Tick Tick Tick by G. M. Clark

all. She takes one look at the plastic bag and knows what has happened.
    ‘From him?’ she queries, already knowing the answer.
    ‘As I don’t know any other arseholes out there sending me riddles… go figure.’ I don’t mean to snap her head off; it’s just my sheer frustration. She turns and strides into the kitchen. I can hear the kettle being filled, the coffee percolator starting and fridge doors banging open and shut. Obviously I’ve pissed her off too.
    ‘I’m sorry babe.’ I wrap my arms around her.
    ‘I know.’ Her voice is polite; nothing more, nothing less.
    ‘It’s driving me crazy, that’s all. It’s like he knows everything about me, and I know sod all about him.’
    ‘He doesn’t know everything about you. Yes, he knows your address and your phone number, and he’s trying to wind you up.’
    ‘Well, he’s succeeding.’
    ‘Then don’t let him.’
    The doorbell rings just as I’m about to kiss her. For God’s sake , I think, give me a break .
    I let the techs in white suits in. In the space of about thirty seconds they have my phone and fax machine dismantled and have hooked up their own equipment.
    ‘Can you trace it?’ I ask the bald, heavy set guy who looks like he’s in charge. He looks at me as if I’m dense.
    ‘Contrary to what the public believe, it’s pretty easy nowadays. Digital switches have sped up the process, and with the electronic systems we can identify any caller’s number within a fraction of a second,’ he says.
    I’m starting to like the sound of this. He continues, ‘There is no foolproof way to avoid tracing on a network when making a direct call.’
    ‘What if he rerouted it?’ I ask, my stomach beginning to tense.
    ‘Very unlikely as it was a fax.’
    ‘How do you know it was a direct call?’ One of his colleagues hands him a sheet of paper.
    ‘Because I’ve just got the number.’
    Jesus Christ, a breakthrough at last. ‘Where’s it from?’ I almost scream.
    ‘It’s from a twenty-four hour phone shop on the north-east side. Cars are on their way now.’
    I turn to Connie and smirk; I must look like a goddamn grinning Cheshire cat. ‘Jesus, at last, something tangible.’ She nods in concurrence.
    At the same time, I wish that I’d stayed at least half awake last night. I’m normally a light sleeper and I would’ve heard the fax go. If I’d picked it up straight away, we could’ve had a chance of picking the son of a bitch up. Still, it’s worth searching the shop for CCTV and questioning whoever was on duty.
    I’m still in a state of euphoria when my mobile phone rings. Expecting it to be Mack or Grimes I snap it open. No such luck – we have another body.
    Connie can tell from the look on my face that he’s struck again.
    ‘His time span is getting shorter.’  I see her eyes narrow, as worry flicks on by.
    ‘I know.’ I grab my coat and keys and am almost out the door as she yells.
    ‘Oh by the way, I’ve solved the second riddle – it isn’t a dream. It’s IMAGINATION . ’
    My beeper goes off, so I just nod, blow her a kiss and leave her with the computer nerds. Sorry, hon.
     
    Mack is tied up investigating the phone shop, so this one’s all mine. As I drive to the latest crime scene, thoughts flicker through my mind. Why target me? Is it as Connie stated? Just because I’m the lead copper in the case in the field, or is it something more personal? I don’t have an answer.
    As I draw up outside the house, the media frenzy has already begun in earnest. I also see Grimes’s car sitting further along the street. Great! I try to get out of my car unseen, but it doesn’t work; as usual microphones are thrust in my face with anxious reporters at the other end.
    ‘Have you got any idea who it is?’
    ‘No comment.’
    ‘Have we got another serial killer in Manchester?’
    ‘No comment.’
    ‘Have MI5 been called in?’
    ‘I said… no comment.’
    Fury burns within me as I realise that the city has taken on the