The Death List mw-1

by Paul Johnson

  Turner shrugged. “We’ve got the pair of them on film, anyway. Not that the hard copies we’ve printed off are much use, considering the men are obviously in disguise.”

  Oaten looked at the file on her desk. “The other guy’s about the same size as the one in the suit. Maybe they’re brothers.”

  “In arms?”

  “Ha-ha. The question is, which one’s the killer? Or do they both get involved?” She grimaced as she swallowed coffee from a plastic cup. “The overalls worn by the bearded one could belong to any workman in the city.” Oaten turned a page. “The postmortem confirmed what the doc told us at the scene. And the SOCOs didn’t come up with much.”

  “The two men must have had a change of clothes in their bags. They’d have been spattered with blood. The trail stops in the reception area. They obviously changed there.”

  Karen Oaten was shaking her head. “No fingerprints, no suggestive fibers or other physical evidence. Just like the other scenes.” She glanced across at him. “They’re certainly careful.”

  “And they’re working to a plan,” Turner added.

  “We’re taking the motive as revenge since the lines from the play push us in that direction. But we’ve got three long lists of names to collate and investigate-from the church records, the school rolls and, now, from Dr. Keane’s patient register when he was in Bethnal Green.”

  “The team will start pulling in people today, including the ones we’ve already spoken to. They know that anyone whose alibis for the three killings don’t check or who are suspicious in any other way are to be held for us to question.” Turner’s voice was downbeat. “These people are smart, guv. They aren’t going to have left anything obvious.”

  Oaten nodded. “But we have to check it all, don’t we?”

  “What about the writer?” the inspector asked, inclining his head toward the piles of novels on his boss’s desk. “He could be involved, couldn’t he?”

  “I doubt it. He spends his days at a computer making murders up, not committing them. But there are too many coincidences with the MOs to ignore him.” She gave her subordinate a tight smile. “And we don’t like coincidences in our business, do we?”

  Turner was stroking his unshaven cheek. “No, we don’t. What are you going to do about him, guv?”

  Oaten started tapping on her keyboard. “The problem is, Matt Stone is a pseudonym. I’ve been on his Web site, but I can’t get the agent and publisher on the contacts page to answer the phone to find out his real name. No one in that industry answers the phone out of office hours, apparently. So I’m going to send him an e-mail asking him to get in touch.”

  Turner raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit risky, isn’t it? If he is involved, he’ll scarper.”

  “Yes, he will,” the chief inspector replied. “Then we’ll know.” She looked round at him. “The most likely result is that he doesn’t answer. He’ll probably be away for the weekend. People like him usually are.” She finished typing. “There it goes, anyway.”

  John Turner stood up. “Guv?”

  “Christ, Taff, you look like even more of a streak of misery than you usually do.”

  “Yeah, well, lack of sleep, you know. Look, as you pointed out to the team, the time between the murders is getting shorter. There’s going to be another one soon.”

  Oaten nodded slowly. “I reckon there is.”

  “But we haven’t got a clue who the victim will be.”

  “No.”

  Turner closed his notebook with a snap. “Don’t you ever get frustrated by this job?”

  Karen Oaten straightened her back. “Of course I do. That’s why I swore to myself that I’m going to catch this animal-or animals, plural, as they now are.” Her chin jutted forward. “You’ve got to stay hungry, Taff. Otherwise the beasts in the jungle out there will rip you to shreds.”

  The inspector headed out. Not for the first time, his boss’s determination made him worry more about the effect it might have on her than on the people she was hunting.

  I spent the day with Lucy. It wasn’t a great success. I was tired and she was fretting about Happy-there had been shouting and crying from the neighbors’ the previous night. The dog’s name had been heard frequently. So much had happened that I’d almost forgotten the Devil’s first demonstration of his power. I had a couple of flashes of the horrible scene on my daughter’s bed and felt like a total scumbag for having got her involved. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t have left Happy’s carcass where it was.

