Foxed
by
Barry Baldwin
Even
by the sanguinary
standards of the
East End, it was
a nasty one.
‘This
is a right do,’
said the larger
of the two patrolmen
who had been unlucky
enough to be near
Durward Street
when the dispatcher’s
call had cut into
their quietly
cruising enjoyment
of Radio London’s
dusk to dawn show
and a shared bag
of illicit fish
and chips. It
was the second
time he’d
made this pronouncement
since they’d
glided to a halt
beside what was
left of the woman.
They hadn’t
bothered to enact
the pointless
melodrama of switching
on the siren and
screaming a way
through the deserted
streets of Bethnal
Green and Whitechapel
at three in the
morning. They
were seasoned
officers, the
streets were slippery,
the deceased wasn’t
going to run away,
and the leisurely
approach gave
them time to finish
their fat-laden
feast rather than
bin it.
They’d
eye-balled the
mess, radioed
in their news,
and had been kicking
their heels for
a good fifteen
minutes waiting
for the big boys
to arrive. The
glare of the sodium
street lamp and
the misty drizzle
of a warm summer
night conspired
to create the
illusion that
the body at their
feet was steaming
in its own gore.
An impressive
pool of vomit
near the head
made its own artistic
comment on this
still life without
flowers. It was
presumably the
contribution of
the anonymous,
long-gone corpse
finder and phoner-in.
Neither of the
policemen had
brought up their
fish and chips
to join it. They
had long ago achieved
a cast-ironing
of the stomach
that allowed them
to cope with the
nightly toll of
victims of traffic
accidents and
violence ranging
from mundane beatings
and stabbings
to such specialised
treats as the
baby microwaved
by its drug-demented
mother in a thirtieth-storey
flat on a housing
estate in one
of the local war
zones.
‘I
reckon she was
a tom,’
mused the second
of the two, lesser
in bulk but in
no other way.
‘No
reckon about it.
What other kind
of woman would
have been on a
street like this
in the middle
of the night?’
‘Some
office cleaner
going home?’
‘Dressed
like she is? Get
out of it. Not
even a black would
go charring in
a get-up like
that.’
‘It
could have been
a racist thing,
seeing how she’s
black.’
‘It
could have been
a racist thing
if she’d
been white, these
days. Skinheads,
you mean? No chance.
Those guys haven’t
got the bottle
for something
like this. A good
kicking, lobotomy
with a baseball
bat, that’s
more their mark.
No, this is a
right do, something
special, you can
be sure of that.
Not but what anyone
will ask us. Plods
on wheels, that’s
all we are. Hey
up, here they
come. What a racket.
Still, it gives
us warning. Straighten
your tie and get
ready to click
your heels.’
‘Wonder
who’ll be
in charge?’
‘Makes
no odds to us,
but my money’s
on old Foxie.’
‘DCI
Fox? Well, he
may be an oddball,
but at least he
treats uniforms
like they were
real people. Why
him, though?’
‘Think
about it. He’s
coming up to retirement.
If he cracks it,
he won’t
be around very
long to bask in
the glory. If
he doesn’t,
he’s the
one on the wrong
end of the tabloids’
editorials. Either
way, the top brass
can’t lose.’
It
was true that
Detective Chief
Inspector John
Fox behaved no
more off-handedly
towards subordinates
than to his equals
and superiors.
But this was not
out of any democratic
sentiment, let
alone affection.
Fox liked nobody
very much, though
the conclusion
in his official
psychological
profile that he
liked himself
least of all was
quite inaccurate.
He simply felt
it saved time
to keep distinctions
of rank and the
friction that
went with them
to a minimum:
why complicate
things with avoidable
extras?
Such
a philosophy was
alien to his sounding-board
- confidant was
not the word.
