He imagined the joy of hearing his toddler’s first words, especially if one of them were ‘dad’; the pride of witnessing their first steps; the satisfaction of reading his children bedtime stories, and the protective love of nursing them while they were poorly.
Even the unpleasant aspects of parenthood, like changing dirty nappies and vomit stained clothing; or the lack of sleep most people he knew complained about while their kids were teething, didn’t seem so bad anymore.
Yes, Jack had been – to coin a phrase – ‘job-pissed’ in his younger days, but now he realised that there were far more important things in life than work. He wanted these things, needed them. If only he could find someone to share them with.
Dillon, who had just finished saying farewell to Karen, ambled over, mistaking the longing expression on Jack’s face for something else entirely.
He sniggered like a schoolboy and nudged Tyler’s arm. “You sly old dog! I take it from the look on your face that things went well?”
“It was okay,” Jack replied, giving nothing away. They crossed the nearly empty car park and stopped by Jack’s car, a ten-year-old silver Mercedes E Class.
“Are you gonna see her again?” Dillon asked as he put his seatbelt on.
Jack gave a non-committal shrug and turned the ignition. “Maybe. What about you?”
“Of course!” Dillon seemed genuinely surprised that Jack should even ask him such a thing. “How could she resist me once I turned on the fabled Dillon charm?”
Jack laughed fondly. “Well, she is only human, I suppose.”
◆◆◆
At eleven-fifteen p.m. Geraldine Rye wearily locked the door to the Regency Enquiries Agency, a P.I. firm she had set up eighteen months ago following the unpleasantness that resulted in her being required to resign from the City of London Police.
Despite its posh sounding title, Regency was a shyster outfit based in a two-room let above a garment manufacturer in Mansell Street, and it had one employee: her.
Pushing her small brolly ahead of her like a shield, she gingerly stepped over the puddle that had formed a moat around the entrance step to her premises and emerged into the pelting rain.
◆◆◆
Hands in pockets, and as motionless as a statue, The Disciple watched Rye from a darkened doorway that sheltered him from the downpour. The moment he spotted her, his stomach twisted with hatred, for this was the Blackmailer, the second of the three women who had ruined his life.
In her early thirties, Geraldine Rye was of average height and build, with a plain but not unattractive face. Unaware that she was being observed, Rye gave the door handle a quick twist to make sure the latch had caught and then set off towards the Aldgate one-way system at a brisk pace.
The Disciple remained stationary until she reached the subway. As soon as she committed, he pulled his collar up and sprinted back to his van, which was parked on a single yellow line nearby. The engine coughed once and then kicked into life. He slipped it into first and drove across the junction into Middlesex Street, coasting to a stop a few yards from the exit she should be appearing from at any moment. He switched on the hazard warning lights and waited impatiently.
He was angry with her for taking the subway; most sane people avoided the place after dark, and while he would have been quite happy for her to become a crime statistic on any other occasion, it would fuck his plans up completely if she had her bag snatched or her tits groped tonight.
The wipers jerked back and forth intermittently, struggling to clear a deluge that was leaving splash marks the size of fifty-pence pieces all over his windscreen. Normally, he found the pendulum-like movement quite soothing, but tonight it grated on him like nails down a blackboard.
Eventually, Rye emerged from the subway, shoulders slumped miserably and head buried beneath her little umbrella. Intent on dodging puddles, she passed by the battered van without giving it a second glance. The Disciple studied her receding figure in a rain-streaked wing-mirror, and smiled triumphantly when she entered Petticoat Lane. She was sticking to the same route she had taken every time he had followed her. He knew where she was heading next, and he had already identified the perfect spot to intercept her. All he had to do was get there ahead of her and let her walk into his arms.
◆◆◆
Geraldine Rye was running late due to a telephone conference with a pathetically needy client who wouldn’t get off the bloody phone, and now she was probably going to miss her train home. She cursed in a most unladylike fashion as her foot sank into a puddle she hadn’t spotted and cold water flooded into her shoe. The bottom half of her coat, and her legs, were already soaked through, and she wondered why she had bothered putting up the useless compact umbrella; a Kleenex would have done a better job of keeping the rain at bay. She decided that she needed a stiff drink. If she was going to have to wait for the next train anyway, she might as well take advantage of the situation and stop off for a little tipple at the Wetherspoons next to the railway station. There might even be a nice warm fire on the go, and a seat in which she could sit down and dry off a little.
The door of a parked van slid open as she drew level with it, and the long-haired idiot who got out without looking nearly knocked her over. She stepped in yet another puddle as she sidestepped him. “Look out,” she yelled angrily.
“Sorry,” he said grudgingly, hurriedly closing the door behind him.
“Bloody idiot,” she mumbled under her breath. Her right foot was squelching with every step now, and she stared
