“Please, talk to me,” she shouted into the phone. “Talk to me damn you or I’ll hang up,” she cried, hoping to call his bluff.
The sound of movement stopped abruptly. There followed an uncomfortable silence and she began to wonder if the signal had been lost. She could tell he was using a mobile because of the intermittent echo. And then she heard his breathing again and a wave of relief flooded over her.
“What’s the matter, Terri? I thought you wanted my story. Think of how many newspapers this will sell.” His voice, cruel and mocking, made her feel hollow and unclean. As if sensing her thoughts, The Disciple went on the attack. “You prove my point for me, Terri. All women are whores. You might not sell your body for sex, but you are willing to abandon your principles and sleep with the devil just to get your name in print and sell a few measly newspapers. What’s the difference? Tell me that, if you can.”
“I –” Terri opened her mouth to refute the hurtful allegation, but somehow nothing would come out. There was a cruel perception in his words that had stung her. Surely, he was wrong? Surely, she was better than that?
“Exactly,” he smirked. “Well, Terri, it’s been fun, but I’ve got a throat to slit so I’m going to say goodbye for now. We’ll talk again later.”
“Wait, don’t go,” she pleaded, but the line had already gone dead. “He rang off.” Terri Miller said, appalled. She was close to hysteria and she felt thoroughly sick. Holding her head in her hands, Terri slumped forward on the desk. “Dear God, what have I done?” she asked, ashen-faced.
“It’s not your fault, sweetheart,” Deakin told her.
“It is my fault, Giles. He’s only doing this to impress me. If I had refused to play his stupid games none of this would be happening. It’s no wonder that that cop, Dillon, looked at me with such contempt.” She angrily wiped a tear away from the corner of her eye.
“Listen to me, old girl,” Deakin said firmly. “It is not your fault. This monster doesn’t do things to please you or anyone else. He’s mad, and he’s evil. It’s as simple as that. If the truth be known, you’re as much a victim as that poor cow he’s got trapped.” Deakin spoke with growing anger. Miller was a good reporter; she didn’t deserve to be reduced to this.
“Oh Giles,” She said, looking across at him. “That poor, poor woman…” Unable to contain her anguish a moment longer, Terri Miller finally broke down and cried.
Deakin placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. He knew there was nothing he could say to ease her pain, so he didn’t speak at all. He just knelt down beside her and wrapped his arms around her protectively. If need be, he would hold her like that all night. When the tears finally stopped, he would fix her a strong drink and try and get her to talk about it.
At that moment the door opened and a stern-faced detective strode in.
CHAPTER 37
PC Patrick Reeve pointed at a battered green van parked with its rear end askew from the kerb, as though it had pulled over in a hurry. He couldn’t see anyone sitting in the cab, but the lights were on, and a plume of exhaust fumes could be seen coming from the rear of the vehicle, so the engine was obviously running.
“What about that one?” he suggested.
“There’s no one in it,” PC Ron Stedman said, dismissively. “It’s probably a delivery driver who’s stopped for a quick piss in the park.”
“Or,” Reeve countered, “the driver could have seen us coming towards him and legged it because there’s a dead body in the back.”
“Imbecilic comments like that are the main reason some of our colleagues call us the Thick and Stupid Group,” Stedman pointed out, his voice oozing sarcasm.
Reeve wasn’t going to be put off that easily. “But they want us to stop Sherpa vans,” he protested. “We should stop and find the driver. He can’t be far.”
The two men were polar opposites; Patrick Reeve – or Seventies Cop as he was referred to on the unit because his views and mannerisms could have been straight lifts from some of the classic policing shows from that era – was tall and skinny, although he did have a little beer belly that hung over the front of his belt. His uniform trousers were a couple of inches too short for him, and they looked as though he regularly slept in them. Although bald, he proudly sported a Pancho Villa style moustache that drooped miserably over the sides of his lips. Ronald Stedman, on the other hand, was tall, broad, with a military buzz cut; his uniform was always immaculate and the only thing sharper than his trouser creases was his tongue.
“No, they want us to stop white Sherpa vans,” Stedman corrected his operator in a condescending tone. “White Sherpa vans with a headlight out of alignment, to be precise, not green ones. Honestly, you’re such a pillock!”
Reeves face reddened and his moustache twitched angrily. “Well it might not be white, but it is a Sherpa, and it does have a headlight out of alignment, so I vote we should still check it out.”
Stedman rolled his eyes. They were meant to be looking for a murderer, not giving someone a traffic ticket for leaving a vehicle unattended with its engine running. “Hello, is anyone in there?” He leaned over and rapped his knuckles against Reeve’s bald head several times. “Just as I thought, the lights are on but no one’s home.”
“Get off,” Reeve said, sweeping Stedman’s hand away. He tapped his nose. “This is telling me something’s not right with that van and I vote we check it out.”
Stead glanced over his shoulder at PS Beach. “Sorry
