The Death List

25

I woke up in the ridiculously comfortable bed that Bonehead had directed me to. He’d proudly announced that he had nine spare bedrooms, so Andy, Rog and I didn’t have to share after all. That was a relief. I’d been on several rugby tours with those guys, and though they were my mates, I never wanted to spend another night in the same room as them. Rog snored like a walrus, while Andy suffered from nightmares that seemed to involve him taking on the Germans at Omaha Beach single-handed. One time when we’d had to share a double bed, he’d hit me so hard that I thought the bruise round my eye would never fade. It scared the shit out of the guy who was marking me on the pitch the next day, though.

I took a shower, dressed and went down the corridor to find the others.

“’Morning, Andy,” I said, drawing gold-embroidered curtains and looking out over a huge expanse of lawn. “How are you feeling?” Last night he’d been a bit woozy from the drugs he’d been given in hospital.

“I’ll survive, man,” he said, touching the dressing on his upper chest gingerly. “God knows how, but the blade missed the lot-heart, lungs and major arteries. I’ve always been a lucky son of a bitch.” His expression darkened. “I’m going to get that little fuck in the mask.”

“No, you’re not. He’s mine.”

He laughed. “Like you could take anyone out. You’re a winger, a flyboy. Did you spend the night screwing Bonehead?”

I put my finger to my lips. All we needed now was to be turfed out of our temporary refuge. Andy wasn’t really a homophobe and he hadn’t voted against the Bisons’ onetime benefactor, but he could scarcely be classed as one of nature’s diplomats.

“Come on, then,” he said, pulling on a dressing gown. “I’m starving.” He headed off downstairs.

I put my head round Rog’s door. He was at the computer, his bed undisturbed. “Jesus, have you been at it all night, Dodger?” I asked

He glanced round and nodded, his eyes ringed in black.

“Any luck?”

“Sort of.”

I went over and looked at the heaps of printouts. The pages were covered in numbers. I picked one up. “Manston Investment Bank, British Virgin Islands?”

“Yup.” Rog pushed his chair back and stretched his arms. “I’ll tell you something, Matt. This guy’s bloody smart.”

“You’re tracing him via his financial transactions?”

He nodded. “Starting off was easy enough. Leslie Dunn paid the check that was made out to him into an ordinary account. I tracked it down pretty quickly.” He thrust a printout at me. “You see the deposit? Nine and a half million, September 24, 2001.”

“You hacked into the bank’s system?”

He shrugged. “Piece of piss. The thing is, he soon started shifting his newfound wealth all over the place. Mainly offshore accounts. Now they really are tricky to get into, but…well, you know how good I am.”

I slapped him on the back, harder than he expected.

“Ow, that hurt.”

“Get on with it.”

He turned back to the screen. “There are deposits in Jersey, in the British Virgin Islands, in various dodgy South American countries, even in Cuba.” His head dropped. “The problem is, the accounts are all code-numbered in the databases. No names appear anywhere.” He grunted. “So that people like me can’t find out how much has been squirreled away by bent politicians, rock stars and supposedly honest businessmen like Boney.”

“What about the National Lottery system?”

Rog bit his lip. “I’ve had several goes at that. It really is a bastard.”

I squeezed his shoulder. “Come on, you need to eat and sleep. You can try again later.”

We went downstairs and found Bonehead and Andy shouting abuse at each other across the kitchen table.

“-and my old dad knows more about bloody cooking than you ever will, you Yankee-”

“Boys, boys,” I said, raising my arms. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

“Oh yeah,” Andy muttered.

I glared at him. “In case it’s escaped your notice, you’re eating this man’s bacon and sausages. At least hold off putting the boot into him till you’ve finished breakfast.”

Our host grinned combatively. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Matt.”

“I know you don’t,” I said, sitting down next to him. “But I might be needing you to do that for me.” I glanced at the other two. “We’ve got to get this guy before he tracks me down. If he gets me, then Lucy, Sara, Dave, his family, maybe you are next. Are you with me?”

The three of them took less than a second to respond positively, with a worrying amount of enthusiasm.

“What do you want me to do?” Bonehead asked, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke at Andy.

“Can you take a look at the financial trail Rog has found? You know about that kind of stuff. Maybe we can find the Devil’s new name that way. That’ll free Rog up to concentrate on the lottery archive.”

