The Samsara Project - David Burgess (early reader books .txt) 📗

then and if anything breaks I’ll give you a ring.” Andrew then turned, checked the road was clear and ran to a taxi stand opposite. There were three taxis in the stand. He jumped in the first one and headed towards Soho.
John watched the taxi drive off, went back to his car and drove less than eight minutes to the museum.
From the outside the museum is a very nondescript building. It blends in with the surrounding buildings to such an extent as to be totally anonymous. Outside the building is very plain, so is the solid wooded double width door. No number, no name. It was a building you would not find by accident. The only visitors to this building were those who intended to be there.
Right in the centre of the right hand door was a large Victorian circular ring knocker. This too was painted dark blue so to the casual observer it was not there. John knocked three times. The sound seemed to echo in the hollowness of whatever was behind the door.
After just over a minute the door was opened. “Come on in John, come on in.” A hand was thrust out towards him. John took it and returned the greeting. Patrick Wallace was fifty seven years old; standing up straight he would be five foot five, maybe six inches. No one really knew his true height because of a permanent stoop that reduced his height to around five foot two. Pat claims it was because he had spent so much of his life crouched over a desk examining museum artefacts. It may well be true but John had his doubts. Pat was dressed as usual in a well worn lab coat that, at some time in the past, had been white but was now a very nondescript grey. Underneath the coat was a well worn brown suit, a grey open neck shirt with button a down collar. On his feet were his favourite tan coloured hush puppy shoes. John had never seen Pat wear any other shoes and was convinced that, at some time in the past, he must have bought a ‘job lot’.
John had a soft spot for Pat; he was the last of one of the true eccentrics that the modern world somehow failed to produce.
“It’s been too long Pat. I just don’t know where the time goes. Even good intentions take up time.”
“I know John, I know. Right, follow me through to my office and we’ll have a good chat in there. I’ve cancelled all my appointments for the afternoon so we’ll not be disturbed.”
“You needn’t have gone to that trouble,” said John.
“No trouble at all my boy, no trouble at all.”
“Just out of interest Pat, how many appointments did you have this afternoon?”
“Let me see now.” Pat took a diary out from his lab coat pocket. He thumbed through the pages to today’s date, “This afternoon, err, none, isn’t that lucky then, perfect timing. Come on now, this way.”
John followed a few steps behind Pat as he led the way to his office. This was not the first time that John had been to the museum but the place never failed to fascinate him. On the wall to his right wooden shelves that looked as though they had been installed when Queen Victoria was a little girl held specimen jars with the strangest looking samples inside them. John had thought about asking exactly what some of them where but had decided against it. The wooden floor had not seen any polish for many a year, it was not dirty, but well worn. On the other side of the room examination tables were laid out in rows. John’s always thought of his schools old science lab, complete with Bunsen burners, glass jars containing various acids and sinks with oddly shaped taps. Pat opened one door after another, went down one corridor, up some stairs. Along another corridor, turned left through a door and finally they arrived.
John had never been into Pat’s office before, this was obviously his private sanctuary, and by the look of it his escape from the twenty first century.
“Have a seat my boy,” said Pat pointing vaguely towards a corner of the office.
Pat looked around and hidden under a mound of ‘Modern Science’ magazines was a chair. He started to move the magazines when he noticed the front cover of one of them. ‘Why Betamax will win the home video war.’ John went to say something then decided it was best not to. He moved the rest of the magazines from one pile to another pile. Dusted down the chair, then, sat down.
Pat had a chair behind his desk and he sat there. “Pull yourself up here”, said Pat “You’re not here for an interview.”
John shuffled his chair as far forward as he could. Both men looked at each other. Pat started the conversation; “Still giving the Ripper lectures I hear.”
“Yes,” replied John, “In fact I was giving a talk yesterday afternoon when I got a phone call about the murder. I used some newly photoshopped photographs for the first time. They really make a difference to the detail. You’d love them”
“Oh yes, I’d love to see those. Bet they made a few ladies swoon though.”
John moved closer in towards Pat. “The thought must have crossed your mind about last night’s murder, the whole mutilation thing, leaving the body where it would easily be found. My assistant, Andrew, thinks it’s a Ripper copy cat.”
“Andrew you say his name is. That’s a good strong Scottish name. I’d listen to him with a name like Andrew.”
“I need more to go on than Andrews’s name, and yes, he is good.”
“I knew it. You don’t seem convinced John, you have a better theory?”
