After I’d checked our weapons and ammunition clips, I sat in front of my laptop, trying to resist the temptation to check my e-mails obsessively. It wasn’t long before I succumbed. There was nothing of importance. While I was on the Internet, I decided to have a look at the Crime Writers’ Society Web site. I got an unpleasant surprise.
Josh Hinkley had posted a call for my immediate expulsion, on the grounds that I had brought the Society into disrepute because of my “cowardly refusal to help the police.” Fortunately, there were several other members who wrote in to say that Josh was, in varying degrees of politeness, full of shit. What the hell was wrong with him? Obviously he was in bed with Jeremy Andrewes, but that was just a publicity gimmick. I knew Josh was jealous of the fact that The Death List had sat at the top of the bestseller list for months. But laying into me on a private site was another story. Then I remembered something Andy had said. What if Sara had got to Josh? He was sufficiently lacking in morals to work for her, especially if there was money involved. Then I had another, even worse thought. What if Josh had murdered Mary Malone and Sandra Devonish?
I got up and walked over to the window. The street below was full of slow-moving cars and the pavements were busy. Somewhere out there, I was sure, Sara was plotting her next move. Could it really be that Josh Hinkley was doing the same thing? Maybe Sara had killed Dave, but it was Josh who had killed the crime writers, entirely on his own. Jesus, the nightmare was getting even worse. How many vicious bastards were out there? I thought of the gangland killings in the east of the city. The answer to that question was, plenty. But Josh Hinkley a serial killer? He had a nasty side, and he certainly loathed crime writers who sold better than he did—Mary Malone and Sandra Devonish both came into that category, as had I with my book. Plus, he was doing his best to put me in the frame for the American’s murder. Was that to keep the spotlight off him?
I went back to my laptop.
“That’s it,” Rog said, turning to me. “You’re now three million dollars better off.”
“What’s next?”
“A juicy little bank in Costa Rica, with a security system that a child could break. She’s got two million in there.” He grinned. “But not for long.”
“Shouldn’t you take a break?” I said. “I mean, log off so that there’s no chance of you being traced.”
“Trust me, Matt, there’s never been any chance of me being traced.”
I let him get on with it, wishing I had a skill that would help find Sara. But I didn’t, so I checked my e-mails again. Christ. There was a message from a sender called thethirdisaman, and the title was “Something rotten in the state of Matt Wells.” The killer was back in touch. I opened the message and read:
Did you like it, Matt? The clue, I mean. Actually, there were any number of clues in the sentence I gave you, but you didn’t get any of them. So, because I’m a gentle soul at heart, I’m giving you some help this time. Note the sender of this message. That means the next victim, my third, is a…have you got it yet? That’s right, a man. Clever crime writer. Why should you trust me? Well, have I lied to you yet? Sandra Devonish—you knew her from those ego-boosting conferences you used to go to in the States, didn’t you?—was lying in the shape of the cross. And why was that? Because I am Doctor Faustus and I have made a deal with the devil. If I gather souls for him, I can do anything I like—and, unlike Christopher Marlowe’s Faustus, I don’t have a time limit. I can continue for as long as I want, or until you catch me. There’s been no evidence so far of you pulling that off. Oh, and just to be sure that you know I’m the real deal—I spitted the lovely Sandra with a single thrust to the heart, and I left the Grateful Dead playing “Friend of the Devil.” Neat, eh?
I suppose I’d better give you the next clue now. Here we go:
The river shrinks bears
And the ice crows for a wife.
The lean man’s imperial heiress
Is the thirsty draw of nothing.
If you don’t work that out, there’s no hope for you, Matt. Or rather, there’s no hope for the person whose name is hidden in that verse. As this clue’s so easy, I’m not giving you more time. You’ve got until midnight tonight to answer. I’ll be e-mailing you at 11:59. Don’t be slow in replying…
In blood,
D.F. alone
(Flaminio’s on a break)
“Fucking hell,” I said.
Rog came over and read the message. “Oh, great,” he said. “Now the cow’s writing poems.”
“Sara never showed any interest in poetry when I knew her. Then again, this isn’t exactly at Seamus Heaney’s level.”
Rog looked at me as if he wasn’t sure who that was, but he didn’t have the nerve to admit it.
