The Death List

12

Karen Oaten stood on the viewing ramp overlooking the autopsy room. Beside her, John Turner was visibly struggling to keep his breakfast down. The pathologist and his assistants were working on the incomplete body of Evelyn Merton for the second time, at Oaten’s request.

“Doesn’t get any better, does it, Taff?” the chief inspector said, her face only slightly less pale than his.

“I can’t…I can’t believe that someone could do this to an old lady.”

Oaten nodded. “That’s not the worst of it. According to Redrose, the perpetrator showed considerable skill in amputating the arm. Which means he must have had practice.”

“A butcher?” Turner suggested.

“Certainly a possibility, but we’re not exactly narrowing down the field. There must be thousands of them in Greater London.”

“A surgeon?”

“Plenty of them, too.” She looked at the scene below. The former teacher’s corpse was no longer covered in blood as it had been the day before in the house in Chelmsford, but it was still hard to take. “Anyway, we’ll never find the killer by going through the professions. He could be a butcher, a cook, an ex-soldier, a farmer…We need to work the evidence. That’s why we’re down here.”

The inspector glanced at her. “What is it you think they didn’t find the first time round?”

“I want to know if there was sexual activity.”

Turner swallowed hard. “Jesus.”

Oaten nudged him with her elbow. “Bring me up to speed.”

“Right, guv.” The sergeant opened his notebook. “I put the people you got from D.C.I. Hardy’s unit on the street in Chelmsford, working with the locals. So far they haven’t found anyone who saw a suspicious individual in the vicinity yesterday. We’ve also started looking at the victim’s background. Not much to go on. She was a retired primary schoolteacher. No close friends or relatives. The neighbor says she used to live with her brother. He died in a gardening accident two years ago.”

“She worked in the East End, didn’t she?”

Turner nodded. “Bethnal Green. At a Catholic school.”

“Not far from where Father Prendegast, aka Father O’Connell, messed around with little boys.”

“The second quotation from that play makes it clear enough that it’s the same killer.”

Karen Oaten’s brow was furrowed. “Someone who was taught by Miss Merton and went to church at St. Peter’s. How are those lists of boys coming?”

“We’re getting there. Lewis and Allen are already checking alibis. Simmons and Pavlou are going to help them.”

“They’re also going to find out what kind of person the victim was, whether she was popular or not, aren’t they?”

“That’s what I told them.”

Oaten jerked her head away as the pathologist inserted an instrument between Evelyn Merton’s legs. “Thanks for doing that, Taff. I think they take it better from you. I’m not exactly their idea of a caring, sharing boss.”

Turner shrugged. “No problem, guv. They’re okay really, just a bit old-fashioned.”

“A bit out of line, to be precise,” she said. “But I’ve learned that diplomacy is sometimes the best way to play things.” She blinked as a loud voice came through the speaker set into the ceiling.

“Chief Inspector?” The pathologist was looking through the glass at her, speaking into a hanging microphone. “It’s very hard to be sure, but there are contusions in the vagina that may well not have been made when the message was inserted.”

Oaten leaned forward to the microphone in front of her and switched it on. “No semen?”

“Not that I can identify at this stage.” The medic’s voice was dry and mechanical. “As you can imagine, there are several fluids. We’ve taken swabs for analysis.”

Turner looked at the chief inspector. Her lips were pressed tightly together and her hands were gripping the wooden shelf beneath the window. “Guv? Are you all right?”

She turned to him slowly, her eyes widening. “No, Taff, I’m not fucking all right. Some bastard cut an old woman’s arm off, cut her throat and then maybe molested her.” She started walking out of the mortuary. “I’m going to get the scum who did this if it’s the last thing I do.” She glanced back at him. “And if I have the chance, I’m going to make him hurt.”

Turner caught up with her. “Careful, guv,” he said in a low voice. “You sound like you’re turning into one of those people in the play. A revenger.”

Karen Oaten kept her eyes off him. “Revenge is a powerful motive, Taff. That’s what’s driving our killer, I’m sure of it. If we want to catch him before he slaughters everyone who ever wronged him, we have to get inside his head. I’ll see you later.”

