Trouble & Strife Read online

  You could really do with knowing which book it was that interested him so much.

  Pamela couldn’t help it; she made a mental note to check once he’d moved away, which he did a short time later, walking back to the table, picking up another pile and heading off in a different direction. She came out from behind the counter and idled into the Library. He was already at the far end of the room, back turned as he worked his way along the Romance shelves. She made an immediate beeline for Thrillers, eyes fixed on the spine of the book in question. It would be something daft, she was sure. He’d been laughing at something silly. She might even be amused herself. So thinking, she yanked the item out.

  It was called: Jack the Knife.

  Its cover depicted a leather-gloved hand holding a blood-stained blade to a heaving cleavage.

  It purported to be: The absolute final word on the Jack the Ripper murders.

  Pamela spent twenty minutes in late-morning in the Stock Room, hammering nails through the frame of the loose window panel. She didn’t have much expertise, so a couple of the nails went askew, and she struck one of the others so hard that the glass cracked. She wasn’t unduly worried. Of far greater concern was the situation out there, with Alan Kyper.

  After identifying the book, she’d struggled just to face him again.

  He appeared not to notice her tense behavior, and after putting all the new books into their rightful places, chatted on for the next hour or so, mainly about nothing. One or two customers came in, and he dealt with them efficiently. A young, studious-looking woman had a bagful of battered old Mills & Boons and asked if they had a copy of The Town and the City by Jack Kerouac, which she could take away in exchange. Pamela wouldn’t have known where to start, but Alan guided the woman straight to Modern Classics, where, though they didn’t find The Town and the City, he made her happy by giving her a copy of The Dharma Bums, its original 1958 cover only mildly creased. The lady thanked him profusely as he then accompanied her to the door, talking about Kerouac’s work intelligently and interestingly.

  That was the point when Pamela went to fix the window, loudly explaining that it needed to be done, because though Book-a-Thon received an annual grant from the Council, running costs were always tight. It was colder outside now, and they couldn’t afford to let warm air just drain away. He shrugged, as though it made sense but seemed puzzled that she’d felt the need to explain this to him. Another customer then came in, and he immediately and ingratiatingly took charge of her. Pamela withdrew, not just unnerved by the conundrum that was their new staff member, but feeling a little surplus to requirements.

  Doesn’t surprise you that he’s a show-off, does it? They are all about ego, these fellas. That’s what that psychiatrist bloke said on the news the other night. Before you panicked and left the room.

  When Pamela re-emerged later, it was almost noon and Mr. Banks came in, pulling off his woolen gloves as he hunched towards the counter.

  Immediately, she realized that she’d made a mistake.

  The old man was here to read the dailies, but Mrs. Brody had always been the one to bring the newspapers in. Pamela could have done that this morning, but she’d been so keyed up that it had never entered her head. Providing newspapers wasn’t really part of the Book-a-Thon service, but they were at the heart of a community drive here—there were all sorts of leaflets and posters about other events and services—and the thinking had always been that any reason to get people in would be a good one.

  The old man looked disappointed when she broke the news, seeming only mildly placated by her promise that she wouldn’t forget tomorrow.

  ‘Police everywhere out there,’ he grunted. ‘Never seen so many. Cars on every corner, bobbies going door-to-door. Not much good now though…with the lass dead’

  ‘Hopefully the fact they’re out there will prevent any more attacks,’ Pamela replied.

  ‘I wouldn’t count on that,’ someone interrupted. It was Mr. Kyper. He’d just seen another satisfied customer to the door, and now ambled to the counter to join them. ‘Serial killers don’t tend to stop until they get caught. I mean, they’re hunted by the law wherever they go, but often it doesn’t even slow them down. It’s like it’s a vocation for them.’

  Mr. Banks eyed him curiously. ‘Well…I hope they catch this bugger soon. No good for Brookshaw, you know. Anyway…’ he sighed and pulled his gloves on, ‘I’ll be on my way.’

  He turned and lumbered out.

  ‘I must say, you’re all taking it pretty well,’ Mr. Kyper said. ‘On the whole.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Pamela replied.

  ‘The cops are up and down these streets like boy-racers, but everyone else in Brookshaw seems pretty relaxed about the murders.’

  ‘Well…there’s only been one here, hasn’t there?’

  ‘Two if you count that student, Sarah Galloway.’

  ‘That was on the outskirts of town,’ Pamela said. ‘Halfway to Bury.’

  He seemed unimpressed by the argument. ‘None of the four have actually been that far from here. I’m sorry, but Brookshaw feels like Ground Zero to me.’

  ‘Ground Zero?’

  He leaned on the counter. ‘There’s a theory in criminal psychology that serial killers only hunt in areas they’re familiar with. That’s not just so they can make quick getaways. It’s because it’s their turf…you know, their domain.’

  Pamela was too uncomfortable with the subject to keep discussing it. ‘Let’s hope he gets caught soon.’

  ‘Though, of course, it could be somewhere they’ve staked out. You know, somewhere they’ve travelled to…like a foreign land they wish to conquer.’

  Christ’s sake, he’s all but coughing to it.

