The Death List mw-1

by Paul Johnson

  I felt a shiver run up my spine. “He might just be the Devil himself.”

  We drove off into the evening’s deepening shades.

  The three men in the aged Orion were all looking to the front, the passengers’ eyes fixed on the figure weaving in and out of the traffic ahead.

  “Pity we haven’t got a bike like that,” the driver said.

  “I didn’t hear you volunteering to buy one, Geronimo,” said Wolfe, his tone sharp. There was a dull ring from his pocket. He took out his mobile phone. “Yes?” He listened for a while. “Don’t worry,” he said finally. “We haven’t done anything to the piece of shit.” He cut the connection and looked round at Rommel. “Yet.”

  “Our friend the detective?” the man in the backseat asked.

  “Yup. Wetting himself that we’re going to chop the guy on the bike up like we did with Smail.”

  “We are, aren’t we?” Geronimo asked.

  Wolfe gave a hollow laugh. “Assuming he did for Jimmy Tanner, as I’m sure he did, you bet we are.”

  The motorbike was about fifty yards ahead of them, moving toward London Bridge. The traffic lights changed and vehicles began to slow. So did the man on the bike. But when he’d come to a complete stop, he suddenly accelerated, narrowly missing a taxi that was turning right.

  “Fuck!” Geronimo smacked his palms on the steering wheel.

  Wolfe got out quickly and looked ahead. He saw the motorbike disappear over the bridge.

  “Now what?” asked Rommel.

  “I call our contact,” Wolfe said calmly, taking out his mobile. “It’s me,” he said. “We’ve lost our target.” He listened for a few seconds. “All right, but I’m expecting reliable information. Remember, you owe us.”

  The traffic was moving again.

  “Where to?” asked Geronimo.

  “Find a parking space in Holborn. We’ll be centrally positioned there. Don’t worry, the copper will put a trace on him. After all, Jimmy Tanner saved his uncle’s life in the Falklands.”

  “So we just sit and wait?” asked Rommel.

  “What else do we do between ops?” The team leader moved his hand to the 9 mm Glock in his shoulder holster. “And when the time comes, we nail the fuckers before the Met get near them.”

  The other two men nodded, their expressions set hard.

  Karen Oaten looked down over Victoria Street from New Scotland Yard. The last of the commuters were on their way home, some already well lubricated as their erratic movements showed. Why wasn’t she normal? she wondered. Why couldn’t she go down to the pub like everyone else? Because there was a pair of heartless killers on the loose, she told herself. Whether they were called Matt Wells and Andrew Jackson was another matter.

  “Guv?”

  “Yes, Taff?” She sat down at her desk and massaged her aching neck.

  “There have been several calls reporting sightings of Wells and Jackson. We’re checking them out.” He shrugged. “Nothing definite yet.”

  That was the problem with public appeals, the chief inspector thought. Some people wanted to be helpful, but gave unhelpful information; other people wanted to shop those they didn’t like; and then there were the crazies who only wanted attention.

  “What about the National Lottery?”

  “The warrant should be through any time now.” The Welshman shook his head. “Tossers. You’d think they would understand this is a multiple-murder case.”

  “They’re bureaucrats, Taff,” Oaten said, staring at the heap of files on her desk. “Like us.”

  “Oh, yes,” Turner said, a smile spreading across his lips. “And this call came in for you when you were with the A.C. I had it transcribed.” He handed her a piece of paper.

  “‘At 1705 hours, muffled male voice,’” she read. “‘For Detective Chief Inspector Karen Oaten. It may interest you to read chapter 14 of the novel Tirana Blues by Matt Stone.’”

  Turner was holding an open book out to her, his smile even wider.

  She read through the description of an Albanian’s murder, taking in the similarities with that of Lizzie Everhead. The details hadn’t been released to the public, so the message was obviously either from the killer or someone close to him.

  “Pretty conclusive, isn’t it?” the inspector said.

