The Death List

31

I came round the corner and looked up at the floodlit facade of the Royal Brewery. It really was a luxury block. I could tell that the flats were large from the patterns of light. Some had people at home, some not. It wasn’t far to the main road to the south, but the noise of traffic was muffled by the large buildings behind, more of which were being converted into seriously desirable-and expensive-properties.

Alarms were dotted around the walls. I was pretty sure there would also be more sophisticated equipment to keep me out-cameras, motion sensors, who knew? There was a selection of high-performance cars in the enclosed parking area. I wondered if any of them belonged to the Devil.

I approached the main door. It was steel and looked like it had been made from the side of a battleship. There was a camera in the top-left corner. I was going to have to act a part. I psyched myself up for a few seconds and then hit the bell to number 3. After a long silence, a male voice that was distorted electronically came through.

“Lawrence?” I shouted in what I hoped sounded like a drunk’s voice.

“Who is this?” the man demanded.

I waved my arms around. “I want Lawrence…Lawrence Montgomery. He invited me round to celebrate.” After I said the words, I wondered how close to the truth that was.

“Oh, all right,” the voice said wearily. “But tell Mr. Montgomery that the next time his friends ring my bell, I won’t let them in.”

There was a buzz, the door opened and I moved inside quickly. The entrance hall was opulently decorated, with abstract bronze sculptures in recesses in the walls and a thick gray carpet. The lift had glass doors and was unusually large. There was a sign telling visitors on which floor the various flats were to be found. I went in the lift to the third floor, the one below number 6, and then climbed the stairs as quietly as I could. Poking my head round the corner cautiously, I saw that there was only one door. Lawrence Montgomery’s penthouse must be huge.

The door was a near replica of the one on the street, fashioned of metal that could have been used for armor plating. There was a camera fixed in the corner high above, well out of my reach. Whatever happened, my presence in the block and on the top floor was recorded for posterity. Too bad.

Then, as I approached the door, I noticed something that stopped me in my tracks. There was a space of about two centimeters between it and the frame. The bastard had left it open. Was it a trap? Or had something happened to make him get out in a hurry? I stood where I was, running through my options. The best thing to do would be to wait for Dave and Pete. If I were a normal, law-abiding citizen, I would have called the police, but I was long past that. What if the Devil had left one or more of his victims inside, as he’d done with my mother? What if they were in pain, struggling to breathe through tight gags, bleeding their lives away? No, I had to go in.

I took the screwdriver from my pocket and held it out like a weapon, steeled myself and nudged the door open gently with my shoulder. There was no light in the broad hallway inside, but a glow spread into it from the far end. The doors on both sides were open. That reduced the tension that had gripped me. I still approached each one carefully, shining the torch to check that it was empty. Apart from plenty of highly expensive furniture and fittings, all the rooms were unoccupied. That left the illuminated area at the end of the hall. I padded toward it, my heart pounding. It was inconceivable that the Devil would have let me into his lair without some surprises. Those had to be ahead of me.

As I stuck my head round the door, I froze. There was a noise, a weird, regular creaking that I couldn’t place. I forced myself onward. The first thing that struck me was the enormity of the space. The room must have been fifty meters long, taking the whole of the north side of the building. The blinds were up and there was a view across the Thames to the renovated buildings on the north bank. Then I saw that the farthest blind on the left was down. In front of it was the source of the noise. Before I could stop myself, I threw up on the parquet floor.

The body was hanging from a varnished ceiling beam, secured by a rope. It was naked, hands tied behind its back and, although it faced me, I couldn’t determine the gender. That was because the head was covered in a black hood, and because the chest and abdomen had been cut open. I blinked, trying to block out the awful vision, but it was impossible. The intestines dangling to the floor, the great explosion of blood all around indicating that the victim had been alive when the mutilation had been carried out, the angle of the lifeless feet pointing downward-all of the images would remain with me for the rest of my life. But who was it?

I went toward the corpse, trying to get a grip on the thoughts that were flashing through my brain. Was it Sara? Caroline? One of my friends? At least it couldn’t be Lucy, and it wasn’t tall enough to be Andy. But could it be Rog? As far as I could tell, the upper body had good muscle tone. As I got closer, the stench from the ruptured internal organs washed over me. But the full horror didn’t hit me until I was standing next to the loosened coils of the entrails. I was going to have to cut the victim down and take off the hood to identify him or her. At close range, amid the blood, I could see that well-formed breasts had been hacked apart. The victim was a woman. My stomach heaved again, but this time only a single, bitter mouthful was ejected.

