The Death List

19

The White Devil stood in front of the bank of screens in his penthouse by the Thames. The water was leaden-gray with a hint of fecal brown, seagulls scavenging over it like white-feathered demons. It was a river of the underworld, the dark walled buildings on the other side the houses of the living dead; a scene Hieronymus Bosch could have conjured up, a triumph of death as good as Pieter Bruegel’s. He let out a sigh. Life couldn’t get any better.

The Devil looked down at the leather-bound volume that lay on the Georgian table he’d bought for the dining area. Earlier, he’d pasted in the pages Matt had written. But he was looking at the page at the front. The Death List was the book’s title and a register of names prefaced the narrative, in two columns. On the left were people’s names, among them Billy Dunn, Richard Brady, Father Patrick O’Connell, Evelyn Merton, Gilbert Merton, Bernard Keane, Alexander Drys-these, the ones he’d already killed, had a red cross against them. There were others as yet untouched by the human blood he’d used as ink-Christian Fels, Jeanie Young-Burke, Lucy Emilia Wells, Caroline Zerb, Fran Wells, and more. Including, of course, Matt Wells.

As the city came slowly to life that morning, the Devil considered the man he had picked out to work for him. He could easily have written his own story; he didn’t need the fool Matt Wells. But he did need a fall guy. A crime writer-a drone who made his living from trying and failing to imagine other people’s pain-was the perfect choice. Crime novelists. What did they know? How many of them had committed a crime worse than scoring a small amount of dope or speeding? How many of them had felt another human being’s life drain away, their eyes flutter as the last darkness came down, their limbs shake in the dance of death? Hypocrites, frauds, White Devils. They were worse than he was. At least he had reasons for what he was doing.

The Devil went back to the bank of screens on the rear wall. There had been an unusually determined look on Matt’s face when he came back from his girlfriend’s earlier on. That was interesting. Could he be stiffening the sinew, summoning up the blood? Could he be going to offer a challenge? That would be a bonus. Not that it would do the writer any good. He would soon be screaming for mercy.

As the literary critic had done. Drys had been a pitiful victim, begging for sympathy while he still had his tongue, offering money, works of art, everything he had. Maybe that was why the Devil’s partner hadn’t been able to hold back with the hammer. For God’s sake, man, he’d thought as he watched the blows. At least die with some dignity. Underlining the Webster quotation in Matt Wells’s first novel had been a nice touch. He wondered if the police had found it yet.

His partner had performed well during the head-smashing-this time there had been no choking back the vomit. The Devil had hoped that the experience of participating in the doctor’s death would bring familiarity, and he’d been right.

He ran his eye down the list. If he was going to slaughter them all, he needed to stick to the plan he’d worked out in such detail and memorized. He didn’t need a print version, but he’d sent one as a hidden attachment to one of the e-mails received by Matt Wells from the various Internet cafes he used-when the police found that, the crime writer would have nowhere to hide. Then he’d destroyed all his hard copies and diskettes. He no longer needed them.

He sat back and looked at the book’s contents page again. The column on the right listed his nameless victims, those he’d learned his trade on-the homeless, the junkies and the whores. He’d referred to them by where he found them-Charing Cross Road, Embankment, Beak Street…Nine of them. They had been his basic training after his father and the bully. No one had even noticed that they’d gone-into the canals and building sites, the car scrapyards and the foundations of the new roads that continuously appeared around London. Here today, gone to hell tomorrow, and nobody cared. The city was a graveyard, a realm of the dead, while people pretended they didn’t know. That was changing. There was hysteria in the air now, after the four murders he’d let them find out about.

The White Devil pointed the TV handset and selected one of the twenty-four-hour news channels. He didn’t hear anything further about the Drys murder. Then an item came on that made him flinch for the first time since he was a kid.

“…outside the Hereward public house in Greenwich, where the horrific discovery was made. A passerby returning from a late-night party saw stray dogs trying to get into three packing cases that had been left at the pub’s door. He saw the severed limbs and head, as well as the torso, of a male. Even more shocking was the fact that he knew the man. The Metropolitan Police has not confirmed the victim’s identity yet, but we understand that next of kin have been informed and that his name is Terence Smail, aged thirty, a regular of the Hereward. No witnesses have come forward and detectives suspect there may be a gangland connection…”

The White Devil got hold of himself, using the breathing techniques that Jimmy Tanner had taught him. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Terence Smail. Terry-he remembered the pathetic specimen who’d hung around the pub. Had he heard anything of what had passed between the Devil, Corky and Tanner? Could he have passed that on to the people who’d killed him? Obviously someone had made an example of him, but who was the example for? It could be, as the reporter said, that he’d fallen foul of one of the numerous criminal operations that used the pub. But what if Jimmy Tanner had mentioned that he was instructing someone to an ex-comrade in the SAS? What if someone had found out Jimmy was missing and was looking for him? Those guys were lethal; they didn’t take prisoners-even the wasted sot Jimmy had been dangerous enough. It could be that he and Corky were in the deepest shit.

