Ripper

By Hannah Howe

“If you like psychological detective stories with a touch of humour and romance, you will love Sam Smith.”

"I love breaking the rules." - Cardiff Jack.

Someone was murdering prostitutes, placing their bodies in the Bay and covering them with roses. To the media, he was 'Cardiff Jack', to the rest of us he was a man to avoid and fear.

Meanwhile, I was searching for Faye Collister, a prostitute. Why was Faye, a beautiful woman from a privileged background, walking the streets? Why had she disappeared? And what was her connection to Cardiff Jack?

As questions tumbled into answers, I made a shocking discovery, a discovery that would resonate with me for the rest of my days.

Ripper - the story of a week in my life that reshaped the past, disturbed the present and brought the promise of an uncertain future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Goylake Publishing
• Release date: Aug 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311684899

Hannah Howe

Hannah Howe is the bestselling author of the Sam Smith Mystery Series (Sam's Song, book one in the series, has reached number one on the amazon.com private detective chart on seven separate occasions and the number one position in Australia). Hannah lives in the picturesque county of Glamorgan with her partner and their two children. She has a university degree and a background in psychology, which she uses as a basis for her novels.Hannah began her writing career at school when her teacher asked her to write the school play. She has been writing ever since. When not writing or researching Hannah enjoys reading, genealogy, music, chess and classic black and white movies. She has a deep knowledge of nineteenth and twentieth century popular culture and is a keen student of the private detective novel and its history.Hannah's books are available in print, as audio books and eBooks from all major retailers: Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Google Play, Kobo, iBooks, etc. For more details please visit https://hannah-howe.comThe Sam Smith Mystery Series in book order:Sam's SongLove and BulletsThe Big ChillRipperThe Hermit of HisaryaSecrets and LiesFamily HonourSins of the FatherSmoke and MirrorsStardustMind GamesDigging in the DirtA Parcel of RoguesBostonThe Devil and Ms DevlinSnow in AugustLooking for Rosanna MeeStormy WeatherDamagedEve’s War: Heroines of SOEOperation ZigzagOperation LocksmithOperation BroadswordOperation TreasureOperation SherlockOperation CameoOperation RoseOperation WatchmakerOperation OverlordOperation Jedburgh (to follow)Operation Butterfly (to follow)Operation Liberty (to follow)The Golden Age of HollywoodTula: A 1920s Novel (to follow)The Olive Tree: A Spanish Civil War SagaRootsBranchesLeavesFruitFlowersThe Ann's War Mystery Series in book order:BetrayalInvasionBlackmailEscapeVictoryStandalone NovelsSaving Grace: A Victorian MysteryColette: A Schoolteacher’s War (to follow)What readers have been saying about the Sam Smith Mystery Series and Hannah Howe..."Hannah Howe is a very talented writer.""A gem of a read.""Sam Smith is the most interesting female sleuth in detective fiction. She leaves all the others standing.""Hannah Howe's writing style reminds you of the Grandmasters of private detective fiction - Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and Robert B. Parker.""Sam is an endearing character. Her assessments of some of the people she encounters will make you laugh at her wicked mind. At other times, you'll cry at the pain she's suffered.""Sam is the kind of non-assuming heroine that I couldn't help but love.""Sam's Song was a wonderful find and a thoroughly engaging read. The first book in the Sam Smith mystery series, this book starts off as a winner!""Sam is an interesting and very believable character.""Gripping and believable at the same time, very well written.""Sam is a great heroine who challenges stereotypes.""Hannah Howe is a fabulous writer.""I can't wait to read the next in the series!""The Big Chill is light reading, but packs powerful messages.""This series just gets better and better.""What makes this book stand well above the rest of detective thrillers is the attention to the little details that makes everything so real.""Sam is a rounded and very real character.""Howe is an author to watch, able to change the tone from light hearted to more thoughtful, making this an easy and yet very rewarding read. Cracking!""Fabulous book by a fabulous author-I highly recommended this series!""Howe writes her characters with depth and makes them very engaging.""I loved the easy conversational style the author used throughout. Some of the colourful ways that the main character expressed herself actually made me laugh!""I loved Hannah Howe's writing style -- poignant one moment, terrifying the next, funny the next moment. I would be on the edge of my seat praying Sam wouldn't get hurt, and then she'd say a one-liner or think something funny, and I'd chuckle and catch my breath. Love it!""Sam's Song is no lightweight suspense book. Howe deals with drugs, spousal abuse, child abuse, and more. While the topics she writes about are heavy, Howe does a fantastic job of giving the reader the brutal truth while showing us there is still good in life and hope for better days to come."

Book preview

Chapter One

I was sitting in my office reading a local newspaper. Another prostitute had been murdered, the sixth in as many months. Dubbed ‘Cardiff Jack’ by the media, the murderer had a consistent modus operandi – first he knifed his victims then he placed their bodies in Cardiff Bay. He completed his ritual by covering the corpses with red and white roses, possibly a moment of contrition after the emotional release of the violent act.