“Why?” Andy asked, looking puzzled. “Won’t the bastard’s old name be the only one in there?”

“That’s right,” Rog said wearily. “But even people who request privacy are asked to give a forwarding address so that they can be passed messages. It’s amazing how many friends and relatives lottery winners suddenly find they have.”

“Yeah, but surely this guy would just have given a fake one,” Andy said.

I shrugged. “Maybe. But you never know. He might have had a long-lost cousin he always fancied. It’s worth a try, anyway.” I looked at Rog. “After you’ve had a kip.”

He shook his head and poured himself more coffee. “Nah, I’m okay. I want to get this finished. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit worried about Dave.”

Bonehead laughed. “You’re worried about Psycho Cummings? You must be joking.”

Rog grinned. “The poor bloke will be in hell. He’s shacked up somewhere with Ginny the Sour and kids, not to mention Wellsy’s Lucy, and he’s not allowed to play with his demolition machines. He’ll be going round the bend.”

That provoked a round of laughter. Ginny Cummings had never been popular with the lads. Then again, I don’t suppose Caroline had been, either. That was one reason why I hadn’t been bothered about not introducing them to Sara. It was a rule of life that most people learned too late-whatever they might pretend, lovers and mates rarely get on.

I went out to the hall and called my mother on Pete’s line. She had her phone turned off again. I needed to have a serious conversation with her about that. Before I could get back to the kitchen, my mobile rang.

“Matt, you all right?”

“Hiya, Dave. We were just talking about you.”

“All good, I hope.” He paused. “Who’s we?”

I told him where I was and in whose company. “Christ, good thought, lad,” Dave said. “Bonehead’ll look after you. And he’s got such a lovely complexion.”

“Shut up, you idiot. How’s Lucy?”

“Fine. She’s been asking after you.”

I didn’t have it in me to talk to my little girl. I wanted to keep her as far from the Devil’s filth as I could. “Tell her I’ve had to go on a trip, with her mother, and that we’ll be back soon.” I hated to get Lucy’s hopes up about Caroline and me, but it was the only way I could think of to keep her happy.

“Um, Matt?”

It was obvious that Dave wanted something. “Spit it out.”

“The thing is, I’ve got a big job on today. Old house in Orpington. It’s worth a lot of money.”

“Can’t you get your guys to do it without you?” I asked, my heart sinking.

“Not really, mate. They’re headless chickens.” Dave was like a terrier-he always got his way in the end.

I thought about it. I couldn’t see how the Devil could have tracked Dave. “All right,” I said reluctantly. “But be careful you aren’t followed back from the job, yeah? And remember not to use your old mobile again.”

There was silence on the line.

“Tell me you haven’t used it, Dave,” I said, my heart well and truly sunk.

“Sorry, Matt. I had to check my messages. Some of them were to do with the job today.”

I closed my eyes. What had he done? Could the Devil have been monitoring him out of London? On balance, it was pretty improbable. “All right,” I said. “Just don’t use it again. Take care.”

“Aye, you too. What are you doing?”

“Need-to-know basis only, Dave,” I said, and cut the connection.

Back in the kitchen, Andy and Bonehead were back at each other’s throats, this time about the relative merits of gridiron and rugby league.

“Have you eaten enough, Slash?” I demanded. “Only, if you don’t mind, I’d quite like to get moving.”

Andy’s face immediately took on a serious look. “Okay, man. What are we going to do?”

“Are you up to this?” I said, peering at his chest.

“Sure I am. Maybe I should change my dressing, though. The nice nurse with the big jugs told me that cleanliness was next to-”

“You’ll find a full medical kit in the bathroom off my bedroom,” Pete interjected.

Andy got up from the table. “Cream for hemorrhoids and stuff like that?”

Bonehead managed to restrain himself. “Where are you going?” he asked me.

“It’s probably better if neither of you know,” I said, helping myself to the single remaining sausage. “You’ve got my new mobile number, Rog. Ring me on that if you find anything hot.”

They both looked at me doubtfully, and then nodded.

“Here,” Pete said, tossing me a key. “You’ll see the Grand Cherokee at the side of the house. If you put so much as a scratch on it, I’ll break your legs.”

“You and whose army?”

He raised his middle finger.

I left them at the table, Rog pouring himself yet more coffee. If we hadn’t been up against a murderous bastard like the Devil, I’d almost have enjoyed the camaraderie that had been largely missing from my life since I stopped playing league. As it was, I just felt scared that I’d involved my mates in something they’d probably live to regret. If they lived.