The Devil realized he would have to speed up the plan and get away sooner than he’d expected. He glanced at the names. The next victim caught his eye, a person whose life was measured in hours and minutes. Looking up, he caught sight of himself in the ornate Victorian mirror he’d hung beyond the table and laughed.

“‘If the devil Did ever take good shape,’” he declaimed, “‘Behold his picture.’”

John Webster’s play, act 3, scene 2. The long-dead Jacobean was an outstanding dramatist. What would he have made of the way his lines were being used in modern London? Would he have approved of the appropriate punishment of offences? Of course he would.

The White Devil walked to his dressing room to prepare for his next entry.

I got up early the next morning and, assuming that the Devil was watching, made a pretense of being half asleep, stumbling about like a pisshead. I deliberately didn’t boot up my laptop. No doubt there was another load of notes from him to write up. They could wait. I had more pressing things to do. I dug out my lamentably unwashed running kit and set off for Brockwell Park in the early dawn light. My knee gave me gip, but I could bear it. At last I had a purpose in life.

I got to the southern end of the park, my lungs heaving, and spotted the phone box I remembered from walks with Lucy in her buggy. I hoped it was still in working order. Opening the door, I was blasted by the reek of stale urine. I looked around and saw no one except a couple of other middle-aged men bringing forward their heart attacks by jogging far too fast. I had to take the chance that the Devil and his people weren’t on my tail. Or D.C.I. Oaten’s mob.

Taking out the phone card I always kept in my wallet for emergencies, I made the first of my planned calls.

“Hello?” My mother sounded wide-awake but cautious.

“It’s me,” I said, my mouth close to the receiver. “I haven’t got much time. I need you to do something that’s going to surprise you. I want you to go to Heathrow without delay. Book yourself on the first available flight to any destination in Europe. Take your mobile phone with you. Don’t answer it the first time it rings. If it rings four times and then stops, it’ll be me. Pick it up the next time it rings, okay? And don’t tell me where you are.”

“What on earth-”

“Don’t interrupt, Fran,” I said firmly. “You’re in great danger. I can’t tell you about it. But you’ll be fine if you do what I tell you. You’re always on about how you need a holiday. Well, this is your chance. I’ll be in touch. Promise me you’ll do this. For me.” I was ladling on the loving-son treatment, not that it was difficult. I was terrified that the Devil would get his hands on her.

“Well, all right, Matt,” she said doubtfully. “I’ll get going as soon as I can.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch. Have a fine time.” I terminated the call. My mother was strong-willed, but she knew when to listen to other people. She had plenty of money and traveled abroad on her own often enough, always with British Airways. One down.

I rang the next number on my list.

Dave Cummings answered his mobile on the second ring. I could hear kids’ voices in the background.

“It’s Matt. Listen, I’m in a lot of trouble and I need your help.”

“Thought you might be, lad,” he said with typical Yorkshire bluntness. “What do you want me to do with the money?”

“Nothing,” I replied. I’d decided to ignore the Devil’s cash. If I used even a small amount of it, I’d be complicit with him. “Keep it hidden, and the diskettes somewhere else. Look, I need several favors. First of all, can you pick Lucy up after school?”

“No problem.”

“Then take her back to your place.”

“Ditto.”

“Then take her and all of your lot off to your cottage in the country till you hear from me.”

“What? The wife, as well?”

“The wife, the dog, everyone.”

There was a pause. “What’s this about, Matt?”

“Lucy’s in danger. So’s anyone who knows me. I need a bit of time to sort this out, and I need to know Lucy and all of you are safe.”

“Lowlife?”

“Very low.”

“I want to help.”

I’d known he would offer support without hesitation. “Look, Psycho, do this today. I’ll need more help later on.” I went through the same mobile contact procedure as with my mother. “All right?”

“Aye, all right. Keep cool, Matt. Remember, you’ve got friends.”

“Thanks, Dave.” I rang off. I knew I could rely on him, but not even he could beat the Devil-at least, not on his own.

