“How am I ever going to give this up?” he asked the underwear. But give it up he must once tonight’s final ritual was completed.
The Disciple reluctantly returned his trophies to the duffle bag and then went over to inspect his van. With a final glance around his lair to make sure that nothing had been forgotten, he turned off all the internal lights and pulled open the doors to the street.
He had to assume that, by now, the detectives knew the type and colour of van he was using; they might even have the index number. Thankfully, it no longer mattered, not since he had stumbled across a burnt-out Sherpa in Shadwell during the night of the double event. Its discovery in such fortuitous circumstances had obviously been another omen – and in a moment of pure inspiration, he had swapped the number plates on the charred wreck with his own. The following day, he had spent several tedious hours spraying his van dark green. The paint job was blotchy in places but that was irrelevant. Unless anyone compared the VIN on the engine and chassis to the registration number, it would pass for the vehicle whose identity it had taken on.
These simple precautions should ensure that the police didn’t give him a second glance tonight, and after that it wouldn’t matter.
He had been sorely tempted to sacrifice the third bitch responsible for ruining his life at her place of work and then leave her mutilated body to be discovered on Monday morning. It would be easy, and it would negate the need for him to take the van out, but it didn’t fit in with his plan to send her off in style.
In 1888, the Ripper’s final victim, Mary Kelly, had been slaughtered in her grubby little Miller’s Court bedsit – it was the only one of the five canonical murders to have been committed inside a building. He intended to emulate that feat, only he wanted the building in question to be his lair. After all these years of marriage, it seemed only right and proper that she should be allowed to see this hallowed place before she died.
A dull ache had formed behind his eyes, as it did every time he started thinking about the final ritual. Perversely, now that he was so close to achieving his goal, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going to go wrong at the last moment. As he massaged his eyeballs with his left thumb and forefinger, he could feel the little tendrils of pain spreading right back into his brain.
Sitting in the driver’s seat of his van, engine running, The Disciple closed his eyes and focussed on his breathing, counting up to ten with each inhalation and down from ten to zero with each exhalation. After a couple of minutes, the stress related pain began to subside and his head began to feel a little clearer.
Once the van had cleared the archway, he stopped and ran back to close and lock the double doors. Climbing back into the van, he checked his watch.
It read: 20:45 hours.
It was finally time to go and get the third bitch responsible for ruining his life, but first, he had to find a phone box and make a very important call.
As if on cue, the rain started.
◆◆◆
Several minutes later, The Disciple pulled up sharply outside a bright red telephone kiosk. It was the third one he’d tried; the other two had been vandalised and were no longer usable. He had stopped on a double yellow line, but it was nearly nine o’clock and he didn’t anticipate being there very long. Thankfully, this one was still in working order and he quickly dialled the number from memory.
“Good evening, New Scotland Yard. Can I help you?”
“Yes, you can put me through to the Incident Room dealing with the Ripper murders, please.”
“One moment, please, while I try to connect you…” The line went dead on him and he wondered if the idiot had cut him off. He was considering hanging up and redialing when a new voice suddenly came on the line.
“Incident room, DC Jarvis speaking, can I help you?”
The Disciple quickly wrapped a handkerchief around the mouthpiece, to disguise his voice in case the call was being recorded. He spoke very slowly, trying to make his voice sound deeper. “I want to speak to Jack Tyler,” he said.
“I’m sorry but I can hardly hear you,” Jarvis told him. “You’ll have to speak up.”
“I want to speak to Jack Tyler,” the killer repeated irritably, keeping his voice to a whisper.
“I’m sorry but Mr Tyler’s office is in another part of the building. Can I take a message and get him to call you back? Hello…? Hello...? Are you still there, caller?” but the killer had already hung up.
◆◆◆
In the Incident Room, Jarvis stared uncomprehendingly at the handset for several seconds before replacing it in its cradle.
“What was that all about?” Kevin Murray asked from across the room, where he was sitting with his feet up on a desk.
“I don’t know. We got cut off. Still, I guess they’ll call back if it’s important.”
“I guess they will.” Murray agreed, turning his attention to more pressing matters, namely the centrefold pinup in the latest issue of Playboy Magazine.
◆◆◆
The Disciple phoned New Scotland Yard again, this time requesting to be transferred straight through to DCI Tyler at Arbour Square. The line briefly went dead, and then it was ringing again. He licked his lips nervously. In his mind, he went over the monologue he’d rehearsed earlier.
The phone continued to ring.
Where the hell was Tyler?
“Come on, you clever bastard,” he hissed. “Where are you?” Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a fit of rage engulfed him and he found himself banging the phone against the side of the kiosk as hard as he could, cracking the plastic around the earpiece. The pain behind his eyes had returned with a vengeance. Struggling to regain control, he looked
