He’ll stuff your jaws till you can’t talk .
He went to the nationals first, but it was what he expected: nothing much. The media had turned out for the press conference but it hadn’t translated into column inches. It was the out-of-London syndrome, that it had to get really bad to be noticed by the London press, and so he trawled the northern dailies instead. The murder was featured more prominently, but it was still lacking in detail, and some had just lifted the report from the Blackley Telegraph .
Jack went to the Blackley Telegraph website again, checking for updates, but nothing had changed. The comments section had grown though, so that reading the news was like being caught in an argument. Some of the comments echoed the vitriol of the emails, hatred spewed out under the cover of anonymous usernames, and some criticised the police, saying that they couldn’t catch a serial killer because they were too wrapped up in form-filling.
But no one mentioned anything about something being in the victim’s mouth.
He brought up the second email and read the poem again.
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.
Those words were specific. Jane must have been bound and gagged, there could be no other conclusion, but there had been nothing in any of the newspapers, no rumours or hints at the press conference the day before. So if the gorging reference had some truth, the emailer must be close to the investigation.
Then something occurred to him. There had been a niggle the night before, that there was something he wasn’t seeing, but as he thought more about it, it revealed itself, and it made him sit back and stare at the sceen. What if the emails were from the killer himself, trying to use the press as a platform?
He took another drink of coffee and thought about that. It wouldn’t be the first time. Then, right on cue, he was interrupted by the arrival of another email. The title grabbed his attention: Another one bites dust.
Bites dust?
Jack clicked on the email, and then as he read he realised that it wasn’t about the woman found yesterday, but about the victim from a few weeks earlier, the copper’s daughter, Deborah Corley.
You’re slow, Jack. I find the newspaper not writing all the details unamusing. I know those boys in blue think they have to keep secret all that goes on, that people will get scared, but I think people should know. How else do they catch the killer? Ha ha.
Think of charming little Deborah, blessed by life’s opportunities. Sunday school, pony lessons, pretty in the press picture, and so she should be, with everything life had given her. But no more. Deborah has smiled one last time, silenced forever, her laughs muffled. She tried to cry out but couldn’t.
Write about it, Jack. Find the real story. Tell the world everything. Because if it’s not you, it will be someone else.
He sat back and rubbed his eyes. That was strong stuff again. And what about her laughs muffled ?
He took another sip of coffee and pondered on his reply. What if he was reading too much into it, and it was just some weirdo trying to make him print some untruths by hinting that he knows things? Jack wasn’t going to wreck his reputation on anonymous hints.
He put his cup down and typed a reply.
I can write the stories if you have proof that you know things. What do you have? Jack.
Jack drummed his fingers on his knees as he waited, his eyes fixed on the screen, the house enveloped in silence. Then there was another ping. Another reply.
Ask them about Emma was all it said.
But who was Emma, and who was them ?
Chapter Nineteen
Carson was first into the mortuary, pushing the door open with a thump, Laura and Joe trailing behind him. It was really just the basement of an old hospital building, lined by cracked green and cream tiles, with a sign over the
He went to the nationals first, but it was what he expected: nothing much. The media had turned out for the press conference but it hadn’t translated into column inches. It was the out-of-London syndrome, that it had to get really bad to be noticed by the London press, and so he trawled the northern dailies instead. The murder was featured more prominently, but it was still lacking in detail, and some had just lifted the report from the Blackley Telegraph .
Jack went to the Blackley Telegraph website again, checking for updates, but nothing had changed. The comments section had grown though, so that reading the news was like being caught in an argument. Some of the comments echoed the vitriol of the emails, hatred spewed out under the cover of anonymous usernames, and some criticised the police, saying that they couldn’t catch a serial killer because they were too wrapped up in form-filling.
But no one mentioned anything about something being in the victim’s mouth.
He brought up the second email and read the poem again.
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.
Those words were specific. Jane must have been bound and gagged, there could be no other conclusion, but there had been nothing in any of the newspapers, no rumours or hints at the press conference the day before. So if the gorging reference had some truth, the emailer must be close to the investigation.
Then something occurred to him. There had been a niggle the night before, that there was something he wasn’t seeing, but as he thought more about it, it revealed itself, and it made him sit back and stare at the sceen. What if the emails were from the killer himself, trying to use the press as a platform?
He took another drink of coffee and thought about that. It wouldn’t be the first time. Then, right on cue, he was interrupted by the arrival of another email. The title grabbed his attention: Another one bites dust.
Bites dust?
Jack clicked on the email, and then as he read he realised that it wasn’t about the woman found yesterday, but about the victim from a few weeks earlier, the copper’s daughter, Deborah Corley.
You’re slow, Jack. I find the newspaper not writing all the details unamusing. I know those boys in blue think they have to keep secret all that goes on, that people will get scared, but I think people should know. How else do they catch the killer? Ha ha.
Think of charming little Deborah, blessed by life’s opportunities. Sunday school, pony lessons, pretty in the press picture, and so she should be, with everything life had given her. But no more. Deborah has smiled one last time, silenced forever, her laughs muffled. She tried to cry out but couldn’t.
Write about it, Jack. Find the real story. Tell the world everything. Because if it’s not you, it will be someone else.
He sat back and rubbed his eyes. That was strong stuff again. And what about her laughs muffled ?
He took another sip of coffee and pondered on his reply. What if he was reading too much into it, and it was just some weirdo trying to make him print some untruths by hinting that he knows things? Jack wasn’t going to wreck his reputation on anonymous hints.
He put his cup down and typed a reply.
I can write the stories if you have proof that you know things. What do you have? Jack.
Jack drummed his fingers on his knees as he waited, his eyes fixed on the screen, the house enveloped in silence. Then there was another ping. Another reply.
Ask them about Emma was all it said.
But who was Emma, and who was them ?
Chapter Nineteen
Carson was first into the mortuary, pushing the door open with a thump, Laura and Joe trailing behind him. It was really just the basement of an old hospital building, lined by cracked green and cream tiles, with a sign over the
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