Next on the list was Roger van Zandt. He took longer to answer his phone. Being divorced, childless and self-employed, he had no reason to get up early-apart from his computers and the dioramas of Second World War battles that he filled his house with.

“Rog? It’s Matt.”

“What the hell do you-”

“It’s an emergency.”

“It’d better be, Wellsy.” He sounded like he wanted to take my head off. No doubt he’d downed a pint too many last night. “If it’s about your laptop, I’m still working on it. You really messed-”

“Forget the laptop, Dodger. What do you know about surveillance systems? Or rather, about how to disable them?”

“What? Are you sober?”

“Yes!” I shouted. “Listen to me. I’m in danger and so is everyone who knows me. That includes you. Get out of your flat and go into the West End. Find a security-system supplier and pick his brains about how to locate and disable pinhole cameras, listening devices, whatever. Okay? Have you got money?”

“I’ve got plenty of credit on my cards.”

“Good. Get whatever you need and I’ll pay you back. Whatever you do, don’t go back home. I’ll contact you.” I set up the four-ring procedure again. “Look, Rog, I’m really sorry-”

“Forget it, Matt. This is why we’re mates, isn’t it? Ooh, I’ve just come over all excited.”

“Calm down,” I said, touched by his eagerness, but also concerned by it. “I’m not joking. You really are in danger. I’ll tell you about it later, okay?”

I rang off. So far, so good. Next number.

“Andy?”

“Hey, man.” Andrew Jackson’s New Jersey tones blasted out of the earpiece. “Bit early for a social call, isn’t it?” He moved his mouth away from the receiver. “It’s all right, doll. I won’t be a minute.”

I might have known. He was a serial shagger. “I’m afraid you will be a minute, Slash,” I said. “This is serious.” I made it clear to him how much shit we were in.

“You’ve been careless, haven’t you, Wellsy? Never mind. I’ll sort things out for you.”

I’d been hoping he’d say that. If ever a man answered the description of “muscle for hire” it was Andy. Apart from sex, there had been nothing he enjoyed more than mowing down opposition players on both sides of the Atlantic-first as a strongside linebacker back home and then as a lethal prop for the Bisons.

“Can you get off work?”

“Screw work. The restaurant’s been half empty for weeks. Tell me what you need.”

I gave him the name and address I wanted him to keep an eye on, and then set up the same mobile contact as the others. Before I hung up, I heard him telling his bird to hop it. The man was a star.

That left three people to consider. One was my ex-wife. I’d thought about Caroline for some time. If I gave her any hint of what I was up against, she’d go straight to the police. I’d already decided that was a waste of time. They couldn’t protect my friends and family, at least not until they were sure I wasn’t involved in the murders. It wasn’t fair that I was going to take Lucy from her, but I’d try to square it with her later.

The second and much more important person was Sara. I’d thought about warning her, but I was worried that her journalist’s nose for a good story would lead her into danger. I knew she usually worked with a photographer who was a judo black belt. I didn’t feel good about it, but I’d have to hope that he would keep the Devil at bay until I came up with a better plan.

That left one person-me. I knew I was probably under permanent surveillance by both the Devil and the police. That meant I had a very limited range of options. I’d made a list of people the lunatic was most likely to attack on my behalf. Two stood out. Andy Jackson was covering one of them. I had to do what I could for the other.

I made one more phone call and, with difficulty, set up a meeting. Then I ran back home, making myself appear even more knackered than I was. I showered and dressed, and went round to the former family home. That was a nightmare. I had to dissemble to Caroline that everything was normal, and then I had to walk Lucy down to school, wondering all the time if I would ever see her again. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Dave. He’d sacrifice himself for my daughter, I was sure of that. It was myself I was worried about. What chance did I stand taking on the White Devil?

“Bye, Daddy,” Lucy said.

“Bye, sweetest,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Remember, I’ve got a meeting this afternoon. Dave will take you home with Tom.”

“I remember,” she said solemnly. Then she turned and walked into her classroom.

I felt something break inside me, but it was too late to do anything about it. I had made my choices, thrown my dice, crossed my Rubicon.

The question was, would I be coming back?

John Turner walked into his superior’s office. “’Morning, guv.” He looked over his shoulder. “Is it right what I’m hearing? You packed Morry Simmons off to Traffic?”

The chief inspector nodded. “What did you think I was going to do? Keep him on the team after he owned up to selling the story to the press?”

“Yes, but we’re seriously undermanned…I mean, short-staffed…”

Oaten didn’t notice the gender correction. “We’ll survive,” she said.

“Hope so,” the Welshman muttered.

