Streets of blood

19

Francesca and Serrin had their arms around him, holding him up. Geraint fought hard to keep his breathing regular and maintain his posture. He felt light-headed, spinning, at the same time aroused and excited and faintly sick. He needed to be able to do a dozen things at once. He hadn’t any lime to explain. lie sat down and jacked in.

"I’m all right. Give me a minute. I know what I’m doing” he complained in a voice suggesting that he obviously didn’t.

Francesca plugged in the hitcher jack to accompany him, her observer icon appearing as a comely maiden, while his Knight ventured forth a little unsteadily. Wolves and reconfigured squire at his heels, they headed for a public datanet.

First Geraint checked the tourist guide for the basic story, then he browsed the Rumbelow book in the textual library and downloaded what his squire selected from that. Standard reference, giving him the list of names, dates, places, and some of the post-mortem material. It would be enough for now. Then he system-hopped into Births and Deaths, looking for Polly Nichols.

There she was, poor wretch. He didn’t need any details, but he noted the date. Two weeks ago. Polly on the eighth. Annie on the fifteenth, Elizabeth on the twenty… first?

The name came to him even before he had time to check the data from the books. Eddowes; Catherine Eddowes. He felt as if he was falling down a pit so deep it had no bottom.

He jacked out and reached into the top drawer of the desk. He thought a GABA agent would do the trick and maybe also a dopamine regulator. Synthesis stimulator took too long, ditto neuromodulator. This called for an enzyme inhibitor, and he thought he’d add a shot of amino agents as well. What the hell, let’s have a real cocktail.

Geraint applied the coded green and blue vials to the cannula, and within about forty-five seconds began to feel much more sober for now. Francesca and Serrin were both standing a little unsteadily after the evening’s indulgences. Giving them a thumbs-up, he jacked back into the Matrix. Unable to confirm the address he knew, he got up from the desk after a few seconds, leaving trailing electrodes behind him.

"Right.” He snapped his fingers to get their attention. "Focus as best you can.” He emphasized his words with sweeping movements of his hands, the elegant long fingers extended straight before him. “East End of London, Eighteen eighty-eight. Quick history lesson.”

“Jack the Ripper. Murdered five prostitutes. Some say seven, but the first two are questionable. Forget them. First true victim, one Polly Nichols."

Francesca took a sharp intake of breath. She saw what he'd been hunting for.

“Second victim, Annie Chapman. Yes, Fran: Annie Chapman.” She was gasping with shock, totally disbelieving. "Fran, what did Annie do? I assumed she was just a friend, What’ve you got?”

Her head was bowed, her body rocking slightly forward and back in the armchair. Her voice was hushed.

“She was a call girl, Geraint. A high-class hooker.”

He’d known, of course, from what the police had told him, but something in him wanted to pull it out of her, make it real for her. He was looking for confirmation, needing them to accept and believe him.

“Right. Third victim, Elizabeth Stride. What did we see on the news tonight?”

Francesca’s head was down, but Serrin was alert to what his friend was saying. Now it was the mage’s turn to gasp slightly.

“Yes, there are a dozen Ripper-style copycat murders every year in the East End,” Geraint went on. “Some joker dumps a mutilated body on the streets for a laugh. There are plenty of sick people out there who do that kind of stuff. But I get a distinct feeling that we’re dealing with something entirely different here. And I have a problem with it.”

“Like what?” Serrin was all eyes and ears. He could almost see the energies flowing in the man.

“In the original slayings, the fourth murder was committed the same day as the third. Double event. The fourth victim was a woman named Catherine Eddowes.” He paused, waiting to deliver the final bombshell.

“So?” Serrin was uncertain, knowing Geraint had more to say, and waiting to hear it.

“I know a Catherine Eddowes. Well, I don’t know her, but I know of her. She lives in-get this-the East End. In Whitechapel. Whitechapel. Ripperland, right?”

“How do you-”

“No. my friend,” he said, waving a finger reproachfully at the elf, “I did not avail myself of her services. A couple of years back, I was friendly with the son of the Earl of Manchester. Lawrence was a good contact. He knew people I wanted to meet and he was reasonable company. Used to lose a packet at the High Roller, but that’s life.

