Jack’s movements felt sluggish as he read the words on the screen. He had thrown together Dolby’s article, questioning why the killer was still at large, a rehash of facts from the press conference mixed in with the article he had submitted earlier. It would appear in the paper in the morning. He had just opened a second bottle of wine and his vision was starting to swirl, fingers moving clumsily over the keys as he headed to the Blackley Telegraph site to check for the latest comments.
He took another drink of wine as the page loaded, his name writ large at the top, and saw that snipes at Jane’s father had taken over from sympathy. Some had even found a racial angle, putting forward one ethnic group as potential suspects. Jack knew that the comments were moderated, but Dolby usually took a relaxed view because he knew that bile kept the page counter turning.
He was about to shut down the computer when it flashed up that an email had arrived. He went to the inbox, expecting an offer for bogus medication, but instead there was a message entitled Blindness.
He started to read:
You’re writing the wrong story, Jack Garrett. So another woman has died in Blackley, just the daughter-whore of the town’s biggest thug. My message to him is that you’ve wrecked lives too, so how does it feel now? Both fathers. Both sinners.
Spot the link, win the prize, because they won’t, I can guarantee it, those special boys in blue. Yes, spare a thought for the girl in the woods who gorged on the floor, but don’t think too long, think then of Daddy at last feeling the pain.
Jack put down his drink, surprised. That was strong stuff. He checked the email address. It was a Google address, so it would probably be hard to trace the owner.
He sat back and tugged at his lip. Crime reporting certainly attracted its fair share of oddballs, from those who sat at the back of court, just for the public viewing, to those who sent out paranoid emails without a second thought. But why the reference to gorging on the floor? And what was the link between the two victims? The police had hinted that they were random, that all women were in danger.
Jack looked around for a notepad, and felt a familiar tremble of excitement in his fingers. If the police were holding facts back, he needed to know.
He pressed the reply button and typed, Gorged on the floor. What do you mean?
He clicked send and drank some more wine, wondering what the reply would contain. He didn’t have to wait long.
Good to see that you’re alert, Jack, but this is just for you and me. If you tell the police, I’ll know. I’ll hear the whispers. But what about a poem, an ode to Jane:
What is this that I can see,
Cold icy hands taking hold of me,
For Death has come, you all can see,
Hell has opened a gate to welcome thee,
He’ll stuff your jaws till you can’t talk,
He’ll bind your legs till you can’t walk,
He’ll tie your hands till you can’t claw,
And he’ll close your eyes so you see no more.
Jack took another drink of wine. It seemed like the story had taken a new twist