Treading as softly as she could, hugging the building line, where the shadows were thickest, she slowly crept towards the van.
Her chest was tight with fear, but she kept telling herself that everything would be okay, repeating the words like a litany.
Doubt quickly began to erode her earlier resolve. Perhaps the van was empty after all. Perhaps the driver had gone to the warehouse for a reason that was totally unconnected to the Whitechapel murders. Perhaps there was a perfectly innocent explanation for all of this. Perhaps she should just wait for more units after all. Perhaps… What was that? There was a strange noise coming from the van.
Oh my God, he’s in there! Kelly felt her blood run cold. She faltered and almost turned back. Her legs were refusing to obey her mental commands, but she willed them on, a step at a time, each one sapping her reserves a little more than the last. Please let it be my imagination, she prayed, or cats rummaging around for scraps. Cats would do nicely.
There it was again, coming from inside the van: a low moaning sound. Flowers cocked her head to the side, listening carefully. The noise sounded human in origin. She racked her ASP. The extendable metal baton sounded crisp and businesslike in the silence of the night.
Kelly was only a few yards away now. She could actually hear the van’s suspension springs creaking as its occupants moved around inside. Crouching low, she approached the Sherpa from the rear. And then she realised that she had a problem: to reach her objective she would have to break from cover and lose the protection of the shadows. Without any streetlights to illuminate her, it was relatively dark in the open space around the van, but the human eye is drawn to movement and she would be doing a lot of that.
There was no easy way around it.
Hell, there was no way around it.
For a few brief moments she would be exposed and completely visible to anyone who happened to be looking.
Did she go on or turn back?
Was there really a choice?
Taking several deep breaths, she broke into a sprint and dashed out into the open. Please God, don’t let him see me, she prayed as she ran on tiptoe.
Dropping down beside the rear doors, she pressed her back against the van, listening for the slightest sound.
Her nerves were raw.
The engine was off but the exhaust pipe was still warm. Breathing quickly, she risked a glance around the passenger side, hoping to spot any movement inside the cabin by its reflection in the side mirror.
Nothing.
She edged across to the driver’s side and repeated the manoeuvre.
Nothing there either.
Phew!
Okay, it meant that he was in the back and he probably hadn’t seen her, but was he alone?
“Help me…please…help…me…”
The voice, weak and disorientated, came from inside. Kelly nearly jumped out of her skin.
The Ripper had a victim in the back of the van with him…and she was still alive.
But for how long?
“Please, if anyone out there can hear me, help me before he comes back… Please…” The voice faded into a final hoarse plea.
Before he comes back…?
The Ripper wasn’t in there.
But how long would he be gone for?
There was no doubt he would return.
Kelly jumped up, hyped for action. There was no time to lose. Perhaps, if she moved fast enough, she could get the woman away from here. Then she could wait outside for back up.
She tried to turn the handle, pulling hard. It was locked. “Hang on,” she whispered. “I’m a police officer. I’m here to help you.”
There was no reply.
Kelly ran around to the front, trying both the driver and passenger doors. They were also locked. She would have to smash the window to get in. Did she dare make that much noise?
If she was going to do it then she had to move quickly. She looked around, scanning the horizon for movement. The warehouse was at least a hundred yards away, right on the edge of the wharf. The killer had to be in there; there was just nowhere else.
Perhaps it was his hideout. That would make perfect sense. This was the ideal location: quiet and secluded, well off the beaten track.
Kelly returned to the driver’s window. Leaning as far back as she could, shielding her face with her left hand, she struck out at the window with her ASP.
WHACK. It made a hell of a noise.
To her amazement, nothing happened and the window remained intact. “Shit!” she said breathlessly. She hit it again, harder this time.
WHACK. The glass shattered in an explosion of sound, falling inwards, into the cabin. There was no time to worry about discovery now; she was too committed to even consider retreat, and hopefully, the deepening mist would act as a sound suppressor.
Reaching inside, trying to avoid the jagged shards of glass that stuck up like stalagmites, she undid the lock. “Hold on in the back, it’s the police,” she called as she slid back the door and climbed in. Despite her great urgency, a small part of her mind was conscious of the need to avoid contamination or obliteration of forensic evidence. The van was a crime scene. It could yield all sorts of important evidence: fingerprints, DNA, and fibres, to name but a few. She had to move carefully, avoid touching anything unless she absolutely had to.
The faint smell of chemicals pervaded the cabin, and she began to feel a little light-headed.
A thick curtain separated the cabin from the rear compartment. “Hello – is anyone there?” she asked, drawing it to the side. It was pitch black inside. She ferreted around for a switch that might control the lights in the back. Where on earth can it be? She wondered, fighting the panic that was spiralling inside. She gave
