Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
PRESENT DAY
I tried to focus my mind on the present.
We had something of a plan; it wasn’t the best plan in the world, concocted as it had been by Bill while he was practically buzzing off sketchy red wine and half a dozen cigarettes, but it was a plan nevertheless.
Ultimately, it had been decided that I was going to be human bait, ironic considering it was what I had once asked Greta to do.
I’d lure Jago out from wherever he was keeping Carlota, hopefully before he killed her.
Bill believed it would be the same address the number plates were registered to: a glorified storage unit near Battersea.
We were betting that I was the shiny object Jago couldn’t resist. He still thought of me as his acolyte, his imitator.
If I promised to come alone and unarmed and did it at short notice so it looked a little spontaneous, I knew he’d gobble up the bait.
He couldn’t risk anyone tarnishing the TellTale Killer ‘brand’ if my antics came to light, and he’d see this meeting as a chance to snuff me out for good.
As Detective Carlota once said to me, serial killers really don’t like copycats.
Ben was my backup, parked outside in his car like a terminally ill guardian angel, ready to intervene if things went bad.
And Bill… well, he was about to break into my old workplace.
I mean, this whole plan had been his idea, I suppose; if he was foolish enough to think it would work, I supposed I was foolish enough to try it.
One more stupid decision on the pile hardly mattered now.
Of course, the risk was undeniable. There was every chance I would not make it out of this alive. A woman walks into a café to confront the serial killer she has been antagonising, intending to continue to do so, now to his face. No one in their right mind would exactly bet on a happy ending.
I had one goal: I had to keep him talking for as long as possible.
Get ready, I texted Tasha, just after she had told me she had given her entry card to Bill outside the office, I realised this was maybe the last text I would ever send.
Ready, Tasha responded instantly.
Outside Sabroso, I pressed my face to the glass, searching for Jago’s silhouette but saw no one resembling him amongst the few customers inside, most typing away on their laptops.
The restaurant still had its dim lighting and an excess of bizarre decorations crammed into every spare corner and ceiling recess.
I spotted the same table where Greta had left me that night and tightened my grip around the small scrap of green fabric in my pocket.
You know, if Sabroso weren’t so tangled up with my trauma, I’d probably frequent it quite often.
I’ve always had a soft spot for things that don’t fit neatly into a mould.
It called itself a café but kept the kitchen going late; old, exposed brick, modern art décor, wine bottles and plants dotting every spare inch.
Not the worst place to die, I suppose, at least it wasn’t a Costa.
I decided it was best to go in and take a seat, maybe even order a latte. But as I stepped forward, something seized me without warning and yanked me violently backwards.
‘Ruth, no. I can’t let you do this,’ Ben said, out of breath, dragging me forcefully backwards, away from Sabroso.
‘Ben, please…’ I struggled against him, trying to plant my feet, resisting his pull. He wasn’t meant to be here, this wasn’t the plan we all agreed on. We knew the risks, we all knew this was the cost of saving Carlota.
‘Ruth, I’m sorry, but I can’t. I just can’t,’ he said, his voice tearing and breaking. ‘I won’t let you die. I can’t let you die.’
His grip tightened even more as he hauled me backwards.
I fought back as hard as I could, trying to make myself heavier, harder to move, but despite the chemo, he was still stronger than me.
A few passers-by cast us bemused glances, weighing whether to intervene, then, realising I was not truly calling for help, moved on.
This was London, after all. We clock it, we tut and then we move on.
I found myself on the cold slabs of pavement, my rear impacting the ground as I tried to make myself a dead weight. But still, Ben dragged me along, unyielding, determined, a man utterly convicted in what he was doing.
I ground my teeth as I twisted my forearm desperately, trying to slip free from his grip, when suddenly, a figure brushed past us both.
That was when Ben’s grip suddenly slackened, and my arm recoiled, slapping onto the cold, hard pavement.
He staggered, his breath catching in his throat as his hands suddenly snapped to clutch at his side.
His body swayed slightly in the wind, before his legs gave way, and he crumpled into a lifeless heap onto one of the chairs outside the café.
To the Londoners walking through the brisk and biting January night, he’d look like just some drunkard who’d overdone it again.
‘No,’ I screamed, primal and raw, as I scrambled to his side. I slapped his face repeatedly, desperate to get him to regain consciousness, but the only response from his body was the hot blood seeping through my fingers as I pressed against his wound.