  Maybe taking Lucy to the South Bank didn’t help. There was a showing of Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday at the National Film Theatre and I thought she’d like Jacques Tati’s crazy behavior. She laughed a few times, but was generally subdued. Maybe she didn’t like the fact that it was a black-and-white movie. Afterward we just stood on Waterloo Bridge and watched the water flow by.

  I went straight to Sara’s after I’d dropped Lucy off back home. She was just in, having been at the newspaper. We kissed and I instantly felt better.

  “How are you doing?” I asked when we’d settled on her sofa with a bottle of cava.

  “Not great,” she said. “I thought I was going to be able to sleep late this morning, but I got sent off to a church in Potter’s Bar. The priest declared he was gay during the week and there were all these demonstrators with placards saying Gay Clergy Get Lost and No Buggers in Church. Can you believe it?”

  “Not as bad as your lot,” I said. “The pope thinks homosexuality’s abhorrent, doesn’t he? How many millions in compensation have been paid out to the victims of abuse by priests?”

  “Whoa, Matt,” she said, her eyes bulging. They were bloodshot and there were dark rings around them. “I may be a lapsed Catholic, but I’m still a member of the church. You should respect that.”

  “Sorry,” I said, my face reddening. “I was only messing around.”

  “Yes,” she said, gulping wine. “That’s your problem, isn’t it? You spend your life making up stories and living in your little protected pocket in Herne Hill. Some of us have to deal with the real world.” She emptied her glass.

  I refilled it and gradually the atmosphere lightened.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” she said. “You’ll have to cut me some slack. I’ve been having a hard time at work recently.”

  “The murders?” I said, putting my arm round her.

  She nodded, but didn’t reply. I managed to get her talking by telling her about Monsieur Hulot’s idiocies-we’d seen Traffic a few months back. But her heart wasn’t in it and, after a quick meal, she went off to bed. I kissed her good-night, but I knew there was no point in joining her. Her body language made it clear that making love was off the menu. Sometimes she was hard to get to, and I’d learned to leave her be on those occasions. She always came round eventually. At the beginning of our relationship, I had been needy. My father had just been killed and she’d helped me through that. Lately it had begun to seem like she was the vulnerable one. It was just as well I hadn’t told her about the White Devil.

  I spent the rest of the evening reading the Sunday papers and listening to the only band Sara had any time for-the Grateful Dead. I didn’t find out anything about the murder of Dr. Keane that the Devil hadn’t already told me. It seemed that my suspicions about there being a security camera at the scene had been right. Two men were being sought, one with the long hair and mustache that sounded very like the man Lucy had seen in the park, and another with a beard. At least I now had confirmation of my suspicion that the Devil had at least one accomplice. Eventually I turned off the stereo and went to the bedroom, but I didn’t get undressed. The expression on Sara’s sleeping face was tranquil. She’d obviously conquered her demons, so I decided not to disturb her.

  I went out of the house quietly and drove back to my flat, reflecting on how far off the mark Sara was. The “protected pocket” she thought I lived in had been infiltrated by a savage killer, who was doing his best to incriminate me. If I wasn’t careful, she
’d be in as much danger from him as Lucy, my mother and even Caroline were.

  That thought chilled me to the bones.

  17

  It was nearly three in the morning. The Hereward in Greenwich, lock-in long over, was chained up and deserted when the Orion came round the corner, Geronimo at the wheel. It took only a few seconds to deliver Terry Smail back to his local. The team took pursuit precautions after they left, but it was soon clear that no one was on their tail.

  Sitting in the front passenger seat, Wolfe allowed himself to relax a fraction. They had obtained more than he’d expected from the fourth-division lowlife. It seemed that the man named Corky wasn’t the main player-the one with the pointed teeth was in charge. Smail came out with that when Rommel had taken a screwdriver to his kneecaps. Apparently, one time the slimebag had tried to ingratiate himself with Jimmy Tanner and his new friends, only to be told in a seriously menacing way by the nameless man to leave them alone. It seemed hard to believe that the old soldier could have been taken by a pair of wide-boys, no matter how good they were, but the drink had really got to him-he’d hardly recognized Wolfe the last time they met, even though they’d served together in the SAS for more than five years.