  “You think so, Taff?” She was getting irritated by her subordinate’s dogged determination to nail the novelist. “If Matt Wells is the killer, why’s he taking the trouble to frame himself? Think about that.”

  “He’s a psychopath,” Turner said, his smile disappearing. “He’s playing games.”

  “It was a mistake, making that public appeal. All it’s done is make him even more determined to keep his head down. The idiot’s trying to find the Devil himself.”

  “All he has to do is look in the mirror.”

  “What else have we got?” Oaten said wearily.

  “No fingerprints at the scene except Jackson’s on what looks like an ancient dildo, no significant physical evidence found by SOCOs. And everyone who appeared on the CCTV has been accounted for. Apart from Wells and Jackson.” The inspector suddenly became less assertive. “And one other man, dressed in workman’s clothing and wearing a hard hat.”

  Oaten looked up. “So there was someone else at the scene. That could be the killer. I’m telling you, Taff, there’s more to this than Matt Wells and his mate.”

  “Maybe it was another of Wells’s mates.”

  “Christ, you don’t give up, do you?”

  “I’ve been doing some checking,” the Welshman said, looking at his notes. “When Wells gave you those names to be put under protection, he missed out several of his closest friends. I got their names from his ex-wife and crosschecked them with the rugby league club they’re members of. There are two others we can’t trace-David Cummings and Roger van Zandt. Neither of them is as tall as Wells and Jackson. And they haven’t been seen at home for more than twenty-four hours.” He glared at Oaten. “Why are you so dead-set against the writer as our main man, guv?”

  It was the same question the A.C. had asked her. She’d only been able to cite the height of the figures on the CCTV at Dr. Keane’s building and Borough Market. But, as her superior had pointed out, such images were often misleading because of the skewed perspective they gave. And there were the other potential suspects. She couldn’t embarrass herself by giving him the main reason, but Taff should have been able to understand it.

  “I’ve met him,” she said. “My gut feeling is that he isn’t capable of these killings.”

  Turner shrugged. “I’ve got to disagree with you there. I’ve met him, too, and my gut’s telling me that he is. He’s written about murder often enough. He’s also got a reputation as one of the most gruesome crime writers.”

  “Writing about it is hardly the same thing as doing it for real,” the chief inspector said. “How many writers have we done for murder over the years?”

  “None that I can remember,” the Welshman said reluctantly.

  She nodded at him, and then looked away. She wasn’t comfortable thinking about Matt Wells. He’d had more of an effect on her than any man for years.

  There was a knock on the door. Paul Pavlou stuck his head round. “Excuse me, guv. The warrant for the lottery’s here.”

  Karen Oaten stood up. “Right. Let’s find out where the mysterious Leslie Dunn has got to.”

  Turner followed her out, shaking his head. Leslie Dunn was a false trail, he was sure of that. They would be led round in circles, while Matt Wells went on killing people.

  For the first time in nine years, he’d begun to doubt his boss’s judgment.

  28

  I drove back to the house in Blackheath. There was no point in calling ahead about the name we’d found as we were so close. As soon as we got there, Peter Satterthwaite rang his computer expert while Rog checked for Lawrence Montgomery in the online directories and search engines. Andy went off to the kitchen to make more food-even what he’d seen in t
he flat hadn’t put him off eating. I called my mother. Again, there was no answer. Now I was getting seriously worried about her. I told the others.

  “Why don’t you let the police know?” Rog said. “It can’t do any harm.”

  That made sense. I left the house and went out onto the Heath to avoid being located at Bonehead’s, then rang Karen Oaten’s mobile.

  “Matt!” she said eagerly when she heard my voice. “I’m very glad you called. Where can I meet you?”

  “I’m not coming in.”

  “You have to. It’s the only way you can clear your name.”

  “What do you care about that? You’re the one who made me public enemy number one.”

  She sighed. “I had no option. You’re on the university’s CCTV recording. Answer this question. Did you have anything to do with Lizzie Everhead’s murder?”

  “No, of course I fucking didn’t!” I shouted, unable to control my outrage. “I told you, I’m trying to protect the people I care about.”

