His first thought, on seeing the driver’s door open, was that the police had found him, but he’d dismissed it almost at once. There would be patrol cars and flashing lights, and he would have heard lots of excited chatter on the handheld radio he carried.
But what if the police had found the van, rescued Sarah, and retreated to a safe distance, where they could watch without being seen? They could be keeping it under observation in the hope that he would return. He could be walking into a trap.
No, he decided, this wasn’t the work of the police. Subtlety wasn’t their style, and anyway, they wouldn’t have had time to pull off a stunt as elaborate as that.
But if not them, then who was it?
The obvious answer was thieves, drug takers or vagrants, plundering his hard-earned spoils. A ripple of anger surged through his body.
How dare they!
He felt for the hilt of the knife concealed at the rear of his waistband. Someone had just made a fatal mistake, fatal being the operative word. As he reached the side of the van, he heard muffled voices inside. There were two of them, both unmistakably female,
What the…?
His mind raced. There were two women inside his van. One was the Queen of Whores, the other was a stranger – an unknown quantity, but probably a drug addict or a tramp looking for somewhere quiet to lay up for the night.
He tried to imagine the look on her face as she’d broke into his van and came face to face with his handiwork. The anger began to subside, replaced instead by a mixture of curiosity and excitement. Number five had attracted number six. Who would have believed it possible? He was going to have a bonus kill!
What a strange turn of events, he thought, pondering tonight’s roller coaster sequence of ups and downs. Still, his unexpected good fortune was not to be sneered at. The completion of the ancient sacrificial ritual, which would give him the power and influence over lesser mortals he so desperately craved, was in sight.
The blood of five maidens must be shed…
He could – no, he would – kill another two tonight. They were mere feet away from the cold, unfeeling, steel of his knife. The most delicious part of it all was that they had no idea just how close to death they were. They probably thought they still had a chance to escape. He could hear them moving around inside, making urgent scuttling sounds like rats in a sewer.
He was overcome by a desire to prolong the experience, to feed off of their fear for as long as he could. He would let them build up their hopes inside the van. Then, just as escape seemed a certainty, he would shatter their illusions and put an end to their petty, meaningless lives.
He wondered what birth sign the stranger had been born under. He would refrain from killing her until he had acquired that information.
The Disciple cocked his head to one side, listening carefully. He could hear it quite clearly above the noise the whores were making: his lovely little tune:
What a ride, what a thrill. All I wanna do is kill, kill, kill…
◆◆◆
“Come on, don’t give up on me. We’re nearly there,” Kelly said, breathlessly. Unable to find anything sharp on the plastic-coated floor, she had snapped, torn and ruined every nail on her hands trying to undo the thick knots that bound the ankles of the killer’s latest victim.
Powerless to help, Sarah Pritchard was forced to lay very still while Kelly worked on the ropes. The pain in her shattered shoulder was astronomical, and it was getting worse by the second. The ropes were so tight that she could hardly feel her limbs. Every time Kelly pulled at the knots, it sent a wave of pain through her.
“What’s your name?” Kelly asked, trying to keep the victim’s mind from dwelling on their predicament.
Sarah moaned softly, a cry of pain and fear. “Sarah…Sarah Pritchard. My husband, Simon – he’s a killer... he’s the Ripper.”
Kelly paused. Wasn’t Sarah Pritchard the woman Steve Bull had recruited to help the team canvass the local working girls?
“You’ve got to hurry,” Sarah cried, trying to make Kelly understand the urgency of the situation. “If you don’t untie me before he gets back, he’ll kill us both.” Sobbing hysterically, Sarah Pritchard tried to get up. She had to get out of the van.
“Shush!” Kelly soothed, gently pushing her back down. “Stop struggling. I’m nearly done.” And then, with no prior warning, the knot on the rope around Sarah’s ankles came free.
YES! Kelly almost punched the air with relief. She unwound it frantically, ignoring Sarah’s protests of pain. There was simply no time for finesse. The woman’s knees and arms were still securely bound but they would have to wait. Kelly crawled over her, feeling across the rear doors for a handle. Her hands came into contact with a coarse, thick material, which was draped over the doors from top to bottom.
A curtain!
She pulled it aside roughly, and the inside of the van suddenly became a little lighter as ambient light filtered in through the blacked out rear windows. She looked over her shoulder, familiarising herself with the interior of the van, remembering as much detail as she could. They would want to debrief her when she got out of this.
When?
If I get out of it, more likely!
She shook her head angrily. She couldn’t entertain thoughts like that. What would Jack Tyler think of her? Even when faced with danger, the thought of Tyler made her heart flutter.
Kelly spotted the handle halfway up the door. She reached forward, hardly daring to breathe as she took hold of it. Her palm was slippery with sweat as she twisted it, gently at first and then harder, as hard as she possibly could.
It creaked and groaned and gradually began to move. But nowhere near enough. Kelly put her full