Sergeant Dunphy
was equally contemptuous
of the uniforms
on the beat and
the yobbos in
the charge rooms,
between whom he
thought with each
passing year there
was less and less
difference. The
trouble with Fox’s
good qualities
was that they
were perilously
close to his bad
ones. Dunphy was
not a great reader
of novels - what
fictions could
compare to the
facts of a policeman’s
life? - but whenever
he brooded over
the persona of
his boss a line
from some Yank
writer came into
his head: God
will forgive us
our vices but
what will he make
of our virtues?
There were many
who thought Fox
reeked of bullshit,
but Dunphy was
very much one
of the old school
when it came to
this: properly
applied, bullshit
is the glue that
keeps everything
from the country
as a whole to
a police station
stuck together.
This
substance was
not absent from
the seminar they
were having in
Fox’s famously
impersonal office
with the pathologist
Edwin Scrimshaw,
a character almost
as cadaverous
as the specimens
he had on his
slab.
‘Bruises
on the lower jaw
and left side
of the face,’
intoned Scrimshaw,
without preamble
as always. ‘The
throat was as
well cut as a
throat can be.
The large vessels
of the neck were
severed on both
sides. All the
tissues down to
the vertebrae
were completely
destroyed by one
massive circular
stroke. There
is one deep jagged
wound in the abdomen,
also several gashes,
all pointing downwards.
And some large
rips, left to
right. The killer
was probably a
southpaw, though
it wouldn’t
do to be absolutely
certain about
that.’
‘Any
sign of sexual
activity?’
Dunphy asked,
after it had become
clear that Fox
wasn’t going
to.
Scrimshaw
permitted himself
a marginal shift
in expression,
his version of
a smile. ‘For
heaven’s
sake, man, your
docket said that
the girl was a
prostitute. Alice
Jones, several
convictions for
soliciting. When
would she not
have been sexually
active? As far
as I could tell,
yes, she had had
intercourse not
long before she
died. Several
times, in fact.
Vaginal and anal.
But frankly, so
what? The killer
may or may not
have been one
of the inseminators.
Always assuming
it’s a he,
which in some
quarters would
nowadays be regarded
as sexist.’
‘Well,’
Dunphy said stoutly,
‘I don’t
believe any woman
would do that
to another one.
Anyway, I suppose
the next step
is to ask our
new friend the
police computer
for its opinion.’
Scrimshaw
flapped a bony
hand, not a pretty
sight. ‘You
can run it through
as often as you
like, but I’ll
wager there’s
not been an MO
like this in London
since dear old
Jack the Ripper
who, by the way,
has been surmised
by at least one
historian to have
been Jill the
Ripper, specifically
a psychopathic
midwife in drag.’
‘And
who disposed of
his or her first
victim on the
night of August
thirty-first,
1888, in what
is now Durward
Street in the
parish of Whitechapel.
The same date
and place as our
Alice Jones.’
Scrimshaw
did not quite
succeed in not
looking put out.
When it comes
to knowing just
when to enter
a conversation
and take it over,
you can’t
touch him, thought
Dunphy with his
customary mixture
of admiration
and frustration.
I could have said
that, he rebuked
himself. I saw
that bit on the
BBC documentary
about the Ripper
on the box the
other night, before
switching over
to the football
match. Fox doesn’t
even have a television
set. It’s
all in the filing
cabinet in his
head. Another
advantage of a
university degree.
‘In
Jack’s day,
Durward Street
was known as Buck’s
Row. It runs East
to West from Brady
Street to Vallance
Road, Baker’s
Row then. The
body of Mary Ann
Nichols, or Polly
as she was known,
was found in front
of a stable yard
gate between the
Board School and
a residential
terrace, across
from an ornamental
brick house which
was shamefully
demolished as
recently as 1990.
What we’ve
just heard from
Edwin, as I’m
sure he intended
us to recognise,
is pretty well
the same post-mortem
report as the
one done on Polly
by...’
Fox
paused, allowing
Scrimshaw to get
back in. ‘Dr
Rees Ralph Llewellyn.
Welsh, obviously.
