They’d tried their best, he was sure of that. But he was even more sure that there was no way they were going to stop him doing what he’d always intended to do. Because, after all, he was one step ahead. He had been all along.
Why did they think he’d sent the letter to that fat bitch journalist? Because it was pretty fucking clear they didn’t have two brain cells to rub between them and work out the link between him and the Ripper. He’d given it to them on a plate and they’d taken it hook, line and sinker.
He knew exactly what they’d be looking for. He knew because he’d practically told them to do it. He’d been careful from the start, sticking to his plan but ensuring that they’d never be able to pre-empt him. That was his job. The story needed to be finished. The canon needed to be completed, and no-one was going to stop him doing that.
Even an entire police force panicking for twenty-four hours was not going to scupper his plans. The plans he’d been laying down for years, carefully selecting his five — plus the all-important back-up lists, planning the locations and the methods.
He knew this town like the back of his hand. He knew its people. He knew its places. He knew, for example, that the Vincents on Meadow Hill Lane always left their gate unlocked. He’d spent an enormous amount of time scouring the town on Google Maps for a number 29 which even had a gate and large garden like that one. How he’d hit the jackpot when he found it! The three weeks of walking past each night and trying the gate to make sure it was unlocked were well worth it.
So far, that had been the trickiest part of his plan to execute. Forming his list of five — and the backups — hadn’t been difficult at all. It was just a matter of time, waiting for them to come to him.
He knew his point was being proven — he knew the modern police force was not much more advanced than the Victorian one — but he would not have put money on them being worse. He hadn’t gambled on his having to help them out as much as he had done.
He smiled and chuckled to himself as he considered this, feeling very proud of himself. As he did so, the woman murmured and started to move.
‘Now, now,’ he said, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder as she struggled against the silver tape that’d been used to bind her arms and legs as well as being placed over her mouth to stop her screaming. ‘You’re not going to be heard here, so I wouldn’t try that. You can squirm all you like. Adrenaline’s known to numb pain, but I must warn you that too much movement means the cuts won’t be so clean. They might actually hurt more.’ He smiled as he tied the handkerchief around her neck — not too tight.
The woman’s eyes were bloodshot, panicked, the tears streaming down her face as the man unsheathed his scalpel and brought it across her oesophagus. The woman started gurgling and wheezing through the new hole in her neck as her lungs pooled with blood.
‘You’re number three. That’s what they’ll call you. Of course, I wouldn’t be so callous. You’ll always be my Emma. The one they tried, so hard, to stop. The one who acquiesced so beautifully despite it all. I’ll always remember that.’
The words rang tinnily in her ears as death took her.