“Where are you going?” he called after her.

“I had an appointment with an expert in Jacobean tragedy yesterday, remember?” she said over her shoulder. “Had to postpone because of what happened in Chelmsford. But now, after the second quotation, it’s even more pressing.”

The chief inspector strode toward her car, trying to blink away the sight of the schoolteacher’s mutilated body. The man-she was sure it was a male-who killed her had left his calling card in the poor woman’s most private place. She’d sworn an oath back there in the morgue to catch him, and she felt the power of her words burning in her veins.

If she had to go to hell to catch this devil, she would gladly do so.

I finished the rewrite of my tormentor’s latest chapter and sent it off to him at four in the morning. That meant, at least in theory, that he might be delivering the next payment any time. I tried to sit up and watch the road below from a gap between the curtains, but it wasn’t long before I fell into a blood-dripping, demon-filled dream. When I awoke with a start, I saw it was daylight. Shit. I ran downstairs. There was no package on the mat. Panting with relief, I went slowly back upstairs to my flat.

I wanted to get the newspapers to find out the latest on the Chelmsford murder, but I couldn’t leave the house in case he showed up. I thought about it. Even if I did catch him, what did I think I was going to be able to do? Take on the man who had killed at least four people? With what? My Swiss Army knife? I realized I was trembling. I remembered the Devil’s taunts. I was a crime writer who was now deeply involved in real-life crime. He was right. I couldn’t cope. Then I thought of Lucy. I had to protect her. What would my life be worth if something happened to my beautiful little girl? And Sara? Could I live with her being hurt?

It was Saturday. By nine o’clock it was warm, the birds in the gardens between the houses making a colossal amount of noise. The usual arrangement was that Caroline had Lucy on Saturdays and I had her on Sundays. That suited me. I could wait for the Devil’s delivery. I logged on to my e-mail program. There was no message from him. What did that mean? Was he on his way here or was he tearing some other poor soul to pieces?

I dressed quickly, not taking a shower or shaving so that I could keep an eye on the road. The usual laid-back activities of a Saturday morning were going on-men wandering off to get the papers, with small children running around them; couples walking their dogs; families loading up people carriers for expeditions to the country. No one or nothing out of the ordinary. The postman came along the street with his buggy. I knew him. He dropped a couple of bills through the flap and continued on his way. Nothing else happened.

I unplugged my laptop and brought it over to the window, keeping the Internet connection attached. If I couldn’t go out to get the papers, I could at least check their Web sites. I wished I hadn’t. The details about the old woman’s murder, especially in the tabloids, were horrific. I went to the Daily Independent and found Sara’s story. She was co-credited with a colleague. Apparently there had been a late-night press conference at which Detective Chief Inspector Karen Oaten (“tight-lipped and barely controlling her outrage”) had described the modus operandi. But there had been no mention of the quotation from The White Devil. Either the bastard had lied about that, or the police were keeping it quiet. If the latter was the case, they might as well not have bothered. The tabloids were already linking the murders and splashing the words “serial” and “killer” about their copy liberally. At least no one had spotted the similarities to the murders in my novels. There hadn’t even been any e-mails to me from fans. So much for my presence in the public imagination.

I was stuffing a piece of stale bread into my mouth when my mobile rang.

“Mmm?” I answered.

“What kind of telephone manner is that, Matt?” It was the Devil. “Eating breakfast on the hoof is bad for your digestion.”

I got the mouthful down. “What do you want?”

“A bit of politeness would be nice,” he said, his voice hardening.

“You didn’t send me any notes this morning. I thought this was my day off.”

There was a hollow laugh. “Very likely. You’re busy looking out for me.”

How did he know that? He must have some kind of bug or camera in my place.

“Aren’t you?”

“Um, yeah, I am,” I said weakly. “Well, you did tell me you’d be bringing the money.”

