Michael White - The Art of Murder

‘And Father O’Leary?’ Pendragon asked wearily, trying to draw the exchange to a close without tipping the woman over the edge. Lesson 101; psychopaths just love to talk about themselves.

Gemma Locke’s face clouded over. ‘That so-called priest abused me.’ In the deathly silence, she breathed in sharply. ‘Sexual abuse, DCI, the oldest trick in the book for many a Roman Catholic priest, God bless ’em. O’Leary was my local parish priest. My parents were religious, especially Mother. When I was thirteen, I was pushed into taking lessons in preparation for Confirmation.’ She started to giggle again. ‘I made sure Michael O’Leary realised who I was just before I dispatched him. But he died too fast. I was much too nice to him.’ She suddenly leaned forward and took a step nearer Dr Hickle.

‘Don’t!’ Pendragon snapped.

Gemma stood still then turned back towards them. ‘Jack, you have to understand. I must finish my …’

‘You’re finishing nothing.’

Gemma Locke’s hand slid into a pocket of her gown.

‘Stop!’

‘It’s not a gun, Jack.’

‘Bring your hand back into view … slowly,’ Turner yelled.

She pulled her hand from her pocket. It was clasping a hypodermic.

‘Put it down,’ Pendragon commanded.

She ignored him and took a step towards Dr Hickle. A shot rang out, booming in the restricted, echoing space. Gemma Locke screamed in surprise. The hypodermic flew through the air and landed a few feet away. Blood spurted from a wound in her hand and she stumbled back, crumpling into a heap.

Pendragon dashed forward, his gun levelled at her head. Gemma Locke lay on her side in a foetal position, cradling her wounded hand. A line of blood spilled away across the wooden floor.

‘Turner … call the paramedics,’ Pendragon ordered.

He bent forward, keeping the gun pointed at Gemma’s head, and pushed back her shoulder gently. She stared up at him, her smile sliding into a look of triumph.

‘How perfect, Inspector. They’ll have to add a new chapter to the textbooks, and it will be all about me.’

Manhattan, December 1888

The man was known by many names. To some he had been William Sandler, to others Harry Tumbril, Cedric O’Brien, Norman Heathcote or Graham Harris. Although the name had never been used to his face, he had also acquired the epithet Jack the Ripper. Here, at the Broadway Central Hotel, he had registered as Francis Bettleman, a businessman from England, who was planning to invest in a road-surfacing company in Brooklyn.

He had been away from England for two months now and was itching to work again. On the voyage across the Atlantic he had spent many long hours in his cabin contemplating his next endeavour. But then, upon arriving in New York, he had been thrown temporarily off course. He had seen paintings of the city and some rare photographs, but the physical reality of the place was so overwhelming that, for a while, he had lost his sense of direction.

On the surface, the place reminded him of a very small London. It was grimy, dark, dirty, and filled with too many moronic humans. But in many other ways it was an alien city. It was not so claustrophobic as London; the sky was huge, and so were some of the buildings. Architects from across the world were flocking here to flex their design muscles and show off their expertise. It was a blank canvas for them. And so it was for him too, once he got his bearings. One had to be familiar with a killing ground. Escape routes needed to be mapped out, local customs understood. It would be so easy to make a fatal error if he were not thoroughly prepared. He could not contemplate such sloppiness. He was a professional, a great artist. The English might have calmed down now that their notorious murderer had apparently stopped his slaughter. But the New World was beginning to wake up to his presence and he was revelling in the delicious taste of fear and suspicion all around him.

His new work was to be another quartet. There was something about the symmetry of the number that pleased him. Two of the women had been dispatched during the course of the previous three nights. What had amazed him was that, although he was in the ‘New World’, the sheep here were little different from their English cousins. Everyone reacted in exactly the same way. The silly whores, the police, the public, the city bigwigs … and, of course, the press. It was rather a disappointment, but perhaps not entirely unexpected. After all, people were people. Sheep were sheep.

Now, at 7 p.m. on a frosty December evening, he was on his way to keep an appointment with Bessy Munroe, a ‘singer’ in the music hall, an aspiring theatre actress apparently, who had come to New York from some God-forsaken farming town in the American interior. Bessy was a little further up the hierarchy of prostitutes than the ones he had known in London. A week earlier, Francis Bettleman had met her at Harry’s Music Hall on Broadway, a short walk from his hotel. She had offered her services then, but the time was not right — he was busy planning murders one and two, Julie Grovenor and Helen Fritzle. Bessy was to be number three. And so he had waited until now.

Checking his watch, Francis stopped in the opulent foyer of the Broadway Central, nodded to the assistant manager behind his desk and headed towards the grand doors leading out on to Broadway. It was then that he experienced an odd sensation, a feeling that had come over him on several occasions during the past week. It was a tingling at the nape of his neck, the unmistakable sensation of being watched, being followed. He glanced round, but there was nothing to see. Either he was imagining things or the person watching him was very good at his job.

Outside the hotel stood a line of horse-drawn cabs. He jumped in the front vehicle, told the driver the address and sat back against the yielding leather of the seat as the cab bumped along the rough road. It took no more than a couple of minutes to reach his destination. Francis paid the driver, jumped down, and marched quickly into the music hall.

At the bar, he had a cup of coffee and waited. He was a little early, but all was going to plan so far. He looked around at the brass and marble of the bar and felt that familiar impervious self-confidence flow through his veins, energising him.

On cue, Bessy arrived and strode towards him. She was a very average-looking young woman, Francis thought, but with an air of self-belief about her that was almost attractive. It was a confidence he had found to be shared by many of the Americans he had met. It was as though they all considered themselves a part of something fresh and new and growing and purposeful. It gave them a sense of direction, a feeling they participated in something bigger than themselves. He found it at once laughable and piquant.

‘Let’s go somewhere else,’ he said, draining his cup and turning towards the young woman as she made to sit beside him at the bar.

She merely smiled and let him lead her towards the door.

‘So where do’ya fancy, Mr Bettleman?’ Bessy said, taking his arm.

He removed her hand from him gently and ignored her puzzled expression. ‘I have rooms close by.’

‘Oh, do you now? I knew yous was a sophisticated man, Mr Bettleman.’

As they walked along the street, he suddenly realised Bessy was tipsy. That would make everything easier. ‘Just down there,’ he said, pointing to a narrow alleyway a few yards away on their right. She looked up at him and gave him a crooked smile, then hiccuped.

Bettleman stopped suddenly. It was that strange feeling again. He turned round. There were people walking close behind them along the edge of the busy street. He tried to blot out the sounds all around. Should he stop? Should he simply return to the hotel and change his plans? Come out another night? Then he felt a sudden surge of anger. No. He would not be controlled by anyone. He, and he alone, was master of his own destiny. He had proved that on so many previous occasions. He would not let this place, these people, intimidate him. He was better than any of them, infinitely better.