“Load of bollocks if you ask me,” Twist said, dismissing Smith. “They already have two whole units of TSG posted to the borough every evening this week. That’s eight carriers. And that’s without all the local aid that’s been drummed up. Talk about overkill! What possible difference do they expect us to make? We won’t rush out from grub for that. What do you think Bob?”
“You’re probably right, guv,” Bob Beach said tactfully, although the way he saw it, the Metropolitan Police was a disciplined service, and they had just been instructed to proceed immediately to Whitechapel division and commence high visibility patrols. It was wrong of Twist to ignore the order, although he was undoubtedly right about them not making a difference once they got there. “But my crew has finished eating. We could head over to HT and fly the flag for a while, just to be on the safe side. The rest of the unit can join us after grub.”
After considering this for a moment, Twist grunted a grudging approval. “Off you go, then,” he said.
As he led them out into the rear yard, Beach could hear his crew moaning like a bunch of sulking children about having had their break shortened. He glanced at his watch as they climbed aboard the carrier. It was twenty past nine.
“So much for a proper grub break,” he said, wistfully.
◆◆◆
The Disciple angrily swerved the van over in Vallance Road, stopping opposite Vallance Gardens. He was only a few minutes away from his lair, but the bitch was stirring already. He had obviously miscalculated the amount of chloroform he’d given her because, somehow, against all the odds, she had pulled down her blindfold and staggered to her feet, and she was now trying to wriggle out of the rigid handcuffs. Having somehow removed the gag he’d rammed halfway down her throat, she was making a hell of a racket, and he couldn’t risk driving her into his lair while she was carrying on like that in case someone heard and called the police.
He left the engine running, and hurriedly climbed through the dividing curtain. He knew that, in the half-light, his advancing form would appear as a menacing silhouette to her. As she tried to back away from him, eyes wide with terror, and screaming like a demented banshee, he punched her on the point of the chin. To his immense satisfaction, she dropped like a stone and the awful noise immediately stopped.
He loomed over her, ready to lash out again if she so much as moved, but to his relief she remained still and silent.
His fist ached from the jarring impact of the punch, and he flexed it gently to make sure that nothing was damaged. Then he knelt down and checked her pulse and pupil dilation. She wouldn’t be out for long but, hopefully, he would have enough time to get her into his lair, where he could sedate her properly. He put the blindfold back on, and stuck an even bigger wad of clothing into her mouth – now, when she came around, she would be far too busy trying to breath to even think about screaming – and then tied her feet together, wishing he’d done that in the first place.
To his great surprise, the third bitch responsible for ruining his life was already beginning to stir as he stood up, and he watched without pity as she drunkenly struggled into a sitting position, resting her back against one of the plastic-coated sides of the van. He briefly considered striking her again, but it quickly became apparent that she was far too dazed to cause him any further problems.
◆◆◆
Tyler was writing furiously when the telephone rang. “Oh, for goodness sake,” he snapped, staring daggers at it. The bloody thing hadn’t stopped since he’d upgraded the threat assessment for the killer striking again to imminent; at this rate he would never get his decision log up to speed. “DCI Tyler,” he said.
“Sir, Paul Evans here. Sorry to disturb you, but I’m a little confused.”
The Welshman sounded tired, Tyler thought. “I know how you feel,” he said. “That’s my default setting these days. How can I help you to become less confused, Paul?”
“Can I confirm that you wanted me to see if I could pick up Dr Pritchard on his way to the nick, and then follow him there?”
“That’s right,” Tyler confirmed.
“And then, once he arrived, I was going to wait until this motorcycle courier turned up and see if I can follow him off?”
“Yep, you’re on the money so far.”
“So, here’s the thing: I finally managed to acquire Dr Pritchard on CCTV walking along Cambridge Heath Road towards Bethnal Green tube station. Then I followed him along Roman Road on a different camera and actually watched him turn left into Victoria Park Square, which is where the nick is. It’s a bit of a long-eye view, so not ideal, but I can see him clearly enough for my purposes.”
“That’s excellent work, Paul,” Tyler said, impressed.
“I figure it would take him a minute at most to reach the front office after he turns the corner and I lose sight of him.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Tyler agreed.
“So why is it that I’ve watched the CCTV for half an hour either side of his arrival at Whitechapel nick and not one motorcycle turned into or out of Victoria Park Square during that time?”
“Are you sure?” Tyler said, replaying Pritchard’s account in his head. “It must have done.”
“I’m absolutely positive it didn’t, boss. And there’s one other thing – I only got a brief glance of it, but I’d swear that Pritchard has got a white shoe box tucked under his arm in the footage from the Cambridge Heath Road camera. Who took Pritchard’s statement, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Mr Porter took his statement, as a matter of fact,” Tyler said. “He was
