“Fuck,” he exclaimed, trying to untangle it.
Crouching so that they wouldn’t be able to see him from street level, he began to scuttle crab-like towards the fire escape door, still trying to jiggle the radio’s wire free of the hacksaw blade so that he could close the blasted rucksack.
As he reached the metal door, he checked over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t inadvertently left anything incriminating behind, and what he saw caused him to stop dead in his tracks. Somehow, the girl’s underwear must have fallen out of his rucksack as he’d stood up. He knew there was no time to retrieve the item, not if he wanted to guarantee his escape, but he couldn’t leave without his trophy, not after going through so much to get it.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he screamed. Dropping the cumbersome rucksack, he sprinted back to the spot he had just vacated, trying to keep as low as possible. Skidding to a halt, The Disciple stooped down and snatched the panties up like a relay runner collecting a baton. Spinning on the spot, he charged back to the fire escape, colliding painfully with the edge of the metal door. Scooping up the rucksack, the killer darted through the outer fire escape door and descended the narrow flight of stairs that led back inside.
The radio continued to blare inside his bag. Somehow the volume had been turned up to the maximum as he put it away. A tinny voice informed him that two officers had just entered the lift and were on their way up to the top floor. He had to get into the main stairwell before they emerged from the lift or he’d be trapped. His heart felt as though it had swollen to the size of a football and was pounding fiercely against his ribcage, trying to break free.
He wasn’t going to make it.
He stumbled and almost fell down the last step. He slammed the heavy inner fire door shut and began fumbling desperately inside his jacket pocket. Where was the new padlock he had purchased to replace the one he had sawn through this morning?
He glanced at the lift. The floor counter above indicated that it was nearly at the top.
“Come on, come on!” he hissed, pulling the padlock from his pocket at last.
With trembling fingers, he threaded the clasp through the hole and snapped it shut.
The killer darted into the stairwell just as the lift door started to open.
Had they seen him?
He lingered long enough to catch a fleeting glimpse of the two uniformed officers through a crack in the door, and then he was gone, taking the stairs three at a time. He descended the upper floors as fast as he could, cannoning into walls as he negotiated one right angle after the next. When he got halfway down, and there was still no sign of pursuit, he began to feel a bit more confident, but he increased his pace anyway, just in case the clever bastards had gone back down in the lift. By the time he reached the bottom he was exhausted by his exertions and struggling for breath. Despite this, The Disciple began to giggle; the lift was still on the top floor. He had made it.
If they only knew how near they had come to catching him.
But how had it happened?
He racked his mind for answers, finally concluding that it must have been pure luck; there was no conceivable way that they could have known he’d be up there. But did it really matter? He had outsmarted them and he was still ahead in the game, and that was the way it was going to stay. As he left the block, his face bright red and dripping with sweat, and his makeup running, he started laughing uncontrollably. A police car, the blue lights on its roof bar still flashing brightly, was parked right next to his van. He patted the patrol car’s roof as he slipped past it to reach his van.
The killer climbed into the beat-up old Sherpa and started the engine, then reversed out of the parking space. It was time to go, but not before he took one last look at his work. He knew it was reckless to return to the scene of the crime, but the impulse was too strong to resist.
He whistled merrily as he guided the ancient van back along Quaker Street, driving slowly past the length of the police cordon, just another motorist caught in traffic and following the queue of vehicles in front.
As he drew level with the site entrance, he spotted two men coming out of it. He recognised the taller of the two as the one who had pointed up at the tower block. Frowning, The Disciple eased off the gas pedal to give himself a better view of the man. He sensed that this man was determined and resourceful and that he would make a dangerous opponent. He would remember that face; store it away for future reference. The other man looked dangerous in a different way, like a bare-knuckle fighter.
The two detectives – he didn’t recognise them so, presumably, they were from the murder squad and not locals – were engaged in conversation as they crossed to the big green saloon on the other side of the road. As they climbed inside, he wondered what they were talking about. While the killer covertly studied them in his side mirror, he became aware that a constable on the opposite pavement was shouting at him to move on. “Alright, alright,” he griped. Placating the hot-headed officer with an apologetic wave, The Disciple gunned the accelerator and drove away.
As
