“That probably explains it then,” Evans said. “It must be a mistake. Old man Porter probably wrote the events down out of sequence.”
Tyler couldn’t help but smile. “Actually, Pritchard gave me a verbal account of what happened, which correlates to what’s in the statement, so unless you think I made a mistake too…”
“Iwould never even dare think such a thing, boss,” Evans promised hastily.
Tyler’s mind had gone into hyper-drive. “I have a nasty suspicion Simon Pritchard deliberately lied to us, Paul. And I can only think of one reason for doing that.”
“Fuck me! Does that mean what I think it does?” Evans asked.
“I think it does, Paul,” Tyler said, suddenly very excited. “You’ve done great work, and you might have just given us the break we so desperately need.”
◆◆◆
The Disciple’s latest victim was very groggy, and very confused. She tried to focus her eyes as she sat up, but the world around her was in darkness. Head throbbing unmercifully, she sagged back against something cold and hard. She couldn’t close her mouth; it was as though her jaw had been wedged open. There was vibration all around her. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember what had happened.
Was she ill?
Had she collapsed?
Where was her husband?
A bittersweet odour permeated the air; a strange cocktail of different smells, the like of which she had never before encountered. It seemed to consist of a mixture of gasoline, disinfectant and, what else…?
Plastic…?
Yes, that was it, plastic. There was something else, too – something chemically. It reminded her of hospitals.
And she could hear the gentle pitter-patter of rain on metal. Was she in a shed with a corrugated roof? She tried to move her arms, and then her legs, but neither responded and she began to panic. Had her neck been broken? Was she now a paraplegic? She tried to cry out, but only a muffled squeal escaped. That was when the realisation that she was bound and gagged hit home.
Oh my God I’ve been kidnapped! She thought, beginning to hyperventilate.
Where was she?
How long had she been there?
What was going to happen to her?
Somebody help me! She screamed, but her gag muffled the words and she almost choked from the effort. Hot tears began to prickle her eyes.
A rustling in front of her broke the silence; the noise told her that she was not alone. Someone was there with her, watching her.
Oh, my good God!
And then, in a moment of spine-tingling clarity, it all came flooding back to her. Her husband had done this to her – her own husband!
But why?
It made absolutely no sense whatsoever. He was an intelligent man – a man of science, and he had never demonstrated the slightest capacity for violence in all the years she had known him – which begged the disturbing question: had she ever truly known him at all?
They had been chatting quite amiably, and he had gallantly held her coat open for her as she slipped it on. Standing behind her, he had tenderly placed his hands on her shoulders and whispered that he was really looking forward to spending some quality time with her tonight. There had been affection in his voice, or so she had thought. And then, in the blink of an eye, his arm had wrapped itself tightly around her neck like a python crushing its prey. Pulling her body against his, her husband had used his free hand to clamp a foul-smelling cloth over her face. The powerful chemical it contained had immediately made the world around her spin.
She had a blurry recollection of him lowering her down to the floor, but after that, there were only uncoordinated snippets of consciousness. She vaguely recalled him ranting about not being the pathetic ‘yes man’ she thought he was while he was securing her hands and applying the gag. There had been something else, too – something about how she was a controlling bitch who had ruined his life – but she had passed out before his diatribe had finished.
What could possibly have made him say those terrible things? All she had ever done was to try and help him become a better person. She had given him love, money, a purpose in life; she had even forgiven him for shagging one of the street workers he was supposed to be helping. Of course, she had given him hell over it, but what had he expected her to do, turn a blind eye and carry on like nothing had happened? Ironically, in spite of his abhorrent transgressions, she had never given up on him, and she had fought so hard to salvage their marriage. How many other women would have done that?
And then she recalled the weird singing – well, it more like chanting really – she’d heard as she’d drifted back into consciousness a few moments ago, only to find herself laying on her back and being bumped around in the darkness. “What a ride! What a thrill! I’m Jack the New Ripper, and I love to kill, kill kill…” She had recognised the toneless voice immediately – her husband couldn’t sing in tune to save his life.
Hot bile rose to the back of her throat as she truly began to comprehend the futility of her situation.
She was going to die.
The man she had so naively – so bloody foolishly – believed still loved her was, in fact, a demented serial killer. He had already slaughtered four defenceless women and she was going to be the fifth.
She was going to be made to suffer miserably, and then she was going to die a dreadful, unholy death at her the hands of her own husband, the man the media had reveled in labeling ‘Jack the New Ripper’.
Like countless others, Sarah had read Terri Miller’s gripping articles in the Echo, and she had followed the TV coverage avidly, so she knew exactly what to expect from this demon.
She knew she should
