The Death List mw-1

by Paul Johnson

  “Sara, my darling,” I said, taking her arms. Her scent filled my nostrils. It took me back to the first time I’d met her. She’d walked up in a wave of perfume and I’d fallen head over heels in love on the spot. That had never happened to me before. Even more amazingly, she told me she’d had the same experience the first time she laid eyes on me across the crowded room. I shook my head to dispel the memory. “I…there’s something I have to tell you.” My serious tone made her move her head back to study me. I’d had it with the bastard I’d let into my life. I was going to share the burden. “Well, it’s a bit weird. This morning I-”

  My mobile rang. I raised my hands at her and went to my jacket pocket.

  “Hello?”

  “Matt, you will remember not to tell anyone about today, won’t you?” The White Devil’s voice was calm, almost cheerful. It had a neutral tone, as if it weren’t really his-as if he was putting it on.

  How did he know I was about to tell Sara?

  “Matt, I know you’re there. Speak!”

  “Yes…I will remember that.” I tried to smile at Sara as she went past me into the bathroom. I waited till the door had closed. “You bastard. Are you bugging me?”

  There was a laugh that tailed off into a snarl. “What do you know about surveillance technology, Mr. Award-Winning Crime Novelist? As much as a sparrow can crap.” The line went dead.

  I sat down, my heart pounding. He was right. I didn’t have a clue about modern surveillance hardware. He could have been beaming a camera down from a satellite for all I knew. The bastard had even found out my mobile number, though I guessed that wouldn’t take either too much time or money. Shit. I was in this alone, after all. I couldn’t risk anything happening to Lucy.

  When Sara came out, I’d turned my computer off. I had my head in my hands.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, clutching me to her warm body. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “Just some tosser,” I mumbled. Understatement of the millennium. Suddenly I remembered how close Sara and I had become over the past nine months. I was at the stage where I trusted her with everything. She was my savior; she could make anything better.

  “Come to bed,” she said, tugging at me gently, her cheeks red-they were always like that when she was aroused.

  I followed her into the bedroom, the blood hot in my veins. But my head was filled with confused thoughts. Something was trying to make itself known.

  “Come on,” Sara said, tugging back the duvet. “I’ll make you feel-”

  The thought that had been nagging me burst to the surface.

  “No!” I said, lunging forward.

  “Well, well, Mr. Wells,” Sara said, her smile slowly disappearing. “What have you been up to?”

  She picked up the bundles of twenty-pound notes that I’d stuck under the covers when I brought Lucy round, and gave me a questioning stare.

  5

  After what seemed like an eternity, Mrs. O’Grady, seventy-three and deeply wrinkled, finished arranging her bucket and mop in the cupboard off the sacristy. “Will that be all for tonight, Father Prendegast?” she asked.

  “Yes, yes,” the priest replied impatiently, his head with its large bald patch bowed over the papers on the table.

  “Are you sure now?” Mrs. O’Grady had been doing the Wednesday night cleaning at St. Bartholomew’s, West Kilburn, for more than thirty years and she prided herself on the solicitude that she afforded the men of God. The previous fathers had appreciated her, but this one was different. Although he’d been there for nearly ten years, she hardly felt that she knew him at all. He paid her little attention. She didn’t like gossip, but she’d begun to believe what some of the other ladies said-that he’d come to their church under a cloud. There had been a scandal somewhere in the East End that was hushed up. She raised her head to the stained ceiling. Dear God, she thought, why can’t your representatives on earth keep their hands to themselves?

  Mrs. O’Grady took a step back when she realized Father Prendegast was glaring at her, as if he knew what was in her mind. She took her coat and hurried away, mumbling, “Good night to you, then.” She stopped when she got outside and shivered. It wasn’t cold-the last of the sun had spread in a red carpet over the western sky and its warmth was still in the air-but she felt a chill. There was something about that man, something she could almost smell. He was…he was dirty, a wrong ’un. She walked quickly down the gravel path, anxious to get back to her council flat and her little dog. She didn’t notice the figure that rose up from behind one of the larger gravestones and moved silently toward the door of the church.

