The Death List

18

I didn’t have to wait for the evening news to find out what had happened to Alexander Drys. My mobile rang a quarter of an hour before I left to pick up Lucy.

“Matt.”

“What have you done, you bastard?” I yelled.

The Devil paused. “A little more caution, my friend.” His voice still friendly. “I know the police have been to see you. How do you know they haven’t got you under surveillance?”

I went to the front window. I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “Look, you murdering maniac,” I said, lowering my voice. “Tell me what you did to Drys.”

“All right. First I cut off his hands-the ones that typed those nasty, unfair reviews of your books. Then I sliced out his tongue and inserted it in his rectum. After all, he’d been licking his rich friends’ arses for years. He was wriggling and squirming a lot then, so his head was beaten to a pulp with a ball-peen hammer. No more vicious thoughts from that perverted brain, eh, Matt?”

I’d collapsed onto the sofa as he recounted the horrors like a schoolboy proudly reciting a poem.

“Matt? Are you there? Don’t tell me you’re unhappy about that shitbag’s less-than-pleasant death. I know how much you hated him.”

How did he know? How long had he been bugging me? I’d ranted about Drys to Sara, but not recently. The poor bastard hadn’t even bothered to review my last novel.

“Matt? At least congratulate me on ridding the world of a literary bloodsucker.”

“You’re out of your mind,” I finally managed to say. “Why did you pick on him? He couldn’t have done anything to you.” Then I remembered what he’d said-hands, tongue, hammer to skull-and my stomach constricted even tighter. “Christ, that was what happened to one of the villains in the first Sir Tertius novel.”

“The Italian Tragedy, that’s right.” The Devil gave an easy laugh. “Hey, Matt, we’re friends, aren’t we? I’ve got to the end of my own death list, so now I’ve started on yours.”

My blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb. And don’t worry. You’ve got the perfect alibi. The police were round at your place when Drys got his.” He sniggered. “Of course, you could have hired someone to kill him.” He gave an even nastier laugh. “You could have hired me.” The line went dead.

I threw the phone down in despair. What did he mean by my death list? Jesus, was he going to wipe out everyone I’d ever expressed a negative feeling about? If that was the case, there were going to be a lot of dead people in the publishing business-editors, agents, publicity girls, marketing people, fellow novelists whose success I resented, booksellers who hadn’t chosen my books for their three-for-two promotions…

The Devil couldn’t be serious.

D.C.I. Karen Oaten and D.I. John Turner were standing in Alexander Drys’s drawing room. They were kitted out in white coveralls and bootees.

“Hell’s teeth,” the inspector said, looking away from the abomination on the chaise longue.

“Steady, Taff,” said his superior, bending over the naked dead man’s blood-spattered face. She glanced at the pathologist. “You say his tongue’s been removed. Has anything been inserted into the mouth?”

Redrose shook his head. “I expected that question. No, there’s no plastic bag with a line of poetry or whatever in it.”

“Nowhere about his person?”

“Nowhere. The only thing that’s been inserted is his tongue into his-”

“Yes, you mentioned that.” Oaten glanced at the white-faced Turner. “Any idea why?”

“I just collect the severed body parts,” the pathologist said, inclining his head toward the table where the critic’s severed hands lay in clear plastic bags. They were like grotesque ornaments, the palms downward and the fingers tensed like a piano player’s. “It’s for you people to work out what goes on in the monster’s mind.”

“Thanks a lot,” the chief inspector said ironically.

Redrose looked up at her. “All right, if you want my provisional opinion, it’s the same killer as in the previous three murders. The hands were removed with a modicum of expertise, but nothing to suggest that the perpetrator had medical or even butcher’s training. The tongue was pulled outward with what the marks on top and bottom suggest was a pair of pliers and cut off with a very sharp, nonserrated blade.” He turned to the smashed remains of the head. “As for the skull, it was shattered with a large number of blows from a relatively compact, rounded instrument-my guess is one of those hammers, what are they called?”

“Ball-peen,” Turner said, his eyes still averted.

“That’s the ticket,” the pathologist said approvingly. “Into DIY are we, Inspector? All right, here’s my psychological analysis, for what it’s worth. I’d say the hands being removed has an obvious link with the man’s job-he was a literary critic who wrote for a living, wasn’t he? The tongue in the rectal passage is a bit more obscure. Was he a sexual deviant?”

Oaten shrugged. “We haven’t got that far yet. The blows to the head that killed him interest me. The previous killings were carried out with what you described in your reports as ‘controlled brutality.’ So was this one, apart from the head. Why was it smashed up the way it was?”