  Smail had kept the best till last. Wolfe knew that would be the way. That was why they had moved on to their captive’s groin after damaging his knees beyond repair. Just before he passed out, Terry revealed where the bearded man called Corky lived. By squeezing him they’d find Count Dracula and they’d put a stake through his black heart-after they’d heard him tell them what had happened to Jimmy.

  They were on their way to Forest Hill now.

  I wasn’t in the mood for any more of the White Devil’s games when I got back from Sara’s, so I didn’t check my e-mails. If the bastard wanted me badly enough, he’d call me up when he saw that I’d returned. As it turned out, I was allowed a break. Although it took some time to come, I eventually dropped into a deep and surprisingly untroubled sleep.

  Next morning I walked Lucy to school as usual. She was still subdued. Apparently the neighbors had been shouting at each other again. I tried to comfort her, but I was aware that I wasn’t doing a very good job.

  When I got back, I made coffee and ate a couple of pieces of toast. Then, reluctantly, I booted up my reserve laptop. First I checked the main newspaper sites. There was plenty of speculation about the doctor’s murder, all the correspondents being positive that a serial killer one tabloid had dubbed “the New Ripper” had struck again, even though this time he hadn’t been on his own. At least they’d got that much right. The rest of their reporting had about as much substance as the worst scenes in my novels.

  I logged on to my e-mail program. To my surprise, there was no message from the Devil. To my dismay, there was one via my Web site from k. oaten@met. police. uk. That was all I needed. I leaned back in my chair and worked out my choices. I could get in touch with the sternly attractive female D.C.I. I’d seen on the TV-either telling her everything I knew or dissembling as best I could; or I could keep my head down. She obviously didn’t know my real name, but it wouldn’t be long till she discovered it. All she had to do was contact my ex-editor or agent. I could get out of London, but then I’d be leaving Lucy and the others at the mercy of the Devil. I could hardly gather together my daughter, Sara, my mother, Caroline and all of my friends and their families, and spirit them away. No, there was nothing else for it. I had to talk to Karen Oaten in order to get her off my case-but I couldn’t tell her anything about my tormentor. Did I have it in me to lie to a senior police officer? I would soon find out.

  I picked up the phone and dialed the mobile number given in her e-mail.

  “Oaten,” she answered crisply.

  “Um, hello, my name’s Matt Wells. You sent me a message.”

  “Matt Wells?” She sounded puzzled.

  I was pleased that I’d put her on the back foot. “Also known as Matt Stone.”

  “Oh, yes. Thanks very much for getting in touch, Mr. Stone…Mr. Wells. I’d very much like to talk to you.” Her tone had turned insistent.

  “You mean now?”

  “If that’s all right. We can come to you.”

  “Hold on a minute.” I looked around the flat. It was in a mess, but that wasn’t what was bothering me. The Devil was probably watching and listening. If I volunteered to meet the policewoman elsewhere, he might think that I was spilling my guts about him. I couldn’t risk that. “Sure, all right.” I gave her the address. She said she’d be round in under half an hour and hung up.

  I spent the time saving to diskette and then deleting the last messages to and from the Devil. I didn’t imagine she’d be turning up with a warrant to search the place. If she did, I was stuffed-unless I got rid of the laptop, which would immediately raise her suspicions as I’d obviously read her e-mail. No, I’d have to brazen things out. I tried to think myself into the minds of my two fictional investigators. How would Sir Tertius and Zog have prepared for an interrogation? With total lack of concern in the former case and deep foreboding in the latter. Neither was much help to me.

  When the bell rang, I made myself walk downstairs at a leisurely pace. The woman I opened the door to was accompanied by a burly man in a crumpled blue suit. She was tall and well proportioned, with the look of an ex-athlete who’d kept in shape. Her blond hair was pulled back, emphasizing features that were more striking in real life than on TV.

