Legacy of the Ripper by kindels

night streets of the town.
    Holland considered the possibility that he was getting too old for this sort of thing. Aged forty-eight and long divorced from Susan, who couldn't cope with the long hours of loneliness that accompany the role of policeman's wife, he'd had to cope with this type of situation too many times since he'd first joined the force at the tender age of twenty-one. His once luxuriant brown hair had thinned and now revealed traces of grey at the sides and back. His brown eyes had definitely lost some of the sparkle that had once made him attractive to the opposite sex, and he felt tired, tired of chasing the bad guys week in week out only to see many of those he arrested released through lack of evidence or sentenced to short derisory sentences by liberal minded, politically correct magistrates and judges who seemed to care more for the rights of the criminal than those of the victims.
    Murderers, of course, gave no thought to their victims. Why therefore should they give any consideration to the families of those they killed? How could they be expected to have a second's thought for the tears, the grief and the lifetime of emptiness that a husband, wife, parent or child might feel over the loss of their loved one, or to the nightmares that would so often accompany the revelation that their nearest and dearest had been the victim of violent and cruel death, inflicted on so many occasions by a total stranger with no apparent motive other than to cause pain in order to satisfy their own illogical or insane blood lust?
    Never mind the poor bloody policemen who had to cope with the traumatised families of murder victims, and at the same time remain detached enough to seek every clue in the words and body language of the relatives, to search for every nuance in body language that might identify that relative as a potential suspect. Terrible though it may appear to some, men like Holland and Wright were all too often faced with cases where the killer could be found close to home, from within the family itself. Mike Holland didn't expect such a result in this case. He was reasonably certain that the autopsy on Marla Hayes would show her killer to be the same perpetrator as the murderer of Laura Kane.
    Diverted from his reverie by the sudden sound of firm knocking on his door, Holland turned and shouted "Come in".
    Carl Wright entered the office followed by the parents of Marla Hayes. Doctor Rowan Hayes looked around sixty, his wife Mary a little younger, maybe in her early fifties. The doctor was obviously trying to maintain his composure, though his wife looked red-eyed and tearful, perfectly understandable in Holland's eyes.
    "Doctor and Mrs. Hayes," Wright spoke by way of introduction. "This is Detective Inspector Holland."
    "Hello, Inspector," said the doctor in a calm, quiet voice that belied his obvious inner turmoil. He didn't want to be here, didn't want to believe what he already knew. What man after all would want to admit to himself that his daughter had turned to prostitution and ended up dead on the street of a strange town? Mrs Hayes simply sniffed and nodded in Holland's direction.
    "Doctor and Mrs Hayes, I'm sorry we have to meet under such circumstances, but I want to thank you for coming in to see me."
    "We had little choice really, Inspector, did we?" asked Rowan Hayes.
    "No. I know. I'm sorry."
    "Are you quite sure it's Marla you've found?" asked the mother. "I know we phoned the police as soon as we saw the news bulletin, but isn't it at all possible that someone might have found that photograph, or taken it from Marla's bag, and&"
    "Mrs Hayes," said Holland as soothingly as he could. "The girl we found is the girl in the photograph. There's no doubt about that. I know it's a terrible thing to have to come to terms with but&"
    "How do I do that?" she suddenly snapped. "How do I come to terms with the fact that my daughter is dead? Can you tell me that, Inspector Holland?"
    Holland took a deep