The Death List

22

The look that Lucy gave me as Dave drove away almost broke my heart. She had been very surprised when I took her out of class. Fortunately her teacher, Mrs. Maggs, was a fan of my books and let us go without asking any awkward questions. Lucy seemed to accept that Dave and his family were taking her on a mystery tour, only asking about her mummy at the last moment. I told her that Caroline knew all about it and would see her later. I was getting good at lying-too good.

I caught the bus to Brixton after walking around the back streets of Dulwich Village for a while. If anyone was on my tail, they were doing a very good job of concealing themselves. The cafe I’d arranged to meet Rog at was called the Vital Spark. It was off Coldharbour Lane and, despite its name, wasn’t well lit. That was just what I wanted. We took our coffees to a deserted back corner.

Rog held up a large plastic bag. “Here’s your stuff,” he said, searching in the pockets of his brown corduroy jacket. “And here’s the receipt.”

I swallowed hard when I saw the amount. Maybe I would have to use the Devil’s money after all. “Look, Dodger,” I said, booting up a computer, “the situation’s changed.” I took in his bewildered expression. I was going to have to come clean, but I wanted him to have the chance to opt out. Rog wasn’t as much of a hard man as Dave and Andy. On the team, he used to weave and sidestep his way round opposition players rather than trample over them. He could put in the hard tackles when it counted, even though, off the pitch, he spent almost as much time on his own as I did-gluing and painting models of tanks and aircraft in his case, rather than pretending to write. “Listen, here’s where I am.”

I filled him in about the White Devil’s activities. His face went from confusion to amazement to horror, and finally to what was unmistakably anger. Then I told him what had happened to Andy. This was the crunch moment. There hadn’t been any point in telling Dave-he was in whatever happened and knowing Andy had been hurt wouldn’t have changed anything for him. With Rog, I wasn’t sure.

“Bastards,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll fucking have them.”

I put my hand on his arm. “This isn’t a run in the park. The Devil’s killed at least eight people and I reckon it could be more.”

He stuck his chest out. “Let him and his sidekick have a go, then. They owe us for what they did to Andy. You sure he’s going to be all right?”

“As sure as I can be without speaking to him. Maybe we’ll manage to do that later.” I nodded at the screen. “Now we’ve got work to do. Set me up with a new e-mail account, will you?” I watched as his fingers sped across the keys. In a few minutes I had another identity, SirZog 1. Then I logged on to my own account, wondering if the police had obtained access to it yet, and printed out the latest e-mail from the Devil.

“Jesus Christ,” Rog said, shaking his head as he read it. “Did he really do all that to the poor sod Drys? Why?”

“Apparently because he gave me some bad reviews.”

“You’re joking.”

“Afraid not. He’s trying to implicate me, and at the same time get me to write his bloody story. I remember reading that some serial killers feel the need for immortality.”

Rog was staring at me. “But if he wants you to write his story, why’s he trying to frame you? You won’t be able to do much from a jail cell.”

“Ah, that’s where he’s smart,” I said, looking over the document. The Devil’s notes about the murder of the critic were as detailed as ever, but it was up to me to turn them into a readable story. “He’s getting me to write his achievements up every day.”

“You’ll have a holiday tomorrow, then,” Rog said, nudging me in the ribs.

“Why?”

“He didn’t manage to kill that Fels bloke, did he?”

I stopped typing. “Jesus.”

“What?”

“That may mean he has a go at someone else to make up for it.” I ran out of the cafe and located the nearest pay phone. First I called my mother’s mobile, letting it ring four times. She picked up when I rang again.

“Hello?” She sounded a bit querulous.

“It’s me. Are you all right? Don’t tell me where you are!”

There was a pause. “Oh, I see. Yes…I’m all right.”

“Good flight?”

“Um, yes.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t worry, everyone else is fine.” She didn’t know Andy, so I didn’t tell her about him. She hated Christian Fels because of what she regarded as his betrayal of me, but now wasn’t the time to mention that-especially given that his gardener had been murdered.

“Oh,” she said hesitantly. “That’s good.”

“Hotel okay?”

“Yes. Look, Matt, I’ve got to go.” Suddenly she was speaking quickly. “I love you, darling.” Then she hung up.

I stood in the booth, peering at the phone. My mother had always had a tendency to distraction, but this was worse than usual. I supposed she was upset by what I was putting her through, but I couldn’t remember the last time she’d addressed me as “darling.”

Wolfe and Rommel were in the front of the Orion, parked about fifty yards from the house in Forest Hill. According to the now dismembered Terry Smail, this was the home of the man called Corky-the man who had been with Jimmy Tanner in the pub. The street was pretty run-down and there was rubbish strewn around many of the houses’ small front gardens.