“Anyway, one night, very late, I get a call. I end up collecting him from Catherine Eddowes’. He’s drunk as a skunk and there’s someone from cheap trid hanging around outside looking for a story. I get in looking scruffy as hell so as not to arouse the interest of the trid reptile, and smuggle Larry out across fire escapes, punching him in the gut to stop the drunken singing he decides to do Got him home to Belgravia, and I didn’t exactly want to see him again.

“Oh, our Ms. Eddowes is a whore, my friends, no question. Let’s just say that she specialized in certain perversions of a peculiarly English nature. Being Welsh myself, I’m not so inclined. I like to be philosophical and detached about the line of work she pursues, but I can’t forget certain details. Afterward, as I say, I didn’t ever want to see Lawrence again.”

When Francesca spoke, she was hesitant at first, but then her voice took on an edge of creeping hysteria.

“Annie saved my life twice. Who murdered her? I want to know. And Geraint, that thing in the Matrix, it had knives and scalpels and-”

He cut in. “Something’s going on here. We all know it. Now maybe we can act. Catherine Eddowes isn’t dead-yet. No report of it, anyway. And, yes, she is a whore, but that’s hardly a license for someone to kill her. It’s the sick scum she panders to who deserve that fate.”

My God, what did you see that night? Serrin wondered as Geraint got to his feet. This is a bad world, and you know it, but something got to you that night, my friend.

“We’re going to the East End. There’s someone about to get butchered and we’re the only people who can stop it.” The words were melodramatic, but they rung true.

Serrin tried to insert a note of caution. “Why don’t we just call-”

“Oh, I will. She’s almost certainly ex-directory, but I can deck the number. Problem is, she won’t be checking her answering machine this time of night, will she? She’s a working girl. She'll plan to do that tomorrow morning, checking the bookings from the punters, with their special requests. But by tomorrow morning, she isn't going to be able to check anything.”

“Why don't we just call the police?”

“Oh, sure. We tell them some story about the Ripper they’ve heard a dozen times this year alone, and maybe they’ll get round to investigating it sometime next week.”

“But surely they’ll listen to you. You being a noble and all that. Surely.” Serrin was clutching at straws.

“Are you for real? We’ll get a duty constable on the telecom if we’re lucky. He’ll tell me that the Chief Inspector is dining somewhere, and that he will do his level best to reach him. Then he’ll ring off, log the call, and promptly forget all about it. Anyone who’s anyone tries to use his name and rank with the police all the time, it’s all they ever hear and it just goes in one ear and out the other. Sure, there’s a priority line for bluebloods like me, but that won’t do the job fast enough.”

“Serrin, the police in Britain are as stupid, vicious, and corrupt as anywhere in the world. Forget the image of the friendly bobby riding his bike and wearing the silly hat. They’re uncaring rakkers just like the ones where you come from. And here we don’t have Lone Star or anything like them. No, friend, if we want to deal with this, we’ll have to do it ourselves.”

“Geraint, why are we getting into this?”

Francesca’s question was a good one. He didn’t have a rational answer. “Will you trust me this one time?” She nodded, hesitant, then becoming more certain. His head was still afire, something was drawing him on and he couldn’t be deflected now. “Serrin, take the book there. Yes, that’s the one, the old Tarot book. Check the truth of what I find.” He took up the pack, shuffled rapidly, and said to the elf, “I’m asking if there’s someone behind this, you got it?”

The elf nodded, though he was unsure exactly what the Welshman was up to.

King of Swords.

Geraint sighed, holding his head in his hands. Serrin read from the book. “Mental prowess…”

“It’s reversed, Serrin, see?”

The elf looked up from the book and stared at the card, the head of the throned King pointing downward, and nodded. He started again.

“A cold and cruel impersonality bordering on the sadistic. A calculating and shrewd person, who knows what he wants and how to get it. At worst, a quality of elemental evil backed by brutally efficient planning. Arguably, the worst-aspected card in the entire pack.”

“Spirits, Geraint,” the elf said, “what are we getting into?”

Francesca wiped at her forehead with the back of her hand and slouched down in her chair. “Why are we getting involved with this?” she asked again. But at the back of her mind was Annie Chapman. She wasn’t asking the question because she didn’t want to get involved. She was asking because she wanted to hear what kind of ideas Geraint had for dealing with it. He was the only sober one there after all.

