Chapter 2

And thus the dead rise again

“Jack the Ripper is back from the dead. I want you to help us bring him in.”

London, England.

In the office where Siesta and I had taken up residence, Ms. Fuubi sat on the sofa opposite us, smoking.

“…Ms. Fuubi, what are you doing in England?”

“Well, I hadn’t told you two, but they sent me here on loan. That contract ended yesterday, though; I’ll be heading back to Japan on the next flight.”

“I never heard they were reshuffling personnel that way…”

Fuubi Kase was an acquaintance from Japan, a redheaded police officer. However, I hadn’t seen her in person for a bit under three years, not since I left Japan with Siesta.

She’d shown up without an appointment just a few minutes ago, skipped the part where she said hello after so many years apart, and thrown a request at us about Jack the Ripper.

“There’s no smoking here.”

“Shut up.”

So unfair.

“So, I’m handing this case off to you two. Catch him, all right?”

“You mean the, um…”

Jack the Ripper, otherwise known as the Whitechapel Murderer, was the name of the culprit behind a series of murders that had taken place in England in 1888. The culprit had never been identified, and even now, a hundred years later, the singularity of the incident still drew considerable interest.

“Yeah, that’s the guy. There’ve been a lot of incidents using his M.O. lately, here in London. A corpse turned up today, even.”

The same M.O., huh? If I remembered right, Jack the Ripper had been famous for his grotesque methods, cutting his victims’ bodies apart and extracting their organs. That said—

“But the incident’s over a hundred years old, right? The guy’s dead.”

“Yeah, that’s why I said he’s come back to life.”

“That’s just crazy.”

Dead people never come back to life. Even grade school kids know that.

…In which case…

“It’s a modern-day Jack the Ripper? A copycat?” I asked Ms. Fuubi, who was still blowing smoke through rouged lips.

“You’re taking this so damn seriously. But yeah, that’s probably it.”

“Then just start with that, would you?”

“The young lady over there wouldn’t take an interest in it unless I put it the other way.” Ms. Fuubi narrowed her eyes at the ace detective, who was conked out on her desk.

“Hey, Siesta. She’s talking smack about you.”

Siesta was resting her forehead on the desk. I shook her a few times…but she didn’t even flinch. Now that she’d gotten started on a nap, I guessed that it would take more than this to wake her up. In that case—

“Dodge or die, Siesta.” I got up, grabbed a carving knife from the kitchen behind us, and threw it at her.

“…That’s not safe.”

Still with her face on the desk, Siesta caught the tip of the blade between her fingers. Then she stretched melodramatically and sat up.

“Are you wired to not wake up unless you’re in mortal danger?” I asked, plopping down on the sofa with exasperation.

“It’s your fault for giving me the opportunity to nap.”

“This isn’t about opportunity. Sometimes you fall asleep when you’re eating. Are you an infant?”

“Huh? You’re the baby, aren’t you, Kimi? That game you play, sometimes…”

“We have a guest. Shut your mouth, right this second.”

Listen. Forget what we just said immediately. I mean it.

“So, what was it again? Jack the Ripper has revived in the present?” Siesta gave a small, cat-like yawn, directing her question at me.

“How did you manage to listen to that conversation in your sleep? Also, you’ve got marks on your forehead.”

“My acoustic cells are always working, even when I’m asleep… You’re kidding, where? Are they red?”

“Ugh, you sound like Bat. Here, use your hand mirror and look.”

“At least I haven’t sprouted a creepy tentacle. Wow, it looks like a pattern.”

“Ha-ha! You look like a little kid when you push your hair up. Your forehead’s wider than I figured.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re one of those people who’s going to end up bald. Your hair is incredibly fine, too.”

“Hey! Don’t start touching it. Get off me… Take that!”

“Ow! Well, you’ve certainly got guts. Flick my forehead, will you?”

With a belligerent smile, Siesta lunged at me, and—

“So when did this kind of relationship start?”

Rolling her eyes, Ms. Fuubi blew cigarette smoke. She was watching me and Siesta, who was sitting on my lap.

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘relationship.’”

“We’re just regular, um…” I looked at the girl on my lap, and she looked back at me.

““Business partners,”” we said in unison. The facts were obvious.

I mean, it’s me and Siesta, okay? We couldn’t possibly be anything else.

Before long, Ms. Fuubi stood up, as if she’d lost interest in her own question. “Well, it’s not like I care,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette. “Hurry up and go meet the victim.”