“Maybe he was struggling with his assailant,” Turner suggested.

“No, the victim was restrained,” said the pathologist, pointing to rope burns on the stumps of the arms.

“So it was in cold blood,” the chief inspector said. She moved over to the lead SOCO. “Anything interesting?”

“Two people, like at the doctor’s. Looks like they changed their clothes on the landing after the murder. There are no traces, at least not so far, on the staircase or around the rear window where they gained access by cutting out a pane.”

“No sign of a plastic bag with a message?”

The man raised his shoulders and looked around the room. “Not yet. Then again, there are a lot of books in here.” The shelves that covered three of the walls rose to the ceiling and were all full.

Karen Oaten swung her gaze across the thousands of volumes. The SOCO team leader was smart. Even though there was no message in the body, it was possible, given the victim’s profession, that one had been left in a book. “Get one of your lot to run an eye over the books in here,” she said to the technician. “I’m particularly interested in anything by John Webster or Matt Stone.”

The SOCO nodded.

Oaten’s mobile rang. Her heart sank when she heard the commissioner’s less-than-dulcet tones. She brought him up to speed with the investigation.

“D.C.I. Oaten, I’ve been talking to the A.C.,” he said. “We feel you’re underresourced. D.C.I. Hardy’s team will be joining yours. You’ll retain operational command, but I don’t want any pissing about. Share what you know and cooperate with each other. This lunatic is making us look like incompetents. If there are more murders, it’ll be very hard to keep you in place.” The connection was cut.

The chief inspector stood staring at her phone. She had mixed feelings. Hardy’s people helping out would be useful, but she didn’t want that nicotine-stained tosser breathing down her neck. As for the threat of being kicked off the case, that only made her more determined to find the killers. Anyone who thought she was going to allow her career to be stalled by a pair of bloodthirsty savages-no doubt male-would find out how wrong they were. She was a woman in the Met. What she’d gone through to get where she was made catching these lunatics look like a pissing contest-and she’d won the last of those she’d undertaken by using a hand-operated pump to hit the ceiling during her leaving party from her previous job. There was something nagging her about her time in East London. Something-

“Guv?” John Turner was standing at the far end of the room. “The SOCOs are all snowed under. I’ll have a look for that wanker Wells’s, I mean, Stone’s, books myself.”

Oaten went over. “What have you got against him?” She’d found the novelist rather alluring, not that she’d let it show.

“I told you in the car,” he said, staring up at the rows of books. “There’s something wrong about him. He’s hiding things.”

The chief inspector laughed. “Everyone hides things from us, Taff. We’re coppers, remember?”

Turner wasn’t listening. “They’re in alphabetical order,” he said triumphantly. “This shouldn’t take long.” He went to the left-hand wall by the window. “Over here,” he said, beckoning to the photographer. “One of the books is sticking out.”

Oaten joined him and waited for the photos to be taken, blinking as the flash discharged. “The Italian Tragedy. That was his first book, as I remember.” She removed the hardback volume carefully and opened it. There was a press release inside proclaiming “the debut of an immense new talent in crimewriting.” She ran the pages past her latex-covered thumb. A flicker of red caught her eye. She went back to the page, her heart suddenly racing.

“Spot on, Taff,” she said in a low voice. “There’s a bit underlined in red. ‘Of all deaths, the violent death is best,’” she read. Then she took in the preceding passage. “Our friend Wells has his investigator Sir Tertius talking to an actor, who quotes that line from a Webster play.” She looked up at her subordinate. “Guess which one. The White Devil.”

Turner had his mobile phone in his hand. “I’ll have him picked up.”

Oaten shook her head. “You’re forgetting something.” She turned to the pathologist. “What were your parameters for the time of death again, Doctor?”

“Between 10:00 and 12:00, I’d hazard.”

The chief inspector turned back to the Welshman. “Remember where we were between half ten and half eleven?”

“Shit,” he said, putting his phone back in his pocket. “He could have an accomplice.”

“You mean two.” Oaten nodded. “Yes, he could. But hauling him in and questioning him is hardly likely to get him to own up-not if he’s the kind of calculating bastard behind murders like this one and the others.”

“But we can keep an eye on him,” Turner said.

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “We can certainly do that. In fact, some of Hardy’s people can take that job off our hands. The teams are amalgamating.” She saw the dismay on his face. “Don’t worry, I’m still in charge. For the time being, at least.” She moved away. “Come on,” she said over her shoulder. “Our lot here know what they’re doing. We’ve got the people who knew the previous victims to check out.”

