Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Thanks for ringing me.

That's OK. This kind of thing can be very useful to a writer. As a matter of fact, it's the first murder I've ever been engaged on so closely. But it's fantastic, you know, Gerard. He must have killed the woman in Berner Street, and then come straight on down here, and killed again within fifteen minutes.

Have you phoned your story through?

Of course! We nearly got a scoop. First on the scene, photographs and everything.

Sorme had a sense of speaking in an excited babble; there were a dozen questions he wanted to ask, but they crowded one another out of his mind. He said:

Tell me about it in detail. Tell me exactly what happened.

I can't. We don't know the full story ourselves yet.

I mean — tell me what's been happening to you all night.

In a moment. We're nearly there.

How was she killed?

This one? Throat cut. But she'd been mutilated pretty badly.

How?

Her face slashed and stabbed all over.

Christ!

Payne said shortly: Made me feel pretty sick.

They turned into a narrow street; looking up at the sign, Sorme saw its name-Duke Street. Payne said:

Ugh! They've started to crowd already.

In the faint light, they could see people crowded halfway up the street. Payne said: We'd better go round the other way. There's only a narrow alley leading into the square from this side.

Sorme asked: What do you think will happen now? It's bound to cause a panic.

There's no telling. I've got a suspicion the Government wants the papers to keep the murders in the headlines to distract attention from the international situation.

That's an interesting idea! You think it might be the Foreign Office behind the murders?

Wouldn't be surprised! They say it's full of sexual perverts… not the kind that are interested in women, though.

They turned off Aldgate again, and into the street that ran parallel with Duke Street. It was a narrow street, and the crowd blocked it from pavement to pavement.

Payne said resignedly:

You won't see much, I'm afraid. You should have come with me last night.

Fear and excitement stirred his intestines. The street was silent; its stillness produced an atmosphere of tension and foreboding. As they came nearer, he realised that people were talking to one another in low voices, standing in groups. One of the largest groups was made up of photographers with flashlight cameras. Payne approached these.

He asked: Anything happened, Ted?

A short, plump man with a red face said:

Hello. Back again? No — nothing yet.

His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of a heavy overcoat. Outside this, knotted around his neck, he wore a woollen scarf with bands of colour like a school scarf.

Macmurdo here yet?

Yes. Came ten minutes ago. He's in there.

He nodded towards the rope barrier that separated the street from the square.

Get a picture?

Yes. He didn't like it.

About time he got used to it! one of the photographers said. He spat into the gutter.

Sorme approached the barrier. It was not difficult to get close; the crowd was not packed tightly. There was nothing to see. On the left-hand side of the square was a tall warehouse, labelled 'Kearley and Tonge'. The only exit from the square seemed to be a narrow alleyway in the far right-hand corner. The police were crowded in this corner; two of them were doing something with a tape measure, crouched on the pavement. Between the legs of the police, Sorme could see the body, covered with a cloth.

Somewhere on the far side of the square a woman began to howl; it was not a scream, but a harsh cry from the throat. The people standing near Sorme began to take an interest. One of them said:

'EIlo! Somebody recognised her?

A woman answered: No. Nobody's been near it.

The howling stopped suddenly. Payne came over to him.

Any idea what it was, Gerard?

No. It came from the alley over there.

Payne approached one of the policemen standing by the rope barrier; he held out his Press card, asking:

Can I go across?

No. I'm afraid you can't, sir. My orders is to let no one across. Not till the pathologist comes.

Is that what they're waiting for?

That's right.

Who is it? Simpson?

I dunno, sir. All I know is, 'e's being a ruddy long time.

Another policeman came over from the group in the corner. Payne asked him:

Any idea what the yelling was about?

The policeman, a middle-aged sergeant, said indifferently:

Just some woman havin' 'ysterics.

One of the men standing near the barrier pressed forward belligerently. He said:

I should bladdy well think so too. What are you blokes doin' for your wage packets, I'd like to know?

A fat woman, wearing a shawl over her head, said:

Now, Bert, don't start gettin' nasty. They're doin' their best.

The man said dogmatically:

I'm not nasty. I got a right as a taxpayer to know why the police haven't done nothing, 'aven't I?

The sergeant seemed unperturbed.

Another journalist had pushed up behind Sorme. He asked:

Any idea who she is yet, Sergeant?

Not yet.

Well, why do they keep on gettin' murdered, that's what I want to know?

A tall, skinny man had taken up the argument from behind the woman in the shawl; his voice was nervous and high-pitched. The sergeant looked at him slowly, then shrugged:

That's what we all want to know.

He turned, and began to walk back towards the body. The man called after him:

And that's what you buggers are paid for — to find out!

Payne said in Sorme's ear:

There's a lot of feeling against the police.

I'm not surprised.

Payne began to edge out of the crowd. He said:

Come on. There's nothing to see.

A heavily built man with a blond moustache came up behind Payne, and clapped him on the shoulder. Payne said:

Hello, Tom! Only just arrived?

The big man chuckled:

Not likely. I was here before you were awake.

You weren't, you know! We were first on the scene. We were already in Whitechapel when the alarm came.

Were you? In that case, I apologise.

That's all right, old boy. Ask me any questions you like. I charge a small fee, of course.

Payne turned to Sorme, saying:

You don't know Tom Mozely, do you, Gerard? This is Gerard Sorme, Tom.

Is he on the Chronicle too?

No. Gerard's a writer…

Mozely interrupted:

By the way — did you hear that woman shrieking?

Yes. What was it?

Somebody started a rumour that the police had found a crowbar with blood on it, and this woman just started to yell. I was standing a few yards from her… made my hair stand on end.

Have they found a crowbar?

No. It was just a rumour. Did you see the other body?

Yes. We were there when the news of this one arrived.

Is it true she'd been bashed over the head?

Yes. Looked like just one blow.

Hmmm… Doesn't sound like our bloke, does it?

I don't know. He was probably interrupted.

Sorme said:

What happened?

Before Payne could reply, someone began to call:

Make way there!

An ambulance was nosing into the barrier. Flashlight cameras began to explode, revealing the square for a moment as if by lightning. Payne said:

It looks like Starr.

Who?

The pathologist.

Sorme looked with interest at the square-shouldered man, with the good-tempered face of a farmer, who was pushing his way into the square. Payne immediately pushed after him, grasping Sorme by the sleeve. The constable stopped them, replacing the rope; whereupon the crowd re-formed in packed ranks across the entrance to the square. Payne said:

I wanted to get a place to watch this.

What happens now?

Nothing much. They just shift the body. Look at the faces of some of these people.