There was a squelch from the walkie-talkie on Wolfe’s lap.

“Receiving?”

“Got you, Geronimo. Advise.” Their comrade was standing at the bus stop that was just beyond the house. He’d been there for nearly an hour.

“Still no movement inside. Curtains remain drawn.”

“All right, get back here. Out.”

Wolfe glanced at Rommel as if he expected him to object. “We can see well enough from here. Geronimo’s too obvious where he is.”

Rommel’s expression remained blank as Geronimo opened the back door.

“Cheer up, wanker,” Geronimo said. “The scum will be back soon.”

“Better be,” Rommel said with a scowl. “I’m going to hurt him.”

Wolfe nudged him with his elbow. “Steady. We’re all going to hurt him once we find out what happened to Jimmy. But he’s not the main man. We need him to lead us to the bastard with the pointed teeth, so no lethal force till I say so.”

Rommel looked round at Geronimo and their eyes met. They’d been in similar situations often enough and they knew not to argue with Wolfe.

“It seems we’re not the only ones chopping people up,” their leader said, turning the page of the Daily Independent. He read out parts of the story about the murders of a priest, a retired schoolteacher, a doctor and a newspaper critic.

“And the coppers think it’s the same guy?” Rommel said, glaring at a small boy who had stopped his bicycle at the window. The boy departed at speed.

“Looks like it,” Wolfe replied. “And this journalist thinks the body at the Hereward is connected, too.”

Geronimo laughed. “Shows how much journalists know.”

They sat in silence as the afternoon drew on. Geronimo and Rommel started talking about old times, their eyes still fixed on the street and the house. Wolfe let them rattle on. He didn’t care about the past-all that mattered to him was finding out what had happened to his brother-in-arms Jimmy Tanner. Jimmy had saved his life on more than one occasion and he owed him.

“…and then that Iraqi came out of the bunker with his AK47 pointed straight at Dave,” said Geronimo.

“…and Dave just grinned at him,” said Rommel.

“…and emptied a magazine into him before he could move,” Geronimo said with a harsh laugh.

Wolfe looked over his shoulder. “Names,” he said in a low voice. “We don’t use real names out of barracks.”

“Shit,” Geronimo said, dropping his gaze. “Sorry, boss. Patton-Patton was the one who shot the towel-head.”

Wolfe nodded. “That’s right, Patton. Good soldier-nerves of steel and smart with it. Shame he left the regiment.”

“Shame he was pushed, you mean,” Rommel said bitterly.

“Yeah, well, he sometimes got a bit too clever for his own good,” said Geronimo. He kept his eyes off Wolfe. The boss had been instrumental in easing their old comrade Dave Cummings out because he had become a bit of a loose cannon. That didn’t mean that Geronimo and Rommel hadn’t kept in touch with Dave, though. He’d been a good mate of Jimmy Tanner’s, too.

“Motorbike approaching from rear,” Rommel said, lowering himself in his seat. “Reducing speed. Could be our man.”

Wolfe dropped lower, too, his eyes fixed on the road. “Okay, get ready. If he stops outside the house, we’ll take him as he gets off the bike.”

Rommel started the Orion’s engine. At the same moment the motorbike came level with them. The rider, kitted out in leathers and wearing a black helmet with an opaque visor, turned his head toward the car. Suddenly he revved the engine and moved off rapidly down the street, forcing a woman with a child to jump out of the way.

“Go!” Wolfe yelled. He was slammed back in his seat as Rommel hit the accelerator.

“Shit, the bastard spotted us straight off,” Geronimo said from the rear.

“Don’t worry.” Wolfe watched as the motorbike took a right turn, the rider’s knee close to the asphalt. “He can run, but he can’t hide from us.”

The next number I called was Karen Oaten’s. She was in a meeting, but she must have walked out-I heard the other voices fade and then disappear.

“Matt, I’m glad you got in touch. Listen, we think we know who the Devil is.”

I felt relief flood through me. “Who?”

“That’s the problem. He seems to have changed identity in the past four years. We’re trying to track down his new name.”

The anxiety came back with a vengeance. “So you haven’t got any way of stopping him.”

“I’m afraid not. At least, not yet.”

“Jesus. I think he might make another attempt today.”

“To kill?” Her voice was tense. “Why?”

“Because he failed with Christian Fels.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve got people at his house.”

“I don’t think he’ll be dumb enough to try there again, Karen. I’ve taken steps to protect my family and my ex-editor. But there are plenty of others he could target.”

“Give me names and addresses,” she said quickly.

I admired her professionalism. I told her where Sara and Caroline were to be found. Then I reeled off several names at my former publishers, including the owner. I went through friends I had in the crime-writing world-authors, journalists, booksellers and dealers, collectors, anyone I could think of. I couldn’t remember all their addresses, but I knew the localities. I didn’t mention my friends, though. I needed them to remain unknown to the police.