I looked around for a chair and pulled one over from the dining table at the other end of the room. Positioning it to the rear of the body, I put my arms round it, feeling the movement of the innards in my gloved hands and swallowing back bile. The rope had been looped over a large steel hook in the beam, so by lifting I was able to slide it off. I took the full weight of the dead woman and lowered her slowly to the floor, stepping off the chair as her lower half splashed into the surrounding pool of blood. My shoes were drenched in it, my hands and arms soaked, but I didn’t care. I had to find out who she was. Sara? Caroline? Oh, Christ…

I squatted down and fumbled with the hood. It had been tied tightly around the neck. Finally I got it off and was confronted with black hair. She couldn’t be Sara, who had brown. But Caroline? The matted strands seemed too long. I had to turn the body round. I managed to do that, wishing I’d been able to block my ears to the squelching sound as the flesh and organs moved in the blood. I leaned forward, my heart almost bursting from my chest, and then kicked backward involuntarily, falling into the pool of gore. Jesus, how much worse could this get?

The woman had been beaten about the face. Her eyes and ears had been removed, and her nose crushed. I couldn’t recognize the damaged features. To round off his work, the Devil had left a plastic bag protruding from the split lips. The bastard. Now I knew why he’d left the door open. I scrabbled to open it, my gloves slick with blood. There was a folded piece of A4 paper inside. I opened it and read.

Is that you, Matt? I do hope so. If not, maybe you’ll be passed this message soon enough. Did you really think you’d find me? We’ll meet where I want, when I decide. In the meantime, this is my gift to you. Did you think it was Sara? Caroline? You see, I can read your mind like a cheap paperback-like one of yours, in fact. We’re two of a kind. We could have been brothers separated in childhood. Did you think of that? Birth brothers adopted by different parents, one growing up to a life of true crime and the other becoming a leech, a parasite pandering to people’s baser instincts. Ha! I made it as hard as I could for you to identify the poor slut. Do you want to know who she is? Here’s a clue. You spoke to her in person not long ago. Still stumped? She’s, I mean, she was the receptionist at your publishers.

I let out a sob as I remembered the enthusiastic girl who’d told me she liked my books. Mandy was her name. I had a flash of her attractive face, and then it was replaced by the horror in front of me. The heartless monster. Was no one safe from him? I forced myself to continue reading.

Amanda Plimpton, she was called. The police obviously didn’t think she was a likely target, so she didn’t get protection. Did you include her in your list to the bitch Karen Oaten? No, I didn’t think so. Oh, by the way, Matt, did you notice the box on the beam, a meter from the hook?

I looked up and saw a black metal object the size and shape of a shoebox. There was a wire leading from it to the hook.

No, you didn’t, did you? It’s packed with Semtex. The detonator’s attached to a timer, which was activated when you took the body off the hook. It’s set for seven minutes. How long have you got left to get out?

Run, Matt, run!

I scrambled backward and got to my feet. I had no idea how much time had passed since I’d taken the poor woman down, but it must have been several minutes. As I headed for the door, I caught a glimpse of a couple of dioramas covered with tanks and soldiers, then a bank of screens on the rear wall. This must have been where my tormentor had been watching me from. Was he really going to blow up all his precious gear? I wasn’t going to wait and see.

I ran down the stairs rather than risk being trapped in the lift if the explosion was as big as I suspected it would be. When I reached the front door, I opened it and pressed all the buttons to the other flats.

“Get out!” I yelled. “Get out now! There’s going to be an-”

There was a muffled crump from the top floor. I ran back across the parking area, then out into the street. I could see fire in the penthouse. Then there were more explosions, more smoke and flame. The Devil had obviously rigged a whole series of charges. People appeared at the door, screaming and ushering children out. I retreated and ducked down behind a van. The smoke was roiling up into the night, caught in the floodlights. All the windows in the block had shattered. I hoped that no one had been hurt-no one apart from the innocent young woman that the bastard had butchered. Now I had yet another reason to hunt him down and exact vengeance.

I was sitting on the pavement, trying to stomach the fact that I really was turning into the Devil’s twin, when I heard a vehicle draw up. It was a large American pickup truck. I staggered over to it.

“Dave,” I gasped. “You made it.”

He eyed me up. “Christ, is that blood?” Then he looked up at the blaze. “Not much of a job,” he said. “I could have done a lot better.”

Maybe he would soon get the chance to show how lethal he really was.

D.C.I. Oaten was sitting in the Volvo outside the terraced house in Plender Road, Camden Town. They had just finished searching it and found nothing of significance. It was rented to a man who was an airline pilot. Although he was absent, there were several uniforms in a wardrobe.

“Where to now?” John Turner asked.

“Pavlou’s finally managed to get people to wake up south of the river. A place called the Royal Brewery near Tower Bridge is the nearest. Hardy’s people are on the last property we’ve got in the north. Some dump off Old Street. It doesn’t sound hopeful. Let’s get down to Bermondsey.” She drove off.

A few minutes later her mobile rang.

“Get that, will you, Taff?”

The inspector reached across, picked the phone gingerly from between her legs and answered it. He listened, his expression growing somber.

