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Replacing the telephone, The Disciple stepped out of the kiosk and into the rain, which had finally started to ease up. The thunder sounded distant now, somewhere off to the north. He studied the apartment block, deep in thought. For several seconds he remained that way, a statue carved from granite.
Bumping into the reporter had really shaken him. He had assumed that everyone in the building would be fast asleep, so when the elevator doors slid open and he came face to face with the one person he wanted to avoid, the blood in his veins had frozen. Instead of doing the sensible thing and just walking calmly by, he had drastically overreacted and barged her out of the way. He regretted his action, but it was done now. At least he didn’t have to worry about being recognised. Not only were his features heavily disguised, he’d had his collar turned up and his hat pulled down.
He dreaded to think what his reaction would have been if she’d stumbled across him while he was making the delivery a few moments earlier. Would he have tried to bluff his way past her? Would he have fled down the fire escape at the end of the landing? He fondled the hilt of the Finnish skinning knife concealed in the small of his back, knowing that in his jittery state there could only have been one outcome.
He wondered what it would be like to kill someone as rich as Teresa Miller, to have her blood on his hands, literally. Perhaps one day he would indulge himself and find out.
Now there was a thought…
Walking the four blocks to the little cobbled road in which the tatty Sherpa was parked proved surprisingly pleasant. The fresh air helped clear his aching head, dispelling some of the fatigue that was threatening to engulf him.
He completed the return journey from the quayside to his secret sanctuary at a leisurely pace, enjoying the peace and tranquility of an early morning drive through empty roads. Within a few short hours, he reflected, they would be jammed solid as the rush hour commuters caused their usual chaos, clogging up the arteries of the Capital as they did every day.
He was confident that the reporter would feel compelled to follow the bait he had so tantalisingly dangled before her pretty nose. She wouldn’t be able to help herself; it was in the blood.
Blood!
He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about how happy the spilling of her blood would make him feel. She might put on a sophisticated act, behaving like a cosmopolitan lady of charm, but he wasn’t fooled.
She was a whore.
They were all whores at heart. Every last one of them! Just because she didn’t stand on street corners advertising the fact didn’t stop her from being a slut. They all sold themselves if the price was right. “Sluts,” he muttered, feeling a spark of anger ignite inside his chest. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to calm himself down. The desire to kill again was bubbling just beneath the surface, and he knew he needed to rein in the bloodlust before it spiralled out of control. If he started killing randomly, he would make mistakes and they would catch him.
He had killed three women in as many days, and the mental and physical strain of performing such an incredible feat had left him totally shattered. His mind was fuzzy, but it would be much clearer once he had rested properly, and it would need to be for what lay ahead.
His mind drifted back to Teresa Miller, and the shocked indignation on the pompous cow’s face as they collided. The urge to punish her was strong in him. Perhaps, after the reporter had served her purpose….
But there was plenty of time to plan for that, if he decided it was what he really wanted.
Chapter 20
Wednesday 3rd November 1999
It was coming up to seven-thirty a.m. when The Disciple finally left his lock-up. The back of the van was still heavily bloodstained from the surgical intervention he’d carried out on Rye, and it would need to be thoroughly cleansed, but he could attend to that later. He needed to eat and recharge his internal batteries first, before he was totally burned out.
He had carefully stored his newest ‘souvenirs’ in safe places. The degradable items had gone in the long, chest shaped freezer that rested inconspicuously against the back wall of the lock-up. He had purchased it several weeks ago from a second-hand shop in Barking. Although it had seen much better days, it was more than adequate for his needs.
The Infector and Blackmailer’s underwear were deposited inside a duffle bag that rested on the work surface between the large mirror and his disguise props. It already contained the knickers he had kept as a trophy after slaying Tracey Phillips.
He placed the blood-soaked clothing, the surgical apron, and the rubber gloves he had worn earlier in the evening in a black, plastic bin liner. This, in turn, was deposited in a large metal dustbin for future disposal by burning. Watching CSI programmes on TV had taught him a lot about forensics. The only safe way to dispose of any clothing that had come into contact with your victim was to burn it, and burn it well.
Without the makeup, his appearance was entirely different. There was no way that anyone who might’ve seen him a few hours earlier would recognise him now, not even the poor wretches whose battered corpses he’d hacked and torn at in such uncontrolled frenzy.
As he walked the short distance to Bethnal Green tube he noticed a lone black woman waiting at a bus