“It’s going to need a lot of manpower,” I said.

“Yes, it is.” For a moment she sounded uncertain. “I’ll do what I can. I can’t promise we’ll be able to cover everyone.” She paused. “Matt. It’s important that you come in. You can help us.”

“Have you read the e-mails yet?”

“No, the warrant’s on its way as we speak.”

“When you’ve read them, you’ll understand why I’m doing this. Listen, I want to ask you a favor, Karen.”

She gave a wry laugh. “I hardly think you’re in a position to-”

“You know I am,” I interrupted. “At least until you can track me down-and that would be a waste of your precious manpower. Listen, I want you to promise not to put a trace on my mobile phone. The Devil might do something horrendous if he can’t get through to me. Will you do that?”

There was a long silence. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Still, it may be that in all the rush here your phone gets forgotten for an hour or two.”

“Thanks, Karen. I appreciate it.”

“Yes, well, you owe me now. I’ll be expecting payment very soon, Matt. In the meantime, have you ever met or do you have any knowledge of a man by the name of Terence-Terry-Smail?”

“No,” I said. “Never heard of him.”

“You’d better be telling the truth.”

The phone went dead. Who the hell was Terry Smail? I wondered as I turned on my old mobile and went back into the cafe. I got down to writing the latest chapter while Rog tried to hack into the British Airways system to find out where my mother had gone. I wasn’t happy about how she’d sounded on the phone. I was halfway through when my old mobile phone rang.

It was the Devil and he had company.

Caroline Zerb had walked out of the bank in Cornhill at precisely 1:00 p.m. She had just completed a meeting with her staff about an important section in the monthly Far East Economic Review, and she felt an even greater need than usual to get out of the office for lunch. Her ex-husband thought she stayed at her desk to eat her wholemeal sandwiches, but, as with so many other things, he was way off target. She was dedicated to her job, but she was also capable of taking time for herself. She’d found that she worked much better in the afternoon when she took an hour off.

As usual she crossed Southwark Bridge, looking toward the preposterous shape of Tower Bridge and feeling completely at ease with the world. She was at the hub of world business, her expertise giving her power and influence that very few people had. No wonder Matt hadn’t been able to understand her after she went into the City. What did he know about power and influence? He’d once claimed that he had the power of life and death over the characters in his novels, but Caroline knew that was nothing compared to daily meetings with international financiers who wanted to hear your point of view. Fiction was a waste of time. She only ever read books on economics and history.

And yet, she thought as she walked along the riverbank past Shakespeare’s Globe, there had always been something different about Matt. She had fallen head over heels in love with him at university. She could scarcely believe it when the hero of the rugby league team paid attention to a bluestocking virgin. And she’d continued to love him when Lucy, beautiful Lucy, was born and his books began to make him relatively well known.

Caroline watched as a balloon floated away high above the river. Their relationship had begun to change when Matt got himself so involved with that ridiculous Albanian series. Everyone he knew told him it would end in tears, but he wouldn’t listen. Her mother told her that you had to allow the people you loved to make their own mistakes, that was part of life. Maybe, but the problem was that, by then, she had begun to fall out of love with Matt. There was no other man. She had neither the time nor the inclination for that. All she felt was boredom with his ranting and his deluded self-importance-as if anyone really cared what a crime novelist thought about anything.

Ah, Matt, she thought, approaching a bench. There was a man in overalls and a baseball cap pulled low sitting at the far end. It was still good to see her former husband with Lucy every day, even though she found it hard to give him more than a few civil words. And he had appeared to be happier. The woman, Sara, seemed to be good for him, even if she did have a curious glint in her eyes-the typical grasping look of the newshound. But in the past few days he’d been strange, nervous, as if he was hiding something. He’d have to get a grip on himself if he didn’t want what remained of his writing career to disappear downstream like the empty soft drink cans in the Thames.

She moved into the center of the bench as another man came to sit down. He was wearing a puffer jacket that was surely far too hot for the day, the hood of a gray sweatshirt over his head. If it hadn’t been for the wispy mustache, she’d have taken him for a girl.

Caroline started to eat one of her organic cheddar sandwiches. She watched tourists laughing as they took photos of one another and found herself thinking about her life. How happy was she really? She had a job she loved, a child she adored, and yet, there was something missing. She’d been thinking about it a lot recently. Perhaps the neighbors’ dog disappearing and the effect that was having on Shami and Jack was the reason. She knew the absence of a man wasn’t the problem. She could bed any of the young lions in the company without doing more than winking at them, but the fact was, she didn’t miss sex. It had been good with Matt. Apart from Lucy, that was one of the main reasons she had stuck with him as long as she had. No, what she had realized was missing was adventure, the unexpected, a sudden break from the rhythms of everyday life.