I met Andy in the hall. He’d obviously raided Bonehead’s wardrobe, having kitted himself out in a red-white-and-blue sweater. It suited him nationally but not stylistically, though I didn’t bother pointing that out.

“Neat wheels,” he said as we got into the big Jeep. “Shame about the color.” Bonehead had chosen a seriously vile shade of puce.

I drove to the gate and waited for another sour-faced goon to raise it for us.

“So, are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Andy said, holding the seat belt off his injured chest.

“Okay. We’re going to university.”

“Come again?” Andy was a great guy, but he’d only been at a catering school and he never read anything except the tabloid with the most tits and bums. “What good will I be to you at that kind of place?”

“Wait and see, big man,” I said, directing the Jeep toward the city center. I hoped Pete had paid his congestion charge because I was planning on parking at Waterloo.

When we got there, Andy grimaced as he stood up.

“Are you in pain?” I asked as we headed out of the multi-storey.

“Nothing a few beers won’t sort.”

“Forget it,” I said sternly. “You’re off the booze till I say otherwise.”

We walked toward the bridge. I knew exactly where I was going. I’d been there before. King’s College London had a building on the south side of the river. A seminar room on the third floor had been the scene of one of my worst humiliations as a writer.

We walked through crowds of students. It looked like we were in luck. A lecture had obviously just ended. After the last young man emerged, the woman I wanted to speak to followed. She had the same frizzy auburn hair and loose garments that I remembered.

“Dr. Everhead,” I said, trying to sound less nervous than I was. This woman had made me squirm in front of rows of people. She was also a world authority on Jacobean tragedy. I wanted to pick her brains, as well as to warn her about the Devil.

The lecturer’s jaw dropped. Her face went whiter than a wedding dress. For a moment I thought she was going to faint, an unlikely reaction from a battle-hardened feminist. Then she turned and headed at speed for the stairs. I managed to dart in front of her.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to lay into you. You were perfectly entitled to attack my books.”

That didn’t seem to comfort her much. She was looking anxiously to either side of me. Fortunately the corridor was empty, apart from Andy. His bulk wouldn’t have been particularly reassuring to her.

“Matt Stone,” she said, her voice surprisingly faint. “What…what are you doing here?”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

She looked at her watch. “I have a lecture in…oh, all right. My office is round here.” She walked away, looking over her shoulder. “Who’s your friend?”

I introduced Andy. He gave her a wide grin, which didn’t impress her. It had always been clear that Lizzie Everhead preferred women, both as crime writers and as human beings. She ushered us into a small office that was crammed with books and papers, and then stood by the open door. I could see that she was still nervous.

“I…I’ve been talking to the police,” she said, folding her arms defensively.

“Oh, yes?” I wasn’t sure how to take that.

“A Detective Chief Inspector Oaten.”

“Karen. I know her.”

That seemed to surprise her. “Do you? She’s been consulting me about those awful murders.”

Now I got it. Oaten must have been asking her about the references to The White Devil. “The Webster quotations?”

The academic’s eyes sprang wide open. “You know about those?”

I nodded. “Karen Oaten’s been talking to me, too.”

Lizzie Everhead looked down the corridor, the tension in her face easing when she heard voices outside. She turned back to us. “Put that down, please,” she said to Andy, who had picked up a dark-colored wooden object.

“What is it?” he asked.

She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “If you must know, it’s a seventeenth-century dildo.”

I glared at Andy to head off the inevitable wisecrack, and then looked back at her. “So you know that the killer’s been copying murders in my novels?”

She nodded, her expression anxious again. “Have you…have you any idea why?”

I shrugged. “I was going to ask you that.”

Lizzie Everhead looked puzzled. “Me? Why should I be able to give an opinion?”

“You’re an expert on both Webster and crime fiction,” I said, smiling to put her at ease. “Even though you don’t think much of mine.”

“Neither did Alexander Drys,” she said sharply. “And look what happened to him.”

“Were you a friend of his?”

She shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. He was a terrible bigot. But he didn’t deserve to die that way.”

“Of course he didn’t.”

“Exactly what is it that you want from me?” she said, a mixture of irritation and curiosity in her voice.

“Do you honestly think I’m involved in these murders?”

She looked at me dubiously. “I…I don’t know. I suppose not.”