  There was a pause. “You can’t tell me you cared about Dr. Everhead. Why did you go to see her? I presume you don’t deny that’s why you were in the building.”

  “No, I don’t. I went to ask her about the Devil’s use of the quotations from the play. And to warn her about him.” I decided to play hardball. “Obviously that never occurred to you. Where was her police protection?”

  There was a longer pause. “All right, Matt, I hear you. But I still need you to surrender yourself.”

  “Forget it.”

  “In that case, why are we talking?”

  “Because my mother’s not answering her mobile phone again. Can you find out from the airlines apart from British Airways if she left the country from Heathrow on Friday?”

  “You mean you’ve already checked with BA? They don’t give out that kind of information to the general public.”

  “Just take my word for it. If she’s not on any flight list, then I think the Devil’s got her.”

  I heard her breath whistle between her teeth. “All right, we’ll look into it. At least give me a number to call you.”

  “Good try, Karen. I’ll call you. Bye.” I hung up. Jesus. Did the bastard really have my mother? The full horror of that idea struck me as I walked back across the open grassland in the darkness, the wind whipping about me like a mad dog. When would there be an end to the anguish the Devil was visiting on me?

  When I got back, Pete yelled at me to join them in the study.

  “Progress,” he said, a wide grin on his face. “I just heard from my man. Lawrence Montgomery is the name of the holder of the accounts I tracked down before. Don’t ask me how he did it, but he managed to verify that.”

  I nodded, not particularly impressed. “Where does that get us?”

  “It gets us precisely here,” Rog said, swinging round in his chair. He held up a printed page. “Properties listed in Lawrence Montgomery’s name. All of them in London and the Southeast.”

  “Wow.” That was interesting. I ran my eye down the page. “Bloody hell, how many are there?”

  “Twenty-three apart from the one you’ve already been to,” Rog replied. “Everything from a semi in Golders Green, to a penthouse near Tower Bridge, to a cottage near Hythe. Some of them are registered as owner-occupied, some as rented out.”

  “How the hell are we going to be able to check all those places?” I said with a groan.

  “You could give the list to the cops,” Bonehead suggested.

  “What if the Devil’s got my mother at one of the houses?” I said, slamming my hand on the desk. “What if he or one of his sidekicks kills her the second the law shows up?”

  “The same thing could happen if we show up,” Rog pointed out.

  “That’s why we have to be careful. Ultracareful.”

  Andy appeared in the doorway. “Chow time. I’ve made chili.”

  We went through. I didn’t think I’d be able to get anything down, but Andy was a good cook and I suddenly discovered I had an appetite. When everyone had finished, Andy having scraped the bowl and licked the wooden spoon, I sent Dave a text message. He replied saying that all was okay. At least Lucy was secure.

  “What are we going to do, then?” Andy asked, putting down the spoon at last.

  “It’s time we took the game to this tosser.”

  “Easier said than done,” I said, suddenly remembering the notes that the Devil had sent me about Lizzie Everhead’s death. He’d be expecting another chapter, but I wasn’t going to play according to his rules anymore. I went through to the study and logged on to my e-mail server. As I’d expected, there was a new message from him, with yet another identity, this time WD999. No doubt he thought using the emergency number was very funny.

  Matt, Matt, I read. You’ve been a bad boy. Who gave you permission to break into Flat 12 in the Vestine Building? That was really dumb. I hope you liked my collection of humans and fauna. Tonight I’m going to make you pay for your nosiness. People you love are going to die in agony, Matt, and all because you thought you could take me on. Do you remember what John Webster wrote? “As in this world there are degrees of evils, So in this world there are degrees of devils.” I’m the worst kind, as you’re about to find out.

  “Shit,” Bonehead said, reading over my shoulder. “What’s the bastard up to?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but I’ve got to work that out fast. I’ll have to risk using someone’s mobile from here.” He gave me his, a small silver device. I rang my ex-wife’s number. To my relief, she picked up immediately.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “Matt!” she said, as if the word was a deadly insult. Obviously the Devil hadn’t got to Caroline. “Where’s Lucy, you…you criminal?”