No, no, no, this was not meant to happen.
‘Ben. Ben!’ I shouted raggedly. He was losing consciousness. Even before I turned my head, I knew who the figure was. He had been watching, waiting somewhere for me to arrive first.
Jago stood over us, the knife still in his grip, most of it hidden up his sleeve. He looked down at me, his eyes glinting with a lazy, self-satisfied sparkle.
‘Let’s go inside,’ was all he said.
I was about to call for help – there were still people walking past – but then Jago’s hand clamped around the collar of my coat and yanked me back towards his chest.
‘Say anything and I’ll kill you now,’ he whispered gently in my ear.
‘Please, please, just call an ambulance for him,’ I begged, my voice still shaking. Jago’s grip tightened, one hand clamped around the nape of my neck, the other pressing the knife’s point against my spine. He forcefully guided me forward towards Sabroso’s front door.
‘No,’ Jago said bluntly. ‘Hey, maybe he’ll get lucky, and someone will spot him. I told you to come alone.’
Please, I begged any god who was listening, let someone, a jogger, a driver, a neighbour, anyone, find him and get him to a hospital before he bled out on a street without anyone even noticing. I couldn’t let him die, not like this.
‘Apart from your pal, are you alone?’ he asked. I could sense his gaze scanning around the surroundings of Sabroso meticulously.
‘Yes,’ I muttered as a few drops of rain began to patter down outside. ‘I didn’t know he was following me.’
‘And do the police know where you are?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Because if I see even a single flash of blue lights, well, wouldn’t you know it?
Ruth Watkins is the TellTale Killer,’ he said in a ghoulish newsreader-like tone as we hung about in the small waiting area while I kept my eyes fixed on Ben outside.
‘She was caught red-handed having just murdered a dedicated police detective before killing herself in one final lethal crescendo.’
‘You took a detective?’ I asked, trying to sound surprised by the information.
‘Eh, she’s not a very good one. She never managed to track me.’
Present tense, that was good. I hoped that meant Detective Carlota was still alive.
We were met by the waiter’s courteous smile, obviously completely oblivious to what was going on.
He told us they wouldn’t be serving food and led us to a quiet table tucked away at the back, no doubt internally deeming us a rather curious pair.
What must we have looked like? A sobbing, dishevelled woman who looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks, and a man in a ￡1,000 Armani jacket wearing sunglasses in January.
‘Oh,’ I said, my voice regaining some of its strength again as I reached out to gently touch the waiter on the arm while he led us to our table. ‘There’s a chap outside who looks like he might be in trouble, just on one of the chairs. Would you mind going to check on him?’
The waiter turned and glanced at Ben outside, still appearing like he was slovenly slumped on the chair of the outdoor seating. I kept internally praying to anyone who was listening that the knife had missed all of the vital organs.
‘Oh, it’s probably just one of the local…’ The waiter was about to say ‘crackheads’, but caught himself. I think he figured right that I wouldn’t have enjoyed the use of that term. ‘One of that lot, you know,’ he mumbled dismissively as he laid the menus on the table.
‘Exactly,’ Jago murmured with a dry laugh. ‘It’s fine, Ruth. Come on, leave it.’
‘Oh, Jago, please,’ I said with a theatrical groan. I was trying to play the same game he was. I turned back to the waiter. ‘Could you check on him, please. I’m quite concerned?’
‘Of course,’ the waiter replied reluctantly after a small beat. I could tell he really wanted that tip. I watched as he made his way to the outside seating to look at Ben, he gently tried to awaken him and then immediately called over a colleague who instantly had the phone placed to her ear.
Thank God.
Jago scowled at that as we both watched the scene unfold, furious that I had already undermined his authority. I reminded myself that despite Ben having just been stabbed, my own best chance at survival was to keep Jago talking.
‘I’ve thought of two headlines already, you know: “My Ten Minutes with a Monster” or “Eye-to-Eye with Evil”. I haven’t decided yet,’ Jago said, pitching each headline as if its letters were being inscribed into thin air.
‘You really think anyone would be stupid enough to believe that story?’ I asked, my voice quiet but trying to sound assured. I clenched the fabric of Greta’s old coat as tightly as I could in my pocket, really wishing I had brought a knife of my own.