“Jesus Christ, Morry, didn’t anyone notice earlier? Yeah, all right, get over there and take their statements. Find out if there’s anywhere else she could be.”

“What is it?” Oaten asked, with more anxiety in her voice than she wanted.

“Amanda Plimpton, known as Mandy. Twenty-two-year-old receptionist at Matt Wells’s publishers, Sixth Sense. Her flatmate’s just reported her missing. Fortunately a smart desk sergeant in Hammersmith got on to Morry.”

“Shit,” the chief inspector said. “We didn’t have her protected, did we?”

The Welshman shook his head. “Matt Wells didn’t give us her name, guv.” He shook his head. “Christ, what more do you need to convince you? The guy’s got this all thought out.”

Oaten glanced at him, this time less fiercely than earlier. Before she could answer, her phone rang again.

“Yeah, Paul, what is it?” Turner said, and then listened. “What? Fucking hell. All right, we’ll be there soon.” He cut the connection and turned to his superior. “Guess what.”

“Just tell me, Taff,” she said resignedly.

“This Royal Brewery we’re headed to. Apparently the penthouse owned by Lawrence Montgomery blew up fifteen minutes ago. The neighbors got out when they were warned via their entry phones.”

“Warned? Who the hell by?” The chief inspector glanced at him, and then ran a red light on Moorgate. “What’s going on?”

“Our friend Wells is covering his tracks,” Turner said. “What’s the betting we find a charred female corpse inside?”

“You can stick those odds,” Oaten said. Her stomach was aching and her throat was dry. If she didn’t catch up soon with the White Devil, the New Ripper, Lawrence Montgomery, Leslie Dunn, Matt Wells, whatever his name was, her career would be his next victim.

There was no way she was going to allow that.

“Boney, where are you?” I shouted into my phone. I started the BMW as Dave flung the Chevrolet round the corner ahead of me. We were leaving what remained of the Royal Brewery behind as fast as we could. Before we parted, Dave had told me that his wife and kids still weren’t answering their phones.

“Coming up Tower Bridge Road. I’ll be with you in-”

“Change of plan, my friend. The Devil’s just blown up his own penthouse.”

“Jesus. Where are you guys?”

“Getting as far away as we can. The place will be swarming with firemen and cops. Did you find anything at that last property?”

“No. Bunch of students playing loud music.”

“Rental, obviously.”

“Yeah. So, do we head for the places Rog and Andy didn’t get to?”

“They still not answering their phones?”

Bonehead sighed. “Afraid not.”

It looked like the Devil or one of his accomplices had caught up with Lucy, and Dave’s family. He had everything to bargain with, we had nothing-that was, if he was serious about us meeting. The killer was obviously in the process of destroying all traces. The easiest thing for him to do now would be to dispose of his victims and activate his escape plan. I had no doubt that he had one of those worked out to the last detail.

“You there, Matt?”

“Sorry, Pete.” I looked out of the window. Dave and I were driving in convoy past the eastern end of Southwark Park. “All right, go back to your place. We’ll meet you there.”

I called Dave.

“The Devil wants me,” I said, trying to reassure him. “Ginny and the kids will be okay.”

“What about Lucy?” His voice was low and menacing, as it used to be during games when we were getting a pummeling. “What about you? Do you think I’m just going to let you walk into the fucker’s arms?”

I was touched by his concern, but I’d already put Rog and Andy in mortal danger, as well as his family. I wasn’t going to let Dave make any needless sacrifices.

We got back to the gated street in Blackheath and were admitted by the sour-faced guard. Pete arrived a few minutes later. As soon as he let us into the house, I headed for the study and booted up a computer. All I had to go on was the Devil’s last e-mail address. There was no guarantee he would be checking his messages-he was obviously very busy with his other activities-but it was the only chance I had.

I hammered out a message.

I just came from your penthouse. You want to meet me, so name the time and place. I’ll do whatever you want as long as you let my daughter and the others go. Anything. Please, answer.

I sent it, hoping the tone was suitably craven, and left the e-mail program online. Then I sat down with my two remaining friends. We talked about what we would do if the Devil got back to me, we tried to plan and we kitted ourselves out as best we could with what Peter had in the house.

Then we waited, unable to eat or rest.

Answer, I kept saying to myself. Answer, you crazy freak. I swore to myself that if the Devil had done anything to Lucy, to Sara, to Rog and Andy, to Ginny and the kids, to Caroline, I would have no mercy on him.

After half an hour there had been no reply. We decided to drive up to north London in the Jeep and check the properties that Andy and Rog hadn’t got to. Fortunately Boney had a state-of-the-art laptop with an Internet connection via his mobile phone.

As we headed toward the Blackwall Tunnel, I had the distinct feeling that we were going in the wrong direction.

I sincerely hoped I was mistaken.