  Pamela was tempted to leave the premises there and then. But Mr. Kyper moved back into the Library, where he seemed content to remain, dealing with those few customers who came in, again affecting a charming manner and proving knowledgeable about books and writers.

  In so many ways, that was just the kind of thing they needed here…

  He’s plausible, for sure. But isn’t that something else the TV shrink said you should look out for? Plausibility.

  But plausible or not, he was undeniably useful. He happily volunteered to stay on while Pamela retired to the kitchen to warm a Pot Noodle.

  As she sat at the kitchen table and ate, she again told herself that she’d behaved ridiculously. Even that awful book, Jack the Knife, had caused her to overreact. The cover was horrible, but most likely that was because it dated from a different, less tasteful era.

  And he’d found it funny.

  Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d just been amused by the lurid thoughtlessness of it.

  This reminded her that he’d erroneously put that book into Thrillers, when it should be in with True Crime. She’d move it at the first opportunity but didn’t want to do that while Kyper was watching.

  You mean he might feel slighted? That he’ll have an actual reason to cut you up?

  No immediate opportunity arose.

  After Pamela had returned to the counter, Kyper ate a sandwich, but did so while seated in the Library. Outside meanwhile, a very autumnal day was manifesting. Spatters of rain hit the windows, leaves twirling by. A sky, which had been grey and heavy from first thing, deepened in tone. By 3 p.m. they’d had to turn the lights on. No more customers came in.

  ‘You can tell the hour’s gone back,’ he commented, wandering to the counter. ‘It’s getting dark already, and it’s not four yet.’

  Pamela acknowledged this with a nod.

  ‘Don’t think we’ve had anyone in for the last hour,’ he said.

  ‘It’s usually better on Saturdays,’ she replied.

  ‘All these books. I’m tempted to have a browse. But if I start now, I’ll likely never stop.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any harm having a browse,’ she said, hoping that it would make him leave her alone. ‘And if you se
e something you fancy, just take it…’

  Could have used better terminology there, girl.

  ‘I mean,’ she added quickly, ‘we’re donating our time being here, so it’s not as if you haven’t earned the right to take a couple of books.’

  He mused on that. ‘There are other things I could do with my time while I’m here…if that’s acceptable? I mean, as long as there are no customers in.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I’ll have a browse first, though.’ He moved away. ‘Like you say. Can’t do any harm.’

  Pamela sidled to the arched window to watch. If he’d made a beeline for Jack the Knife, she wasn’t sure how she’d feel. But instead, he had a general wander, checking casually along various other shelves.

  Perhaps it was time to remove temptation altogether.

  That vile book ought to go in True Crime, but maybe the best place for it was the bin.

  Yeah. You never know…it might demoralize him so much that he stops killing.

  ‘Shut up,’ she muttered, strolling into the Library, and, noting that his back was turned, shooting quickly over to Thrillers, snatching the offending item from its perch.

  Gingerly, she leafed through the pages as she took it back behind the counter. If it was a decent piece of writing—a scholarly work rather than garish titillation—she might grant it a stay. But if not…she halted, shocked, when she saw that someone, a previous owner, had gone to work on it with a pencil, inscribing notes in the margins, even underlining certain passages. Movement drew her eye to the arched window, where Kyper was walking back across the Library. Hastily, she took the book down the staff corridor and ducked into the toilets. There were two cubicles in there, and she locked herself into the second one, lowering the lid and sitting. Increasingly fearful, she flipped the pages again.

  Some bits of text had been underlined with such force that the paper had torn.

  …throat cut so savagely that the windpipe was completely severed…

  …disemboweled, the guts arrayed around her in a gory pattern…

  Pamela fought to tell herself that this was the work of some silly teenager, some daft kid who’d got childishly excited by gore. But then, another sentence that had been underlined almost made her choke.

  …. recently released from a lunatic asylum…

  Her thoughts strayed back to Kyper.

  What was that term he used…that he ‘wasn’t connecting with human beings’? Obviously not, if he was cooped up in a nut-hatch.

  She had to violently fight down her panic.

  This book was nothing to do with Alan Kyper. He’d only handled the thing for a moment. After that, she’d kept an eye on him, and he hadn’t been anywhere near the Thrillers shelves.

  Apart from when you went off and nailed that window closed.

  New fear gripped her. But again, with a little common sense, she was able to get on top of it. These pencil marks were old and faded. They couldn’t be anything to do with Kyper.

  But could they be evidence of some other sort?

  Might the police be interested?

  She tried rejecting that idea too, telling herself that it was an old book—it dated from the 1970s, in fact—about a completely different series of murders. The fact that someone had shown an unusual degree of interest in the graphic nature of the crimes would not be unusual either. It could have been one of these so-called ‘Ripperologists’—ghoulish old men for the most part, she suspected—who continued to investigate the case from their armchairs.

