Read Online Mayhem by Sarah Pinborough - Free Book Online Page A

their blood shall mingle with the dust. I never harm any others or the Divine power that protects and helps me in my grand work would quit for ever. Do as I do and light of glory shall shine upon you. I must get to work tomorrow treble event this time yes three must be ripped. Will send you a bit of face by post I promise this dear old Boss. The police now reckon my work a practical joke well well Jacky’s a very practical joker ha ha keep this back till three are wiped out and you can show the cold meat .
Yours truly
Jack the Ripper

11
    London. October, 1888
    Inspector Moore
    ‘I see your lot have been busy over at Whitehall today,’ Waring said, paying the waiter for their two tankards of beer. ‘More police officers than should have been in that building for quite some time, eh?’ Moore took a swallow and said nothing, but he watched the slim man carefully as he laughed at his own poor joke.
    It had come as no great surprise to Henry Moore that Jasper Waring had wanted to meet him in a Whitechapel public house. The police were three days into their search of the area – a public relations act, more than with any real hope of catching their killer – and reporters were swarming the area eager for any tidbits of salacious gossip, anything they could print about any of the unfortunate women – about their pasts or those who knew them. The public was greedy for as much information as they could get; whether it was truthful or not was apparently irrelevant. Jack and his murders had proved, if such proof were needed, that there was a palpable excitement in fear. The newspapers were doing a roaring trade, and of course Jasper Waring would want to be at the heart of that.
    Moore had to admit that Waring was smarter than most. He certainly had a nose for a story, and while he was no doubt relishing Jack’s antics as much as the rest of his breed, Waring was a man who would always be looking for something he could claim for his own. ‘Jack’, whoever he might be, was the whole of London’s business, and there were newspapermen better connected with the police than he who would get any information first. Not that there was much danger of that.
    ‘Those bloodhounds turn anything up?’ Waring’s eyes were sharp, but still Moore said nothing as he downed half his beer. The newsman would be paying for their drinks; that was always the unspoken agreement, and he intended to make the added time on his working day worthwhile. He was tired, and it had been a cold and frustrating day of supervising the policemen and dogs as they searched the Scotland Yard building site for more – or any – of the dead woman’s body parts. Their hunt had been as fruitless as the more high-profile one going on throughout the streets of Whitechapel, and eventually Moore had admitted defeat and sent the team, including Andrews, home to warm up.
    ‘Not like Jack, this boy, is he?’ Waring smiled, his expression a mix of wry and cheeky. Moore wasn’t sure he liked the young reporter, but he did respect him, and they had been useful to each other in the past; if that had not been the case he would havejust gone home. God only knew he could do with the sleep. He needed eight hours straight a night and of late he’d been lucky to get five or six before having to drag himself out of the depths of his slumber to head back to Division to trawl through yet more false leads.
    As it was, now that he was here, the sheer force of life that filled the Princess Alice on the corner of Commercial Street was refreshing him. Much of the laughter was fuelled by drink, and much of the drink was fuelled by hardship, but at least there was some laughter. Londoners were strange folk, he had concluded a long time ago, never more alive than when in the presence of death. The food stands which had sprung up at the murder sites, the street theatres recreating the tableaux of the unfortunate women’s deaths: entertainment crafted by the grip of terror. Was it too