“Yes, I did, didn’t I? But I didn’t tell you exactly when I’d be doing that, did I? Could be today, could be tomorrow. Who knows?” His tone got sharper. “If I were you, Matt, I’d keep a closer eye on your daughter than on the street. Who knows what dangers your ex-wife might inadvertently expose her to?”

The line went dead.

A wave of panic crashed over me. I grabbed my mobile, wallet and keys, pulled on my leather jacket and ran out of the house. Getting into the Volvo, I drove at speed down to Dulwich Village. I knew Caroline’s routine. She always took Lucy to the local cafe for breakfast. Then they went for a walk in the park before Lucy’s ballet class at midday. If I was lucky, they’d still be eating. I parked round the corner and walked toward the cafe.

Before I got there, I realized two things. The first was that the Devil had very successfully got me out of the house so he could make his delivery unnoticed. The second was that I was about to be engulfed in a firestorm. Caroline was very jealous of the time she spent with Lucy. She’d made it clear on numerous occasions that my presence, even accidental, was not to be tolerated. I stopped outside the newsagent’s and decided to keep my distance. I bought a copy of one of the broadsheets that I hadn’t checked on the Internet and opened it, loitering behind a lamppost twenty meters from the cafe.

Ten minutes later, Caroline and Lucy came out. My daughter was dressed in a pink anorak and skirt with white tights, while my ex-wife was wearing the torn jeans and baggy sweater that she affected at weekends-trying to look as unlike a City highflier as she could, as I’d pointed out before the divorce at the cost of a serious ear-bashing. They set off toward College Road. I followed them at what I thought was a discreet distance, the newspaper flapping in front of me like a sail buffeted by the breeze. When they turned into the park, I gave them a minute and then went in. I watched as Lucy ran ahead. She loved the boating lake and its birds. Caroline didn’t make any effort to keep up with her. She knew that Lucy was careful. But she didn’t know about the White Devil. I felt a pang of guilt. I should have found a way to tell her. Then I remembered how dangerous the bastard was.

Caroline sat down on a bench near the water and studied her paper. I moved along the line of bushes behind her with my eyes on Lucy. She was crouching down and throwing bread to the birds. The park was quite busy with couples, children, dogs, buggies. It didn’t seem like a place where the Devil could get to Lucy.

I looked to my left and watched a skinny man in his thirties limping past. His clothes were ragged and dirty, his hair unkempt. Probably a junkie who’d spent the night in the undergrowth. Turning back, I couldn’t see Lucy. Shit. Caroline was still reading her paper on the bench. I ran behind her, resisting the urge to shout my daughter’s name. The ducks and seagulls that had gathered around the bread she’d scattered made noises of outrage and flapped their wings as I went through them. Where was she?

I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

“Lucy!” I yelled. “Lucy, where are you?” I looked around frantically. Caroline had got up, alarm on her face. “Lucy, come to Daddy! Lucy!” I ran to the trees that were set back from the lake. A young couple with a Labrador were walking there. “Have you seen a little girl, pink anorak and skirt?” I demanded.

They stepped back at the fervor of my tone, and then looked at each other.

“Yes,” the woman said, raising an arm. “Over there.”

“Thanks,” I gasped.

“She was with a man, yeah?” the guy said.

“What?” I started to run in the direction the woman had indicated. “What did he look like?” I shouted over my shoulder. They both shrugged.

The last tree in the row was an ancient oak, its trunk thick and gnarled.

“Lucy!” I shouted desperately. “Lucy!”

“Matt!” Caroline screamed, about fifty yards to my rear. “Where is she?”

And then Lucy stepped out from behind the oak. I almost pissed myself as the tension left me. She was walking toward me, a baseball cap I’d never seen before on her head and a small leather bag in her right hand.

“Lucy!” So close to her, my voice was too loud. It scared her, tears springing up in her eyes. “Are you all right, darling?”

“Yes, Daddy, of course I’m all right,” she said in the painstaking tone she took when she thought she’d been unjustly accused.

