And being completely honest, sometimes I did wonder: if Ruth and I met now, would we even still be friends? That happens with people, right? You get to a point where you wonder what’s keeping you together other than just… consistency? And I don’t think I’m a dick for saying that. Ruth was just there, blissfully wrapped up in her own little world. She had her job, she had her husband, and she had me, that was all that mattered to her. She didn’t care that my life was an absolute shambles. Sometimes, it felt like all she ever thought about was herself and what directly affected her.
I had drafted an email to the Managing Director of the paper, Deborah, on my personal phone, but I hadn’t sent it yet. I still couldn’t be 100 per cent sure I was right after all. There was no solid evidence I could point to yet, but as I spent the rest of the day digesting and processing, comparing bits of paper to one another, Iknew. In my gut, Iknewwho it was. I just had to find some way to prove it.
I scribbled the rest of my notes for the clandestine investigation and tucked them into Obama at page 450, probably a page he bangs on about his blissful marriage to Michelle (nice for some) then slid the book into the second drawer down in my desk at work. The book was thick enough, thanks to Obama’s penchant for elaboration, that I knew the note would stay put, rather than slipping out as it might from a worn notebook. As an IT professional, I didn’t trust anything digital, not in an office full of journalists whose instincts skew overwhelmingly nosy. I knew, from everyone’s search histories and keystrokes, how easy it was to read minds in the paper’s panopticon.
I kept storming ahead, moving out of the central hubbub of Hammersmith and into the quieter, more suburban backstreets as I approached the Thames. But after a few paces, I started to feel that something was off. When I glanced behind me, I noticed a delivery van moving slowly, trundling in my direction, never quite stopping. It’s one of those things you sometimes think about, right? Am I being followed, or is my imagination just running wild? This time, I really wasn’t sure. I did what I’d done so many times before: slipped my hand into my coat pocket and threaded each of my keys between the fingers of my closed fist.Watch yourself, Greta,I thought to myself.
To test the theory, I took a sudden left down another road. For a moment, I thought I’d lost the driver, but then, only a few steps down this new street, I heard the distinct, low rumble of thedelivery van again. I kept walking, trying not to panic.Keep calm, I told myself,keep calm and think of some way out of this. That was when I heard the engine rev sharply, and the vehicle suddenly shot past me. I leaped out of the way, stumbling and then falling into a narrow passageway, my green coat catching on a piece of wire and tearing a huge shred of it off. Before I had a moment to get my bearings, the van screeched to a halt ahead, then began reversing towards me with alarming speed, mounting the kerb to block me into a small little alley.
‘Hey, dickhead! Watch where you’re going!’ I shouted as it rolled past me. I shouldn’t have said that, antagonising someone I suspected of following me was certainly not the brightest idea, but in that moment, I was positively furious that his uber-aggressive driving had just ripped my favourite coat.
But then the van stopped again. The movements this time were more deliberate, more calculated, as before I could really register it, it shifted aggressively and swiftly to block off the entrance to the alley entirely, scraping the already scratched side of the van in the process with a metallic screech. I looked behind me and realised there was a thick barrier of barbed wire. Without even knowing it, I’d been herded, corralled into the exact spot he wanted me in.
That’s when the man stepped out of the van. I recognised him instantly, despite his unusual attire. He wore a high-vis vest, a cap, and a dark uniform. I must have passed a dozen people dressed like that in London every day, couriers, drivers, hidden in plain sight. So, that was how the TellTale Killer worked. How no one seemed to have ever been able to track him.
He’d tracked me, though. He must have known I was onto him. From the moment I’d left the office, he must have found a way to keep watching me, then wait until I was alone to strike.
I froze, just for a second, then turned to run. At the far end of the alley, I glanced again at the barbed wire stretched across the top of a gate. I could get over it if my life depended on it, I knew I could, and if I had to resort to physical violence, I knew I would have enough strength and speed to rip the keys across his face. Iknew I could make it out of this, I just had to think fast and be smart.