Never mind, he
knew his onions
as well as his
leeks. Interesting
chap, in a way.’
Scrimshaw
stopped as decisively
as he had begun.
Clearly, he was
not going to divulge
in what way Dr.
Rees Ralph Llewellyn
had been of interest.
That suited Dunphy
very well. But
the fox was by
now far ahead
of the rabbit.
‘So,
what have we here?
Amazing coincidence
or anniversary
present? Just
to be on the safe
side, you’d
better get them
to put out the
word around Whitechapel
that the girls
should be extra
careful on September
the eighth. Especially
around Hanbury
Street.’
‘Hanbury
Street? Where’s
that exactly?’
‘It
runs through Spitalfields
and Mile End New
Town from Commercial
Street to near
Vallance Road.
That’s where
he did in the
second one. Annie
Chapman. At number
twenty-nine. A
cat’s meat
shop in those
days. There’s
a hotel on it
now...’
‘Not
a lot of difference,
then.’
Fox
did not react
to this Scrimshavian
epigram. ‘They
used to say Annie’s
ghost haunted
the site. You
might wonder why
the other girls
haven’t
been back the
same way. I mean,
poor old Annie
was bad enough,
head nearly cut
off, stomach slashed
to bits, kidneys
ripped out and
placed on her
shoulder, uterus
and most of down
there hacked out...But
even that doesn’t
compare with number
four, Catherine
Eddowes, on September
the thirtieth,
not to mention
Mary Jane Kelly,
November ninth.
He really had
fun with Mary
Jane. Trapped
her in her room
at a doss house
on Dorset Street.
They called it
Dosset Street.
A rough place,
even by Victorian
standards. Doesn’t
exist any more.
I believe it’s
all built over
with extensions
to Spitalfields
Market and multi-storey
car parks. Anyway,
he cornered Mary
Jane in her room
where there was
no one to disturb
him, so he had
all the time in
the world to get
his jollies.’
‘What
did he do to her?’
Dunphy had deduced
from the recital
that number three
wasn’t worth
asking about.
‘What
didn’t he
do, more like?
It’s not
something you
want to hear.
And if it is,
not even Edwin
would want to
spell it out.
Go read the post-mortem
report, but not
too soon after
breakfast. It
turned up at the
Yard only a few
years ago, nineteen
eighty-seven,
I think. A Dr
Bond, wasn’t
it?’
‘That’s
right, Thomas
Bond. Poor fellow
committed suicide
a few years later.
Let’s just
say, if chummy
is a Ripper freak
and he gets to
number five, pray
to God you’re
not the one to
find her.’
‘A
nutter. That’s
all we need.’
‘It
might be a one-off.
The nicest people
can do the nastiest
things. You just
have to push the
right buttons.’
Fox stood up to
indicate that
class was over.
‘But given
all the circumstances,
we may very well
be in nutter-land.
In which case,
we’ll soon
be getting a phone
call or letter.’
‘I
am down on whores
and shant quit
ripping them,’
proclaimed Scrimshaw.
Dunphy looked
at him; Fox did
not. ‘That’s
the message Jack
is supposed to
have sent to the
London Central
News Agency, two
days before Catherine
Eddowes was killed.
He missed the
apostrophe out
of shan’t.
Very modern. These
days, I dare say
he would have
sent in a fax
or something.’
‘I
expect you know
about the Irishman
who sent poison-pen
letters by e-mail?’
Dunphy, who had
a touch of Celtic
blood in him,
concealed his
annoyance.
The
message duly turned
up the next day.
The words stood
out clearly across
the centre of
an ordinary-sized
sheet of white
paper: THEIR BEGINNINGS
ARE YOUR END.
‘Printed
out from a word-processor.
Gone are the good
old days of the
green Penguin
detective stories
in which the jumpy
‘e’
on an old Remington
gives the killer
away.’
‘And
it came in without
a stamp.’
