“I know a Catherine Eddowes. Well, I don’t know her, but I know of her. She lives in-get this-the East End. In Whitechapel. Whitechapel. Ripperland, right?”

“How do you-”

“No. my friend,” he said, waving a finger reproachfully at the elf, “I did not avail myself of her services. A couple of years back, I was friendly with the son of the Earl of Manchester. Lawrence was a good contact. He knew people I wanted to meet and he was reasonable company. Used to lose a packet at the High Roller, but that’s life.

“Anyway, one night, very late, I get a call. I end up collecting him from Catherine Eddowes’. He’s drunk as a skunk and there’s someone from cheap trid hanging around outside looking for a story. I get in looking scruffy as hell so as not to arouse the interest of the trid reptile, and smuggle Larry out across fire escapes, punching him in the gut to stop the drunken singing he decides to do Got him home to Belgravia, and I didn’t exactly want to see him again.

“Oh, our Ms. Eddowes is a whore, my friends, no question. Let’s just say that she specialized in certain perversions of a peculiarly English nature. Being Welsh myself, I’m not so inclined. I like to be philosophical and detached about the line of work she pursues, but I can’t forget certain details. Afterward, as I say, I didn’t ever want to see Lawrence again.”

When Francesca spoke, she was hesitant at first, but then her voice took on an edge of creeping hysteria.

“Annie saved my life twice. Who murdered her? I want to know. And Geraint, that thing in the Matrix, it had knives and scalpels and-”

He cut in. “Something’s going on here. We all know it. Now maybe we can act. Catherine Eddowes isn’t dead-yet. No report of it, anyway. And, yes, she is a whore, but that’s hardly a license for someone to kill her. It’s the sick scum she panders to who deserve that fate.”

My God, what did you see that night? Serrin wondered as Geraint got to his feet. This is a bad world, and you know it, but something got to you that night, my friend.

“We’re going to the East End. There’s someone about to get butchered and we’re the only people who can stop it.” The words were melodramatic, but they rung true.

Serrin tried to insert a note of caution. “Why don’t we just call-”

“Oh, I will. She’s almost certainly ex-directory, but I can deck the number. Problem is, she won’t be checking her answering machine this time of night, will she? She’s a working girl. She'll plan to do that tomorrow morning, checking the bookings from the punters, with their special requests. But by tomorrow morning, she isn't going to be able to check anything.”

“Why don't we just call the police?”

“Oh, sure. We tell them some story about the Ripper they’ve heard a dozen times this year alone, and maybe they’ll get round to investigating it sometime next week.”

“But surely they’ll listen to you. You being a noble and all that. Surely.” Serrin was clutching at straws.

“Are you for real? We’ll get a duty constable on the telecom if we’re lucky. He’ll tell me that the Chief Inspector is dining somewhere, and that he will do his level best to reach him. Then he’ll ring off, log the call, and promptly forget all about it. Anyone who’s anyone tries to use his name and rank with the police all the time, it’s all they ever hear and it just goes in one ear and out the other. Sure, there’s a priority line for bluebloods like me, but that won’t do the job fast enough.”

“Serrin, the police in Britain are as stupid, vicious, and corrupt as anywhere in the world. Forget the image of the friendly bobby riding his bike and wearing the silly hat. They’re uncaring rakkers just like the ones where you come from. And here we don’t have Lone Star or anything like them. No, friend, if we want to deal with this, we’ll have to do it ourselves.”

“Geraint, why are we getting into this?”

Francesca’s question was a good one. He didn’t have a rational answer. “Will you trust me this one time?” She nodded, hesitant, then becoming more certain. His head was still afire, something was drawing him on and he couldn’t be deflected now. “Serrin, take the book there. Yes, that’s the one, the old Tarot book. Check the truth of what I find.” He took up the pack, shuffled rapidly, and said to the elf, “I’m asking if there’s someone behind this, you got it?”

The elf nodded, though he was unsure exactly what the Welshman was up to.

King of Swords.

Geraint sighed, holding his head in his hands. Serrin read from the book. “Mental prowess…”

“It’s reversed, Serrin, see?”

The elf looked up from the book and stared at the card, the head of the throned King pointing downward, and nodded. He started again.

“A cold and cruel impersonality bordering on the sadistic. A calculating and shrewd person, who knows what he wants and how to get it. At worst, a quality of elemental evil backed by brutally efficient planning. Arguably, the worst-aspected card in the entire pack.”

“Spirits, Geraint,” the elf said, “what are we getting into?”

Francesca wiped at her forehead with the back of her hand and slouched down in her chair. “Why are we getting involved with this?” she asked again. But at the back of her mind was Annie Chapman. She wasn’t asking the question because she didn’t want to get involved. She was asking because she wanted to hear what kind of ideas Geraint had for dealing with it. He was the only sober one there after all.

Geraint turned up the next card.

Justice.

“Do you need to ask?” He turned to look at the elf. The slightest shake of Serrin’s head told him all he needed to know.

“Look, we need to take some care here. We can’t just get into the car and pile across the river. Let’s think it through first.” Serrin’s caution was sensible.

Geraint explained his plan of action, First of all, I’ve been trying to call Catherine Eddowes. The deck’s on auto-repeat dialing through the telecom interface. It’s already got the answering machine, but we’ll plug away and hope. She just might answer if she gets an alert from her phone that she’s being called every thirty seconds. We can afford ten, fifteen minutes at least.

Second, I’m running a program looking for every Catherine Eddowes in London. It’s not likely to be a common name, so I’m using an analysis frame to search for every one in the public datanets. If we come up with an alternative Catherine Eddowes who’s a seventy-five-year-old retired author up in Wood Green or a five-year-old creche regular, I think we can check them off the list.” Geraint paused a moment, unsure how to phrase the next part.

“Third, there’s the minor problem of the fact that you two are, pardon me for saying so, as tight as judges. You’ve gone through the equivalent of at least a bottle of wine each and, unlike me, you don’t have cannula implants to get you over that hurdle in a minute flat. I’ve got some enzyme shots, but that’ll only handle the peripherals, I’m afraid. Your brains will continue to have a very hefty slug of alcohol swimming round in them for about half an hour: modern technology can’t get across the blood-brain barrier much faster than that. That alone is a great reason for spending a quarter of an hour plugging away at the telecom and hoping we don’t have to set foot outside this fiat tonight”

Francesca and Serrin exchanged glances. A few minutes ago Geraint had barely been able to stand upright. The change was impressive.

He gave them both a slap patch with the degrading enzyme, then opened a wall safe after its security system had run a retina scan on his eyes. The seamless edge slid soundlessly open, revealing a space the size of a small wardrobe. He rummaged through the safe contents.

“I think we should take body armor for a start, plus IR lenses and Bond and Carringtons. What are you most comfortable with in the pistol department, Fran?”