  Norman Prendegast pushed his chair back and got up. At last the old cow had left him in peace. He selected a key from the ring on his belt and slotted it into the bottom drawer of an antique rolltop desk. He took the bottle of Jameson that one of the faithful had given him at Easter and broke the seal. The first few gulps did nothing, and then he began to feel the warmth rising from his belly. That was the stuff. He went back to the table and sat down again, setting the bottle on the accounts book he’d been trying to complete. He’d leave that chore to another night.

  After he’d taken another long pull from the bottle, the priest fell into a reverie. Fifteen years he’d been in exile from his flock in Bethnal Green; fifteen years he’d been banned from even visiting them in his time off. It wasn’t fair. He’d been everything a priest should be-unstinting in his efforts, a source of comfort to the faithful in times of loss and pain, a beacon of joy at weddings. His choir, his football and cricket teams, they’d won prizes. He swallowed again, but now the spirit tasted bitter as his grievances rose up around him like a demented chorus. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were only offering them friendship. The boys loved you. The boys wanted you to touch them.

  Father Prendegast heard a noise from the church. Mrs. O’Grady must have forgotten something. He stayed where he was. He didn’t like the way she looked at him. She knew, he was sure of it. The hypocrites, the old harpies. They all knew about him, but they pretended they didn’t. They pretended he was a normal priest rather than one who’d been given a last chance by the archbishop, and that only because the church couldn’t face the shame. Five years in an isolated retreat in County Kerry and then this run-down hole. It was only full when the sinners came at Christmas and Easter. No one bothered to confess anything other than venial sins these days, anyway. They thought that meant they could forget the truly bad things they’d done. Hypocrites. Whited sepulchers. At least he’d confessed, though it had been required of him. Confessed and asked forgiveness. His conscience was clean, even if his desires still tormented him.

  Norman Prendegast drank again. The bottle was still at his lips when the sacristy door opened, and then closed again.

  “Who’s that?” he demanded, his vision blurred. “Is it you, Mrs. O’Grady?”

  The key turned in the lock.

  “What’s going on?” the priest said, his voice wavering. He tried to get the bottle out of sight. “This is a private room.”

  “Calm down, Father,” said a low male voice. “I’ve just come for a little chat.” The figure drew closer. “About old times.”

  There was something familiar about the voice, although the words were free of any recognizable accent.

  “Who are you?” Father Prendegast asked, staring through the whisky-induced haze. “Do I know you?”

  “Oh, yes,” the man said. He was standing next to him now. “Don’t you remember me?”

  A gloved hand suddenly grabbed the priest’s chin and forced his face round.

  “Take a good look.”

  Prendegast blinked and tried to make out the features. The man was wearing a black cap, which he took off to reveal short blond hair. That meant nothing to him. But the features did. The small nose, the half smile on the pinched lips, but most of all the eyes-so brown that he could hardly distinguish between iris and pupil. Oh, sweet Jesus, was it really him, the one who’d brought him down
? After all these years?

  The intruder let go of his chin and laughed. “And my name is?”

  The priest licked his lips and reached for the bottle. It was knocked off the table in a swift movement, smashing on the flagstones. The smell rose up to taunt him.

  “What did you do that for?”

  The hand was on him again, this time tightening on his throat. “What’s my name, pederast?”

  “Les…Leslie Dunn.”

  The grip loosened.

  “Is the correct answer, Father. You win tonight’s star prize.” His attacker’s face was close to his. “Ask me what it is, you pig.”

  “Please, I’ll do anything…” He broke off as the pressure increased again. “Money…I’ve got…money.”

  “Is that right, Father Bugger of Boys?” There was another empty laugh. “Well, that’s the one thing I don’t need. Ask me what you’ve won.”

  “Ah…can’t…can’t breath…What…what have I won?”