  “Mr. Wells?” she asked. “I suppose I should use your real name.”

  I nodded. “Hello.” I gave her what I hoped wasn’t too expansive a smile. “And I suppose I should see some ID.”

  She opened her wallet to display her warrant card, her colleague doing the same.

  “This is Detective Inspector Turner,” Oaten said. “We won’t take up much of your time.”

  I led them upstairs, my heart racing. These people clearly knew what they were about. I felt like a total amateur, despite my theoretical knowledge of police procedure.

  “Not working?” the chief inspector asked, glancing at the dark screen of my laptop.

  “Thinking,” I said, tapping my head. “Unfortunately, writers never get even a minute off.”

  They both looked at me dubiously.

  I ushered them to the sofa. “Coffee? Tea?”

  “No, thanks,” Oaten replied. “We’re rather busy, as you’ll no doubt appreciate.”

  “How do you mean?” I said, playing dumb.

  “Mr. Wells, I imagine you’re aware of the recent murders in and around London,” the chief inspector said. Her colleague took out a notebook and pen.

  “I’ve seen the news,” I replied, raising my shoulders. I had to be careful here.

  The Devil had told me plenty of details that hadn’t been made public.

  Oaten leaned forward, long fingers splayed on the black fabric of her trousers. “Mr. Wells, has it struck you that there are certain similarities with certain murders in your novels?”

  I kept my eyes on her. “I had begun to wonder. Though the reports haven’t gone into enough detail for me to take the links too seriously.” I hoped I was playing the scene with sufficient cool.

  The chief inspector pursed her lips. “What if I were to tell you that the murders of Father Norman Prendegast, Miss Evelyn Merton and Dr. Bernard Keane were almost exact replicas of those in three of your books?” She turned to her colleague and he read out the titles and page references.

  I felt their eyes on me, cold and unwavering. My lower jaw dropped in what I wanted to look like astonishment. “What?” I said weakly. “You can’t be serious.”

  Oaten stood up and took a position in front of me, one leg in front of the other like a boxer preparing to fight. “We’re serious, all right, Mr. Wells. I need to know where you were on the following dates and times.” She raised her hand and the man, who had also got to his feet, read from his notebook.

  I tried to look intimidated-which wasn’t difficult-and opened my diary. “Um, on the fir
st, I was here. With my girlfriend. Last Friday I was here, working. On Saturday afternoon I was here.” My stomach was in turmoil. “Both times, on my own.” I stared up at them.

  “Did you know any of the victims?” the inspector asked. He had a Welsh accent.

  “Of course not.”

  Karen Oaten was still standing over me. “Mr. Wells, you’re familiar with a seventeenth-century play called The White Devil.” It was a statement rather than a question.

  “Yes, I am. I studied English literature at university.”

  “And you used the dramatist John Webster as a minor character in your novel The Devil Murder.” The chief inspector glanced at her colleague and they sat down again.

  “You’ve read my books?” I said, unable to conceal the novelist’s pleasure at finding readers even in a nightmare situation like this one.

  “As much of them as I had to,” Oaten replied with a grimace. “This is strictly confidential. The killer left a quotation from The White Devil in each victim.”

  “In each victim?” I said, sounding horrified.

  She nodded. “I’ll spare you the details. Why do you think he-or she-would do such a thing?”

  I remembered that the Devil may have been watching and listening. “I…I really don’t know.”

  “Come on, you can do better than that,” the Welshman said, glaring at me.

  “Well, if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it was something to do with revenge. That’s one of the main features of Jacobean tragedy.”

  “So I understand,” Oaten said. “I’ve been talking to Dr. Lizzie Everhead. You know her, I believe.”

  I stifled a groan. Lizzie Everhead was the academic who had laid into me in public. She’d accused me of everything from historical inaccuracy to callous brutality.

  “Yes,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. “I’ve bumped into her at crime-writing conferences.”

  “And,” continued the chief inspector, “since you knew none of the victims, you would have no motive for revenging yourself on them.”