Chapter 22
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 just so irritatingly unaware of what was going on around her.
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, I knew.
In my gut, I knew who 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 the delivery 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.
I knew 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.’