  He was pushed down onto the chair. Before the priest could resist, thick rope was being passed around his arms and upper body.

  The face was up against his. He could smell mint on the breath of the altar boy he’d abused.

  “You’ve won a first-class ticket on the midnight express to hell.”

  The last thing Father Norman Prendegast saw was a shining silver knife moving to and fro in front of his eyes.

  The last thing he felt was a lancing agony from behind.

  Detective Chief Inspector Karen Oaten, promoted to the Metropolitan Police’s recently formed Violent Crimes Coordination Team in February, was standing in front of the altar of St. Bartholomew’s. She was in white coveralls and bootees, the SOCOs crawling around her like a pack of hounds.

  “Come on, Taff,” she said, looking over her shoulder.

  John Turner, wearing the same garb, came up the aisle slowly. His face was the same color as his protective suit. He had passed the inspector’s exams and moved with his boss.

  “I’ll let you off,” Oaten said in a low voice. “This is a bad one, right enough.” The assistant commissioner responsible for the VCCT had made sure they got the case rather than the local division, and she’d arrived at the church just after one a.m. Even she had taken a deep breath when she saw what was on the altar.

  The pathologist was still by the naked body. It was that of a flabby man in his fifties. He was lying on his chest over the altar, his legs and arms dangling down. A tall gold candlestick was on the ground, its top inserted between his buttocks.

  “Who called it in?” the chief inspector asked.

  “A Mrs. Brenda O’Grady,” Turner replied, looking at his notebook. “She lives in a tower block down the road. She was in here doing the cleaning earlier tonight. Before she went to bed, she saw that the lights were still on and came to check. That’s about all the sense I could get out of her. She saw the body.”

  “Does she know who it is?”

  “She reckons it’s the priest, Father Norman Prendegast, though she didn’t look at him for long.”

  Karen Oaten nodded. “I’m not surprised.” She turned to the front. “Let’s go and see what the medic’s got.” She gave Turner a tight smile. “If you can handle it.”

  He returned the smile slackly. “I can handle it, guv.” He owed Wild Oats plenty. She had insisted that he come with her to the Yard when she was singled out to join the new team. He still wasn’t sure why he was there. Maybe it was because he never questioned her authority. The other blokes in the Eastern Homicide Division had never come to terms with being told what to do by a woman.

  They picked their way past the SOCOs.

  “Anything interesting?” Oaten asked.

  One of the technicians, a bearded man, looked up and shrugged. “There are plenty of different fibers. It’s too early to say if they’ll give you any help. No bloody footprints or anything else obvious, I’m afraid.”

  They walked on up the steps to the altar. Other members of the team had already filmed and photographed the scene. The pathologist crouching down at the rear of the marble plinth was a short man with a protruding stomach whom they’d worked with before.

  “Dr. Redrose,” the chief inspector said. “What have you got for us?”

  “Cause of death, a single, nonserrated blade wound to the heart,” he said without looking up. “Delivered after the other wounds. I would hazard, none self-inflicted.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Provisionally, between nine and eleven p.m.”

  “And the rest?”

  “You know, Chief Inspector,” the pathologist said, “this is a first.”

  “In what way?”

  “In several ways. That’s why it’s so interesting.” Redrose got to his feet. “First of all, you’ve got the ornate candlestick in his rectal passage.” He inclined his head to the left. “If, as I suspect, that’s its twin, then around thirty centimeters of gold is up there.”

  Turner pursed his lips. “Painful.” Although he’d played rugby union until he left Wales ten years before, he still found the results of violence hard to take.

  The medic glanced at him. “Painful doesn’t even come close to describing what the poor devil went through.”

  “We think he was the priest,” Oaten said.

  “Ah. Sorry. The poor man of the cloth, then.” He bent down. “Next, there’s the eyes.” He lifted up the head. “Take a look at that.”

  Turner steeled himself and went closer.

  “Both removed with a sharp instrument,” Redrose said. “You see here? Optic nerves cleanly severed.”

  “Where are they?” Oaten asked.

