The Death List

27

The White Devil was sitting in front of the bank of screens in his penthouse overlooking the Thames. Only one of the screens was in operation. It showed a dimly lit enclosed space with no furniture apart from an old armchair that was losing its stuffing. On it was a figure bound around the calves and chest, the head covered by a sack with a hole cut in it to aid the passage of air. There was no way the Devil wanted this captive to expire yet. That would be a tragedy of Jacobean proportions.

He smiled. The stench in the room would be almost unbearable by now, the urine and sweat joining with the reek of the rotting building. Originally, he hadn’t intended going anywhere near the place again. The captive would eventually die of thirst. Not a pleasant death, but there were worse ones. Matt Wells was a wanted man now, so he’d be prepared to take risks. That called for original thinking and flexibility. The Devil was a past master at those.

He thought back to the events of the morning. It had been a classic example of how good planning was rewarded by an unexpected bonus. He had always planned to carry out this murder on his own. It would be broad daylight and going with his partner was too risky. Besides, he wanted to deal with the woman on his own. He’d been in the audience when Dr. Lizzie Everhead had taken Matt Stone’s novels to pieces in what was a very public humiliation. To be fair to Matt, he took it in good part, making jokes at his own expense and appearing to forgive the good doctor for what was an overscholarly attack on fiction for the mass market. Then again, as the novelist once said himself, if crime fiction wanted to be taken seriously, its writers had to expect to be judged by the same standards applied to literary fiction. Dream on, my friend, the Devil thought. The only people taking you seriously from now on will be members of the Metropolitan Police, the media and the judiciary.

Getting into the building had been easy. He’d been inside numerous times over the past three months, wearing overalls and cap, and using a fake but convincing maintenance man’s pass. He’d spotted the absence of cameras beyond the entrance hall, and he’d also worked out the doctor’s timetable. He knew exactly when she was on her own in her office. But how was he to know that Matt was going to turn up with his muscular friend a few minutes before him? It had been a close call-he’d seen them leave-but it had led to Matt being put solidly in the frame for the murder. That really was funny. Originally he hadn’t intended using the modus operandi from the Zog novel, but since the writer had been messing him around, he wanted to pay him back. An anonymous phone call to the Yard later on would make sure the bitch Oaten had yet more to hold against Matt.

Moving over to the penthouse’s tall windows, he looked out at the boats on the Thames. The worm of doubt he had felt about the murder at the Hereward and the men on Corky’s tail was growing. His accomplice was continuing to keep ahead of the Orion, his well-developed sense of self-preservation functioning well. But for how long?

The White Devil shook his head and told himself to ignore Corky. It wasn’t as if he knew where to find the Devil. No, he’d already brought his plans forward and the end was in sight. Soon, he’d be far away where he could never be found. With his partner.

In the meantime, he had work to do.

People to pick up.

Skin to pierce.

And blood to spill.

“I’m in, Matt!” Rog shouted.

Peter Satterthwaite and I dashed over to the desk and watched as he navigated his way skillfully around the lottery site. In a few seconds he’d accessed the list of big winners and typed in the date of the Devil’s win. A couple more clicks and we had it.

Leslie Dunn-Flat 12, Vestine Building, Bermondsey Wall East, London SE16 OPY.

“You did it!” I shouted, grabbing Rog’s shoulders.

“Just a second,” he said, hammering away at the keyboard. “I’m deleting my identity so there’s no way they can trace me. Done.” He turned round and smiled. “So, let’s go and nail the bastard.” He got up and went to the door. “Andy! Get in here. We need you.”

I sat them all down to think things through. “Look, if the Devil really is in this flat in Bermondsey, we need to be pretty careful about going in mob-handed. He’s cunning enough to have taken precautions.”

“You and Andy can’t go anywhere,” Bonehead pointed out. “Your faces will be all over the evening paper.”

He was right, but he could also provide a solution. “Aren’t you into fancy dress?” I asked.

Andy guffawed. “Yeah, I remember when you turned up at the end-of-season dinner wearing a grass skirt.”

Pete gave him an aloof stare. “I’ll have you know that was a genuine South Seas fashion item.” He laughed and turned to me. “As it happens, I have got a wardrobe full of outlandish gear. You’d look great as a Morris dancer, Matt, though maybe you’d attract a bit too much attention. As for you, Andy, I’ve got this great pair of leather trousers with the arse cut away.”

The American looked appalled. “You must be joking, man.”

