Free The Smoke In The Photograph by Kit Tinsley Page A

nor felt comfortable with. He had come to Darton to drink himself stupid, and try to forget all about the Ripper, just for tonight. He had struck up a conversation with a beautiful young woman, thinking she would be a welcome distraction. Now, though, she was asking such personal questions. Not about the case per se, but about his feelings about it.
    'I die a little inside,' he said, his voice low. 'Every time that monster takes another life, he kills a little bit of me.'
    Ariel looked engrossed.
    'Because you feel you've failed them?'
    Sam nodded.
    She leant over and took his hand in hers. He looked into her eyes and saw a strength he hadn't noticed before.
    'I believe you're doing everything you can, Sam,' she said, sounding genuine. 'The fact you haven't caught the Ripper isn't a reflection on you. I don't care what the papers say.'
    Sam wanted to believe her words. He had done everything he could, but still he felt responsible.
    'If it doesn't reflect on me, what does it mean?'
    She shook her head.
    'Maybe no one can catch the Ripper.'
    It was like she had just spoken his greatest fear out loud. He was reminded of the original Ripper, the one who had stalked the streets of Whitechapel in London so many years ago. He had never been caught, his identity never revealed. Jack the Ripper had taken on mythic status all over the world. He was the ultimate example of a serial killer.
    Sam shuddered to think of the Lincoln Ripper taking the same level of infamy. Was that what the killer wanted all along? To become a legend in his field?
    'I will catch him,' Sam said.
    She leant forward and kissed him, slowly, yet with a deep passion.
    'I'm sure you will'
    She grabbed her jacket and got to her feet to put it on.
    'You're leaving?' he asked.
    'Yes, sorry,' she said. 'I have to meet a friend. Thank you for the drink.'
    Sam nodded. It was likely for the best. Though he was attracted to her, he was in no state to start any sort of romantic attachment. There was too much to be done. Far too much.

CHAPTER EIGHT
 
     
    Like all hospital rooms, this one had the aroma of disinfectant and air fresheners, there to try to mask the ever-lingering scents of despair, pain and death. Julia looked at her husband lying on the bed. He looked frailer than she had ever seen him. He had an oxygen mask over his face and a series of wires were hooked up to him from a machine emitting occasional beeps.
    Looking at him it was not difficult to forgive him for everything that had happened earlier. There was a possibility that the shoes had belonged to Wendy. They were her size, and although not a style she would wear in her day to day life, she could have been wearing them for a job.
    Julia had overreacted. She guessed the stress of the move had flared up some of her old insecurities. She had always had a jealous streak, and she hated it. So many of her previous relationships had broken down because of her jealousy. That was why Steven and she had come to the agreement that they had no past before each other. The slate had been wiped clean. They had never had any conversations detailing their past partners and relationships. They did not see the point.
    He had slapped her because she had been getting hysterical, and probably he was right. She had cut his head, after all, by throwing the offending shoe at his head.
    She walked across the room to where her husband lay sleeping. His slow, rhythmic breathing was accentuated by the oxygen mask. When he had collapsed clutching his chest she had been terrified that she was about to lose him. Now she thought it best to forget the stupid argument and be thankful that her husband was still with her. She knew he wasn't perfect, but then again, who was? Not her, that was for sure. Steven was a very good man though; he treated her better than anyone had ever treated her in her life. He deserved for her to believe him after everything she had put him through with her breakdown.
    She gently stroked his forehead, trailing