The Piccadilly Butcher Part 1

By Stephen Shypitka

Profiler extraordinaire Jules Bright with a reputation to rival Sherlock Holmes is confronted by his failing health as he battles a serial killer terrifying Londoners whilst torn between a growing love for a young Met police officer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Shypitka
• Release date: Apr 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005898182

Stephen Shypitka

Stephen's eBooks have sold across 4 continents in Australia, Canada, Denmark, France, Germany, Jamaica, Netherlands, New Zealand, Poland, Romania, Switzerland the UK and the US. His online success has allowed his work to be noticed, read and savoured with his fiction for our times that turns heads, crosses genres and connects us all. Stephen was born in British Columbia, Canada an alumnus of USC film school in Los Angeles, he has taught the craft and loves to travel.

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The Piccadilly Butcher

By Stephen Shypitka

Smashwords Serialized Edition

© 2021 Stephen Shypitka

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favourite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

‘By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes’.

--Macbeth, William Shakespeare

CONTENTS PART I

The Piccadilly Butcher

Death Bus

The Yard

Royal London Hospital

About The Author

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The Piccadilly Butcher

It was that time once again and I had been doing it upright as only I could, in short, I was right pissed. The weather had finally warmed and for the first time, it felt like June. London’s May gloom had retreated revealing a right mess as if I were a plump dumpling about to be boiled up in next-door Chinatown. So uphill it was to St James towards the right to bring on the night. Hot and sticky to match my body and my mood as I took a quick turn, leaving Shaftesbury and the marquee lights of theatreland behind to the huntsman cry, SoHo. All that remained now of the old hunting ground was Green Park where the ghosts of King Henry 8’s hunting party, along with phantom horses and dogs gave chase to a one-time stag, butchering the fallen.

Everything in London had been labelled. It's what we called history. You could not walk 8 paces without stepping on such. It’s what Treadaway would diagnose as a hyper-anxious brain disorder waiting for a panic attack or a trigger, we English couldn’t help ourselves. I believe this overwhelming need stemmed from the war effort. Like scar tissue. Despite VE day, the end of rationing, the intervening generations, this should have dimmed with time, instead, a remnant remained. Cutting a swath across our collective cheekbone, hanging out there for all the world to see. If you looked close enough. Hard enough. Deep enough. Keep calm and carry on? A masquerade. The right truth of it, we were all living lives of quiet desperation fearing the day our mask might slip. Violà! To quote the French and we would be revealed. Exposed. Laid bare in our totality. Vulnerable. Before our countrymen. To be judged and found wanting. Vulgar even. This is one such tale. A case