“Nobel literature prize winner,” I said. “From Northern Ireland.”
“I knew that,” he replied indignantly, hitting Print. In a few seconds we were both poring over hard copies.
I looked at my watch. It was eleven-thirty. We had just over twelve hours. I went back online and forwarded the message to my mother. At least she’d have more time to work on it this time.
“Can you run it through your decryption programs, Dodger?”
He nodded. “There’s something going on here, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
I looked at the clue. “There’s a truckload of things going on,” I said. “Water, the cold, crows—the most intelligent of birds, but they’re also linked with death, since they eat carrion.”
“Charming,” Rog said.
“‘Lean,’” I continued. “That could be a reference to thin or starving, linking up with ‘thirsty’ in the last line. ‘Imperial’ suggests power, colonies—”
“Mints.”
I put my elbow in his ribs. “Be serious. An heiress is a female child, one who stands to inherit something—a country, an empire?”
“Not if she’s hungry and thirsty. She’ll be dead—like the next victim.”
“Thanks a bunch, Dodger. Run your programs, will you?”
I let him get on with that. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t making any more transfers from Sara’s accounts for the time being. He’d done enough to attract her attention. I thought about sending Karen the clue. That way I’d at least protect myself from criticism of the kind Jeremy Andrewes and Josh Hinkley had poured over me. But when it came out that I’d been in contact with the police, Sara or whoever was playing at Doctor Faustus would know I’d broken the rule. That might lead to even more innocent people being murdered, including my family and the guys. No, I had to keep the clue secret. That decision almost crushed me.
I struggled to my feet and went over to the bookcase. Rog’s cousin had a decent dictionary and thesaurus, as well as a one-volume encyclopedia. I took them to the dining table, along with the hard copy of the message. Then I started checking every word for synonyms—I didn’t bother with antonyms at this stage as there were no negatives in the poem. I also split up the lines into couplets, since each pair formed a sentence. I was working on the idea that each would give me a name. It was possible that every line did that, making four names, but I reckoned the existence of sentences was significant. If the first clue was anything to go by, there would be more than one definition of each name, and the writer had said that this clue was easier than the previous one. Two names, but they weren’t necessarily in the right order.
I sat back in my chair. Was the third victim, supposedly a male, another crime writer? I’d made the mistake of not following up that angle the last time. I hadn’t brought the Crime Writers’ Society directory with me, but I could access the online version. Then again, that wouldn’t have helped me with Sandra Devonish—foreign writers could join as overseas members, but most didn’t. I considered going down the list of names, trying to fit each one to the clue, but that would have taken more hours than I had. There was no choice but to split the clue into its constituent parts—sentences, lines, words, syllables, even individual letters. I was sure there were puns
and wordplay in action. I was useless at spotting those in cryptic crosswords, but my mother wasn’t. I would check the ghost site for her input soon.
In the meantime, I looked at the rest of the message. The tone was sardonic, just what I would have expected from Sara. But there were a couple of points that didn’t ring true. By the time I knew her, I’d stopped going to crime-writing conferences as I couldn’t afford them. How did the writer know that I’d met Sandra Devonish? She was only a passing acquaintance, someone I’d drunk with in a group a couple of times. I was sure I hadn’t mentioned her to Sara, who’d never shown much interest in crime novelists anyway. Had she been talking to some other crime writer, who’d witnessed me and Sandra in the bar at the conference hotels? Who could that be? Josh Hinkley was a likely suspect, but hundreds of people attended those events, the majority of them fans and booksellers rather than writers. It would be a serious struggle to identify the source of information, and a waste of precious time.
The other thing that struck me as anomalous was the whole Doctor Faustus angle. Although Sara had been brought up by her foster parents as a Catholic, she’d never shown the slightest interest in religion—in fact, one of the things that I thought kept us together was a mutual impatience with all things divine or paranormal. I forced myself to see the Sara who had betrayed me as a devil-worshipper like Faustus, but that didn’t ring true. For one thing, she was too conceited about her own abilities to make any kind of Faustian pact. Besides, she didn’t need the devil’s help. She’d already had plenty from her brother and she could hire as much as she wanted.