Dunphy did not
want a history
of the technology
of anonymous communications.
‘Either
he’s heard
about saliva match-ups
or the bugger’s
too mean to put
his hand in his
pocket for twenty-two
pee.’
‘This
message? Is it
some smart-alec
quotation? Or
a kind of code,
maybe?’
‘I
haven’t
the foggiest idea,’
said Fox, almost
cheerfully. ‘No
use giving ourselves
a headache over
it yet. Just have
to wait and see,
as Asquith used
to say.’
The
Whitechapel girls
may well have
been more than
usually nervous
on the eighth
of September,
but very few of
them were deterred
from going about
their business:
their chemical
addictions or
their pimps saw
to that. It didn’t
matter. No woman
died in Ripperesque
circumstances
that night, not
in Hanbury Street
or anywhere else
in the British
Isles. ‘Well,
that’s one
blessing, I suppose,
if he holds to
it.’
‘He
will. Chummy may
or may not be
a nutter, but
he’s obviously
got his battle
plan worked out.
That message of
his, whatever
it means, talks
about more than
one. According
to the reports,
there were no
murders of any
kind last night.
He was, of course,
responsible for
a lot of time
and money spent
on those extra
patrols in the
area. Whether
that gives him
any satisfaction,
I neither know
nor care. Until
something else
happens, we’ll
be like him and
bide our time.
No shortage of
normal business,
after all.’
A
week later, the
body of a woman
was stumbled upon
by a returning
resident in the
secluded Kensington
mews in which
they both lived.
Loelia Trench.
Forty-three. Something
in Customer Affairs
at Harrods.‘Battered
very enthusiastically
on the head with
the traditional
blunt instrument.
But no damage
to the body, no
knife work of
any kind. And
no sexual hanky-panky.
Never had any,
in fact. Scrimshaw
says she was still
a virgin, he can’t
remember when
he last had one
of those up on
his table. So,
she was about
as different as
she could be from
Alice Jones.’
A
point made in
its own laconic
way by the second
message: YOU CAN
FORGET THE RIPPER.
‘How
kind of him to
help us with our
enquiries,’
said Fox in a
silky tone.
Then
on successive
nights a hotel
receptionist called
Oona Parish had
both her eyes
pierced with the
hat-pin that was
thoughtfully left
in the right one,
while club singer
Patsie Reardon
was strangled
by her own long
blonde hair (‘Has
he been reading
Browning?’
Fox asked - Dunphy
said nothing,
his policy when
he’d nothing
to say) and unemployed
Edna Fromm was
fished out of
the river with
a gag in her mouth
and her hands
tied behind her
back.
‘A
patternless pattern.’
Fox’s remark
got them no further
forward than the
three corresponding
messsages. Oona’s
passing was confirmed
by FIRST THINGS
FIRST; Patsie
got GO STRAIGHT
DOWN; Edna drew
a more elaborate
techno-obituary:
WHAT DO YOU DO
WITH DISCS AND
MODEMS?
‘I
know what I’d
like to do with
them,’ growled
Dunphy, twiddling
a Luddite fountain
pen in his left
hand. ‘Not
to mention these
journalists.’
As the larger
of the two patrolmen
on Durward Street
had predicted,
the tabloids were
in full cry. Given
the absence of
any obvious trend
in the killings,
the failure of
chummy to add
the requisite
sexual frisson,
and the more than
usually curt press
releases, Fox
had entertained
good hopes of
avoiding this
hunt. He wasn’t
to know that various
hirelings of Fleet
Street, or Wapping
as it now was,
had been tipped
off by one Edwin
Scrimshaw who
needed to supplement
his corpse-carver’s
income so as to
finance his pursuit
of the very much
alive and beautiful
body of the woman
he’d long
been eyeing at
his local, and
who had nourished
a dislike of Fox
ever since the
latter narrowly
defeated him in
the contentious
finale of a Trivial
Pursuits tournament
organised for
some charity or
other - Fox had
questioned the
official answer
as given on the
card and an Order
of the Brown Nose
judge had ruled
in his favour.
