“We’ll be right over, Kelly, love. Just you wait there,” he told her excitedly. Hanging up, he began to pull his jacket on.
Tyler studied his partner from across the room. “What’s happening, Dill?” he asked, anxiously.
“We need to move fast, Jack,” Dillon told him. “I’ll explain on the way.”
◆◆◆
The Disciple had cleared the one-way system in one piece, as he’d known he would, but he had left a trail of carnage in his wake. Still, what did it matter if a few sheep got hurt along the way, as long as the ritual sacrifices were completed according to satanic scripture and he attained a higher level of consciousness?
He took a series of left and right turns through the quieter side streets, until he reached cobbled roads lined with large warehouses. They were near the river Thames now, and well away from the main drag.
The police were no longer in pursuit. His flight had caused a major pile up, grinding the road behind him to a messy halt, and the cops would have to stop and deal with that.
He knew the chasing officers would have circulated his details over the radio, and that their colleagues would be out in strength, scouring the streets for him. They would expect him to remain in Whitechapel, which was why he was now heading towards Limehouse. He would scan the local channels on his ‘borrowed’ radio as soon as he got the chance.
A single set of headlights appeared in his mirror, causing him to miss a heartbeat. He studied them intently, half expecting flashing blue lights to come on. He made a left turn. The car followed at a distance but made no effort to gain on him. As he turned another corner, he saw that it was a dark blue Ford Escort with a single female occupant.
He breathed a sigh of relief. It was just some silly cow going about her business, leading her humdrum life, oblivious to the fact that she was following the most dangerous man in London.
An idea came to him. He knew of an abandoned warehouse further along the river, near a pub he used to frequent in his misbegotten youth. He would take the Queen of Whores there.
He continued into Wapping High Street, towards West Pier, leaving the affluence of the Docks far behind. The third bitch responsible for ruining his life continued to moan in the back, presumably calling for help.
He yelled at her to be quiet.
Her constant whining was making it hard for him to think clearly.
He continued for some distance, finally pulling into a dead end turning that led down to an old quay. The Escort drove straight by, its driver not even looking in his direction.
He got out, locked the van and walked along the path that meandered down to the tall decaying warehouse. The smell of the river was very strong, here.
He looked at his watch: Ten o’clock.
If he killed her here, down by the river, he would be able to make his way back to the Sutton Mission later and come back in the mini-bus to collect her corpse, which he could drop off at his chosen deposition site sometime over the weekend.
The Disciple paused in the shadows, studying the warehouse carefully. He wondered if it really was as abandoned as it looked. He’d have to check; it wouldn’t do to gatecrash a vagrant’s home or stumble across a pair of young lovers who had nowhere better to go.
The rain was easing off, and it looked as if it would soon stop altogether. That was good – he was convinced that the rain only came when he needed its protection.
Treading carefully, he made his way forward along the quayside. He wasn’t worried about the third bitch responsible for ruining his life. Before leaving the van, he’d given her another, stronger dose of chloroform, and he had rebound her far more securely. He had also swapped the rigid handcuffs from a front stack position to a rear back-to-back position. Even if she woke up, she wouldn’t be able to move, and she could literally scream her lungs out around here and no one would hear her. Anyway, he wouldn’t be gone long, and then she wouldn’t have any lungs left to scream with.
He smiled at that.
◆◆◆
Sergeant Robert Beach surveyed the wreckage in front of him. The carrier’s path was completely blocked by a twisted pile of metal that had once been four cars and a French registered articulated tractor-trailer unit that had slewed sideways.
It sickened him to watch as the Sherpa van faded from view, having cleared the one-way system fifty short yards ahead.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Ron Stedman yelled, kicking the iron grill of his vehicle.
“It’s alright, Ron. It’s not your fault. You did well not to end up embedded in that lot,” he gestured at the damaged vehicles littering the road.
“I’ve circulated its last known location and direction, but no one’s managed to pick it up yet,” Reeve told them.
“Right then,” Beach said, tilting his cap back on his head, cowboy style. “We’d better start dealing with this mess.”
◆◆◆
Kelly sat in her car nervously covering the junction that the Sherpa had turned in to. She had almost followed it in, but had spotted the dead-end sign at the last moment.
Driving straight by, she had turned around at the next junction and driven back with her lights out. She now faced a dilemma: did she wait where she was in the hope of picking him up again when he left – assuming he did – or did she venture in after him?
Kelly had picked the van up purely by accident. It had simply pulled out in front of
