“Sorry, Paul,” Tyler said, “but needs must, and all that. The front of the station isn’t covered by camera, but surely the surrounding area will be.” He repeated the generic – and totally useless – description Pritchard had provided of the courier and his motorcycle, and then, as an afterthought, described the good doctor. “Pritchard doesn’t recall the exact time he arrived at the nick, so you might have to do a bit of work to pick him up before he gets there.” He gave Evans the most likely route that Pritchard would have taken if he had come straight from the Sutton Mission. “I don’t need to tell you how important this could be for us,” Tyler said. “Even if you can’t follow the bike back to an address, at least try and get me a registration number.”
“I’ll do my best,” Evans promised, hurriedly donning his jacket. Tyler clearly had a bee in his bonnet over this; he wanted answers, and he wanted them quickly. Paul Evans realised that he was in for a very late finish.
◆◆◆
“Good evening, London Echo offices, how can I help you?” The singsong voice of the telephonist grated on The Disciple. He tried to put a face to the voice and imagined how nice it would be to silence it once and for all.
“Put me through to Terri Miller,” he demanded, tapping the glass pane of the telephone kiosk in agitation.
“Who shall I say is calling, sir?” The receptionist’s manner became frosty; no doubt she was annoyed by the tone of his voice.
“Tell her that it’s Jack. And if you value your scrawny little life, be quick about it,” he hissed menacingly.
“Jack? You mean…? Hold on, please.” He sensed her fear and realised she had been primed to expect his call.
He smiled in satisfaction.
“The line’s ringing for you, sir.” She told him, unable to mask her discomfort. The phone was picked up after the fourth ring.
“Terri Miller speaking.” The tautness in her voice told him that she already knew exactly who was calling. It was possible that the receptionist had forewarned her, although he didn’t think there had been enough time for her to do that. Perhaps they had set an extension aside purely for incoming calls from him. That would make more sense. “Cut the crap. You know who this is. I’ve got a newsflash for you: Jack Tyler received a little present from me this afternoon at Whitechapel police station. You know the sort of gifts I send, don’t you?” Her sudden intake of breath answered that question nicely.
“I know you’ve done some terrible things,” she began, reciting the speech that she and Giles Deakin had prepared in anticipation of him calling her again, “but we can get you the verybestpsychiatric help if you’ll just turn yourself in. You don’t have to be afraid of the police. You could come here and we would ensure you had legal representation…”
Miller rattled him with her meaningless talk. What was she playing at? It didn’t make sense to provoke him like this. Unless, of course, the call was being taped and she was planning to use it as propaganda to promote her newspaper. Well, wasn’t that what he had effectively told her to do? To get him the publicity he craved. He allowed himself a small, malicious smile. She was playing a dangerous game, one that could not end well for her…but, if that was what she wanted, then so be it.
“Let me tell you what I need. I need to feel the warm blood of the damned flow through my fingers. Don’t play games with me or you could find yourself becoming a donor! If you want to live, call Tyler and ask him about my gift.”
“I’ll call him,” Miller promised, “but first I want you to tell me why you’re doing this. If you really want me to do your story justice, the least you can do is give me something to work with.”
The Disciple thought about this for a moment. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps there was a way of giving her an insight that she could draw inspiration from. “Very well,” he said, as an idea struck him. “You want something to work with? I’ve got just the thing in mind. Wait by the phone; I’ll call you back later tonight.” With that, he slammed down the receiver and stormed out of the phone box.
◆◆◆
“Dear God, did he threaten to kill me halfway through that conversation?” Terri asked her editor the moment the Ripper hung up. She felt her knees starting to buckle, and quickly sank into the easy chair beside Deakin’s desk before they gave way altogether.
“Yes, he did, and on audio tape too!” Giles Deakin beamed. Looking very much like the cat that had swallowed the canary, he raised his glass of wine to salute the three other people who had gathered in his office when the Ripper’s call had come in.
“By Jove, old girl, you just got another exclusive for the paper. I wasn’t sure about letting you run with this at first, but I’m glad I did now. When this is all over, we’ve got to seriously consider doing a serialisation of the case, or perhaps a pull out for the Sunday issue.” He stroked the side of her face and handed her a glass of white wine.
Still in a daze, Terri automatically took the glass. “I’m going to write a book,” she informed him, downing its contents in one.
“A book,” Deakin said, grinning enthusiastically. “What a super idea.”
“Are you okay, Terri?” Julie asked, taking her friend’s hand. Like everyone else in the room, she had listened to the conversation via a desk-mounted speaker. But, unlike Giles and his pompous solicitor – whose only concern was whether what they were doing was technically legal – she had accompanied Terri to the house of