‘That’s
five. If he’d
been a Ripper
fan, that would
be it.’
‘Unless
he wants to show
he can go one
better. Or two.
Or ten.’
This
dark speculation
was partly vindicated
when, contrary
to routine, the
next message preceded
the event: ONE
MORE. ALL SHOULD
THEN BE CLEAR.
The
extra body was
the shapely one
of Xanthe Petropolou
who served moussaka
and chips along
with other hybrid
delicacies to
the appreciative
patrons of her
parents’
Akropolis cafe
on Kilburn High
Street. Whatever
had been held
over her face
had suffocated
the life out of
it.
As
promised, this
was indeed the
last one. But
things were still
the opposite of
clear. Whatever
secret was in
the chummy communiqués
remained hidden.
‘Maybe
it’s all
one big joke.’
Then
came another letter,
the same only
different: handwritten,
with stamp attached
and postmark clear:
Un
couple de renards
bouleversait la
neige,
Piétinant
l’orée
du terrier nuptial;
Au soir le dur
amour révèle
à leurs
parages
La soif cuisante
en miettes de
sang.
This
French made Dunphy
pull a face and
mutter something
about Euro-nutters,
especially after
Fox with some
help from his
Harrap’s
dictionary had
come up with a
translation:
A
pair of foxes
churned up the
snow,
Trampling the
approach to the
nuptial earth.
In the evening,
their harsh love
revealed around
them
Their burning
thirst in gobbets
of blood.
‘What’s
all that about,
then?’
‘I
don’t know,’
said Fox, who
did. ‘But
I’ll be
out of town tomorrow,
so you can hold
the fort.’
The
next morning saw
Fox lurching from
Paddington to
Oxford in a train
that moved in
fits and starts
with a lengthy
and unexplained
delay near Reading.
It was the first
time he’d
been back to Cowley’s
Latin Quarter
since he came
down all those
years ago with
a starred First
in Classics, a
distinction that
in the force had
brought him nothing
but repetitive
ribbing: whenever
there was a ram-raid
in Camden Town’s
‘Little
Cyprus’
or a knifing in
Greek Street,
the cry would
go up, ‘Send
for Fox.’
He’d
telephonically
prearranged to
meet Ronald Fox
who preferred
the college porter
not know he was
being visited
by a policeman
all the way from
London in an old
pub they both
knew down an obscure
lane running away
- who could blame
it? - from St.
Aldates. Being
decrepit and unendorsed
by student taste,
it served good
beer and outstandingly
thick sandwiches.
Despite
the passage of
time, neither
Fox needed a green
carnation or obtruded
copy of Greece
& Rome to
identify the other.
Their name did
not relate them,
the vulpine homonym
was just a fluke,
it was their undergraduate
history that provided
the links. They
had read the same
subject, lived
in the same college,
and for a season
shared the same
bed until John
Fox had put an
end to that just
before he sensed
Ronald Fox was
going to, after
which John Fox
had never been
known to sleep
with any one of
any sex.
Such
points as they
wanted to come
to were reached
at once. ‘Why
the French letter?’
‘René
Char seemed appropriate.
I’ve been
following your
fortunes in the
public prints
with some interest.’
‘What
about your letter
games? I may not
keep up with the
Classical Quarterly,
but even these
days I would have
expected to see
something in The
Times about the
man who tracked
down the real
Homer.’
‘Not
as such. It’s
all teaching now.
Has been for years.
Ever since That
Woman’s
cuts. Wouldn’t
we all like to
cut her up one
fine night? No,
I’ve become
better at setting
problems than
solving them.
You remember Voltaire?
Judge a man by
the questions
he asks, not the
answers he gives.
Still, I thought
I might be able
to give you a
nudge. One kind
of sleuth to another,
as it were. I
assume you have
brought copies
with you?’
