The Death List mw-1

by Paul Johnson

  Then we drove into the pounding heart of the city, each of us sunk in his thoughts. Mine were full of a burning desire for vengeance on the Devil, who looked to have taken my mother and my lover.

  I remembered another line from Webster’s play-“To fashion my revenge more seriously.”

  That was what I had to if I was going to save Sara.

  Karen Oaten was standing next to the array of human and animal corpses in Flat 12 of the Vestine Building in Bermondsey.

  “It’s them,” John Turner said, coming into the room. “Wells and Jackson. They’re wearing disguises, but the CCTV shots are clear enough. I’m sure of it.”

  His superior nodded. “The question is, what were they doing here?”

  “Maybe they had some other dead body to get rid of.”

  Oaten frowned. “And how did they do that, Taff? They didn’t carry it out, did they?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But they took a letter from the post box.”

  “Has it occurred to you that they’re doing exactly the same as we are?” she said, giving him a piercing look. “Trying to find the Devil.”

  Turner looked perplexed. “How did they know to come here?”

  “Christ knows. Maybe they’ve got a friend who’s a computer expert.”

  The Welshman turned pages in his notebook. “Bloody hell, you’re right. This Roger van Zandt guy, one of the pair we can’t locate. He runs his own computing consultancy.”

  “There you are, then. They’re several steps ahead of us.” She pressed buttons on her phone. “Paul, any news on Matt Wells’s mother?” She listened. “Nothing yet? All right, get them to keep checking.”

  Turner moved closer. “What’s that going to tell us?”

  “Whether the Devil’s got his next victim.” She walked out of the stinking room where the murderer had honed his skills. Dr. Redrose had confirmed that the human remains were months, even years old.

  “And what if it was Wells all along, taking the piss out of us?”

  “Then I’ll buy you a very large drink, Taff.” She turned back to him. “And you’ll buy me one if I’m right.”

  He shrugged and followed her out. The fact was, they were playing catch-up and they knew it. Until the Devil-whether he was Wells or not-struck again, the Met’s finest were nowhere. Civilian staff were trying to find out who owned the flat, but he had the feeling they wouldn’t get on the killer’s trail that way.

  Christ, he wished his boss hadn’t mentioned drink. He could have done with numerous pints of Brains, his favorite Welsh beer.

  I got out of the BMW in Evelyn Street in Deptford, having dropped the others off at the station. The first property on my list was in Benbow Lane, a few minutes’ walk away. As I turned into the street, I realized it was classic criminal territory-a derelict factory on one side and a row of extremely suspicious-looking lockup garages on the other. Almost all had reinforced doors and heavy padlocks. Number 35 was even better protected than most, with a steel roll-down door over the original wooden one. Not even Andy at his most creative could have found his way through that. I stepped back and saw that there was a small window in the roof. No light shone through it.

  I was about to mark the place off with a cross on my list when I saw a ladder lying on the ground a few doors down. A length of guttering was next to it, obviously in the process of being reattached. Both were chained to the garage door. I took the chisel from my pocket, found a loose cobblestone and started hammering. Fortunately the padlock wasn’t a strong one and it soon gave way. I put the ladder against the wall and scrambled up it, then inched my way up the slate-covered incline.

  There was a layer of heavy-duty wire over the window, but I could see inside by shining my torch down. I almost dropped it. Jesus. There was an old chair in the middle of an open space. The leather straps on the arms and legs made it obvious that someone had been held captive there. The chair also had dark stains on it. I had the feeling that something very bad had happened here.

  But there wasn’t anything I could do about it now. As far as I could see, there was no one living or dead in the lockup. I would send the police to it later, but in the meantime I had to move on.

  The next property on my list was a flat in what I reckoned was an exclusive block near Tower Bridge.

  What would I find in Number 6, The Royal Brewery?

  The White Devil was driving a nondescript blue van through the sparse traffic on North End Way. Hampstead Heath was in the darkness to his right. He turned to his accomplice, whom he’d met half an hour after Corky gave the men in the Orion the slip.

