he was being unfaithful to Pamela. This was something he would have to deal with. But it could wait.   
  John was just about to join the M6 toll road, worth paying the toll to avoid the M6 Birmingham traffic jams and the never ending road works, when his mobile rang. The mobile was connected to the Jaguars sound system via Bluetooth. The phone display showed up in the communications window in the centre console. A number John did not recognise came up. As soon as the phone rang the cars audio automatically shut down and the phones ringing replaced the music through the speakers. John pressed a button on the dashboard. 
  “Hello, John Reynolds,” 
  ”Hi John, long time no hear. How are things?” 
  John couldn’t believe it. “Tracy,” he said with genuine astonishment in his voice. “This is really weird, I’ve just been thinking about you, just this minute.” 
  ”You’re not having second thoughts about our date are you?” 
  “No, no, well maybe. Tracy, I can’t remember the last time I went out on a date. I’m out of practice. I don’t know if I’d know what to say, how to act.” 
  “If it’s any comfort John, I feel the same. You might think it’s a long time since you last had a date but believe me it’s nothing compared to when I last had a date.” 
  Tracy was nothing if not good with words. 
  “Tell you what John, let’s go out and have a nice meal. No flashy restaurant to impress, how about a good pub meal, couple of drinks, no pressure just two people out together enjoying each others’ company. At the end of the night, well we’ll take it from there.” 
  John thought for a moment, “Sure Tracy, that’s a great idea. I know this great pub, the foods really good and” 
  Tracy interrupted, “Sounds perfect John, let’s not leave it too long though, I’m not into phone sex, dating thing.” 
  “Me neither, give me a real woman any day” replied John. He then realised what he’s just said. “Tracy, I didn’t mean, I mean, I don’t expect.” 
  “John, relax, it’s OK. I know what you mean. By the way are you on your own? I just thought you might have someone with you.” 
  John looked over at the empty passenger seat. “It’s OK Tracy, you’re in the clear. I’m on my own.” 
  Without realizing it John was talking to Tracy for the next hour. She was such an easy person to talk to. It was as though he had known her for years. There were no embarrassing pauses in the conversation, no awkwardness. For the first time in years John felt alive. The call only ended because Tracy had to go back to work, and even then she was eight minutes late. For the first time since Pamela’s death John felt surprisingly relaxed about talking to another woman. “Perhaps,” he thought.  
  At the end of the call John was approaching the M6 – M62 junction at Warrington. The thought of meeting Tracy again brought butterflies to his stomach, his heart rate increased as did his breathing. He felt elated yet at the same time he felt scared. John laughed to himself as he remembered similar feelings when he was an awkward sixteen year old teenager getting ready for a first date. John had never expected to experience those feelings again as he thought they would only ever have been for Pamela. He had to admit, they felt good. John looked over to the passenger seat again. Pamela was sat there looking towards him, her eyes full of love. She smiled one of her sweet smiles, her lips a perfect frame for her pearl white teeth. She nodded, blew him a soft, gentle kiss and whispered over to him “I love you.” Then slowly, ever so slowly, she faded away.  
  	The rest of the drive into Liverpool was straightforward and uneventful. John arrived at the Liverpool University School of Forensic and Scientific Medicine just over three hours and eighteen minutes after he left. Thanks to a very helpful parking attendant John found a free car parking bay in the school’s car park. John walked into the impressive red sand stone Victorian building situated in the Edge Hill district of Liverpool.  
  	The School of Forensic and Scientific Medicine had accepted its first students only six years previously and was mostly funded by various research grants. It was located in what had been a rundown area of the city and not too far away from the scene of the Toxteth riots almost thirty years ago. The school had rejuvenated the area as students from all over the world arrived to study Forensic Science at what was arguably the most modern and up to date university facility in the world. In what were once run down streets with nothing but boarded up and vandalised shops there were now smart upmarket wine bars, bistros and restaurants. Student service shops also sprang up selling everything from stationery to backpacking expeditions around the world. Banks and building societies tried to entice the students with a myriad of offers, each aimed at trying to get the students to open accounts with them instead of the competition.   
  	Run down council housing had been taken over by housing management companies who had completely re-designed the housing stock and turned them into the most desirable student accommodation in the city. At night the area came alive with bright lights, colour and music from the four corners of the world.  
  	Liverpool University and its partners had created a model of urban renewal and it was one that had generated interest from all over the world. 
  	John walked through the revolving entrance way into the grand foyer of the school. Solid Italian marble floors and grand sweeping staircases were testament to the grandeur of the original building and thankfully the architects responsible for its renovation kept, and indeed, improved on the original design.  
  	John walked up to the reception desk, “Can I help you sir?” asked a very pleasant girl with quite a distinct local accent.  
  “I am here to see Dr. Livingstone, my name is John Reynolds.” 
  “One moment please sir and I’ll see if he is free”. 
  John did not have to wait for the receptionist to call as a hand slapped him on his right shoulder. “John, it’s great to see you again. How are you, you OK?” 
  John and Dr. Peter Livingstone gave each other a hug and a few pats on the back for good measure. 
  “How was the trip up, everything OK?” asked Peter. 
  “Fine thanks, no problem at all.” 
  “Come through here,” said Peter opening a concealed flap in the reception desk. “Shareena, this is John Reynolds, my brother-in-law.” 
  “Nice to meet you sir,” replied Shareena 
  “Likewise,” answered John. 
  “John, by the way Shareena, is a hot shot London investigative reporter. So be careful what you say when he’s around.” 
  “I’ll have to remember that,” she replied. 
  Peter took John through to his office. “You hungry John, please say yes because I am starving?” 
  “In that case, yes and you’re buying.” 
  The two men made their way to one of the recently opened Bistros. “This place I highly recommend,” Said Peter, “I try to come here at least once or twice a week.” 
  The waiter showed them to a table by the window. “My favourite spot,” said Peter, “I love people watching. Have you ever studied body language John, people have no idea how much they say without speaking. We call it non verbal communication. It’s fascinating.” 
  “I can think of another word for it,” replied John mockingly. 
  “Not that kind of watching. Listen, before we get into the serious stuff. I’ve got a week’s holiday due to me and I was thinking of coming down to London so how would you like a visitor for a week?” 
  “Of course, you know you’re welcome any time. Just say when.” 
  ”Next Saturday.” 
  “Look forward to it.” 
  “Good, that’s settled then. Now then what’s this mystery you need my help with? You hardly said anything about it on the phone last night.” 
  “I don’t know where to start really,” said John, “It’s a bit stupid really but I had no one else I could turn to that I trust enough to do this for me.” 
  “Do what exactly?” asked Peter. 
  “Remember Pat? From the museum” 
  “Yes, of course I do, any chance of meeting him next week? He’s a great character?” 
  “It’s really Pat you’ll be helping. The other day we were having at look at some of the museums blacker artefacts, and Pat being Pat there was the odd glass of single malt scotch on offer. Anyway, after a few glasses he knocked some of the samples off the table and he has no idea what sample goes with what. After a few days he thinks he’s got most of them sorted out, but, there are two he is not too sure of.” 
  “And they are?” asked Peter. 
  “Two blood samples from a serial killing that is still unsolved. That means that they could still be needed at trail, if there ever is one. You know the rules about evidence, that’s why this has got to be this way.” 
  “I think you mean underhanded,” said Peter 
   “The Met would go spare if they knew what he’d done. I really need your help Peter.” 
  He thought for a moment. ”What do you want me to do?” 
  “Pat has given me the two samples that he thinks are a match. He needs conformation. Could you do a DNA check to see if the two samples match? I know I’m asking a lot but there is no one else I can turn to and the old fool’s just a nervous wreck right now.” 
  “You realise what you’re asking?” asked Peter. 
  “I know …believe me. Look, if you can’t, for whatever reason, that’s OK. I’d understand.” 
  “You’re family John, I’ll take my chances. If I ask one of the lab students to run the test, I can tell them it’s a mock test. What is it again you are looking for?” 
  “I only want to know if it’s a match, that’s it.” 
  “You have the samples with you?” asked Peter. 
  “In the boot of the car, inside a cooler box,” replied John 
  Peter picked up a menu, “Now that’s out of the way, can we have lunch?” 
  After lunch John and Peter headed back to the school, via the car park. John pressed a button on his key fob and the boot clicked open. He took out the cool box and gave it to Peter.  “I owe you for this,” said John. 
  “You do, and believe me, next week I intend to collect. What’s in here by the way?” 
  John explained to Peter what the samples were. Peter nodded, “Should be OK,” he said. “Should take about two hours for a preliminary match, which should be fine for what you want.” 
  John looked surprised, “I’d expected days, not hours.” 
  Peter put the cooler box down on the road. “Look around John, what do you see?” 
  John looked a bit puzzled. 
  “You don’t have to answer,” said Peter, “what we have here is the most technologically advanced DNA research facility in the world, bar none. We can do things here with DNA that science fiction writers haven’t even dreamed of yet. We can get a full DNA profile from a sample one ten thousandth the size of what was needed only five years ago to get the same results. Trust me John; your samples will be more than enough.” 
  Peter could see how relieved John was to hear that. “Come back in two hours. In the mean time have a look around this great city of ours. Look around the Albert Dock or take a trip on the river. Go and relax. I’ll take care of this.” 
  “Thanks again Peter, I mean it.” 
  “One thing John, remember just before when I was talking about reading peoples body language.” 
  ”Yes” 
  “We do it all the time here, in fact we run courses on it for police forces all across Europe. They use it when questioning suspects. An expert reader is more accurate than a lie detector. Just so you know that I know” 
  “Know what asked John. 
  “The story about Pat and the samples, it was all a lie from start to finish. I do believe you need the results of this test, for whatever your reason. I’m sorry you can’t tell me why, but, I assume it must be important to you and for you. That’s why I’ll do it for you. You know that I’ll always help you if I can.” 
  “When I figure out what’s going on Peter, I’ll tell you, everything.  ... Deal” 
  “I’ll see you in two hours. I just hope that whatever news I have is the news you want.” 
  “I hope so to,” said John. 
  Peter then picked up the cooler box and headed back to the school. 
  *  *  *  * 
  Andrew was sat at his desk in the offices of ‘The Daily Herald’. Something was on his mind and it just wouldn’t go away. He had been searching through the paper’s archives and trawling the Internet for something new on the Ripper, something that would bring new light to the hundred year old Ripper mystery. Andrew spent the next two hours going through the newspaper archives covering the three months of the Ripper killings. Then, he remembered, it wasn’t The Daily Herald archives, it was the local paper where he’d seen the report. 
  Andrew went back to the archive library, handed back the papers he had taken out and asked for the local editions covering the same dates. He scanned through them, then, when he had almost gone through every paper, he found what he was looking for. The story was only small but Andrew had a gut feeling that it was probably the biggest story the …… had ever printed. They just never knew it. 
  Andrew went over to the library desk and asked for an electronic copy of one specific paper to be e-Mailed to him. He now had a name to work with. The adrenalin was pounding through his veins. His theory did not yet have any proof, but he felt sure he would find it.  
  Back at his desk Andrew logged in the papers high speed web servers. He called up Google and did a keyword search for the name he had. Google returned thirty five hits. That was more than he expected. He clicked on the blue coloured links and without bothering to read the results clicked on the printer icon. The high tech. electronic pages now became good old fashioned paper or hard copies. Andrew would never admit this to just anyone but he far preferred the feel of paper in his hand when he was reading. Electronic copies from the ‘paperless office’ were all well and good but there was something tangible, more believable about holding a piece of paper with words written on it than reading the same words off a TFT monitor. 
  Andrew knew he was starting to get somewhere, but he still had further to go. Back on the Google home page he widened his search parameters to include anything related to the name he had found. In microseconds Google’s massive computer power presented the results of his search onto his screen. One result stood out so much that a two hundred foot high flashing neon sign would have made less of an impact on his senses. He knew this was the missing piece of the jig-saw and he knew it because the source and content were impeccable. The story was about PC Thompson, the constable who found the Rippers last victim.  
  Andrew read the story, hardly daring to breath. It turned out that PC Thompson was not alone the night he discovered the body. Another constable was with him, PC Ian James. He had not been mentioned previously. When the two constables first realised there was a body on the ground there was a figure standing over it. The constables, who were officially off duty, shouted and ran towards the body, the figure ran off. PC Thompson stayed with Francis Coles but was unable to do anything except comfort her in the last few moments of her life. PC James did not stay; he chased the figure through the streets and back alleys of Whitechapel. When he finally caught the figure, it was too late to make any difference. The person he had been chasing was also dead, killed in what the papers reported as ‘a tragic accident’. 
  That there had been a terrible mistake made that night was clear for all to see. The mistake resulted in the death of someone considered to be very special, someone kind, hardworking and irreplaceable. That this person could ever have been thought of as the Ripper, even for a split second, was laughable, and as a result no further investigations were made.  
  Now Andrew was certain, he had more than enough circumstantial evidence to support his theory. He now knew with one hundred percent certainty who Jack the Ripper was. This revelation would blow the whole Jack the Ripper industry wide open. No one, at any time had even been close to identifying the Ripper, yet the evidence was there all along. It was never hidden. All anyone had to do was look for it. All they had to do was put aside their preconceived ideas, theories and notions about mass murderers and, to use a modern buzz phrase ‘think outside the box’, if they had, the case would have been solved while the killer was still alive. 
  “Just wait till John sees this,” thought Andrew. He then went over to his Apple Mac and started to write. 
  *  *  *  * 
  Peter walked into the DNA testing area of his lab. It is here that hundreds of DNA samples a week are tested by the school.  He gave the samples to twenty two year old Carla Charlton, a final year Bio chemist and one of the brightest students currently studying at the school. The faculty have high hopes for Carla and providing her final exam results turn out to be what they predict then she will immediately be offered the opportunity to study for her PhD in Bio chemistry. 
  For someone of Carla’s capability the test was straight forward. Once she had the results they were logged, along with the DNA chemical profile in the national database.  
  Within seconds of the profile being added a ‘red flag alert’ was flashing on a computer screen in the Homeland Security Section of GCHQ in Cheltenham. The alert was immediately passed on to the shift supervisor who was able to trace the data source back to the computer terminal Carla had used to log her results. 
  Within five minutes of the alert a team of five people were locked in a secure room at HSS, there was only one item on the agenda. Why was that particular DNA profile tested, by whom and why? Eight minutes after the start of the meeting the team had decided to authorise an immediate ‘Class A1A’ response. The operation was given the code name ‘Woolton’. 
  HSS agents, based in Liverpool, were contacted and given their orders verbally. Their ‘rules of engagement’ arrived by secure fax less than sixty seconds later. 
  Three minutes after the agents were given the orders Peter Livingstone received a telephone call. It was answered by Shareena who immediately paged Peter.  
  “Yes Shareena?”  
  “I have a call on line five for you Dr. Livingstone. The caller would not give his name but...” 
  Peter interrupted, “It’s OK Shareena, I’ll take it in my office.” 
  The school did not have a ‘line five’; it was a code word for ‘Extreme Importance’. Peter had no idea what could have activated the code as he picked up the extension in his office. When he put the phone down a minute and a half later he wished that was still the case.   
  *  *  *  * 
  John has taken Peter’s advice and spent a very pleasant couple of hours walking around the Albert Dock complex. Once derelict warehousing, now transformed into an upmarket shopping area with an excellent selection of wine bars and restaurants.  
  The weather was perfect for walking around the dock, clear skies and sunshine but with a crisp bite of wind blowing in from the Welsh mountains. John should have been enjoying his afternoon but his mind was elsewhere. For John time seemed to be going backwards, he had lost count how many times he had checked his watch. In the end he decided to go back anyway. “May as well wait there as here,” he thought. 
  John arrived back at the school. He entered the reception and walked up to Shareena who was busy sorting the outgoing post. “Hello Mr. Reynolds, did you enjoy your afternoon?”  
  “Yes thank you Shareena, very nice. It’s a great day for walking, and please John, call me” 
  “OK John, I’ll let Dr. Livingstone know you’re here.” 
  Shareena let Peter know that John was in reception, he came straight out. 
  “John, let’s go through to my office, it’s a bit quieter there.” 
  John followed Peter back to his office; Peter closed the door behind them.  
  “Any news?” asked John. 
  “I have,” said Peter, “I’d best give you these back before I forget them.” Peter handed the cooler box back to John. “No doubt, Pat will want these back?” 
  “Any news?” asked John a second time. 
  “Do you really want to know?” asked Peter, “I can tell you, the answer is in this envelope.” 
  “I have to know Peter,” replied John, “I’m sorry about before. I just can’t say why right now, but yes, I do need to know. Please, trust me.” 
  “Have you ever thought John that sometimes it is better not to know something? You must have a compelling reason to know if the samples match. Are the results really that important to you?” 
  John was not getting good vibes from Peter. He could not put his finger on exactly what the problem was but the atmosphere had definitely cooled. 
   “I’m checking out a theory for an article I’m putting together for the paper. These results are critical. If they confirm to be true what I think is true then at least I’ll know I’m not cracking up. I have no idea what the next step will be, I’ll worry about that after I’ve met with Pat when I get back to London. Without the results there won’t be an article. If they don’t match there won’t be an article.” 
  “So Pat really is involved in this, whatever, you’re investigating?” It was more a statement from Peter than a question. 
  “Pat’s an expert in his field. I needed someone with his level of knowledge and expertise to check something for me. He believes the samples will be a match.” 
  “And you John, what do you expect the results to be?” 
  “Pat confirmed my own thoughts so I also expect the samples will be a match.” 
  Peter picked up the envelope containing the results. He handed it over to John. He held it and hesitated. “Do you know the results Peter?” 
  “Just now John only two people know the results, Carla who did the test and me.” 
  “I have to know.” John replied. He tore open the envelope, took out the results and with trembling hands read them. John looked at Peter. “It’s a match,” he said, almost whispering. “They match.” 
  John put the results on the desk and said nothing. He felt numb. The two men sat in absolute silence. Peter was the first to speak, “Does the match solve your mystery?” 
  John was still quiet for a while longer. “These results are not the end of something Peter, they are the beginning. How can you have an answer to something and yet have the answer to nothing? These results are accurate?” 
  “They have been checked twice John. Accuracy is 99.99, add in as many other nines as you want, %. We always have to leave the possibility of a mismatch open but we also know there isn’t one.” 
  “John, I’m not digging but, is this paternity thing?” 
  “You think, I .., No, it’s not paternity.” 
  “I just thought, well you know. John,” 
  “It’s OK, I understand, if I’m any further forward when you come down then we’ll have a talk. Could probably do with your help anyway to try and understand a few things.” 
  “Sorry to rush off like this John but while you were out we had a call from a major client. Everything’s wanted yesterday. I’ll give you a call about coming down but, with what’s come up, it may be in a couple of weeks.” 
  The two hugged. “Don’t leave it too long,” said John, “see you soon.” 
  John went straight back to his car, put the samples back in the boot and then making sure he had the results safely in his pocket headed back to London. 
    
  Chapter 9 
  John’s mind was full of all sorts of possibilities as he was driving back to London and he was finding it difficult to concentrate on driving. If John had been giving his driving the usual full attention he may have noticed the green Vauxhall Astra that had been following him ever since he left the Liverpool University School of Forensic and Scientific Medicine. The tail was not obvious; they were far too well trained and professional to allow that. They sat three of four cars back from the Jaguar but always keeping him in visual range. 
  The HSS agents had arrived in the University School car park twenty minutes before John had left. In the first instance their orders were to keep the car and target under observation and wait for further instructions. At fifty five minutes into the journey the HSS agents received a call on the secure, portable satellite phones. The stakes had now just been raised. The three men and one woman in the car were given new orders. The surveillance on the target had been upgraded to Code Orange. Visual observation was no longer good enough; from now on they would also use electronic tracking. HSS were not taking any chances that John may slip away from them. 
  The agents had no idea who John Reynolds was or why he had been assigned as their target. They did not need to know and, to them, it made no difference. They had been given their assignment and would carry it through regardless. As soon as the surveillance upgrade had been authorised, agent three, punched John’s car registration number into their PDA. In less than three seconds John’s life was on the screen. Electronic cross checking via GCHQ databases has brought up John’s address; land line and mobile numbers, also available to the agents were his ISP account details including every web site he had visited over the past three years; his e-Mail address and password; all contact details regarding work, all foreign travel within the past five years, banking and credit card details were also available, if required along with a list of his fifty most frequently dialled numbers over the past two years. Agent three updated the others.  
  John felt the start of a headache coming on so decided to stop at the next service station. He was feeling slightly hungry anyway so the combination of food, a hot drink and time to clear his head should do the trick. Six minutes late John turned off into Keel Services, parked up the Jaguar and went inside. Less than fifteen seconds later the green Astra also parked up. 
  John ordered a steak pie, chips, peas, gravy and a large coffee. He paid for his food, picked a seat overlooking the motorway and started to eat. Watching him from the door agent two activated the microphone on her miniature digital radio. “Agent two, target in sight, you’re clear.” 
  Agent one acknowledged by clicking his microphone twice. He turned to agent four in the rear of the Astra. “You’re cleared, go” 
  Agent four got out of the Astra, made a quick visual scan of the area then walked towards the Jaguar, when he had almost reached the car he stopped and started to make out he had dropped some money on the ground. He got down on his hands and knees and looked under the car next to the Jaguar. Not finding anything he then looked under the John’s car. He then lay on the ground, his head and arms underneath the boot. Agent four then secured a miniature tracking device in place. Making out he could not reach what he was looking for he then went to the drivers’ side of the car, crawled underneath again and fixed a second device directly under the driver’s seat. This device would enable the agents to listen to every conversation inside the car providing they were within a half mile radius. Happy with his work agent four went back to the Astra. Agent one then called agent three, “Clear, RTU.” 
  Agent three returned to the Astra where they sat and waited.  
  	The tracking device fitted to the underside of John’s X-Type was a very small military specification GPS locator and transmitter. The unit was self contained and was powered by a sophisticated lithium ion battery that would only need to be changed every two months. In order to extend the battery life the unit was motion sensitive. If the car remained stationary for more than fifteen minutes it would automatically go into ‘nap’ mode. This meant only one location signals per minute would be transmitted until the car started to move and ‘wake up’ the device. With the GPS in place the squad of HSS agents could stay further back than they had. Visual contact with their target was no longer essential. The technology would take care of that for them. 
  	John was completely unaware that he was now officially listed as an HSS target. He had no idea at all that he was being followed or that his car had been bugged, not once but twice. Once John had been confirmed as a target the agency acted quickly and expertly. As soon as his mobile network and number had been confirmed, a signal was sent to his handset to activate the built in GPS locator. It is not generally known but all mobile phones are fitted with GPS locators. This is what the police and other emergency services use to pin point the position of an emergency call when made from a mobile. The AA and RAC use a civilian version of the technology to locate drivers of cars that have broken down ‘in the middle of nowhere’ and the driver has no idea of their location. The two technologies are very similar and the only real difference is the accuracy of the location. One square foot for the emergency services, six square feet for civilians. So long as John has his mobile switched on his was whereabouts were traceable and logged. If need be a printout of every step he made during any given twenty four hour period could be printed out after a few keystrokes.  
  	Outside John’s house in London HSS agents, disguised as BT engineers, placed an electronic tap on his phone line. This would also give the agency piggy back access to John’s Internet activity. A keystroke logger ensured that all of his usernames and passwords were no longer as secure as he would have wanted. Minute laser voice transmitters were hidden in both his front and back garden. These devises, about the size of a matchbox shone an ultra violet laser beam on the house windows. Any speech inside the house would make the window act as a microphone. Minute vibrations would be detected by the lasers, encoded then broadcast to a van parked five hundred yards down the road. Here the signal would be de-coded and recorded onto a computer hard disc. 
  	HSS agents were busy that night as John was not the only person who was getting their full attention. Unbeknown to him, Pat, was also now an official HSS target and until deemed otherwise, by people Pat would never know or see, he would no longer be able to live without his every movement and every word being logged and recorded. 
  *  *  *  * 
  	Approximately one hour from home John called Pat on his car phone, after three rings Pat answered, “John, I’ve been waiting for your call. How was your trip? Worthwhile I hope?” 
  “Depends on what you think of as successful Pat, I can’t figure out if I’ve got good or bad news for you.” 
  “Why not let me be the judge of that then, John. You know I’ve been waiting since yesterday for this call, just put me out of my misery.” 
  “No misery Pat, the samples came back as a perfect match. As close a match as two samples can be.” 
  Pat was elated, “We were right then John, my boy. By God, we were right. We’re not cracking up yet then.” 
  “We need to talk Pat, and not over the phone. I’ll give you a call in the morning and we’ll meet up later tomorrow.” 
  “Any ideas what we do now?” asked Pat. 
  “That’s something we need to talk about. We can’t keep this to ourselves but I’m not sure how we can possibly go to the police to tell them they have a hundred and fifty year old plus serial killer on the loose.” 
  “Just now John, I have no idea either. But the truth is there is. Leave it with me, I’ll sleep on it.” 
  ”OK Pat, see you tomorrow.” 
  “John,” 
  “Yes Pat,” 
  “You know we might just have created some form of criminal history. In the future students could write their dissertations on how we solved this case.” 
  “Let’s solve it first then Pat, then we’ll see.” 
  “Drive safely John, see you tomorrow.” 
  “I will Pat, till tomorrow.” 
  John ended the call. For the first time since hearing the test results John managed a smile as he recalled what Pat had just said, “In the future students could write their dissertations on how we solved this case.” That would be something.   
  As soon had John had activated his car phone a transmitting warning light had glowed red in the HSS Vauxhall Astra following half a mile behind. Agent two, who was sat in the back of the car, placed his finger on the ‘record’ icon on the PDA’s five inch touch screen. Agent two was listening to the conversation via a Bluetooth earpiece, at the same time; the PDA captured and stored the entire conversation. 
  John arrived home feeling tired and in need of a long hot shower. He noticed the ‘calls received’ light was blinking on his answering machine but decided to leave listening to his messages until later. He went into the kitchen and made a strong cup of his favourite coffee. Sitting down in the living room he took out his mobile, selected ‘new message’ from the menu options and wrote a text to Tracy, ‘Hi Tracy, just got back. Are you free tomorrow evening? Pick you up at seven. John.’ He pressed send on his phone. Almost instantly two phones beeped indicating an inbound message had been received. Tracy picked up her phone, read the message and replied ‘Glad you’re back, I have cleared my diary for tomorrow night can’t wait to see you. Seven will be fine. Tracy’. She then pressed send as for no apparent reason her heart rate increased and her stomach felt a little strange. 
  *  *  *  * 
  Agent two read out aloud John’s text, “Looks like he’s after a date for tomorrow night.” His PDA beeped a second time. “He’s going.”  
  “Anyone we know?” asked agent one.  
  “We have the number but it’s very low down on the frequency called list. Maybe he’s only just met her.” 
  “Agent four looks like you and I are going out for a nice romantic evening tomorrow. Wear something nice.” 
  “My, you certainly know how to sweep a girl off her feet.” 
  	As far as most people in the country, and ninety nine percent of MP’s the HSS agency did not exist. It was an ‘above top secret’ organisation whose main function was to protect the institution of the ‘Government and the Monarchy’. They ensured that any threat, real or perceived against any member of HM Government or the Royal Family was investigated and, if required, dealt with pro-actively and not, as was the usual case re-actively. Whether they like the thought or not MPs and members of the Royal Family were being protected without their knowledge or consent.  
  	The powers the organisation had went way beyond anything other law enforcement agencies had ever had. This resulted in agents making major ‘in the field’ decisions. Most of the agents were recruited from other secret service departments or the Special Forces. All needed exemplary or higher six month evaluations for at least two years prior to joining. HSS did not advertise, they head-hunted. So far they had never been refused.  
  	Agents would always work in the same four person team, each totally relying on the other for their back up and support. Each member of the team was a specialist in one area and very competent in at least three others. All were highly trained field medics. In contrast to other agencies no one knew anybody else’s name. A four person team was led by ‘Agent one’ the other three members being assigned numbers two to four in no order of seniority. Agents would always keep their same team numbers, except when promoted to number one. When names were required they would be randomly chosen by the agent. They were never allowed to use the same name twice. 
  *  *  *  * 
  	John listened through his messages. Andrew had called a couple of times, the last message asking John to check his e-Mail and to say he would bring him up-to-date in the office tomorrow. As soon as the PC booted-up John called up his e-Mail account. He typed in his user name and password.  
  	“Thank you very much,” whispered a voice in the back of a van parked down the road. 
  	There were the usual assortment of junk e-Mails asking for John’s help with a financial problem in Africa and did he need this pill or that medication to ‘improve his performance and stamina’. “Pass,” he thought. John found Andrew’s e-Mail and read it. He then read it again. Andrew had sent a brief report about Suzie Reeves and how this might affect their investigation into the killing. Andrew had not yet passed anything on to New Scotland Yard; he wanted to let John know first. The last paragraph caught his attention. Andrew said he was almost certain of JTR’s identity and that he would explain it all to him tomorrow.  
  “Find out who JTR is,” said surveillance agent two.  
  “I’m on to it” came the reply. 
   	“That would be something if you have,” thought John “because then we will have the name of Suzie Reeves killer. Pat and I know it was the same person and you know the name.”  For John it was going to be another long, sleepless night. 
  	John walked into the Daily Herald offices at eight fifteen. Andrew was already there. “Morning John, welcome back.” 
  ”Thanks Andrew,” replied John; “is that coffee still hot by any chance?” 
  Andrew poured a large cup for John who sipped it as though it were a fine vintage wine. “That’s better,” he said, then after another drink from his cup, “Is there anything urgent that can’t wait just now?” 
  “No John, everything’s fine around here.” 
  “Good, that’s what I had hoped. Now let’s hear this theory of yours.” 
  For the next hour and a twenty minutes John listened as Andrew explained his theory to him. He did not interrupt at any time as he was shown photocopies of newspaper cuttings from Eighteen Eighty Eight. Andrew also had webpage printouts that filled in a lot of the killers’ background as well as providing motives for the murders.  John listened intently and read everything that Andrew showed him.  
  Once Andrew had finished John sat back. He looked over to Andrew, “You do know that you may well have solved one of the greatest criminal mysteries of the past hundred and fifty years. People from all over the world have studied the Ripper murders, University students and their professors have studied the killings in the hope of finding the identity. You have a very powerful case here, probably the most powerful I have heard. We need someone else to hear this.” 
  John grabbed the phone and punched in Pats number. He answered after two rings, “Hi John.” 
  “Pat, listen up. Andrew and I are coming round to see you now. I think Andrew may have found something to help us. I can’t tell you any more over the phone, it’s too complicated. We’re leaving now; we’ll be at the museum shortly.” 
  With that John hung up. “Come on Andrew, get everything together, and don’t leave anything behind.” 
  John and Andrew jumped into a taxi, John gave the address and promised the driver double fare if he could get them there within half an hour. 
  	John and Andrew were not the only people on their way to the black museum, a squad of HSS agents were also keen to get there. John’s enthusiasm for Andrews’s theory had taken them by surprise. To date, Andrew had only been listed as a ‘work colleague – student’. The fact that he had come up with an independent theory raised his HSS profile considerably. Within the next sixty minutes Andrews’s life would come under as much scrutiny as John and Pats already had. 
  	The journey did cost John twice as much as taxi pulled up outside the Black Museum twenty six minutes after leaving the Daily Herald’s offices. He paid the driver, then knocked on the museum door and waited for Pat to answer. 
  	The HSS agents were watching from across the road through blacked out side windows of an old rusty Ford Transit crew bus. The agents had the floor plans of the museum, but, at this point, did not know exactly whereabouts in the building they would go. All they could do was sit tight and wait. 
  	Pat opened the door. “My John, you’re in a hurry this morning, what’s the matter? Everything OK I hope?” 
  John and Andrew went inside. John closed the door behind them, “Anyone else in here Pat?” 
  “No just us. Does that matter?” 
  “That’s what I was hoping Pat. Can we use the auditorium?” asked John. 
  Pat was looking confused. The initial elation caused by yesterday’s conversation had worn off and in its place was the realisation that something way beyond their understanding was happening. He was starting to worry that maybe they had found out something they were never meant to. Pat could see that this was not the right time to talk to John about his concerns, they could wait until later.  
  “The auditorium? yes, of course, this way.” 
  Pat led the way to the auditorium, John and Andrew following in silence.  
  Outside the HSS agents were scanning over the blueprints for the location of the auditorium. “There it is,” said agent three, “first floor, east section, rear of the building.” The other agents all looked at the location, it was not ideal for their purposes. The auditorium was mainly used as a lecture hall and was designed to have very little natural light. The only windows were running along the top of the external wall. The blueprints put them fifteen feet off the floor and as each window was only two foot in height the HSS agents would have difficulty hearing what was being said inside even with their sophisticated listening devices. “We have to go in,” said agent one, “agent two, find a window on the ground floor that we can use to get in and out. Take agent four with you. Once they are in the auditorium make your way to it and slip a wire microphone underneath the door. There should be more than enough clearance. If possible, see if you can also get a fibre optic camera under as well. It’s always useful to have visual as well as audio. We know there is no one else in the building so you should have enough time to pull out once they have finished.”  
  Agents two and four gathered together the equipment they needed, and then slid open the side door of the van and headed off towards the black museum. 
    
  Chapter 10 
  John and Pat settled themselves into the auditorium’s comfortable armchair style seats. They were both sat next to each other in row three. Andrew was stood at the front, his laptop connected to the data projector that was shining the image of a newspaper cutting from 1891. 
  At the side of the building the two HSS officers had found a partially opened window leading to what looked like a store room. They carefully opened slid the window open, just enough so they could slip through the gap and into the room. Once inside they closed the window, but left just enough of a gap that they would be able to open it quickly if need be. Agent two turned the handle of the door, it was locked. Agent four was the teams’ expert at opening anything that was locked. The door did not even present him with a challenge. The two agents then quickly and silently made their way towards the auditorium. They arrived to find large double doors leading into the auditorium. The flooring was carpet and the bottom of the doors just touched it. This ensured the carpet would not create any problems when trying to open the door but also made a good seal against drafts. This was ideal for the two agents. The carpet would give way, just enough to allow then to slip their listening devices under the door, the carpet would them spring back up and hold their equipment in place. Both agents had spent many hours practicing and training for moments like this and they quickly slid the camera and microphone underneath the door. The two pieces of equipment were then connected to the agent fours PDA.  They had audio and visual. The doors leading onto the auditorium were at the back of the room and central. This gave the camera an image of Andrew and the screen behind him. The audio was acceptable but not perfect. Back in the van agents one and three were also watching and listening to Andrew via the PDA’s satellite link. 
  Pat turned to John, What’s this about John, anything to do with yesterday?” 
  John smiled and said to Pat, “Just sit back, keep an open mind and save any questions until the end.” 
  Andrew began to tell his story. 
  Whitechapel, London 13th February 1891. 
  	It was one forty five AM and the regulars of the Red Heart pub in Whitechapel were still drinking and enjoying their ale. The pub was full of the usual assortment of Victorian Whitechapel residents. Late night drunks, prostitutes plying their trade, pimps ensuring they got their cut, card sharks and tricksters ready to take money from any gullible fool who chanced their luck, pickpockets out for whatever they could get and a couple of police officers who could not find anywhere else to get a drink at this time of the morning.       
  The atmosphere in the pub was heavy with smoke. The air smelled of stale beer, body odour, bad breath and an assortment of stomach churning smells from excreted body fluids of all descriptions. Fights between both individuals and gangs were common place as were broken limbs and stabbings.  
  The landlord of the Red Heart was an ex bare knuckle boxer known as Flat Nose, it was doubtful if even he now remembered his real name. Flat Nose tried to keep the fights to a minimum and would physically throw out of the pub anyone whom he thought might be there only for trouble. In his eyes there was a difference between trouble and a fight. Standing six foot three inches tall and weighing eighteen stone Flat Nose was a giant of a man. As an ex bare knuckle fighter, he was not against the odd fight, for him it was just a bit of fun to brighten up his day. At least twice a week he would announce that “Tonight is all comers night,” and anyone who could put him on the floor would have all the ale he could drink free for the night. To date, Flat Nose had a one hindered percent win record. There were times though that Flat Nose was simply outnumbered, especially when pimps were trying to steal girls from their rivals. Pimps never went anywhere on their own, they always travelled with at least three minders whose main job was to ensure punters paid. Their secondary role was to look after their bosses interests and whenever possible increase the number of girls working for him. 
  Tonight was a quiet night. There had only been two fights and no major injuries which was good news for PC Ernest Thompson and DC George Elliot. The two officers knew each other but were not friends. Tonight both had finished their shifts at the same time and decided to have a couple of ales on the way home. At just after midnight the Red Heart was the only pub open. After half an hour and two pints the atmosphere and smell was almost bearable. “One more drink then George,” said Ernest, “then I’m off home. Back on at ten in the morning.”  
  Ernest ordered another two pints, and twenty minutes later both officers left the pub and started to walk home. 
  	As the two men walked along Chamber Street they saw a body lying in the road, a figure was crouched over it. They were about seventy five yards away when they first saw the body, PC Thompson shouted, “Stop, Police. Stay where you are.” 
  The figure looked up and saw the two policemen running towards them. The figure picked up a bag from the road, stood up, looked towards the approaching officers, turned and ran. The figure had an eight second start as the two officers reached the body of Frances Coles. She had severe head injuries and her throat had been cut. To PC Thompson’s amazement she was still alive.  
  “You do what you can here,” said DC Elliot, “I’ll try and catch whoever ran away.” 
  DC Elliot started to run after the figure but slipped in Frances Coles blood. He picked himself up and headed off in the direction the figure had run. 
  	Three quarters of a mile away, in Church Road the local blacksmith was shoeing the first horse of a four team. The horse was still attached to the rest of the team and the team were attached to a coal wagon. The horse had thrown a shoe half an hour before and the driver had only found the blacksmith by chance. Despite the time the blacksmith had agreed to re-shoe the horse, but to save time he had not unfastened the horse from the rest of the team. Just as he was hammering in the last of the nails a screaming cat flew out from a side alley chased by three howling dogs. The cat ran underneath the team of horses followed by the dogs. Two of the dogs ran into the horses that then kicked out at the dogs. The blacksmith was thrown of balance and fell hard against the road. The first two horses reared up, their front legs clawing at fresh air. The dogs had spooked the horses and when their feet touched the ground the team bolted. The team of horses and the coal wagon they were pulling was now out of control and starting to build up speed. Despite their best efforts neither the blacksmith nor the driver could catch the fleeing horses. 
  	The figure ran on, not daring to look back but knowing they were being chased by someone much fitter than they. The distance between them started to close. It was now down to six seconds. The figure ran into the narrow, dark passageways that riddled Whitechapel. They knew the area well and hopped their pursuer did not. The gap was now down to four seconds and they could feel the officer’s breath on the back of their neck. By now both should have collapsed on the floor and be fighting for breath but the adrenalin gave both the strength and energy to carry on, thirty yards ahead the figure knew there was a sharp turn to the right that led into Chamberlain Way, off here were any number of small alleys and the figure was certain that so long as they could reach there then they had a good chance of escape. 
  	The team of bolting horses were running blind and wild. With no one to guide them they just ran wherever the roads led them. The horses ran at full speed into Chamberlain Way, twenty yards to go, ten yards then five, turn now thought the figure as they ran out of the alley and into Chamberlain Way. Across the street were the alleys and possible escape. 
  	Not stopping for anyone of anything the team of horses ran towards the alley way the figure was just running out of. The figure did not stop to look if it was clear to cross there was no time for that. Escape was all that was on their mind.  
  	DC Elliot was now only a couple of seconds behind and he could almost touch the figure. That few seconds, he later recalled, was what had saved his life. The figure ran out of the alleyway at exactly the same time as the runaway horses. The figure realised too late that the horses could not stop or avoid them. Within the blink of an eye the figure had been trampled by all four horses and run over by two of the wagons wheels. The body of the figure bounced up against the bottom of the wagon, the flowing cloak then became tangled around the wagons rear axle and the body was dragged over a hundred and twenty yards down the road before the cloth tore away from the wagon and the now lifeless corpse rolled to a stop. DC Elliot had also been running too fast to stop but fortunately, for him, missed the horses by a few feet. Instead he bounced off the rear left hand side overhang of the coal wagon. It was the luckiest day of his life.  
  	Holding his right shoulder, DC Elliot ran up to what was left of the lifeless body lying on the road. He looked down at the bloody and battered mess, then, took out his police whistle and started blowing for assistance. 
  	At the original crime scene PC Thompson had held Francis Coles as her life finally slipped away. Despite all of his training and listening to the tales of the more experienced beat officers in the station PC Thompson still found the experience to be very traumatic. He had been a police officer for only two weeks prior to tonight. He had regular nightmares until he died fifty seven years later. 
  	At that moment every policeman in Whitechapel was convinced that DC Elliot and PC Thompson had caught ‘Jack the Ripper’ and that the terrible murders that had plagued Whitechapel over the past couple of years were now finally over. The mood was high and then, as now, good news travels fast. News of their success arrived back at their police station long before they did. Everyone from the Station Commander down to the cleaners wanted to shake their hands. The two men were heroes. The two officers gave their statement of events to their senior officers, all required paperwork was completed. At last the final chapter about Jack the Ripper had been written, and it was a fitting end. 
  	When it came in, the news that Jack the Ripper was still alive resulted in police morale hitting rock bottom. Whispers started to be heard within the senior ranks about an hour before it was confirmed to the beat officers and those who had been investigating the Ripper murders. The accident victim’s body had been taken from the scene to the local mortuary. Despite the cause of death being obvious to everyone the law required an autopsy be performed. This was not only to officially record the cause of death but to confirm the victim was actually dead. It became clear almost from the start of the autopsy that the victim could not be Jack the Ripper. The accident victim was a woman. 
   