Geraint turned up the next card.

Justice.

“Do you need to ask?” He turned to look at the elf. The slightest shake of Serrin’s head told him all he needed to know.

“Look, we need to take some care here. We can’t just get into the car and pile across the river. Let’s think it through first.” Serrin’s caution was sensible.

Geraint explained his plan of action, First of all, I’ve been trying to call Catherine Eddowes. The deck’s on auto-repeat dialing through the telecom interface. It’s already got the answering machine, but we’ll plug away and hope. She just might answer if she gets an alert from her phone that she’s being called every thirty seconds. We can afford ten, fifteen minutes at least.

Second, I’m running a program looking for every Catherine Eddowes in London. It’s not likely to be a common name, so I’m using an analysis frame to search for every one in the public datanets. If we come up with an alternative Catherine Eddowes who’s a seventy-five-year-old retired author up in Wood Green or a five-year-old creche regular, I think we can check them off the list.” Geraint paused a moment, unsure how to phrase the next part.

“Third, there’s the minor problem of the fact that you two are, pardon me for saying so, as tight as judges. You’ve gone through the equivalent of at least a bottle of wine each and, unlike me, you don’t have cannula implants to get you over that hurdle in a minute flat. I’ve got some enzyme shots, but that’ll only handle the peripherals, I’m afraid. Your brains will continue to have a very hefty slug of alcohol swimming round in them for about half an hour: modern technology can’t get across the blood-brain barrier much faster than that. That alone is a great reason for spending a quarter of an hour plugging away at the telecom and hoping we don’t have to set foot outside this fiat tonight”

Francesca and Serrin exchanged glances. A few minutes ago Geraint had barely been able to stand upright. The change was impressive.

He gave them both a slap patch with the degrading enzyme, then opened a wall safe after its security system had run a retina scan on his eyes. The seamless edge slid soundlessly open, revealing a space the size of a small wardrobe. He rummaged through the safe contents.

“I think we should take body armor for a start, plus IR lenses and Bond and Carringtons. What are you most comfortable with in the pistol department, Fran?”

“I’ve never carried anything more than a light-a Colt, usually. Never needed anything more. I’ve hardly ever fired one of those.”

He casually tossed her a Bond and Carrington light with a hefty clip. “Twenty shots in the clip, and a spare. That should do the job. Serrin’s got his Ingram and I’ll take my usual. Okay, that’s done. Now, I don’t exactly have an anti-personnel armory here! but we should be able to come up with a few extras. Slap patches for a start. Take the best trauma I’ve got.”

“You figure we’re going to get seriously hurt?” The elf looked grave.

“Serrin, we may walk in to find someone very close to death. The best trauma patch in the world may be no more use to her than using a feather duster to beat off a troll samurai, but we can only hope.

He mused before the shelves of the safe. Serrin could see a startling number of credsticks stacked up in the top row, each taped and labelled. Geraint pocketed a couple and took a hefty wedge of notes into the bargain, but that wasn’t what was on his mind. “Maybe we should reconsider,” he said. “Do you have a pistol license, Fran?”

“Yes. I had to file a residency request, which is still in the works, but the Lord Protector, God preserve, decided I was a fit person to carry a Colt. I think my corporate references may have had something to do with that.”

“Well, technically your pistol isn’t covered by that, but it is functionally identical and I think your Colt developed a sad fault in it yesterday, right?” She grinned. “If you’re caught in possession you’ll get fined but you won’t get deported. Serrin’s Ingram is a trickier problem. I assume you have no license for that, my friend?”

“Well, er, no” Serrin obviously didn’t want to discuss how he'd acquired the weapon.

“Right. If the baggies catch you, it could be serious. If you fire the thing, you could end up as a guest of Her Majesty’s Prison Service. That is not a prospect you want to take lightly. So, maybe you should leave it behind. I can offer you a large net-gun instead. Non-lethal, constraining, purely self-defense. They catch you with that and you get deported, of course, but then that’s not really a pressing worry right now. You’d only get fined a few thou. What do you say?”

The elf grumbled at first, but he could see the wisdom behind Geraint’s suggestion. he accepted the hefty weapon and was figuring out how to conceal it under his voluminous greatcoat when the laser printer began its smooth flow. Geraint ran over to pore over the printout.

