“Have you got any driving documents on you, Mr Bradley?” Smith asked. He wished that he’d thought to bring a flashlight off of the carrier with him. There was something odd about the guy’s face, but it was too dark to see exactly what it was.
“No, I’m sorry, I haven’t,” The Disciple shrugged apologetically. The trick now would be in getting them to drop their guard. If he could just convince them that he was a nerd and not a threat.
“Is the van registered to you, Mr Bradley?” Sergeant Beach asked, speaking for the first time since he’d got off the bus.
“Er, no, it’s not. I’ve not had it long, you see.”
“That’s what they all say, pal.” Wallis sneered. “Open the back, please. Let’s see who’s in there, shall we?”
“I’ve told you, there’s no one in there.” The Disciple said this a little too quickly and immediately regretted it. A trickle of sweat ran down the centre of his back, and he licked his lips, suddenly aware that his mouth was dry.
“Then you won’t mind opening the back to show us, will you?” Smith said, forcefully. He grabbed hold of the rear door handle and twisted.
Nothing happened.
It was locked.
Smith frowned. The van had just rocked slightly. Had someone just moved inside or was it merely where he’d pulled the handle?
And then he heard a muffled voice. It sounded like someone stifling a sob. Without a doubt, it came from inside the vehicle.
“What was that?” Beach asked, having heard it too.
“Okay, wise guy, I’ve had enough of your lies. There’s someone inside this van. Open the bloody thing, right now,” Smith said, moving towards the killer aggressively.
“Okay, okay. Look, it’s true. I’ve got a girl in the back of my van, but we haven’t done anything, I swear. You stopped us before we could.” The Disciple wrung his hands together as if begging for mercy.
Smith rolled his eyes. These kerb crawlers were so pathetic. He’d be begging them not to tell his wife and kids next. “Open the van up, Mr Bradley,” he said flatly. The killer nodded, eager to please, or at least eager not to upset them more than he already had.
“Okay, but the back door’s jammed. I’ll have to climb through the back and open it from inside. Unless one of you wants to do it?” he knew that none of the officers would want to get in the back, not with the whore there.
“Just get on with it,” Wallis said. He was pissed off with this insignificant little twerp. The quicker they dealt with him, the quicker they could get on with searching for the murderer.
The Disciple started walking towards the driver’s door. He made himself walk very slowly. It was important not to appear too eager. He paused with one foot inside the cabin, looking back at the group of officers gathered by the rear doors. “Are you sure one of you chaps doesn’t want to do this?” he asked.
“Just get on with it, will you,” Smith snapped impatiently.
“Well, if you’re sure,” The Disciple said to himself.
He slid onto the driver’s seat and carefully put the van into gear, praying that the gearbox wouldn’t crunch, as it was sometimes prone to do in first.
It went in perfectly.
He shook his head in disbelief. This was almost too easy, not that he could afford to relax just yet. He took a deep breath, released the handbrake, and then ground the accelerator into to the floor. The van rocketed off towards the main road. The last thing the killer saw in his rearview mirror was the small cluster of policemen standing in a cloud of black fumes, a look of total shock on their faces.
◆◆◆
The TSG officers all scrambled for the carrier, furious with themselves for having been hoodwinked. The Sherpa had a good head start on them, and their vehicle was facing in completely the wrong direction.
“Shall I put it up on the Main-Set, Sarge?” Reeve asked breathlessly.
“Are you kidding? It’s bad enough that we let the fucker give us the slip, without telling the whole world about it,” Beach snarled. “Ron, you had better catch him up or I’ll be using your gonads to play conkers with.”
Stedman grimaced at the thought. The power steering and superb turning circle of the Mercedes Sprint made manoeuvering relatively easy, but they would have to drive like the very wind if they were to have any chance of catching the Sherpa, which was no more than a speck in the distance.
“Did anyone get the registration number?” Beach shouted above the wail of the siren. “Please tell me one of you got the registration number.” He looked around expectantly.
“Don’t worry, skipper. I’ve got it.” Smith said, tapping his notebook.
“I wonder why he’s doing a runner?” Wallis asked. “Surely it’s not over a poxy hooker?”
“Stranger things have happened,” PC David Dixon put in. He had remained on the wagon when the others had alighted to check out the van, figuring it didn’t require six officers to handle one suspect
“Yeah, well, when we catch him, and after I kick his nuts into his neck, you can ask him,” Smith told them viciously. In ten bloody years of frontline policing, he’d never let a suspect escape; he didn’t intend to start now.
“Can’t you drive this bloody thing any faster, Ron?” he yelled.
◆◆◆
The Disciple picked up speed once he entered Commercial Street. He watched as the needle crept up to fifty, then on towards sixty. His wife rolled around in the back, tossed from side to side as the van swayed like a small boat in high seas. He ignored her screams as he headed for the Aldgate one-way system, cursing the slower moving traffic that impeded his progress.
“Come on, arsehole, get out of my way.” He flashed his lights and sounded his horn at the car in front until it