   
   
   
  	Police now had the job of identifying who the victim was. There was nothing to identify the victim in her clothes nor did she carry any purse, handbag or anything with a name on it or in it. DC Elliot was certain she had picked up a bag when she fled the crime scene but no bag had been found around the scene of the accident. He could not remember her throwing a bag away while he was chasing her. The coroner, Dr. Stephen Clarke, did note one thing he thought unusual, and this had added to the original confusion over her identity, the victim was wearing male clothes.  
  	It was the following morning when the victim was identified. Her name was Jacqueline Dupree. Jacqueline came from a wealthy middle class family who lived on the outskirts of London. Jacqueline worked as a nurse in the Whitechapel Free Hospital. Colleagues told the police how highly respected she was. That she was an excellent nurse who had a natural ability to work with the sick and injured. Many of her colleagues commented that, in their opinion, Jacqueline would have made an excellent doctor. Had it not been for the intransigence of the British Medical Association, she may well have done. Jacqueline had made three applications to be accepted into medical school and solely on the grounds of her being a woman, had been turned down on each occasion.  
  	Jacqueline did not make a fourth application, instead she concentrated on nursing. For the past two years she had been a theatre nurse working with some of the country’s top surgeons. Even they had to acknowledge that Jacqueline had a natural ability in the theatre. Despite working under intense pressure, her manner was always calm and cool. Many a surgical patient would not have survived had it not been for Jacqueline’s nursing and medical skills and more than one newly qualified surgeon had Jacqueline to thank for guiding them through some of the more complicated problems they came across. 
  	On the night of the accident Jacqueline had been on her way to a fancy dress party, which explained why she was dressed on male clothes. Her family were convinced that Jacqueline came across Francis Coles after she had been attacked and being a nurse her first concern would have been for her patient. While trying to treat Francis Coles, Jacqueline would have looked up and seen two men running towards her, shouting. It was obvious to her family that she was afraid that one of the two men was the murderer. Jack the Ripper had returned to the crime scene, with someone else, to make sure his victim was dead. Scared she would be his next victim Jacqueline ran off. It was also said and reported in the local papers that she would not have known the man chasing her was a police man. It was all a tragic mistake. The police thought they were chasing Jack the Ripper, Jacqueline thought she was being chased by Jack the Ripper. 
  	The Dupree family were very private and not much was known about them. Three generations ago Alexander Dupree came over to England from France. Here he met and married Margaret Constance. Alexander was a milliner and he set up a clothing factory in the east end of London. Over the years the business grew and soon became the largest clothing factory outside the industrial areas of Lancashire. The business made the Dupree family very wealthy and with wealth came privileges. As a result, over the years the family lost most of its French connections. There was though one typically French attribute that did not leave the family. Throughout the generations the men all, without exception, took mistresses or had numerous affairs. For most of the time the men were very discrete. The wife and the mistress would never meet, and both would be well looked after and provided for. William Dupree, Jacqueline’s father did not follow this ‘noble’ tradition. He did not take a mistress, one woman was not enough for him and neither was it enough for his ‘unusual’ sexual needs. William Dupree was a regular visitor to Whitechapel brothels and Whitechapel streets.  
  	It did not take too long for William to catch syphilis, something that was incurable in Victorian times. At first William did not know he had the disease and passed it onto his wife. The syphilis affected his wife far more severely than it had him. William was able, with the help of his doctors, to keep the infection under control. In fact his doctors were amazed at how he managed to do so. His wife, Jacqueline’s mother was not so lucky. The infection took hold and over a period of time spread thorough her system. Annette Dupree died just a few days before Jacqueline’s sixteenth birthday. Family members who were around her at the time all remember one thing. Jacqueline never turned her back on her father; she never once blamed him for causing her mother’s death. In Jacqueline’s mind whoever it was that gave her father syphilis was the one who had killed her mother. That is the person who should bear the responsibility.  
  	It was also reported that after her mother’s death Jacqueline became very involved in her local church. She regularly attended bible study classes and would read the Holy Book over and over again until, it was thought, she knew every verse by heart. 
  	Andrew summed up his findings and finished by saying, “I can only conclude from all of this evidence that Jacqueline Dupree was Jack the Ripper.” He then walked back over to a seat next to John and Pat. 
  “I don’t know what to say to you Andrew,” said Pat, “Would you mind if I can study your evidence?” 
  “Of course you can,” Andrew replied. 
  Pat then turned to John, “Does Andrew know about your trip yesterday?”  
  Andrew looked at John, “You went up to see your brother-in-law didn’t you?” 
  John had to look away from Andrew for a minute. “I also asked him to check something out for me, something that might be connected to the murder and what you have discovered.” 
  “John,” said Pat, “did Peter say what gender the blood sample was?” 
  “No just that they matched. Why?” 
  “When you test DNA you can tell lots of things, genetic illnesses for example, another is gender. Call Peter now, ask him for the gender of the samples he tested yesterday. We know they match. Let’s see if we can get young Andrew’s theory past its first test.” 
  John opened his phone, scrolled through his contacts menu, selected his brother-in-laws number, selected call, then waited for it to be answered. It was Shareena who answered the call.  
  “Hi Shareena, this is John, Peter’s brother-in-law. Is he around?” 
  “Alright John,” she replied “Dr. Livingstone has had to leave for a meeting; he won’t be back for a couple of days. Is there anything I can help you with?” 
  “I had a DNA match confirmed on two blood samples yesterday, I just wanted to know if a gender test was done as well.” 
  “No problem, I’ll find out for you. Hold on John, Carla just come in.” 
  Shareena put the phone down and called Carla over. The two spoke for a couple of minutes after which Shareena picked up the phone. “John.” 
  “Yes Shareena.” 
  “Female, John. I just spoke to Carla who did the test, if she says’ female then that’s it. Carla doesn’t make mistakes.” 
  “Shareena, you’re an angel. I owe you a big favour.” 
  “I’ll be sure to collect then.” she replied. 
  “You’re on.” 
  John hung up. “Female, he said, “The samples tested yesterday were female.”  
  “Where do we go from here?” asked John. 
  “The pub,” said Pat, “come on you two. We’ll talk about this over a pint or two.” 
  “Sounds good to me”, “Let’s go then,” said John and Andrew in unison. 
  	They all started to gather up their bits and pieces. Outside the auditorium door the two HSS agents pulled back the audio and video leads, picked up everything and ran back towards the store cupboard. They just managed to make it to the second corridor as Pat, John and Andrew walked out of the auditorium. Pat stopped. “John, what’s this?” 
  Pat was looking down at the carpet outside of the auditorium door. On it were two small pieces of black insulating tape. One end of the tape was stuck to the carpet, the other end was free. John and Pat shrugged. Andrew looked more closely. He looked at the tape, then at the closed door.  
  “Are you sure we were on our own in here Pat?” 
  “Definitely, there is no one else shifted in today.” 
  “Well, someone else was here. This tape was used to hold something down on the floor, a wire of some sort.” 
  Andrew ran a finger across the tape, starting at the where it was stuck to the carpet. “Look at this,” he said.  
  Pat and John crouched down. The tape was parallel to the door. “Whatever this was holding down was pushed under this gap between the bottom of the door and the carpet. It has to be a video feed of some kind, maybe a fibre optic cable. Someone, for some reason recorded our meeting, any ideas why?” 
  Pat and John both said no. 
  “Why video?” asked Pat. “How can you be so sure?” 
  “If you’re recording audio it doesn’t matter what direction the microphone is, so long as it’s pointing towards the sound source. With video the camera has to be the right way up, not on its side or off on an angle. To do that under these conditions it would have to be taped in place to stop it moving position. Like it or not, someone is taking a very serious interest in what we are doing and if none of us knows why, or who then I’d say it’s someone very serious. I think we’re in big trouble and we all need to watch our own and each other’s back. We’ll see what ideas we can come up with in the pub.” 
    
