Murder by Sarah Pinborough Read Free Book Online Page A

absence.
    And so it was with a slight spring in my step that I came out of the police station, my thoughts on happier things than poor Miss Camp’s battered body.
    ‘Dr Bond!’ Newsmen all had the same tone, I had learned over years of working alongside the police: a blend of aggression and hunger as they vocally jostled for attention. ‘Dr Bond! Just a minute of your time, please. What can you tell us about Elizabeth Camp’s death? Do you think the killer will strike again?’
    I scanned the street for a hansom, but luck was not with me.
    ‘I’m afraid I have to get back to Westminster.’ I turned, irritated, and stared at the reporter. ‘You should direct yourquestions to Superintendent Robinson of the railway police.’
    ‘I expect I should.’ The man grinned. ‘But I helped you before, Dr Bond – in the vault at Whitehall, remember? Thought maybe you could return the favour.’
    I stared for a long moment before suddenly I recognised Jasper Waring, the reporter who had persuaded Henry Moore to let his dog search the vault of the building at New Scotland Yard where the torso had been found. The dog had done better than the police bloodhounds, for it had uncovered an arm and a leg.
    ‘Smoker,’ I said, the dog’s name coming from somewhere buried deep in my subconscious. ‘How is he?’
    ‘Dead a couple of years.’ Waring lit a cigarette and offered me one, but I shook my head. ‘He was a good dog – won’t be another like him.’
    ‘He did well for us, I won’t deny.’ I looked around once again for a hansom, not entirely sure how to continue this conversation. The past had become determined to engulf me of late, and Jasper Waring and his terrier belonged in my memory and not my present. ‘But I’m afraid I still cannot divulge any of my findings to you with regard to Miss Camp’s death.’
    ‘It was worth a try, though.’ He grinned again, and I could not help but smile back. He had not aged, and I wondered if chasing the news somehow made men immune – it was as if they remained untouched, impartial observers of life.
    ‘Savage, wasn’t it?’ he continued. ‘Reminds me a bit of Jack – attacking a woman like that, with no motive, in a public place. No wonder people are scared.’
    His light tone did not deceive me. He was trying to lure me into revealing something.
    ‘As I said,’ I commented dryly, ‘you will need to address your questions to the Superintendent, or attend the inquest.’
    He laughed, a warm earthy sound. ‘Right you are, Doctor. Right you are. And I don’t blame you fellows for not wanting another Jack on our streets. I know how hard you and that other doctor worked.’
    Finally a hansom rounded the street and I waved him down.
    ‘I worried about him for a while, if I’m honest,’ Waring continued. ‘Walking the streets of Whitechapel like that – those dead women must’ve right haunted him.’
    I had only been half-listening, but at that I frowned. ‘I’m sorry? Who was walking the streets?’
    ‘That other doctor – Hebbert. I saw him, scruffed down a bit, but definitely him. Saw him a couple of times. We were always out that way during that time, had to be really. Sometimes I forget how much you surgeons help the police – and the things you see … Well, you must have strong stomachs, that’s all I can say.’
    ‘Yes,’ I said, forcing a smile onto my face as a chill settled into my stomach, ‘I suppose we must.’ I pulled the cab door open and tipped my hat at him. ‘Well, I bid you good day, Mister Waring, and I wish you good luck with the Superintendent.’
    I kept the smile until I’d sat back in the seat and the wheels were rolling underneath me, and then it dropped like a stone. What had Charles Hebbert been doing in Whitechapel during that time? Had he been taking the opium too? If so, it was highly unlikely that our paths had not crossed, for though the periodicals might imply otherwise, the streets of London were not teeming with