The Death List

2

I sat in front of the screen again and scrolled down.

So, Matt, I read. Now you know I’m serious about my business proposition. In case you’re wondering, there are no counterfeit notes. Pick any one out and ask your bank to check it if you want. No, it’s hardly worth the trouble, is it? Before I go into the details of what I want from you, I’d like to blind you with science. Or, more particularly, blind you with what I know about you. It’s always good to do your research on a potential partner, don’t you think?

“Is that right?” I said under my breath. “And how am I supposed to do research on you, WD?” Or rather, WD1612. There was something about the combination of letters and numbers that rang a bell deep in my memory. My correspondent’s earlier addresses had seemed to be the random numbers assigned by e-mail servers, only the letters seemingly having significance. WD1612. What the hell did it mean?

Your full name, continued the message, is Matthew John Wells. You were born on March 13, 1967, making you thirty-eight years old. Place of birth-London Hospital, Whitechapel. Height, six foot one; weight, thirteen stone six pounds; hair, dark, no sign of gray yet. Eyes, brown. Great author photo, by the way. Brooding, intense. That must have had the ladies falling over themselves to get their hands on you.

Yeah, right. I was still puzzled how WD had got past my nom de plume.

But, in fact, it’s a bit more complicated than that, isn’t it, Matt?

I felt a stir of disquiet.

Because you were adopted, weren’t you?

My parents had told me so when I was Lucy’s age. They’d always been straight with me and I’d never had the desire to go chasing after my birth parents, even though I was aware of a void in my life.

Don’t worry, WD1612 continued. There’s nothing to be ashamed about. Even though your real mother was a Cockney slapper called Mary Price. Good name for one of her kind! Except, I think her price was never more than a few port and lemons.

There was a gap of several lines. I let go of my cableless mouse and leaned back. Normally I could make out patterns in the cracks on the ceiling, rivers winding and splitting like the Amazon or the Nile. But now I couldn’t see anything. My vision was dulled. Was the bastard telling the truth? What right did he have digging into my past? I blinked and ran my sleeve across my eyes. I was about to click on the reply button and terminate the exchange when I saw the next line after the gap.

KEEP READING, MATT! I realize you’re pissed off with me now. You didn’t know, did you? You didn’t want to know. I just want you to understand that I do. I know everything about you. Your other mother, so to speak, is Frances, known as Fran, age sixty-three, address 24 Collingwood Grove, Muswell Hill. Profession-children’s author. Surely she could give you some hints about how to get back into the publishing business. She still produces a book a year. The last one was Milly’s Excellent Adventure, wasn’t it? DO NOT STOP READING, MATT! I’ve got much more to tell you.

My heart was pounding. He knew where my mother…my adoptive mother lived. And the tone had changed. This was no longer a besotted fan; this was someone who was able to manipulate. I glanced down at the wads of money in my lap and pushed them to the floor.

Good, you’re still with me! What else have I got for you? Father-not your real one, of course, even I couldn’t find that out; I don’t suppose your birth mother knew herself-father, Paul Jeremy Wells, born September 2, 1932, first secretary at the Department of Transport.

I felt my eyes dampen again.

Killed in a hit-and-run incident in Fortis Green, July 8, 2004. The driver who ran him down was never found. Would you like me to try to find him or her, Matt? My powers of research are formidable, as you can see. Just let me know. You attended Tumblegreen Primary School and Fortis Park Comprehensive. Your parents were-Fran still is-in the Labor Party, the old-style Labor Party, so no hoity-toity private education for you. But you were a good student, you got yourself two As and a D (what happened in that Modern History A level, Matt?) and went off to University College, Durham, to study English. You were on the rugby team there, not the union game that the toffs play, but league, the sport of the northern working man. Bravo, comrade. You were a fast and slippery winger who scored a lot of tries. But you let your studies slide, getting yourself covered in mud most afternoons and pissed most nights, so you ended up with a pretty average two-one. Were Paul and Fran impressed?

The bastard had left another space in his text, no doubt because he guessed that I was smarting. WD1612 was really sticking it to me, the pretence of worship completely abandoned. Maybe he thought that the five grand bought him mocking rights. He’d soon find out otherwise.

No, they weren’t, were they? And Paul was even less pleased when you went off to Cardiff to do a journalism course and got yourself on the staff of Melody Maker before it went down the toilet. Still, I suppose he must have been proud of you when The Italian Tragedy was published. And when it won that award. What was it? The Lord Peter Wimsey Cocktail Glass? Handy.

I looked up at the red display case on the bookshelf above my desk. The tacky piece of engraved glass stood there as a symbol of my pathetic career. I should have smashed it years ago.