  Chapter 11 
  	The side door of the crew bus slid open and the two HSS agents scrambled in. “That was a close call,” said agent two.  
  “Closer than you think,” replied agent one. He starred at the two of them. “They know you were there, or at least they know someone was there, and,” he emphasised, “they know they were videoed.” 
  Agent two looked perplexed. Agent three just shrugged. “How, they never saw us. We left everything exactly the way it was.” 
  “The tape you used to hold the wire in place under the door, they found it. Andrew Cleaver, the kid, he figured out what had happened.” 
  Agent three joined in, “They can’t have any idea why there were videoed.” 
  “I’m sure they haven’t,” replied agent one, “our problem is that they now know they have been. In future they will be more careful. They may even realise they have been bugged. This is not ideal; we have to be even more careful in future. No more slip ups.” 
  	Pat pulled the large door of the museum shut, he locked it then turned to John and Andrew, “Where do you fancy going to?” 
  Andrew stopped them on the pavement just outside the main museum doors. “My Granddad was in the army during the Second World War and he was always telling stories about this and that. One thing he would talk about was if you wanted to hide, the best place was out in the open. It was always better to blend in than to actually hide.” 
  Andrew looked around, not keeping his eyes in any one place for too long. He then looked back at Pat and John. “Across the road is a light blue Ford Transit minibus, looks a bit rough, as though it’s been a workhorse.” 
  “What about it said Pat?” 
  “How many old and battered Transit minibuses have heavily blacked out side windows? Just looks wrong. We can’t see in but they can see out, the ideal surveillance van. If it hadn’t been for the tape that Pat found we would never have noticed it. Come on, let’s go and just act as though we have no idea.” 
  The three men walked for a while. The weather was dry but overcast, the temperature was a few degrees above freezing but the wind chill made it feel a lot colder than that. They decided it was too cold for walking.  John flagged down a taxi, “The Carter’s Arms Whitworth Street please.” 
  The taxi was just over twenty minutes away. John was banking on the taxi driver knowing his way around the warren of back streets and alleys that still criss-crossed London. If, as Andrew thought, anyone was following them it would be obvious, even to John. When the three got into the taxi John had let Pat and Andrew take the rear bench seat, he sat in one of the folding occasional seats. Not the most comfortable of seats but it did mean his view was out of the back window, ideal to see what was behind them. 
  The HSS agents were very good at their job. They knew about the tape so decided not to follow. It would be easy enough to find them later on and sooner or later one of them would make or receive a call on their mobile that would immediately pin point their position to within one square foot. It was Andrew who received the call when they were still in the taxi. It was Geoffrey Adamson, the private detective. He seemed eager to talk to Andrew and John. “Where are you now?” he asked 
  “Just on our way to the Carter’s Arms for lunch,” replied Andrew. At the same time he mouthed to John who was on the phone. John nodded. 
  “I’m about three quarters of an hour from there, save me a seat, I’ll join you, haven’t had a decent pub meal for ages. See you soon.” 
  	“I think it’s time we had a decent pub meal as well,” said agent one, “and I know just the place.” 
  	John, Pat and Andrew sat at a round table for four. They told the waitress that a fourth person would be joining shortly and they would order then. In the mean time they ordered a round of drinks and waited for Geoffrey. They also decided to tell Geoffrey about their tail in the hope he might be able to shed some light on it for them.  
  	Forty minutes later Geoffrey arrived. Andrew waved him over to their table, he sat down with them and introductions made and pleasantries exchanged. The waitress, seeing the table was now four people, came over and took their order. 
  “Gentlemen,” said Geoffrey, starting the main conversation, “I have an apology to make. Yesterday I told Andrew that the unfortunate woman murdered on the Common was not Suzie Reeves, or at least that was not her real name. I said she was Natallia Kolinsky, an ex KGB agent. Now, I’m not so sure.” 
  “So is she Suzie Reeves then, he asked 
  “No John, definitely not, you know how I like to check and re-check information, just to make sure. I did this with let’s call her Suzie for now. When I looked further into the background of Natallia Kolinsky something really interesting came up. Everything I told Andrew about her was correct except the real Natallia Kolinsky was dead.  According to the records I accessed she was killed working for Mother Russia. Natallia Kolinsky was buried in Moscow’s State Cemetery, with full military honours, in nineteen thirty six. Two years later she declared a ‘hero of the Soviet Union.’.” 
  “A hero who happens to turn up alive and well, in London, in two thousand and three?” quipped John. 
  “The more I look into this case John, the stranger it becomes. I checked and rechecked my sources. When Natallia Kolinsky turned up in London she was thoroughly checked out by the Russian Mafia, and they don’t take chances with anyone, regardless of how pretty they look. Their checks came back ok. This time though, they got it wrong but it was not entirely their fault. All Natallia’s background and credentials checked out despite being bogus. Her background was so good it was able to withstand very close examination, and not just by an employer or a credit check, by people who were highly skilled at looking for false identities. Natallia Kolinsky was nothing more than a figment of someone’s imagination, but this someone had access to some of the country’s most sensitive government databases. This person, or more likely department, was able to piece together a very comprehensive past life for Suzie. In my experience something that thorough can only be put together by one of the government’s own security services. I can only guess which one, but either MI5 or Special Branch is the most likely. I’m not one hundred percent certain but Suzie Reeves, Natallia Kolinsky or whatever her real name is, was probably in a ‘UK witness protection programme’ or something similar.” 
  “When did the Russian’s find out that she was a fraud?” asked Pat. 
  “They haven’t,” replied Geoffrey, “as far as the Russians are concerned the woman they will be burying in Highgate Cemetery at ten o’clock tomorrow morning is Natallia Kolinsky.” 
  “Will you be there?” asked Andrew. 
  “I’ll be at a discreet distance, with some powerful telephoto lenses. It’s best not to intrude too closely on their grief, especially at this sad time.” 
  Pat then turned to John. “I think it’s time that you brought Andrew and Geoffrey here, up to date, regarding your visit to Liverpool yesterday. It seems to me that the four of us are all working towards the same end and that we all have bits and pieces that will help solve the puzzle. From now on, we four will work as a team. We will keep in regular contact, and that means at least twice a day, even if it’s to say you have nothing new to add. Nothing held back. As I said John, you start, then Andrew can run his theory past Geoffrey.” 
  	John spent the next thirty eight minutes going through everything that happened with the two samples he and Pat had put together. He explained about their theory that had started everything, about how he and Andrew had come up with their ideas and theories. He finished by confirming that not only did the two samples match, but that the sample gender was female. 
  	Geoffrey looked totally lost. “There has to be a mistake,” he said, “it’s just not possible.” 
  “Geoffrey,” said Pat, “You have said as much yourself. There is something going on with this case that is way beyond us just now and I’ll guarantee here and now, that whoever the murder victim was knew the answers that we are looking for. I would not be surprised if that is the real reason why she was killed. I’ll be prepared to go as far as to say the victim not only knew her killer, but knew who that person was. She knew the identity of Jack the Ripper. She knew Jack the Ripper is alive, well, living in London and about to start a new murder spree. That is why she died.” 
  Now Geoffrey looked even more confused.  
  “Pat,” said John, “get another round of drinks then Andrew can talk the three of us through his theory again.” 
  A few tables away three people, two men and a woman, were sat enjoying a quiet afternoon drink. They were talking, laughing joking together, a typical office threesome winding down from a hard days shift. The three HSS agents had blended so well into the pub that nobody took the slightest notice of them. No one noticed as one of the men got up to go to the bar at the same time as Pat did. No one noticed as he accidentally bumped into Pat at the bar. “Sorry mate,” he said, “no harm done.” Pat smiled at him. Pat had not noticed that a miniature microphone and transmitter had been expertly pinned under the lapel of his jacket. The HSS agents then all got up and left, still laughing and enjoying their afternoon. Back at the surveillance van, they now had full audio on every word that was being said at the target table. 
  “Welcome back,” said agent one, “good time?” 
  “Very funny,” said agent four, “lemonade shandy and tonic water is not my idea of a wild afternoon.” 
  “Professional as ever,” replied agent one, “now listen up, while you were in the pub having the time of your life GCHQ sent an update. Targets one to four inclusive now designated ‘orange plus 1’.” 
  “Understood,” they all replied. 
  	Back in the Carters Arms, Andrew, was going through his findings. Pat had said that it was for Geoffrey’s benefit but he was glad of the opportunity to hear it for a second time. He had to admit that so far he was very impressed with Andrew’s theory. He also had to admit that he felt a slight twinge of regret that he had not discovered, what he knew deep down, was the identity of Jack the Ripper.  
  	John’s mobile chirped into life, it was a text message from Tracy. “I’ll just be a minute,” said John. He read the text message and sighed. Tracy had called off their date that evening. She had just had news that a friend of hers from college had died and she was finishing work early to catch a train up to Scotland for the funeral. She finished by saying she’d call him tomorrow afternoon and would Friday night be OK. The message ended with ‘I’ll make it up to you, promise.  Love Tracy xx’ 
  John replied, sending his condolences and saying that Friday would be fine. 
  Andrew finished what he had to say. No one at the table was in any doubt that what he was saying was true. Nor was there any doubt that what John and Pat had discovered was also true. Geoffrey’s findings were also true. They knew everything was linked, just not how. 
  	“John, are you going to tell DCS Hughes,” asked Andrew. 
  “I was going to call and make an appointment to see him tomorrow.” 
  “You expect him to believe you?” said Pat 
  “I’m not sure what to tell him yet. I’ll probably stick with the identity problem for now, and I’ll put to him the possibility that the killer could be a woman. At least I’m keeping in touch with him.” 
  The three nodded in agreement, agreed a time to meet again tomorrow then all four went their separate ways. 
  	“What do we know about DCS Hughes,” said agent one.  
  Agent four typed his name into his PDA, a few seconds later DCS Hughes’s file was on his screen. DCS Hughes was as straight as a dye, no markers or blemishes they could use against him.  
  “We need eyes and ears in his office,” said agent one, “agent two, see what you can sort out.” 
  Agent two nodded. “I’ll put a surveillance kit together, go in early tomorrow morning.” 
  “OK, it’s your call. It’s fairly quiet just now so you three go and get some food and rest up. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day. For now we’ll change watch every four hours. I’ll take the first shift; decide between yourselves what watch you want. I’ll meet with ‘watch two’ in four hours time, back at base one.” 
  *  *  *  * 
  	Geoffrey walked back into his office. He sat down behind his desk, opened the top left hand drawer and took out an A4 pad and pen. Geoffrey found that he could make sense of a problem more easily if he wrote his thoughts down. He had learned a lot in a very short time and he had to make sense of it all in his head.  
  	Sylvia opened his office door and brought in a cup of coffee. “Thought you might like this,” she said, “I’ll leave now if that’s OK.” 
  “Thanks mum, you don’t have to go. Stay if you want.” 
  “Thanks but I’ve a bit of shopping to do. By the way the photocopier was serviced earlier on. The engineer said it was just a routine check, part of the maintenance plan. There were no problems with it, everything was fine.” 
  Geoffrey stopped what he was doing and looked over at the photocopier. He then turned to Sylvia, put a finger up to his lips and pointed to the door. He stood up and the two of them left the office. Geoffrey and Sylvia went to the kitchen; he turned on the cold water tap. “We don’t have a maintenance contract for the photocopier,” he whispered.  
  “He had copies of the agreement, identity card, everything.” 
  “Don’t worry it’s not your fault. I just need to know what he’s done. You said before you wanted to go shopping. Leave now and go to the shops. When you’re there use a public phone, don’t use your mobile, and call Alex, tell him I need a full precautionary sweep off the office, home and car.” 
  “Are you in trouble?” she asked her tone that of any concerned mother. 
  “No mum, nothing like that, probably a rival company wanting to try and find out some of our secrets. Maybe try to poach a few clients.” 
  Sylvia nodded and smiled. She didn’t believe a word he had just said, but let it go anyway. 
  	One hour and twelve minutes later Alex Orfrima walked into Geoffrey’s office. Alex was second generation Afro-Caribbean, five foot seven inches tall and, according to him, a slim sixteen stone, six pounds and rising. Alex was thirty three years old and had been working, one way or another, in the surveillance business since he was sixteen years old. The main difference between now and then was Alex was now legitimate. Previously he had been scanning the police bands whilst acting as a look out for his friends. In those days it had been fun and a bit of a lark. It stopped being fun for Alex when he was sentenced to nine months detention at the age of eighteen. They were the worst nine months of Alex’s life. Some people can handle prison life, some can’t. Alex certainly couldn’t. He would privately admit though to close friends that it was probably the best thing that ever happened to him, and only being eighteen years old at the time, he had ample time to re-think and re-build his life. With the help of the Princes Trust ‘Orfrima Counter Surveillance’ was launched. The company had grown from its inauspicious start to what was now the largest and most respected business of its type in the South of England.  
  	Alex gestured for Geoffrey to keep quiet. Alex held in his hand a device that looked like a small torch. It was, though, an RF scanner. This particular model was sophisticated enough to detect FM, UHF and digital signals. It could even detect transmitters that were in ‘sleep’ mode, the equivalent of a domestic television being on standby. 
  	Alex pointed towards the photocopier. Geoffrey nodded. He slowly walked up to the machine and scanned around it with his detector. Alex was watching the digital data readings as he did this. Every now and then he would stop to write down numbers on his notepad. Alex opened up the photocopier to reveal the inner workings. Taking out a torch and shinning the beam into the dark bowels of the machine he peered inside. He had to shuffle himself around a few times to get a clearer view. “Not a pretty sight”, thought Geoffrey.  
  	Alex called Geoffrey over and pointed to a two centimetre long by five millimetres wide plastic cylinder. One wire came out of each end of the device and these where connected, using very small crocodile clips, to the positive and negative terminals of the power supply. Alex closed the machine and left everything as it was. He then did a full sweep of the office. Another device was planted behind a picture hanging to the side of his desk and one was fitted inside the BT phone socket giving access to incoming and outgoing phone, fax and Internet activity.  
  	Alex pointed towards the office door. The two men left the room, neither having said a word to each other the entire time. Alex spread out his arms and circled the outer rooms and adjoining offices. Geoffrey nodded. Alex then did a sweep of the rest of the offices and rooms. The only place he found another bug was in the Gents toilet. 
  	After the sweep Alex and Geoffrey went into a ‘clean room’ but still talked in low, hushed whispers. “What would you like me to do with the bugs?”  
  Geoffrey though for a moment, “Nothing he said, let’s leave them in place. Hopefully whoever planted the bugs won’t know they’ve been compromised. That could work well for us, maybe help me to find out who planted them in the first place”  
  “If you want to do that then I’ve got something that might help you.” Alex opened his tool bag and took out a small piece of electronic kit. Alex explained that when this was fitted over the photocopier’s mains cable it would send an additional and random pulse down the cable. This would effectively scramble the signal and allow only every third or fourth word to be clear. Whoever was listening would think their equipment was faulty. The phone line was a different matter but there were other ways to make phone calls, and Geoffrey was already familiar with them. Alex agreed to re-sweep the premises every other day until further notice.            
  	Geoffrey and Alex then headed off towards John’s house. It was a certainty that he would be bugged as well. Half a mile away from the house Geoffrey stopped at a phone box. He called John’s number and when he answered asked, in his best Welsh accent, if he could speak to Gwen. John assumed it was a wrong number, and that was exactly what Geoffrey had hoped. All he wanted to do was confirm John was at home from an untraceable phone. 
  	The two arrived at John’s house three minutes later. Geoffrey rang the door bell and as soon as John answered the door gestured at him to stay quiet. The three went into John’s kitchen and Alex put down his bag and immediately started to sweep the house. Geoffrey found a pen and paper and wrote down ‘Your house has been bugged. Don’t say anything’ John looked surprised but nodded anyway. He took the pen and paper and wrote, ‘how do you know?’ 
  ‘I had a visitor this afternoon who planted a couple of bugs in the office. Chances are all four of us have been’ 
  ‘Any idea who’ wrote John. 
  Geoffrey shrugged and scribbled down, ‘I hoped you might have some idea’  
  It was now Johns turn to shrug. 
  John and Geoffrey found Alex outside in the front garden; he had found eight bugs. ‘What do you want me to do with them?’ Alex wrote.  
  ‘Leave everything in place’ wrote Geoffrey, ‘so long as we know about it, we can deal with it.’ The three men walked a safe distance away from the bugs.  
  “Whoever is on to you is using some very high tech kit,” said Alex, “It’s not the sort of stuff you get on e-Bay. This stuff’s the real deal, whoever it is that wants to listen in is a very serious player.” 
  During the next five hours both Pat and Andrews homes were swept, with the same results. The last place to be swept was the museum. It was certain that they would find bugs here as this is where their suspicions had first been aroused. They were not disappointed. They again decided to leave them all in place. With Alex’s work finished he said his goodbyes. It had been a long, but very successful nights work for everyone. 
  Outside Geoffrey took Pat, John and Andrew back to his car. He knew that the car was clean as it had been electronically swept earlier. With everyone settled in the car Geoffrey started to drive, not to anywhere in particular but he felt less vulnerable when on the move. He asked John to open the glove box. Inside there was four mobile phones. “John, take the first one then pass one each to Pat and Andrew. I’ll have the last one.” John did as he was asked. “These phones are guaranteed one hundred percent untraceable. Each one is registered to a fictitious name and address. Do you know there is a road, well a lane actually, in Liverpool where the even numbers start with number two but the odd numbered house on the opposite side of the Lane, start at number forty seven. Numbers one to forty five never existed, they make great addresses.”  
  “So these phones are secure?” asked Andrew. 
  “Absolutely,” replied Geoffrey, “each is ‘pay as you go’ and all have two hundred pounds worth of credit. I have already programmed in the numbers of the other three phones. Do not call any other numbers on these phones, use public call boxes for that. So long as we only call each other, no one will be able to track these phones. Everyone clear with that.” 
  They all agreed.  
  “I have a question” said Andrew, “Who is after us, and why?” 
  “That’s two questions” replied Geoffrey “but tomorrow we’ll start to find out, let’s leave the speculation till then.”  
  	Geoffrey then drove each home, dropping John off last. “I call you after the funeral tomorrow. I’d like you to come round to the office and have a look at the photographs and you can tell me how your meeting with DCS Hughes went.” 
  “See you tomorrow then,” said John, “and thanks for the ride home.”   
  Chapter 12 
  John walked into the reception area of DCS Hughes half expecting, half hoping to see Tracy sat behind the desk. He knew though that she was at a funeral in Scotland. Sat in Tracy’s chair, behind Tracy’s desk was a very prim and proper looking temp.  
  “Can I help you?” she asked. 
  “Yes, my name is John Reynolds and I’ve an appointment with DCS Hughes.” 
  “Oh yes, Mr. Reynolds,” she replied, John thought, in one of those voices medical receptionists reserve for patients who had returned to find out if their STD test was positive or not. 
  ‘Atilla’, John could not think of a more suitable name, called through to DCS Hughes’ office. A minute later he came out and called John into his office.  
  “Nice receptionist,” quipped John. DCS Hughes did not reply, instead he just made a grunting noise. 
  “Off the record John, we are not getting very far just now. I know it’s only two days but we should have some clue, there’s nothing, just a lot of thin air out there and hot air in here. How are you fairing?” 
  John shifted a little on his seat, not too sure how much to say. “There are some things I know and some things I have theorised and I also know that there is at least one thing you kept from me.” 
  “And that would be?” asked DCS Hughes, fishing for an answer. 
  “Let’s start with the cross,” said John, “then we’ll see where we go from there.” 
  If DCS Hughes was shocked by what John had just said, he hid it well. “Can I ask where you got that information from?” 
  “You can ask,” Replied John, “but you know I can’t tell you. All I will say and I hope this puts your mind a rest, is that you do not have a leak in the department. It was just innocent but careless talk overheard by someone who got in touch with me. In fact you have just confirmed that it’s true.” 
  “I don’t like playing games John and you know that if news of this ever got out I’d have every sicko and weirdo from all corners of the UK claiming they were the killer. The cross and what’s on it will determine who the real killer is.” 
  “I had no intention of publishing anything about it anyway. I know the significance of a signature.” 
  “Good, I’m glad to hear it.” 
  John continued, “I have to respect my sources but I am reliably informed that the killer is a woman. I have no idea who or why and nobody else has much of an idea either. Also the victim, Suzie Reeves. You might want to look closely into her past. Apparently she has not got much of one and what she has is fake’ albeit a very good fake.” 
  “We are working on a few ideas around those lines just now. This time I’ll keep in touch.” replied DCS Hughes. 
  “One other thing Chief Superintendent” 
  “Yes.” 
  “Why have you bugged my house and phones?” 
  “Don’t be ridiculous, why would I want to do that? If your being bugged it’s got nothing to do with me.” 
  “So far everyone I’ve spoken to about this case has ended up being bugged. I assumed that it was you. I have no idea who else would have any reason to.” 
  “I’m telling you, it’s not us.” 
  John thought for a moment; that was not the reply he had expected or wanted. “Have you had any unexpected visitors over the past couple of days, any technicians, service engineers, that sort of thing?” 
  “No, no one except Tracy outside, but she’s from the agency we use because Tracy is off today.” 
  John walked over to the door; he opened it and looked over at an empty desk. At that same moment, agent two, was walking out of New Scotland Yard having left her disguise inside a waste disposal in a ladies toilet on the third floor. 
  “Your temp, she’s gone,” said John. 
  DCS Hughes ran out from behind his desk, reaching the door in record time. He went over to the now empty desk. The paperwork was still in place but there was no sign of any personal items such as a handbag, magazine or mobile phone. “They knew I’d be here this morning,” said John. 
  “Who are they?” asked DCS Hughes 
  John was about to answer but something made him stop. He looked around for some paper. He went over to the PC printer, opened the paper drawer and took out a few sheets of paper. He then picked up a maker pen and wrote on the paper, ‘Did the temp bring anything into your office? Think now, anything at all?” 
  DCS Hughes was not used to being spoken to so abruptly, but thought better of saying anything about it just now, “Just a pot of tea on the tray over there.” 
  John went over to the tray and picked up the pot and examined it closely, looking all around it. He opened the lid and emptied the remains of the tea into a waste paper bin. Peering inside the pot he could not see anything unusual. Then John lifted the tea pot up to the window and peered down the spout. He put the pot down and took a biro from his pocket. He then gripped the nib and pulled the long, slender ink cartridge out from the main body of the pen. He then poked this down the spout of the tea pot. It should have gone cleanly down the spout and come out the other end but something was stopping it. John pushed the cartridge harder into the spout, then, something inside gave way. Spinning around at the bottom of the pot was a bug, very similar to the ones Alex found last night. John fished out the bug and handed it to DCS Hughes.  
  “I’ll pass this on to our tech lab; see what they make of it,” he said. 
  “Chief Superintendent, if that was not the secretary sent over from the agency, then where is she?” 
  	Dannielle Forsythe was not in any danger; she was in fact sat in the back of the crew bus eating her way through giant bacon butty and drinking one of the largest mugs of coffee she had ever seen. She was blissfully unaware of the concern for her whereabouts.  
  Earlier that morning agent two had been waiting for Dannielle in the main reception area. Not knowing what she looked like agent two was banking on Dannielle not knowing her way around the building and having to look at the floor guides by the lifts for DCS Hughes office. As it was Dannielle made things very easy for agent two as she was standing in the reception area holding the agency letter in her hand. Agent two approached Dannielle, “Hello, are you the lady the agency sent over for DCS Hughes?” 
  “I am,” replied Dannielle “is everything alright, is there a problem?” 
  Agent two then explained to Dannielle that DCS Hughes was under surveillance from Internal Affairs and they had been waiting for the chance to get someone inside his office without arousing his suspicions. She then explained to Dannielle that if she would agree to swapping places this would be the perfect scenario for them without arousing anyone’s suspicions. Dannielle thought about it; agent two could see she was hesitating. She swung it by saying that this involved national security and they really would appreciate her help. Dannielle was sold. 
  	Less than five minutes after she left DCS Hughes’ office agent two opened the side door of the crew bus and stepped inside. “Hello Dannielle,” she said, “I hope you’ve been looked after?” 
  “Yes, fine thank you.” Dannielle looked around, “did it go OK, was everything alright?” 
  “Yes, fine thank-you,” replied agent two. “You’ve been a great help, I’ll be sure and let the agency know just how helpful you have been.”  
  Dannielle then got out of the crew bus, waved goodbye and started to make her way home, walking a least two inches taller and feeling very proud of the fact that she had helped in a matter of ‘national security’. 
  	Within three minutes of leaving the crew bus, Dannielle’s mobile phone rang. It was the Metropolitan Police wanting to know where she was and was she alright. They told her not to move and that a patrol car would be there shortly to pick her up. Two minutes later she heard the wail of a police car. It stopped just by where she was. The officer wound down his window and confirmed who Dannielle was then told her to get in the back of the car. As soon as the door was shut the patrol car, with blue lights flashing and siren wailing dashed to New Scotland Yard.  
  	The funeral procession stopped directly opposite the main entrance gates to Highgate cemetery. There were five official funeral cars, followed by thirty six private cars with an average of three people in each car. This was one of the largest funerals that Whitechapel had witnessed for some time. Geoffrey aimed his camera lens at the funeral party and began to take rapid fire pictures. Geoffrey was using a professional standard Cannon eleven mega pixel SLR camera with a seven hundred and fifty millimetre telephoto lens. Fitted inside the camera was a four gigabyte SD card that would hold all just under one thousand pictures at maximum resolution.  
  	The funeral lasted just under half an hour and when the coffin was finally lowered into the ground Geoffrey had all the photographs he wanted. It had taken slightly longer than he would have liked to take the photographs and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief when he was back in his car and driving back to his office.  
  	On the way back he phoned John using the new, safe mobile. The two spoke for just long enough for Geoffrey to arrange to meet John at his office in two hours time.  
  	When he received the call John was still with DCS Hughes, the two of them were still waiting for Dannielle Forsythe. Neither had said or asked anything else about the bug or speculated about who planted it or why it was there. DCS Hughes was waiting for Section Three, the Yard’s technical department, to report back to him before saying anything further. 
  	The lift doors, leading to DCS Hughes office, opened and a few moments later Dannielle Forsythe, escorted by two uniformed officers walked into DCS Hughes office. He asked Dannielle to sit down, introduced himself and John. 
  “Am I under arrest?” asked Dannielle.  
  Hughes assured her she was not and that they just wanted to talk to her about, in as much detail as possible, the events of the morning. He did not tell her that his office had been bugged. 
  	Dannielle told them about the meeting in the foyer, about the Internal Affairs investigation, about waiting over the road in the crew bus, even about the sandwich and coffee. DCH Hughes order copies of the reception and external CCTV cameras to be immediately sent to his office. They arrived less than ten minutes later pre burned onto a DVD. They went through the images with Dannielle asking her to identify the woman who had approached her as soon as she saw her.  
  “That’s her,” said Dannielle, pointing to agent two as she walked through the reception area doors some nine minutes before Dannielle had arrived. They watched the woman, who made no attempt to hide her face, as she scanned everyone entering the building. She had almost approached a couple of women before Dannielle but had backed off before saying anything to them. The camera then picked up Dannielle walking into the building. Even to John, Dannielle looked out of place. I would have picked her out as the temp as well, he thought. 
  	They fast forwarded to the external CCTV footage and using the cameras time codes soon reached the section of Dannielle being led across the road to the crew bus.  
  “Can you zoom in on the registration number? Hughes asked one of the technicians present.  
  “We can if we use the master footage,” he replied. 
  “I also want close up images of any faces,” 
  DCS Hughes handed him the phone, “Do it now, I want to know one second after you do.” The technician made the call. 
  “Dannielle,” said DCS Hughes, “I want you to go now with these officers and give them a written statement, every bit as detailed as the one you have just given to me. Then you can go, but make sure we have your address and phone numbers in case we want to talk to you again.” 
  Dannielle nodded and went with the officers. 
  DCS Hughes was about to say something to John when his phone rang, he snatched it up. “I thought I said no calls to ..” 
  On the other end of the line was DI Bales, DCS Hughes was now listening closely to what he was saying. “Pick me up at the front in five minutes,” he said. As he hung up the phone he turned to John. “It looks like there’s been a second murder. A woman’s body has been found in a house in Orchard Road.”  
  “That’s less than three quarters of a mile away from the Common,” said John. 
  “That though had crossed my mind to,” replied DCS Hughes as he left his office. 
  	John left the Yard and headed across the road to Enid’s Café. Raj welcomed him like a long lost friend and insisted that his coffee was on the house. John thanked him and sat at a table towards the rear of the café, as much out of sight from the road as he could get. 
  	John took out his secure cell phone and called Andrew. He answered almost immediately. “Andrew, I want you to get yourself down to Orchard Road, the police have found another body. From what little I have heard it sounds like this is number two. If you can’t find out anything else try to get the victims name, as soon as we have that I’ll get Geoffrey to run a background check.” 
  Andrew left the office immediately, jumped in a taxi and headed for Orchard Road. 
  	As John drove to Geoffrey’s office, his thoughts were with whoever the second victim had been. He knew that she was the second victim; this was not just another unrelated murder.  DI Bales would never have called DCS Hughes if that was the case. He must have had conformation before calling him. They must have found another cross. John then felt a shiver run down his spine, as though someone had ‘walked over his grave’. He wondered how the victim had died. Had she suffered at the hands of her evil killer? He hoped she had not, but feared that she had.  
  	John parked in a private car park at the rear of Geoffrey’s offices. He locked the Jaguar and started walking round to the front but he suddenly stopped. A thought had occurred to him. He turned around and looked at the Jaguar, then looking closely at the car he walked all round it. He looked under each of the wheel arches, running his hands under each arch and round the back of each wheel. He then crouched down and looked underneath the car. He checked each side, the front and the back, then wiping his hands on a tissue; he walked back towards the front door. 
  	Geoffrey was waiting for him in the reception area. John mouthed, “Are we alright to talk?” 
  “Fine,” replied Geoffrey, in a normal voice. 
  “We never checked my car. It’s round the back in your car park and I think I’ve found two more bugs.” 
  Geoffrey crawled underneath John’s car and removed both bugs. The tracker he recognised as it was similar to a type he had used himself in the past. The other was new to him, ‘One for Alex,’ he thought.  
  Walking back to the office Geoffrey waited for a queue of traffic to form. He then threw the tracker into the back of a pickup truck. Back in the office the final bug was placed inside the freezer compartment of the kitchen fridge.  
  “I hear there’s been another murder,” said Geoffrey. 
  “The call came through when I was with DCS Hughes this morning.” John then brought Geoffrey up to speed.  
  “Quite a morning,” said Geoffrey. “At least we can eliminate the Met from our list of bugging suspects. Rule number one in the bugging manual reads; do not bug yourself it’s a complete waste of time.” 
  Geoffrey and John then went into one of the smaller offices at the rear of the premises. Geoffrey booted up a PC. “I took these photographs at Suzie’s funeral this morning. I’ve never seen a turnout like it. Half of Russia must have turned up. Just have a scan through these pictures, see if there’s anyone you recognise. I know it’s a long shot but you never know.” 
  John started looking through the photographs. After thirty seven minutes of looking at photographs of people he didn’t even know John was beginning to think that this was a pointless exercise. He was looking at groups of men, idly chatting to each other. Mixed groups, probably family he thought, then realised that Suzie did not have a family or, for that matter, a past. He though again, if these people are not family then who are they? He continued looking at the pictures, probably a little closer than he had just been. His curiosity was now aroused. There were a few more mixed group shots, he was starting to recognise faces now from previous pictures, and then, he came upon a small group of women. The group was standing with its back to the camera but John got the impression it was separate, somehow included but maybe only out of politeness. The female group were in shot for a couple of pictures, and then they had gone. John wondered what had happened to them. He realised that this was almost the end of the funeral and the mourners had lined up to place a flower or a handful of soil on top of the coffin, as it lay in the ground. The line was quite long and Geoffrey had done an excellent job of photographing each face in the line. After some forty more photographs John noticed the group of women in the background, slowly getting closer to the open grave. Some women in the group were talking to each other, others had their heads down, as though saying a prayer as they approached Suzie’s last resting place. John stopped clicking, for a moment he looked at one photograph in particular. He started to click forward, faster and faster, not spending any time at all looking at the images as they flashed by on the screen. Then, he stopped. On the nineteen inch flat screen monitor was a close up photograph of one of the women throwing a single flower onto the coffin. The photograph perfectly caught the expression of loss and sorrow on her face. Around her eyes her tears had mixed with her mascara leaving thin black lines down her cheeks. John guessed that she must have been crying for some time. It was clear to him that she must have been very close to Suzie. He could not help but wonder what the bond between them had been. “Geoffrey,” said John, “There’s someone here I recognise.” Geoffrey looked at the photograph showing on the screen. “You know who she is?” he asked. 
  “Yes,” replied John, “I thought I knew her very well, but obviously I don’t. Her name is Tracy, Tracy Rae. She is DCS Hughes secretary and the lady that I was supposed to have had dinner with last night. I know this might sound ridiculous just now, but I thought we could have had a future together. How on earth is she involved in all of this?” 
  Geoffrey printed off half a dozen prints of the photograph. “Is this who called you last night when we were in the pub?”  
  “Yes,” he replied, quietly. John had hold of a photograph and was just staring at it. 
  “Why did she call off your date last night?” 
  “She told me she was going up to Scotland.” 
  Geoffrey interrupted and finished the sentence, “to attend a funeral. John, this might not be what it looks like. She did attend a funeral so that was not a lie. I know it’s not in Scotland but give her a chance to explain. Look John, we now have someone we know who has a direct link to Suzie. Tracy might even know why she was murdered. She may not know she knows, but I bet anything she does. John, don’t blow your chances with her over this. Give her a chance. Let her explain.” 
  “It’s just a shock,” said John, “I never expected to see anyone I knew, let alone Tracy.” 
  “John, let me run a background check on her. I know her name and where she works, nothing too deep.” 
  “Why?” asked John. 
  “She looks as though she is a direct link to Suzie and Suzie’s background is, well just now she hasn’t got one. Tracy probably knows who she is, or was. I think the other women in the group do as well. We need to know who they all are and what they have in common. I think that’s the key to all of this. John, scroll back and count how many women are in the group, then print out the six best pictures of each of them.” 
  John did a quick count. “Including Tracy there’s eight in the group. You could be right Geoffrey, looking at the photographs they all look pretty upset and they don’t look as though they’re related to me.” 
  *  *  *  * 
  Andrew arrived at the crime scene some twenty three minutes after DCS Hughes and DI Bales. DCS Hughes was standing, dressed in the regulation white crime scene coverall, just inside the area cordoned off by the police. In contrast to the previous scene this murder had been inside a small terraced anonymous terraced house. Number sixty three Orchard Grove sounded a very select and sedate address. One you would happily give to new friends made on holiday. It had a nice ring to it. The truth though was very different. Orchard Grove was a slum landlord’s dream location. A quick glance up and down the road was all anyone needed to see that well over half of the houses were boarded up. The area was mainly inhabited by squatters, the homeless and by those who had been suckered into paying the kind of rent that would have got them a very nice flat in some other part of town if it were not for the fact that any bona fide landlord or housing association would never touch them. A string of bad debts, County Court judgements, evictions, alcoholics, drug addicts, ex cons with no fixed address and immigration illegals from various countries were the bread and butter tenant to the slum landlord. In this area everyone, regardless of who they were or their past history, paid their rent on time, on the dot week in week out. In this area organised crime and slum landlords were one and the same thing. The rule was simple, no rent, no finger then no hand and so it escalated. In the beginning some tenants thought it was all just talk to frighten them into paying. A few unfortunates found out it was not and since then everyone paid.  
  Life in Orchard Grove was cheap, expendable and cheap. Police had been making house to house calls for the past two hours, as expected nobody had seen or heard anything. Had the murder occurred anywhere else it would have been hard enough for the police to solve. In this street it would be almost impossible and, as they were already finding out the police would get little to no public support. 
  Andrew approached DCS Hughes. “Hello sir,” he said, holding out his hand, “Andrew Cleaver, we met in your office the other day.” 
  “Yes we did, I remember. It makes me think, you know Andrew. There we were, the other day, sat in my office, just having a chat. Across London tens of thousands of other people were doing the same sort of thing, each of them just getting on with living their life. None of them wanting to hurt or harm anyone. Yet, in amongst those people is a sociopath, someone unable to feel any guilt or remorse, someone who feels that they are on some moral crusade to rid the world of certain members of society just because they don’t like them. You know we have a term for them, we call them ‘cleaners’, because in their eyes that is what they are doing. Cleaning up what they see as human rubbish. They are able to throw away a life because they see no good reason why that person should live. They think of them as rubbish, treat them like rubbish. Tell me Andrew, when you throw away rubbish into your bin, do you just throw it away or do you scrunch it up or crush it before you dispose of it?” 
  “Yes, I suppose I do. I crush boxes and cans.” 
  “And do you feel sad after, I mean do you feel anything for the can or the box you’ve just crushed?” 
  “No, of course not, it’s a can.” 
  “That feeling or non feeling if you like, is exactly what this murderer feels about people. He crushes them, tears them apart, rips them up, throws them away and has no more feeling about it than you do about crushing a can.” 
  “You said ‘he’, sir. Does this look as though the Common murderer has killed again?” 
  “We know it’s the same killer, and you know why we know but you’ll not say anything about that.” 
  “Do you know anything about the victim Detective Chief Superintendant?” 
  DCS Hughes paused before answering, “No nothing yet. It’s far too early. I can tell you her name, Gillian Burns. We found plenty of evidence that identifies her.” 
  “Could you say what the cause of death was?” 
  “Have you ever seen a murder scene Andrew?” 
  “No sir, I haven’t.” Andrew heart rate increased, the opportunity to look at an actual murder scene, what a story that would be. 
  “Go over there, tell them I sent you. Get suited up then meet me back here in fifteen minutes.” 
  “Fifteen minutes, back here.” Andrew replied, “Thank you,” 
  “Don’t thank me son. I’m letting you see what the public don’t. Smell what the public never will, and when you’ve done that I want you to write a piece about this murder. I want you to write the article of your life. Write about what you saw, how you felt, what your emotions where at the time. Not a flowery article. I want you to write from your heart, with passion. People around here have to wake up; we can’t continue to let fear be the rule of law. Someone here knows or saw something. I want your newspaper article to get through to these people. Snap them out of their world and bring them back to ours.” 
  	Fifteen minutes later Andrew entered his very first major crime scene. He had already been briefed by DCS Hughes about what he could and could not do and touch. Andrew had read, many times, about crimes. He was also an avid fan of Stephen King and bloody horror films. The scene that greeted him in the front room of a small, run down terraced house in Whitechapel still attacked all of his senses at once. To his credit, Andrew was determined not to blow this opportunity. He had spent the previous fifteen minutes getting psyched up for this moment and he was not going to rush out, faint, throw up or do anything else to make DCS Hughes sorry he had asked him.  
  	Gillian Burns had been thirty six years old, five foot three inches tall and twelve stone two pounds in weight. Her hair just covered her ears, was flat at the side but spiky on top, it was dyed a subtle shade of red with blond highlights. She was not wearing a lot of makeup, just a touch of mascara and eye shadow with a hint of rouge blusher. Her makeup was to enhance her natural features, not hide or cover over them. Gillian had had very deep blue, green eyes. Andrew would not have been aware of this though as both of her eyes were missing. Although he knew he shouldn’t, he couldn’t help staring at her face; despite being so grotesque he found it fascinating at the same time. Andrew was also surprised by her clothes, or what was left of them. She had been wearing a black knee length skirt, a white blouse. A black jacket was hanging neatly behind the door. Over the back of an armchair was a pair of black tights, highly polished black shoes on the floor by the same armchair.  
  	The scene was a lot for Andrew to take in at once and he found himself seeing things that he had missed at first. He had to stop and think for a minute, how could he have missed, or not noticed certain things straight away. Was his mind playing tricks with him, or was it protecting him from sensory overload. Andrew looked back at Gillian’s body; the white blouse had been ripped open. Where her breasts had been was now two bloody areas of tissue. Andrew was no expert in these matters but to him the removal of the breasts looked neat, even tidy. There was no tissue damage in any other area around the chest. “This had not been rushed,” he thought, “who ever had murdered Gillian knew they had as much time as they wanted.” He then looked back at her face; he was struck again by the missing eyes. The nerves looked to have been cut, neatly and precisely. Finally Andrew noticed Gillian’s neck. Her throat had been cut, not slashed and not across from one side to the other. All that had been cut was the area covering the jugular vein. This had been a very deliberate and precise act carried out for one purpose only, to kill Gillian. The removal of her eyes and breasts would have left her disfigured, but would not have killed her. Who ever had carried out this murder had played with Gillian’s survival instinct like a cat plays with a mouse before killing it. Hurt it a bit, let it go, catch it again, let it go, always giving the victim a feeling of hope, a feeling that despite the horror they were being subjected to they would live to see another day. This feeling was spoon fed to them, right up until their last moment.  
  	“Tell me what you’re thinking,” said DCS Hughes, “talk to me about what you see.” 
  Only now did Andrew notice the blood, lots and lots of blood. There was blood on the floor, on the walls even on the ceiling. He wondered how one person could bleed so much. Where had all the blood come from? Andrew ran through what he saw, the body, the mutilations, the blood, her clothes, his thoughts about how the mutilations looked. DCS Hughes was impressed, not just with his answer but by the fact that he was still there at all. 
  “Look around Andrew, try to picture what could have happened. Don’t just look at what you can see. Look for what you can’t see.” 
  Andrew looked puzzled. DCS Hughes continued, “To be a good police officer, or a good journalist for that matter, you have to be able to see things that other people can’t. Look around. What do you see? a bloody murder scene and a horribly disfigured body, look at the house. This is a house in one of the poorest and most run down and deprived areas of London. From the outside the house fits in to that. Inside it is neat, tidy and spotlessly clean. Come with me.” Andrew followed DCS Hughes into the kitchen “Look in here, a fully fitted kitchen with all mod cons. Not a thing out of place. It’s the same throughout the house. On the outside we have a slum, on the inside a show house that anyone would be proud to own. Look at her clothes, not designer labels but not Oxfam either.”  
  Andrew nodded in agreement. 
  DCS Hughes continued feeling as though he were a teacher with a first day student. “Look at her fingers.” 
  Andrew looked. 
  “Look closer, you see her nails? Tell me about them” 
  “They are well manicured, neat and.” Andrew was unsure what else to say. 
  “You’re right, but they are also real, not plastic stick on nails. The varnish is neatly applied. They are spotless, not a blemish on them. That tells me there was no fight in this room, no struggle and no protest. Come over here and look at the front door. Clean white gloss paint on the inside coupled with flaky old red on the outside, but no broken locks, no broken windows.” DCS Hughes pointed to Gillian’s body. “She knew her killer, in fact she more than knew her killer. She was comfortable around her killer. I would say that whoever her killer is would have known Gillian for quite some time.” 
  “Are you thinking of a boyfriend or family member?” asked Andrew. 
  “I think we would be looking for a friend,” replied DCS Hughes, “In all the rooms we have been in so far have you seen any photographs of her family, boyfriend or anyone else. There is not one photograph in this house. We’ve looked.” 
  DCS Hughes started to walk around the house again, he gestured for Andrew to follow him. They went back into the kitchen, opening cupboard doors, drawers, fridge and freezer. There were even clothes inside the washing machine waiting to be washed. DCS Hughes asked a constable to make sure the clothes were all removed and bagged for forensic examination. Upstairs the house had two immaculately decorated bedrooms. The main bedroom had an en-suite although at some time it would have been the box room or third bedroom. It also had fitted wardrobes with matching furniture and as with the rest of the house everything was immaculate. The walls were painted a delicate shade of cream and the whole house was fitted with a matching beige coloured deep pile carpet. DCS Hughes sat on the bed, Andrew stood looking out of the bedroom window. 
  “This house bothers me Andrew. It’s not as it should be.” 
  “I’m not sure I follow,” replied Andrew. 
  The Chief Superintendent continued, “This house is wrong, it’s all wrong. Andrew, you saw it from the outside. The house looked derelict. I even thought it might be unsafe to go inside. But look at it. It’s perfect. This house reminds me of a Q car.” 
  “What’s a Q car?” interrupted Andrew. 
  “It’s an old battered car that the police use for undercover work. They look wrecks but in fact they are highly sophisticated and very powerful cars. Like this house its purpose is to blend in, not to draw attention to itself. This house blends in here. Gillian does not. I think this is a safe house. I have no idea who Gillian is but I don’t think she’s who we think she is.”    
  “Who do you think could have killed her?” asked Andrew 
  “I don’t know Andrew, and I’m not in the guessing game. I need cold, hard evidence. Off the record though, I think we are looking for a good, if not close friend. I don’t know at this stage if we are looking for a male or female attacker although from the nature of the violence and mutilation, I would say male.” 
  “You know John has a theory that the killers a woman?” 
  “I know, I’ll have to talk to him a bit more about that. At this stage though I don’t think he’s right, but I’d like to talk over his thinking with him.” 
  “Have you any idea where Gillian was going? She looks as though she’s dressed up for something special.” asked Andrew. 
  “Somewhere or someone,” replied DCS Hughes. 
  “You think she might be a prostitute? This house could even be where she brings clients back to. It’s certainly discrete enough.” 
  “We have to look into every possibility, but off the record I don’t think she’s a prostitute and this place is too clean, too sanitised for any possible clients. There’s nothing strange or weird here, nothing to pamper to the clients requirements. There’s no chains, whips, leather gear, adult sized nappies. No, this was just her home. Her safe haven, or so she thought. Where was she going? That’s another question. Andrew, you’ve got the bright university brain. What do you think?” 
  Andrew was shocked to be asked that question. “Er, I’m not too sure,” he stammered in reply, “she’s dressed in black, in fact everything except her blouse was black. She could work for a solicitor or similar. Someone who requires their staff to be very formally dressed or she could have been going to a funeral.” 
  Both men thought for a moment. Andrew was the first to speak, “Detective Chief Superintendent, its Suzie Reeves funeral this morning. Do you think Gillian knew Suzie and that’s where she was going? If that’s the case then there’s a direct link between the two victims and if what you said earlier is true.” 
  DCS Hughes interrupted Andrew, “Remind me again what I said,”  
  “That you think Gillian knew her killer. I know you only work on facts Chief Superintendent, but, if Gillian Burns and Suzie Reeves did know each other and Gillian did know her killer then its possible Suzie Reeves also knew who killed her. Don’t forget, the cross you found earlier proves that both women were killed by the same person.” 
  DCS Hughes had a thousand and one thoughts racing through his mind. He did not like coincidences and made a mental note to look further into that possibility, he then asked Andrew if there was anything else he wanted to ask, or see? 
  “No, it’s been quite a morning. Thank you Chief Superintendent.” 
  	Andrew was then reminded of the reason why he had been asked to view the crime scene. “John tells me that you’re a professional and competent journalist,” said DCS Hughes, “I trust John’s judgement. Don’t forget though, we have spoken about a number of areas relating to this case that are strictly ‘off the record’. I’d hate to see any of those conversations in print regardless of who you attribute the information to.” 
  “I understand,” said Andrew, “I’ve learnt a lot from John over the past months, and not just about journalism. I’ve learnt that building trust is only the start of a professional relationship because the trust then has to be kept.” 
  DCS Hughes nodded. “Good luck with your career son and I’m looking forward to reading your article.” 
  “I’ll send you the first copy off the press,” said Andrew. 
  Chapter 13 
  	The four HSS agents were sat in the living room of their safe house. Their mood was very sombre. The last twenty four hours had been a tactical disaster for them and they needed time to re-group and re-think their operation. It was time to evaluate what had gone wrong and then weigh up what options were still open to them. At this moment they were blind as far as intelligence was concerned and that was causing a great deal of unrest between them. They could no longer rely on the bugs they had planted, most, if not all had been compromised. They all agreed that they needed another way to get information. The group all agreed that the private detective had been the main architect of their problems. He had initially been an unknown; their mistake had been to try to bug his office. In hindsight just bugging the mobile phones would have given them the intelligence they needed. GCHQ needed to know what the targets knew, and they needed to know now. Various options and scenarios were discussed and a new strategy developed. They agreed not to rely on high tech equipment for a while and instead rely on old fashion surveillance. The group knew where the four targets worked and agreed to stake out Geoffrey’s office and the Daily Herald. One of the three targets being watched would then lead them to Pat, number four.  
  	The group also decided that if more direct action was required then Pat would be the first target. He was the oldest and therefore the weakest of the four making him the easiest to get information from. The agents knew also knew that with modern interrogation methods, procedures and the right mix of drugs, accurate information could quickly be retrieved from anyone and if that was a route they had to take, then all agreed that they would. 
  	“What about Dannielle Forsythe?” asked agent three, “She has seen two of you in plain view? Once your cover story was discredited by New Scotland yard she’d have told them everything, including full descriptions of the two of you.” 
  “Dannielle Forsythe only saw what we wanted her to see,” replied agent one. “Agent three and I both wore disguises when she was with us. I wore a beard, glasses and a woolly hat all the time I was with her, plus I also spoke with a very broad Belfast accent. Agent three wore a long blond wig, which suited you by the way, and blue contact lenses. Her Belfast accent was almost as good as mine.” 
  After another hours planning the group had decided on their next course of action. This phase of their operation would start immediately. 
  *  *  *  * 
  	John had just left Geoffrey’s office when his mobile text alert went off. He flipped open the phone to see he had a text message from Tracy. He decided not to read it straight away but to wait a while. The photograph of Tracy at the funeral this morning had shook him more than he cared to admit. To an extent that bothered John, after all why should it? He thought. Why should I feel this was about a woman I’ve only spoken to a couple of times and, so far, have not even had a night out with? He decided that was a question he would have to find the answer to at some other time. 
  	Geoffrey and John had both agreed that they had to discover what the link was between Tracy and Suzie Reeves.  John knew that finding the answer to that would be down to him. For a short moment John felt low, even a bit dirty. Maybe John’s feelings towards Tracy were deeper than he cared admit, even to himself. He realised that he did not want to hurt her, he would not, could not use her just to get information. He started to think a little clearer now. John rationalised that however much he knew Tracy just now, she knew him the same. Neither really knew that much about the other, they had not had the time for that. Relationships are built up over a period of time. It is that time that either builds or ends partnerships. Initial feeling can soon change. The desire to be with someone may not last once you get to know the personality behind the face. John knew that it could also work the other way round. When they first met, Pamela had not been as instantly attracted to John as he was to her. She had been reluctant to go out with him for a while and only agreed after some serious persuading from her friends. Then she started to get to know the real John. The rest is history. Whatever Tracy’s reasons had been for not being entirely honest with him were probably down to fact she did not yet know him, or trust him yet. Trust was something that would come later. John took out his mobile, flipped open the lid and selected Tracy’s text message.  
  ‘Hi John, am on my way back from the funeral. Not a good day. Miss you. Can we meet tonight? Tracy xx’ 
  John selected reply. ‘Miss you to, sorry the day was bad. Call when your back. Tonight will be fine. John xx’ He pressed send. The mobile played a little eight note tune then a message read, ‘reply sent’. 
  	Back in his car John took out the secure mobile and called Andrew. He had expected him to bring him up to date from the murder scene before now. Andrew answers after three rings. “John”, he said, “I was just about to call. I’m on my way back to the office, can you meet me there? I’ve got too much to tell you over the phone.” 
  John had been on his way to meet Pat but that could wait till later. “See you there in half an hour. Did you get a name?” 
  “Gillian Burns.” Andrew replied. 
  “Well done, call Geoffrey and give him as many details about her as you can. Tell him to run a full check on her.” 
  “Will do, anything else?” 
  After a moment’s thought John said, “Yes, tell him Tracy’s fine. He’ll know what you mean.” 
  John released the call and headed back to the offices of the Daily Herald. 
  	Andrew was working on his article when John arrived back. On his desk was a large cup of steaming hot coffee, made just the way he liked it, and on a plate at the side of the mug were three plain chocolate digestive biscuits. “What have I done to deserve this then?” asked John. 
  Andrew kept on writing his article and without looking away from his screen replied “Nothing, I just thought you might like a drink. It’s still a bit chilly outside.” 
  “No, there’s got to be more to it than that. You want something? Got something to tell me?” 
  Andrew stopped typing. John looked over towards him and raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘go on, I’m waiting’. Andrew read the body language and started to tell John about the morning he had spent with DCS Hughes at the crime scene. Andrew left nothing out, he talked about the theories, the house, how it compared inside to outside, how Gillian had been dressed and then there was the cross. That was the clincher that proved a link. When he had finished John was as surprised as Andrew had been at the time. 
  “The old man must be getting soft in his old age. It took me almost six months before I saw my first crime scene.”  
  “Sometimes he was talking to me as a police officer, and then other times it felt as though he was just getting things off his chest, as if he just wanted to talk to someone, anyone. I think I was just in the right place at the right time.” 
  John replied, “I suppose when you have seen the worst side of human nature, as many times as he has, then be expected to clean up the mess, things must get on top of you at some point. I wonder how many times he has had to knock on a parent’s door, people who are complete strangers to him, to tell them that their son or daughter has been murdered or killed in a road accident and to witness at first hand all that grief and suffering.” 
  Andrew cut in, “There has to be some comfort though in the fact you have the skills and ability to catch those responsible and lock them away for the rest of their lives.” 
  “True,” replied John, “I suppose there must be some comfort in that, but what about the ones who get away, the murderers’ who walk free because of a clever barrister or a legal loophole or maybe because someone did not read them their rights at the proper time. It must be quite a responsibility to carry round. It’s no wonder that alcoholism is rife in the force.” 
  	John’s desk phone rang, he picked it up, “John Reynolds,” It was Geoffrey. “Hold on a moment Geoffrey, I want Andrew to listen in on his extension.” 
  Andrew picked up his phone and pressed the conference call button. “Go ahead,” said John.” 
  “The latest victim, Gillian Burns, I’ve run a background check on her. If it wasn’t for the fact that she’s dead she would be one very healthy woman. Here’s a victim in her late thirties and she has absolutely no medical records what so ever. She has never been to the doctors, a hospital or a dentist. She’s never even had a prescription.” 
  “What about school records, National Insurance details?” 
  “All her records exist John, except every school she attended has either closed down, moved to a new site, lost records due to fire or floods or simply just can’t find anything.” 
  “We’ve been here before Geoffrey, its Suzie Reeves again.” 
  John. We have to meet up, there’s something I have to talk to you about. Meet me at the London Eye in one hour and be careful.” 
  “What do you mean, be careful?” 
  “Whoever is taking an interest in us John knows that we have found their bugs. That will not make them go away, just change their tactics. You will probably be followed, just keep a look out for a tail, if you spot one make a note of then car number and if possible memorise the driver and passenger. Don’t try and loose them. Let them think we don’t know what they’re up to, with any luck they’ll slip up and that might give us the chance to find out who they are and why they’ve taken such an interest in us.” 
  	Opened to the public in March 2000, the London Eye or the Millennium Wheel as it was originally called stands four hundred and forty three feet high and is the largest observation wheel in Europe. When it was officially opened by Tony Blair at eight P.M. on the thirty first of December nineteen ninety nine it was the largest observation wheel in the world. Now it is ranked at number three. Thirty two sealed glass observation pods can each hold up to twenty five passengers who, travelling at a speed of ten inches per second, then spend half an hour enjoying magnificent views of London. 
  	As usual there was a long queue of people waiting in line. Geoffrey was standing near the front and waved for John to come over to him. “Follow me,” said Geoffrey. He then walked past the front of the queue to the main security area. There he took out his wallet and handed the guard a credit card sized pass. This was a V.I.P. platinum pass issued by the Tussauds Group to its board of directors and a very select group of people who, for whatever reason, have helped to raise the profile of the Tussauds Group in a positive way. The pass had a number of perks attached to it, one being unlimited and free access at any time to any of the group’s attractions. As far as the London Eye was concerned that also included private use of an observation pod. Geoffrey was not taking any chances of anyone else in a public pod overhearing their conversation.  
  	The London Eye does not stop to let passengers on or off. It is travelling so slowly there is ample time available to unload and load up to fifty people. The customer service staff responsible for passenger safety would probably never disembark one group and then seal in the next passengers as fast again. Once the two of them were inside the pod, the doors automatically closed and sealed. John glanced over at the people in the front of the queue who had expected to be enjoying the views of London from the pod he was now in. Most were pointing and talking to each other. A few were taking photographs. “They think we’re celebrities,” said Geoffrey. “By the way were you followed?” 
  John looked at the ground, now some ten to fifteen feet beneath them. Without pointing he looked towards the waiting crowd, “Two men towards the rear of the line, brown and black coats both wearing blue jeans.” 
  “Got them,” said Geoffrey, who then started to take photographs over the opposite side of the pod. A couple of minutes later he relocated John’s tail, switched the camera onto auto mode and took a rapid succession of photographs. For good measure he then changed the camera to video mode and took a short ten second video burst. He then took out his secure mobile phone, connected the digital camera to use via a mini USB lead and down loaded the photos and video. Next he punched in selected e-Mail from the phones menu, keyed in a short message, attached the photos and video then sent the e-Mail to Alex. “With any luck we might be able to identify the tail within a couple of hours.” 
  John knew better than to ask how Geoffrey could do that, he was just glad they were on the same side. Geoffrey then took out a pair of, what to John, looked like sunglasses. He put them on and looked around for a few seconds. He then took out what resembled an Mp3 player and placed it on the floor of the pod.  “This place is lit up like a Christmas Tree,” he said. 
  “What do you mean?” asked John. 
  Geoffrey took the glassed off and handed them over to John. “The lenses in these glasses are coated with special polymers that filter out all light except waves in the ultra violet or infer red spectrum, in other words the light spectrums that we can’t normally see. Your two minders down there are trying to listen in to our conversation via laser. It’s a similar set up to what they tried at your house except its portable.” 
  “Then they’ll know what we’re saying now?” 
  “No, it’s OK John, that little device on the floor is sending out high frequency sound waves that causes the glass to vibrate at over one million times per second. All they will hear is a very high pitched whistle and if they try to listen to that for longer than eight seconds it will burst their eardrums. Listening for longer than three seconds will induce enough pain in their ears to make them rip out any earpiece they’re wearing.” 
  The two of them looked over to where the minders had been, there was no sign of them. “They’ll know how long it takes this wheel to go round so they’ve probably gone to re-group. They are probably professional at what they do and so far we’ve managed to stay slightly ahead of them. They’ll have something to prove to someone so be careful when we leave here.” 
  John nodded, and then said “Why have you asked me over here, it must be something important to go to these lengths?” 
  “I’ve been thinking John. Two women have been viscously and brutally murdered. Both, for whatever reason, have phoney backgrounds. I admit they are excellent backgrounds, someone has done an excellent job, but if you dig in the right places and not just accept what you first find out, then they start to fall apart. Fortunately I know not only where to dig, but how deep to make the hole. The two murders are linked, I’ll bet both victims knew each other. I’ll also bet that the group of women at the funeral today also knew both victims.” 
  “Tracy was at the funeral,” said John, “she was part of the group.” 
  “That’s what I’m getting at John. I think Tracy, and all the other women we saw in that group, are all in danger. Any one of them could be the next victim.” 
  Geoffrey took out a selections of the photographs he had taken earlier in the day. “Look John, examine the group. What do you see?” 
  “John looked at the photographs, “Nothing really, just a group of women at a funeral. They’re all different ages, probably different backgrounds. I don’t know.” 
  “You’ve just said the answer John, they are a group. Look at the pictures; they have no contact with anyone else at the funeral, only each other. They stick together like glue. Not even any small talk with anyone else. I’ll also bet there are couple of other people missing from that group today. Two people the rest were expecting to turn up.” 
  John handed the photographs he had back to Geoffrey, “Gillian Burns and the killer.” He said. 
  “Agreed,” Replied Geoffrey, “listen John, I want to run a theory by you. “I’ve no proof of this at all but it’s based on your findings.” 
  “Go on,” said John, “I’m listening.” 
  “The scientific DNA evidence suggests that ‘Jack the Ripper’ is responsible for the recent murders. We also think that ‘Jack the Ripper’ is in fact a woman. Let’s go one step further, let’s ‘think outside the box’. Suppose Jacqueline Dupree is not the only person to somehow appear in our time. Let’s assume that the group of women, including Tracy, are also all from some time in the past. Let’s assume that is the link between them. If we can do that, then that could also be the reason why they are targets. Jacqueline Dupree is killing off the other people who could positively identify her. People who could probably prove who she really is, and was, I think Tracy is in great danger and the only ones who can protect her are us. She may not know it, but she’s on a shrinking hit list and at the rate it’s shrinking there won’t be a list within two weeks.”  
  As John was staring out of the pod windows he said in a quiet and deliberate voice, “I’ve already lost one incredible woman in my life. I’m not about to lose a second. Where do we go from here?” 
  “To see Pat,” replied Geoffrey, “Andrew’s already on his way.” 
  “How did Andrew know to go to Pat’s?” asked John. 
  “I called him earlier; now, let’s enjoy the rest of this ride.” 
  	John and Geoffrey both drove to Pat’s in John’s car. They arrived at his flat seven minutes after Andrew. “Nice timing,” said Pat, “tea, coffee or something a little stronger?” 
  “Sorry Pat,” replied John, “I’ve got a date tonight so I’ll keep a clear head for now.” 
  “I haven’t got a date,” said Geoffrey, “so if there’s any of that famous single malt scotch of yours that I keep hearing about.” 
  “Coming right up,” grinned Pat who as ever was pleased to have someone to enjoy a ‘wee dram’ with. 
  Geoffrey explained his theory to the group. He passed around the photographs he had taken at the funeral. There was a good selection of group and individual shots, the close up shots of each woman in the group now came into their own. Each was a crystal clear photograph showing a full head shot of each.  
  “How do we know Jacqueline Dupree isn’t one of these women?” asked Andrew. 
  “We don’t, “replied John, I just don’t think that she is. My theory is that Ms. Dupree had arranged to go to the funeral with Gillian Burns. They agreed to meet at Gillian’s house and leave from there. When Ms. Dupree arrived Gillian thought she was opening her door to a friend, in fact to another woman who had a common bond with her. Instead she was opening it to her torturer and eventual murderer.” John took a drink of his coffee, and then continued. “Ms. Dupree is very calculating and thinks in a very precise way. She has to be to do what she does to her victims, and I’ll bet Gillian was kept alive for most, if not all of that time. Ms. Dupree would have savoured every second of Gillian’s sheer terror, made even more enjoyable because Gillian thought of her as a friend. The murderer would have made an excuse to someone else in the group, called to tell them that she would not be able to make it after all. She would say that something unexpected had come up and to please give her apologies.” 
  Pat interrupted, “I reckon one of them would have had a similar call from Gillian as well.” 
  Andrew then spoke, “Except it would have been from Ms. Dupree and not Gillian, that way neither would have been missed, no suspicion aroused. The first time the rest of the group will know about Gillian’s murder will be from the television news or tomorrow’s newspapers.” 
  “I believe you have a date arrange with Tracy,” asked Pat. 
  “Tonight, I’m picking her up at eight.” 
  Pat continued, “I have no idea what you are going to say to her, John, but you have to find out if our theory is right. If it isn’t then, at worst, you’ve made a fool of yourself. She’ll get over it. If we’re right, though, then she is in a heap of trouble and just now won’t even know about it.” 
  All three looked at John. “I’ll do what I can,” he said, “just don’t expect too much tonight.” 
  ”I thought that’s what we were supposed to say to you,” quipped Andrew, “first date and all.” 
  John just looked at him. The rest of the group started to smirk, then chuckle. Then, for the first time in days all four just started to laugh uncontrollably. 
    