  “She’s safe. Are the police still watching you?”

  “Yes. What do you mean, she’s safe? Don’t you understand? I can’t trust you. Your face is all over the news bulletins, you’re a wanted man. I have to see Lucy, I have to-”

  “You’ll see her soon,” I said gently, then rang off. I wished I could have done more to comfort her, but I knew she wouldn’t listen. I’d been the enemy for years and now she had official confirmation of that.

  The guys looked at me awkwardly.

  “All right, say something!” I shouted.

  Before they could, my new mobile rang. Very few people had that number.

  “Hello.”

  “Oh, Matt, it’s Sara.” She was breathless. “You’ve got to help me, there’s a man…he’s been following me…oh, God, I’m frightened…I think it might be-”

  “Where are you?”

  “Um…near the office, at the meat market, oh shit, he’s right behind-”

  “Sara?” I tried to make out what was going on. I heard her shout and then scream. Not long after that, the line went dead.

  “Jesus,” I said, staring at the others. “He’s got Sara.” I told them what I’d heard.

  “I can drive up there,” Bonehead suggested.

  “What the point?” I replied. “They’ll be long gone. This is what the Devil meant about making me pay. Christ, Sara…” I buried my head in my hands.

  “What about telling the police now?” Rog said.

  “How will they find Sara without putting her life in danger?” I said, looking up. “We’ve got the list of the Devil’s properties. It’s down to us.” All three of them nodded. “We’ll divide up the areas and each check out some properties. I’ll get Dave to come up, as well. That makes five of us. Four or five places each. All we’re doing at this stage is seeing if anyone’s there. If there are lights on, check for movement. Ring the bell and ask for directions. See who answers. Keep in touch by mobile. Andy, you and I will have to use our disguises again.”

  “Oh, great,” the American said. “I really like having a slug on my upper lip.”

  I called Dave from Peter’s landline.

  “Sorry, Psycho,” I said. “I need you up here after all. How’s Luce?”


  “Bit down in the dumps. You’d better talk to her. Ginny’s made sure she hasn’t seen your ugly mug on the news.”

  I waited as he called her.

  “Is that you, Daddy?” she said, her voice making me tremble.

  “Hello, darling.” I tried to make my voice sound normal. “Are you having a good time?”

  “Ye-es,” she said doubtfully. “Why aren’t we at school?”

  “Extra holidays. Isn’t that good?”

  “Ye-es. When am I going to see you and Mummy?”

  “Very soon, sweet pie. In the meantime, have fun with the kids. Are they being good to you?”

  She went into a lengthy description of the games they’d been playing. I finally managed to get her off the line. At least she was happy in her own little world. The idea of her finding out that I was a wanted man was repellent. I asked Dave if he was anywhere near Hythe. He said he wasn’t far off, so I gave him the address of the cottage to check out. After that, he’d be given his next destinations by Bonehead, who was going to act as coordinator.

  “Right, let’s plot the properties on a map and work out who goes where,” I said, turning to find the other three already doing that. It didn’t take long. There were five places in the area of Camden. Andy took those because he could do them by Tube and bus. Rog took five to the north and west of that. Pete was going to do four south of the river. That left five to the north and south of the City for me, and three more for Dave to the southeast of the center.

  “Listen, guys,” I said, when we all had maps and annotated copies of the list. “What you’re doing is way beyond the call of friendship. If you want to-”

  “Forget it, man,” Andy said. “We’re all in this because we want to help you out.”

  The others nodded firmly.

  “All right, all right,” I said, raising my arms in surrender. “Pete, you’re in charge of stores.”

  “Lucky I have such a well-stocked toolbox, eh?” he said, grinning lewdly as he handed screwdrivers, torches and chisels to everyone.

  We headed for the door. I was going to take the BMW and drop Andy and Rog on their way north. Pete was going south in the Jeep. The three of us waved him away.