The Death List

30

Karen Oaten watched the paramedics lift Matt Wells’s mother onto a stretcher and take her out of the bedroom. Their preliminary examination had found only suppurating grazes on her wrists and ankles, suggesting that she’d been tied up for several days. She was suffering from extreme dehydration and a saline drip had been inserted in her arm.

“What’s the story, Taff?” she asked.

The Welshman was standing over the SOCO team leader, who looked up from the buckets and twitched his nose. “I don’t think it’s human blood,” the technician said. “You’ll have to wait for the analysis, but my guess is that it came from a pig.”

“Jesus,” the inspector said, shaking his head. “I haven’t got the faintest idea what happened here, guv.”

“We’re getting several sets of prints,” the SOCO added.

“Wells was here, wasn’t he?” Turner said to Oaten, his voice low.

She nodded. “He admitted as much.”

“And then he disappeared, leaving his own mother behind?” The Welshman’s tone was scathing.

The chief inspector shrugged. “He ascertained that she was okay, and then told me where to find her. What’s your point, Taff?”

“He’s playing you like a big juicy trout,” her subordinate said, glaring at her. “There’s nobody else involved, just him and his mates. Some of them are tall and some of them are short, but all of them are missing. You can’t just let him mess us about like this.”

Oaten returned his gaze coolly. “Have you got a better idea? None of this adds up, but it will do soon. I’m telling you, Matt Wells is one of the good ones.”

Turner’s expression was grim. “You’d better hope so. The word back at the Yard is that you’ve run out of lives with the A.C.”

“Is that right, Taff?” she said, stepping closer to him. “In that case, you’ve got a decision to make. Are you going to stay as my number two or do you want out?”

The inspector’s eyes dropped after a few seconds. “No, I’m tied to you whatever happens. It’s too late to do anything about that.”

Oaten laughed dryly. “Thanks for the rousing support.”

“What now?” he asked, opening his notebook. “The constable outside Sara Robbins’s place has reported that she’s not shown up there this evening. And she’s not answering her phones.”

The chief inspector’s forehead was furrowed. “So Matt’s girlfriend may have been taken, as well. I’m not looking forward to telling him that.”

“He already knows,” Turner said acidly, “since he was the one who took her. Simmons has tracked down the owner of the flat with the flayed bodies and disemboweled animals in it. It’s a guy by the name of Lawrence Montgomery.”

Karen Oaten ran her fingers slowly down her cheek. “So it looks like Leslie Dunn became Lawrence Montgomery. He’s a wealthy man. Get Morry to find out if he owns any other properties. No, on second thought, get Paul to do it.”

The Welshman looked at his watch. “The council offices are all closed, guv.”

“Well, tell him to squeeze their nuts. The stuff’s all in databases. It won’t need many people to work overtime.”

Turner took out his phone and moved to the landing.

The chief inspector watched him go and then turned back to the crimson bed. All her experience was telling her there was more blood about to be spilled, and that this time it would be the human kind.

If Matt Wells had set her up, she’d personally spill his.

I had just checked out an upper-floor flat off Old Street-no lights or sign of movement-when my mobile rang, making me jump.

“How’s it going, Matt?”

“Bonehead. The bastard had a go at my mother. I sent the cops round. She should be okay.”

“Jesus. What do you mean she should be okay?”

I explained, feeling like a piece of shit for having left her behind.

“Oh, right,” he said, obviously unconvinced that I’d made the right decision. “Have you heard from our American friend?”

“No. Haven’t you?”

“He isn’t answering his phone.”

I felt a cold finger move down my spine. Bloody hell, what was going on? Was the Devil picking up everyone I knew? I should have expected it. He’d warned me often enough.

“Where was he the last time you heard from him?”

“Half an hour ago. He was about to go to the place in Camden Town. Plender Road. You see it on your map?”

I found the cross I’d made. “Yes.” I got into the coupe. “All right, I’m on my way. What about the others?”

“Dave’s between Bexley and Eltham, nothing to report. Rog has just finished in Cricklewood. He’s going to Kilburn next.”

“What about you?” I asked, as I accelerated up the City Road.

“I haven’t seen anything worth talking about. I’m about to check the place in Norwood.”

“Okay. Listen, Boney, keep in touch with the guys as often as you can. The lunatic seems to be picking us off one by one.”

Peter Satterthwaite gave a dry laugh. “Not me, my friend. He doesn’t know anything about me, remember?”

“Unless he trailed one of us back to your place.” That shut him up. “Don’t worry,” I said, relenting. “It isn’t that likely.” I cut the connection, wondering how right I was. The Devil seemed to know everything about all of us. I was hoping Pete was the joker in my pack.

I parked off Camden High Street and walked down the darker back streets. It was after ten and there wasn’t anyone around. Plender Road was narrow, and filled on both sides with parked cars. Number 26 was a terraced, three-story building. There were no lights on inside.

Andy Jackson still wasn’t answering his phone. I felt my heart begin to pound. I had to try to get inside. What if he was tied up like my mother? Or worse. Making sure the coast was clear, I approached the front door on the balls of my feet. As I was going up the two steps, I noticed that there was a piece of paper protruding from the letter box. I went closer and shone my torch on it. My stomach flipped as I made out my name in red letters. I pulled on my leather gloves and removed it swiftly and silently. At least it looked like the lettering was in ink rather than blood. I unfolded the sheet and read:

Is it you, Matt? Are you hot on my trail? I really hope so. But you’re too late here. Oh, you’ll be wondering about your American hunk. I thought I’d dealt with him the other day, but he just keeps coming back for more. I don’t think he’ll be coming back this time. Don’t bother breaking the door down. He’s not inside. Can you save the others, or will you be the only man left standing? What does it feel like to be responsible for so many people’s lives? Is it a heavy weight? No, I don’t think it’s troubling you so much. You’re like me, aren’t you, Matt? In the final analysis, all you care about is yourself and your own pathetic concerns-your writing, your inventing stories, your lying. Come on, let the anger out! You can track me down if you really want to. But have you got what it takes? Can you walk the walk? Remember what John Webster said. “Noble friend, Our danger shall be like in this design.” We’re two of a kind, Matt. You’ll see that when we meet.

When, not if.