  Chapter 14 
  	John had arranged to pick Tracy up from her North London flat. He arrived eighteen minutes early and decided to park down the road as he didn’t want to appear too keen. Not on their first official date at any rate. John was watching the clock; he was amazed at how slowly time goes when you watch a clock. It was as though time had stood still. Fifteen minutes eventually became fourteen, then thirteen. John noticed knots starting to form in his stomach; he was starting to feel a shaky, possibly even a bit light headed. It reminded him of a Christmas morning when he was six years old, he would wake up at four in the morning and then lie awake for ever waiting until it was seven o’clock. That was the time he would excitedly run into his parents room, jump on the bed shouting “It’s Christmas, has Father Christmas been?” 
  “Let’s go and see then,” said his Dad, “I think I heard Rudolph just a while ago.”  
  Christmas, for John, was never quite the same when, at eight years of age, he found out that Father Christmas did not really exist. There was no more lying awake listening for Santa, even getting up early on Christmas morning had lost some of its magic. The presents were still there, but somehow, deep down you knew they would be. John wondered again if Father Christmas really did exist. 
  	John checked the clock again, still nine minutes early. “Close enough,” he said to himself as he started up the Jaguar and drove the couple of hundred yards up the road to Tracy’s flat. John sat for a moment, took a deep breath, leaned over to the back of the car and picked up a large bunch of lilies. He had no idea if Tracy liked lilies, but he did so he hoped that Tracy would as well. 
  	He locked the car and walked up the steps to the large front door of the old Victorian house that had been converted into six flats, or apartments as people now liked to call them. He rang the doorbell, a buzzer sounded and an electronic click opened a lock on the door letting him in. As he walked in Tracy shouted down to him, “Hi John, top floor on the left. We’ve no lift so I hope you’re fit.” 
  As if to prove a point John ran up the six flights of stairs two at a time. When he got to the top he wished he hadn’t. “Maybe I’m not as fit I should be,” he managed to gasp, in-between trying to catch his breath. 
  “You’d better come in,” said Tracy. John went inside. The apartment was very modern and everything looked new or reasonably new, nothing old. On the floor was a thick, rich blue carpet. A quality cream leather three piece suite ensured there was a good choice of somewhere to sit. At the window end of the room, sat on a glass stand, was a twenty eight inch wide screen television, underneath a micro HI Fi system. “Can I get you anything?” asked Tracy, “A drink, heart lung machine!”  
  “Am I that bad,” replied John. “I’ve brought these for you,” he said handing her the flowers. 
  She took them from him, buried her nose into the flowers and took in the sweet aroma. “Lilies,” she said, “They’re my favourites. How did you know?” 
  John smiled, “Sixth sense.” He grinned. 
  Tracy placed the flowers on one of the armchairs. “John,” she said, “I hope you don’t object but would you mind if we stayed in tonight?” 
  It was then that John noticed the aroma coming from the kitchen.  
  “I hope you like Italian,” said Tracy. 
  “Of course we can stay. That’s fine and Italian is my favourite. How did you know?” said John.  
  “Looks like you’re not the only one in this relationship with a sixth sense. Come on through to the dining room. I’ll serve.” 
  It struck John that Tracy had used the word, relationship. John thought about the word and what it meant, ‘relationship’, it sounded good, he felt happy. For the first time since Pamela’s death he felt needed. He felt as though he belonged somewhere and with someone. That he had only known her for a matter of hours was irrelevant and it looked as though Tracy felt the same way. 
  	The décor of the dining room followed on from the living room, nothing old, nothing handed down. No family heirlooms, in fact no family anything. John was sat at the head of a large six seat glass topped table. The chairs surprised him as they were far more comfortable than they looked. The table was immaculately set. Bread sticks in a tall glass, butter rolled into small balls, the napkin intricately folded in the shape of a swan and enough knives, forks and spoons to feed a small army.  
  “I hope you’re hungry,” shouted Tracy. 
  “Absolutely,” replied John, “The aroma is making my mouth water, Pavlov would be proud of you.”  
  Tracy brought out two bottles of wine, one rosé one white. “Care to pour?” she asked. John stood up. 
  “Of course, rosé or white?” 
  “Trust you’re sixth sense,” she replied, “I’ll bring in the starters.” 
  John admired the glasses, Italian crystal. He poured her a large glass of rosé and placed it in front of her place setting. 
  	John could not remember the last time he had enjoyed a meal as much as the one he had just eaten. The food, the company, everything was perfect. 
  “I’m glad you suggested staying in,” John said, “I’m a bit of a home bird. I love fresh home cooked food, better than a restaurant any day.” 
  “Flatterer,” she replied. 
  The two sat facing each other on the sofa. John’s left arm draped over the back. Tracy holding a glass of her favourite rosé wine. “John,” she said, “I don’t want to spoil the mood but I have a confession to make. I’ve been stupid and I don’t know why.” 
  “What is it?” asked John. 
  “The funeral I went to, it was here, in London, not Scotland. I knew Suzie Reeves, we went to college together. A few girls in the class formed a group and promised to stay in touch. Suzie was one of the group, I’m so sorry John” 
  “I’m sorry that you lost a friend, it must have been quite a shock for you, especially under such circumstances. Don’t worry, I understand, it’s not a problem.” replied John. He had to be careful with what he said next; he didn’t want Tracy to think that he had been spying on her.  
  “I wouldn’t call her a friend as such,” said Tracy, “more an acquaintance.” 
  John was happy to hear that. “I already knew you were at Suzie’s funeral,” he said, “as far as London funerals go this was a major event. The paper had a photographer there and I saw the pictures this afternoon. You’re on a couple of them.” 
  Tracy held her head down, blushing with embarrassment. She started to sob. John put his arm around her and pulled her closer to him. She rested her head on his shoulder, her sobs turning into a deep soulful cry. John cradled her as though she were a baby, his left hand around her waist, his right stroking her hair. “It’s OK Tracy, don’t worry. Everything will be OK.” 
  She pulled away slightly from him and looked him straight in the eye, “I didn’t want you to think that I was mixed up with the kind of people that Suzie knew. I was worried that if you thought I was then you wouldn’t want to know me.” 
  John took a tissue out of a box on the coffee table; he gently wiped away the tears running down her cheeks. “How could I ever not want to know you?” he whispered.  
  She smiled at him. “One day I’ll tell you about our group, but not just now.” 
  “Whenever you’re ready to tell me I’ll be there to listen. Tomorrow, next week, next month, whenever. I promise.” 
  Tracy snuggled up to him. She had stopped crying now and her head was resting on his chest, “You’ve no idea how special I wanted to make tonight. I can’t remember the last time I cooked for someone. I’m so sorry it’s turned out like this.” 
  “I’m not,” replied John, “the two of us have had one of the best meals I have eaten since I don’t know when. We’re sat on your settee, probably far closer as a couple than we ever would have been had we gone out. Unless I’ve read everything wrongly then, despite this being our first date, we have feelings for one another that some couples never get to feel, no matter how long they stay together. This to me feels the most natural thing in the world.” 
  Tracy looked up at him again; she gently put the fingers of her right hand over his lips. “You don’t have to say anything else John. I understand everything you’ve said and you’ve no idea how happy you have made me by saying them. One day. I hope, I’ll be able to tell you about my life and about me.” 
  “Why did you say hope?” asked John. 
  Tracy took a deep breath, held his left hand between both of hers and began to tell him what she could. Tracy explained that due to a riding accident just over five years ago she has one hundred percent amnesia about who she was prior to the accident. “I must have loved horses and riding,” she said, “because I was found, in a wooded area, lying unconscious on the floor with my horse standing by the side of me.” Tracy continued to explain to John how she was in a coma for six weeks, eventually waking up with no memory at all as to who she was. “From that day to this I have never even had a flash back of my former life. I don’t even know my real name.” 
  “Then it’s not Tracy?” asked John. 
  “No, Tracy Rae was the name of the nurse who cared for me all the time I was in hospital and rehabilitation. She said she’d be happy for me to have her name.” Tracy continued telling John about the treatment and aftercare. About how her story had been run on the news and in the local papers around where I had been found. “Despite all the publicity no one came forward to say they knew me. Not one person. For some reason I had no family, no friends, no one even recognised me from school, Can you imagine how that feels?”  
  “No,” said John, with a lump in his throat, “I can’t” 
   “I have never felt so depressed.” Tracy took a sip of wine, took hold of John’s hand again and continued to tell him about her move to an island off the coast of Scotland. On the island, well away from everyday life was a rehabilitation clinic that specialised in treating patients who had the same symptoms as herself, long term memory loss with no recall of the past what so ever. She explained that everyone had perfect memory from the day they came out of their comas. Most still had certain skills, such as reading, writing, spelling but others had even forgotten the most basic necessities of modern living. Tracy admitted to John that she was one of them. “I had no idea how to read the simplest book or even how to write my name. I had to learn everything from scratch.” 
  John interrupted, “the other women at the funeral were they also at the rehabilitation clinic? Is that the college class you mentioned before?” While he was waiting for Tracy to answer it occurred to him that they had not watched the TV news and Tracy did not have an evening paper, meaning she would not know about Gillian’s murder. He though, for a brief moment, about asking her if she knew Gillian but quickly changed his mind. That question could wait. Now was not the time or place. 
  Tracy nodded, she explained that all had been the victim of either an attack, an accident; a couple had suffered from brain tumours. “One girl just woke up in a hotel room with no idea who she was or how she got there.” 
  John had to ask, “Where any of the women in your group ever reunited with family of friends?” 
  “That’s the strange thing,” Tracy took another drink, and then replied, “No. It was as though none of us had ever existed before. We just had each other. That’s why we all agreed to keep in touch after we left the clinic. At first we did, on a weekly basis for the most part, but over a period of time it became once a month then just Christmas and birthdays. We all gave each other birthdays by the way.” 
  “What’s yours?” asked John 
  “I chose the seventeenth of January. I tell everyone I’m thirty one but I’ve no real idea.” 
  “I could always count your teeth,” said John. Trying desperately to move out of the way as Tracy, playfully, hit him on the side of his head with a cushion. 
  “Oww,” he cried, “that hurt.” 
  “Ahh, let me see,” said Tracy, “I’ll kiss it better for you.” 
  Tracy leaned over and gave John a light, but sensual kiss on his lips. She started to ease away but John pulled her back towards him. The kiss lasted an eternity; neither wanting to be the first to end it, eventually lack of air separated them. They just looked at each other. Tracy was the first to speak, “Are you working tomorrow?” 
  “No. I’m off. Why?” 
  “How would you like to go for a drive in the country? I don’t care where, maybe head towards the south coast, but keep to the A and B roads.” 
  “Great idea, “replied John, “I’d love to.” 
  ”I could make a small picnic and then we could leave after breakfast. That’s if you’d like to stay the night?” 
  Tracy looked tense, waiting to see John’s reaction. 
  “I love the south coast.” replied John. 
  “One question,” asked Tracy. 
  “Sure.” 
  “Why did you park up for twenty minutes before you knocked on the door?” 
  John was lost for word, “You knew I was outside?” 
  She pointed. “I am on the second floor and have a large bay window overlooking the front. I can see everything.” 
  “And you left me there, alone and in the cold” replied John in a slightly hurt tone.  
  Tracy grinned, stood up, took hold of John’s hand and led him to her bedroom. 
  *  *  *  * 
  	Eighteen miles away in central London Pat was sat in the living room of his three bedroom terraced house. He checked the time on a carriage clock placed centrally on his mahogany fire surround. It was just before ten thirty PM. Pat wondered how John’s date with Tracy was going. He felt awkward that he was more interested in what information he would be able to get out of Tracy than how his friend was fairing on his first date. Pat had known John for a long time. He had also known Pamela, and as much as he knew how John had felt about her, and still did, he did not think that was a good enough reason for him to live the rest of his life as a monk. If there truly was a heaven and Pamela was looking out for John then she would not want him to be alone. Pat was certain that Pamela would be doing everything she could to find a new love for John. “If you’ve any time left when you’re done, try and find someone for me,” he said in mock prayer. 
  	At ten thirty four there was a knock at Pat’s door. He was not expecting anyone, “Maybe it’s John,” he thought. The doorbell rang again. Pat got up from his chair and walked into the hallway. He switched on the light and could see two figures standing at the door. “Could be John and Tracy,” he again thought. Pat took the security chain off the door and opened it. Two uniformed police officers were standing on the step.  
  “Can I help you?” asked Pat. 
  “We’re sorry for calling so late sir but are you Mr Patrick Wallace?” 
  “Yes, is everything alright?” 
  “Yes Mr. Wallace, it is now.” 
  At that exact point the two HSS agents grabbed Pat and before he really had any idea of what was happening he found himself pinned down on the floor in his living room. 
  “Get off me, what do you think you’re doing?” 
  Agents three and four had been sent to get information from Pat, they needed to know what the group knew and what if anything they intended to do with that information. I short they were doing a risk assessment. 
  “Just so you understand the position you’re in,” said agent three to Pat, “we will ask the questions. You will answer them quickly and truthfully.” The agent stared menacingly into Pat’s eyes. “Don’t be under any illusion about not answering our questions or about lying to us. We’ll know if you do and that will make things a whole lot worse for you. If you never believe anything again then believe this. We will get the answers we want.” Pat was rolled over onto his stomach, his arms were pulled behind his back and duct tape wrapped around his wrists. Next his ankles were tapped together, he knees were bent up towards his hands and more tape fastened his wrists and ankles together. He was now trussed up. Apart from being able to wriggly slightly Pat found he was completely unable to move. 
  	Agent four crouched down next to Pat, “tell me everything you know about Suzie Reeves.” 
  “I don’t know anybody called Suzie Reeves.” 
  “How about Gillian Burns” 
  “No, I’ve never heard of her.” 
  “I suppose you’ve never heard of Tracy Rae either.” 
  “You suppose right,” replied Pat. 
  Agent three butted in. “I have to admit I do admire your loyalty towards your friends. It is very commendable but we know you know whose those women are. We know you and your friends have been checking into their backgrounds. We know you have found our bugs and done everything you can to stop us from finding out the information we need to know.” 
  Pat glared at them. “You two bit bully boys, from whatever gang you’re from, don’t frighten me in the slightest. I was born, bred and raised in Glasgow and there tough men are tough. Not like the southern softies down here. So why don’t you crawl back to whatever dockland hole you crawled out from and tell what ever upstart boss sent you on this wild goose chase to go and shove himself somewhere the sun don’t shine. If you get my drift” 
  “What a pretty speech,” said agent three. 
  “Last chance old man,” said agent four, “easy way or hard way. We don’t care. In fact the hard way for you is the easy way for us. Take you pick.” 
  “Go to hell,” said Pat as he spat at agent three. He hit the agent squarely in his left eye. The agent grimaced and turned away, “You’ll pay for that,” he snarled at Pat as he wiped away the saliva from his eye.  
  “Do your worst”, said Pat in a surprisingly calm voice, “by the way, did I mention I’ve got AIDS. I’ve only got a few months left to live and the doctors tell me it not the most pleasant way to die.” He looked over at the agent still wiping his eye, “I’d get myself checked out first thing in the morning,” said Pat. “Chances are you’ve got it now. Welcome to the club.” 
  	Pat was about to say something else when he felt a sharp pain in the top of his leg. He looked down just in time to see agent four push the plunger on a syringe. 
  	Almost at once Pat felt his temperature start to rise, he started to sweat. He felt light headed, and then he started to float. He felt his body, no longer trussed up, leave the floor. It was only a few feet to start with, and then he started to spin, slowly at first then faster and faster. The spinning stopped, he could hear muted voices in the distance. Pat had no idea what they were saying. He started to move around the room, the walls were all different colours, shapes and sizes. It made no sense to him at all that the room was actually a room, it couldn’t be, and nothing fits. He looked towards the window; the more he looked towards it the further away he seemed to be. It was now as though he was looking down a brightly lit corridor, one that was lit up on all sides with bright white florescent lighting. His body then made a dash towards the corridor, he went faster and faster until he was travelling so fast everything around him was a blur. Nothing had any shape or form. The voices, at least he thought they were voices were coming at him from everywhere. Pat felt surrounded by voices, he tried to shout back but nothing came out of his mouth. The white fluorescent light then changed to blue, then green. The colours changed more quickly now, red to orange to white, to pink, to amber then all merging together into a brilliant intense white.  
  	Pat stared at the light, he was surprised that it did not hurt his eyes, staring a little harder he could just make out a figure. Being dressed in white the figure was hard to focus on. He could tell though that it was waving at him, calling him over towards him. Pat, still floating moved towards the figure. As he got closer the figure opened a door. Pat floated through it. The door closed behind him. The room suddenly changed. The floor erupted into a sea of unimaginably hot molten lave. Lave was spitting up into the air, ten, twenty, thirty feet. Pat did not know. He tried to avoid it but that was impossible and parts of his skin became horribly burned. Looking at his right forearm all he could see was dark black, charred and smoking skin. The pain ripped through his body, he screamed, for the first time more in terror than pain. The lava was getting more intense, the heat even more unbearable, he could feel his blood start to boil. Over to his right Pat saw a ridge or rock, he tried to think himself towards it. Slowly he started to turn; he concentrated more and more on getting to the safety of the rock. He was turning quicker now. Focus, he thought focus. Pat reached the rock. He was now standing, no longer floating. The rock was not a rock at all. It was as though he was walking on marshmallow. The rock felt squishy under his feet. Pat though he was feeling tired; it was getting more and more difficult for him to walk. He started to hear all sorts of sounds, ringing, screaming, shouting, moaning, high pitched sounds, low pitched sounds, so much sound he felt as if his eardrums would burst. He looked down and realised he was sinking into the rock. This was not rock, it was quicksand. It was slowly devouring him and he could see no way out. Pat fought against the sand, forcing himself to make even the smallest amount of progress. He could hear voices, they were calling him again, “Over here,” they called, “over here, in here, quickly.” This was the first time that Pat had been able to understand what the voices had been saying. “Over where?” he shouted. “Where are you?” 
  “Pat, Pat, are you alright? What happened to you? It’s me, Andrew” 
  Pat opened his eyes and looked at Andrew. The eyes were dull and deep set, no sparkle, not Pat’s eyes at all. Pat tried to focus his vision but it was too hard for him. All he could make out were the blurred outline of a shapeless individual. He tried to speak but no words left his mouth. Pat felt hot; he was in fact cold. He couldn’t stop shaking. Despite not being able to see or recognise anything he kept looking around. The thoughts and images he experienced still fresh in his brain, for the first time Pat felt genuine terror.  
  	Just then two paramedics entered the room. “What happened?” asked the first. 
  “I have no idea,” replied Andrew, “As soon as I found him I called you and the police”  
  As though on cue, DI Bales and DCS Hughes walked into the room. “We were in a car when we heard Pat’s name on a radio call so we drove straight over.” said DI Bales. 
  “Good lord, what happened here, Is Pat alright?” asked DCS Hughes.  
  “I have no idea,” replied Andrew, “the paramedics will know more about that than I do. I just found him like this about fifteen minutes ago. I haven’t touched him or moved anything, I’ve been as careful as I can.” 
  “You’ve done fine Andrew,” said DCS Hughes, “you know we will have to have a talk about this, take a statement, probably best done down at the station.” 
  “That’s OK. I’ll help anyway I can.” 
  DCS Hughes had been looking at Andrew since he and DI Bales arrived. He was clearly shaken up by what he had found; probably a little scared as well. This was real, whatever they were involved in, or however they were involved had been like a little boys club so far. Now things had moved up a notch. 
  	“Am I OK to make a call?” asked Andrew. 
  “Of course,” said DCS Hughes, “you’re not under arrest, you can make as many calls as you like.” 
  	Andrew took out his secure phone and keyed in Geoffrey’s speed dial number. The call was answered on the third ring. Andrew quickly brought him up to date. They agreed to meet at the hospital in an hour. John had his phone switched off. 
  	“If it’s OK with you we’re ready to take him to hospital,” said the first paramedic. 
  “That’s fine,” replied DCS Hughes, “make sure you look after him, he’s an old friend of mine.” 
  *  *  *  * 
  	The two HSS agents returned to their safe house. It had taken then over two hours to drive back to the house despite the fact it was less than twenty minutes away.  They arrived back to be de-briefed on their interrogation of Patrick Wallace. The two agents explained in great detail how they had carried out their questioning, what techniques they had used and how reliable they felt the information was they had extracted from Pat. Both agents were very confident as to the validity of the information they had obtained.  
  	It then took the agents a further hour and a half to go through the intelligence received. Agent one took detailed notes during the de-briefing and these were sent to GCHQ via a secure digital data burst.  
  	Forty one minutes later the secure line beeped. They had an inbound message. Agent one read the message from the screen, printed out a hard copy and read it to the group. 
  	‘As from 06:30 AM Sunday 10th April mission status re Tracy Rae is Red 1. John Reynolds is Red. Other members of the group unchanged for now. Message ends.’  
    
  Chapter 15 
  	Tracy and John had woken up just before eight o’clock, both feeling a warm glow that neither had experienced for a long time. John lay on his side facing Tracy, “Good morning,” Miss Rae, he said. 
  “Why, good morning Mr. Reynolds,” she replied. “I hope you managed to sleep well last night in my humble little bed.” 
  John moved closer to her, “It’s amazing how awake you can feel in a morning when you’ve had so little sleep. I feel like I could conquer the world right now.” He said in a soft tone. 
  “I think you’ve done enough conquering for one day,” she answered him. “You stay here, I’ll go and put the coffee on and run the water for a bath. Sorry, are you a bath or a shower man?” 
  “Generally a shower, but either will be fine, so long as you’re in it with me?” 
  “Mmm, that sounds fun. Out of interest what do I get out of this mixed shower?” 
  John grinned at her, “What you get is to be the proud owner of the cleanest pair of boobs in London.” 
  “Coffee can wait,” said Tracy. 
  	The shower lasted for thirty eight minutes and when they had finished she had to admit that John had been true to his word. They dressed and headed into the kitchen. John prepared breakfast while Tracy made a picnic lunch. Tracy thought banquet would have been a more suitable term. Three different types of sandwiches, a selection of cheeses, crackers, meat pie, gala pie, salad with a choice of dressing and freshly baked cake. Two flasks of coffee and a bottle of non alcoholic wine ensured they would not be thirsty either.  They bagged everything up and put the food into the boot of the Jaguar. “Your carriage my lady,” said John as he held open the passenger door for Tracy. She slid into the seat, “I love the smell of leather,” she said, “I think it reminds me of when I went horse riding, the leather saddle, harnesses and other pieces of tack.” 
  “Have the doctors every given any hope that you might regain your memory?” 
  “The specialists have said they don’t know. I may never get my past life back or I could wake up tomorrow to find I’ve a husband and four children.” 
  John looked over at her. “I’m only joking,” She said, “the two things I’ve never had are an engagement or wedding ring. Apparently that was one of the first things they checked. Even if you aren’t wearing any rings they can do some kind of scan of your fingers that will show if you have. I’m in the clear. No rings, so relax. Whatever might come out of the woodwork in the future, a screaming husband and a house full of kids won’t be included” 
  	John fired up the Jaguar’s three litre engine. “South coast, no motorways?” he asked. 
  Tracy nodded. John placed his finger on the tough screens of the cars inbuilt sat nav; he selected ‘no motorways’ option for their route. “Let’s go,” said John. He selected first gear and following the sat nav instructions pulled away.  
  “Can you do me a favour?” asked Tracy. 
  “Of course,” replied john, “what is it?” 
  “Would you mind switching of your mobile, I’d just like to escape from the modern world today. Even for a little while.” 
  John did not even answer; he took his mobile out of his pocket and passed it over to Tracy. “Just press the red button to switch it off, then you can put it in the glove box.” 
  	It was perfect driving weather, the roads were dry hardly any wind. The sky was fairly cloudy so the low sun, that could cause so many driving problems, was hidden for most of the time. The drive and the conversation were both relaxed and easy. Tracy was asking John about his childhood, what did his father do? Did he have any brothers or sisters? What and where were his favourite holidays? John enjoyed answering her questions; he enjoyed reminiscing about his childhood.  
  	After a couple of hours driving they decided to look for somewhere to stop and eat lunch. They were on a country road with large areas of woods on both sides and John started to look out for a lay-by. It did not take too long before they passed a sign saying ‘Picnic area two miles ahead’. Both agreed that would be the perfect spot. 
  	The Jaguar pulled into the lay-by and John stopped just by some rustic looking tables and benches. He got out of the car and walked over to admire the view. It was indeed a perfect spot. Just at the back of the designated picnic area the trees gave way to a large lake. There was just a very faint ripple on the top of the water. John stood on the edge and gazed out drinking in the fabulous view. Tracy came up behind him and slipped her arm through his. “It’s beautiful,” she said. John nodded in agreement. 
  Looking on the ground he noticed three or four palm sized flat stones. He picked them up. “Have you ever skimmed stones?” he asked. 
  “I’ve no idea what you mean,” replied Tracy. 
  Tracy held one of the flat stones in his right hand. He showed Tracy how the stone was held parallel to the ground. “When you throw the stone try and spin it with your first finger as you let it go.” He threw the stone so that when it hit the water it bounced up into the air then again and again. Tracy giggled, “That looks like fun,” she said, “let me have a go.” John found a good sized flat stone for her and placed it into her hand. “Don’t forget to spin the stone when you throw it, and keep the stone flat.” Tracy threw the stone; it hit the water on a angle and sunk without trace. “Here, have another go,” said John. Tracy took the second stone. This time she had a look of determination on her face. She moved her arm back, when it would not go back any further she moved it powerfully and quickly forward. The stone flew out of her hand, spinning as it approached the water. The stone hit the smooth top of the lake, there was a splash and rippers started moving outwards in a circle where the stone had hit. They both watched as the stone flew back up into the air, then dipping down on its second approach to the water. In all the stone made five skips before disappearing into the lake. 
  	Tracy was shouting and jumping up and down “I did it,” she yelled, “I did it.” It was only a minor moment in her life but Tracy could not remember ever feeling happier before than right now. “I’ll go and get the food,” she said to John, “you go and pick a table, one with a good view.”  
  	John looked around; all the tables had good views. Then, he heard Tracy shout. “John,” there was a pause, “John, look...” then silence. 
  	John’s heart started to race, he immediately ran towards the car where Tracy had headed. Two men came out of nowhere and stood before him, he stopped. Each was dressed from head to foot in black combat clothes. Their face covered with black ski masks and blacked out goggles covered their eyes. One held up a rifle, aimed it at John and pulled the trigger. John stood there waiting for the pain of a bullet. It did not happen, all he felt was a stinging sensation in his right thigh. Looking down at his leg John saw a dart sticking in it. Grabbing the dart he pulled it out and started to walk towards the two men. It was too late though. The chemicals had already been injected into his blood stream. His legs buckled beneath him and he fell to the ground, hitting the side of his forehead against a rock. John tried to move but no matter what messages he was trying to get his brain to send to his limbs nothing was happening. John was completely paralysed. He could still see, he could still hear. He tried to talk, but nothing happened. No sound what so ever passed his lips, John felt trapped inside his own body and he could feel himself starting to panic. 
  	He was roughly grabbed by the two men, one each side of him and carried to a spot closer to the car. About ten yards away and in front of him John could see Tracy lying on the ground. In her shoulder was a dart similar to the one fired at him. “What’s all this about?” he though, “why is this happening to us?”  
  	John was dropped onto the floor, he was still facing Tracy. He saw the two black clad figures go over to her, pick her up and take her over to one of the nearby trees. Then they tied Tracy to the tree so she was standing upright. They walked back to John. One man held him up, the other took his right hand and placed a nine mm self loading pistol in it. John was powerless to do anything to stop them. He could only watch everything that was going on around him. He was like a spectator in a virtual world. All he had to do now was wake up.  
  	The figure holding the pistol in John’s hand checked to make sure the hand had a good grip of the pistol. When he was satisfied he aimed the pistol at Tracy and pressing John’s finger that was wrapped around the trigger fired twice. John’s brain was close to shutdown, he could not take in what was happening. He heard the pistol fire twice. Looking over to Tracy John could see two, small crimson coloured circles on the front of her cream coloured top. Both shots had found their target. The crimson marks on Tracy’s chest started to expand as more blood seeped from the wounds.  
  	The two figures dropped John and ran back over to Tracy. There was more urgency in their actions. The sound of gunshots could be heard for miles and someone would be bound to call the police. They cut Tracy down from the tree, checked her back. There were no exit wounds. 
  	The two figures then spent the next two minutes staging the murder scene to look as though John had murdered Tracy. John had then turned to go but had tripped and knocked himself unconscious on the ground. The gash on John head was a very convenient bonus for them. Happy with their work the two men then ran to their Range Rover parked a few hundred yards away on the opposite side of the road. Back in the car, agent one, grabbed his mobile and dialled nine, nine, nine. The call was quickly answered and agent one reported he had just heard two gun shots and giving the exact location.  Time was of the essence for them now; the drug would start to wear of in about twenty minutes and they had to ensure the Police arrived just before that happened but not too long after, giving John time to get away. Agent four then made a second emergency call, he told them a woman had been shot and gave the same location. Both had used untraceable mobile phones with built in voice disguise. When the emergency room replayed the two calls they would hear the voices of two different women, both untraceable. 
  	The Range Rover drove off as agent four reported to their control that the mission had been a success. 
  	What the two agents had not noticed throughout their operation was a sky blue Bell Jet Ranger helicopter hovering at eighteen hundred feet. The helicopter was just over two miles away and downwind so the sound of the rotor blades was almost inaudible. In the rear passenger compartment a man pressed ‘review’ on the digital video consol. Almost instantly he was able to watch a HD quality replay of the entire operation. The helicopters Hi Tec electronic surveillance equipment fitted into to the belly of the Jet Ranger helicopter had been following the black Range Rover for the previous hour. They had photographed the car from all angles. Photographs that included close up digitised shots of the driver and passenger. The Range Rovers registration number has already been checked, but as expected came back as ‘none issue plate’. This, the man in the helicopter knew, was government code for a secret service vehicle registration. After a final look at the scene and satisfied there was nothing more to be gained from staying, he ordered the pilot to return to base.  
  *  *  *  * 
  	Forty seven minutes after Andrew had called Geoffrey he walked into the main reception area of the Royal London Hospital where Andrew was sat waiting for him.  
  “Andrew, are you OK?” asked Geoffrey. 
  “I’m fine thanks, a bit shocked but otherwise OK.” 
  “Any ideas what happened?”  
  “Not exactly,” replied Andrew, “Pat’s still drifting in and out of consciousness. On top of that the doctors still have no idea what it was he had pumped into him.” 
  Geoffrey thought for a moment before answering, “I’ll bet whatever it was, it to make Pat talk. The stubborn old fool should have just told them what they wanted to know, he’s too old for all of this. Are we OK to go and see him?” 
  “When they brought him in it was staff only, even the police can’t question him yet and, I’ll guarantee that they’re ahead of us on the visitors list.” 
  “Let’s go there anyway, you never know, we might get a lucky break.” 
  	Room 641 is a private room on the sixth floor of the RLH and is held on retainer by the Metropolitan Police. It is the closest the police have to a ‘safe house’ in a hospital and it is used exclusively by witnesses they regard as vulnerable. Pat was showing slow, but positive signs of stabilising. His condition had given the doctors cause for concern when he arrived as he had deteriorated shown signs of deterioration in the ambulance. The paramedics had done their best to stabilise him but in the end they did not have the specialised medicines his body required.  
  	A syringe found in Pat’s living room had been sent to toxicology in the hope they could identify what had been injected into Pat. Fortunately there was a small amount of anonymous yellow coloured liquid still inside the syringe. DCS Hughes knew Pat had never taken a drug, recreational or otherwise, at any time in his life so it was a safe bet the intruders had come prepared. They had wanted information, information they thought Pat would be able to give them. Pat.  
  	DCH Hughes knew that Pat would never say anything that would put any of his friends in danger. He would rather die himself than do that, but, there were a number of drugs available today that ensured interrogators would get the answers to any question they asked. Truth drugs were not a myth, they are a reality. In the UK, truth drugs are strictly controlled and only cleared for use by a few specialist government agencies. The one thing all of these agencies have in common is all of their work is highly classified and is crucial for maintaining the highest levels of national security. Whatever Pat and his friends had got themselves mixed up with it had attracted the attention of one or more of those agencies. As much as he hated to admit it DCS Hughes knew the use of the drug also tied in with the bug that John had found in his office and the bogus secretary. DCS Hughes needed to talk with Pat urgently; he had a lot of questions, two murders and so far no answers to anything. 
  	The lab had quickly confirmed the contents of the syringe, a very advanced truth serum combined with a hallucinating had made for a potentially lethal cocktail. Who ever had administered the drug would not have known if Pat would survive or not. That proved to DCS Hughes that the attackers and interrogators had been prepared to kill Pat attempting to get the information they needed. Everything was being played for very high stakes and by some very powerful people.  
  	DCS Hughes was in the room when Andrew and Geoffrey arrived. “How is he?” asked Andrew, “any change since I found him?” 
  DCS Hughes was about to give the two of them both barrels of his temper when he thought better of it. Whatever danger Pat was in, they were both in as well. Whatever Pat knew, Andrew and Geoffrey also know. Recriminations, if any, could wait. 
  “He’s showing signs of improvement son, I’m not saying he’s out of the woods yet but things are looking better for him now than they were a couple of hours ago. Pat’s as strong as an Ox, he’ll pull through.”  
  “That’s good news,” said Geoffrey. 
  “Is there any chance we can see him?” asked Andrew. 
  “I think it’s best to let him rest just now, he’s had a very traumatic experience. There’s a café on the second floor, why not go any get yourself some lunch. Give me half an hour and I’ll come and join you for a coffee.” 
  	Andrew and Geoffrey were just about to leave when DCS Hughes called after them, “By the way, have either of you heard from John, I tried his mobile but it’s switched off.” 
  “No we haven’t,” replied Andrew, “We’ll let you know when we do.” 
  DCS Hughes raised a hand in acknowledgement. 
  *  *  *  * 
  	It was a local patrol car that was first to arrive at the scene of the shooting. The officer pulled up just behind the Jaguar. He knew that the report said shots had been heard so he was not in too much of a hurry to the possibility of becoming exposed in the open ground. If shots had been fired he did not intend being the next potential target. PC Welling got out of the patrol car. He kept looking in every direction as he slowly made his way towards the picnic area. Slowly the tabled area started coming into view. He continued to move forward, now he could now make out the outline of a male lying on the ground. The figure wasn’t moving. The officer had a quick look around and ran to the figure. John was just starting to come out of the effects of the drug, some slight movement was beginning to return to his limbs, he could also feel the tremendous pain from the wound in his head.  
  	PC Welling asked John if he was alright, had he been hurt. John could not answer; the drug had not yet worn off sufficiently to allow him to talk. Then the constable noticed the nine mm lying on the ground a couple of yards away from John. Then he noticed a woman, lying on the ground. He stood up and could clearly see the blood stains on the front of her blouse. He reached for his radio. 
  “2941 to control” 
  “Go ahead 2941” 
  “Request urgent backup one female multiple gunshot wounds and one male possibly the attacker, also request immediate paramedic and CID.” 
  “Message understood” 
  	PC Welling ran over to Tracy, he could not detect any pulse or breathing. He then went back over to John who was starting to move, very slowly and very painfully. The side effects of the drug were not at all pleasant. John started to mouth something to the officer. 
  “What is it sir?”  
  “Jo .., Tracy,” he slowly managed to point towards Tracy. 
  “Is her name Tracy sir?” 
  John nodded; in the distance the sound of multiple sirens could just about be heard.  
  “Do you know who did this sir?” asked PC Welling. 
  John slowly shook his head followed by a weak “No.” 
  The sound of the sirens was getting louder now, John could now feel the blood rush into his feet and fingers, he cried out as every muscle in his body felt as though it had cramped at the same time. The extremities of his fingers and toes started to tingle. No matter which way he moved the pain was excruciating.  
  	The first of the backup patrols arrived and after checking with PC Welling there was no other casualties started to cordon off the area. The nine mm was left in place but covered over with what looked like a fluorescent orange miniature pop up igloo.  
  	Sergeant Brown approached PC Welling, “The male does he have any gunshot wounds you are aware of?” 
  “No sergeant” 
  “He was lying on the ground when you arrived?” 
  “Yes sergeant” 
  “Which way was his head pointing?” 
  “Over that way sergeant, towards the cars.” 
  John cramp was slowly starting to ease. He could see another patrol car arrive, then an unmarked CID car. For the first time John was now able to speak. He called an officer over to him, “How’s Tracy?” he asked “Over there, how is she.” 
  John could see a couple of officers were standing over Tracy, neither doing very much.  
  “I’m sorry sir, I’ can’t say how the lady is, we’re waiting for the paramedics to arrive.” 
  “Thank you,” replied John. 
  	As if on cue there was a whooping sound as an ambulance inched its way through the site, stopping as close as it could to Tracy but not too close as to disturb the crime scene. The driver parked up a quickly jumped out from the cab, the second went around to the back and opened up the double rear doors. 
  “Can I ask who’s in charge here please?” asked the first paramedic.  
  “I can help you,” replied Sergeant Kenyon. 
  “Have you got one gunshot victim or two, the reports we had were not very clear?” 
  “There’s one gunshot victim, a female, just over there. She’s not showing any obvious vital signs but you can check her anyway. Over there, male, looks like a head injury. And you are?” 
  “Russell,” replied the paramedic, pointing to his name embroidered over the top left hand pocket of his green coveralls. “I’ll check on the female first.” Russell was carrying a black case that he had brought out of the cab with him. He picked up Tracy’s hand, feeling for a pulse in the process. He laid her hand gently back down onto the ground then, with two fingers, felt her neck, again checking for a pulse. “I’ve got a very faint pulse over here,” he shouted to the assistant. Prep the pod for gunshot trauma and then bring the gurney over here, we’ve got to move fast.” 
  	Paramedic two started to hang drips and various lines from the patient area of the ambulance. It was a well rehearsed procedure and took only a minute to complete. He then pushed the patient trolley or gurney as far as he could towards Tracy. The gurney was not designed to travel over rough ground so he was not able to get it next to her. The two paramedics would have to carry Tracy about twenty yards. Russell was inserting two shunts into Tracy’s arm, ready to receive the intravenous drips once she was safely inside the ambulance. 
  	A plain clothes officer approached Russell, “DI Baxter, Southern Counties CID, do you think she’s likely to survive?” 
   
   
   
   
  “Hard to tell detective Inspector, her pulse is very weak, blood pressure has almost dropped of the scale but where there’s life there’s hope, as they say. We need to move her now though. Is that OK with you?” 
  “Of course, keep me informed of her progress please. It obviously has a bearing on the case. Do you need any of my men to help you?” 
  “Thanks Detective Inspector but we should be OK. Appreciate the offer thought.” 
  	The two paramedics carried Tracy to the trolley, placed her gently on it and then wheeled her over to the ambulance. Within two minutes she was inside, made secure, hooked up to the intravenous drips and on her way to the nearest available trauma centre. 
  	DI Baxter was about to start questioning John, who was now able to talk and had about eighty percent movement back in his limbs. When there was a whooping sound from the road. A Southern Counties paramedic ambulance pulled up. Two paramedics jumped out and jogged towards the DI. “Are you in charge?” asked the first paramedic, “We’ve been called out to a possible shooting.” 
  “Sorry, you’re too late,” replied DI Baxter, “You’re colleagues have already taken the victim to a local trauma centre.” 
  “What colleagues?” replied the paramedic with a rather confused look on his face. 
  “I assume the ones your control sent here,” answered DI Baxter.  
  The first paramedic took out his portable radio and contacted ambulance control. After a brief conversation he looked perplexed. 
  “What’s the mix up?” asked DI Baxter. 
  “There is no mix up sir. We are the only crew that has been dispatched here. I have no idea who picked up your gunshot victim but ‘Southern Counties HNS Ambulance Trust’ has no knowledge of it what so ever. It looks as though someone has walked into your crime scene and taken your victim from under your noses.” 
  DI Baxter looked mortified. “Did anyone get the number of that ambulance?” he shouted. No one had. “What direction did it go? We’ve got half the Southern Counties Police Force here; someone must know what way it went.” Again no one replied. 
  	John could hear the commotion going on around him. Andrew’s words came back to him, ‘When you want to hide, hide in the open. Blend in, that way no one will see you.’ At the scene of a shooting there are certain things everyone expects to see. Top of their list would be the presence of Police and Ambulance crews. Who ever had just spirited away Tracy was very cool and professional. But who? John reasoned that it would not be the same people who had tried to kill her. Why try to kill her then come back for her. If that’s what they had wanted then they could have just taken her in the first place. One thing was certain in John’s mind right now, he was about to be framed for the shooting, and possible murder, of Tracy Rae and he had no idea how he would ever be able to make anyone believe he was innocent. 
  *  *  *  * 
  	DCS Hughes walked into the cafeteria, he saw Andrew and Geoffrey sitting at a table over to his left. Andrew acknowledged the detective and pointed to a vacant seat at their table. DCH Hughes nodded back. “Let’s hope he has some good news about Pat,” said Geoffrey. 
  “I’m sure if it was bad news of any kind he’d have come straight over to us.” 
  “I suppose your right, I just feel helpless sat here doing nothing. Any word from John yet?” 
  “Nothing yet,” Andrew replied. 
  	DCS Hughes placed his cup of coffee and a bacon roll and a Danish pastry on the table. “I’ve yet to master the fine art of healthy eating,” he said jokingly. “I’m told though that’s the lot of a policeman, sat in a car all day, drinking coffee eating donuts.” 
  “That’s just what the public think though,” said Geoffrey, “I blame the American cop shows. You never see a policeman in one of those shows unless they have a large Styrofoam cup of coffee in their hands, even at a crime scene.” He emphasised the words ‘crime scene.’ 
  DCS Hughes nodded. 
  Geoffrey continued, “It not as if it is anything like real life. In real life you’d be sat around a table drinking coffee and eating a bacon bap followed by a rather tasty looking Apple Danish. I blame the writers myself.” 
  “Touché,” replied DCS Hughes. “Pat is making good progress upstairs, I asked the nurse about visiting and she says it should be OK after the doctors have made their rounds in about an hour’s time.” 
  “That’s great news,” said Andrew, his spirits visibly lifted. 
  “It is,” replied DCS Hughes, “I thought that the hour would give us the chance to have a chat. I have a theory that Pat was targeted last night because of something he knew, or because of something his attackers thought he knew and whoever attacked him wanted that information so badly they were prepared to pump whatever drugs they needed into him to get it. These drugs are amongst the most controlled in the country. I checked. It is so controlled that even the police aren’t allowed access to it. So, what is it that Pat knows that would provoke such an attack?” 
  “We were thinking the same thing,” replied Andrew. 
  “I bet you were,” said DCS Hughes. “Anyway, I was waiting to interview Pat to try and find out what this is all about when it occurred to me. Whatever Pat knows, so do you two, and as neither of you have been pumped full of nasty mind bending drugs and you both have a good hour to kill I thought you might like (at this point his voice started to rise)  to give me some idea as to what is going on.” 
  A couple on the next table took a glance in DCS Hughes direction. He looked back at them, “Police brutality in action,” he said in their direction.  
  	“We don’t have any hard facts or any evidence about anything just now,” answered Geoffrey, “all we have is a theory and that is so ‘off the wall’ I can’t believe anyone would have the slightest interest in it, all that happened is John was looking into the Suzie Reeves murder. I helped by doing background checks on the victim. There were a few inconsistencies, we dug a bit more and then everything started to go a bit crazy. One thing led to another and here we are now.” 
  DCS Hughes had finished his bap and was half way through his Apple Danish, he continued. “Parts of your theory affect me and don’t forget my office was bugged because John was coming to see me. I know where the bugs came from, or at least what general operational area they came from. So far I have never heard your theory and I want to, from start to finish. Leave nothing out. Not even the smallest detail.”  
  There was silence, then DCS Hughes looked at the two men “I’m listening, feel free to start whenever.” 
  	Andrew and Geoffrey looked at each other, shrugged and started to tell the whole story to DCS Hughes. They left nothing out, they told him about their theory, the circumstances behind their thinking and how it took shape as events around them had unfolded. How, as fantastic and impossible as the theory sounded it was the only thing that made any sense.  
  “I’m lost for words,” said DCS Hughes, “I thought in my many years as a serving police officer that I had heard it all. This theory as you call it is just beyond belief. It’s pure science fiction.” 
  “Everything you’re thinking and feeling right now is perfectly normal, every one of us though and felt the same,” said Geoffrey.  
  “You have to open your mind to the possibility that this has happened,” continued Andrew.  
  Geoffrey agreed and continued, “You’re a police officer, and a high ranking one at that. Look at the evidence. The DNA results, the bugging, both victims have a limited checkable past, someone wanting to keep us quiet about our theory, Pat’s interrogation last night, truth drugs even the bugging of your office and a kidnapped secretary. DCS Hughes, we still have no idea why our theory has caused all of this to happen, we just know it has. That proves to us that we have set off some very serious alarm bells somewhere. Whoever it is that is hearing those bells went after Pat last night. They’ve been after us almost from day one and they are still out there and still after us. Through no fault of his own Pat would have told them everything he knew and we have no idea what that will make them do next.” 
  “Let’s for one minute assume I go along with your theory,” said DCS Hughes. “When exactly did everything start getting dangerous for you? What happened on ‘day one’ to trigger this response?” 
  They thought for a moment, piecing together in their heads the sequence of events that had lead up last night. Andrew, very softly, spoke, “DNA, it was only after the DNA confirmed that Suzie’s killer had the same DNA as Jack the Ripper. That’s when it started.” 
  ”Who would know about the DNA though?” asked DCS Hughes. 
  It was now Geoffrey’s to speculate, “Peter, John’s brother in law. It was Peter who carried out the tests. Or at least his lab, Peter has to be involved.” 
  “Do you know if John stayed at the lab while the tests were carried out?” 
  “No, I know he didn’t,” replied Andrew, “he was telling me about looking around some of the sights then going back to get the results.” 
  “That’s where I’d start then,” said DCS Hughes, “I guarantee that something happened, or someone did something during the DNA test that acted as a trigger.”  
  “I’ll look into it,” said Geoffrey. 
  “Be very discrete though,” said DCS Hughes, “if Peter, or his lab is the trigger to all of this then don’t increase the stakes any further, better to retreat and live to fight another day.” 
  “You sound as though there might be something in what we have said,” 
  “I can’t take everything in just yet but something set this off and at this moment I’ve nothing better to offer. Besides, I love a good thriller.” 
  DCS Hughes mobile phone rang, “Might be some news about Pat, I asked them to call if there was any change.” He answered the call. For a while he said nothing, then just “Are you sure?” After a few more moments he ended the call. 
  	Andrew and Geoffrey looked at each other; they both thought that something had happened to Pat. They looked at DCS Hughes, neither wanted to ask him the obvious question.  
  “It was not about Pat,” he said, “that was Southern Counties CID. Tracy Rae has been shot.” Andrew and Geoffrey both felt numb. Both knew that Tracy had been at the funeral, both knew that Tracy was theoretically on a rapidly shrinking hit list. 
  “Any news of John?” asked Andrew. 
  “Yes,” replied DCS Hughes, “John has been taken to Southern Counties Police Headquarters. He’s their main suspect. They think John murdered or attempted to murder Tracy, my secretary Tracy, dead!”  
  DCS Hughes broke down in tears. He buried his head into his folded arms on the table and sobbed unashamedly. 
  “DCS Hughes,” said Geoffrey, “this is important. You said murdered or attempted murder. It can only be one or the other. Why did you say that?” 
  DCS Hughes sat upright; taking a paper napkin off the table he rubbed his eyes. “An ambulance took Tracy from the crime scene. The paramedics who took her said they had a faint pulse. No one thought to question them. Why would you?” 
  “Question them about what?” said Geoffrey. 
  “Check ID’s that sort of thing. Three minutes after they took Tracy a second ambulance turned up. No one has any idea where the first ambulance came from or where it is now. That means no one knows where Tracy is, or how she is. They’ve just vanished into thin air. Add that to your theory gentlemen!” 
    
