Chapter 66

JACK’S LETTERS

Roy Hanbury was purple with rage.

Times like these, Jesus turned a blind eye. Or maybe Hanbury’s cold heart became too hot for the Almighty to handle. Because if anyone tried to lay a hand on his daughter or his granddaughter, he would murder them. Just like he should have murdered the one who killed Rachel. He had wanted to. He was going to hunt him down and torture him to death.

But then the Old Bill nabbed Hanbury over the Stepney raid.

Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was heavenly intervention. Maybe it was two pillocks who failed to follow orders.

Whatever it was, he’d ended up doing time and Ernie Page came along with his Bible and Hanbury’s hate dwindled.

But now it was back. And it was volcanic.

The eruption occurred when Jasmine told him the killer stalking Barrowmore intended to kill her and her mum.

At first he had tried to comfort her. They were sitting on the sofa together, and he put a big arm around her small body. “You been watching too many scary movies, babe.”

Tash had taken a batch of old letters and notebooks with her into the bedroom, but some remained in the living room, scattered about. And Jasmine had showed them to Hanbury.

“He wants to kill us, Grandad,” said Jasmine. “Mum and me, we’re seers. Just like Bet Cooper. Just like Jonas Troy. And Jack the Ripper, he’s going to kill us like he killed all those women in 1888.”

Hanbury felt the hate bubble up, and it nearly made his head explode. He read a copy of a letter supposedly sent by Jack the Ripper to Central News Limited, a news agency, on September 25, 1888. The sheet on which it was written was turning yellow. The letter had been typed. The ink smudged. The words said, “The next job I do I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly . . . ”

Hanbury trembled with fury.

An image stained his mind, and it was there to stay—this fucker slicing little Jasmine’s ears off, her shrieking, and him too far away to save her.

Hanbury read on.

“My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance.”

He put the letter back on the coffee table. A pile of them were stacked there, along with a notebook and clippings from old newspapers

“You’re very red, Grandad,” said Jasmine.

“I’m angry, darlin’.”

“With me?”

He stroked her hair. “No, sweetheart, never. With . . . with this fella. This man who . . . I tell you, if he tried to hurt you or your mum, he’s going to feel my wrath. No more Mr Nice Roy. No more.”

“Well be okay, won’t we?”

“You will, darlin’’ girl, you will.”

He reached for another letter. This one had been sent once more to the news agency and was dated October 5, 1888. His eyes skimmed the words.

“ . . . for the women of Moab and Midian shall die, and their blood shall mingle with the dust . . . ”

Hanbury cursed.

He could feel his trust in God, his faith in Jesus ebb, away.

Ernie Page’s words came back to him.

“It’s a blanket, brother. A shield. To be honest with you, I can’t say if it’s the truth or not. But some of it sounds good. And a fear of God, or whatever’s up there in heaven, keeps us in check.”

He could feel Christ in his heart. He was convinced Jesus was there, making him good. Saving his soul. Believing in God made it easy for him to accept what these letters suggested—that there was a supernatural element to what was happening. Accepting the true God made it easier to accept other gods, and also ghosts, UFOs . . . and psychics.

Seers.

He’d always known his wife had a gift. She could see things coming. Often she’d warn him, “Don’t go to the meet tonight, Roy; there’s going to be trouble.”

He’d ignore her concerns, her tears, and keep the appointment. It would usually be with another villain. Settling debts. Buying drugs or weapons. Exchanging prisoners. Things would normally go without a hitch. But when Rose warned him there would be trouble, she was right. She had foresight. She had a gift. And because he was a bastard back then, he’d disregarded her and her knack for prediction.

He should have got her to forecast some winners for him, because he always lost on the horses.

But then she was gone. The fury came again, rising up from somewhere deep inside him. The place where sin still lurked. He quelled the rage by thinking about Jesus. He tried to feel his savior’s warmth. He’d known it before. It had healed him. It had cleansed him of malice. Or so he thought.

He’d been right when he told the probation officer that evil was in his genes.

It only needed a trigger to reactivate it.

And here was that trigger.

A threat to his family. And a determination not to back down like he did when Rachel had been killed.

Forgive me, Lord, he thought, but you and me are finished for the time being. Get me through this, I might come back. Fuck it up and let my babies die, I’ll fucking hunt you down to heaven and crucify you again.

He got up and strode over to the bedroom door to get Faultless.