“Where did you get that hat?” I asked, clutching her to me. It was red, with a cartoon character on the front. Jesus. It was the Tasmanian Devil, the cartoon one with the oversize jaws that arrived in a miniature whirlwind. The crazy bastard.

“This is for you, Daddy,” she said, wriggling out of my arms and handing me the black leather man’s handbag.

“What’s going on?” Caroline said, trying to catch her breath. “What are you doing here, Matt?”

I gave her a glare to shut her up. “Where did you get the hat and the bag, sweetie?”

“Mr. White gave them to me,” she said, no trace of fear in her voice or face.

“Mr. White?” my ex-wife said, staring at Lucy. “We don’t know any Mr. White.”

“Daddy does.” My daughter pointed to the bag. “Mr. White said I was to give Daddy the bag and I could keep the cap.”

I tried to get my pounding heart under control.

“Who is this Mr.-”

I held my hand up at Caroline. “What did Mr. White look like, Lucy?”

She laughed. “Silly daddy. Mr. White’s your friend. He said so. You must know what he looks like.”

I glanced at Caroline. Her face was suffused with crimson, a sure sign that anger was about to erupt. “Just tell me what he looked like,” I said, kneeling down in front of Lucy. “So I’m sure it’s the right person.”

My daughter gave me a curious look and then laughed again. “All right, silly daddy. Mr. White’s got long black hair.” She pouted. “And a mouse.”

“What?” Caroline and I said in unison.

“I said, he’s got a mouse.” Lucy burst out in peals of laughter. “Don’t you remember the story we used to read? About the boy who wouldn’t say ‘mustache’? So he said his daddy had a mouse under his nose.”

I stood up again, ignoring the tirade that Caroline had started. Long black hair and a mustache-it sounded like the kind of disguise you could buy in any joke shop. Still, I’d get Lucy to do a drawing of him tomorrow.

“Are you even listening to me, Matt?” my ex-wife said, pushing me in the chest. “What the hell’s going on? What’s in that bag?”

I looked down at the object in my hands. The money. It had to be the money. I couldn’t open it in front of Caroline and Lucy.

“Oh, it’s…it’s some CDs I lent the guy. I…I met him in the pub and we got talking. We both like Americana.” I felt my cheeks redden. I could tell that Caroline didn’t believe me, but she wasn’t prepared to make even more of a scene in front of Lucy.

“Yeah,” she said under her breath. “Like you have a friend called Mr. White. I suppose he’s a fan of that awful movie Reservoir Dogs like you.” She squatted down. “Lucy, you know you shouldn’t talk to people you don’t know, or take things from them.”

My daughter got tearful again. “But he knows Daddy,” she said, giving me a heartbreaking look. “He said so. And Daddy knows him.”

“It’s all right, sweetie,” I said, patting her head.

“What the hell are you doing down here, anyway, Matt?” Caroline said as she stood up. “You know the rules. Saturday is my day with Lucy.” Her eyes widened. “Were you following us?”

“No, of course not,” I said, glancing away. The couple I’d spoken to were watching us anxiously. I waved to show that things were okay, but they didn’t look convinced.

“You better not have been,” my ex-wife said, taking Lucy’s hand. “You don’t want that piece of rubbish, darling,” she added, flicking the cap onto the grass.

Lucy raised her head and put on the haughty look that she’d inherited from Caroline. I could tell that she wanted the Tasmanian Devil cap. I picked it up and watched them leave. I wasn’t planning on giving it back to her, though. I was planning on jamming it down the madman’s throat. I couldn’t believe he’d taken the risk of talking to Lucy. He must have seen how close I was.

If he’d wanted to ram home the message that I was totally powerless to resist him, he couldn’t have chosen a better way.

The three men were standing around Terry Smail. He was hanging upside down from a joist in an abandoned warehouse. His captors had all taken off their caps and sunglasses, revealing close-cropped hair and scarred faces.

“I don’t know,” jabbered their naked victim. “Aah! I didn’t know Jimmy well. I…I don’t know who he drank with.”

The man in charge shook his head. His lips were only a couple of inches from Terry’s inverted ear. “You know that isn’t true. Do you want us to take you down again?”