“Let’s get cracking,” Oaten said from behind a heap of files. “We have a list of seventy-three boys who attended Father Prendegast/O’Connell’s church, were taught by Miss Merton and were registered with Doctor Keane.”

“That’s right, guv,” John Turner said from the other side of her desk. He looked at his notebook. “Five are dead. Sixty-two have alibis that check for at least two of the murders.”

“And six we can’t find.” The chief inspector ran a hand across her hair. “In addition to that, we have dozens of people who knew Alexander Drys, most of them members of what they like to call high society. Hardy’s people are checking them, but, frankly, I don’t think there’s a direct link to the previous victims.”

“Despite the fact that the killer appears to be the same person?” Turner shook his head. “Cold-hearted bastard, using the victim’s blood to underline that bit in Wells’s book.”

Oaten leaned back in her chair and stared up at the ceiling. “Yes, there’s Matt Wells, too. Anything interesting on him?”

“We caught up with his girlfriend this morning. She confirmed his alibi for the priest’s murder. For what that’s worth.”

The chief inspector’s eyes met his. “Meaning?”

“She’s a typical journalist. She seemed to be more interested in the murders than her man.”

“Do you think he told her to expect us?”

“She said not. Again, for what that’s worth.”

“The modus squares with Wells’s book, too,” Karen Oaten said.

“Yes, it does.” There was excitement in the Welshman’s voice.

Oaten looked unconvinced. “There’s more?” she asked.

Turner nodded and scowled. “Hardy’s guys who’re on surveillance say that Wells had an early-morning run today. He went round Brockwell Park while they stopped for breakfast. Tossers. Then he walked his daughter to school and went back to his place. They say he’s still there.”

Karen Oaten examined the notes she’d made. “Let’s leave Wells out of this for the time being. We can’t link him to the first three murders. Obviously he had motive for the Drys killing-you saw the reviews the victim wrote of his books-but he has the perfect alibi. From us. We need to concentrate on the six missing men from the list. Run through the names again, will you, Taff?”

“John Marriott, Peter Jones, Leslie Dunn, Adam O’Riley, Luke Towne and Nicholas Cork.”

“What have we got on them?”

“Marriott was a seaman, last seen in 1996. His family haven’t heard from him since, but they reckon he’s shacked up with a woman in Brazil. He jumped ship there.”

“Forget him for the time being.”

“Jones and Towne both had problems with alcohol. They were inside for burglary, separate incidents, in the nineties. Their families think they’ll be on the streets. If they’re alive.”

“I can’t see alkies being capable of these murders, can you?”

The Welshman shrugged. “Not really. That leaves Dunn, O’Riley and Cork. O’Riley’s got form for Grievous Bodily Harm. But he has a drug problem. As well as being as thick as two short planks, according to his school report.”

“Not too likely it’s him, then.”

“So we’re down to Dunn and Cork. They’re the most interesting ones, too. Cork seems to have been the violent type. His sister says he used to beat up his parents as soon as he got big enough. They haven’t heard from him for years and they’re happy about that. According to the school reports, Dunn was a pain in the arse. He was also bullied. His father was killed in an accident on a building site when the boy was twelve. His mother died of cancer when he was seventeen. Later, he worked in a call center. The personnel manager there thinks he went to work in a bank afterward, but doesn’t remember which one. We’re still checking that.” Turner stared across at his superior. “What is it, guv?”

Oaten raised a hand, her face creased in thought. “Hackney,” she said.

“What about it?”

“Remember that case we worked before we transferred here? The guy whose belly was ripped open, the wife who was a lawyer and the baby? We never found the killer.”

John Turner’s jaw dropped. “Christ. He was a bank manager, wasn’t he? Do you think there’s a link?”

She nodded. “Maybe. There was no message left about his person, but maybe he was a dress rehearsal before the killer got on to his real agenda. Check the file and get on to the branch he worked at. If Leslie Dunn was employed there, he might well be our man.”

Turner was on his way to the door. “It could be Cork’s working with him,” he said over his shoulder.

“Could be.” Oaten stood up as he left. She slapped her forehead hard. She should have made the connection before. Hackney. She’d hated working in the area, but it had been the making of her career with its high drug-related crime rate and plentiful murders. Except that she’d managed to overlook what might turn out to be the crucial link. Then she sat down again slowly, her expression grim. They were still nowhere near cracking the case. Even if Dunn did turn out to have worked for the murdered bank manager, they still had to find him. She found his file among the pile on her desk. It seemed that none of his school contemporaries had seen him since he left at sixteen.

That was about as cold a trail as you could get.