I raised a hand. “All right, sober up. Yeah, we can disguise ourselves. The question is, how many of us go?”

“All of us,” the three of them said in unison.

I shook my head. “It’s too risky. What if he’s got the place booby-trapped? I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Why don’t we get Dave to check it out?” Rog asked. “He’s a demolition expert, after all.”

I thought about it. “No, Dave needs to get back to Lucy and his family.”

“So,” Bonehead said, “who goes?”

“Since when were you part of this elite squad?” Andy asked.

The multimillionaire smiled at him. “Since you guys invited yourselves here, Slash.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “We need all the help we can get. But we also need someone here to check out any leads we come up with. That means someone who can handle a computer.” I looked at Rog. “And that means you, mate.” His disappointment was obvious. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance.”

“I suppose I’d better stay here, as well,” Bonehead said. “In case there’s more financial stuff to chase up. You never know, I might find the identity he’s using now.”

I nodded, happy he’d worked that out before I had to tell him. “Looks like it’s you and me again, Andy,” I said. “Boney, show us your disguises.”

He led us upstairs. “You do realize that the police might have found out about this place you’re going to and put surveillance on it?”

I nodded. “It has occurred to me. But they’ve been busy with the killings. Maybe they haven’t been into the lottery archive yet.”

Half an hour later we left the house, this time driving our host’s brand-new pale blue BMW 6 Series coupe in case the Jeep had been picked up on CCTV at Waterloo. I was wearing a shoulder-length blond wig and a blue boiler suit, while Andy had a hard hat, a fake Zapata mustache and an anorak. I suppose we might have been taken as genuine workmen. By a blind man.

I parked a couple of hundred yards away from the Vestine Building. We walked along the cobbled streets to what turned out to be a converted warehouse. There was a waist-high wall around it, the enclosed parking area filled with luxury cars. There wasn’t any sign of coppers on surveillance, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t hidden themselves. I took a deep breath and tried to slow my breathing.

“Right,” Andy said in a low voice, putting down his toolbox. “What’s the plan?”

“We haven’t got much choice. We’ll have to go in the main entrance.” We pulled on gloves, then I led him through the pedestrian gate. There was a panel covered in numbers by the heavy door. “We aren’t going to press number 12,” I said, as he raised his hand. “This usually works in my books.” I pressed several other numbers. When a voice came through the panel, I said “Electricity.”

There was a buzz and the door opened.

A woman holding a howling child poked her head out from a door as we headed for the stairs. “Problem on the second floor,” I said, flashing my bank card-fortunately it had a photo on it. She nodded without interest and disappeared. We raced up the stairs, following the signs to Flats 10 to 13. We approached number 12 cautiously.

I listened outside the door for a while. I could hear nothing inside. “Right, Andy. You’re on.” He’d often boasted about his underage criminal activities in the suburbs of Newark, including burglary. Now was his chance to show he hadn’t lost his skills. “Is there an alarm?”

“In a place like this? Gotta be. Don’t worry, I can handle it.” He took out a set of short steel rods, some flat and some with bent ends that he’d fashioned in Bonehead’s basement before we left. In under ten seconds he had the door open. I watched as he ran to the beeping alarm box, pulled off the cover and fiddled with a screwdriver. The beeping stopped. I waited for the full-scale apocalypse to be triggered, but nothing happened.

“Christ, you really do know what you’re doing,” I said, closing the door behind me.

Andy raised his hands to his lips. We were in a long hallway. I found the light switch. There were three doors on either side, all of them closed.

“Here,” Andy whispered, pressing a hammer into my hand. He was holding a long screwdriver. “You go left, I’ll go right. We’ll open them together, on three.”

I went to the first door and looked round at him. He mouthed “One, two, three.” I turned the handle and shoved the door open. The room was completely dark. With my heart thumping, I located the light switch. The place was empty, not even a shade on the lamp. The blinds on the windows were drawn. I looked round to Andy and saw that he’d had the same experience.

It didn’t look like anyone lived here. Tension slackening, we went to the next doors. Same procedure, same result. I had a bathroom with cobwebs in the corners, he had a kitchen-again, the blinds in both were firmly closed. We came to the last doors. One, two, three. This time I found myself in a wide-open space, with the light of the late-afternoon sun coming in through spaces between the blinds. Again, the room was emptier than a ransacked tomb.

“Jesus!” I heard Andy shout from the other side. I went over quickly. The room was the mirror-image of the one I’d opened. I guessed they were sitting and dining rooms as there was a glass partition between them. I opened it.