“There’s a vote of confidence for you, man,” Andy said ironically.

I tried to ignore him. “Dr. Everhead, I really need your help. Can you see any pattern in the quotations?”

She thought about that and then shook her head. “Apart from the obvious one of revenge, no. I take it you didn’t know the first three victims.”

“’Course he didn’t, lady,” Andy said, stepping forward.

Lizzie Everhead dodged him and moved out into the corridor. “I think you’d better leave now,” she said firmly.

She obviously didn’t have anything more to say. We headed out. As I passed her, I said, “I don’t want to scare you, but D.C.I. Oaten’s been organizing protection for people who might be targets. Maybe you should ask her about that.”

I could tell Lizzie Everhead was frightened, but she was trying not to show it. “I’m in frequent touch with New Scotland Yard,” she said. “Goodbye.”

“Well, thanks a lot,” I said to Andy as we went down the stairs. “That was a massive success.”

“Aw, come on, man. She needed shaking up a bit. In fact, she obviously needed-”

“That’s enough, you moron.” It had just occurred to me that Karen Oaten might be very interested to hear that I’d paid Lizzie Everhead a visit.

I had the distinct feeling that the academic was on the line to her right now.

John Turner was sitting in D.C.I. Oaten’s office, ticking off the notes that he had made. “The CCTV images from Borough Market aren’t much help,” he said. “They show a pair of men of medium height in overalls with caps pulled low over their faces. It’s pretty obvious they knew where the cameras were. It’s impossible to distinguish their features. It looks like one had a mustache, but you know how blurred those pictures are. They got out of a white van, registration P692 MDG, and carried a large object in dark-colored wrapping to the bin. Unfortunately, the open lid obscured what they did then.”

“But they were obviously removing the wrapping and arranging the body,” Karen Oaten said. “They then went back to the van with the wrapping and drove off.”

Turner nodded. “And the van was found in a back street in Streatham at 10:35 p.m. The SOCOs haven’t found a single usable print on it.”

“No witnesses, of course.”

The inspector shook his head. “What about the autopsy, guv?”

Oaten picked up a gray file. “Redrose found that the bites to the face and neck were made by a person whose canine teeth appear to have been sharpened.”

“What?”

“And that the nipples were bitten off by a different individual, someone with normal teeth.”

“Dental records are no use to us.”

“Not until we have someone in custody to check the bites against.” The chief inspector looked out of the window. Dark clouds were blotting out the sun.

“What about the quotation?” Turner asked.

“I spoke to Lizzie Everhead last night. She didn’t have much to say, only that it suggests the victim wasn’t so closely linked to the general pattern of revenge.”

“What reason would these lunatics have to take revenge on a twenty-six-year-old publisher’s assistant, anyway?” the Welshman demanded in frustration. “All the friends and colleagues we’ve spoken to said that he was a decent guy with no vices and no dodgy friends.”

Oaten grunted. “No vices apart from screwing his boss.”

“His boss who conveniently disappeared yesterday.”

“Calm down, John. She’s not involved in this. Matt Wells told her to lie low.”

“Yes, Matt Wells,” the inspector said, standing up. “Everything seems to lead back to him. The attachments say ‘I severed her arm,’ ‘I cut off his head’ and so on. That means it’s him, surely.”

Oaten stared at him. She didn’t think he was right. She didn’t know much about novels, but she reckoned that writing one in the voice of a killer didn’t mean the author was automatically one him- or herself. Besides, there was a charm about Wells that she was pretty sure wasn’t an act. Still, the fact remained that Matt had to be brought in. But he was smart. He’d been keeping his head down. What if Taff was right? What if Matt Wells really was the Devil and he was taking the piss out of her? All her instincts told her that he wasn’t a callous killer, but his involvement with the murders was undeniable.

“What about the MO?” Turner asked.

“There was a mutilated body found in a garbage container in Matt Stone’s Tirana Blues,” the D.C.I. said, avoiding the Welshman’s gaze.

The phone on her desk rang.

“Oaten.” She listened, her stomach tightening like a vice. “What? Oh, no! Where? We’re on our way.”

“What is it, guv?” Turner asked as she headed for the door.

“Lizzie Everhead,” she said, her face pale and her expression grim. “She’s been found dead in her office. Apparently it’s a real mess.”

They passed quickly through the main office, each shouting orders to subordinates.