1940;
Victim number two: Henrietta
Clarke, 23, Manette Street, 22 nd May 1940;
Victim number three: Freda
Joanne Williams, 29, St Anne’s Court, 29 th May 1940;
Victim number four: Lorna
Elizabeth Yoxford, 32, Berwick Street, 5 th June 1940;
And then tonight.
Murphy hadn’t denied it.
Speculation seemed fair.
Victim number five: Rose
Wilkins, 17, Old Compton Street, 10 th June, 1940.
The first four had all been
strangled, then cut up. No sign of sexual interference on any of the bodies. No
sign of robbery. A rapist or a robber might have given Murphy something to go
on, even if it was only a filter with which they could fillet the index cards
at the Central Records Office. But there was no rape. Purses were left
untouched. No motive, except the purest and most terrifying: the Ripper just
hated women.
Henry had been the first
pressman to make the public connection between the first and second girls, a
week before Murphy admitted it. The rags needed a sobriquet for the killer and
tried out a few for size:
The Soho Strangler.
Jack the Stripper.
The Soho Slasher.
Soho Jack.
Henry christened him the
Black-Out Ripper on the front page of the Star on a wet Monday in May. The name
stuck.
He thought of D.I. Murphy.
He thought of Duncan Johnson.
Murphy’s prime suspect.
The smug face. The
silver-tongue. A psychopath with time served for manslaughter, assault and
rape. He had put his life story together: born 1893, Stepney. Convicted in ’35
for raping a secretary he met at the Captain’s Cabin; overpowered her in a Soho
doorway, buggered her, laughed as he did it. A police suspect for six other
rapes, but insufficient evidence prevented charges. Four years at Dartmoor, out
in ’39 despite the concerns of the medical staff. Henry had bribed an orderly
for his psychological evaluations: a genius IQ of 132, a personality described
as “aggressive narcissism” and a headshrinker’s summary that included words
like “glib, “grandiose sense of self-worth,” “pathological lying,” “lack of
remorse or guilt,” and “lack of empathy.” The shrink said he was dangerous, and
couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t do it again. It hadn’t been enough to keep him
locked up.
So they let him out.
Johnson found work as a
stevedore on the Royal Docks. For eight months he appeared to be going
straight. Then the murders started. His landlady reported him after finding a
bloodied shirt in his laundry. She’d read about the Ripper and said she was
suspicious, that he’d been acting strange and keeping irregular hours. Murphy
nicked Johnson and put the screws to him: interrogation for twenty hours
straight revealed nothing––he was a slippery customer and they couldn’t pin
anything on him.
He came straight to the Star and
asked for Henry. He was covered in bruises and burns. He told him everything.
Murphy had beaten him.
Murphy had pushed his head in
the khazi.
Murphy had ground lit cigarettes
on his arm.
Henry could see why Murphy was
fixated by him. He got under the skin. He was condescending. Smart words from a
smart mouth. He said he’d declined the offer of a brief in the station. He
didn’t need one, he enjoyed the experience, found it “interesting.” He said
he’d intimidated Murphy––that was why he’d assaulted him.
Henry wrote it up.
‘BLACK-OUT RIPPER’ SAYS POLICE
BEAT HIM
The story ran, with pictures.
Murphy was suspended.
The charges were investigated.
Johnson was lying. The injuries
were self-inflicted.
The charges were dismissed.
Murphy was reinstated.
He rolled another sheet of
foolscap into the typewriter and waited for the Benzies.
He thought of Old Compton
Street.
A dozen other hacks scooping
him.
Just setting out the facts was
for the birds.
He needed colour, bright
brushstrokes, a vivid picture.
Something different.
The pills buzzed.
He started to type.
The words came easily.
The clock showed midnight when
the familiar rumble rolled through the building.
Carol Wallace, Bill Wallance
Vic Ghidalia and Roger Elwood (editors)