  “Not long now. Tonight we’ll get them all.”

  “Then what?” answered the bearded figure in the padded black anorak.

  “You know that,” he said, smiling broadly. “The Caribbean, and then the world is ours.”

  “How can I trust you?”

  The Devil laughed. “After all we’ve been through? Come on, Corky. We’ve known each other since we were in primary school.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about. You never did tell me if you had anything to do with what happened to Richard Brady.”

  “What, the bully? He was found dead in a wood outside Watford, wasn’t he?”

  The other man gave a sharp laugh. “Yes, and I remember how pleased you were with yourself after the summer holidays. Come on, you can tell me. Did you do him?”

  The driver looked over his shoulder. “She’s moving around a lot. Make sure her gag’s okay. And the ropes round her wrists.”

  His accomplice sighed as he climbed between the seats, then inched past the motorbike he’d loaded earlier. He’d had a gutful of being ordered around. Still, the payoff would make that all worthwhile-as long as he never turned his back on the man who used to be Leslie Dunn.

  29

  I was driving through Bermondsey in the BMW when my mobile rang.

  “Matt? It’s Dave. I’ve been to that cottage outside Hythe. There were no lights on. I had a snoop around. No sign of life.”

  “Okay. Call Bonehead. He’ll tell you where to go next.”

  “Yes, I know, lad. I just want to tell you that I’m behind you one hundred percent. We’ll get this lunatic. See you soon.” He cut the connection.

  I was glad I had him on my side. Dave Cummings wasn’t known as “Psycho” just because he liked taking out opposition players for the Bison. He’d told us some seriously nasty stories about his time in Northern Ireland with the Paras, and later with the SAS. To be fair to him, he wasn’t proud of what he and his brothers-in-arms had done. But if there was one of us capable of taking on the Devil, it was Dave.

  I looked out at the lights in the buildings as I went through the southern Docklands. The place was full of people even at ten in the evening. Pissed-up commuters, young people out for a night on the town even though it was the middle of the week. There were so many of them. The city was packed to the rafters with millions of human beings. How were we going to find the Devil among them? Christ, what had happened to Sara? And to my mother?

  I parked near Tower Bridge, paying no attention to its fairy-tale appearance. In the backstreets beyond, I passed through a chic area full of trendy wine bars and cafes. They were busy, the inhabitants of the recently developed former warehouse district out in force. It didn’t take me long to find the Royal Brewery. It was a free-standing Victorian block next to the river, its brick facade lit up by well-positioned spotlights. There were lights on in a couple of the flats, but not in the penthouse. I was about to go in the gate when my phone rang again.

  “It’s Rog, Matt.” He sounded anxious. “Where are you?”

  I told him.

  “Well, if there’s nothing going on there you’d better get up here sharpish.”

  I felt a twinge of alarm. “What is it?”

  “I’m in East Finchley, opposite the house in Howard Avenue that the bastard owns. There’s something funny going on. A van just pulled up and a couple of guys got out. They checked to ma
ke sure no one was watching and then carried something inside.” He paused. “Matt, it was tied up in a blanket. I reckon it was a body.”

  The twinge was replaced by an adrenaline rush. “Shit.” I turned and ran away from the former brewery toward Jamaica Road. “Did you…did you see any movement?”

  “Yeah. There were some wriggles. The person was probably conscious.”

  I started to run back toward the BMW, the phone to my ear. “What’s going on now?”

  “Nothing that I can see. The curtains are all drawn and they’re obviously pretty thick. I can only see a dull glow at the edges of the upstairs windows.”

  “Jesus.” Thoughts were flashing through my mind. Was it Sara? Fran? Should I contact the police? I decided that would be too risky. If it was the Devil, maybe I’d be able to reason with him. “Stay there. I’ll park on the main road. Put your phone on vibrate mode. I’ll contact you when I’m in walking distance.”