Still, I read, Paul and Fran must have been pleased when you and Caroline got married. Caroline Anna-belle Zerb (crazy name…), born Bristol, December 27,1969. Studied economics at Durham and the LSE. City highflier. How on earth did you two get together? Were you her bit of rugby-playing rough?

I clenched my fists. He was getting very close to the bone. Caroline had been a bit naive about life when I first met her on the train to an Emmylou Harris gig in Newcastle. I’d always had a suspicion that she was initially attracted to me because I was well known in the university for my on- and off-field antics.

After that, WD continued, you moved to Maximum, didn’t you? “The Mag for Lads who Live for Sex, Sport and Rock ’n’ Roll.” That must have gone down really well with Caroline’s friends in the City.

Jesus, this was getting well beyond a joke. How much more had WD1612 dug up? He knew about Caroline as well as me.

Anyway, Matt, I won’t bore you with too much about yourself. Just to add that your favorite musicians are The Clash, Richmond Fontaine, The Who, Joni Mitchell, King Crimson and the Drive By Truckers. Nothing if not Catholic, at least in your music tastes if not your religion. (Why do you boast of being an atheist on your Web site? Are you so sure that powers beyond mankind do not exist? Better to be an agnostic, my friend.)

Better to be a smart-arse, you shithead, I said to myself. He could have worked out my favorite music from my reviews-he didn’t need to have seen my CD collection.

And you’re a devotee of film noir and crime movies in general, particularly Hitchcock. Good choice, Matt! The dirty old fat man is one of my top five directors, too. When you’re not reading the competition (who, let’s face it, are doing a lot better than you), you’re down at the South London Bison clubhouse getting shitfaced with your former teammates. The South London Bison. Record in your last season-played 21, won 2, drawn 1, lost 18. Not much better this year, are they? Still, win or lose, the mud tastes the same, I guess.

“Like it will when I fill your mouth with it,” I muttered. “If you’re dumb enough to want to meet up.”

Last, but very much not least, you’re the doting father of Lucy Emilia Wells, born King’s College Hospital, Denmark Hill, January 18, 1997, currently attending Form 3M at Dulwich Village Primary School, home address 48C Ferndene Road.

Now there was a mist obscuring my vision. A sour taste had shot up my throat and my fingernails were cutting into the fabric of my jeans. The bastard knew about Lucy. What did he want with me?

Oh, I almost forgot, the message continued. For the past three months you’ve been going out with Sara Margaret Robbins, born London, August 22, 1971, reporter on the Daily Independent. Good-looking woman, Matt. God knows what she sees in-

Right, that was enough. I moved the mouse, intending to log off the e-mail program. Then I saw the pile of banknotes on the floor. WD1612 had shown me that he knew how to get at me and my loved ones, but he’d also given me five grand. It wasn’t as if I had anything more pressing to do.

So I kept reading.-you. Let’s get down to it, Matt. What do I want for my five thousand? Well, first of all, I need an act of good faith. Don’t worry, it’s nothing too difficult. But it does concern your daughter, Lucy.

He had my full attention.

To be more specific, it concerns her bedroom. You need to get round there and clean up. Someone’s made a terrible mess. And, Matt? There’s just one ground rule. Don’t tell anyone about this. Not your ex-wife, not your girlfriend, not your mother, not any of your mates from the rugby club, and certainly not the police. I’ll be watching. You’ll never know when and where, but I’ll be watching. And I’ll be listening. So take the money and do what I say or the people dear to you will feel serious pain. I’ll be in touch again soon and I’ll be wanting an answer from you. Make sure I don’t lose my patience. Now go!

I was out of the house like an Olympic sprinter on the latest dope.

It couldn’t have taken me more than three minutes to get to the house in Ferndene Road. It had been half mine until Caroline bought me out last year-I put the money in a trust fund for Lucy-and I didn’t like going back when my daughter wasn’t there. Caroline didn’t like it, either. She only allowed me a key because I needed to lock up after I picked up Lucy in the mornings and to get back in after school. I glanced at my watch as I ran. It was coming up to eleven. What was this mess WD1612 had mentioned? At least I had four hours until I went to pick Lucy up. But how long would my correspondent wait for an answer?

I slowed down as I approached the house, my knee suddenly starting to complain. It didn’t take much these days. I’d been neglecting my fitness in general. The small front garden was full of bushes and trees that I’d planted, pink and white blossom in their full spring glory. I looked down at the paving stones as I went up the path. There was no sign of any strange footprints. The paint on the door was untouched and there were no scratches around the keyhole. Was this some kind of idiotic hoax?

I turned the key in both locks and opened the door slowly. The only sound was the hum of the fridge. Caroline’s mail was strewn across the hall carpet. I left it where it was and went up the stairs slowly, turning my head from side to side. I couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. Lucy’s bedroom door was closed. That made my pulse rate soar. I knew for sure that I’d left it open that morning as I chased her downstairs to get her coat. I approached it cautiously, wishing I’d picked up a walking stick or even an umbrella from the front hall. After taking a deep breath, I turned the handle and pushed the pastel yellow panels back.

