Chapter 30
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phone into a creek when she ambushed me outside of the office on Monday, but I figured that emotion would probably be superseded by the fact she might soon land a real whopper of a story on her desk.
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 she was just 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 upstairs to 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 killer and 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?
‘I had written this whole piece on Charlie Young; that was the most recent victim,’ Tasha said dejectedly, not realising I had kind of spaced out while she was talking.
‘Jago wanted to do a piece on him a while ago, but it never came to pass. It was about his whole life, his family and his charity work, but this will be completely flatlined now, thanks to him,’ Tasha said, her voice not even attempting to conceal the red-hot resentment she had for the office’s number one reporter.
‘But I guess that’s journalism, right? Best story wins or something like that? ’
That was when her head snapped toward something located a few inches above my right shoulder, and I saw her whole body shift and tense as if to try and do all she could to keep her anger buried deep in her stomach and not spewed at whoever was in my blind spot.
‘Something small-dickish this way comes,’ she murmured with a scowl as, sure enough, the one and only Jago Jones came waltzing over.
It was like he was walking to some kind of bass-heavy rock song that the rest of us couldn’t hear.
His face looked not only as smug as the cat that got the cream but also as if he had somehow managed to snap the neck of the family dog as well.
‘Hiya. Deborah wants to speak to you, Tasha,’ he announced, his tone dripping with arrogance as he loomed over her small desk.
Tasha pointed at me as if that was all the response she had to his sudden demand.
My back was still turned to him, but I could smell his rancid breath seeping over the nape of my neck.
‘Go on,’ I heard him say in this smug, superior tone I thought I had completely extracted from my mind. It was the kind of voice that, once heard, made you question how forgetting it had ever been possible.
‘I can’t right now; I’m with a source,’ Tasha replied defiantly.