  Chapter 16 
  	John was sat on a hard, blue coloured plastic chair, designed, he thought, to make life even more uncomfortable for those unfortunate enough to be sat in it. He was resting his forearms on the top of an equally oppressive looking metal legged and cheap grey plastic topped table. The room he was sat in was more like a windowless box, twelve feet wide by twelve feet long by ten feet high. The top three quarters of the walls were now a dirty cream colour, the rest a chipped and faded yellow, the two colours separated by a half inch wide red stripe. The floor was covered in one piece of scuffed red linoleum. The only window in the room was a small, thin strip of chicken wired glass firmly fixed into the door. Standing in front of the door, on John’s side, was a uniformed constable. John wondered if he was actually a real person as for the past three quarters of an hour, the length of time John had been sat in the room, the constable had neither moved nor spoken. John had tried on a couple of occasions to start a conversation, not about anything in particular, but more to pass the time. Each occasion resulted in the same blank expression staring back at him. “You must be a barrel of laughs at parties,” said John, not exactly out loud but not under his breath either, again no response. 
  	John was also finding the one piece CSI suit he had been given was starting to irritate his skin. All his clothes had been taken off him when he arrived at the police station. So far, he had been told he was here voluntarily in order to help the police with their enquiries. A phrase that John knew could cover up a multitude of hidden agendas. John was an intelligent man, he had been thinking through what had happened earlier at the picnic site. He knew that he was not in a strong position, but he also knew that he had not, at any point, told any lies. “Therefore,” he reasoned to himself, “if I continue to answer every question truthfully then there’s nothing they can catch me out on.”  
  	Despite reassuring himself of his innocence John was feeling far from confident about his position. John was feeling very uneasy, if not a little frightened. Certainly he was feeling intimidated. John wondered if he should be feeling like this when he knew he was one hundred percent innocent, he started to wonder how somebody must feel who knows they are guilty. The though did nothing to make him feel any better. 
  	There was a knock at the door, the constable stepped to one side and opened the door. Detective Inspector Baxter entered the room; he had with him a young female detective. Her name was Detective Constable Roby. The two police officers each pulled up a similar chair to John’s and sat at the table opposite him. The thought of the two officers sitting in equally uncomfortable chairs pleased John. For a moment he thought it might even make the interview shorter. 
  	“I’d like to make a phone call please,” said John. 
  “All in good time Mr. Reynolds,” replied DI Baxter. “If you don’t mind and while they are still fresh in your mind, I’d just like to run over the events of this morning with you first.” 
  “Is this discussion or interview being recorded?” asked John, 
  “It is, yes,” relied DI Baxter 
  “Then maybe I should have a solicitor present. There are after all two of you, three if we count the doorman over there.” 
  ”I only want to ask you a few general questions about the events leading up to the shooting of Tracy Rae, there are one or two areas that are confusing for me. I just need to get them straight in my head.” 
  “There is one thing that I would like to get straight in my head,” said John. 
  “And that is?” replied DI Baxter. 
  “Tracy, how is she? I have asked everyone that I can about Tracy; I am very worried about her. I want to know how she is. Is she alright?” 
  “As soon as we have an update from the hospital then I’ll let you know.” Was the reply 
  “Then she’s alive then, yes, she’s still alive. What hospital has she been taken to so I can go straight there from here?” 
  “I’m sorry Mr Reynolds but until I’m satisfied with what happened I can’t answer that question. I’m sure you understand.” 
  “We’ll get back to that later,” responded John in a none too happy tone. 
  	DI Baxter asked John to talk him through exactly what had happened. He asked why they had decided to stop at that particular spot. Was it because it was quiet with a secluded lake area? Was it because there was no one else around? 
  John answered the questions fully and truthfully. He answered that they came upon the spot by chance, it had not been pre planned and neither had any idea that there was even a lake there. That, at the time, had been a bonus. He explained how he had been teaching Tracy to skip stones and that she had gone back to the car to get the food ready. That was when he had heard a scream.  
  	DI Baxter then changed direction and asked John how long he had known Tracy and where had they met. John’s answer intrigued him. He turned to DC Roby and told her she’d better be careful with this man around. “There can’t be many people who meet that way, in the office of a Scotland Yard DCS no less.” 
  DC Roby politely smiled, and then turned away. 
  DI Baxter continued by asking how many times they had been out together? Where had they gone? What was their relationship like?  
  John told them that this was their first date, he talked about Pamela and how her loss had affected him, how Tracy was the first woman he had dated since her death. Under the circumstances John was holding himself together well. 
  “Tell me about the men in b lack,” said DI Baxter, “the mysterious men in black.” 
  	John was about to answer when there was a knock at the door and a third officer looked into the room, “Can I have a word sir?” 
  DI Baxter left the room, he returned three minutes later. 
  “Is that news about Tracy?” asked John. 
  DI Baxter walked up and down the small room, not saying anything or looking at anyone. His gaze firmly fixed on the floor. The atmosphere in the interview room was tense, everyone could feel it. After four minutes DI Baxter stopped, he turned and looked directly at John. There was another knock on the door, it opened and the same officer handed a number of papers to DI Baxter. He read through them the handed them to DC Roby, as she read through them he continued to pace the room. DC Roby handed the papers back to DI Baxter. He walked over to John and put one of the papers down in front of him. “This”, he said in a very controlled voice, “is a forensic report on the pistol we found at the scene.  Would you care to read through it?” 
  John looked at him. “Why would I want to do that?” 
  DI Baxter then laid a second piece of paper in front of John. “This is a ballistics report based on two expended nine millimetre shell casings we found at the scene. This,” he then laid a third piece of paper down, “is a forensic report after we examined your clothes. The same clothes you were wearing at the scene and when we brought you here. Right now I am going to bring in a CSI who will examine your right hand. When he’s done that we will continue this interview.” 
  	DI Baxter opened the door and called in the crime scene investigator. He walked over to John, “Hold your right hand out in front of you, palm facing upwards and fingers spread apart.” John, realising there was no point in not co-operating, did as he was asked. The CSI sprayed a clear liquid onto the front and back of John’s hand. “Just wait thirty seconds,” said the CSI. They did not have to wait that long, within ten seconds the clear liquid sprayed onto John’s hand started to change colour. It started off as a light lilac colour that changed over the following twenty seconds to a deep purple. “Hold your hand still please,” asked the CSI as he took a sequence of photographs. 
  	Once the photographs had been taken John was given a hand towel to clean off the fluid. “What was that about?” asked John. 
  DI Baxter looked towards DC Roby; she spoke for the first time. “The spray on your hand detects the presence of GSR, that’s gunshot residue. When any weapon is fired, tiny almost invisible traces of gunpowder are blown over who ever fired it. There is nothing you can do to stop it, or get rid of it. It will not wash off or rub off. Only time will get rid of it and then we’re talking days. What we witnessed then was a very fresh sample.” 
  	DC Roby then turned her attention to the papers on the table. “This lab report on your clothes also shows traces of GSR, traces consistent with a double firing of a hand held weapon. This second piece of paper is ballistics and they have proven a match between the two spent cartridge cases and the nine millimetre pistol found at the scene. This final piece of paper is a forensic report. It’s a report that proves, beyond any doubt what so ever that the fingerprints found of the spent shell casings and the fingerprints lifted from the pistol, and no other prints were present on the pistol or the shell casings, match. Who drove your car this morning?” 
  “I did,” replied John. 
  DC Roby nodded, “Forensics examined your car and they took prints from the inside, from the gear lever, the steering wheel, the door handle, all your prints John, your fresh complete prints. The same prints we lifted from the pistol that was used to shoot Tracy Rae, not once but twice. One shot John could be an accident, or maybe to wound, but two shots is for murder. Nobody shoots somebody twice and hopes they are going to live.” 
  	John knew he was in trouble, he had known that all along. “I did not shoot Tracy Rae,” he said as calmly as he could. We were both drugged, both shot with a dart containing a drug. I’ve already told you about the two men. Why aren’t you looking for them?  
  DI Baxter answered that question, “Because they are a figment of your imagination John, because you shot Tracy Rae, not once but twice. When you ran off you tripped, knocked yourself out and only started to come round when our officers arrived. Forensics tell me you were the shooter, they don’t tell me any men dressed in black were there.” 
  “Then you haven’t looked closely enough,” replied John, “you might want to think that this is an open and shut case, even one of the simplest cases you have investigated but it isn’t. I’ll guarantee to both of you that this is one of the most complex cases you will ever have been involved in. You will tell your grandchildren about this case and if you want to solve it, I mean really solve it then you’ll have to start believing what I say.” 
  DI Baxter interrupted him, “Save the speeches for the court. This is an open and shut case and right now I recommend you get in touch with your solicitor. I hope for your sake they’re good. I’ve had to sit here and listen to your so called theory, now it’s my turn. I know quite a bit about you. John Reynolds, Investigative journalist for the Daily Herald and, now I think this is important, a part time ‘Jack the Ripper’ expert.” 
  “So are lots of people,” replied John. 
  “That’s true, but I think you took things one step further.” 
  “That’s interesting, so how do you think I took things further?” 
  “I think that you became so obsessed with Jack the Ripper that you decided to take on the role yourself. The few moments of fame and recognition you have as a journalist are not enough for you. You, John Reynolds, craved more so you decided to go on a murdering spree yourself. You decided to murder innocent women, in the style of Jack the Ripper then you, John Reynolds, investigative reporter would be able to write about the ‘new wave of ripper murders’. Maybe you thought you could go out on the lecture circuit, give after dinner speeches.”  
  DC Roby was nodding in approval. John was just looking at DI Baxter in utter disbelief.  
  “You can’t be serious,” spluttered John. “That’s the most far ridiculous thing I have ever heard.” 
  “Well,” said DI Baxter, “It’s not the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. and that’s just today. I’ll also throw in for good measure that Tracy Rae knew what you were doing. Maybe you told her, maybe she guessed. In any event that’s why you shot her, to keep her quiet.” 
  “That’s crazy,” replied John, now very worried. “I would never shoot anyone. I don’t own a gun, I don’t even know how to hold one let alone fire one well enough to hit them.” 
  “If you can’t even hold a pistol explain to us why are your prints are all over the one found at the scene?” 
  “I told you, Tracy and I were drugged. We were both shot with a dart of some kind.” 
  DI Baxter interrupted. “I hope you can come up with a better defence for yourself than that. I’ve heard your story, you’ve heard mine. If you were on the jury, who would you believe. Deep down, who would you believe?” 
  John had no answer. 
  “Thought so,” said DI Baxter in a final defiant tone.  
  	Twenty seconds later John was formally charged by DC Roby with the attempted murder of Tracy Rae. Inwardly John was happy the charge was attempted murder, which told him Tracy was still alive. What he didn’t know was the police had no idea where Tracy was and that the attempted murder charge was only a holding one until they could track down the victim. At that moment Southern Counties Police had one hundred and twenty seven officers trying to do just that.  
  *  *  *  * 
  	Pat was sat up in bed as Geoffrey and Andrew entered his private room. Pat did not notice his two friends at first, he was trying to drink a cup of tea but a very sore throat was making swallowing very difficult and he felt as though he was swallowing barbed wire. His discomfort was not lost on either Andrew or Geoffrey, who was the first to speak, “Being tea total never was for you Pat, I’ll see if I can get a wee dram in fro you later on.”  
  Pat put the cup down on his bed side cabinet, he looked over towards the two men, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to tell them anything.” He was starting to get upset, not over the attack but by the damage he might have caused. 
  “You were drugged Pat, you’re actually very lucky to be alive. You are what’s important just now.” 
  “I agree,” said Andrew, “anyway, how are you?” 
  Pat’s voice was very faint and his throat was causing him a lot of pain each time he tried to talk, “I’ve never really known what a hangover was like, never suffered from them, but from what I’ve been told this would be a bad one.” He started to cough. Andrew went over to the bedside cabinet and poured him a glass of water. Pat took a sip of the water and grimaced as he swallowed it. “Thanks,” he said, “any ideas how long they want to keep me in here?” 
  “I would think just a day or two. They want to keep you in for observation just to make sure there are no adverse side effects from the drugs.” Pat nodded, resigned to his fate.	The secure mobile phone that Andrew had in his pocket started to ring. He checked the screen and saw John’s name in the display. “It’s John,” he said out loud. Geoffrey and DCS Hughes both looked towards Andrew. It had been a while since the news had filtered through to them about the shooting. No one actually believed that John had anything to do with the shooting but after the events of the past few days, and last night in particular no one was surprised at this latest turn of events. 
  	“John, it’s Andrew, I’m with Geoffrey and DCS Hughes. What’s happening, are you OK?” 
  “Andrew, just listen,” replied John, “I don’t have a lot of time and this is the only call I can make. The police have charged me with the attempted murder of Tracy, I need Geoffrey to organise a solicitor. I’ll leave the choice up to him but I need them here quickly. Keep the paper up to date. Andrew, please make sure everyone knows I had nothing to do with this. I’ve been set up and just now I have no idea how I can prove it when all the evidence points to me.” 
  Andrew had to interrupt, “John, I think the same people got to Pat last night and that’s how they knew you and Tracy would be together today.” 
  “Is Pat OK, has he been hurt?” John sounded concerned. 
  “They got into his house and injected him with some form of hallucinogenic truth drug. It looks like he’s over the worst of the effects now but the hospital want to keep him in a day or two for observation.” 
  “Andrew, I’ve got to go now. Try to get someone here as soon as possible and try and find out how Tracy is, no one here knows.” Andrew had expected something else but the line went dead. 
  	Andrew relayed John’s message to Geoffrey and DCS Hughes. Geoffrey immediately made a telephone call. DCS Hughes called Andrew over, “I know John’s been set up for this and I also believe you’re right about whom it was that went after Pat also went after John and Tracy. Geoffrey and you had better watch your backs. They have so far taken out two members of your little group and Tracy has been shot. It’s also obvious they have no issues about using armed force.” 
  “Don’t forget either DCS Hughes that they also bugged your office, you had better be careful too. These are ruthless people we are dealing with and I doubt if your status as a serving police officer, whatever your rank, will stop them from coming after you if they feel they will be able to get anything useful from you.” Andrew was putting on a brave face but inside he was starting to feel quite nervous. 
  “I’ve taken a few additional precautions so don’t worry about me but, I appreciate your concern never the less.” 
  *  *  *  * 
  	John was transferred to the holding cells of Southern Counties Police HQ where he would spend the night prior to appearing before the Southern Counties magistrates in the morning. John was kept in a cell measuring ten feet by eight feet by ten feet high. The only natural light came from a small strip window at the top of one of the walls. The window itself was covered with metal bars, each about eight inches long and five inches from the next. The walls were painted in a dark green colour and had scratched in to the paint the names of most of the prisoners who had stayed there over the past couple of years. The bed was a raised concrete slab covered with a thin mattress; the blankets looked like world war one army issue, dark grey and very itchy. In the corner was a stainless steel toilet, no lid no seat and a wash basin with a couple of paper towels and a small plastic waste bin. The door was solid metal with a small glass spy hole fitted centre and head height.  
  	It was only now that John was starting to take in the enormity of the day and it struck home to him that he could spend the best part of his life in jail. John was also struggling with what had happened at the picnic sight. Who ever had attacked them had used very sophisticated drugs, they had worked almost immediately and, according to the police toxicology report, had left absolutely no trace in his body. His recollection of the events was also hazy; he could remember bits of it. The two men, dressed from head to toe in black, he remembered the stinging sensation as the dart hit home, he remembered running and falling and he can vaguely remember two loud bangs. After that John could remember the police arriving at the scene and an ambulance arriving, no, two ambulances arriving. Why two, he thought, must have been one for Tracy and one for me, until I became the police’s prime suspect. 
  	The police cell was temperature controlled at seventy two degrees but this did not stop John shivering. He wrapped the blanket around himself but it did not help. Shock was starting to set in. John looked around the room, there was no one else in there, and he was trapped, as surely as a rat in a cage was trapped. For the first time in his life John was not in control of his destiny, he could not decide for himself if he should stay or leave. That choice had been taken away from him. John no longer had his freedom. At that moment he would have paid any price, even signed a pact with the devil if it would have gotten his freedom back. John swore to himself that once this terrible miscarriage of justice was sorted out he would never again take his freedom for granted. 
  	John was not shivering as much now; he had been surviving on adrenalin for far longer than he should have been. John was staring at the walls, he felt them collapsing in towards him, he could see the walls moving in to crush him. He was starting to panic. John jumped off the bed and ran to the furthest corner of the room, the one away from the door, he crouched down as low as he could in the corner, still he could see the room getting smaller and smaller. At that exact moment John would happy and thankful to take his own life. This was an alien world to him and his mind and body had both rejected it out of hand. He wished the police had not taken away his belt, he wished they had at least left him his shoelaces. He had nothing left; everything had been taken off him. John grabbed the blanket and, still crouched down, pulled it over his head, at least that way he would not see the walls closing in on him.  
  	John felt someone shaking him, there was a voice in the distance telling him to get up. He had no idea when he had fallen asleep. “What time is it please?” he asked. 
  “Six thirty,” replied the constable, “I’ve brought you some hot tea and a couple of rounds of toast, thought you might be hungry.” 
  “Six thirty in the evening or the morning?” asked John. 
  “Are you kidding me?” replied the constable, “it’s six thirty in the morning. The wagon will be here for you in an hour to take you to court. I’d finish that drink and toast if I were you, it may be some time before you get anything else to eat today. Try and tidy yourself up as well, you look a mess. Magistrates don’t like it if you appear before them scruffy.” The officer left the detention cell and as if to reinforce John’s hopeless position, slammed the door behind him. 
  	John did not feel like eating or drinking anything at all but he knew he would have to. The tea was warm, strong and very sweet, the toast cold and hard. He forced down the toast by swallowing large amounts of tea. It felt as though he was taking oversized tablets. He wished he was. Next he opened the tap and filled the sink with warm water, he had left the hot tap running but warm was the best it got. Better than cold, he thought. It struck John that from now on he might not even be able to take hot water for granted. He splashed the water on his face, then over his hair. A shave was out of the question, there were no mirrors anyway so probably just as well.  
  	After drinking the tea, eating the toast and having as good a wash as was possible John was, at last, starting to feel better. He knew he was in a difficult situation but not an impossible one. Up until that point John had not remembered that he had friends outside, good friends who believed in him, who knew he could never have shot Tracy. He knew that convincing a jury would be hard, but think positive, he said to himself. Seventeen minutes later the door to his cell swung open. DI Baxter and DC Roby walked in. “The wagons here to take you to court, is there something you’d like to add before we go, anything you’d like to get off your chest?” 
  “Nothing either of you would be interested in,” replied John. 
  “Thought not,” snapped DI Baxter, “Now face the wall and put your hands behind your back.”  
  John did as he was asked; DC Roby put a pair of handcuffs on him and then led him out of the cell towards the waiting truck. 
  *  *  *  * 
  	DCS Hughes picked up the phone in his office and dialled the number for Liverpool University’s main switchboard. It was answered almost straight away by a very pleasant sounding lady. “Hello, Liverpool University, how can I help you?” DCS Hughes was not sure if he had telephoned the university or a call centre. He just assumed that they had all taken the same training course and hoped that the managers of the emergency triple nine services would not go down the same route. 
  “Morning,” he replied, “Could you put me through to Dr. Peter Livingstone’s office please?” 
  “One moment sir, I’ll see if his line is free.” DCS Hughes had half expected Pink Floyds ‘another brick in the wall’ to be used as the universities hold music, instead he was treated to an orchestral version of the Beatles ‘Penny Lane’. He approved. 
  “I’m sorry sir but Dr. Livingstone’s line is busy just now, can I ask whose calling and I’ll get him to call you back?” 
  “My name is DCS Hughes and I’m calling from New Scotland Yard. I need to speak urgently with Dr. Livingstone and I would rather wait until his line is free.” 
  “I’ll check again sir, please hold.” 
  Thirteen seconds later Dr Peter Livingstone was on the phone. “DCS Hughes, this is Dr. Livingstone. What can I do for you?” 
  DCS Hughes was not in the mood for idle chit chat and got straight to the point. “I need to speak to you as a matter of urgency regarding a DNA test that your laboratory carried out for John Reynolds.” 
  “Can I ask why?” 
  “I believe that this test, or more probably the result, is somehow linked to a series of murders and attempted murders carried out over the past nine days. I would prefer it if you could come down to New Scotland Yard but if I have to come up to Liverpool then I will.” 
  “You are aware that DNA test results are confidential and I” that was as far as Dr Livingstone got. 
  “As I said Dr. Livingstone this is a matter of urgency. Trust me when I say that I can be in your office in a couple of hours time, with a search warrant and subpoena. One way or another Dr. Livingstone I will get the information I want and I will also get your full co-operation. Under the circumstances I am surprised by your attitude.” 
  “What circumstances?” 
  “Your brother in law, John Reynolds asked you to run the test for him. You are aware that he is in court this morning charged with attempted murder.” 
  Peter was well aware of that but decided to play it down. “Point taken, can we meet up in the morning? I’ll telephone you with an address in London this afternoon.” 
  DCS Hughes was a little surprised by the request but decided to go along with it. “I’ll wait for your call.” Then he hung up. 
  	The Chief Superintendent looked at his watch; he knew that John would be on his way to the Magistrates Court for his hearing. John had been scheduled for a ten fifteen appearance but in reality that meant nothing as the actual appearance time depended on how long the prior cases went on for. John’s appearance this morning was a formality. All he would be asked to do would be to confirm his name, age and address. The charge would be read out to him and he would be asked how he pleads. Regardless of his answer the case would be referred to the Crown Court and if bail was refused then John could be sent down as a remand prisoner for anything up to a year before his trial. 
  	DCS Hughes was racking his brain in the hope he could come up with something, anything that would help John. He slammed his fist on the desk in frustration. DCS Hughes had been up for most of the night going over the details of Andrew’s theory. What, at first had been a laughable and ludicrous theory had started to take on some merit. A lot of it made sense. Like Andrew, Pat, Geoffrey and John he had no idea how it could happen, he knew that it probably had. He was also certain that Peter was the key and after speaking with Peter earlier on he was certain that Peter was aware of that as well.  
  	DCS Hughes picked up the phone and asked the switchboard to put him through to the department C41. C41 was a civilian run department, mainly students who were working their way through college or university. The department was a new initiative; its main aim was to bring young people and the police closer together by allowing, in this case, students to use their research skills in tracking down details of companies or individuals the Police were interested in. DCS Hughes was interested in Dr Peter Livingstone and his department at the University of Liverpool. The Chief Superintendent explained what he wanted to one of the researchers and was told that he would be e-Mailed a preliminary report within two hours.  
  	DCS Hughes checked of his watch again, he had forty four minutes to get to the Magistrates Court. He grabbed his coat and headed out. 
  *  *  *  * 
  	Once inside the court building John was officially handed over to the court officers. Pleasantries were exchanged and the paperwork duly signed. John was relieved to have his handcuffs removed. He rubbed his aching wrists to try and get some feeling back into them. The cuffs had not been tight, just uncomfortable and he was starting to get a blister where one of the cuffs had been rubbing against his skin.  
  	John was escorted to a single sized holding cell. “Want a paper or a cup of tea?” asked the escorting officer as he led John into the cell. “Please”, replied John, “that would be nice.” 
  “Yes, that would be nice would wouldn’t it,” replied the officer, “well I’m not feeling too nice today, so I don’t think I’ll bother.” He slammed the door shut and rattled the keys for good measure. “Green as grass,” he was saying as he walked back to the reception area, “green as grass.” 
  	John made himself a comfortable as possible in the cell; it was even smaller than the one he had spent last night in and no more comfortable. The only consolation was the bed in this cell was metal framed with a spring base. That at least gave it some give. He sat on the bed and looked around. He wondered if this was going to be his world for the foreseeable future. John, though, had a bit more fight in him today than he did yesterday and the negative thought was soon banished.  
  	John heard the keys turn in the lock of his cell door. “Visitor,” said an anonymous voice from behind the door. At first John was puzzled, and then a smartly dressed man carrying a black leather briefcase entered the cell. He held out a hand, “Hello John, how are you? I’m Martin Hayes. A mutual friend, Geoffrey Adamson has asked me to represent you.”  
  “You must be my solicitor,” replied John, “I’m so sorry but I did not know when to expect anyone.” John shook Martin’s hand, “I must admit I’m very pleased to see you. You do tend to think that you are on your own in a place like this.” 
  “Yes, quite,” replied Martin. 
  “Please, sit down,” said John pointing towards a rather uncomfortable looking wooden seated chair in the corner of the cell. Martin pulled the chair over; John sat on the side of the bed. 
  “Has anyone spoken to you about the case?” asked John. 
  “Only very briefly, I have to admit that I’m not too sure I actually understand what I’ve been told. It all sounds a bit strange to me. Still, we have plenty of time to sort that out. Do you know what will happen today?” 
  “I have a vague idea but that’s about it. I was hoping that you would be taking care of that for me.” 
  “I will be. Our main aim at this hearing will be to get bail for you, that way at least you’ll be out of prison and be able to carry on with a relatively normal life until the trial.” 
  “Is bail likely?” 
  “It’s never a certainty but I’ll do my best for you. Depends a lot on what mood the magistrate is in. Unfair I know but that’s the way it is.” 
  There was a knock on the door then it opened. One of the custody officers entered the cell. “The magistrates are ready to hear your case now Mr. Reynolds.” 
  John stood up, fixed his clothes as best as he could and walked towards the door. 
  “I’ll see you upstairs,” said Martin. 
  “This way please, Mr Reynolds,” said the custody officer. John walked out of the door and back to the reception area. “I have to put the cuffs back on, hold your hands out please.”  
  John did as he was asked. The officer then led John up two flights of stairs and through a door that led straight into the court room. John was led to a table and told to remain standing. The custody officer removed the handcuffs and stood a few feet behind John. 
  “You may all be seated,” said the lead magistrate. 
  	John looked around the court. Three magistrates were sat behind the bench, all wearing normal clothes, as was everyone else in the court. He looked towards the public gallery area and was pleased to see Geoffrey and Andrew sat there. They gave him thumbs up sign, he nodded in acknowledgement. As he looked around the rest of the gallery John noticed a few familiar faces. Sat in the gallery were three of the women Geoffrey had photographed at Suzie Reeve’s funeral. They were all sat together towards the rear of the seating area but never the less John recognised them straight away. He wondered why they were there; he hoped they did not think he had harmed Tracy in any way but then again, he reasoned with himself, they would have no way of knowing. A door opened at the rear of the court, it squeaked a little as it did and this attracted most people’s attention in the otherwise deathly quiet courtroom. John watched as DCS Hughes walked in, he quickly found an empty seat and sat down just before the proceedings started.   
  	For the next seven minutes everything went as John had expected. He confirmed his name, address and date of birth and pleaded a very positive ‘Not Guilty’ when asked. Then John’s solicitor asked about bail for his client. The magistrates asked if the CPS had any objection to this. They did. The CPS objected on a number of grounds. Their main objection was the cold and callous way the defendant had shot Miss Tracy Rae, not once but twice. The public had to be protected from the likes of Mr Reynolds, a man who has no qualms about shooting innocent young women in cold blood could not be allowed bail and the CPS would vigorously oppose it. John’s solicitor spoke up well for him. Very well in light of the fact the two had only met just under an hour ago. The magistrate’s decision when it was announced was not unexpected. John had already resigned himself to the fact but it was none the less a crushing moment. “Bail denied.” The magistrate’s voice reverberated around the court room. Andrew and Geoffrey shook their heads in disbelief. DCS Hughes sat, motionless and the three women at the back of the court just smiled at each other. The magistrate continued, “The defendant is to be remanded to HMP Outcross and is to reappear before this court in seven days. Custody officers can now remove the defendant from the court.” With that John was taken back to the cells.  
  	Less than five minutes after he was locked back up Martin was in the holding cell with John. “We can do a lot in seven days,” he said to John, “not least we need to play on the fact you should not have been charged with anything at all.” 
  “What do you mean?” asked John. 
  “Where is Tracy?” replied Martin, “where is the victim of this alleged shooting? How do we know that there was a shooting at all? Can you honestly tell me that live ammunition was fired from that pistol; who ever fired the pistol could have used blanks. I know you won’t like this but Tracy could have been wired with stage effects.” 
  John understood what Martin was saying to him. 
  Martin continued, “We have to unsettle the prosecution’s case, even at this early stage. We only have one aim just now and that is to get you out of prison, everything else is secondary.” 
  John agreed. 
  “Just answer me one question,” said Martin, “did you shoot Tracy Rae?” 
  “No,” replied John with conviction and without any hesitation. 
  “I believe you,” replied Martin, “I’ll keep in touch on a regular basis and arrange to visit you as soon as I have any news. Don’t do anything stupid inside and keep your nose clean.” 
  “They won’t even know I’m there,” replied John. 
  	Despite the position he was in John was feeling upbeat. On his mind he knew he had not shot Tracy. John could not shoot anyone let alone the woman he was planning on spending the rest of his life with. John also thought about what Martin had said but that was quickly dismissed. Tracy would not have been part of some elaborate plot to frame him, of that he was certain. 
  	John heard the keys opening the cell door. “Time to go;” barked the custody officer, “you know the drill by now, arms out.” 
  John did as he was asked and the handcuffs were put back on his wrists. He was then led out, via prisoner reception, to the movements’ wagon. Inside the wagon he was put into a small and very cramped cubicle. John had seen these wagons many times, occasionally on the road but mainly on the news with photographers jumping up with their cameras trying to get a picture of whoever was inside. Sometimes members of the public would be shouting and screaming obscenities at the occupants as it drove away, even, on some occasions, attacking the wagon. John was now grateful for the heavily blacked out glass. He knew that even though he could see out of the window no one on the outside would be able to see in. For an innocent man that was a great comfort. 
  	John heard a banging on the metal cubicle divider. “You in there,” shouted a voice, “your first time?” 
  “Yes,” replied John, not too sure what to do but strangely glad of the limited conversation.  
  “It’s my seventh,” came the reply, “the names Dicky but everyone calls me Rigger on account of my surname being Mortice. Get it rigger mortise.” 
  John had to smile, even here there was humour, “I get it,” he replied, “and I’m John. Nothing fancy, just John.” 
  “Listen Just John, you stick with me, I’ll see you alright, show you the ropes and everything. Even an old prison hand like me has his uses. We’re going into my world now, as I can’t survive in your old world you won’t survive in your new one without help. We’ll make sure we get padded up together when we’re allocated in reception.” 
  “Great, thanks,” replied John, not altogether sure if that was what he wanted. What Rigger had said made sense to John, but who was Rigger and why would he want to help? John knew there was only one reason. Money or favours, the money he could probably deal with, it was the favours that bothered him.         
    
