Beach smiled indulgently. Carrier humour was all right in small doses, but it could quickly become tiresome. Besides, Reeve did have a point, and more importantly, he had good coppering instincts. “Do a slow drive by,” he instructed. “Let’s see if the back doors are open.”
Stedman reluctantly altered his course, and several seconds later they drew level with the old van. Reeve’s shoulders sagged in disappointment when he saw the rear doors were firmly closed.
“See, no one’s in it.” Stedman gloated. “Like I said, the driver’s obviously been caught short and has nipped into the park to relieve himself.”
“Yeah, right,” Reeve’s voice dripped with skepticism. “If he’s in the park, he’s more likely to be getting some ganja from a local dealer or to having it off with a prossie,” he argued.
“Do we really care?” Stedman asked. He was bored with the conversation. Obviously, he would have had a very different view if the van had been white, but it wasn’t. It was green. He pressed the accelerator pedal and the carrier surged forward.
“Hang on a second, Ron.” PC Sid Wallis called from the rear seat. “Back her up, will you.”
“What’s up, Sid? What have you seen?” Ron Stedman asked, putting the carrier’s selector into reverse.
“I just saw the van start rocking from side to side. Why is it doing that if no one’s in it?”
Reeve smiled triumphantly at his driver. “What did I tell you?”
“Oh shut up and wipe that silly grin off your face, you silly old git,” Stedman snapped. “If I wanted to listen to an arsehole, I’d fart.”
Reeve grinned. “No one likes a sore loser,” he said, nudging Stedman with his elbow.
◆◆◆
The Disciple heard voices, and then came the unmistakable crackle of a radio.
He froze.
The police were outside his van.
They couldn’t possibly be looking for him, could they?
He looked down at his wife; afraid she would call out and spoil everything. To his relief, she was still unconscious. He covered her mouth, anyway, digging his nails hard into the flesh in case she woke up and started crying out. He tried to control his breathing. If he just stayed still, without making any noise, the Old Bill might go –
BANG, BANG, BANG. He flinched as they hammered on the side of his van.
An authoritative voice shouted,“Police. Come out of the van, now.”
What should he do?
If he went out, they would arrest him.
If he didn’t go out, they might open the driver’s door, which he had stupidly left unlocked, and find him here in the back with the third bitch responsible for ruining his life.
Was there any way out of this?
There had to be. It was his destiny to complete the rituals and ascend to a higher level of being.
Moving quickly, he slipped the knife into the rear of his waistband. He grabbed the gag and stuck it back in her mouth, cringing when she made a low moaning noise in protest.
BANG, BANG, BANG. His heart missed a beat as they hammered again, more forcefully than the first time.
“Hurry up. We can hear you moving about. Come out now.” The voice sounded impatient, angry even.
“I’m coming,” he called back, frantically wiping his sweaty hands on his wife’s clothing and then climbing back through the divider into the cab.
“Can I help you, officers?” The Disciple asked, having wound down the driver’s window.
“Is this your van?” PC Wallis asked.
“Yes, it is.” He smiled, trying to act naturally.
“Step out of the vehicle, please,” Wallis said.
“But it’s raining,” The Disciple protested.
“Step out of the vehicle,” Wallis repeated, and it was clear from his tone that there was no room for discussion. The Disciple grudgingly obliged, standing with his back to the open driver’s door.
“What are you doing here, then?” PC Jay Smith asked, openly suspicious.
“I just stopped for a moment to secure something that had worked its way loose in the back. I’m finished now though, so I’ll be off if that’s okay.” The Disciple made to climb back behind the wheel.
“Hang on, mate. We’re not finished with you yet,” Stedman told him, firmly. Maybe Reevo was right about this van. Maybe something hooky was going on here.
“But I really ought to be going,” The Disciple protested.
“You’re not going anywhere, sunshine. I reckon you’ve got a prostitute in the back of your van,” Smith said. He couldn’t understand why anyone would want to pay for sex, especially with some of the gremlins that worked around here. If his entire body were covered in a condom, from head to toe, and they were paying him instead of the other way around, he still wouldn’t let one of the local working girls anywhere near him.
“No. I told you, I stopped to adjust something in the back,” The Disciple said lamely. His eyes darted about nervously as he weighed up his chances of escape.
Wallis saw this, and he and Smith exchanged a knowing look. Something smelled wrong to them.
“Can you switch the engine off and step away from the van,” Wallis said, moving in closer to cover him.
“I can’t. There’s – there’s a problem with the battery. If I turn it off then I won’t be able to start it again,” The Disciple lied. His only realistic hope of escape lay in keeping the engine running. If he could just find an excuse to get back in the driving seat, he might just have half a chance.
“Just step away from the vehicle, please,” Wallis repeated, dashing his hopes. After a moment’s hesitation, the killer reluctantly obeyed.
Smith opened his notebook “What’s your name?” His tone was openly hostile.
“Mr Bradley,” he said, picking the name out of thin air.
“What’s your full name?”
The Disciple looked down at his shoes, thinking: fuckyou, you Nazi.
Smith nudged his arm and said, “I asked you your name.”
The Disciple shifted his feet uneasily. “David Bradley,” he said. David had been his father’s name.
Their pompous attitude was turning his fear into anger. He was determined