Andy was squatting on the floor next to a row of shriveled objects lying on a tarpaulin. There was a rank smell in the air, like game that had hung for far too long.

I put my hand over my mouth and nose. I counted five cats, four dogs and two rats, in varying stages of decomposition. As I went closer, I saw that all had been split open from the breastbone to the anus, the desiccated entrails spread around on the tarp. I immediately thought of Happy. It looked like this was where the Devil had practiced. But why had he kept the corpses? I shivered. Because he was a sick bastard, that was why. Then I looked toward the far corner and saw things that were even worse.

“Oh-oh,” Andy said, following the direction of my gaze.

On a larger tarpaulin lay several gray masses of flesh. This time, they hadn’t been cut open. Instead, they’d been flayed, their skins nailed to the wall behind. There were a couple of large dogs and a cat. But that wasn’t all. In the farthest corner was a large heap of skinless flesh. I made out human arms and legs. Hanging above them were two objects like deflated sex dolls. They were flayed skins.

“Holy shit!” Andy said, his hand to his mouth.

I couldn’t speak. But who were these two victims? They were nameless, unidentifiable without detailed forensic investigation. I felt rage course through me. How could someone have such disregard for his fellow human beings? How could he turn them into anonymous pieces of flesh?

We retreated and checked the rest of the place but found nothing that might lead us to the owner. It was clear from the dust on the floor that he hadn’t been here for some time. We’d left footprints all over, but I didn’t care. I was already in deep enough trouble, both with the Devil and with the police.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said.

“Good thought.” Andy attempted a smile. “There’s a chance that, when I disabled the alarm, a light started flashing in the local police station.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“We were having such a good time.” He turned away. “Come on.”

We left at speed, encountering no one in the corridor or on the staircase. We were about to open the main door when I saw a panel of mailboxes.

“Can you get into that?”

“With or without damage?”

“It hardly matters now. As quick as you can.”

He forced open the box marked 12 with his screwdriver. I stuck my hand in and came out with a single envelope. I stuffed it into my pocket. “Come on.” It was only as we went out of the door that I saw the CCTV camera on the inside above it.

Too late. Too bad.

When we got back to the BMW, I took the envelope out. It was an electricity bill. “Mr. Lawrence Montgomery,” I read.

“Who’s he?” Andy asked.

I felt a shiver run up my spine. “He might just be the Devil himself.”

We drove off into the evening’s deepening shades.

The three men in the aged Orion were all looking to the front, the passengers’ eyes fixed on the figure weaving in and out of the traffic ahead.

“Pity we haven’t got a bike like that,” the driver said.

“I didn’t hear you volunteering to buy one, Geronimo,” said Wolfe, his tone sharp. There was a dull ring from his pocket. He took out his mobile phone. “Yes?” He listened for a while. “Don’t worry,” he said finally. “We haven’t done anything to the piece of shit.” He cut the connection and looked round at Rommel. “Yet.”

“Our friend the detective?” the man in the backseat asked.

“Yup. Wetting himself that we’re going to chop the guy on the bike up like we did with Smail.”

“We are, aren’t we?” Geronimo asked.

Wolfe gave a hollow laugh. “Assuming he did for Jimmy Tanner, as I’m sure he did, you bet we are.”

The motorbike was about fifty yards ahead of them, moving toward London Bridge. The traffic lights changed and vehicles began to slow. So did the man on the bike. But when he’d come to a complete stop, he suddenly accelerated, narrowly missing a taxi that was turning right.

“Fuck!” Geronimo smacked his palms on the steering wheel.

Wolfe got out quickly and looked ahead. He saw the motorbike disappear over the bridge.

“Now what?” asked Rommel.

“I call our contact,” Wolfe said calmly, taking out his mobile. “It’s me,” he said. “We’ve lost our target.” He listened for a few seconds. “All right, but I’m expecting reliable information. Remember, you owe us.”

The traffic was moving again.

“Where to?” asked Geronimo.

“Find a parking space in Holborn. We’ll be centrally positioned there. Don’t worry, the copper will put a trace on him. After all, Jimmy Tanner saved his uncle’s life in the Falklands.”

“So we just sit and wait?” asked Rommel.

“What else do we do between ops?” The team leader moved his hand to the 9 mm Glock in his shoulder holster. “And when the time comes, we nail the fuckers before the Met get near them.”

The other two men nodded, their expressions set hard.