  “Right. I’m behind a hedge. Do you think we should get Andy and the others up?”

  “Let’s see how it looks when I get there.” I was loath to pull the guys off the other properties until I was sure we had the Devil in our sights.

  “Okay.” He rang off.

  The drive through Islington and up Holloway Road seemed to take an eternity. I was trying to work out what to do, how to approach the Devil, but I couldn’t come up with any coherent plan. If he had one of my loved ones in his possession, I didn’t have many options. Could I persuade him to take me instead?

  At last I got to East End Road in East Finchley. My mother lived about half a mile away. Was it possible she’d never left home? Had the bastard got to her that early? And what about Sara? Her mobile was still switched off.

  I forced myself to walk at medium pace into the back streets, the worn heels of my shoes not making much noise. The area was solidly middle-class-overpriced cars on the roadsides, Victorian artisans’ houses that had experienced an astronomical increase in value over the past decade, normal families trying to spend some time together after the rigors of the working day. Curtains were drawn, blinds were down and everyone was studiously ignoring what their neighbors were getting up to. I was as liberal as the next man, but not where abduction and murder were concerned. How did the Devil and his sidekick manage to move around without attracting attention?

  I slowed my pace as I approached number 14, looking at it from the other side of the road. The first-floor lights were still on, a blue van parked outside.

  “Matt!” The loud whisper made me jump. I’d forgotten to warn Rog of my approach. “Come in the gate.”

  I went up the path that led to number 13 and saw his back. He was hiding in a hedge that wasn’t too dense.

  “There doesn’t seem to be anyone in this place,” he said, inclining his head toward the house behind us.

  “Anything new?” I asked, pushing through the foliage beside him.

  He shook his head. “I got shots of the bastards,” he said, holding up his mobile phone. I remembered the ribbing we’d given him when he’d shown off the model that was equipped with a camera. Now I was glad he’d bought it, but I couldn’t make out any faces. The long bundle they carried inside definitely could have been a person.

  “What are we going to do?” Rog asked.

  I’d come to a decision about that after I’d got out of the BMW. “We check the place out. There’s no use just hanging around here. If they really have got a prisoner, God knows what they might be doing to her.”

  “Or him.”

  I shrugged. I hadn’t considered that the captive might be a male, but it was perfectly possible. I had plenty of male crime-writer friends, as well as other former teammates from the Bison. Where would the Devil stop?

  “Right, you go to the front,” I said. “I’ll check the back. If you spot any obvious way in that we can use our tools on, ring me. My mobile’s on vibrate, too. I’ll let you know if I find anywhere interesting.”

  “We’re going in?” Rog said with a slack grin.

  “Hold your horses, you headbanger. Only if we reckon we can surprise them.”

  He nodded, and then retreated from the hedge. Looking around and seeing that the coast was clear, we moved quickly across the road. I opened and closed the gate of number 14 as quietly as I could and left Rog at the front. As I skirted the side of the house, its flower beds tidy and the hedges trimmed, I felt my heart begin to pound. Was this innocuous-looking place really the Devil’s lair? What horrors were we about to uncover?

  The back garden was equally well tended. Had Rog only seen a house-proud owner and his mate bringing in a new carpet? No, that wasn’t likely. The property was owned by Lawrence Montgomery, a multimillionaire who’d taken every step to cover his tracks. Something suspicious was going on.

  The curtains hadn’t been closed at the back. There was a thick, high hedge between the garden and that of the house behind. The kitchen door was well secured with a lock that looked new. But the window of the dining room was original and there was a gap between it and the frame. I reckoned I could get it open with the chisel Boney had given me. I rang Rog. He appeared a few seconds later.

  I pointed at the window. He nodded and watched as I inserted the shank. It took a bit of work, but I finally managed to get the latch to move. I pulled the window outward and stuck my head in. I couldn’t hear any noise inside the house. Rog shone the narrow beam of his torch on the ledge as I climbed over it, then I did the same for him.