John knew he had to be careful. Patrick Wallace may seem to be an eccentric old man but he was not. Professor Patrick Wallace OBE was acknowledged as the country’s leading expert on serial killers and unsolved crimes from the past. He regularly went on lecture tours both in the UK and aboard The Americans can’t get enough of him, and treat him like a Hollywood star. At this moment John felt that maybe he should keep his thoughts to himself.
John took out the data pen and handed it to Pat. Pat in turn handed John a very generous glass of his favourite fifteen year old single malt scotch, straight, no ice and no water.
“Thank you,” said John. He held the glass up to his nose and savoured the rich aroma of the scotch. He took a gentle sip, the scotch slid smoothly down his throat leaving behind a gentle warming sensation.
Pat put the data pen into his laptop, opened the file and started to look at the pictures. For seven minutes, with the exception of the sound of the mouse clicks, the office was in absolute silence. John was first to speak.
“Is this the first time you have seen these pictures?”
Pat looked up from the screen. “It is” he continued, “Have you got the photographs you told me about earlier, the photoshopped ones?”
“Yes, they’re on the drive in a file called ‘rippic’”
“Good, thanks. Would you give me a minute please John?” It was more a statement than a question, John did not answer.
Pat opened the file and studied the newly enhanced photographs. He studied them for forty eight minutes, flicking from one file to another, one photograph to another. He looked up at John. “To the best of your knowledge has anybody tampered with these photographs, changed them in any way at all?”
“No Pat, I got DCS Hughes to download them for me when I saw him this morning. He did it in front of me. They are genuine.”
“Come on John, were going to the lecture theatre, they’ve a rather good screen there, bit like a cinema. Let’s hook this computer up in there and have a proper look at what we’ve got here.”
With that he unplugged the laptop, picked it up and walked out of the office. John had never seen Pat move so fast and John almost had to jog to keep up. They reached the lecture theatre. It was set up just like a small private cinema.
“I’ll just set this up” said Pat, “Should only be a minute then I’ll come down and join you. It’s all remote control. Nice piece of kit.”
John sat down in the middle row. “Comfortable seats” he thought.
Three minutes later Pat joined him; “Now let’s see what we’ve got?”
Pat pressed the remote, the lights dimmed; the curtains opened and on the screen were two photographs side by side. On the left was Suzie Reeves and on the right, Dannielle Eddowes.
Pat stood up and, stroking his chin, walked towards the screen. Different images of Suzie Reeves and the Ripper victims flashed on the screen, always side by side. More images then back over the same ones again and again.
Pat then turned around, switched off the images and sat down next to John. He was quiet, thinking, churning the thoughts around in his head. Eventually he spoke; “Be honest with me John. You brought these pictures to me for a reason. What was that reason?”
“I saw the pictures of Suzie Reeves for the first time this morning at the press conference. There was something about the pictures that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, a wave of horror travelled through my body and it was not because of the pictures themselves. I could cope with that. I had this overwhelming feeling that I recognised what I was looking at. I don’t believe I’m saying this, but, I think Suzie Reeves was murdered by Jack the Ripper.”
John looked over at Pat and slowly shrugged in a vain gesture that said ‘please tell me I’ not going crazy.’
From what you have just said John, you and I both had the same feeling. Human instinct is a very powerful weapon and one that we don’t use often enough. Instinct can warn us of impending danger such as a train or plane crash. Have you any idea how many people foresaw the Challenger and Columbia space shuttle disasters. Ask yourself, John, Why did these people not come forward earlier? Fear, John because they were frightened of the reaction they would get. I for one don’t blame them. Instinct can also lead you to a lifetime of happiness. A brief glimpse of someone you have never met or seen before and you immediately know that you will spend the rest of your life with that person. Many don’t though because they don’t have the courage to follow their instincts, or in the case of love, follow their hearts.”
Pat took a long drink of his scotch, put the glass down and refilled it. He then refilled John’s half full glass. Pat took another drink from his glass, holding the glass in both hands he lent back in his chair, looked up towards the ceiling and sighed. He stared at the ceiling for a while before saying; “In my mind, John, there is no doubt at all that Suzie Reeves was murdered by Jack the Ripper. I know I don’t have to convince you because you already know that. You believed your instincts this morning, and that’s why you’re here. Your instincts and what they were telling you at that time frightened you.”
John nodded.
“My turn to be honest, John, just now my instincts are scaring the life out of me.” Pat paused again; “There are only two people in the world who know Jack the Ripper’s work so well that they would recognise his hand in this murder. Both of those