‘I don’t think it’s him behind this, the real killer,’ Carlota said, her eyes still fixed on the snowfall. ‘I know the press want us to believe it is – or maybe they’re just chasing a last-minute payday to kick off the financial quarter. But I really don’t think this is the same man I was trying to track down two years ago. There’s something different about this.’
‘So, what do you think will happen?’ I asked, trying to find the actual solid point of what Detective Carlota seemed to be musing about, get her to land the plane so to speak.
‘Serial killers don’t like copycats, Ruth,’ she said, angling her eyeline ever so slightly towards me. ‘If they think someone’s imitating their work, they get emboldened. They escalate. Twenty million Brits consume the news every day, what are the bets the TellTale Killer is one of them. If you’re a serial killer with a precise and enact methodology for every victim, wouldn’t you be a bit pissed off if someone was trying to imitate you? How would you even respond?’
I thought about answering that. Thought about telling her all the different cases where serial killers had inspired copycats. But then I hesitated, because explaining just how much I knew would probably only end up proving her point. And because I had remembered the message that the real killer had sent me earlier, it felt like there was an active grenade nestled in my pocket that was rapidly leaking gunpowder.
‘Look, I just want you to know, Ruth…’ Carlota began, her voice purposeful and steady, ‘… that if you ever want to talk to me about anything, anything at all, then you know where I am. You know, I’m only a phone call away.’
I watched her carefully and saw her tongue nervously trace the inside of her teeth as she hesitated, searching for the right words to say to me next, but her gaze looked like she was still staring into the vague middle distance rather than facing me direct. Was this a tactic she used with people she suspected of crimes?
‘And look, if you are involved in this somehow, Ruth, then you need to know that I’m here to help. I always have been, darling,’she said earnestly. It felt like this was the first time she had actually been sincere for our whole conversation, but there was still an ever-so-slight edge to how she spoke, a cold, sharp warning to me maybe:
You’re in too deep, get out now.
I can’t tell you how close I was, right in that moment, to confessing all of my secrets to Detective Carlota. I could only imagine the sweet release and lightness of not having to keep it all to myself, to finally have someone I could confide in, to tell me how idiotic I was being and what I should do now, and to prevent Uncle Phil from having to go through the stress and anxiety of being questioned. But I knew I couldn’t. I knew any chance of the TellTale Killer facing justice died the moment I opened my mouth. So I held back and kept my lips pressed tightly together as if they were a barricade holding my confession at bay, even though it felt like my whole world was spiralling quickly out of control like a Reliant Robin caught in an ice slide.
I knew she knew I was involved somehow, and she knew I knew she knew, which, frankly, was a lot for both of us to get our heads round. The thing was, I also knew that if she ever fully clockedeverythingI’d done, I’d be arrested on the spot. I knew Carlota was a stickler for rules, for procedure, so even if it meant forfeiting her best shot at catching the TellTale Killer, I felt like she wouldn’t hesitate.
That being said, I knew – more than anything else in the world – she wanted to catch the TellTale Killer. Maybe almost as much as me. I often wondered whether she wanted to do it because she hungered for the justice of this vile human being, or because she wanted to recapture her glory as a police detective. Probably a bit of both.
‘Thank you, Detective Carlota. I appreciate that,’ was all I managed to reply.
I could see from her face, still not facing me, that that was not the answer she had been hoping for. A sigh, barely audible, escaped her lips.
‘I wouldn’t tell Uncle Phil about the questioning yet – best to prevent him worrying longer than he needs to.’
Then, without even saying a goodbye or even a casual ‘see you later’, Detective Carlota simply tightened her coat around herself and strode off across the car park, then drove away.
In another story, Detective Carlota might shine as the valiant, no-nonsense hero, the Telltale Killer would twirl his serial-killer moustache, and I’d be shoved into the morally smudged supporting slot. I’m not wild about that particular billing, but someone has to give the plot a proper kick up the backside.
The moment Detective Carlota’s car disappeared from sight, the realisation hit me with the force of a freight train: the message I’d just received was still waiting for some kind of response.
I swiftly hurried back to the toilet, ready to use the burrito excuse again if anyone asked. I haphazardly locked the door shut and yanked out my phone. My fingers darted across the screen to boot up the chat again.
I knew it was reckless. I knew it was idiotic. But at this point, reckless and stupid decisions seemed to be the only ones I was making. If the TellTale Killer had really reached out to me, incensed that I was stealing his thunder, if he was foolish enough to reveal he was the true mastermind behind the murders, this was my chance, perhaps the only chance, to catch him. This was the kind of opportunity I had dreamed of for the past two years.
I couldn’t encrypt my own writings on my computer, I had to do it by hand. I could almost feel my heart pulsating and vibrating in my throat as I found some paper – well, a Camborne and Sons promotional leaflet – and a pen that I had left in the pocket of my work blazer. I quickly began encrypting my response. I wasn’t paying attention to the words I was forming, only the letters as the ink scribbled across the background of Uncle Phil’s very professional-looking headshot where I’m sure he had photoshopped some more hair onto his scalp.
‘Isn’t mockery the sincerest form of flattery after all?’ I replied tohim. ‘What’s next?’
It only took a few moments. I smoothed my palms over my thighs, waiting for a response, not sure whether to stay perched on the loo or risk creeping back into the office, when I felt my phone buzz with his reply.
‘Just you wait.’
TWENTY-TWO
TWO YEARS AGO
Greta
I heard Ruth’s desperate voice calling after me as I stormed out of Sabroso, but the fury twisting and festering inside me made it impossible to turn back as I merged with the masses of crowds. The only way to stop myself from erupting was to keep moving, to keep walking further away from her.
How the hell could she have asked me that?
There I was, telling her I thought I might know who the TellTale Killer was, wondering if I was going absolutely positively bonkers, and then she turns around, clearly not listening, and asks if I’d be willing to help her catch him?
She was so infuriating. I loved Ruth, God knows, I loved Ruth, but sometimes she was justsoirritatingly unaware of what was going on around her.