The
brown manilla
envelope containing
them was handed
over.
‘No
promises, but
I’ll be
in London the
day after tomorrow.
What is your address?
You won’t
want me coming
to the station.
Be at home around
ten p.m.’
John
Fox was. Ronald
Fox did not come
or call. There
were two visitors,
though. When he
answered the door
bell, the unexpected
one, a tall blonde
young woman who
looked as if she’d
stepped off Page
Three, marched
past him into
the room. When
her coat came
off, it was spectacularly
clear that she
had nothing on
underneath. Not
that a fully-dressed
female would have
been any less
a novelty in his
flat. Assuming
a tigressy crouch,
she proceeded
to do seven jumps,
as impressive
for what they
did for her as
the way she did
them. Every rise
into the air was
accompanied by
the shouting of
a letter - it
was all very different
from how they’d
been taught the
alphabet at Beacon
Street Mixed Infants,
Fox thought:
Give me an A!
Give me an L!
Give me an O!
Give me a P!
Give me an E!
Give me an X!
What have we got?
What
Fox had got, apart
from his answer,
after she resumed
her coat and exited
with a wordlessly
cheery wave, was
the job of explaining
this to Sergeant
Dunphy who was
standing behind
the just-open
bedroom door,
already at a loss
as to why after
all these years
he should have
received his maiden
invitation round
to the boss’
home.
The
stripogrammer
was hardly out
of the place when
it was established
via a telephone
exchange with
the sleepily grumpy
college porter
that Dr. Fox,
who had taken
early retirement,
was gone for good,
having travelled
to Heathrow very
early that morning
to catch a flight
for Buenos Aires
where he was intending
to marry and settle
down with that
graduate student
of his who came
from there.
‘So,
he was actually
in London today.
Well, he never
said in as many
words that he
would come to
see me.’
Dunphy,
who’d been
given a carefully
edited version
of events old
and new, only
grunted. He was
far more interested
in his superior’s
interpretation
of the unusual
spelling lesson
they’d just
had.
‘Not
hard, when it’s
served up on a
plate like that.
Though he did
play straight
with us. They’re
simply the initials
of each girl’s
first name, in
the order in which
they were killed.
A for Alice, L
for Loelia, and
so on. They add
up to ALOPEX,
which is Greek
for fox. I expect
I would have got
round to it eventually,
but it’s
a long time since
I thought Hellenically.’
‘I
suppose there’s
no way we can
get him back?’
said Dunphy, who
never had.
‘Shouldn’t
think so. You
know what those
countries are
like when it comes
to refugees and
extradition. Especially
if he’s
got himself a
native wife. Look
at Ronnie Biggs
in Brazil. And
we’ve hardly
been the Argies’
blue-eyed boys
since Port Stanley.
No, we’re
scuppered, and
he knows it. Still,
the killing is
over, and it’ll
be yesterday’s
headlines when
I bow out, so
if he was trying
to spoil that
for me, he’s
only partly succeeded.’
‘You
think he killed
six girls just
to mess up your
retirement?’
‘There’s
rather more to
it than that.
We were at Oxford
together; that
explains a lot.
I’m sure
he’s never
forgiven me for
winning the Hertford
and Ireland over
him. There’s
no need to look
at me as though
I were Inspector
Morse. Those are
the two top prizes
for classics men.
Then there was
some personal
business which
we needn’t
go into. I know
after all this
time revenge was
a very cold dish
for him to eat,
but cold food
can be as tasty
as hot, and he
had to wait for
his own retirement
to be able to
skip off to safety
like that. No,
we’ll let
him go quietly.
That way, at least
he’ll lose
the oxygen of
publicity, which
should be a big
disappointment
for him.’
Nothing
could be done
officially. But
thanks to an Interpol
contact who owed
a favour, it wasn’t
hard to pinpoint
where in Buenos
Aires the fugitive
had settled down
to marital bliss.