  Chapter 17 
  	HMP Outcross was built in two thousand and five. It was a small to medium sized prison that held six hundred and twenty prisoners or up to seven hundred and ten when required. Unlike the old Victorian City prisons HMP Outcross was a modern prison built on one level. The cell blocks or to use the current politically correct term ‘residential units’ were designed as a self contained single story structure. Each unit had its own centralised hub consisting of reception and security, food servers and recreation areas. Three wings each equidistant from each other, radiated out from the hub. These wings contained the accommodation areas, shower blocks, ablutions and the main education classrooms. In all there were four hubs Alpha, Beta, Delta and Gamma. John was housed with other remand prisoners on green wing in Beta House. Here the prison regime was slightly more relaxed than the other areas as technically none of the inmates were guilty of any crime and all were still waiting for their day in court. Green wing inmates were allowed to wear their own clothes and were not required to attend any of the compulsory prison activities that the convicted men had to.  
  	The accommodation though was exactly the same, each two man cell measured ten foot by eight foot and consisted of bunk beds, a small shared table, a fourteen inch television and a private toilet and wash facilities. There was natural light was via a window at the top of the wall but it was placed too high for anyone to see out of it. the window could be opened one and a half inches for ventilation when required. The accommodation could best be described as adequate and did allow the inmate a certain amount of privacy. 
  	For John this was a whole new experience and not one that he was looking forward to. John’s whole experience of prison consisted of the ‘Shawshank Redemption’ and Sky TV’s ‘Prisoners Out of Control’. Despite the reassuring words from Rigger, John was feeling very uneasy. His stomach started to churn as soon as he saw the road sign ‘HMP Outcross two miles’. John wanted the next two miles to last as long as possible; he hoped the wagon would break down, that there was an accident to hold them up, anything to stop them from getting to the prison. 
  	The rest of the journey though went very smoothly, there were no hold ups or delays. The wagon stopped at the security gate and John could clearly read the sign ‘Welcome to HMP Outcross’ then underneath the sign read ‘a part of the public sector prison service.’ “They’re trying to make the place sound like Asda,” John said out loud to himself. The wagon passed through initial security then entered a large holding yard. Gates were closed electronically behind them; the wagon then drove on to the reception centre of Beta wing. 
  	The wagon came to a halt, the airbrakes hissed and the engine was switched off. John heard the all too familiar sound of keys opening doors, this time it was the rear doors of the wagon. Next a key was turned to open the door of his transit cubicle. “Let’s go Reynolds,” commanded a voice. John stood up and walked, as dignified as he could out of the wagon and into Beta wing’s reception. A white shirted officer was waiting for them as the two walked into the reception. 
  	This was the first time that John had had the opportunity to meet the man behind the voice in the next cubicle. Rigger was a career criminal; to him prison was an occupational hazard. It was as well he thought that way because Rigger was not a clever or successful criminal and he had, at one time or another, been a tenant in nearly every prison within a fifty mile radius of London. Rigger had made it through by living on his wit’s, he was fast on his feet, not physically but mentally and over the years he had managed to talk himself out of a number of very tricky situations. Rigger though had a weakness, alcohol, and it was this addiction that had gotten him into most of the real trouble he had been in. To date he had been arrested over one hundred and fifty seven times for alcohol related offences. Arrest one hundred and fifty eight was the reason he was standing next to John. Under normal circumstances this five foot six inch tall man weighing no more than nine stone six pounds was a quiet opportunist. Once he had tasted alcohol though the normally quiet and mild mannered Rigger became a foul mouthed, abusive and very violent individual. On this occasion he had attempted to assault a police officer who was trying to stop him from falling asleep in a residential road. Rigger could not see any problem with this and was more than happy to tell the police officer exactly what he could do. He also questioned, very loudly, the marriage status of his parents at the time he was born. Rigger had no recollection of what, if anything, he had done so as usual he pleaded guilty to whatever charges were read out to him.  
  	S.O. Peterson walked into the reception area, at six foot four inches and weighing eighteen and a half stone the ex Guards Sergeant Major was a commanding figure,   “Back again the Rigger,” boomed his voice, “I wondered how long it would be before we saw you again. How long is it this time then?” 
  “Just a short five months this time boss. I’ll do that with my eyes shut.” 
  “You’ve certainly had the practice Rigger; I’ll say that for you. Come on then, you know the drill as well as I do by now, let’s get on with it.” 
  Rigger walked into one of the changing cubicles that led to the shower area. John had not moved since he came in. John was still looking around, taking everything in. 
  “You, Reynolds,” boomed the voice again, “over here, sharpish.” 
  John started to walk towards the reception desk. 
  “Come on man, quicker than that. I haven’t got all day.” 
  John quickened his pace. 
  “That’s more like it.” S.O. Peterson picked up John’s file, he quickly scanned through it. “Just answer yes or no to my questions.” 
  “Yes sir,” 
  “It’s yes boss, not sir. You’ll not be told that twice, is that clear.” 
  “Yes boss,” replied John sheepishly, feeling as though he was five years old again and had just been reprimanded by the teacher. 
  “Reynolds John Arthur remanded for seven days by Old Lane Magistrates on a charge of attempted murder. Is that correct? 
  “The charge is correct but I am not guilty of anything.” 
  “Oh please save me,” said S.O. Peterson, “we have yet another innocent man wrongly accused. Let me tell you something, right now you are in the safest place in the world. You know why?” 
  “No,” replied John, 
  “Then I’ll tell you why. It’s because this prison is full of innocent people and all the nasty horrible bad people are still outside doing their nasty horrible stuff to innocent people just like you. So, as long as you are in here and they are out there then you’ve got nothing to worry about have you?” 
  John looked at him in sheer disbelief. 
  “I said you’ve got nothing to worry about have you?” 
  “Er  ... No, I suppose not” replied John. 
  “You’re reply should be, I suppose not boss. Now try again.” 
  “I suppose not boss.” answered John. 
  “You, my boy are going to have to wise up a lot quicker than you are doing right now. There are people in here who eat the likes of you for dinner. To them you’re as green as a cabbage and you know that cabbage is, it’s one of your five a day veggies, if you know what I mean.” 
  John didn’t say anything but he had a good idea what the officer was saying to him. 
  	“It’s OK boss, I said I’d take care of him, you know show him the ropes an’ all that.” Rigger was standing at the side of them having just stepped out of the shower. “It’s not his fault he doesn’t know how things work, any chance of padding us up together, at least until he finds his feet?” 
  “You sure about this?” asked the S.O. 
  “Better than finding him swinging from the window bars in the morning boss, especially on your watch.” 
  S.O. Peterson thought for a moment, “I’ll sort it.” He turned to John, “must be your lucky day. Now clothes off and into the shower and get cleaned up. After you’re showered, and you have four minutes for that put on the gown provided and see the medic, then straight back here.” 
  “Yes boss,” replied John. 
  	John had one of the quickest showers of his life but he enjoyed every minute of it. The water was warm and the soap was cleaning away the dirt and grime that he felt the past forty eight hours had ground into his skin. He even managed to wash his hair. John had never thought of a shower as a luxury but he was beginning to appreciate that for some time in the future that could well be the case. The towel was old and rough but did the job of drying him. As soon as he was dry John slipped on the green surgical style gown hanging on a coat hook. He saw the sign pointing towards the medics’ office and followed it. A male nurse was sat at a desk outside the doctor’s office.  
  “Name?” the nurse asked 
  “John, I mean Reynolds” 
  “Go in, the doctors waiting.” 
  John knocked on the office door then opened it and walked into the surgery. He stood in front of the doctors desk, sat in a chair to the right hand side was a white shirted officer. 
  “Give the doctor your name,”  
  “Reynolds boss, John Reynolds” 
  The doctor looked over at John, “I’m going to ask you a few questions, only answer if your answer is yes. Do you understand?” 
  “Yes doctor,” replied John. 
  “Are you on any prescribed medication? Are you addicted to any controlled substance? Are you an alcoholic? Are you HIV positive?  Is there any illness or condition you are aware of that I should know about? Do you have any thoughts about harming yourself in any way, are you depressed or suicidal?” 
  	John remained silent. The doctor then quickly examined John, took his blood pressure and a blood sample. After that John was escorted back to induction reception where S.O Peterson was waiting for him.  
  	John was handed his prison clothes, a red top with matching bottoms, black socks and a pair of trainers. “The sizes match the clothes that have put in storage for you so they should fit. Get yourself dressed.”  
  John did so. 
  “Stand over there and don’t smile,” said the S.O. John stood where he was asked. “Look straight ahead, head up.” There was a flash from the camera, “Turn to your left,” another flash, “Now to the right,” A final flash.  
  A few minutes later the SO handed John his prison ID card, “Sign here. From now on you will be known as CT67645 Reynolds. You’ve been allocated Beta wing cell six five four. Go with that officer over there and he’ll escort you to your new home.” 
  	In less than five minutes John was walking into cell six five five, he was relieved to see Rigger was already in the cell and lying on the top bunk. The officer shut the cell door. John shivered. He stood in the cell, not moving. What had happened to him the previous night had not really prepared him for this moment. Before he was in a police cell then a holding cell but this was different. This was prison, the real thing. Rigger just watched him, not saying anything. He had seen this before and he knew he had to let John adjust to the situation in his own time. Everyone at some point had to adjust; those who didn’t usually took an overdose, slashed their wrists or hanged themselves from anything high enough and strong enough. 
  	John sat down on the bed, “You know Rigger before I felt that there might be a way out for me. That the court would grant me bail or the prosecution would drop the charges. I know people say they are innocent but I am, I haven’t done anything and I’ve no idea why or how I’ve ended up here. What happens if I’m stuck here? What happens if no one believes me?” 
  “It’s hard John, but whatever happens you must never stop believing in yourself. If you ever stop that then how can you expect others to? You have people out there who are fighting for you, who want you back. They know you’re innocent. People don’t fight for the guilty, not really, they just pretend to, make the gesture. In the end the truth will come out for you. Maybe not next week or next month but it will happen. Have faith, not in the system, that sucks, but in you and your friends. Have faith in what you believe and know to be true and that will get you through anything. Except perhaps my snoring, did I mention I snore?” 
  “No you forget that bit,” replied John, “by the way, have you ever thought of being a counsellor. You’re a natural.” 
  	For the rest of the first night Rigger listened as John talked about his past, his childhood memories, growing up through his teens. He listened as John talked about Pamela, then about his career and some of the stories and people he’d written about. Rigger kept him talking, it passed the time and kept John’s mind off where he was and why. It helped him to relax a little and more importantly it helped him to think and put a clear perspective on things. It worked as well and surprisingly, for John, he slept well. He was grateful to be sharing a cell with Rigger, someone this time yesterday he hadn’t even met.  
  	John thought about his life, he had everything, Rigger had nothing yet when the time came it was John who needed Riggers support, not the other way round. It made John wonder which of the two was really better off, or maybe he thought, we both live in different worlds. Rigger was able both able to survive in both. But when John had crossed over from one world to the other, by his own choice or otherwise, he was helpless, completely unable to function or survive. The two worlds exist in parallel, John’s world and the ‘underworld’, occupants of both passing by each other every day with neither acknowledging the other until fate, usually as a result of some tragedy, forces the two worlds together then all prejudices have to be put aside and both must work together in order to survive. John knew that it had been Rigger who had got him through his first night but what he hadn’t realised that he had also got Rigger through his. Rigger’s system had been starved of its food, in his case that food was alcohol. Rigger was fighting his own demons and it had been John’s tales and stories that had helped him through his own hell. The worlds had collided, both, with the help of the other, had survived. 
  *  *  *  * 
  	DCS Hughes made his way to the address Peter had given him. It struck him as a strange place to have arranged a meeting. One hundred and twenty two Griesdale Lane was a typical nineteen fifties semi detached house. Bow bay windows at the front, a small lawn with a driveway leading to a single garage, and at the side of the driveway a path leading to a half glazed front door. DCS Hughes opened the metal gate off the pavement and walked up to the door. He rang the doorbell and waited. He did not have to wait long as the door was quickly opened by a middle aged brunette woman, “DCS Hughes?” 
  “Yes,” he replied somewhat surprised by the formal greeting. 
  “My name is Sarah, Dr. Livingstone is expecting you, please follow me.”  
  	DCS Hughes followed Sarah to the rear room of the house. He suspected at one time this would have been the rear parlour or dining room although it was now a very plush office. Peter Livingstone was sat on an oversized arm chair. He stood up and held out his hand to welcome DCS Hughes. “Thank you for coming Chief Superintendent, I realise that you may have thought meeting here was an unusual request, and I apologise for that, but I have my reasons and I hope that they will become clearer over time. Please, have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” 
  	DCS Hughes sat down in, rather than on, an identical arm chair. “Very nice,” he said, “I wouldn’t object to a couple of these in my office. I assume that this is an office?” 
  “Yes Chief Superintendent, this whole house is a working office. I’ll be happy to show you around later if you’d like.” 
  “What do the neighbours make of all this then,” asked DCS Hughes looking around the room.  
  “We own next door as well, it’s somewhere handy for people to stay as and when required, it actually works out cheaper, over a few years, than paying London hotel prices plus should we ever decide to sell the increase in value will actually return a very healthy profit for the tax payer. Not many agencies can claim that now can they.” 
  “I thought you worked for Liverpool University?” asked DCS Hughes. 
  “In one way I do but in another I don’t. Again, I hope all will become clear a little later. Would you like some tea or coffee?” asked Peter 
  “Coffee would be nice please,” replied DCS Hughes, “cream and two sugars please, brown if possible. I’ve always preferred coffee with brown sugar, white sugar for tea, brown for coffee.” 
  A few minutes later Sarah brought in a wheeled trolley with two cups, a tall coffee pot and a bowl of brown sugar. There was also a plate of assorted biscuits. “Help yourself Chief Superintendent.” 
  “I appreciate the hospitality and the very nice surroundings but why exactly have you asked me here this morning?” 
  “A question first of all. What are your thoughts and ideas about the recent London murders and the shooting of your secretary, Tracy Rae.?” 
  “Given the fact that your brother –in-law has been arrested and charged with the attempted murder of my secretary I’m hardly likely to be impartial. I’ve taken Tracy’s shooting very personally and I’ll do everything I can to see her attacker put behind bars for a very long time.” 
  Peter looked as though he was wording his next question very carefully. “How badly do you want to see whoever shot Tracy brought to justice?” 
  “According to Southern Counties CID, John Reynolds shot Tracy.” 
  “True, but is that what you believe. You’ve known John for a long time. The two of you go back years. You’ve worked professionally together enough times for you to have gotten to know him very well. Question Chief Superintendent, do you believe that John Reynolds shot Tracy Rae? Yes or no” 
  “The evidence presented to me is overwhelming and on that basis I have to say yes. But you’re right; I have known John for a long time. At least I thought I knew him and the John Reynolds I know could not shoot anyone.” 
  “Answered like a true policeman. For a moment forget you’re a policeman and answer with your gut feeling. Do you believe John Reynolds shot Tracy Rae?” 
  There was a pause. DCS Hughes looked Peter straight in the eye, “No Dr. Livingstone, I do not believe that John Reynolds shot my secretary. In fact I believe that he would have done everything he could to protect her.”  
  “Good.” said Peter, “that’s what I needed to hear you say. 
  Peter got up from his chair and walked across the room to his desk, opened one of the desk drawers and took out a piece of paper. “There are a couple of things I want to talk to you about concerning everything that is happening. First though I need you to sign this piece of paper.” 
  ”What is it?” asked DCS Hughes 
  “I asked for this meeting here today in order to give me time to run a deep background check on you. You’ll be pleased to know it came back clear.” 
  “Why would you run a check on me? I’m the detective, you’re a university scientist?” 
  Peter passed the paper to DCS Hughes, “Once you sign that piece of paper you will have Alpha one plus security clearance. That is three levels above top secret. You will see that the Prime Minister himself has had to countersign the clearance. I’m not in any way forcing you to sign, that’s your choice. There’s no pressure.” 
  DCS Hughes took a pen out of his pocket and signed the paper. He handed it back to Peter. “Now I’ve signed that can you tell me who and what you are. Whatever you are you are not a university scientist.” 
  “All in good time Chief Superintendent, first though there is something I want to show you.” Peter picked up a TV remote control from his desk and turned on the thirty seven inch TFT screen fixed to the wall. The screen showed the desktop of a laptop on Peter’s desk that was attached via a secure Wi Fi connection. Peter clicked an icon on the screen. A few seconds later the two men were watching a HD video. Peter started to give a commentary of what was happening on the screen. 
  “Look over to the right hand side of the screen, in a moment you will see a black Range Rover come into view. There it is.” 
  The view panned out to give more perspective. They were now looking at a clearing in a wood, the road running along the top of the screen. In a parking area they could clearly see a green X Type Jaguar parked.  
  “Is that John’s car?” asked DCS Hughes 
  “It is,” replied Peter. The video ran for another minute. “Look over to the left, half way up the screen,” Tracy came into view, she was unmistakable, the quality of the video was so clear.  
  “Where was the camera that took this video?” asked DCS Hughes. 
  “It’s a spy sat specification digital video camera fixed to the underside of one of my department’s helicopters. It was hovering around three miles away when this was filmed. The camera is American made; I hate to admit it but we can’t touch them for video technology.” 
  	The next five minutes of the video played out exactly as John had described in his statement to Southern Counties CID. The video had captured everything in pixel perfect detail. DCS Hughes watched, unable to say anything. He had to look away when the two shots were fired. Watching the video was one thing but he was not about to watch his secretary being shot. The video proved beyond all doubt that John was completely innocent.  
  “Why has this not been produced as evidence?” asked DCS Hughes. 
  “We are involved in a different game here and I have to keep my eye on the bigger picture. John will be OK but I can’t show our hand just yet. It’s like playing a game of poker; I have to make the other side think they have the upper hand. In fact they have to think that we are not even at the table.” 
  	The two men continued to watch the video, they clearly saw one of the men plant the pistol in John’s hand and then place the spent cartridges where they would be easily found. They continued to watch as the two men fled the scene back to the presumed safety of their four by four. The two men changed back into standard civilian clothes. The camera zoomed in to the front of the car, for the first time both of the men’s faces were clearly visible. The image was so sharp and clear the two could have been standing three feet away when the footage was taken. Every detail was clear, right down to the stubble on the faces. The Range Rover was fired up and the two men drove away, but not before the camera clearly captured the registration number of the car. The video then ended. 
  	“I admit it. I’m impressed,” said DCS Hughes, “I don’t suppose this is the first time you’ve watched this footage.” 
  “No,” replied Peter, “I’ve seen it a couple of times before.” 
  “What happened to Tracy? I take it you were responsible for her disappearance from the crime scene.” 
  “Tracy has had to undergo lengthy surgery; it’s a critical time for her just now. I’ll know more in a few days time.” 
  “If this is going to work then we have to trust each. I had no idea what to expect when I arrived here this morning. An hour later I’m signed up to a secrecy act I never knew existed. I’ve watched real time video footage of my secretary being shot and in truth I probably know less of what’s going on now than I did before.” 
  	Peter sat down again in the arm chair. “I realise this must be quite a shock for you. I’ll try to tell you as much as I can. There are still a number of blanks and we are working on those as we speak. You’ll have to bear with me on that.” 
  ”What do you know then?” 
  Peter sat back in the chair, “The two men in the footage you have just watched are part of a four man squad, actually its three men and one woman. I believe you have already had contact with the woman.” 
  “If it’s who I think you’re referring to she managed to plant a listening device in my office,” replied DCS Hughes. 
  “One and the same,” said Peter, “all work for a deep undercover security agency called the Homeland Security Service, a harmless enough name for a very ruthless organisation. Just for the record it’s the same group who went after Pat the other night.” 
  There was a slight pause as DCS Hughes digested the information he was being given. 
  “What has happened to Tracy, I take it that it was you who was responsible for removing her body from the scene, and, I use the word body carefully because I do not believe that she was still alive after being hit twice from reasonably close range in the chest?” 
  “I hold my hands up, yes I did arrange for the first ambulanced to collect Tracy. I have made arrangements already for you to see her next Friday afternoon in Liverpool.” 
  “That’s the day of John’s second court appearance, under the circumstances I would like to be there.” 
  “I’m sorry but I do need you to be in Liverpool next Friday. Sorry to be a bit vague but you’ll understand at the time.” 
  DCS Hughes did not look very happy; he was the one who was used to giving the orders, not taking them, especially from someone he hardly knew. 
  	Peter understood that this was a lot for him to take in. He continued after taking a drink of coffee, “It appears that John stumbled across an ultra top secret government programme that was inadvertently related to the London murders. John and his friends had managed to almost piece together one of the UK and Americas most confidential and controversial programmes, this programme so secret that its existence could never be hinted at, let alone revealed and that was the problem. John is a journalist, and I’m sure you’ll agree, a very good one. He is not the kind of person not to get to the bottom of a story.” 
  “Just how do you fit into all of this then?” asked DCS Hughes. 
  “I’m the project director and have been since its inception seven years ago.” replied Peter 
  “So the university research lab is a front.” 
  “The work there is genuine but I suppose you’re right.” 
  DCS Hughes face started to redden and his voice changed. It was no longer friendly or interested in what Peter was saying. “Then you are directly responsible for the murder of those women in London, the attack on Pat, John’s trumped up charges and the shooting of my secretary.” 
  Peter was taken aback by the outburst of temper from the Chief Superintendent, “No, I’m not. The truth is a faction within the HSS knew about the project and its potential for misuse. Their job, after all, was to protect the project at all costs. I’m sure you are aware of the saying about how ultimate power corrupts.” 
  “Go on, I’m listening,” said DCS Hughes. 
  “This faction signed a pact with the devil, in this case high ranking, but ultimately corrupt, officers within the Defence Department and the Pentagon. They developed their own agenda, part of which resulted in the deaths of two women in London and the possible deaths of up to eight more, including Tracy.” 
  “I’m curious, you’ve mentioned this ‘project’ a couple of times but haven’t actually said what it is.” 
  “I’m sorry but that will have to wait until next Friday as well. It something you have to see more of than be told about.” 
  Peter stood up and held out his hand, “I’m so glad we had this conversation, I’ll e-Mail you the details for next Friday to your office.” 
  DCS Hughes stood up to leave. 
  “One last thing, what we have spoken about today is classified. I know you meet with John’s friends but you can’t talk to them about anything we have spoken about this morning. I know it may be difficult but they will have to stay in the dark for now.” 
  DCS Hughes did not look too happy about that but he was a professional so just nodded. 
  	John had gotten through his first twenty four hours in prison without too much difficulty. He had not ventured much out of his cell in that time and in a strange way being inside the cell felt safe, it was like a comfort blanket to him. John knew though that he would have to go out amongst the general population before too long, if only to get his meals from the servery or to have a shower. 
  	John had kept himself clean by having regular washes at the small bowl in the cell but no matter how often he did that he knew he would only feel really clean once he had a shower. “No time like the present,” he said to himself, “may as well get this over with.” John started to get together the small washing and shaving kit that he had been provided with. He laid everything out on the top bunk; towel, soap, razor. Compared to his usual washing routine it was a very small number of items he would be taking with him. “At least the water will be hot,” he thought. 
  	Rigger was watching him, “want me to come with you?” he asked. 
  “Thanks, but no thanks,” replied John, “I’ve got to do this myself, you understand.”  
  Rigger did understand, he may not have agreed but he did understand. 
  	John wrapped everything together, tucked the bundle under his arm and walked out of the cell towards the shower block. John’s cell was towards the end of a long run of cells, the shower block was at the other end meaning John had to walk past most of the cells in the block. Almost all the cell doors were open and as he walked past each one he was aware of the eyes that were looking at him, the owners of each wondering who this fresh faced new boy was and what was he in for.  
  	When John reached the shower block he was pleased to see that there was only one other person in there and he was just finishing. John went into the changing area, placed his clothes and towel on the bench seat and went into the shower area. For security reasons there was no privacy within this area, even from the wing landing as the walls separating the landing from the shower area were only four feet high. John was not used to showering in view of everyone so he found what he considered to be the most private area of the block. The water was more warm than hot and the water spray had two positions, on or off. Home it wasn’t but it did the job. He was just about to finish when two inmates walked into the area. One stood to his left, the other to his right. 
  “Well pretty boy, who are you then?” asked the first. 
  John ignored him and went to walk back to the changing area. The inmate held his arm out to block his way.  
  “I was just asking a question,” he said. 
  “Yes, the man was only asking a question,” said the second inmate, “and its bad manners not to answer.” 
  In his work John had come across characters like these two on a number of occasions. He had always hated dealing with them but when he had needed information sometimes it was the only way. The one thing John had learned over the years was to stand his ground and not show that he felt intimidated by someone else’s actions. 
  “You’re in my way,” said John in a quiet voice that was almost, but not quite a whisper. 
  “So I am,” said the first inmate, “So what? And I still want an answer.” 
  John’s right hand shot up and quickly grabbed the wrist of the first inmate. He spun the inmate around until he arm was behind his back. John then jerked his arm up his back. The inmate tried to stand on his toes to ease the pressure in his arm and also to stop some of the pain he was feeling. It was no use though; John’s height was too great for that to be able to make any difference. John had already decided on his story should something like this happen. John gritted his teeth and for extra effect jerked the arm up a bit further then spun the inmate around and banged his face against the tiled wall. The inmate let out a yell as his nose cracked and started to bleed heavily. Inside John felt sick but was determined not to show it. “I hope you and you’re mate are better at listening than you are at trying to make friends,” said John, talking through his teeth in a low but menacing voice, “not that it’s any of your business but I’m in here for murder. My girlfriend, sorry ex girlfriend, thought it would be fun to go out with someone else at the same time as going out with me. I didn’t, so I shot her. Not once but twice, in the chest. Close up and personal.” 
  	John then pulled the inmate back from the wall and pushed him towards the second. The two collided together; neither spoke or made any move. John stood over the two of them, “Make sure this place is cleaned up before you leave and keep your mouths shut about our little chat because if I hear anything about this from anyone, and I do mean anyone, then there’s a very good chance that one of you will be found swinging from the widows bars with a neatly written note on the bed. Get my drift?” 
  	They nodded. John turned around, walked slowly over to the changing area, wrapped the towel around his waist then calmly picked up his clothes and walked out. John was surprised to see Rigger standing just outside. “I’m impressed,” he said to John. 
  John looked over towards him, said nothing and walked back to the cell. He could feel the eyes watching him as he walked past the cells. John’s composure lasted just long enough to get him back to the sanctuary of his own cell. Once inside he ran over to the toilet area, dropped to his knees and vomited into the bowl. John could feel himself retch long after there was nothing left to bring up. Standing up he ran some cold water and rinsed his face. The bravado had now vanished and he was shaking heavily from head to foot. He grabbed hold of the bunk bed frame to hold himself up.   
  	Rigger walked up to John and gave him a congratulatory pat on the back. “Had to be done John,” he said, “now everyone knows where they stand. Not pleasant but in here, necessary. It’s the law.” 
  *  *  *  * 
  	Geoffrey was with Pat in his hospital room. Pat was feeling quite upbeat after being told earlier in the day that provided he had a good night then he could go home in the morning. What ever happened Pat was determined he was going to have a good night. Geoffrey had been talking about the Magistrates decision after John’s very brief court appearance. Pat was questioning the marital status of the magistrate’s parents when there was a knock on the door.  
  “Yes,” shouted Pat. 
  It opened and Andrew came in to join his two friends.  
  “I found it,” he said excitedly, walking towards a spare chair at the side of the bed, “I knew if I kept looking for long enough then I’d have to find one.” 
  Pat and Geoffrey looked at each other, then over to Andrew. “Found what?” enquired Pat. 
  “A photograph,” replied Andrew, “a photograph of Jacqueline Dupree. I’ve been searching through archives and eventually I found this.” He handed a copy of a photograph to each of them. It was a typical early Victorian head and shoulders shot of a young woman. “This was taken only a few weeks before she was killed, at least now we know what she looks like. We only guessed before about her not being at the funeral, now we can find out for sure.” 
  “I’ll check the pictures as soon as I get back to the office,” said Geoffrey, “if we can find out what names she’s using now then there might be a chance of tracking her down. Then we can let the police know what we have found and they can do the rest.” 
  “That’s only a part of the problem,” said Pat, “don’t forget we still have to try and find out what happened with John. Tracking down Ms. Dupree could be child’s play compared to that.” 
  “I’ll make a start on this anyway,” said Geoffrey, “I’ll let you know if I get anywhere. 
  	Geoffrey left the hospital and walked the four minutes it took to Haymarket North, the nearest tube station. He bought a one way ticket to Soho. Once on the platform he had less than a three minute wait for the Circle Line train to arrive. Twelve minutes later he got off the train and headed out into Soho and the daylight. Geoffrey’s first stop was the Hare and Hounds pub. The pub was a well known hang out for members of London’s organised crime gangs. Geoffrey was a well known face and had visited the pub far more times than he cared to remember. He looked around the bar area and soon saw who he was looking for. Sitting by himself at a corner table was Dimitre, one of the Russian Mafia’s foot soldiers, the equivalent of the American mobs ‘wise guy’.  
  	Geoffrey walked over to Dimitre’s table and sat down. “Dimitre, it’s been a long time,” said Geoffrey, “good to see you again.” 
  Dimitre looked towards the bar, he raised his right hand, “Georgia bring my friend’s vodka over here, and make sure it’s large and real, none of that cheap imitation rubbish you try to sell to the tourists.” 
  “Thank-you Dimitre, as I said it’s always good to see you.” 
  “I wish I could say the same for you,” came the heavily accented reply, “where ever you are trouble is never far behind and right now is not the time for more trouble.”  
  “I take it we’re talking about the murder of Suzie Reeves,” said Geoffrey. 
  “The central council have set a deadline of seven days to find the murderer and bring them in front of the council. That was four days ago and no one has any idea. Even our people in the police have no clues.” 
  Georgia brought over Geoffrey’s vodka and placed it on the table in front of him.  
  “Is there anything else you would like Mr Dimitre?” Dimitre dismissed her with a wave of his hand. 
  “I see you haven’t lost any of your Russian warmth and hospitality,”  
  “I thought you said you could help me,” responded Dimitre 
  “I think we maybe we can help each other,” said Geoffrey. 
  “You think so?” 
  Geoffrey slid a piece of paper across the table towards Dimitre. He picked up the paper and looked at it. “Who is this?” he asked. 
  Geoffrey took a drink from his glass. Despite the number of times Geoffrey had drunk pure Russian Vodka he had never gotten use to the way it burned his throat.  
  “You know you should drink that down in one,” said Dimitre, “then you’ll be a real Russian, like me.” 
  Geoffrey just held up his hands in mock surrender.  
  “You Westerners have no idea how to have a good time.” 
  “Maybe not,” replied Geoffrey, “but we do know how to keep our liver intact.” 
  “You also have good sense of humour and I like that about you. You are good man.” 
  Geoffrey was beginning to wonder if it was Dimitre or the vodka talking.  
  “The picture,” said Geoffrey, trying to bring the conversation back on track, “have you ever seen this woman?” 
  Dimitre looked at the picture, “I don’t think so, and this is a very old photograph, look at her clothes.” 
  “It’s not the best picture but maybe she likes to dress up in old clothes, I don’t know the woman but I hoped you might. Have a closer look.” 
  Dimitre held the picture up to the light so he could see it better, “maybe I have seen her somewhere before,” he said, “you know her name.” 
  “Sorry, no I don’t, she could be using any one of a number of different names. Why don’t you keep hold of the picture and show it around. Give me a call if you find out who she is.” 
  “Why are you after her Geoffrey, she stood you up?” 
  “No nothing like that,” replied Geoffrey, “if you must know she’s the woman who murdered Suzie Reeves. Find her and you find your killer. How long did you say the council had given you to find Suzie’s killer?  
  “I have a couple of days left,” 
  “This will be the best lead you could ever have, but, if you find her I want to know. I want to know where she lives before you do anything.” 
  “Don’t worry; I won’t be doing anything to the lady. The council have given strict instructions the killer is to be brought before them alive.” 
  “I was banking on that,” replied Geoffrey, “you have my number; I’ll wait to hear from you. Don’t forget, you call me first” 
  	Geoffrey stood up and walked out of the pub and into the first taxi that he saw. Geoffrey spent the rest of the afternoon calling in as many favours as he could. He stopped off at a local CopyPrint shop and had one hundred and fifty copies of the photograph made up into an A4 sized poster. It read above the photograph, ‘Please help, have you seen this woman, then underneath ‘suffers from memory loss and may not know who she is. Finally Geoffrey had included his secure mobile number.  He started to fly post in telephone boxes, bus shelters, tube stations, post boxes and as many pub doors as he could find. When he had finished Geoffrey was exhausted. He had covered a lot of ground and was quietly confident his work would produce results. 
    
