Jack held up the wine bottle to the light. Probably only a glass left in it. It was close to midnight now, and he was alone in the house. He hadn’t heard from Laura for a few hours, and he remembered the incident from the night before, when she was almost run down. He wanted to know she was safe. There was a killer to catch, he knew that, but she didn’t have to sacrifice herself to do it. The screen swam in front of him and his fingers roamed clumsily across the keyboard, the sound of his tapping fingernails echoing loudly in the house.
He had written the story on Jane, but Jack didn’t expect Don to like it. It had been written as a lead-in to the Whitcroft article, speculating on whether there was a link between the estate and the murders. The quotes from some of the people Jack had spoken to earlier had made it in as unnamed sources, and a connection had started to emerge, but it seemed loose and vague, as if there was still something missing.
Jack was browsing the internet, looking at the newspapers and sport stories, when there was a ping from the email software. He poured himself another glass of wine, stumbling a little, dropping some onto the table top, and then he opened the email.
It was from the same source as before, except that this time it had the title Hoyly Moyly. Jack leaned forward to read it, took a long sip, and then he stopped and put his glass down. The email made no sense.
He read it again.
Oh Angel, why did you scream?
It was a perfect plan, an evening dream,
Deviance and pleasure,
Something to treasure,
Bold on a summer night,
Man was out,
Looking after wolves,
Angel was in,
Watching out for me,
Your cries fall on devil ears,
Mine mount to storm fury,
Oh Angel, why did you scream?
Jack sat back and ran his hands through his hair as he tried to shake off some of the alcohol fog. As poetry, it was poor, but there was a message there. The taunts, the spitefulness, they were all familiar.
He felt the effect of the wine subside as he thought about the message. He knew his mind needed to be clear to work it all out. He clicked reply, and when the dialogue box came up, he typed:
So how are they all connected? Don is into security. Mike Corley is a local copper. Where’s the link? Who is Emma? And who is the Angel from your email? You want your story told. Talk to me.
Jack went to the window and noticed again how dark the hills were. He felt like he couldn’t do anything until he got a reply. It didn’t take long to arrive. He went to the computer nervously, and sat down when he saw the contents.
There is always a connection. I’m going faster than before and sometimes it feels like it is too fast. But I have spotted a female. You know her, ha ha. Just need to work out the details.
So now you know I’m real, what next. Do I deserve a name, a title? The papers always like that. What do you think? Can you think of a name?
And then Jack remembered the scene from earlier in the evening, the fear etched onto David Hoyle’s face. Hoyly Moyly.
Jack took the wine bottle to the kitchen and poured the contents of his glass down the sink. He went to the doors and windows, checked that everything was locked. He had an early start the next day, and a very long night ahead.