Then Fox went
to the family
of the last victim,
and gave them
such particulars
as were needed.
The father was
too ill, but his
wife and two other
daughters were
able and very
willing. Fox dug
deeply into his
own holiday fund.
He hadn’t
to wait long before
the stipulated
postcard came
to him under the
special name he
used at a central
London poste restante
for clandestine
communications.
It showed a local
artist’s
vision of an English
fox hunt, indicating
that traditional
Argentine anglophilia
had not been completely
erased, or was
it just a left-over
in some street
corner kiosk?
What
mattered was its
message: FURIES
RULE OKAY.
When
it came to blood
vengeance, the
Greeks were hard
to beat. That
was one of many
things he and
his rival had
learned about
them at Oxford,
and some of the
Cypriot gang slayings
in north London
had reinforced
that image. He
trusted the women
to have announced
to Ronald Fox
who had sent them
before they did
whatever it was
they did, first
to his new bride
and then to himself.
They also posted
separately the
relevant clipping
from a Buenos
Aires English-language
newspaper. It
had been reticent
on detail, but
shudderingly quoted
the policeman
who found the
bodies that he
would never have
believed any human
being could do
such things to
another.
Now
retired, John
Fox has dug out
his old Oxford
Classical Texts
and spends his
time combing and
recombing the
Iliad and Odyssey
for acrostic clues
to the author,
the perpetrator
as it were, of
these works. So
far, no luck.
But he has the
time and the patience,
though his few
acquaintances
and fewer friends
are finding him
boring to the
point of obsessional
on the subject.
Dunphy is still
Sergeant Dunphy.
He gets on well
enough with his
new boss, who
is Fox neither
by name nor nature.
He has not retired.
He doesn’t
need to, for the
tumour that has
sat happily near
his brain for
years is now fast
expanding its
living space,
though apart from
his doctor no
one else including
Mrs. Dunphy knows
this. In his desk
at home, along
with his will,
there is a letter
addressed to his
former superior.
Dunphy is only
sorry he won’t
be there to see
Fox’s face
when he reads
it and learns
that his sergeant,
not his Oxford
rival, was the
bumper-off of
those women. Not
that he is a nutter.
They all deserved
it. Alice Jones
had stolen his
wallet after he’d
engaged her professional
services. Loelia
Trench was snootily
unhelpful when
he complained
about the failure
of one of Harrods’
green vans to
deliver a wedding
anniversary present
on the right day,
with consequent
spousal aggravation
that he could
have done without.
Oona Parish had
refused a room
to Dunphy and
the woman with
him who was very
obviously not
Mrs. Dunphy. Patsie
Reardon had told
him to get lost
when he asked
her to have a
drink with him
after her act.
Edna Fromm’s
last job had been
a Tesco’s
cashier; he’d
got her sacked
for the embarrassment
she’d caused
with the mistaken
accusation of
slipping a tin
of cling peaches
into his overcoat
pocket, but decided
that wasn’t
enough. Xanthe
Petropolou had
inverted a bowl
of bean soup into
his lap on his
first and last
visit to the Akropolis
cafe.
Yes,
he wrote, or rather
processed, all
the messages.
His scorn of the
new technology
is for station
ears only, partly
to get him out
of the increasing
number of time-consuming
computer file
searching jobs
handed down from
above. There are
plenty of places
in London where
you can go and
pay in cash by
the hour for on-the-spot
use of a machine.
The rigmarole
of the clues came
out of the programmes
he pretended to
ignore when Mrs.
Dunphy watched
them on the television.
He’d done
the Ripper bit,
which had made
him vomit, and
the rest by design
to wind up the
boss as much as
possible. All
that business
about foxes and
Oxford was - what
was that word
the ghoul Scrimshaw
liked to use?
- serendipity.
He hadn’t
had the faintest
notion that the
victims’
initials added
up to Fox in a
dead Euro-language.
©
2008 by Barry
Baldwin
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