I stared into her eyes, trying to read them, trying to see the truth behind what she was saying. I didn’t know if I believed her. Maybe she did just want the killer caught and me protected, but what if that ego of hers was talking, and what if it was that same ego that stopped the TellTale Killer getting caught the first time? What ifIwas still the best person to do this? After all, I’d got further than anyone with this, even her, the so-called professional with all the resources at her disposal.
‘Ruth. Please. Let me help you,’ she said again.
I think, in that moment, she may have truly believed what she was saying to me. I think she really did want to protect me from the killer. But maybe, just maybe, despite my awful social skills, I actually knew her better than she knew herself. I watched her gently place her hand over Greta’s notes, her fingertips applying all the pressure on the tiny surface area as they could. She must have had some idea of what was going through my head.
All I could do was draw in the deepest breath I could manage, watching as her shoulders loosened, her muscles relaxed, as though she thought I was about to relent. Then gripping my phone tight, I hurled myself out of the chair and bolted for the door.
I really needed to start training for that marathon.
THIRTY
I knew Tasha was just as surprised as I was when I called her, asking if we could meet.
I’ll be the first to admit I wasn’t thrilled about returning to my old workplace – where I think I had a total of three fond memories over the years I worked there – for the second time in less than twelve hours. I also didn’t love the fact that I was now a semi-fugitive to the law but I knew that my old chum Tasha was the only person who could help me right now in getting closer to the TellTale Killer. She always had useful contacts, and I needed them desperately.
I could almost hear the sound of the soft foaming noise of her mouth as she began to froth when I mentioned over the phone that I might have a TellTale Killer-related scoop.
‘Wherever you are, stay right there, I’m on my way,’ she said.
‘I’m literally about to get on the Tube, don’t worry, I’m coming to you,’ I had replied as I hopped down the worn, weathered steps of the station.
I knew she was probably still quite furious that I had tossed her phone into a creek when she ambushed me outside of the office on Monday, but I figured that emotion would probably be superseded by the fact she might soon land a real whopper of a story on herdesk. But journalists could forgive a lot for a good story and I’m sure she had some kind of insurance for the phone. Rage fades, but bylines last forever.
The Tube finally arrived back in Hammersmith, and as I made my way to the offices, I couldn’t help but find my attention drawn to every single delivery van that passed me on the street. That could have been him, I thought, as one stopped at the red lights before I saw another identical one shoot past me on the other side of the road. He could be picking his victims right now with his van, choosing who would be suffering his wrath next as he tried to get back at the smart aleck who was ribbing him online.
I had to presume at this point that Detective Carlota had told all of her colleagues what I had been up to and put out some kind of notice for my arrest. I mean, maybe shewasjust trying to protect me back at the station; this was the same woman who’d been patient and kind despite my constant badgering about the TellTale Killer for two years.
But at the same time, I couldn’t risk it. I was the one who’d heard his voice, the one who always felt like I’d always just missed him, like he had just escaped my grasp by an inch. I was so close. It always had to be me. I was the only one I trusted to get it done. Call me a control freak – actually, don’t.
I tried not to let myself get distracted by the paranoia and anxiety coursing through me and power-walked as fast as I could to the offices where Tasha was already waiting outside, finishing off a cigarette. It was impossible not to also notice several police cars beside the building, some clearly forensic units. It wasn’t exactly surprising, Jago had just received a human heart. I only hoped Detective Carlota was being truthful about not officially working on the case; it would be rather disastrous if she was also on her way here.
Tasha gave me a quick, light hug, her back arched away from me, before we exchanged brief, perfunctory pleasantries, ignoring the swarm of police cars around us. Then, as I glanced over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t being followed, she led me upstairsto the office bullpen. I can’t say I loved having to leak this very valuable information to Tasha, but I knew the woman had a DVLA contact from an investigation we’d worked on together way back when.
It was in the lift that I saw the message come through from Detective Carlota, one that I had been expecting. If I’m being honest, I think I dreaded nearly every message I received on my phone nowadays. All it read was:
Ruth, think this through.
Considering this woman had the power to ensure I never saw a lick of sunlight again, I was ultimately pretty happy that was the extent of the message. I wondered how many other messages she’d workshopped before sending that one. Surely she knew thinking things through was not something I had a penchant for.
Tasha sat me down on the spare wonky chair next to her desk and began typing the number plates from my phone into her computer while I casually surveyed the office. It still smelled the same, must have been the disinfectant that the cleaners used. An astringent, metallically sour kind of smell. While it had clearly been renovated recently, it still seemed to me that not much had changed over the past two years; the same headlines were framed and fitted onto the wall, the same harsh sterile lighting. I still saw the same people on my way towards Tasha’s desk; although this time, whenever someone recognised me, they quickly turned their heads away. I couldn’t help but look three feet across to where I used to sit. There was someone else there now, hopefully they hadn’t inherited my habit for emotional breakdowns.
Tasha’s fingers danced over the keyboard while she simultaneously kept glancing at the main TV in the bullpen before lowering her gaze back to the screen. The news had slapped on every possible graphic designed to visually scream urgency, a different coloured ticker, the ‘breaking’ font in the corner pumped up to an even larger headline size. It was practically impossible to ignore,short of wrenching the television off its brackets and hurling it out the window.
‘My contact at DVLA is normally pretty quick – my dad did his prostate exam – so we shouldn’t have to wait too long to work out who the number plates belong to,’ she stated. ‘But I mean…’ she laughed, ‘where did you even get this, Ruth? How did you find this out?’
‘Oh, I’m afraid I can’t reveal my sources,’ I said with a forced sly grin, one that Tasha failed to recognise as completely fake, as she gave a splutter when she tried to sip her coffee.
‘Hey, if this gets us any closer to catching the TellTale Killer, I’ll give you some credit, of course,’ she said with a sprinkle of obsequiousness. ‘Lord knows I need something. Our old mate Double J is back to being golden boy again after today.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked with a scoff, feeling like we had both time-travelled back to the daily occurrence of us making fun of the little high-flying journalist that could…
‘Did you not see?’ she said, folding her arms, leaning back in her chair and making sure my replacement wasn’t listening to our conversation too closely. ‘The TellTale Killer sent him one of the hearts personally today. He practically jizzed his pants.’
‘No way,’ I said. I think I was too tired to be in any way convincing but luckily I didn’t think Tasha noticed.
‘Right? So, he’s been dodging calls and interview requests from other outlets all afternoon,’ she said, her voice becoming a high-pitched saccharine tone. ‘Apparently, they’re saying it practically confirms his second Press Gazette Award. Everyone is saying that his reporting on this one is a game-changer for journalism. Urgh, give me a fucking break.’
I’d forgotten how much they all loved that word in this office,a game-changer. Apparently, it was one of the first things the billionaire owner had said when he bought the paper six years ago:Make every article a game-changer.Which, in practice, basically meant: bring in the clicks for the ad revenue and don’t criticise the ultra-wealthy too much, okay?I mean, good for Jago, I guess. The killerand I had unwittingly given him a major boost in his dying journalism career after he peaked two years ago. Although, I still couldn’t quite work out why the killer had asked me to send it directly to him of all people. Why Jago and not another journalist? What was so special about him? Why did he deserve the career boost? Or was it a menacing threat that Jago had obnoxiously misinterpreted?
