Free The Severed Streets by Paul Cornell

frowned at him, but at that point the tour guide arrived and took their money, and others who wanted to go on the tour started to arrive; he was relieved not to have to answer the question.
    The tour was called, in dripping red letters, ‘Jack the Ripper Extreme’.Their guide was a Mr Neville Fennix – probably his stage name.He was dressed in a top hat, opera cape and evening suit, and he carried a silver-tipped cane.There were a large party of Italians and their translator, and another group who were talking in what Costain thought might be Korean.There were also quite a few younger people, students, several of whom were wearing what had now become known as the Ripper mask on the back of their heads to shade their necks from the sun.That bloody thing was everywhere now.Previously only a fraction of protestors had worn it; now it was their uniform.He’d seen T-shirts and online banners with the Ripper mask portrayed in those Obama ‘Change’ campaign colours or like Che Guevara, with slogans underneath such as ‘Occupy Hell’.The Ripper had put a face to the summer of blood.He had killed not just an MP, but now one of the most senior police officers in London, right at the point when the Met was creaking under the pressure of lack of resources and government meddling. If they can get to him, they can get to any of us, that’s what a spokesman for the Police Federation had been quoted in the Herald as saying, and the job cuts and the service cuts and every cut make every single one of us more vulnerable. The driver, Tunstall, had been released at the end of his ninety-six hours in custody, the main investigation having convinced a judge that they needed the maximum period of detention.Tunstall hadn’t changed his impossible story, though, and so now the media were also full of the news that he was ‘back on the streets’.
    As Fennix took cash from the other tourists, Costain found himself glancing at Ross again.She was still looking interrogatively at him.He wasn’t going to be able to get away from her question.
    On the night he’d sent the text message, he’d first been annoyed at her for not getting back to him, then at himself for sending it.It had been exactly the wrong step to take.He’d tried to get to sleep, despite the heat, but he’d kept waking up, not liking how vulnerable he felt in his dreams.So, without thinking about it as much as he should have, he’d reached out.He’d wanted to talk to someone.He told himself now that he’d had his overall objective in mind.He wasn’t sure if that had been true.
    Ross hadn’t raised the matter of the text message the next day, and, relieved, he hadn’t either.But Ross wasn’t very good with social interaction and so had saved it up for now because … well, who knew?
    ‘Well?’she said.
    ‘Sorry.I was pissed.You know, you text your mates, ask if they’re up for a pint—’
    ‘You asked if I had five minutes.’
    ‘But that was where it was going.’
    ‘At 1 a.m.?’
    ‘Like I said, I was pissed.’
    ‘After last orders?’
    ‘At home with some cans.’
    ‘You drink at home alone?’
    ‘Not often.I’d just got back from the pub.’
    ‘Open late, was it?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘You really thought I’d come over for a drink?’
    ‘Like I said, pissed.’
    ‘Okay.’She suddenly nodded as if it was the end of the interview and looked away.
    The tour guide returned and began his spiel.‘Whitechapel today may look harmless, modern, charming even.But mentally replace the sunlight with darkness and fog, and follow me now as we go on the trail of the man who is now once more in all the headlines, the man of the moment … Jack the Ripper!’
    He set off and they followed.Costain kept trying to make eye contact with Ross.But now she was having none of it.That was worrying.
    *   *   *
    ‘Mary Ann Nichols,’ said Fennix, ‘or “Polly” was her trade name.’He paused for a laugh, which, after a moment of delayed translation, he got.They