  “Good question. They appear to have been taken as trophies, though you’ll have to wait for the autopsy for confirmation. They might have been rammed down the throat.”

  “I see what you mean about it being a first,” the chief inspector said. “I’ve seen bodies in churches before and I’ve seen mutilations, but not both together.”

  The pathologist stood up and gave them a triumphant grin. “I haven’t finished.” He lifted up the head again and pointed to the mouth.

  “What is it?” Turner asked. “I can’t see anything.”

  Karen Oaten leaned closer. “There’s something projecting from the teeth.” She raised a latex-covered finger. “See, Taff? It looks like a piece of paper in a clear plastic bag.”

  “Precisely,” confirmed the medic.

  “Can you get it out?” Oaten asked.

  “You’ll have to wait for the-”

  “Let me rephrase that.” She gave him a stony glare. “This is a particularly vicious murder. Time is of the essence if we’re going to catch the killer. Please remove that piece of evidence.”

  “Very well, Chief Inspector. On your head be it.” Redrose took a retractor from his bag and used it to open the dead man’s jaws. A neatly folded square of paper about three centimeters across in the small bag fell onto the palm of Karen Oaten’s hand. “Well caught, madam.”

  She ignored him, going over to the SOCO leader. “I need this opened and bagged,” she said.

  A few minutes later she and Turner were looking at an unfolded piece of white copy paper in a clear evidence bag. A line of words had been laser-printed on it.

  “‘What a mockery hath death made of thee,’” Oaten read aloud. She glanced at her sergeant. “What is that? The Bible?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Turner replied, raising his shoulders. “I skipped chapel every time I could.”

  “We’ll run it through the computer,” the chief inspector said. “All that stuff’s in digital form now.”

  “Sounds like someone really had it in for this Father Prendegast,” Turner said.

  Karen Oaten looked back at the mutilated body on the altar. “I think we already knew that, Taff,” she said, shaking her head at him slowly.

  “Yeah,” he said, feeling his face begin to glow, “I suppose we did.”

  The two heavily built men came over the ridg
e in the gloom, five meters between them. The last of the sun had disappeared into the clouds over the Atlantic and it was chilly on the moor-chilly enough for the hardiest walker to have headed back to the warmth of civilization hours ago. A damp wind was coming off the sea. Upland Devon was as unforgiving as ever.

  “Anything, Rommel?” the man on the left said in a low voice.

  “Fuck all, Geronimo,” his companion grunted, checking the luminous compass on his right wrist. “According to the coordinates you worked out, we should have found him by now.”

  The first man looked around stealthily. He was wearing muddy camouflage fatigues. “To hell with this,” he said, drawing his combat knife from the sheath on his belt. “I’m not having him do us again.” The honed blade glinted in the light of the full moon that was rising in the east.

  “Wolfe’s never been caught, Geronimo.” Rommel wiped moisture from his crew-cut hair. “Not by anyone.”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  “And it’s not tonight,” came a voice from behind them.

  The two men spun on their heels. Rommel’s arm was grabbed and the knife chopped from it in a practiced karate move. He was jerked round to face Geronimo, a blade at his throat.

  “Game over,” said the assailant with a dry laugh. He released his captive and pushed him forward. “Christ, guys, I could hear you coming a mile off.”

  “Bollocks,” Geronimo said, twisting his lips beneath a drooping mustache. “We took all the necessary precautions.” He shone a torch on the ground between them.

  Wolfe shrugged. “Okay, from five hundred meters, then.” He glanced down at his victim. “You all right?”

  Rommel nodded. “Take more than that to break any of my bones,” he said, glaring at the taller man.

  “Good. The Special Air Service is proud of you.” Wolfe slipped his knife back into its sheath. “Well, slightly.”

  “Can we get back to the Land Rover now?” Geronimo asked.

  Wolfe’s expression grew more serious. “You must be joking. We’re staying on the moor for another night. Don’t worry. It’s only a six-mile hike to the bivouac.”