Following a habit I had cultivated from the dawn of my enquiry agency, I clipped the item from the newspaper and placed it in my filing cabinet. Many of these newspaper clippings yellowed with age without seeing the light of day, while others did contain a nugget of information, details that shed light on a particular case.

I closed my filing cabinet, stroked Marlowe – a stray who’d made himself at home as my office cat – then considered my caseload for the coming week. For some reason, I was in demand: I had a report to prepare for Fry, Gouldman and Fletcher, Solicitors; legal papers to serve on behalf of Godley and Fenn, another firm of solicitors; had to photograph the scene and interview witnesses for a legal case relating to a traffic accident; run a background check on a potential lover, a man my client had met on the Internet; and investigate a suspected bigamist. I enjoyed my vocation and was grateful for my clients’ patronage, but if this volume of work continued then I’d have to hire an assistant.

I was mulling over that point, juggling the financial implications in my head, when an old friend entered my office. I looked up from my desk and smiled. Hi, Julie; how are you?

Okay, I guess. Julie Wilkins hesitated, then she sat on my client’s chair.

A local woman in her mid-thirties, Julie was a single mother with a teenage daughter and two younger children. She worked as a part-time shop assistant and, to make ends meet, occasionally walked the streets at night. Dyslexic, and with a limited education, Julie had been calling on me for the past five years, sometimes to chat, most times to ask my advice about official letters. She had a brown envelope in her hand today, which meant another ‘reading lesson’.

Julie crossed her legs. She pulled her skirt over her knees then asked, haltingly, You got a minute, Sam?

Sure. How can I help you today?

Julie glanced around my office, at my clean vinyl flooring, recently laid, at a vase of carnations adorning a filing cabinet and at Marlowe, who was curled up, asleep on my desk. Eventually, Julie made eye contact with me before offering up a nervous smile. You look very smart, Sam; that waistcoat and pencil skirt really suits you.

Thanks, I smiled in turn. You look good too.

Oh, I don’t know about that, Julie shrugged modestly. She ran a hand over her floral blouse and pleated skirt. These are just bits and pieces I made myself; I’m no fashion plate; I’m certainly not as smart as you.

You do yourself a disservice, Julie.

She shrugged again, then looked away, somewhat shyly. You’re always saying that.

Well, I reasoned, it’s true.

Julie gazed down to her scuffed shoes, her expression thoughtful, her eyes hooded. When she looked up, her features brightened and the years of suffering faded from her careworn face. Maybe I could make something for you, she suggested.

A skirt?

Yeah. She hesitated. If you don’t mind...

I’m a size ten.

Julie giggled. I wish I had a figure like you.

A vegetarian diet and an active life, I reasoned.

Maybe I’ll go veggie. Julie’s brow furrowed in concentration as she pondered that point. I could do with losing a few pounds. Truth to tell, Julie was as slim as a rake, but I let the moment pass. Coming out of her reverie, she nodded and said, A skirt then, size ten; I’ll do that for you.

Great, I replied. I’ll pay you.

No, Julie shook her head. You do enough for me as it is.

Julie, I admonished, you saved my life; I can never do enough for you.

That comment was true. Recently, Julie had saved my life when she’d wandered into my office to find me on the floor in a pool of blood. A would-be assassin had placed a bullet in my shoulder. Fortunately, the bullet had caused no lasting damage, the would-be assassin had been identified and a reminder of that painful moment had been removed, thanks to my new vinyl flooring. Julie had saved my life and I’d be forever in her debt.

I’ve had another letter, Julie mumbled, placing the brown envelope on my desk, from the loan company. I was wondering...could you read it for me...

Sure. I picked up the envelope and read the letter. Its contents were a disgrace; the loan company charged Julie an exorbitant amount of interest on a modest loan. Indeed, she’d repaid her initial loan twice over and now was in debt to the interest. Under the terms of the loan, it would take Julie years to repay that interest. I dropped the letter on to my desk in disgust. Is this thing legal? I asked. Then, with a shake of my head, I added, You should have a word with a solicitor.

Someone at the food bank put me on to someone else, Julie mumbled. It’s legal, he said. I have to find the money by next week or they’ll start repossessing my white goods. She sighed and the careworn expression returned to her face. It’s the kids, you see...I can’t see them without...

Loan companies...greedy bastards, I replied, handing the letter to Julie.

I should never have signed the agreement, she conceded.

And this... Julie swapped one brown envelope for another, pulling the second envelope from her large, plastic shoulder bag. This is from the government.

I read the second letter, then offered a heavy sigh. They’re stopping your tax credits.

Oh, hell... Julie bit her bottom lip. Tears welled in her eyes. Unsuccessfully, she tried to blink them away.

What are you going to do? I asked while offering Julie a paper tissue from my desk drawer.

She shrugged, blew her nose then replied, Go back on the street for a few nights; that should take care of this month’s repayment, at least.