  Chapter 18 
  	Since John had been remanded in custody, Geoffrey had kept in touch with Martin, John’s solicitor, who had already made a couple of visits to the prison to discuss tactics with John. The defence were relying on the fact that the police had still not discovered what had happened to Tracy. The ambulance had not been traced despite good forensic evidence left at the scene. The police were still sticking with their attempted murder charge but with only circumstantial evidence their case was starting to look very weak. 
  	John’s defence would argue in court that there was actually no evidence that any crime at all had been committed. It was highly possible that Ms Tracy Rae had not been injured at all and that the whole scenario had been staged. It mattered not one jot to the defence why that would be the case, all they had to do was create doubt in the minds of the magistrates. If that happened then John would certainly be released on bail and, there was even a slim chance the case would be dismissed before it ever reached a crown court. Their mood was high, there was even talk of a party but they then decided it would be better not to count their chickens too early. 
  	For the past five days Andrew had, without success, been trying to contact DCS Hughes. He had called his office and his mobile leaving numerous messages on his answering machine and with his secretary, all to no avail. Andrew was not the only one puzzled by this behaviour, DCS Hughes, had been very keen to help as much as he could. The last time anyone had seen him was at the first court hearing. “I’m sure there’s a good reason behind his disappearance. Give him time, we’ll hear soon enough.” said Pat.           
  	Geoffrey agreed. He was just about to say something when his secure mobile rang. He hit the answer key, “Geoffrey Adamson.” In all the call lasted for seven minutes, Geoffrey had been making notes throughout the call. Andrew and Pat did not speak to each other during the call but had glanced over to each other a number of times. When Geoffrey ended the call he was looking over the notes he had made when Pat spoke, “Are you going to tell us what the call was about? It came through on the secure phone so it must have something to do with either us or John.” 
  Geoffrey nodded, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.” Geoffrey then recounted the conversation he had with Dimitre a couple of days ago, he also told them about the hundred and fifty fliers he had posted around the area or handed out to contacts.  
  “Someone bitten?” asked Pat. 
  “Looks like it,” replied Geoffrey, “I have an area and approximate address for Ms. Dupree. It’s not confirmed but we can’t ignore it.” 
  “What are we sat around here for then?” said Andrew, “let’s go.” 
  “Slow down a bit,” said Geoffrey,” we need to have some sort of a plan. This may or may not be genuine information, either way we could blow it for ourselves if we don’t do this the right way.”  
  Andrew sat down again. 
   “Sorry,” said Andrew. 
  “No need to be” replied Geoffrey, “but I’ve been doing this a long time and I’ve built up a healthy scepticism about first time informers. Mainly why, what’s in it for them?” 
  “So what do you suggest we do?” asked Pat. 
  “I’ll check out the address,” said Geoffrey, “but I would like the two of you to park a bit down the road, just in case.” 
  	Just over an hour and ten minutes later Geoffrey pulled up in a side road half a mile away from the address he had been given. “Don’t forget to keep your mobiles switched on. If your phone rings three times and then stops just get to the house as fast as you can.   
  	Geoffrey got out of the car and started to walk up the road towards number three hundred and fifty four Lemurs Avenue, a few hundred yards away from the target house he crossed over the road but not before taking a quick glance at the number of the house he was walking past, it was two hundred and twenty one. “That’s about seventy houses away,” thought Geoffrey. As though he was late for an appointment Geoffrey walked purposefully along the pavement only occasionally glancing across the road. All the while he was counting down the number of houses he was passing in order to give him a guide as to as to how much further away the target house was. Thirty houses, twenty houses. Geoffrey head stayed still, his eyes though moved to the right. He had a good view of the target house. It was a two story Georgian style mid terrace property. The original sash windows had long ago been replaced by aluminium framed double glazing that matched the half glazed front door. Parked outside was an immaculate nineteen seventy three Ford Capri. The car gave Geoffrey an idea. He stopped and looked at the car, and then, slowly he walked over towards the dark metallic blue car. He stopped again and admired it firstly from the side and then he walked to the front as though he was studying it. The car was a two litre Ghia and was fitted with a black vinyl roof. He started to walk clockwise around the car, he had to admit it was in immaculate condition, concourse, was a word that sprung to mind. Out of the corner of his eye Geoffrey noticed one of the upstairs net curtains twitch, only very slightly but enough to tell him that someone was in and that that someone was taking an interest in him. For effect Geoffrey crouched down and had a look at the inside of the Capri. The seats were half tan leather with beige coloured cloth inserts. A small three spoke steering wheel masked some of the cars six instruments. To complete the cars look it was fitted with a Motorola period push button car radio.  
  	Geoffrey walked up to the front door of the house. He pressed the bell half expecting it to play Rule Britannia or some other such tune, he was quite disappointed when he just heard a single faint ding dong in the background. After a few moments the door was opened, Geoffrey immediately recognised the face. Ms Dupree’s skin was a lot fairer than he imagined, her hair was cut short in a modern style and had been coloured auburn with faint blond highlights. She was dressed in a large fitting jumper and a pair of loose slacks. Geoffrey guessed she was a good size ten bordering on a twelve had to admit she had a very distinct Gallic appearance, and one he found very attractive. He had to sharply remind himself that he was looking straight into the eyes of Jack the Ripper. That thought really fazed him. “I’m sorry to trouble you but is this by any chance your car?” 
  “Yes it is,” she replied, “please don’t worry I get a lot people asking about the car. But don’t ask if it’s for sale because it isn’t. It was my Dad’s last car before he died and it has great sentimental value to me, so you see I couldn’t sell.” 
  Geoffrey did his best to look disappointed, “I had hoped that it might be it is amazing. Takes me back to my childhood when we lived in France.” That had the desired effect. 
  “You lived in France my family came from France a few generations back.” 
  “It’s a small world,” quipped Geoffrey. 
  “What part of France did you say you lived in?” she asked. 
  “It was La Rochelle, on the Atlantic coast. Do you know it?” 
  “No, I don’t believe it. I am from the same area; well a little down the coast in Brest.” 
  “And we meet because of a car named after an Italian island. Anyway I’m sorry to have bothered you” 
  “If you’re not in any hurry perhaps you’d like a glass of French wine and talk about the ‘old country’.” 
  That was the opening Geoffrey had been waiting for, “That sounds perfect, but would Mr  ... I’m sorry I don’t know your name.” 
  “Jacqueline,” she replied, “and don’t worry, there is no Mr Dupree, in fact there never has been.” 
  “Then the world has gone crazy, my name is Geoffrey, Geoffrey Adamson and there is no Mrs Adamson either, again never has been.” 
  “Come on through, are you Geoffrey or Geoff?” 
  “Either is fine with me, so are you Jacqueline or Jack?” asked Geoffrey in a mock French accent. 
  “I prefer Jacque,” she replied elongating the Ja sound at the start of her name, “red or white?” 
  “Whatever is my ladies pleasure,” replied Geoffrey.  
  Jacqueline went out into the kitchen, “make yourself comfortable,” she shouted from the kitchen, “I’ll be in shortly.” 
  Geoffrey took the opportunity of being alone to have a look around the room. It was decorated in a very contemporary style and there was nothing that gave away the true identity of the woman who lived there. Over the years Geoffrey had read numerous books and papers about sociopaths and how they behaved. He was aware of how friendly they can be in order to lure a victim into their clutches and he knew he would have to be very careful not to let his guard down. 
  	Jacqueline returned with a bottle of red wine, two glasses and a corkscrew. She leaned over to Geoffrey and handed the bottle and the corkscrew to Geoffrey. “Would you mind?” For the first time he noticed the smell of her perfume, it reminded him of wild flowers growing in a country meadow. The aroma was very subtle and delicate yet the fragrance lingered inside his mind long after she had sat down.  
  Geoffrey opened the wine and poured a small amount into one of the glasses. He picked up the glass and handed it to Jacqueline, “pour madams.” 
  “Merci monsieur,” Jacqueline took a sip from the glass, “exquis,” 
  “I’m glad you like it,” replied Geoffrey 
  “Tell me everything about La Rochelle, how long you were there, what you thought of the area, everything.” 
  “Don’t forget I was only a boy at the time but I remember the narrow streets of the town, the amazing views across the water from the harbour, the twin battlements guarding the harbour entrance, one flying a large drapeau tricolour. The patisseries were just heaven to me with delicious pastries and cream cakes. I’ve longed to go back but I don’t know if it would be the same to me now. Sometimes I think that the memories are far better than reality. If I went back and it had changed, especially for the worst then the memories I have would be tainted.” 
  	Jacqueline poured him some more wine, “My family originally came to England from Brest, in Brittany. The landscapes around are amazing as is the landlocked bay. I’ve only ever been over for an occasional holiday and I’ve no family over there that I know of but the place feels like home to me. Far more than here ever has. Does that make any sense to you?” 
  Geoffrey drank some more wine, “this is a really good wine,” he said “and yes, I do understand what you mean. There are some places that just feel like home, sometimes places you have never even been to before. I suppose its one reason why so many people emigrate every year. They’re looking for a place they can call home because what had been home to them for so long isn’t any more.” 
  	“You always were an amateur philosopher,” 
  Geoffrey turned his head around. Standing in the doorway was Dimitre and in his hand was a Russian Army issue 9mm Parabellum pistol. 
  Geoffrey turned and looked back at Jacqueline; she raised her glass in a mock toast.  
  “Please, finish your wine. I believe it’s very good but as you know I’m a vodka man myself.” 
  “Dimitre,” said Geoffrey, “so it was you that made the call.” 
  “No, that was me,” said Jacqueline, “after you started to post that photograph everywhere it would only have been a matter of time before someone realised it was me. We had to get you here on our terms, not the other way round.”  
  “There was always a chance that would happen,” said Geoffrey, “Dimitre, you must know you’re playing a very dangerous game. The Russian Mafia are already after Jacqueline. When this gets out they’re going to be after you too. You’re one of their own, a trusted one. It doesn’t get worse than that.” 
  Geoffrey looked over towards Jacqueline, “I can see the attraction though, and I have to admit madam you look absolutely stunning.” There was a very slight pause, “especially for a woman of your age.” 
  Jacqueline stood up, walked over to Geoffrey and threw her glass of wine in his face, “How dare you,” she hissed, and then stormed out of the room. 
  “It was meant as a compliment,” Geoffrey shouted after her, “I have never met a hundred and eighty year old woman before,” he said to Dimitre, “and I must admit I am very pleasantly surprised. I don’t know whose face cream she uses but you’d both make a fortune promoting it.” 
  “You’re a funny man Geoffrey Adamson, but you’re in no position to crack jokes, if you think I’m going to let you ruin our little plan here then you’re wrong. Suzie thought the same after she got a little too greedy, and you know what happened to her.” 
  “Greed, so her murder was about money?” Jacqueline had regained her composure and walked back into the room. Dimitre started to walk slowly around. “Not just money, but power. Either are a great aphrodisiac but put them together and they become addictive, you can never have too much of either and I,” Dimitre quickly looked at Jacqueline, “we were not about to give any away.” 
  “You’re right Dimitre and I’m wrong. I thought you were playing a dangerous game before, with Jacqueline here being your girlfriend. What a dilemma, you’d been tasked with tracking down and handing over your girlfriend knowing what they’d do to her, when all along the two of you have been skimming huge sums of money from the mafia’s accounts and using Suzie’s position in the bank to clean it up for you. That’s not greed or power Dimitre, that’s a horrible, slow and very painful death.” 
  “We planned everything very carefully, and Suzie was very well compensated for her work.” 
  “Then the greed factor kicks in and she wants more. Greed pulling in one direction is a killer, but pulling in two. That’s the end of the line Dimitre.” 
  “You’d better explain that,” said Dimitre, now standing right in front of Geoffrey, the pistol aimed squarely at his forehead. 
  “I’ll keep it simple. Firstly, Suzie got greedy and wanted more money. Secondly, you got greedy because you didn’t want to give her any more money. Thirdly, you got your girlfriend here to murder her. Very subtle by the way, but I think this was one kill that was defiantly over kill. Then there was the biggest problem of all.  
  “And what would that be?” she asked. 
  “Just more of the same,” replied Geoffrey, “greed. Except this time it’s you two. Neither of you were prepared to give Suzie Reeves a bigger slice of the pie so why should you do it for each other. When Suzie died so did your scheme. Did she threaten to run to the Mafia bosses and tell them how you two had conned them out of millions?” 
   “We were never going to let that happen.” Jacqueline answered. 
  “There were never two of you in this scam,” replied Geoffrey, “there were always three. Suzie wasn’t an outsider just helping out; she was a crucial part of it. Without her there was no plan. How could she go to the bosses and tell them anything? She called your bluff and you two over reacted, now what have you got. I’ll tell you what, no plan, no scheme and two massive egos both wanting the money for themselves. Thing is, which of the two of you will be the one left standing at the end of the day.” 
  Jacqueline and Dimitre looked at each other, “he’s trying to mess up our heads,” said Jacqueline. She started to walk over towards him, “Don’t listen to him, he knows he’s going to die and he’s playing us against each other.” 
  “Is he?” said Dimitre, “the murders were all your idea; you were the one who didn’t want to give her any more money.” 
  “We had no choice,” said Jacqueline as she reached Dimitre’s side. Instantly her right arm swung quickly from behind her back. In her hand she had a nine inch kitchen knife. Dimitre gasped as the knife entered his side. She quickly twisted the knife and pulled it out, pushing the pistol away from her direction Jacqueline stabbed Dimitre in the stomach. Dimitre fell to his knees, he looked up at Jacqueline. “I loved you,” he mouthed, “we could have been so good together.” She left the knife in Dimitre as he slumped onto the floor. “You’re just like all men. Weak and pathetic, god, I despise every last one of you.”  
  	Dimitre did not hear her, his bulging lifeless eyes just stared into the distance. Jacqueline picked up the pistol and turned towards Geoffrey. She froze and quickly scanned the room. Geoffrey was nowhere to be seen. In the time it took for Jacqueline to murder Dimitre Geoffrey had taken the opportunity to slip out o the room. He made his way to the front door, only to find that it had been locked and the key removed. He then did what instinct dictates when people find themselves in mortal danger; he went for the high ground. Taking off his shoes he had crept upstairs in the hope of finding either an open window or one that would open. The house though was against him and he found it almost impossible to make a move of any sort without one or more floorboard creaking, each instantly giving away his exact position. His only hope was to barricade himself into one of the bedrooms. As he shut the bedroom door behind him Geoffrey pulled the double bed across the room and pushed it hard up against the door. He then started to move the chest of drawers, throwing them on top of the bed to give it additional weight. He saw the door move as he was sliding one of the free standing wardrobes towards the door. Jacqueline tried to force it open but she was no match though for the weight piled up behind it. Geoffrey was about to push the second wardrobe on top of the bed when two things happened almost at the same time. Firstly two bullets smashed through the bedroom door and embedded themselves into the wall behind Geoffrey, whilst they had just been blind shots through the door they had the desired effect as Geoffrey pressed himself against the floor. Then he heard a tremendous crash from downstairs as the glass in the front door disintegrated into a thousand pieces. Pats baseball bat had done a good job. Pat and Andrew had just started to run into the house when Jacqueline started to run down the stairs, seeing the two men she fired twice. Pat felt the wind from the first bullet as it flew past him. He heard a gasp as Andrew spun around and crumpled onto the pavement. Pat had no idea where the second bullet had gone. Pat wanted to go and see to Andrew but his attention had to be fully focused on the advancing Jacqueline Dupree. In a split second Pat decided the best form of defence was attack, he let out a blood curdling Scottish warrior scream and ran towards Jacqueline, as he got near her she raised the pistol and pointed it straight at him. At the same time Pat swung the baseball bat. The bat hit Jacqueline firmly on her arm. The pistol cracked as another bullet was fired but it was too late her aim was completely off as the bottom half of her arm dangled limply, the shattered bones sticking out through the torn flesh.  
  	Jacqueline screamed and barged her way past Pat towards the smashed front door, her strength taking him by surprise. She had managed to keep hold of the pistol with her other hand and had it held up as she ran out of the front door. Outside was a sight she had never expected. When Andrew and Pat had received Geoffrey’s call they had called 999 and reported shots fired at Jacqueline’s address. The Mets armed unit had arrived at the scene, and sealed it off, in less than five minutes. Four armed police marksmen all had their weapons trained on Jacqueline Dupree as she ran out of the house. Andrew still lay still on the ground. Outside of the secure zone a paramedic vehicle, with blue lights flashing, was waiting to get him as soon as it was safe to do so.  
  “Do not move and do exactly as we say,” crackled a voice from a bullhorn. “Place the pistol on the ground then stand up with your hands raised in the air where we can clearly see them.” 
  	Jacqueline looked at the officers and weighed up her options. The speed she moved took one of the officers by surprise, considering the injury she has to her arm. In a split second Jacqueline raised the pistol and had just got the first officer in her sights. At the same instant two of the other officers each fired twice. They we in almost perfect unison as the four individual sounds merged into two loud cracks. Four bullets hit Jacqueline in the middle of her chest; the force lifted her off her feet as she was thrown backwards towards the door she had just come out of. She crashed onto the stone step, the back her head splitting like a coconut as it took most of the impact. It made no difference to Jacqueline as she was dead long before landing on the ground. 
  	Two of the officers ran towards her, their weapons still trained on her body. The first officer checked for a pulse, there was none to find. The other two officers had run over to Andrew. The bullet had taken a channel of bone from the side of his skull as it flew past him. The impact had knocked him out but apart from a very bad headache and some painful skin grafts to the sides of his head he would be fine. Geoffrey had pulled away the barricades and had run downstairs just in time to hear the police marksmen fire their weapons. He had taken refuge with Pat in the kitchen at the back of the house. The two men stayed there until police officers came in and gave the all clear. 
  Chapter 19 
  	John heard the keys turn in the lock of his cell door. It was three minutes past seven as PO Caulfield walked into John and Rigger’s cell. He looked at his clip boarded list, “CT67645 Reynolds.” 
  “Here boss,” replied John. 
  “You’re scheduled to appear before Southern Counties magistrates this morning at ten o’clock. Transport will be in forty five minutes and you will be escorted to reception to collect your clothes in half an hour. Be ready.” 
  “Yes boss.” 
  The cell door was pulled to and the locking mechanism automatically did its job. 
  “Good luck John, I hate to say this but I hope I don’t see you again, and if I ever do I don’t want it to be in here.” 
  John started to shave, “I appreciate the sentiment Rigger but I don’t see what has changed in the past week. My solicitor is confident I’ll get bail today, but that’s part of his job, to make me feel as though I’m going to get something out of today. If I’m being honest I’m not too confident so don’t give the bunk away to anyone else just yet.”“I’ll make out to the screws that you’re coming back, that way I’ll get double rations tonight. “I appreciate the thought. Listen, in case I don’t come back I like to.” 
  Rigger stopped him from saying anything else. “This is bangup; it’s what we do to survive. So don’t you be going all soft on me now, you’ve a reputation to keep up.” 
  “Just don’t tell the magistrate that or I’ll defiantly be back.” 
  John finished shaving, had as good a wash as was possible and put on his day to day prison clothes. Rigger handed him a fresh cup of tea. “You never know when you’ll be able to get another drink today. Remember; never refuse food or a drink.” 
  “Thanks Rigger,” John took a drink of the tea, “perfect.” 
  	John heard the keys slide into the lock, then turn. The door swung open. “Let’s go Reynolds, can’t keep the driver waiting.” 
  John shook Riggers hand and then, for what he hoped would be the last time, walked out of his cell. In the reception area John quickly changed into the court clothes that had been brought in for him by his solicitor. Martin had chosen a conservative dark blue two piece suit, a crisp white shirt with a two tone blue tie. Black socks and lace up brogue shoes completed the ensemble.  
  “Must be your lucky day,” said the duty officer, “you’ve got the bus to yourself, no one screaming, shouting or banging on the walls. I’d make the most of the peace if I were you.” 
  “I’ll bear that in mind boss,” replied John. 
  The duty reception officer and the wagon crew exchanged documentation handing responsibility for John from the prison to them. Until papers were exchanged and signed in the court they were totally responsible for keeping the public safe from John.  
  	Despite being locked inside a cubicle John was relieved when the wagon passed the ‘welcome to HMP Outcross’ sign. He was pleased to be back on the main roads, he looked up, through the darkened widow. For the first time in a week he could look at the sky, the grass, trees and people. Until now John had never realised how important it was to be able to see people, they didn’t even have to be doing anything in particular. The cubicle was far from comfortable but John didn’t mind, he was just enjoying the ride and the scenery.  
  	HMP Outcross was not a local prison, it was on the outskirts of a small town and that meant part of the route was country, John was actually looking forward to that part of the journey. He vowed that once this mess was sorted out that he would never again take anything for granted. The wagon passed a sign that read ‘London forty nine miles’. John worked that out to be a good hour to hour and a half away, especially in the rush hour traffic they would come across later on. 
  	John felt, more than heard the bang from the front of the wagon, it then veered sharply over to the right. John knew the front right tyre had punctured, thankfully it was on a quiet country road and no cars had been coming towards them on the opposite side of the road. The driver braked hard causing the wagon to screech to a halt. Geoffrey head banged against the side window as he was thrown around inside the cubicle. He felt his head, there was a small amount of blood from a cut on his forehead and his left shoulder was aching. Less than ten seconds after the wagon at suddenly stopped there was a muffled noise from the back quickly followed a loud ear splitting explosion. Smoke started to seep under the cubical door. John was trapped; the door was locked and could only be opened from the outside. The smoke was getting thicker, he started to bang against the darkened security glass but it was useless. John’s first thought was fire, and that scared him at any time, but trapped inside a small cubicle it was terrifying. There was another muffled explosion, this time a lot closer. Almost immediately after the cubicle door was torn away. Standing the other side were two men, dressed from head to foot in black, their faces covered with black respirators. “Are you Reynolds,” said the first. John nodded, the smoke making it impossible for him to speak. John looked at the black figures and his mind raced back to when Tracy had been shot. “This time they’ve come back for me,” he thought.  
  “The fist figure grabbed him by his arm, “Let’s move, quickly,” he shouted. 
  	Before John realised what was happening he was pulled out if the cubicle and pushed towards the second figure. Outside the wagon were two others identically dressed figures. John was manhandled out of the wagon into the grip of the figures three and four. Number three quickly covered John’s head with a black cloth bag, it was impossible to see through and he started to feel disorientated. John half ran and was half dragged to the first or two waiting Range Rovers, each with their engines running. The doors were all open and John was thrown onto the back seat. Seconds later he then felt a stabbing pain in his thigh, realising he was being drugged John tried to move but his muscles simply failed to do what he wanted them to. Within five seconds John Reynolds was lying unconscious across the back seat. One of the figures stretched him out, placed a pillow under his head and covered him with a blanket. If anyone happened to look through the side window they would assume John was probably sleeping of a hangover on his way home. 
  	The four figures quickly stripped of their black clothing and threw them into the back of the second Range Rover. Two men got into each car, then turned around and drove back in the direction the wagon had just come from. 
  	A mile and a half down the road a second identical prisoner movement wagon was driving along the same route through the wooded countryside. Inside the cab the crew were talking and enjoying the spectacular scenery. They were approaching a bend in the road when they saw a woman lying in the road. Fifty yards in front of her they could see a car had left the road and crashed, head on into tree, a male was slumped out of the front passenger door, only his seatbelt had stopped him from falling completely out of the car.  
  	The driver pulled up fifty yards back from the woman lying in the road; he got out of the cab and walked towards her. As he got closer to her he could clearly see a pool of blood on the road. Turning back towards the wagon he shouted to his colleague to radio for the emergency services. It was obvious they would need expert assistance. He reached the woman, she was lying face down on her stomach face, and her left hand was underneath her body, her right covered in blood. The driver felt her neck for a pulse, he could feel one. “Can you hear me?” he asked. The victim started to quietly moan. “Can you feel any pain anywhere?” he asked, not knowing if that was the right thing to say or not. 
  “My arm,” she mumbled, “my arm hurts.” 
  “Which arm?” he asked. 
  She faintly replied “underneath me, my arm hurts so much.” 
  The driver was way out of his depth, “I’ll try and lift you just a little and have a look, is that OK?” 
  She nodded. He called his colleague to come over and help. Between them they managed to lift her enough to give them the space they needed to free her trapped arm. Before they could move her arm the victim quickly spun around and jumped up. In her trapped hand she was holding a nine mm Browning pistol. 
  “Number four,” she shouted. The injured man slumped out of the car door got up and ran over to his colleague. He looked at the two men kneeling on the ground, took out his own pistol and pointed it at the wagon driver.  Number four pointed towards to wagon,” you, come with me,” he said to the driver. 
  “What do you want?” asked the driver. 
  “Shut up and walk,” snapped number four.  
  As they walked towards the wagon two others emerged from the wood. “Nice work agent three.” 
  She smiled, “Thanks.” 
  Agent four and the driver reached the back of the wagon, he pushed the driver against the rear door “Unlock it.” he ordered. The driver fumbled with his keys, “Hurry up,” snapped agent four.  
  “I’m going as fast as I can,” said the driver, “I’m not used to having a pistol waved in my face.” The driver found the key he was looking for; he put in the lock and turned it. Agent four grabbed him by the arm and pushed him onto the road. “Stay there and don’t move, who knows you might get to walk away from this.” Agent four swung open the rear door and went to jump inside. Instead he just froze on the spot. Standing in the rear of the wagon were two men, dressed from head to toe in black combat clothes. Each had their face covered with a black ski mask. Agent fours eyes were focused on the two nine mm HK MP5 machine pistols pointing straight at him. The driver stood up and took the Browning out of agent fours hand. He did not resist. 
  “The hunter becomes the hunted,” said the driver. 
  The first man inside the wagon motioned for agent four to get in. He did. “Have you any idea who you’re dealing with?” asked agent four. 
  “We know exactly who you are. All of you are members of one of the most highly secret agencies this country has. All of you were placed in positions of ultimate trust by the Her Majesty, and you all took a sworn oath to give your own lives in order to protect the interests of the United Kingdom. What you actually did was sell your souls to the highest bidder. In this case high ranking but ultimately corrupt military officers from both the US and the UK. You are all guilty of treason and were here to carry out sentencing.” 
  Who are you? At least tell me that.” 
  “We’re the good guys.” 
  Agent four was given a piece of paper and told to shout it, word for word to his colleagues. He was also reminded that there was a lot of firepower pointing in his direction just in case he decided to deviate from the script. 
  Agent four jumped down from the back of the wagon, “It’s empty,” he shouted to agents one, two and three, “it’s empty, there’s no one in it.” 
  Agent one turned towards the second man, “Where’s the prisoner you were taking to court?” 
  “What prisoner? There’s no prisoner. We were on our way to the Scrubs to transfer prisoners to Outcross. We weren’t on the court run.” 
  Agent one pointed his pistol at the second man. “Are you absolutely certain about that?” 
  “Yes,” stammered the second man. 
  “Then it looks like you are just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Agent one took aim at the second man. There was a two second burst of automatic weapon fire and agent one’s body disintegrated in a hail of bullets. Agents two and three spun around, pistols raised, to where the gunfire had come from. They were too slow; the second man pulled his own pistol from the back of the trousers and thrust it into the small of the back of agent two.  
  “Drop the weapon,” said the second man as he stood up. The pistol was quickly moved from the small of his back to the nape of his neck. Agent two’s pistol clattered on the ground.  
  	Two men appeared from the woods, each fully camouflaged. Fully automatic weapons were rained on both HSS agents.  
  “I’m sorry I lied to you,” said the second man to agent two. He looked puzzled, “What do you mean, lied?” 
  “I said we were on our way to pick up prisoners from the Scrubs, I wasn’t, I was on my way to pick up you.” 
  “One thing before we go,” said one of the men who came from the woods. He handed large black bags to the two surviving HSS agents. He pointed to the remains of agent one. “Clean up that mess.” 
  	That job done, the three surviving agents were shepherded into the back of the wagon; each was put into a separate cubical. The second man started the engine and drove away. 
  Chapter 20 
  	John was starting to wake up; he could feel himself coming round. He knew he was lying down although not flat as he felt propped up. For now he thought it would be safer for him to keep his eyes closed. Keep up the pretence that he was still out. He hoped he might be able to hear someone talking about him, or better still them. At least then he might have some idea as to who had taken him and what they intended to do with him. The vision of Tracy’s shooting was still fresh in his memory and as much as he missed Tracy he did not want the same thing to happen to him. John actually wondered for a minute if that defined him as a coward. He decided not, John did everything he could that day. He had been over powered and drugged, just as he had however long ago it had been. Wanting to live to see tomorrow did not make him a coward and maybe tomorrow would be the day he would be able to see justice done on those who had shot Tracy. 
  	John was trying to sense where he was, he knew he was not moving and there was no sound of an engine. In fact there was no sound at all, everything was eerily quiet. He decided there was no one else around him and started to open his eyes, very slowly at first, just enough to tell if he was in the light or dark. He kept his head still and moved his eyes from side to side; he knew he was in a room and that there was a light on. As far as he could tell there was no natural light, and that, the thought, meant the room did not have any windows, one less way out. He moved his eyes downwards; he was trying to make out what it was he was lying on, then he realised, it was a dentist’s chair. Lying as still as he could John tried to move his arms, he was surprised to find he could, they were not bound or restrained in any way. Next he tried to move his legs; again he was free to do so without any restrictions. John opened his eyes. The light seemed intense to him and he quickly closed them again. Then slowly, he opened his eyes for the second time, this time he was far more controlled. Over a period of time he opened them a little more, then a little more until they were fully open. 
  	John was now fully accustomed to the light and he was looking at the most sterile room he had ever seen in his life. The only piece of furniture in the room was the one he was sat in. All the walls were covered in white ceramic tiles; the ceiling was suspended with square white tiles and built in fluorescent lighting. The floor did offer some contrast though as it was covered in a light blue lino. For the first time John moved his head, he lifted it up off the relining chair and looked cautiously around. Satisfied there was no one else in the room he propped himself up on elbows. He was just about to get off the chair when the door opened and a woman, dressed in a nurse’s uniform walked in.  
  “I see you’re awake then,” she said in a far more cheery voice than John had expected. “How are you feeling, I believe you’ve had a bit of a rough time recently?” 
  	John sat up and stretched his arms and legs; he then turned he head around to exercise his neck slightly. “All things considered I don’t feel so bad.” Replied John, “could you tell me where I am?” he asked, more out of hope than any expectation of getting an answer.  
  “All in good time Mr Reynolds. I just let the Professor know you’re awake. I’m sure he’ll be able to answer your questions.” 
  “I’m sure he will,” said John under his breath. John was desperate to find out something, “Can I ask your name?” he asked. 
  “Of course you can, I’m Charge Nurse Rae, Tracy Rae” 
  John was thrown. Tracy noticed a strange look in his eyes. “Are you alright?” she asked. 
  “Have you ever worked in Scotland?” asked John. 
  “What a strange question, I’ve worked in most places during my career and yes I have worked a couple of times in Scotland.” 
  John knew he was pushing his luck, “main land or off shore?” he asked. 
  “Now why would you need to know that?” she said, smiling at him. John realised that was not a question, it was more a statement. He decided not to pursue things any further. 
  “Just making conversation,” he said meekly. 
  	Just then two more people walked into the room. Nurse Rae looked over at them. “Hello Professor, I was just about to let you know that Mr Reynolds had regained consciousness. As you’re here, I’ll leave you to it then. 
  “Thank you Nurse Rae,” said the professor. 
  The two men looked at John; he was staring back at them. 
  Peter was the first to speak, “I expect you have a lot of questions you want to ask and I promise that I’ll answer then all as best as I can.” Peter walked over towards John who backed off slightly. Peter held his hands up, “It’s OK John, you’re safe. I realise you might not think so just now but you are in the safest place you could ever be.” 
  John still said nothing, he looked over at the other man, “Hello John, it’s good to see that you’re OK,” said DCS Hughes. 
  “At this exact moment John I know little more than you.” 
  John started to feel a wave of anger building up inside him. His memory flashed back to Tracy, it flashed back to the court, it flashed back to the prison. He stood up from the chair and stared straight at Peter. 
  “What have you got to do with everything that has happened to me in the past couple of weeks?” 
  Peter looked at John and held out his hand.” 
  ”None of this is what you think John. Come on through to somewhere more comfortable and we’ll talk.” Peter turned towards the door. “Nurse Rae,” she walked in, “would you help John into the main lounge please?” She nodded, left the room and returned a few moments later with a wheel chair. 
  “Please John,” said Peter, almost pleadingly. 
  John sat in the chair so Nurse Rae could wheel him out of the recovery room, along a short corridor and into the lounge area. John got out of the wheelchair and sat in a single armchair. Peter sat opposite him, DCS Hughes to the side. 
  	“Just answer me one question,” said John. “Why did you send an army after Tracy and me; shoot Tracy and then send a second group after, drug me and then  ... this.” 
  John was getting emotional as he thought of Tracy and what she must have gone through. 
  “I had nothing to do with Tracy’s shooting. I did though arrange for the ambulance that picked her up. For reasons that will become apparent I could not allow Tracy to be treated in a conventional hospital.” 
  “Are you saying she’s alright, she’s OK?” 
  Peter looked at John, then at DCS Hughes. 
  “Tracy was very seriously injured in the attack; it’s still touch and go. She is in intensive care and I can promise you she is be looked after by some of the best medical staff in the world.” 
  As Peter was telling John about Tracy DCS Hughes looked across at him, then he looked away and put his head down slightly. 
  “As for the second group this morning, they actually saved your life.” Peter then told John about the ambush that had been planned for him by the HSS agents. “They are the group who attacked you and Tracy in the wooded picnic area. After you were lifted out of danger this morning I’d arranged a little surprise.” 
  Peter then ran John through the events after John was released from the prison wagon. John looked shocked. “Who helped me this morning then, and why drug me if you wanted to help me.” 
  “You were rescued by Red Troop, Twenty Two Squadron Special Air Service. The drugging is standard procedure. In a single hostage release situation the last thing the SAS need is a freaked out hostage. They are far more able to contain a situation once they no longer have to worry about using valuable man power containing whoever they have released. Especially, as in your case when you didn’t even know you were in any danger.” 
  “So where are these rouge agents now? Will there be a trial of some sort that I’ll have to attend.” 
  “No nothing like that, these people know how the system works. They all signed on the dotted line, besides which a trial would not be in the public’s interest. There are times when the public are better being ignorant of the agencies that work to protect them from internal and external threats. Until the Iranian embassy siege in the nineteen seventies the government had managed to hide the fact that the SAS existed. There were rumours, but they had always been denied. It’s very difficult to have deniable operations when you can no longer deny the force that used to carry them out. As a result new and more secretive options were quickly put into place and the SAS became a more ‘consumer friendly’ outfit. Most of what they do is of course highly classified but there are leaks from time to time, anti terrorist and counter drug insurgence. Things the public can relate and agree to. 
  	As we speak the agents who carried out the attack on Tracy and yourself at the picnic area, who incidentally, are the same agents who attacked Pat, and placed the bugs on tracking devices on your car are on their way to a little island of the coast of Scotland. Most people think it’s a meteorological site but it is in fact a high security prison for those whom a trail would not be the best option.” 
  	John was still looking a little perplexed. DCS Hughes saw this and walked over to him, “I only found out about a lot of this a few days ago, Peter has briefed me in more detail today. I had no idea that you would be here today but I must admit it is good to see you. The incident you were involved in this morning was recorded on DVD if you would like to see a replay. The second ambush was also captured.” 
  “Are you telling me there was a Hollywood film crew there as well?” said John 
  “No,” replied DCS Hughes, “everything was captured by a surveillance satellite. The clarity of the pictures is just incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.” 
  “Then it’s just as well the good guys won.” 
  Peter took control again, “The good guys did win this time, but that’s not always the case, we have lost a few.” 
  John looked at Peter, “A couple of weeks ago I came to you to ask a favour, I asked my brother- in-law for help. Now I find out that I don’t even know my brother-in-law. I have no idea who or what you are anymore.” 
  “You do know me John, I’m the same person. I am who I have always been and always will be. The only thing you didn’t know about me was exactly what I do.” 
  ”Then tell me Peter, what do you do?” 
  At that moment Nurse Rae walked in with a tray of drinks, “Please, feel free to have whatever you would like,” she said, then she turned around and left. 
  “You bring John as up to date as you can, I’ll be mother.” said DCS Hughes. 
   
   
   
   
  “Thanks,” replied Peter. “Have you any idea where you are John?” he asked. 
  “How can I, there are no windows anywhere.” 
  “At least you are aware of your surroundings then that’s good. You are actually in my lab, or more precisely under it.” 
  ”I’m in Liverpool,” said John, “How long was I out for?” 
  “About an hour and a half, the SAS drove you to a waiting helicopter and you were then flown here. You came round about twenty minutes later. You’ve been checked over by the way and you’re in excellent physical shape.” 
  “Keep going,” said John, “I’m listening.” 
  “Have you ever heard of Joseph Williamson?” 
   “No, should I have?” 
  “Not really, he was a local tobacco magnate who was responsible for much of the building in the Edge Hill area during the early eighteen hundreds. He was a great philanthropist and is most famously remembered as the 'Mole of Edge Hill'. At that time in Liverpool work was almost impossible to find and thousands of families lived the most appalling conditions imaginable. Joseph Williamson helped as many of these families as he could by employing hundreds of men to dig a network of tunnels beneath the Edge Hill area. Neither he, nor the City of Liverpool had any use for the tunnels but it ensured that the men worked for their money. This was not charity or a hand out he was giving and only those willing to do the work were employed by him. But, no one was ever turned away. This put the onus on the workers and Joseph Williamson offered a way out of poverty to all those who wanted it. Once Liverpool’s economy picked up the workers all found jobs in the City. Employers were keen to take them on as they knew they all wanted to work. This resulted in the tunnels quickly falling into disrepair and for many years they were forgotten about. It is only fairly recently areas have been renovated and opened to the public. It’s quite an attraction. Some sections though will never be opened to the public, and we’re in one of them now. The tunnels were the perfect place to build the laboratory’s need for the Samsāra Project.” 
  “The what” asked John. 
  “The Samsāra Project,” replied Peter, “That is where I come in. I am the head of this project and have been for the past five years. The university centre is real, it has to be but it is ultimately a front for the project, a cover to keep it and everyone connected with it safe.” 
  “Samsāra,” interrupted John, “is a Buddhist and Hindu belief, it means reborn of reincarnation. The term reincarnation implies that there is a transfer of conscience or one’s soul to the new life. According to Buddha, the beginning point of Samsāra is not evident. It is just like finding the beginning point of a circle.  Another way to think of it is to imagine a billiard ball hitting another billiard ball. While nothing physical transfers, the speed and direction of the second ball will be directly related to the first. In other words your new life relates directly to your previous one.” 
  Now it was Peter’s turn to be impressed. “That is pretty much spot on, I couldn’t have put it better myself.” 
  John nodded, “Background is the key,” he said, “It’s surprising what snippets you pick up as a journalist when you have all those endless column inches to fill. So, are you going to tell me how you, Samsāra and me have all managed to come together in a secret tunnel underneath the streets of Liverpool?”     
  “Under normal circumstances, absolutely not, but the Prime Minister has agreed that providing you sign the ‘Official Secrets Act’ then I can tell you. You have already been checked and cleared by the way” 
  “Where do I sign,” said John. 
  “You don’t, it’s just an expression. It’s all done on trust. Both DCS Hughes and I are witnesses that you agree to be bound by the secrecy clauses contained in the act. Break that trust though and you’ll be enjoying Scottish hospitality for a very long time.” 
  Peter did have a smile on his face when he said that but both John and DCS Hughes knew there was a lot of truth in what he had just said. 
  John nodded in agreement. “I would like to know about the Samsāra project, but I’d also like to know who my brother-in-law is.” 
  Peter nodded in agreement. “After the nine eleven attacks the American and UK governments, behind closed doors, freely admitted that the terrorists had the upper hand and that they would do so for the foreseeable future. It was also agreed that whatever steps were taken, however much money was spent on manpower and resources that a small but determined group would be able to launch a successful attack on America or the UK. Obvious security measures at airports and other ports of entry would deter a large number of potential threats but all agreed that it did not matter how many of those threats were stopped only one had to succeed. A ninety nine point nine percent success rate was not good enough. The governments also knew that the point one percent would happen sometime, any time. They had to be prepared. 
  It was at one of these meetings that Samsāra Project was agreed. As you said earlier John, we normally think of ourselves as coming into being when we are born and as perishing when we die. According to Hinduism, however, this current life is merely one link in a chain of lives that extends far into the past and projects far into the future. This process, the chain of births and deaths is called Samsāra. The chain of births lets us resume our pursuits in accordance with the actions performed and the dispositions acquired in the past. 
  In short Samsāra is from the Hindu religion and means re-birth, or in Western terms, a very advanced cloning technique. Up until nine eleven no one really took that much notice of cloning. Governments were aware that it was being researched into but did not expect any great result from it. Nor could they see any potential benefit to be gained from it. What they could see though was huge problems, ethical and religious problems that would come about if this researched ever did produce viable results. In essence it became a watch and see exercise. After all you never know when something unexpectedly useful might come along. What came along though was nine eleven and that changed everything.  
  The first major cloning success was Dolly the sheep in nineteen ninety seven, and although this was only a limited success it was the first time that an exact copy or clone had been produced. You have to make a difference here. Dolly was not conceived in any conventional way she was genetically engineered from start to finish. There was no male or female involvement in this conception or birth. The whole process was controlled by scientists in a lab. This was a first; it made headlines all over the world, at least for a few days. Now, except for the odd quiz question Dolly the sheep is never mentioned, in fact if you think about it the whole cloning debate has been very quiet. That is not a coincidence. 
  Dolly asked more questions of scientists that she answered, in some ways she was a great success, in others a massive failure. The biggest problem that had to be overcome was the time scale. Cloned animals also start their existence a baby and then grow up as any normal creature would. They may look identical to the original but they are not. Despite what Hitler’s followers thought, it is impossible to recreate an exact duplicate of every second of someone’s upbringing and create an identical person. We are not called individuals for nothing. Can you imagine the Nazi party’s horror in finding their cloned leader was actually a peace loving man who believed in world harmony, cultural and racial integration? Something better was needed and as with most of the world’s greatest discoveries it came about by accident. 
  Believe me it is no coincidence that stem cell research, DNA research, growth hormones, steroid development etc have all received massive increase in funding. All the major drug companies immediately received a fivefold increase in federal funding and this increased at a rate of twelve percent per year. Four years ago and twelve months before the London bombings the first tentative breakthrough happened. One company was working on three projects overseen by three departments. All projects were compartmentalised so no one area knew what another area was working on. By a quirk of fate that no one could predict the facility suffered a massive fire. The fire was even on a Sunday when staffing was nonexistent and even the local fire department was on low occupancy. The result was a chronic shortage of space. The solution, the three projects had to share lab space, after all they could not stop work on any of them, government funding required results or at least the promise of results. Let‘s not forget the greed of the American corporate body. When it comes to profits against secrecy it is very rare that secrecy wins. In this case though and without knowing it they did the right thing, when people work together they talk, three unknown projects now working in the same vicinity to each other, all working towards the same goal. I can just imagine it was something like;  
  “Hey guys, let’s have a meeting and sort this out.”  
  However it came about, the meeting happened, ideas were discussed, exchanged, debated, ripped apart, refined and the best tried. 
  Over the past two years what came out of those meeting have advanced medical science at least two hundred years. So, do you want the long scientific explanation or the shorter layman’s one?” 
  “The laymen’s version please,” replied John. DCS Hughes nodded in agreement. Both men had a thousand questions they wanted to ask but neither wanted to interrupt Peter as he continued. 
  “The building block of life is DNA but this is not really correct. DNA is the blueprint, the plan of how everything is to be put together, what goes where, when and how. Stem cells on the other hand are the bricks and mortar. You see stem cells have the amazing potential to develop into many different kinds of cells. If you like they are the body’s mechanics; they use the bloodstream as a road network to get from one part of the body to another. Stem cells have the ability to divide as many times as required in order to get the job done. When a stem cell divides it has the ability to remain as a stem cell or become another type of cell with a more specialised job such as a muscle, blood or brain cell. Also there’s no going back for spares with them, they bring everything they need all neatly packaged. The only requirement that is the person needing repair is still alive. Stem cells don’t do dead people, or at least that is what is generally accepted. Researchers here discovered a way to re animate stem cells not just in a dead person but from a tissue or blood sample.  
  That was the first breakthrough, the second involves DNA. Have you any idea when DNA was discovered?” 
  “Probably within the last twenty to thirty years I would think,” replied John. DCS Hughes shrugged. 
  “That’s what most people think, and they only think that because DNA is now used by law enforcement as a way to identify suspects. In fact DNA was discovered by Friedrich Miescher, a Swiss physician in eighteen sixty nine. Scientists have been working on the mystery of DNA ever since but it wasn’t until nineteen fifty three that Watson and Crick suggested what is now accepted as the first accurate DNA model, in fact in nineteen sixty two they won the Nobel Prize for their work.  
  DNA is a nucleic acid that contains the instructions and functioning of all known living organisms. Simply it is a set of blueprints to construct components such as cells, proteins and molecules. In order for an organism to grow, cells have to divide, but when a cell divides the DNA must also be replicated. Now despite all the research carried out on DNA we only understand about ten to twenty percent of it. The rest is known as Junk DNA, it is a kind of catch all term for the DNA portions that has no identifiable function. Our scientists though have identified at least ten percent of this junk and when doing so they discovered something that no one expected. DNA has memory, it remembers everything. DNA is the body’s hard drive and it forgets nothing. This memory is not just colour of hair, eyes, height weight etc. but all our memories, thoughts, feelings, beliefs, everything. DNA structures determine not only what makes a human a human and a cat a cat but what makes a human an individual, what separates one person from another.  
  The third research project was about cloning. Human cloning is a very complex issue not just scientifically but morally and governments around the world have spent countless hours debating the issue, in general though human cloning research has been legally possible since nineteen ninety seven. The cloning technique is now very well known. First you need a donor cell which has the original DNA extracted and discarded. Next you add the nucleus from the desired animal to be cloned then implant the combined cell into the animal that the donor cell came from, the result, one cloned animal.  
  There were a lot of problems and failures to start with, in fact outside of this facility there still are. Only two percent of all attempts at cloning resulted in success, that’s a massive failure rate and one that for our purposes would be unacceptable. Also time, it takes the normal amount of time for a cloned animal to develop, in the case of a human that would be nine months, and then it has to grow and develop, again a time scale unacceptable for our use. Are you still with me? 
  “I think so,” replied DCS Hughes. 
  “I’m fine,” replied John.   
  “OK then,” continued Peter, “back to the junk DNA, a breakthrough discovery was made within the junk DNA that makes what we do possible, DNA has a time code built in. This is the code that determines how long our natural life will be, and that is different for all of us. We all talk about our ‘body clock’ and without realising it we have all been right. We do have a body or doomsday clock built in and even we cannot do anything about when it will go off. Like any clock though it can be moved forward in time, not back though just forward and we now know how to move it forward at a very fast rate and to an exact time within its pre set life span. Put everything together and we have the knowledge and ability to produce a cloned individual from nothing more than a blood sample. We have developed an artificial womb and this will keep and nourish the cloned individual until they have reached their programmed age.”  
  DCS Hughes interrupted, “How long does this procedure take?” 
  “Over the years we have refined the process; it now takes an average of six days from conception to completion.” 
  “I suppose that on the seventh day you rest.” John quipped.  
  Peter smiled. “We’re not playing God here; we’re simply ensuring that people have the ability to live out their natural lives as they are supposed to. This is an above top secret government funded project. They pay the bill they decide what to do with the end results. 
  All the government leaders of the western world are aware of this project; others are part of it without knowing it; such as top cabinet ministers and fringe members of the Royal Family. Every week they all give a small blood sample. They think it is to monitor their cholesterol levels. We tell them they have to have the checks and no one argues. The blood is then kept secure for the week and if any are killed as a result of a terrorist attack we can bring them back. All they have lost is up to one week’s memory. If they ask any awkward questions we’d tell them they’ve been in a coma for a week since the incident.” 
  “Has anyone ever been ‘brought back?” asked John. 
  “Remember the UK attacks in July a couple of years ago,” continued Peter, “and the whole country were looking for the mysterious fourth bomber. We knew where he was and what he had done. It was never announced to the public but at the same time the tube trains and buses were under attack so was Checkers, the PM’s country retreat. One member of the staff was a sleeper. He was a well known, well liked and trusted member of the PM’s staff and as such could pass through security checks with nothing more than a nod. What we did not know was he was bringing in explosives that on the day were strapped around him as he turned himself into a human bomb, a so called suicide bomber. On that morning in July he walked into the PM’s quarters carrying the PM’s breakfast. He placed it down of the table, said good morning to the PM, handed him his cup of tea, stood up next to him and blew himself and the PM to kingdom come.  
  Word of the explosion and the PM’s death was not released; the sound was put down to work being carried put in the grounds. Within half an hour of the security forces sealing off the area we started our work. Six days later there was a cloned PM, perfect in every detail, with full memory of everything that had happened up to the attack. Think back, at the time of the attacks it was not Tony Blair who was in charge of the country, it was John Prescot. Where was Tony Blair, we were told he was on holiday in the Caribbean and was being kept up to date with events, very happy that the country was in good hands. It was Tony Blair Mk II that returned to the UK a week later. This is also the main reason why he resigned. Cheating death once was more than enough for even the most robust person. Personally I can’t say I blame him.  
  There is a bonus to all this though. If we can bring back the PM, we can also bring back the bomber. Just think about it. Here we have a fanatical terrorist who thinks he’s on his way to Allah and eternal happiness with his fifty virgins and endless feasts. Where is he when he wakes up? Chained to a hospital bed, alive and well surrounded by a lot of people with a lot of questions they want answers to. Also as far as his handlers are concerned he is dead, they will never look for him. No one knows he is alive and well and a prisoner. At this point the Geneva Convention is ripped up, it’s gloves off and he can be interrogated however it is felt appropriate to get from him everything he knows about the group he was operating from. Once we have that information it’s bye-bye. How do you think we know so much about the cells in the UK, who they are and what they are up to. Remember the guy who set fire to himself at Glasgow airport and died a few days later. We got a mine of information from him, kept MI6 going for months. Here’s a question for you. Has the USA ever been attacked on its home soil since nine eleven, has the UK ever been attacked since that July morning? Think that’s just a coincidence?” 
  John and DCS Hughes were both astounded at what they had just learnt. This went far beyond what either had imagined.  
  “OK Peter,” said John, “Where do I fit into all of this. Everything started to happen to me after my visit here to have the two blood samples analysed.” 
  “At the time we had no idea that there was anything amiss with the samples I tested for you. They were just two blood samples that matched and that was job done. What we didn’t know at the time was that one of the samples matched a specimen sample we had worked on a few years ago. Putting the same sample back through the system alerted certain agencies to the possibility that there was a security breach. One of the agencies alerted was the HSS. They are usually the good guys but for reasons I’ll tell you about later some of their agents had an agenda of their own.” 
  “You mentioned specimen samples,” said DCS Hughes, “what are they?” 
  “Once all the major hurdles and obstacles had been solved our scientists started to clone small animals from cells. This though was not groundbreaking and the technique was well documented, tried and tested. What we wanted to do was produce a clone from a blood sample. At first the results were very disappointing with failure after failure. The team though never gave up, they all shared what they had learned with their colleagues and eventually we started to achieve success. These only small at first, maybe less than ten percent of all the experiments resulted in a completely successful result. This was all new territory we were working in, no one had even thought of what we were doing let alone experimented with it, so we had no one else’s work to compare our own to. Then we had our breakthrough, I’ll not go into those details with you but it was huge, and as all the best scientific discoveries are, it was purely by accident. 
  	This gave us the ability then to clone from a blood sample. Again we cloned small animals, then larger ones such as chimps. The elation we felt was unbelievable, we had achieved something that had never been achieved before. All the scientists working on the project were on fire, they were working twenty hours a day seven days a week. Then we reached a point where we had only one experiment left, we had to try and clone a human from a blood sample. I wrote to every police force in the country and asked them to send me, via the university, the oldest blood samples they had. It did not matter how old it was or what condition it was in, we just wanted it. I made out that it was for a new experiment in DNA forensic testing. Most forces were helpful and we ended up with over eighty samples to choose from. The first thing we did was sex the samples, we had no idea who the samples were from or how old they were and we only wanted to work on female samples. We thought that would be best all round.” 
  “Not on this occasion,” said John, under his breath. 
  Peter still heard what John had said, “That was something we had not expected. But first, we selected the final fifteen samples. We decided it would be best to work on one sample at a time. This would allow everyone involved to focus on that one subject. We all went through a very steep learning curve, the first three all resulted in failures and we were very close to giving up. We had expected failures; this was a whole new science that so far was fixed firmly in the realm of science fiction.  
  	After the third failure all the senior managers and scientist met. It was decided to have one more attempt. A fourth sample was prepared, all the papers, notes and processes we had from the previous three experiments were read and re-read. Everything was checked and checked again. After everyone was satisfied there was nothing further we could do the fourth sample was brought in to the lab and the experiment began. For the next six days no one went home, sleep was taken as catnaps, takeaway food and coffee became the norm. I think that by the end of the week the atmosphere in the lab must have been awful as I don’t think anyone was able to have a proper wash.  
  	After six days the first stage of the experiment was complete. The Samsāra Project looked to have its first success. It was still early days and the subject was kept sedated for another seventy two hours while we carried out a battery of tests to ensure everything was alright. Blood tests, cat scans, X-rays, ECG’s and brain scans all came back normal. The experiment now moved into phase two. 
  	The medication that had kept our subject sedated was gradually reduced down to zero. Machines and medication that had been used to monitor her vital organs were all disconnected. For the first time Samsāra One was living independently of any medical aid or assistance. Three hours after she received the final sedative Samsāra One started to come round. Fortunately for her, she was still very drowsy. The one thing we had never really considered was the subject, how would they react when they were re-born? We had never taken into account the mental shock and trauma that our experiment would produce. In this instance we had a woman whose last living memory was from the eighteenth century. She was now living in the twenty first. How would you cope with that? 
  We quickly brought on board highly trained trauma, bereavement and counselling staff. All had experience working for the military in most of the world’s worst trouble spots. Samsāra One was allowed to fully wake up, three of our most experienced nurses and one doctor were in the room when it happened. At first she was confused and frightened, the cause was not so much her surroundings but it was more the staff we had put there to help. She did not recognise how they were dressed, how they looked, the hair styles were completely different from anything she had ever seen before. Even their physical size was a shock to our patient. During her previous lifetime everyone had been smaller. Three hundred years of human development had increased our height on average by six inches. That may not sound a lot but it was enough to cause some anxiety in our patient. 
  Nurse Rae was the first to approach her, “Hello,” she said in a soft voice, “my name is Tracy. Can you tell me your name?” The patient now sat up in bed, just starred at her, her eyes glancing quickly around the room at the other people in there. Joan asked the others to wait outside, she thought that one to one would be less threatening for our patient and maybe she would start to relax a little. She was right. Over the next hour and a half Tracy sat and talked to her patient. It was a one way conversation with no replies given or expected. Tracy decided it would be best to leave and let her patient have some rest. She told her patient what she was going to do, and then stood up to leave. “Rachael,” her patient whispered, “my name is Rachael.” Tracy sat back down, with one hand she gently held Rachael’s hand, and with the other she stroked her hair. “Hello Rachael,” she whispered, “welcome back.” Tracy then started to cry. Nurse and patient both hugged and both cried. I still believe that moment was critical for everyone that followed. Over the next few months Tracy became Rachael’s rock, she got her through all the difficulties and problems that coming to terms with living in a new time had brought up and with Tracy’s help Rachael started to develop into a very confident and mature lady. 
  Once we were confident that Rachael was in good health, both mentally and physically the decision was made to complete our experiments and work began on the remaining eleven samples. We had learned a lot from Rachael and with each patient who followed our techniques improved. By the time patient number eight was re-born we were happy with our recovery programme and six months after the last re-birth the whole group, including all their support staff, were relocated to an island facility off the coast of Scotland. For the next twelve months all the patients went back to school. They learned to read and write modern English, they were taught maths, history, cookery and IT. They even learned to drive. The course was intense but we had to give each one the best chance of surviving in the modern world that we could. Finally everyone was given the opportunity to choose a new identity complete with a new past.” 
  “What about Jacqueline Dupree? When was it that the alarm bells started to ring?” 
  Peter sighed, “I’m not side stepping the question but you’ve had to take in a lot of unbelievable information so far. I’m happy to carry on if you want but we can also leave it until tomorrow if you’d prefer.” 
  “If you’re OK,” said John, “I’m happy to carry on. I’ve learnt you can never rely on tomorrow. Some food would be nice though.” 
  DCS Hughes agreed. John phoned an order for food and drinks then carried on. “Jacqueline Dupree was one of the most intelligent women I have ever come across; she was also the only member of the group who wanted to keep her own name. She devoured history, maths and English did not faze her at all and she took to IT like a duck to water. She was also one of the quieter members of the group, kept herself to herself for most of the time. Then, for no apparent reason she’d have massive fall outs with people, the other women, staff it didn’t seem to matter. We gave her intensive medical checks just in case there were side effects we were not aware of. All results showed her to be a normal healthy woman. In fact she was a very healthy woman. Jacqueline only had a couple of major fallouts after that; maybe she thought it best to keep a low profile.” 
  ”Do you remember who she had these major fall outs with?” asked DCS Hughes. 
  Peter thought for a moment, “Suzie Reeves and Gillian Burns.” 
  “They were the two victims,” said DCS Hughes. Then the murders could have just been about revenge, payback for an argument that happened years ago. That doesn’t make any sense, there has to be more to it than that” 
  “Any chance her past could have caught up with her?” asked John. 
  “Possible,” replied DCS Hughes, “but how?” 
  John thought for a moment, “Jacqueline was the only member of the group who kept her original name that means she had a traceable history. You say that every one of the women learnt IT.  Did that include Internet and e-Mail?” 
  “Of course, it’s essential these days.” 
  “Andrew used the Internet to track her down in the first place, he only found her by chance, and these women had a name to help them. Supposing she let something slip maybe talked in her sleep or said something after a couple of drinks that led one or both of the victims to unearth her true identity.” 
  “It’s possible,” replied DCS Hughes, “but who’d believe them. I didn’t believe you to start with. I suppose only one person had to believe them, Jacqueline Dupree. Suzie Reeves has proven to be a strong, greedy and manipulative person. I’ll bet it was Gillian who traced her past; she told her friend Suzie who then blackmailed Jacqueline. That’s a very powerful motive for murder.” 
  “That all makes sense,” said John, “Suzie’s Russian Mafia connections, her money laundering had no bearing on the case at all. Gillian must have gone along with it.” 
  DCS Hughes continued with the theory, “On the morning of the funeral Gillian Burns invited Jacqueline Dupree to her house, it was the one place Gillian probably felt safe. My guess is she was expecting some kind of financial payoff from Ms Dupree, firstly to keep quiet about who she really was and secondly to buy her silence over Suzie’s death. It wouldn’t have taken much for Gillian to put link Jacqueline and Suzie’s murder.” 
  “She did get a payoff,” said John.  
  “Just not the kind she was expecting,” said DCS Hughes. 
  Throughout their conversation Peter had remained silent; he was as impressed with their logic and thinking as they were with what he had told them. All three were experts in their own fields and all three respected each other for that. 
  “There’s still something I don’t understand,” said John, “how did Tracy and myself fit in to all of this?” 
  “I think I can answer that,” said Peter. “Suzie Reeves murder opened up Pandora’s Box and set off a chain of events that has brought us all together today. High ranking Pentagon officials learnt of the work that we were doing here, and as the US was providing most of the funding they thought that gave them the right to dictate to me what direction the project should take. My guidelines were very clear and very specific and it did not involve the US military. What they wanted was to effectively hijack the project for their own ends. Their plan was to set up a core special forces unit that they would be able to send anywhere in the world to do whatever they wanted. The soldiers would be trained to fight to the death; the mission must succeed at all costs. Each soldier would have known death was a viable and acceptable option, after all if they died they would be reborn. For the first time in history there would be a highly trained elite fighting force that had no fear of death, it would mean nothing to them as they would survive every mission and be around to fight another day. 
  	Imagine though if they got greedy? They would be protected by an indestructible force, they would have more power than the PM and the US president combined. How much do you think someone such as Bin Laden would pay to have this technology, and not just him, there are all his sidekicks and hangers on as well. I am sorry to say but we knew very little about this group until you asked for the blood test. Without our knowledge they had a database of all the original DNA profiles we had used. When your results were inputted into the DNA database it flagged a warning to group that someone was taking an interest in one of the Samsāra Project women, in this instance Jacqueline Dupree. In order to protect themselves they had no choice other than to follow it through. That, as it turned out, was good news for us and bad news for them. We had heard rumours for a long time that a deep covert group had infiltrated the HSS but we were never able to identify exactly who they were.” 
  “I’m sorry Peter but who are ‘we’?” asked John. 
  “MI5, they had tried to infiltrate the HSS but without any success. I admit it took a while for us to realise that this underground group were watching you.” 
  “How did you know they were?” asked DCS Hughes.  
  “From the bug that was recovered from your office, that was an elementary mistake to make on their part but fortunately for us it was the only piece of evidence we needed. As soon as we realised that it John had an appointment to see you it did not take too long to piece everything else together. I admit, and apologise for our initial slow response but you have to agree we did make up for it.” 
  “It would have been nice to have known sooner though.” 
  	There was a knock at the door and a smartly dressed waiter entered the room followed by two assistants. They each carried an individual tray, one for each of them. No one asked, but John and DCS Hughes were intrigued to know just how each managed to be served with their favourite cut of aged Angus steak cooked to their personal preference. Each plate also had a selection of three of their favourite vegetables, again each prepared to perfection. A third waiter then arrived with three bottles of wine, this time neither was surprised at the choices they received. 
  	John sensed their surprise; he turned to DCS Hughes, “The secret of a good dinner Chief Superintendent is to ensure you know exactly what your guests’ food preferences are isn’t that right John?” 
  “Defiantly Peter, every time.” 
  Peter looked over towards John and winked. Both now relieved that the tension between them from earlier had evaporated. John was enjoying his first decent meal for what seemed an eternity. HMP Outcross was not known for the quality of its food or its generous portions. John couldn’t help thinking about Rigger and the meal that he would be eating that night. John wondered if he had ordered two, just in case he had gone back. “Peter,” said John, “I have to ask. What happened to Tracy?” 
  Peter placed his knife and fork at the side of his plate. “I don’t know what to say John, when the ambulance arrived and picked up Tracy the crew could not find a pulse. They made out there was a faint one to the officers at the scene but that was so they could put Tracy in the ambulance and bring her back here. I’m sorry John, the crew tried everything they could on the way to our hospital but it was hopeless. Her wounds were too severe. I am so sorry John.” 
  “I understand Peter,” replied John, “I know you would have done everything possible.” 
  John turned to DCS Hughes, “I know you have also lost someone who was more than a secretary and colleague. I know that she loved her job and she spoke very highly of you.” 
  DCS Hughes wiped a tear from his eye. “The office will never be quite the same again; she brought a little ray of sunshine in to what was normally a very tense and distasteful job. You’re quite right, I will miss her. We all will.”  
  John filled his wine glass and proposed a toast, “To absent friends,” All raised their glasses, “Absent friends,” they said in unison. 
  “To absent friends,” said a voice from the door. The hairs on the back of John’s neck stood on end. He momentarily froze, and then slowly he turned around. He was looking straight into her eyes, still not believing his own eyes. He stood up, “Tracy, he said, is that you, I don’t understand.” He looked over towards Peter, “What’s the point of having all this technology if I can’t get to use it from time to time.” 
  	Tracy ran over to John and flung her arms around him, he held her tightly, probably a little too tightly, but neither of them cared. “I hope that meal isn’t going to fill you up.” She said. 
  John looked slightly puzzled. 
  “We still have a dinner date, remember.” 
  Peter called over to John, “Catch,” he said as he threw a set of keys to John who instinctively caught them. He looked at the keys, they were his. “I had your car shipped up from London. It’s in the car park. The Chief Superintendent and I still have a few loose ends to tie up, boring paperwork. I’m sure you two have a lot to catch up on; it’s been quite a week for both of you. Go, have a great night and we’ll meet back here in the morning. Say ten thirty.” 
  “We’ll be here,” replied Tracy, “come on John, show me what Liverpool has to offer.” 
    