Smail squealed and jerked his head forward. The sight of the red patch that was his groin made him shake violently, but his wrists were behind his back and the movements did nothing but give him more pain from the chain round his ankles.

“What we did to you the last time was only the start,” Wolfe said, grabbing him by the shoulders. “After all, your wedding tackle’s still intact.”

Rommel and Geronimo laughed harshly.

“So far,” continued Wolfe. “Next time we won’t just be removing your pubes with this high-tech instrument.” He held up the rusty and blood-spattered painter’s scraper. “Sorry we couldn’t find anything cleaner.” His glance cut off the others’ guffaws. “It’s very simple, Terry.” His eyes, dark as coal, the pupils unnaturally black, met the hanging man’s. “Either you spill your guts or we spill them.” He paused, watching Smail’s mouth open and close. “Tell me who Jimmy Tanner drank with.”

“I…oh fuckin’ hell, it hurts. All right, all right, I’ll tell you. Just let me down.”

The team leader gave him another thirty seconds in the air, then nodded to his colleagues. The chain was loosened and the captive dumped unceremoniously on the rough floor.

“We’re listening, Terry,” Wolfe said. “Talk and we’ll let you go.”

Smail looked at him disbelievingly, and then sobbed as he took in the bloody mess of his ankles. The chain had almost cut through to the bones.

“Jimmy Tanner drank with…?”

“Oh, Christ, I can’t. They’ll kill me.”

“And we won’t?”

“All right, all right. Jimmy, he didn’t much drink with anyone. He got vicious when he’d had a skin-full and we’d seen what he could do. He broke Big Mikey’s arm like it was a stick.” Terry Smail glanced at the three men around him. “Oh, I get it. You’re like him. You’re SAS like he said he used to be, ain’t you?”

“Keep talking,” said the leader, raising the scraper.

The captive gulped. “It must’ve been about six months ago. These two blokes turned up at the Hereward. We all reckoned they was dodgy, but they got talking to Knives, the landlord. I reckon money changed hands. Anyway, Knives introduces them to Jimmy and soon they’re getting on like a house on fire. I heard…I heard they wanted Jimmy to show them things.” He looked at his captors again. “The kind of things you people do.”

“What were their names?”

“I dunno. Aah-ee!” Smail tried to swing away from the rusty blade that was being dragged down his chest. “Corky. That’s all I know. One of them was called Corky. I dunno nothing about the other one.”

“And they used to drink with Jimmy till when?”

“Till about six weeks ago. When he…when he stopped coming. What’s this all about? What’s happened to Jimmy?”

Wolfe shook his head. “That’s what you’re going to tell us, Terry.”

“I…I dunno.” Smail’s eyes moved around frantically. “Honest I don’t.”

Wolfe pulled the scraper back. “Describe the men.”

Terry let out a long sigh of relief. “Um, the one called Corky was nothing special. Not too tall. He had a crappy beard that had bits of food in it and he always wore a woolly hat.” He broke off and looked up at the men. “Like you guys. His nose looked like it’d been flattened by a brick and his eyes were all bloodshot. He was a pisshead, I reckon, even though he only ever drank mineral water.”

“And the man with no name?”

“He was smaller than me. He always wore a baseball cap, red, with some cartoon character on it. He had this shitty long hair, black, in kinda rat’s tails. Oh, yeah, and he had these weird teeth. Pointed. Looked like he was a fuckin’ vampire. That’s what we used to call him. Count Dracula.” He let out a string of feeble, cracked laughs, and then stopped when he saw the three men’s faces. “That’s all I know. Honest. Can I go now?”

Wolfe stood up and looked at his companions. “Oh, you can go all right.” He leaned over the naked man. “You can go on the express elevator to hell. But first you’re going to tell us what you’re holding back. Who is the man with the pointed teeth? We want to meet him very badly.” He tossed the scraper to Geronimo.

Terence Smail’s screams echoed round the empty building. The seagulls outside took up a keening chant that obscured his travails from every passerby.