  Feeling a little more relaxed, she flicked more pages. If there was a name scribbled in here, maybe, or even a date of ownership, then maybe that would put her mind at ease…

  Instead, she found a final note from the author:

  It is my conviction that, thanks literally to the nickname he was given, Jack the Ripper lives in criminal eternity. Whether he chose that name himself or was christened thus by a journalist looking to blow the story up into something much larger than a mundane murder case, we shall never know. But it wasn’t the only name he went by; there were numerous others. For a brief time, he was known as ‘the Whitechapel Murderer’. Then, after the Catherine Eddowes slaying, the newspapers called him ‘Leather Apron’. In the immediate decades following the case, children of the East End created their own names. One of these, initially part of a chant to accompany a skipping-rope game, afterwards became immortalized in the canon of Cockney rhyming slang:

  Mr. Kipper—Jack the Ripper

  Jack the Ripper—Mr. Kipper

  Mr. Kipper.

  Pamela turned so cold and faint that, if she hadn’t been sitting, she’d have fallen.

  Mr. Kipper…

  And a couple of rooms away in this same building, there was a man called…

  Mr. Kyper…

  It had to be coincidence. Pamela told herself this repeatedly as she sat on the toilet lid. It wasn’t as if his parents had named him in anticipation of his growing up to be a murderer.

  Suppose he’s given himself this name?

  That was a valid point.

  Book-a-Thon was a community project, not a company or charity where they had rules and regulations about making background checks on people they employed. Kyper wasn’t even officially employed. He could be anyone who’d walked off the street, having given himself any name he liked.

  If you can just get to your phone…it’s in your bag on the counter.

  Pamela stood up stiffly. But then had to check herself. What was she talking about…‘if she could get to her phone’?

  Of course she could get to her phone. And when she got to it, who was she going to call? Gerald? He’d merely tell her to get a grip.

  How about the police, genius?

  But even that didn’t seem like a plan. No doubt they were buried under work, those hundred detectives allegedly working the case, chasing every lead, their bosses running wild at headquarters as the public clamor grew.

  Maybe for that reason alone, they’ll want to come and check this guy?

  On reflection, it was possible. This would hardly be an urgent line of enquiry, but if they were leaving no stone unturned…

  Okay, she’d call the police.

  It wouldn’t make her life easy afterwards. If Kyper turned out to be completely innocent, it would be difficult continuing to work here with him, though like as not, he wouldn’t want to stay anyway, and if he did, Pamela wouldn’t. It was that simple.

  Closing the book as quietly as she could, though its pages seemed to rustle inordinately loudly, she left it on the cistern lid, and leaned towards the door to listen. There was no sound. She checked her watch—it was almost five, thank Heaven—and yet she was so deep inside the building that she couldn’t even hear the evening traffic. Not that this mattered. Kyper didn’t know that she suspected him yet. All she had to do was walk back to the counter, rummage in her bag, and walk here back again. He wouldn’t think anything of it.

  Unless, he’s already spotted that you took this book from the shelf.

  Pamela hovered there, flesh tingling.

  But even then, why would he worry? He couldn’t know that she’d used it to connect him to the crimes.

  Nervously, she unlocked the cubicle—again it echoed and re-echoed—and then moved to the toilet door, ears straining.

  Still, nothing.

  She poked her head out.

  At the Library end of the corridor, she saw the back of the counter. In the other direction, the Stock Room door stood ajar. There was no sign of movement either way.

  Is he lying in wait somewhere?

  Again, why would he? Just supposing he was exactly what she feared, why would he attack someone here, where he was lying low? That would blow his cover.

  True, but maybe he suspects that you’ve twigged him?

  Still not seeing how that was possible, Pamela forced herself out. Her phone was no more than twenty yards away. All she had to do was grab
it, bring it back…

  ‘I know I won’t be able to resist this one,’ a male voice said, somewhere behind her.

  Pamela turned slowly towards the Stock Room door.

  Don’t even ask if that was him. Who else could it be?

  But it had sounded so different. Gone was the casual tone. Gone was the easy, conversational style. Suddenly, he’d sounded intense, driven. And who was he talking to?

  He’s on the phone, obviously.

  ‘Soon as I get the chance, I’m going to do it,’ he said.

  Pamela felt faint with nausea.

  He’s got an accomplice. Isn’t that what they said about the original Ripper? That there might’ve been two of them?

  ‘It’ll be risky…and I won’t do it now,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to build up some credibility first. But I won’t be able to resist forever, and the longer I wait the better it’s going to be. When I’ve finished with this one, she’ll look like something off the back shelf of the butcher’s…’

  Pamela clamped a hand onto her mouth before squealing aloud. She wobbled where she stood, still thinking she was going to collapse, her weight travelling from one foot to the other—and a rogue floorboard creaking in response.

  The silence in the Stock Room was instant and eerie.

  You know he just heard that, don’t you?

  Feet thudded towards the door, and it opened inward—but Pamela had already tottered into the toilets, where she slid into the same cubicle as previously, closing the door again and bolting it.

  Feet came along the corridor. Inevitably, they halted outside.

  Pamela hung onto her breath desperately, vison blurred with tears of terror.

  The utter silence lingered.

  If he stuck his head in here, he’d see the cubicle locked, but might he just assume that she was answering nature’s call?