Karen Oaten looked down over Victoria Street from New Scotland Yard. The last of the commuters were on their way home, some already well lubricated as their erratic movements showed. Why wasn’t she normal? she wondered. Why couldn’t she go down to the pub like everyone else? Because there was a pair of heartless killers on the loose, she told herself. Whether they were called Matt Wells and Andrew Jackson was another matter.

“Guv?”

“Yes, Taff?” She sat down at her desk and massaged her aching neck.

“There have been several calls reporting sightings of Wells and Jackson. We’re checking them out.” He shrugged. “Nothing definite yet.”

That was the problem with public appeals, the chief inspector thought. Some people wanted to be helpful, but gave unhelpful information; other people wanted to shop those they didn’t like; and then there were the crazies who only wanted attention.

“What about the National Lottery?”

“The warrant should be through any time now.” The Welshman shook his head. “Tossers. You’d think they would understand this is a multiple-murder case.”

“They’re bureaucrats, Taff,” Oaten said, staring at the heap of files on her desk. “Like us.”

“Oh, yes,” Turner said, a smile spreading across his lips. “And this call came in for you when you were with the A.C. I had it transcribed.” He handed her a piece of paper.

“‘At 1705 hours, muffled male voice,’” she read. “‘For Detective Chief Inspector Karen Oaten. It may interest you to read chapter 14 of the novel Tirana Blues by Matt Stone.’”

Turner was holding an open book out to her, his smile even wider.

She read through the description of an Albanian’s murder, taking in the similarities with that of Lizzie Everhead. The details hadn’t been released to the public, so the message was obviously either from the killer or someone close to him.

“Pretty conclusive, isn’t it?” the inspector said.

“You think so, Taff?” She was getting irritated by her subordinate’s dogged determination to nail the novelist. “If Matt Wells is the killer, why’s he taking the trouble to frame himself? Think about that.”

“He’s a psychopath,” Turner said, his smile disappearing. “He’s playing games.”

“It was a mistake, making that public appeal. All it’s done is make him even more determined to keep his head down. The idiot’s trying to find the Devil himself.”

“All he has to do is look in the mirror.”

“What else have we got?” Oaten said wearily.

“No fingerprints at the scene except Jackson’s on what looks like an ancient dildo, no significant physical evidence found by SOCOs. And everyone who appeared on the CCTV has been accounted for. Apart from Wells and Jackson.” The inspector suddenly became less assertive. “And one other man, dressed in workman’s clothing and wearing a hard hat.”

Oaten looked up. “So there was someone else at the scene. That could be the killer. I’m telling you, Taff, there’s more to this than Matt Wells and his mate.”

“Maybe it was another of Wells’s mates.”

“Christ, you don’t give up, do you?”

“I’ve been doing some checking,” the Welshman said, looking at his notes. “When Wells gave you those names to be put under protection, he missed out several of his closest friends. I got their names from his ex-wife and crosschecked them with the rugby league club they’re members of. There are two others we can’t trace-David Cummings and Roger van Zandt. Neither of them is as tall as Wells and Jackson. And they haven’t been seen at home for more than twenty-four hours.” He glared at Oaten. “Why are you so dead-set against the writer as our main man, guv?”

It was the same question the A.C. had asked her. She’d only been able to cite the height of the figures on the CCTV at Dr. Keane’s building and Borough Market. But, as her superior had pointed out, such images were often misleading because of the skewed perspective they gave. And there were the other potential suspects. She couldn’t embarrass herself by giving him the main reason, but Taff should have been able to understand it.

“I’ve met him,” she said. “My gut feeling is that he isn’t capable of these killings.”

Turner shrugged. “I’ve got to disagree with you there. I’ve met him, too, and my gut’s telling me that he is. He’s written about murder often enough. He’s also got a reputation as one of the most gruesome crime writers.”

“Writing about it is hardly the same thing as doing it for real,” the chief inspector said. “How many writers have we done for murder over the years?”

“None that I can remember,” the Welshman said reluctantly.

She nodded at him, and then looked away. She wasn’t comfortable thinking about Matt Wells. He’d had more of an effect on her than any man for years.

There was a knock on the door. Paul Pavlou stuck his head round. “Excuse me, guv. The warrant for the lottery’s here.”

Karen Oaten stood up. “Right. Let’s find out where the mysterious Leslie Dunn has got to.”

Turner followed her out, shaking his head. Leslie Dunn was a false trail, he was sure of that. They would be led round in circles, while Matt Wells went on killing people.

For the first time in nine years, he’d begun to doubt his boss’s judgment.