That was when he called out.
‘If you run, I’ll just go back and take your friend instead.’
My feet refused to move, even though every cell, every fibre in my body was screaming at me to run as fast as I possibly could.
‘She doesn’t know anything,’ I said, not daring to turn my body around to face him. ‘I haven’t told her shit.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he replied. ‘You can save her life if you do what I tell you.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Get in the van.’
TWENTY-THREE
PRESENT DAY
Ruth
A sharp blade of dread slid into my chest as the reporter mentioned, for the fourth time this hour, the TellTale Killer’s next victim. I had been trying my hardest to ignore the rather grainy news broadcast on the bulky 2005-era TV in the hospital room, focusing instead on digesting the contents of my book about 1840s cryptography. But whether it was because the book was mind-numbingly dull or because of the TV’s subject matter, I found the morose news segment impossible to resist.
It had happened at a nightclub yesterday evening, according to a presenter with an infuriatingly nasal voice. It had been Cheesy Tunes Tuesday when someone had handed a thick wooden box to one of the staff members, claiming they had seen some guy leave it on one of the club tables before slipping quietly out the back door. The staff member, probably imagining it was some kind of class A narcotic pick ’n’ mix they’d had the good fortune to inherit, took the box to the back of the staff area, opened it, saw that the contents was not a mound of off-brand ecstasy, and immediately called the police. The Eighties jukebox marathon that had all the middle-aged women screaming ABBA lyrics like it was 1989 untiltheir throats were hoarse came to a screeching and abrupt halt when they realised that the TellTale Killer had struck again.
The police arrived swiftly, but the press weren’t far behind. Within minutes, it was all the news was reporting on, and the DarkCell forums were ablaze yet again with speculation of what this could mean for the case and who the dissected heart might belong to. Even some newbies had stumbled onto the site and were suggesting their own theories on who could be behind this.
CerealKillerCornflakes had messaged me again. His tone was the same old brand of mildly superior, possibly flirtatious, but I didn’t have the strength to tell him he had the brain of a koala and so I let him perform an offended monologue about how clever and intelligent he was.
Unbeknownst to them all, this was the first public kill of the real, authentic, one-of-a-kind TellTale Killer. He was on the first leg of his comeback tour. Had my actions precipitated this? Had I coaxed him back? I felt sick to my stomach as the thought that someone had died because of what I did. As Detective Carlota had said herself, copycats make serial killers feel emboldened – and now, as if trying to show how the real pro does it, he had taken another life. Another innocent victim who I knew would mean absolutely nothing to him. But I knew; I knew it meant another Greta, another devastating heartbreak for all the people who had known who they were.
And this callous killer had messaged me; he believed that I was like him – a fellow traveller whose mind operated on an entirely different plane of rules, morals and values. And could I say that he was entirely wrong? I didn’t seem at all to be like anyone else.
I kept returning to and then pushing away the thought of going to Detective Carlota, the idea of confessing everything about the mess I’d landed myself in, and asking for her help so no one else would get hurt. But after the stunt she was pulling with Uncle Phil, I wasn’t sure I could trust her anymore. In fact, I didn’t trust any of the police to handle this without botching it up and letting the TellTale Killer slip through their fingersagain.
I had to face facts: I hadn’t just cocked up, I’d orchestrated a full-scale, award-winning, catastrophic disaster. It was me, me who had lured the TellTale Killer back. I was at that special point where mistakes stop being personal and become historical events.
Which is why I decided to message him again.
I know, I know, you’re probably screaming at me right now, asking why on earth I’d do that. But I just knew I had to. It was like having that one guy at uni you didn’t even like, but still sent out a few feelers to just to keep him as a backup option for grad ball, making sure he didn’t lose interest completely. I kept telling myself I would go to the police eventually, but they were a machete where a scalpel – ironically – was needed, something with a touch of moral flexibility. In time, I told myself yet again, the ends would justify the rather disturbing means I was using. I truly believed, in my heart of hearts, I had the best chance of catching him.