“We’ll soon have a list of people who knew this guy, too.”

Oaten nodded. “The problem is, I have a feeling that Alexander Drys doesn’t have anything to do with the others.”

Turner gave her a long-suffering look. “Which leaves us where?”

“Stuffed, if we don’t get a shift on.”

They stripped off their coveralls in the hall. Before they left, a female detective sergeant told them that the Portuguese maid had given a statement via an interpreter. She hadn’t seen who’d grabbed her from behind and tied her up in the cloakroom. If she hadn’t happened to keep a penknife in her pocket on her mother’s strict instructions-you could never trust British men-she’d probably still have been in there and the alarm wouldn’t have been raised. As it was, it had taken her more than an hour to saw through the ropes with the blunt blade.

Oaten and Turner left the house with their eyes down. Four murders and still they hadn’t had a single decent break. They’d been doing everything by the book. Surely something had to give soon.

I went round to Sara’s after I’d finished supervising Lucy. Caroline gave me the usual cold stare when I said goodbye. Part of me wanted to say that it would be better for our daughter if we could be friends, but another, more damaged part told me that would have been a complete waste of time. Caroline had no time for me, especially now that I wasn’t earning from my writing. She’d always taken a dim view of people who didn’t contribute to the wealth of nations. If she’d known the danger I’d put Lucy and her in, she’d have taken the carving knife to me.

Sara wasn’t there when I got to her flat. I called her on her mobile and she said she was on the train. She sounded lively. When she came in, there was a strange smile on her lips. I went to greet her, putting my arm round her shoulders and trying to kiss her. She moved her face and I hit cheek.

“What happened, babe?” I asked, going to the fridge to get a bottle of wine. “Did you get promoted or something?”

She didn’t reply, heading into the bedroom to change out of her work clothes.

She returned a few minutes later in tracksuit bottoms and a red T-shirt with Che Guevara’s head on it.

“No, Matt,” she said, giving me a curious look. “Nothing like that.”

“Want to tell me about it?” I asked, sitting down on the sofa beside her and handing her a glass.

“It’s no big deal. The excitements of a national newspaper. Not.” She ran her hand across her hair and laughed. “I’m seriously considering a change of career.”

I was surprised by that. Ever since I’d known her-it was about a year since we’d literally bumped into each other at a publisher’s party, her glass of red drenching my shirt-Sara had seemed as committed to her job as anyone I’d known. She lived for news stories, happily inhaling the high-octane fuel that drove newspapers and thriving on it. Which reminded me.

“You’re not on the Drys murder, are you?”

The glass stopped on its way to her lips. I saw her eyelashes quiver for a couple of moments. “The Drys murder?” she repeated. “Oh, the literary critic. No, Jeremy’s doing that.” She turned to me, her expression suddenly serious. “Did you know him?”

“Not in person. Don’t you remember? I moaned about him once or twice. As an example of the kind of journalist who hides away from the real world-he never went to any crime-fiction events-and writes hurtful things about people at long range.”

Sara looked at me thoughtfully. “Oh, yes, now I remember. You said he gave you some stinking reviews.”

“Me and plenty of other crime novelists.”

“Just as well,” she said, emptying her glass. “At least you won’t be the police’s number-one suspect.”

“No,” I said. Then I remembered that I’d given the detectives her contact numbers. For some reason I held back from asking her if they’d been in touch. I reckoned she’d tell me if they had and I didn’t want to ruin her evening if they hadn’t yet.

As it turned out, the evening was a nonevent, anyway. Sara said her stomach was giving her grief and retired to bed early. It wasn’t the first time she’d been distant with me recently. No doubt I hadn’t been paying her enough attention since the Devil appeared.

After watching the news, which told me less than I already knew about Drys’s murder, I checked on her. She was asleep, but she clearly wasn’t at rest. Her lips were twitching and her legs moving. Maybe journalist’s burnout was getting to her earlier than it did with most hacks. I left quietly and drove home.

It was while I was between Clapham and Herne Hill that I came to the decision. To hell with the White Devil and all his works. I wasn’t going to take any more of his shit. It was time I stood up to him like a man, not like a crime writer.

I spent the next two hours thinking, refining the plan I’d come up with the previous night and covering as many bases as I could. Then I fell into a sleep haunted by the ghosts of mutilated victims and the screams of abused children. They gradually faded and I found myself dreaming about revenge. There was a lot of blood.

When I woke the next morning, I knew I’d made the right choice. I would fight the Devil with his own weapons, and my revenge would be greater than his. It was the only way.

Otherwise he would take me down to the underworld with him.