She shook her head and told herself not to be so flighty. She had work to do and her lunch break was almost over. It was when she was crumpling up her sandwich bag that she saw the man on her right lean forward and look intensely at the other guy to her left.

It was almost as if he was giving the hooded man some kind of signal.

The White Devil took a step back from the blindfolded and gagged captive tied to the chair. He smiled at the masked figure behind, who gave him a blank look in return. He would have to be careful with his partner. He hadn’t expected such devotion to violence and the act of killing so suddenly. That could lead to a dangerous lack of caution.

The Devil glanced around the lock-up garage. It was in Deptford, in a lane that was overlooked by the high rear wall of a Victorian factory-that property was listed for demolition and no one except junkies and half-blind drunks had set foot in it for years. It was good for privacy, as was the fact that the people who used the other garages shared his studied lack of concern about what went on in the vicinity.

It had been easy enough to snatch their latest victim. No one had noticed the transfer to the battered white van that now took up half of the space-the garage was a double one, the wall having been knocked through. There was plenty of room for the upcoming fun and games.

The person on the chair let out a high-pitched moan. The Devil moved over quickly and delivered a hard slap to the left cheek.

“Be quiet, you piece of shit,” he said, bending closer. “Noise means pain, you understand?”

The trembling captive nodded slowly.

“That’s all it needs,” the Devil said to his partner. “Now you try.” He watched as the masked figure gave the prisoner a full-blooded punch that almost knocked the chair over. “Good,” he said, smiling. “Looks like you aren’t fond of this one.”

“No, I’m not.”

The Devil stepped back and started laying out his tools on the workbench. Maybe he’d made the right decision in locating his partner after all. Being confronted by the realities of murder had seemed initially to knock the stomach from the figure in the mask. He hoped that the procedure they were about to undertake-his most ambitious yet-would be the making of his Dr. Watson. It had better be. After all, he wasn’t in this purely for himself.

As he fingered the glinting steel instruments, he thought of what he’d achieved so far. The murder of that bastard Newton from the bank in Hackney had been a trial run. At that stage, he wasn’t sure himself that he could carry out what he wanted to. He hadn’t taken his partner on that excursion, nor on those of the priest or the old bitch who used to teach him. But when the Devil saw that all was going to plan, it had been safe to appear as a double act at the doctor’s and the fat critic’s.

He scowled and put the scalpel down carefully on the table. Everything had been fine until this morning, when the writer had started to fight back and the body parts had been found outside the Hereward. Could there be a connection? The Devil originally hadn’t been sure that Matt Wells had it in him, for all the macho posturing he showed at bookshop events and literary festivals. Most writers were nothing more than drunks who propped up the nearest bar they could find and boasted about their sales, always inflating them, and their film deals, which hardly ever made it to any screen. They were liars and hypocrites, every last one of them.

But Matt Wells had actually had the nerve to stand up to him. He’d sent that American muscleman to protect Christian Fels. The Devil had been so enraged about being deflected from his plan for the agent that he had taken it out on the innocent gardener. His partner hadn’t turned away at the sound of the neck cracking. It was the first time the Devil had killed in that way. Jimmy Tanner had trained him well. It was a pity the former SAS guy had become so unreliable from the booze. He lay in the foundations of a bridge outside Bromley, silenced forever after the insertion of a combat knife between his fifth and sixth ribs. That had been as good an end to the Devil’s apprenticeship as he could have thought of, as well as being an appropriate death for a man who had been a state-sponsored assassin. Was it possible that someone-Matt Wells?-had found out about his meetings with Tanner? Even if he had, the Devil and his partner would kill everyone on the expanded death list before he could locate them.

That bastard Wells. He had actually taken steps to protect the people he thought would be targets. The Devil grinned. That wouldn’t do the fool any good. It would be a long time before anyone caught up with them. And even if that happened, there would be a container-load of pain to endure.

“Right,” he said to the hooded figure. “It’s time we got started.” He watched as their captive tensed. Obviously the effect of the punch was wearing off. Good. The Devil wanted his victim to be aware of what was coming.

Pain was what it was all about, pain and horror. After this killing, the writer would understand that no one he’d ever met was safe. Then they would see how he reacted to real pressure.

The Devil selected a couple of instruments, nodded to his partner and walked over to the prisoner. He removed the blindfold and was gratified by the sight of two damp and terrified eyes. They implored him for mercy, but they also seemed to contain the knowledge that none would be forthcoming.

Then he had a thought. Why not up the pressure on Matt Wells right now? He handed the scalpel and probe to his partner and took his mobile from his pocket.

The smile that spread across his face as he started to speak made his victim whimper and moan.