I glanced towards the local newspaper and my mind replayed the article about Cardiff Jack. It’s not safe on the street, Julie.

She forced up a laugh, making light of her predicament. Cardiff Jack goes after pretty girls...he wouldn’t be interested in me.

Although Julie was no oil painting, again, she was offering herself a disservice. Slim and of modest height, she had dark, collar-length hair, greying at the roots, hair that contained a natural wave. Her eyes were dark brown while her face, despite a pock mark on her chin, was pleasant and attractive.

I repeated my earlier comment. You do yourself a disservice, Julie, in many ways.

She looked away. After placing her moist tissue in my wastepaper basket, she forced up another smile, wriggled on my client’s chair until comfortable then, sheepishly, made eye contact with me again. I’m here for another reason, she admitted, besides the letters. It’s my friend, Faye; she’s disappeared.

A... ‘Prostitute’, I was about to say. But I modified my language, ...street girl?

Julie gazed at Marlowe, then over my shoulder to my office window. Her sad eyes suggested that her thoughts were as grey as the March sky, that she was contemplating the nights ahead and potential clients.

Faye has more class than me, Julie replied. She’s got a pimp, and all. She’s more of a call girl, a hostess. Julie blinked. She blushed slightly, then glanced in my direction. Can you ask around after her? She added in a small voice, I can’t pay you.

I’ll ask around, don’t worry about the money. I placed a notepad in front of me, on the desk and prepared to write. What can you tell me about Faye?

Julie frowned. She picked nervously at the hem of her skirt. What do you want to know?

What does she look like?

Very pretty. Julie’s face brightened, revealing her true nature, her beautiful soul. Faye’s got these natural ringlets, golden they are. She’s tall, great figure. She wanted to be a model, but it didn’t work out for her, don’t know why. When you see her, you’ll know her; she really stands out.

How long has Faye been a call girl? I asked while making a note of her description.

Not long. Tell you the truth, I don’t think her heart is really in it. Some of the girls say her mother is loaded, so I don’t know why she doesn’t ask her for a sub. Something about a falling out between them, or something; her parents are divorced and she doesn’t have anything to do with her dad.

When did you last see Faye?

About a week ago.

Has she been away for a week or more before?

Julie shook her head. Not since I’ve known her.

And she didn’t mention taking a break somewhere, a holiday?

Nah. We’d arranged to meet up, last Thursday, but she didn’t show. I think something’s happened to her...

I tapped my pen thoughtfully against my lower lip. Cardiff Jack sprang to mind and to judge from Julie’s troubled expression, the modern-day Ripper was casting a shadow over her thoughts as well.

Faye’s mother...what’s her name? I asked.

Nadine, Nadine Collister. She runs an antique shop in Swansea, so Faye said. Nadine lives near Birchgrove, in a big house.

I’ll track Nadine down and have a word with her. I looked up, at Julie, my smile offering a semblance of hope. Maybe Faye’s decided to lie low for awhile and spend some time with her mother.

Maybe, Julie replied, her tone noncommittal. She stood, then wandered towards my office door. At the door, she paused and said, Thanks, Sam. I’m ever so grateful.

Stay safe, Julie.

She nodded. I will. Just a few more nights, then I’ll quit the street walking for good.

Chapter Two

After searching through the phone book, I found Nadine Collister’s business and home address. It was late afternoon and with a forty-mile journey in front of me, I decided to visit Nadine at home.

I drove along the M4, to Birchgrove on the outskirts of Swansea, Wales’ Second City. Nadine lived in an up-market area, in a large detached house surrounded by tennis courts, a golf driving range and a recreation ground. The house itself had a grey slate roof and whitewashed walls. Sprawling and opulent, Nadine Collister’s house was clearly a millionaire’s abode. Which begged the question – why would Faye turn her back on this luxury and choose instead to offer herself as a call girl? While I pondered that point, my gaze wandered over the ivy – cultivated to cover one section of the ground floor wall – the patio doors, the leaded windows and, to my left, ornate columns that supported a covered walkway, leading towards a vast acreage of garden.

Despite the ostentatious affluence, no security was visible. Indeed, the front gate was open. So I made my carefree way along the drive, up to the front door. At the door, I rang the bell and listened to a series of melodic chimes. Then I stepped back in surprise as a forty-something woman, dressed in a skimpy black bikini, opened the door and greeted me with smiling eyes.

Can I help you? she asked.

Mrs Collister? I frowned.

Yes, she smiled.

My name is Sam, Sam Smith. I’m an enquiry agent. I’ve been hired to find your daughter, Faye. I was wondering...could we have a chat...

Nadine Collister paused. She eyed me up and down, made a quick mental assessment, then invited me into her house. Come in. We can chat, as long as you don’t mind talking while I have my evening swim. She fluttered her long eyelashes flirtatiously. I could find you a costume, if you’d like to join me.

Thanks, I declined politely, but I don’t swim. I’ll sit this one out.