  Chapter 21 
  	The next morning John and Tracy arrived back at exactly ten twenty five. Peter was in the main reception waiting for them. He gave them both a hug, “How’s Liverpool’s night life?” he asked. 
  “We didn’t sample much of the night life,” replied John, still holding Tracy’s hand, “we walked for ages and just talked, finding out about each other, likes and dislikes. You know the kind of thing.” 
  Tracy moved closer towards John and rested her head against his arm. 
  “I now know who Tracy is; I know she has a past and what it was. We’ve decided to go away for a week or two, just around the country. Tracy can show me where she was born and brought up. That will be amazing, genuine living history.” 
  “Then John will take me back to his childhood days,” said Tracy, “he can show me his past.” 
  “If you don’t mind me asking, what then?” asked Peter, “I know its early days but any plans?” 
  John and Tracy looked at each other, direct eye to eye contact. “Once we both explored our past then we’ll put that to one side and concentrate on our future.” said John. Tracy nodded and squeezed his hand. 
  “That’s great,” replied Peter, “I know you’ll both be very happy together. I really wish you all the luck in the world. Now I’m sorry but its work time again and Tracy still has a few tests to take. She’s gone through a lot recently and I want to make sure she’s one hundred percent.” 
  	Nurse Rae was standing over to one side; she called Tracy over to her. “I’ll see you at the weekend,” said Tracy to John. She gave him a kiss and left with Nurse Rae. 
  “You’re a lucky man John,” said Peter, “there’s something though I have to say, please hear me out. You’ve learned such a lot about me over the past twenty four hours and you’ve asked a lot of questions to me and about me, but there is one question you have never asked.” 
  “Is there any reason to?” asked John 
  “I feel I need to tell you anyway,” said Peter. 
  “Alright then,” said John. 
  “Pamela and Tracy could so easily have been reversed. It was the luck of the draw, life or not all down to a lottery number.” 
  “You’ve lost me,” said John. 
  “The fifteen original samples that we used, each was given a number from one to fifteen, at random numbers were pulled out of a hat. The team thought it was the best way to conduct the experiments. The truth is we only selected fourteen samples; the fifteenth was a sample of Pamela’s blood. I’d had it for ages; it was on a handkerchief when she’d had a nose bleed. I never knew why I kept it, I was just glad I had. Pamela’s number came out of the hat for the third experiment. As you know from yesterday it failed, that was why I wanted to call everything off. If I couldn’t even save my own sister, why should I save anybody else? In the end I was outvoted. Everyone believed we had learned from our mistakes and that number four would be successful. They were right, what we learned from loosing Pamela enabled number four to be a success. You know from yesterday that her name was Rachael, a very scared and confused young woman who grew and blossomed to become Tracy. I really want the two of you to be happy together. It was Pamela, not me, who gave everything and as a result of that she helped give life to Tracy, in my eyes, John, Pamela will continue to live through her as well.” 
  John was lost for words; he had no idea what to say in reply. He hugged Peter. “Whatever happens don’t ever stop being my brother-in-law.” 
  “I won’t” he replied. 
  	DCS Hughes had two bags in his hands, unaware of what had been said, he walked towards John, “Glad to see you managed to make it back. I’d have a long walk if you hadn’t” 
  “I take it were leaving,” said John. 
  “We are,” replied the Chief, “from now on John, can you just call me Chief. I’d like that.” 
  “Whatever you say Chief,” John shook Peter’s hand, “that invitation down to London still stands you know. Don’t leave it too long.” 
  “I won’t, and that’s a promise. Good bye Chief, our talk last night, let me know what you decide.” 
  “What’s that about?” asked John as they walked out towards the car. 
  “Oh something and nothing but more something,” replied the Chief with a cheeky grin. 
  	Half an hour later John and the Chief were on the M62 heading towards Manchester. The motorway was fairly quiet and this allowed John to make good progress. They expected the drive back to London would take around three hours, or three and a half if they stopped. The Chief tried to grab some much need sleep but was having no luck at all. “John, do me a favour,” said the Chief, “can you stop at the next service area, in the rush to get away I forgot to take my travel pill.” 
  “The Chief or Detectives gets travel sick?” said John, “I don’t believe it.” 
  “We all have our Achilles heel.”  He replied, “It’s one of the Mets most closely guarded secrets and, as you have just signed up to the official secrets act it will remain that way.” 
  “I can just see the headline now,” said John, “Big Chief Sick in Bus.” 
  The Chief just glared. John chuckled softly to himself. “We’re coming up to Burtonwood Services,” said John, “think you can last another two minutes?” 
  This was followed by another glare from the Chief. The Jaguar glided along the slip road and into the car park. John parked the car as close as he could to the shopping area. 
  “Anything you want?” asked the Chief. 
  “No I’m fine thanks,” replied John “thanks for asking though.” 
  	The Chief out of the car and started to walk towards the shopping area, this meant walking underneath the M62 via an underpass to the West bound carriageway shops. He was half way down the underpass when he heard screams from behind him. He turned around and started to run back towards the underpass entrance. He could see people crouching down or frantically running in every direction. “They’ve got guns,” someone shouted, “get down, take cover.” Instinctively DCS Hughes crouched, just as he did he heard the sound of semi automatic fire, there were more screams. Frantic parents started to shout their children’s names, husbands shouted to wives and vice versa. Panic and chaos quickly set in. There was a second wave of gunfire quickly followed by the sound of shattering glass as the bullets found an easy target. 
  	A few moments earlier John had been sat in his car thinking over the past few days, more specifically yesterday. He was in a daydream state when multiple shouting from outside snapped him back to the present. Out of the side window he could see the terrified expressions on the faces of everyone, parents with children in both arms were running towards the underpass. Others were trying to take cover behind anything they could find; some fell tripped over in their panic to get away and just stayed where they lay, too frightened to move. Survival instinct took over. John looked in the rear view mirror and saw three men, dressed in civilian clothes except for the black full face ski masks, holding automatic weapons. They were fanned out across the car park walking towards his car. They were about eighty yards behind him. All three were carrying their weapons the same way; the butts of the rifles were resting on their hips with the barrels pointing upwards at an angle away from them. From this distance their fingers looked to be covering the trigger.  
  	The man on point, then fired a volley of shots into the air, the people who had been lying on the floor all ran, as one, towards whatever cover they could find. For some this meant crouching behind a bush, their minds telling them they were safe from the automatic fire if they could not be seen. John’s heart sank; he knew it was no coincidence they were here. They had come to finish a mission that their colleagues had failed on. They were now sixty yards behind the Jaguar, and without any sense of urgency continued walking towards John’s car. John turned the key and fired up the engine, he moved the gear shift into reverse, fifty yards. His heart was pounding as he gripped the steering wheel then relaxed it, forty yards. The three men started to move the position of their weapons; they were now starting to take aim on the Jaguar, thirty yards. John floored the accelerator; the Jaguar’s engine screamed into life as the traction control instantly kicked in to counteract the power surge to the four wheel drive system. Without this the Jaguar tyres would have just spun on the spot and generated a lot of smoke from the burning rubber that had once been the car’s tyres. Worst still the car would have stayed still, all the power and energy wasted, but more importantly those wasted seconds would have given the gunmen the time they needed to complete their mission.  
  	The Jaguar’s built in wizardry did its job and the car shot out from the parking bay as John aimed for the point man. The three gunmen were taken by surprise and fired off snap shots towards the oncoming car. Despite the number of rounds fired towards the Jaguar none found their intended target. Ten yards away from the point man John quickly spun the steering wheel to full left lock. The speed of the car plus the speed the steering action made the car start to spin. The front of the car quickly started spinning round to the left. The point man was now five yards away from the car, he tried to take aim as the one and a half tons of British Racing Green Jaguar headed towards him. The car, still spinning, hit him square on. There was a sickening thud as flesh and bone hit high speed metal, the car did not hit him fully side on but on an angle, this instantly knocked him to the ground. The X-Type Jaguar continued on its destructive path dragging the gunman underneath it. A split second later the rear of the car bounced up as the rear wheels, still being driven at their maximum revolutions drove over the now shattered, torn and dead body of the gunman. 
  	John flicked the gearshift into D, the spinning momentum of the car started to stop as the four wheel drive system strained to change the cars direction. Agonisingly slowly the spinning stopped as the traction control again took charge. The Jaguar sped forward, a slight shake of the rear soon corrected. John sped towards the exit road of the service area. All he wanted to do was put as much distance between himself and the gunmen as possible. The two remaining gunmen took aim and fired, a rear side window of the Jaguar shattered as a bullet found its target. Apart from a few cuts on the back of his neck, caused by the flying glass, John was uninjured. To John the whole incident had taken a couple of minutes, to everyone watching it had been less than ten seconds.            
  	Above the mayhem DCS Hughes could hear two male voices shouting to each other, “stop the car; don’t let him get out.” There was more gunfire and everyone there could clearly hear the sound of bullets hitting parked cars as the gunmen tried to hit their fleeing target. He took a deep breath and ran from the relative shelter of the underpass to the bank of telephone boxes; he wanted a better view of what was happening. What he saw was the rear end of John’s X-Type Jaguar as he headed towards the service area exit and back onto the M62. The gunmen ran towards their own vehicle, a Jeep Cherokee four by four, the last gunman just managed to scramble in through a side window of the Jeep as it sped after the Jaguar. People started to come out from their hiding places, all just glad to have survived; they looked around a scene of devastation. Instinctively the survivors started to look for their family and friends, family groups hugging each other, even those travelling alone found someone to share their relief with. Not one person took any notice of the shattered body lying in the road. DCS Hughes though knew he had to.  
  	The Chief took out his mobile phone and pressed Peter’s speed dial button. The phone was answered within two rings. He quickly brought Peter up to date on what had happened followed by a description of the chase car. Peter told the Chief to stay where he was and wait to be picked up. As DCS Hughes ended the call he could hear, in the distance, the sound of sirens as a posse of armed response cars raced towards the service area. 
  	John’s speed was approaching almost one hundred miles an hour as he exited the service areas slip road and re-joined the M62 Eastbound. He was checking his rear view mirror when he noticed a number of cars behind him start to swerve. Two rebounded of the metal centre safety barriers and back into the stream of motorway traffic. He checked his rear view mirror again and he spotted the four by four chasing him. This was now a full on hunt and the three remaining gunmen made no attempt to hide who they were, who they were after or what they were planning to do. John was not aware that the Jeep had been fitted with a highly tuned, blueprinted engine that was more than capable of matching the Jaguar’s straight line speed, what it could not do though was match the Jaguars handling. As the speed continued to increase John turned his four headlights onto full beam in an effort to warn cars ahead. It was only partially successful. John glanced at his speed; one hundred and twenty five miles per hour and climbing. Motorway speed cameras continuously flashed as the Jaguar sped past them, weaving his way through the slower moving traffic.  
  	The Jaguar sped past Junction nine bound for Manchester, looking as far ahead as he possibly could, trying to gauge the gaps between the traffic that he could take advantage of. John knew the Jeep was gaining on him, he also realised this was no ordinary Jeep but one that had been through the Special Forces skunk works in Hereford. Cars were modified here for all government agencies, their secret was simple. Standard looking in every way from the outside combined with absolute brute power under the bonnet coupled with modified brakes, suspension and in certain cases armour plated body work and bullet proof glass.  
  	John was in the outside lane looking for an opening to his left, he checked his mirrors, the gunmen were gaining on him and one was leaning out of the passenger window trying to get a shot, changing his mind he sat back in the car. 
  	John saw his chance and with the Jaguar touching one hundred and thirty miles per hour he turned the wheel to the left. The Jaguar’s computers immediately kicked in and activated the cars dynamic stability control system. Sensors were feeding real time information from the wheels, engine and braking system to the cars on board computers, thousands of calculations were made to determine if the car was handling correctly for its speed and direction change. The computer took over the cars brakes and applied breaking pressure to two wheels on the cars off side. Even with the cars advanced computer aided assistance the tyres still squealed in protest at the cars sharp and sudden change of direction, John managed to drive between two class one hgv’s, the driver of the second leaning on the cabs horn in protest. John did not hear the sound of the protest, nor would he have cared if he had. John was now in lane one and was about to be slowed considerably by the trucks in front of him. Knowing he would be taking a blind chance John swung the car onto the hard shoulder, praying it would be clear. Still moving at over one hundred and ten miles an hour John drove from the M62 and onto the M6 slip road. After two hundred yards the slip road forked, the right heading South to Birmingham, left or North to Preston.  
  	John did not have to check his mirrors to know where the Jeep was, a bullet smashed through the rear window shattering it into thousands of pieces, it continued through the front seat headrest then through the windscreen. The impact did not shatter the windscreen as the laminate construction reduced the damage to small hole and a spider’s web looking cracks. John’s heart skipped a beat, he had to keep going. John’s arms and legs were starting to ache, a combination of tension and being tossed around the inside of the car. A three point seat belt and a luxury interior are perfect for long distance motoring but not for the punishing way he was driving the car now. There was another crack and a second hole appeared in the windscreen, this one further over to the right, towards John. Another gap appeared in the traffic, John moved sharply over to the right, he saw the rear window of the car in front shatter and the car swerve off to the left. He did not give it a second thought.  
  	Ahead John could see Thelwall Viaduct and as he had hoped there was only one lane open due to road works and bridge maintenance. John’s plan had been to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Jeep and then make a fast run from the end of the bridge towards the M56. The open lane was number two; John was in-between two wagons effectively hiding him from the Jeep field of vision. Instinctively he checked the left had door mirror, he saw the Jeep driving through the road works, its high ground clearance and four wheel drive made easy driving for it across the uneven and unpaved road surface. John could see the Jeep was holding back, then he noticed one of the gunmen lean out of the rear off side window. He took aim, John could not move, there was nowhere for him to go. There was a puff of smoke from the barrel of the rifle and almost immediately the steering wheel was whipped to the left. John had to let go otherwise it would have broken his wrist. He quickly grabbed the wheel but it was too late, the bullet had done its job and the front near side tyre had disintegrated causing the Jaguar to lurch wildly to the left. The car crashed through the orange and white warning cones and into the roadwork area. Still out of control the Jaguar hit the sloping side a five foot high mound of tarmac that was due to be used later on that day. It was the right hand side of the car that hit the mound, the cars momentum carrying it up the side of the tarmac and at the same time flipping the Jaguar into the air, the jaguar, still airborne, started to slowly turn over onto its roof, John was helpless; he felt as though he was riding the corkscrew at Alton Towers except this was scarier. There was absolutely nothing John could do to influence anything that was now happening.  
  	In real time the whole incident lasted for two, maybe three seconds, for John it lasted about ten minutes. His whole world was in slow motion, every detail crisp and clear, his mind taking everything in and giving him the time and opportunity to take whatever action was needed for protection. John could not sit still in the car seat, he was being thrown around in every direction as he felt his head crack against the door pillar. He grabbed tight hold of the steering wheel and tried to take control of the cars wild movement, he pressed he brake pedal as hard as he could. Whatever he did, John knew, would not make any difference, but that didn’t stop him from doing it anyway. 
  	John could see the safety barrier that separated the edge of the road from the sheer ninety seven foot drop down to the Manchester Ship Canal running below. John braced himself as the car headed, still spinning, towards the barrier. John just watched as the safety barrier came closer and closer, John’s mind was racing with the possibility that the car would not hit the barrier but go straight over it. Before he could react to that thought the roof of the car collapsed inwards as the car bounced along the barrier. Inside the car John felt the seatbelt tensioners pull him into his seat, milliseconds after the impact eight airbags exploded to life, each designed to protect a specific area of the passenger. The car bounced along the top of the barrier, still spinning until it came to rest on its roof. The front of the car was hanging over the edge of the viaduct while the back crashed down onto the road. The impact had broken every window in the car and John was bleeding from numerous cuts on his face, arms, legs and body. He had also been knocked unconscious during the impact although the airbags had saved him from far more serious head injuries.  
  	Twenty yards back the Jeep stopped; two of the gunmen got out and walked over to what was left of the Jaguar, its wheels still freely spinning. One went to inspect each side of the car. They looked inside and saw John’s unconscious body, his seatbelt half holding him upside down in his seat. The drivers’ side gunman prodded John, there was no response. They inspected the cars position; the roof resting on the top of the barrier gave one of them an idea, he pointed towards the back of the car, and then pushed both of his arms into the air. The other nodded. They walked around to the back of the car and with one positioned either side of the boot they started to lift the Jaguar. They struggled at first but the barrier acted as a pivot and once the car was a few feet off the ground the weight of the engine started to pull the Jaguar, with John unconscious body still inside, forward and down. The roof made a long screeching noise as it started to scrape across the barrier, the balance of the car shifting from the back of the to the front. The two gunmen gave the car a final push upwards then gravity took over. The two men looked over what was left of the barrier as the Jaguar and its passenger spiralled down towards the canal. They both watched as the car hit the water bonnet first. The Jaguar almost went under straight away but it seemed to make one last valiant effort to stay afloat but with all the windows shattered it was only seconds before the canal waters poured into the shattered remains of the car and it finally sank to its resting place wedged at the bottom of the canal.  
  	The two men stayed for a while longer looking down, scanning the surface of the canal. Satisfied their job was done they walked back to the Jeep, jumped inside, then drove off and rejoined the motorway.  
  	Just over a minute later the viaduct was crowded with emergency vehicles of every description. An unmarked car with a detachable blue light and its sirens wailing pulled up to a stop where the incident had happened. DCS Hughes got out from the back of the car and walked over to the buckled and torn safety barrier. The British Racing Green paint marks were clearly visible along the barrier. The Chief crouched down and picked up a wing mirror housing that had been ripped off the John’s door, he held it tightly. Looking further along the barrier it was clear to see where the Jaguar had finally come to rest and then been tipped over the edge. The Chief stood at the spot, looking down at canal below. Less than half an hour ago he had been sat in the passenger seat of the car that was now firmly sat at the bottom of the ship canal. The Chief was not a religious man but as he stood there, he looked up towards the sky and said a short prayer. He then got back into the unmarked car and drove off in the same direction as the Jeep. 
  	After travelling for less than thirty seconds it started to dawn on the three remaining gunmen that they were the only vehicle travelling in any direction on the motorway. There was nothing in front of them and a glance behind confirmed they were not being followed either. The gunman sat in the back looked up and saw the helicopters. Greater Manchester and Merseyside police forces had both scrambled their helicopters and the two were working as a team and keeping a very close visual and electronic watch on the Jeep. The men knew it was no use trying to outrun the helicopters and they were too far away to be in effective firing range. They quickly decided that as there was nothing they could do about the helicopters there was no point wasting time and energy worrying about them.     
  	The two who were not driving started to gather their weapons together. They made sure the weapons were operational, when they were satisfied they were each was loaded. The collection of hand guns, rifles, grenades and ammunition were divided into three lots, one in the front for the passenger and two on the rear seat for the driver and rear passenger. The driver pointed ahead. In the distance a row, two vehicles deep was strung out across the entire width of the motorway. Safety barriers separating both carriageways ensured they were on the only road available to them. Looking behind they saw a similar, but mobile road block. The helicopters had now taken station either side of the Jeep, they remaining at a safe distance but were still able to feed constant information to the officers on the ground.  
  	The Jeep did not stop; the three men were looking all around for a way out. The road block was getting closer. Ramming through it was not an option, there had to be another way, something the police had missed. A few moments later they saw what they were looking for. On their left was a small unfenced opening leading into a wooded area. At the last possible moment the driver swung the Jeep into the opening and off the motorway. The Jeep was now on its home turf; it was designed and built for off road use and the rough and uneven forest floor did not slow it down.  
  	After a couple of minutes they saw an opening to the right, a couple of old trailers were clearly visible. They concluded it was a wagon yard or parking area of some kind. I any event the yard would be off a road. They had a chance. So much of the police’s resources had been deployed to the motorway that they would not be able to regroup quickly enough to stop them escaping. The spirits within the Jeep started to rise. They burst out of the wooded area, drove straight through an old wooden fence and into the potholed yard. 
  	It was typical gravel toped commercial vehicle park. Puddles filled the uneven surface, the Jeep made no attempt to avoid them. They were looking for the exit; the Jeep drove around the side of a portable office and straight ahead was the exit they were looking for. What they had not expected were the eighteen police vehicles blocking it and any other way through to the road. The driver spun the Jeep around and tried to head back to the woods, they were met by a similar sight. They were trapped. Too late they realised the police had set a trap and they had fallen straight into it. The roadblock had been strategically place to give them the chance to use the opening to get off the motorway. They had not outsmarted the police and where now trapped like rats in a cage.  
  	Suddenly the Jeep started to shake, gently at first then more violently. There was a deafening sound above them now that had not been there a moment ago. The interior of the Jeep darkened as the light was temporarily blocked. Looking out of the front window the three men stared in disbelief as the unmarked, matt black AH-64D Longbow Apache  attack helicopter hovered twenty feet of the ground less then forty yards in front of them. No one would ever know if the three gunmen noticed the wall of flame that spit out from underneath the nose of the Apache, or if they heard the deafening roar as the helicopters Boeing M230 chain gun spewed out its thirty mm rounds. The Apache and its gun had been specifically designed to kill heavily armoured tanks and personnel carriers in the battlefield, against a Jeep there was only ever going to be one outcome. In less than two seconds the Jeep and everyone inside it evaporated. The Apache held its position until the dust settled around the area where the Jeep had been, then, satisfied there was no longer any threat; gained height turned around and flew back to wherever it had come from. On the ground there was nothing left to do, there was not even a piece left of anything that was large enough to pick up.  
  	DCS Hughes and Peter got out of their Range Rover and walked over to the area where the Jeep had stopped. They stood there in silence. From that day to this DCS Hughes could not explain why but he spat on the spot, before turning away and walking back to the car. Peter soon joined him; “Is that it?” asked DCS Hughes “is it over?” 
  “Now, it’s over.” Replied Peter, as they got back into their Range Rover and drove away. 
    
  Chapter 22 
  As John started to come round he was aware that it was daytime, the sun was shining in through the window and there was a slight breeze of fresh air from the a slightly open widow. Suddenly and for no apparent reason he shivered, it was not the breeze that caused it, more as though someone had just walked over his grave. Although John was now awake he felt weary. He cast his mind back to the last thing he could remember. He was in his Jaguar, being chased at high speed, the car swerves out of control, probably a front tyre shot out by the gunmen following. He remembers losing control of the Jaguar and it veering sharply to the left, then hitting a mound of some sort. That was the last that John could remember. 
  	John was getting a slight feeling of Déjà-Vu, he moved his fingers, then his hand, arms, toes feet legs. Everything seemed to be fine, no pain, no stiff joints, no back or neck pain. In fact, apart from feeling very hungry, he felt in remarkably good health. John looked around; he was pleased to see that he was not attached to any drips, feeds, machines or monitors. For a hospital the room was quite large, more like a good hotel room, LCD TV on the wall, telephone by the side of the bed, French windows leading onto a decent sized balcony complete with patio furniture. The room was also very well furnished with a three piece suite, thick carpets, plenty of wardrobe and cupboard space, chest of drawers and just to the side of his bed tea and coffee. Across the room was a door through which he could see an en-suite with bath, shower, sink and toilet.  
  Nice hospital, he thought, must be private defiantly not NHS. 
  	John’s door opened and Nurse Rae walked in. “Good morning John, welcome back. How are you feeling?” 
  “Hungry,” he replied, “very hungry.” 
  “That’s a good sign,” she said, “I’ll arrange something for you as soon as we’ve gone through a few tests.” 
  The few tests lasted almost three quarters of an hour. “All things considered, you’re in remarkable good shape,” said Nurse Rae. 
  “Nurse,” asked John. 
  “Yes John.” 
  “Where am I?” 
  “You’re in one the world’s best hospitals,” said Peter, as he walked into the room. 
  “I just knew that you’d walk in any time now,” said John. 
  “Maybe the bump on your head enhanced your psychic ability,” replied John. 
  “I doubt that,” replied John. 
  Peter nodded in agreement, “and how is the patient?” Peter asked Nurse Rae. 
  “Very hungry but otherwise in good spirits,” she replied. 
  “Always a good sign,” responded Peter. 
  	John asked Peter to pull up a chair, as he did so he asked Nurse Rae if she could arrange for some food and drink for John. “I thought you’d prefer to talk with just the two of us in the room.” 
  “Thanks,” replied John, “I never imagined that I’d ever have a conversation like this.” 
  “Take your time,” said Peter, “remember you’re talking to me, your brother-in-law. You have my undivided attention, I’m not about to rush off to see another patient.” 
  “The details of what happened are a bit vague, I remember being chased along the M62, I remember the bridge and I remember the car swerving to the left and hitting something and until today I remember nothing else.” 
  “You’ve been through a lot John, it’s not that surprising.” 
  John interrupted him, “What’s the date?” 
  “May 3rd.” replied Peter. 
  “That’s what I thought, “said John, “the accident was April twenty sixth, that’s seven days ago.” 
  Peter nodded. 
  “Look at me Peter; I’ve been in a major car accident and one week later and as fit and healthy as ever. No cuts, no bruise, no broken bones no aches or pains, in fact nothing to suggest that I’ve been in an accident at all. Is there anything you want to tell me?” 
  Peter took a deep breath and over the next twenty minutes explained to John in great detail about the incident on Thelwall Viaduct, how it came about and the extent of the injuries he received. Peter also gave him details of the rescue and recovery operation that was organised almost immediately after the incident. Experience had taught Peter, and his team, not to leave out any details as this only caused confusion later on and in certain cases increased recovery time. Finally John learned about the fate of the three gunmen who had chased him.” 
  “Do you know if this is over now,” asked John.  
  “It is John, the three gunmen that went after you were the last of the renegade group. We only learned about them a few hours before they struck. No one expected anything to happen so quickly, we thought we could take them out quietly, but it was not to be. Still the press have been very co-operative. As for the top brass behind it all, they’ve all been re-deployed, some to Afghanistan others to Iraq. I expect in a few months time we’ll hear on the news of a helicopter crash or a friendly fire attack on a light truck and regrettably everyone on board will be killed. A day or two later we’ll learn that some high ranking officers were in the helicopter of light truck. No one will ever ask any questions.”  
  “Will the police still want to question me about Tracy’s shooting? I couldn’t go back to prison Peter, not for something I didn’t do.” 
  “The Home Secretary has already granted you a full and unconditional pardon. He has also written to the Southern Counties Chief Constable instructing him to personally ensure all records regarding your arrest, paper or electronic, are destroyed. That is to include fingerprints and DNA samples. Your prison record has also been erased. You’re a free man John, and one with a completely clear past.”  
  Peter then asked John if he would like some time on his own to enable him to have some time to think about what he had just learnt. John declined the offer; instead he just put his arms around Peter and hugged him. Both men’s emotions came to the surface at that moment, just then they were not patient and doctor but brothers-in-law and true friends.  
  Nurse Rae knocked on the door and came in with a tray of food for John. John’s digestive system was not yet ready for a full gourmet meal so it was a simple meal consisting of a light salad to start followed by soup and a roll with a slice of custard tart to finish. To drink he had flavoured water and a cup of weak, sweet tea. John did not care, he was just glad to have something to eat.  
  After finishing his meal John was sat up in bed, he was looking at his hands, wiggling his fingers and turning his hand over, he closely examined every movement. He then turned his attention to his arms, almost to the point of counting the hairs. Next he swung his legs out of the bed. He swung he legs from side to side, then from back to front. Staring at his feet he wiggled his toes, finally he stood up. There was one thing he still had to check, he walked over to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. John twisted and contorted his face in every possible direction. He rubbed his hand across his chin, and then stuck out his tongue; finally he checked his teeth and was pleased to see they were in far better condition now than they were previously. “I hope you’re not going to spend all of your time just admiring yourself in the mirror.” 
  John recognised Tracy’s voice; he turned around and looked at her. Tracy ran over to him and threw her arms around him, she started to cry.  
  “I thought I’d lost you,” she sobbed, “don’t you ever do that to me again.” 
  John picked her up of the ground and gave her a long, lingering kiss. She held her arms around his neck as her walked back to the bed. They both sat on the edge, John wiping the tears off her cheek.  
  Tracy tried to talk through her sobs, “I didn’t want you to see me like this, and I wanted to be all sensible.” 
  “Don’t ever be all sensible,” said John, “I love you just the way you are.” 
  Paul took hold of John’s hand, “There are a few things I want to say, they’re important to me so hear me out.” 
  John agreed. 
  “Now you know all about me, my past and everything, there’s something I want to do, I’d like to change my name. I like the name, Tracy, but it’s not me, and for you, I want to be me. I want to be the real me not a pretend me, so I’ve decided to change my name back to Rachael.” 
  “Rachael suits you,” answered John. 
  “I’ve not finished yet,” she said, “If I’m going to change my Christian name then I should also change my surname, Rae and Rachael just doesn’t go together, so I’d like to change it to Reynolds. Rachael Reynolds sounds much better. What do you say?” 
  John was taken by surprise, “You’re proposing to me?” 
  She nodded and continued, “Over the past few weeks we’ve both learnt that life can never be taken for granted, we’re the lucky ones because we’ve been given a second, or in my case a third chance. We can never guarantee that tomorrow will ever come and I don’t want to waste any of the time that we have left together. Be that one day, one month, a year or fifty years.” 
  “You’re really serious aren’t you,” said John. 
  “I am,” she replied. 
  “Have you a date in mind?” asked John 
  “I hoped we’d set that together,” replied Rachael. 
  “I have just the answer,” said Peter as he walked back into the room, “sorry but I couldn’t help overhearing your news.” He gave Rachael a brotherly hug and then shook John’s hand. “Congratulations, I’m so happy for you both.” He said with a large childlike grin. “Now, as your doctor, and not forgetting that you’ve both been through a very traumatic couple of weeks, I am prescribing complete rest and relaxation for you both” 
  Peter then handed John an envelope, “In here are two cruise tickets. In three days time Aurora is sailing from Southampton on a three week round trip cruise to the Caribbean. You’ve got a very nice mini suite and all the pampering and relaxation you could possibly need for a full and complete recovery.” 
  Rachael and John both looked at each other, they both nodded in unison. Then Rachael ran up to John and flung her arms around his neck, he lifted her off the ground and spun her round and around. When he put her down John gave a hug to Peter, “I don’t know what to say,” He said, “Thank-you just doesn’t seem enough.” 
  “Just go and enjoy the rest of your lives together,” that will be all the thanks I need.” 
  Four days later Aurora’s whistle blasted three times, the traditional signal that a ship was about to leave port. On the public observation area of the Mayflower Terminal John, Pat, Andrew and Geoffrey were waving frantically at the ship. Aurora’s top deck was crowded with excited passengers all looking forward to the next three weeks. On the quay side the Band of the Royal Marines played as the ship inched away from its berth. 
  Rachael and John were on the top deck waving down to their friends. “Think they can see us,” asked Rachael.  
  “They’re waving as if they can,” replied John, “by the way, did you know that the captain of the ship can marry passengers once the ships at sea.” John knelt down on one knee, “Rachael, do you still want to marry me?” 
  “Of course John, Of course I still want to marry you.” Rachael then paused for a moment. “John, there’s one question I want to ask you though. If I hadn’t passed you that card asking you to phone me would you have ever asked me out? 
  John gently put his hands on Rachael’s shoulders and turned her towards him. “What matters is that we are both together now. Who asked who, what or when isn’t important. I’m just so happy that you took a chance.” John turned and looked out over the railings towards the crowds at the terminal.”You know Rachael; I believe that everyone has a soul mate and that at some time or point in your life you will meet that person. It may not always be when, where or how you expect, or even who, but you will meet them and they will change your life. You know my past Rachael; I thought I had already met my soul mate. The truth is I hadn’t and it was only when I got to know you that I realised that my true soul mate was you. All I know is you have made me the happiest that I have ever known. Your face is the last thing I want to see at night and the first thing I want to see in the morning. I love you Rachael, I love you so much.” 
    	Rachael looked at John and smiled, “I don’t ever want you to stop feeling the way you do and don’t ever stop saying the things you say, even if you do ramble on a bit. Trust me John Reynolds, one way or another we would have ended up together. Whatever it would have taken, you and I were destined to be one. Even if you had never done or said anything, at some point I would have. I’m just so happy I didn’t wait”. 
    They looked back over the railing of the ship and gave a final wave towards the crowds watching the ship leave. “Would you like to retire to our cabin Mrs Reynolds?” asked John. 
  “Mrs Reynolds. Why Mr Reynolds whatever are you proposing,” she mockingly replied as they left the crowds on deck and wandered back towards their cabin. 
   
   
   Publication Date: March 28th 2010 https://www.bookrix.com/-daveburgess