Foster took the job of scouring through the newspaper volume. He turned over the pages until he reached the next edition, dated Friday April nth.
'Here we go,' he said.
Heather came and looked over his shoulder. Nigel stayed where he was, staring at the microfilm reader he'd just been brought.
THE KENSINGTON HORRORS:
YET MORE OUTRAGES
Once more, last Saturday morning in Notting Dale, came another of those sadly terrible scenes with which the area has become only too accustomed during the past two weeks.
To describe the event as clearly and succinctly as possible, it is necessary to describe the location which has been the scene of this latest crime. Saunders Road, an incomplete terrace under construction in the heart of the new Norland Town, stands directly west of the West London Junction railway line, in what was until recently deserted commons and farmland.
Last Friday night the occupants of Saunders Road knew little of the horror that took place only yards from where they sought repose, and the throw of a stone from the Norland Castle, where Reverend Booth and his Salvationists are seeking to win hearts and mend the ways of the local poor. As the residents of that quiet street slept soundly abed, the butchered body of poor John Allman, an Irish-born commercial traveller, aged 38, of nearby Stebbing Street, a devoted father of three, was hidden on a small patch of wasteland at the western corner of the terraced street. The next day, around midday, one of the occupants seeking air on a constitutional was met with the awful sight of Mr Allman's corpse face down beneath the detritus!
Reports suggest Allman, a man of repute and good standing among neighbours despite a known liking for drink, had been making his way home from the Queen's Arms tavern at the junctions of Queen's and Norland Road when he was attacked by the ghoul.
Like his poor three fellow victims, a stab wound to the abdomen was enough to ensure his demise.
Despite the police's unwillingness to confirm the atrocity, the news spread that the Kensington murderer had been at his ghastly work again, and within an hour, the environs surrounding Saunders Road were closed to the public by cordons of police.
Bedlam then ensued. As night fell, a gang of roughs wielding torches waded across the boundary into Shepherd's Bush Common, upon hearing of a mendicant smeared with blood in that vicinity. Assuming him to be the culprit, they went in search, terrorizing the filthy scores of unwashed who live their pitiful lives upon the patch of land known as the Green.
Encountering a terrified gypsy, the bloodthirst of the mob caused them to beat him almost senseless. The poor soul, believed to be innocent, perished of his injuries.
Foster paused in his reading. 'Here he goes again,' he said, a sadness in his voice.
Heather whispered her disbelief behind him.
Alas, it is with great sadness yet increasing anger that we report that the Kensington Killer struck once again, bringing yet more fear and hysteria to our small part of the world. Fewer than 72 hours after the body of poor Allman was found, the lifeless figure of William Kelby, a draper in his fortieth year, was found in Powis Square by a passer-by as the bell of All Saints Church tolled for the first time after midnight on the 8th. His throat had been cut. That damned, demented spirit had been at his evil work once more before slipping back into the safety of the shadows.
The police have failed utterly in their attempts to prevent this ghoul butchering almost at will, the total now being five poor unfortunates slain by a single stab to the heart. Outsiders are beginning to regard North Kensington, Notting Hill and the Dale as dens of infamy so deep as to be impenetrable. We are one and all, so to speak, branded on our brows with the mark of Cain. That this stain has been fixed on the locality by reason of the crimes committed with such impunity in its area, who can doubt? And the police have had five crimes in which to obtain clues and catch the fiend, but have failed without question.
We request the culprit be caught. Nay, we, on behalf of our terrified readers, demand it.
Three victims in eight days, Foster thought. Five in two weeks. Even if there was little doubt, this confirmed his view that this was personal. A mere copycat would surely have selected a killer with a less hectic schedule.
The following week's edition announced that three days after the fifth victim was found, the police arrested a thirty-year-old crofter named Eke Fairbairn.
Barnes told him the meaning of the name was 'handsome child', which seemed cruel given the newspaper's description of Fairbairn as a 'giant', whose 'aspect was gruesome to behold'. A mob had gathered at the station in Notting Dale, hundreds of people baying for the suspect's life. A set of makeshift gallows had been erected.
The police made confident noises to the press about the arrest. The suspect's neighbours queued up to confirm that they had always known he was a bad one, that there had always been something shifty about him. He was single, but his mother and father, who shared his house, had been forced to flee the area, though whether as a result of shame or mob rule was not elucidated. Then the suspect was charged. The newspaper, previously incredulous at the police's incompetence, had reversed its position: the division and its senior detective in charge of the case were now being celebrated, albeit with one caveat. 'We trust a conviction will be secured,'
a leader thundered ominously.
Foster's mobile rang, sucking him back into the twenty-first century. It was Drinkwater.
'Andy,' Foster said.
'How's it going, sir?'
'He killed five times.'
Drinkwater let out a whistle. 'Two more to go, then.'
'What you after?'
'Just wanted to let you know that the first victim has been officially identified as Graham Ellis.'
'The ex-wife come up with anything interesting?'
'Not really. She had nothing to do with him over the last year of his life. Not an amicable divorce, apparently.'
'I presume someone's going through the firm's files to find out whether there's anything that links Ellis with Darbyshire and Perry?'
'A team's on its way to Cheshire as we speak.
There's one other thing: we've finally got the tox report on Darbyshire.'
'And?'
'Traces of GHB in his blood. PCP too.'
Foster knew 'liquid Ecstasy' - or 'Grievous Bodily Harm', as it was quirkily known on the street. Its original use was as a surgical anaesthetic, before word spread and people started to use it for weight loss.
Then it was picked up by clubbers sated by Ecstasy and seeking a different high. Widespread use had led to another, more sinister purpose: as a 'date rape'
drug that rendered victims incapable, coma-like. It was easy to get hold of these days, so this discovery hardly heralded a breakthrough. Though at least it shed light on the killer's MO.
'Enough to kill him?' he asked.
'No. Just enough to make him lose consciousness for a few hours. Williams and his team are at the pub now, and they seem intent on tracking down every GHB user in London.'
There would be a few of those. GHB was not just the drug of choice for those too ugly, shy or perverted to attract members of the opposite sex without knocking the object of their lust out, but also clubbers who wanted to shed their inhibitions.
'Makes sense,' he said eventually. 'Anything on the other two?'
'They reckon first thing tomorrow for Ellis, the day after for Perry, but Harris is telling everyone he's put a rocket up their arse to get the reports later today.'
'Tomorrow morning it'll be, then. Call me if anything else turns up.'
Foster snapped his phone shut.
'What's going on?' Heather asked.
'The ex-wife confirmed the tramp was Ellis. Which means, if the last sighting was correct, the killer held him for two months. Darbyshire tested positive for GHB. Which explains why he was able to hold Ellis for that length of time. That's a truckload of GHB, though.'