The stench that flooded my nostrils made me gag.

“What the fuck?” I heard myself say over and over again. “What the fuck?”

The first thing I saw was a large sheet of heavy-duty plastic. It had been laid over Lucy’s bed and the floor in front of it. Then my eyes focused on what was lying on the bed, the source of the horrendous smell. Jesus Christ, could Lucy have been taken from school and brought back here?

But I quickly realized that the object wasn’t human. I went closer, a handkerchief over my nose and mouth. Bending over the splayed creature, I made out yellow hair matted with blood and a canine snout. The teeth below it were bared in agony.

It was the neighbors’ golden retriever, lying spread-eagled. Her name was Happy and she was what Lucy described as “a teenage dog,” being not fully grown. She had been skillfully cut open, her rib cage cracked and her front paws stretched wide in what looked like a travesty of the crucifixion.

I got the message.

Lucy loved playing with Happy.

No one was safe.

It took me less time than I’d initially thought to clean up. There were only a few spots of blood on the pink rug and I managed to make them disappear. I went over to the window and looked out over the back gardens. The neighbors, Jack and Shami Rooney, were childless insurance executives. On decent days like today, Happy was left in the garden, where she had a kennel. I banished speculation about how the killing had been carried out and concentrated on getting the carcass out of Lucy’s bedroom. It never occurred to me to disobey the command. Lucy would have screamed for days if she saw what had been done to the dog she loved.

I found a roll of large black bin bags in the kitchen. I was about to lean over the dog when I realized that my clothes would get covered in blood and other matter. There was nothing else for it. I stripped and, breathing through my mouth, managed to wrestle the body into a bag. At least rigor mortis hadn’t yet set in. I wrapped it as securely as I could, putting the bloody plastic sheet in another bag and lashing the whole thing together with string.

Then it struck me. How was I going to get rid of Happy?

I washed myself clean in the shower and put my clothes back on. Then I went back downstairs and let myself out. There were some people in Ruskin Park, but none near enough to register me. I checked the street in both directions and headed home. The seven-year-old red Volvo station wagon that I’d inherited from my father was parked outside my place. I drove it back to Caroline’s and opened the tail hatch. Waiting until an elderly couple with a Pekinese had passed, I raced upstairs and brought the bundle down. It was heavier than I’d expected, but it fit in the rear compartment easily enough. I closed and locked the car, then went back to check Lucy’s room. I couldn’t see any sign of what had been on her bed. My stomach flipped when I thought that my daughter was going to have to sleep there tonight, but I had other priorities right now. I went down to the basement and found a spade.

Now what? How do you dispose of a dead dog in central London in broad daylight? I drove swiftly away, heading for Crystal Palace. I knew there was a public dump somewhere, but I decided against using that. There was too much risk that I’d be spotted or that Happy would be found. In the end, I drove out to Farnborough and took it into the woods behind a bridle path. Since it was a weekday morning, there was no one about. I dug a shallow grave, deposited the wretched animal in it and covered the hole as best I could.

I got back to my flat at two o’clock. The computer’s screen saver was on, showing a collage of my book jackets that I’d been meaning to get rid of for weeks. I logged back on to my e-mail server and found a message from W1612D, this time via Google. The bastard was moving around the Internet like a ghost.

Matt, it said. I am impressed! Farnborough, of all places. I won’t tell anyone. Here’s the serious bit. Make sure you don’t, either. Or Lucy will end up in a similar state. Or perhaps your mother. Or Sara. Or Caroline. Or anyone else you know. Do you accept my proposition, Matt?

I hit Reply and typed, What proposition?

The answer chime came quickly. I hardly think you’re in a position to quibble, my friend. Besides, you’ve taken my money. Are you going to cooperate or do you want more innocent blood to be spilled?

I thought about it, but not for long. The fact was, I was shit scared about Lucy. But there was more to it than that. I’d been making up crime stories for years, and now the actual thing had literally landed on my doorstep. I couldn’t resist responding to the lunatic who’d cut up Happy. Like every crime writer, I fancied trying my hand at real-life detective work. I reckoned I could do it better than the clods in Scotland Yard-no way was I telling them about my hotline to the sadistic bastard. It didn’t occur to me that I was walking through the gates of the underworld.

Okay, I typed. But I don’t want your filthy money.

Another chime. That’s the deal, Matt. The money’s yours. Don’t make me angry.

I hit Reply again. Who are you?

Come on, Matt. I’ve already told you. Bye for now.

He’d already told me? WD? What the hell did WD mean?

Then, with a surge of apprehension, it came to me.