Natasha, the name that she was using these days, was an anaemic looking woman in her mid-forties, with nicotine stained buck teeth. Her strong, Liverpudlian accent had an irritating nasal twang to it, and the revolting way in which she constantly poked a large ball of gum around her mouth with her tongue bore a striking resemblance to a cow chewing cud. Even if he hadn’t already hated her for infecting him with the clap, this revolting trait would have been enough to make him want to kill her.
Natasha wore bright red PVC boots, a black leather skirt, and a red satin blouse. Her complexion was blotchy. To top it all, her hair was dyed bright pink.
She just had to die.
Even though he had once been a regular, she showed no signs of recognising him. Perhaps it was the disguise he was wearing; perhaps it was just that all her punters looked the same to her. He engaged her in small talk for a few seconds before steering the conversation around to business. Getting her to reveal her star sign was ridiculously easy – she was a Leo – but persuading her to accompany him to his van proved much less so. Natasha claimed she didn’t want to vacate her spot in the alley in case someone else moved in while she was away. The reality was that she obviously felt safer there with a punter she didn’t know. Maybe her pimp was nearby, ready to rush to her aid if she cried out.
The Disciple smiled disarmingly, confided in her that he was musophobic, and therefore terrified of rats, and offered to double her money if she humoured him. He could see the conflict in her eyes: natural caution versus greed.
In the end, greed won.
Once inside the van, The Disciple attacked her with awesome savagery, beating her unconscious with a large crowbar, while cursing her for giving him the venereal disease that had ruined his life.
It was a simple matter for him to secure her after the beating. He cuffed her hands behind her back, being careful to wrap some thick material around her wrists first to avoid leaving any tell-tale marks. Then he ripped a length of material from her blood-soaked blouse and, after removing the unpleasant wad of chewing gum with two gloved fingers, stuffed it deep into her battered mouth, effectively gagging her. They didn’t have far to go, and he wasn’t overly concerned about the possibility of her asphyxiating.
The Disciple congratulated himself as he drove off. Once again, he had blended into his surroundings with consummate skill, like the true chameleon he was. He had snatched a jaded, streetwise prostitute from one of the busiest red-light districts in London without leaving any clues. He could go anywhere and do anything. There was no escaping his wrath.
His arrogance about such matters was understandable. When interviewed in the days that followed, neither the many restaurant workers nor the pimp, sitting in his car twenty yards from the alley, could shed any light on Natasha’s sudden disappearance that night.
The only witnesses were the rats, but they weren’t talking.
He took her to the derelict buildings at the far end of Hanbury Street, a site he had first identified weeks ago. He had visited it again last night, to make sure it was still fit for purpose.
He moved silently through a narrow passageway between the two derelict houses and slipped into the small yard at the rear of the one on the right. He hastily forced the door with a jemmy he’d brought from the van. The wood was old and it required little effort. He repeated the process on the front door, this time working from the inside out.
The killer quickly carried the unmoving form of his latest victim, now wrapped in a dustsheet, into the dark hall. In the gloom, he could only just about make out the layout. The stairs were on his left, two closed doors led to rooms on his right, and the hallway led straight back through to the kitchen, which in turn led out onto a small yard at the rear.
Dropping her unceremoniously, the killer made a final journey to the van to retrieve his bag. He would need to work quickly with this one, which was a great pity. He really wanted to take his time and savour his experience with Natasha to the same extent that he had with Tracey Phillips.
Breathing heavily, and covered in sweat, he checked his watch; the luminous dial showed him that it was now nine-thirty. Everything had gone perfectly, and he was slightly ahead of schedule, but he couldn’t relax; it would only take one complication to completely derail his plans.
Moving quickly, the killer methodically laid the contents of his rucksack out before him to ensure easy access to his tools. With great reverence, he unwrapped the lambskin parchment, positioning it so that he could read its contents without losing control of the sacrificial whore.
When he was satisfied that everything was positioned exactly to his liking, he unscrewed a small jar of powerful smelling salts. He held them under the woman’s nose, moving them slowly back and forth.
Initially, nothing happened, but after a few seconds, she began to respond. The first twitch of her head was almost imperceptible, but the movement gradually increased as she tried to resist inhaling the powerful fumes.
Natasha was suffering from a depressed skull fracture, but as the salts were thrust into her face again, she moaned softly, and half opened glazed eyes.
“Ah, that’s better,” he said. She turned her head towards the sound and tried to focus on the speaker. Despite her best efforts to stay awake, she began to slip into a coma.
“Wake up you filthy diseased whore, I want you with me for the ceremony,” the killer said, impatiently. The voice confused Natasha as she drifted in and out of consciousness. She didn’t remember going to a ceremony.
He shook her shoulders roughly. “Wake up, I