  We went through the dining room on tiptoes. Fortunately the floors were carpeted so we didn’t make a sound. I glanced into the sitting room, and then shone my torch round. It was a typical suburban front room-widescreen TV, leather sofa, armchairs. But there was a total absence of photographs, artwork, CDs, videos-anything to personalize it. I had the feeling this was what the secret services would refer to as a safe house-where the Devil could bolt in times of need.

  I took a deep breath. The men were presumably upstairs. Was I about to make a fatal error? I couldn’t see any other way ahead. The Devil had shown what little regard he had for human life. If a prisoner had been brought here, that person’s time was surely running out. I nodded as encouragingly as I could to Rog and set off up the staircase. There were a few creaks, but nothing too loud. When we got to the first floor, I pointed him to the back. There were three rooms there, all with their doors open. He checked each one and shook his head. That left the two front rooms. The doors to both of them were closed.

  Rog came forward and took up a position outside the one to the left. He put his screwdriver between his teeth-that would have made Dave laugh-and held his torch and chisel in his hands. I had my chisel in my right hand and screwdriver in my left. I mouthed “One…two…three.”

  We put our shoulders to the doors and burst in. I saw no sign of the men, but something a lot worse. Rog was at my shoulder a few seconds later.

  “Clear,” he murmured, his breath catching in his throat. “Jesus Christ.”

  We stepped forward like automata, engrossed by what was in front of us. On the double bed lay a naked female figure. There were ropes attached to her wrists and ankles, binding them to the wooden bedframe. She had a gag round her mouth and she was unconscious, her eyes half open. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Her hair was soaked and she was lying in a pool of blood that was dripping off the bedcover onto the carpet.

  Suddenly there was the roar of an engine from outside. I ran to the window and wrenched the curtains apart. The blue van was already at the end of the road. Jesus Christ, the Devil and his accomplice had been lurking in or around the house when we broke in. I’d been that close to him, but he’d manage to evade me.

  “Shit!” I yelled, turning back to the bed.

  It was only when I stepped close and bent over the face of the captive that I recognized her.

  Andrew Jackson turned onto Plender Road in Camden Town. He’d checked two of the properties on his list and seen no sign of anything suspicious. He was feelin
g like a complete dickhead with the fake ’tache on his upper lip and the baseball cap pulled low over the wig, but that wasn’t his worst problem. He’d stopped for a pint in between each of the previous places and his bladder was now in urgent need of emptying. He pulled out his best friend and was letting rip between two parked cars when he saw a blue van pull up on the other side of the road-right outside number 36, the property he was meant to be watching.

  A man of medium height got out of the driver’s seat. He was wearing a boiler suit and a workman’s cap. Another man of similar stature opened the passenger door. He was dressed in similar clothes, but had a baseball cap low over his face like Andy did. He appeared to have a beard.

  The American zipped up and crouched down. The street was quiet, but he didn’t want his considerable bulk to stick out. He watched as the men went to the back of the van, looked round to satisfy themselves that they were alone, and pulled out a long object wrapped in blankets. Andy immediately felt a surge of concern. Was that one of Matt’s family or friends? Shit, he should call him. No, there wasn’t time. He could take that pair of halfweights easily.

  The lead man put a key in the door and opened it while still holding the package. Andy clenched his fists and ran forward.

  “Hey, you guys! What are you doing?” He reached the men and pushed the rear one away, grabbing hold of the object. “Stand still!”

  Suddenly he found himself with all the weight in his arms. Before he could do anything to protect himself, he felt a blow on the back of his head.

  Andy Jackson had started his journey into the depths of night.

  “Mother?” I said, leaning over her. “Can you hear me?” I took her wrist and felt a faint pulse. “She’s alive. Fran? Mother?”

  She let out a faint groan.

  “Matt?” Rog said from the other side of the room. “Look at these.” He pointed to two plastic buckets. “They’re empty, but there are drops of blood in them.”