“Five of them. More than I’d expected, given the name. Well, well, one’s just gone on holiday to France, poor woman. Not something any patriotic Brit would do, never mind. Her flight left on Friday, so she’s out. One’s a civil servant, age forty-six. Think we can forget her. Number three’s a cab driver in Westway. Twenty-seven years old. She might be a possible, servicing dubious gentlemen in the back of the cab in Paddington, but right now she’s in the Royal Marsden having a retina-tightening eye operation. Someone could try to murder her there, but they’ve got incredible security. Not very likely, I think.”

“How the hell are you finding all this out?” Serrin muttered.

“Easy. Once I have the names from the public datanet it’s pretty simple to check vehicle licenses, air and rail and coach departure bookings, hospital lists, and the like. But I daren’t risk what I really want to do, which is check through Metropolitan Police files on the Met’s own network.”

“Number four is a troll in the Squeeze. Mind you, the data is five years out of date. Census data down there is pretty patchy even in these days of compulsory poll tax. She’s registered as having been a local counsellor in Croydon in 2044, which makes her one of the radfems. That was a real hoot, that business. Anyway, even if she’s still around I think we can safely eliminate a radical feminist troll from our list of possibles.” Geraint allowed himself a grim smile, which spread into a broader one as he scanned the last entry.

“Bringing us to number five. Who happens to be, good heavens, a retired travel writer living in Wood Green. Hmm. She’s sixty-six and specializes in scripting trid documentaries about vanishing cultures. Oh no, I don’t think so.”

Serrin was puzzled. “But the Catherine Eddowes you know isn’t on the list. I don’t understand.”

“That tells us one of two things. Either she’s moved and isn’t registered at her new address, or she’s where she used to be and census data is incomplete, which is more than likely down in the East End. Over a million and a half Londoners do not appear on any official lists, and that doesn’t even count the Undercity. There are plenty of places where census officials wouldn’t go even if toting a vanload of SAS laser packs at their backs. Most places with a Metropolitan Police security rating of C or worse have very incomplete data. And we’re heading into a C zone or lower, no question.”

“You people sobering up, by the way?”

Francesca ruefully admitted she was getting there, but the evening wasn’t turning out to be exactly what they’d expected. A warm haze of alcoholic glow over coffee and truffles had been an inviting prospect, but that was starting to seem all very distant now. Serrin nodded as he fingered the unused patch in his pocket. He’d let his own body deal with it naturally.

Geraint made one final check on the telecom. “Getting nothing but the answering machine. I’ll leave a short message on auto telling her to barricade herself until we arrive. She won’t take any notice even if she gets it, I suppose, but we have to try.”

Serrin had a final consideration. “Hey, what if the media are onto this? We might end up with a posse of trid-jocks down on the site. They might even get there first.”

“Well, if we do, that's great. We can just turn the car round and go home. But we know something they don’t.”

“What’s that?”

“We know about Annie Chapman. That barely got reported at all; some of her, urn, more discretion-minded, shall we say, clientele wanted it that way. So it would be a fluke if anyone in the media noticed, and as I say, we get a bunch of copycat murders every year. Even if a bright little thing noticed the connection, by this time of night her desk editor will be downing his fifteenth whisky and he’ll just tell her to check it out tomorrow. Murders don’t get any more than a single soundbite in London unless the victim’s a VIP. They’re too common these days.

By the time they had struggled into their armor and packed their weaponry. Geraint needed a minute to stuff a black bag full of bits and pieces: tools, scraps from a survival kit, even a small respirator. He carried it down the hall as the others followed him, and then the grim humor of it became apparent.

“Geraint, that bag. It looks just like-” Francesca shuddered.

“Doesn’t it just? Let’s hope we’re not going to be too late to find a killer toting one just like it.”

It was just eleven-forty when they left the house. Across the city, a very nervous Indian girl found that her hands were shaking as she bent to put on her boots. Soon she had the door locked behind her, had hailed a cab, and paid the troll the fare upfront. She sat in the back of the cab, gazing through the barred windows, the cracks in the plasglass streaming from a central impact location. That told her the windows were bulletproof. It also told her the cab had been shot at, which was pretty standard. Kids just want to have fun, after all.