I went on with the lists of alternatives. Somehow it was easier to live with the idea of Sara as the writer of the messages. If there was another ruthless killer out there, my chances of surviving would be halved.
The aristocrat put down his coffee cup and got up from the long table. His ancestors had eaten from it for over two hundred years, and it would cost a small fortune to restore it; a small fortune he didn’t have. The first earl had been ennobled by King George II for generously supporting the country’s foreign wars. The origins of the family wealth had been in slaves, tobacco and the port wine trade—about as politically incorrect as you could get nowadays. But there was none of that left. The present earl had spent far too much on his private interests, not that he regretted a penny of it.
He strolled out onto the terrace that ran the length of the family seat. It was a fine spring morning, the dew burning off in clouds of steam in the light of the sun. The prize-winning herd of Aberdeen Angus cattle was grazing in the field to the left of the arrow-straight road that bisected the open panorama ahead. The site had been carefully chosen and landscaped to keep the Berkshire countryside below out of sight. On the right were the goats that produced overpriced and foul-tasting organic cheese. The earl never ate any cheese other than Stilton. Loyalty to the traditions of England was paramount.
He stepped briskly across the uneven flagstones, the steel caps of his brogues clicking loudly. The main facade of the castle, with its high, mullioned windows, dated from the 1750s, but at the western end it had been built onto the original medieval stronghold. The gray limestone bastion stood up to receive the sunlight, rooks circling above the red-and-black family flag—in its center was the coat of arms, a unicorn rampant on a silver background. The first earl had carried out his own researches into the supernatural.
His heir paused at the bottom of the great fifteenth-century wall of the fortress. It had never been taken in battle or siege. On one occasion, the defenders had been forced to eat the horses and then every other living thing inside. Foot soldiers and archers, who complained that their womenfolk had been slaughtered for meat by their commander, were hung from the walls after the siege had been lifted. Because the country needed strong leaders, he had never been prosecuted. That set an example to his descendants.
A cell phone rang inside the earl’s tweed jacket. He answered it and spoke briefly, then walked around the tower, the bottoms of his cavalry twill trousers absorbing dew from the grass not yet reached by the sun. By the great studded door, he stopped for a moment before taking out a set of keys and opening the three locks that had been set into the black-painted wood.
Inside, the air was dry. The original ceilings were no longer there, only the firing slits remaining. They had never been closed up. It was good to have fresh air in the refurbished bastion. The second earl had no doubt found that necessary. He had been involved in a Hell-fire Club at Oxford that had been notorious for unbridled licentiousness and depravity. The university authorities had eventually reprimanded the unruly students, though only commoners were sent down—the scions of noble families were given a metaphorical clip on the ear and left to find new ways to corrupt themselves. When he was older, the second earl set up his own version of a Hell-fire Club in this very fortification. It was rumored that defrocked ministers and former monks made merry with willing nuns and local wenches carted in for the ceremonies. It had also been said that few of the latter were ever seen again.
The present earl breathed in the castle’s air, then turned on his heel after satisfying himself that the grated window at ground level was immovable. Pulling the door to, he heard the scream of a peacock, one of several he allowed to wander the grounds.
As he walked back along the front terrace, His Lordship caught sight of himself in one of the windows. He stopped and tightened his regimental tie—he had been a captain in the Queen’s Own Horse Guards—then smoothed a hand over his well-disciplined and still jet-black hair. Despite his fifty-five years, he was slim and fit. His uneven face was smoothly shaved by the cutthroat razor he stropped every day. It was a matter for regret that he had produced no son and heir. His wife, Priscilla, had died three years ago, of complications following a supposedly routine breast remodelling procedure. She was past child-bearing age, anyway. There was still time for him to marry again and continue the bloodline. If he could find a suitable bride.
The phone rang again. The earl’s expression lightened after he answered it. He went back inside through the main entrance.
Soon there would be another rite for him to preside over.
Seventeen
Pete Satterthwaite and Andy Jackson stood outside the flat in East London that Sara had bought in the name Angela Oliver-Merilee. Although the main road looked like it ran through a war zone, with the shop windows covered in heavy wire even during opening hours, the side street was tree lined and quiet. The cars parked on both sides were the standard minivans and hatchbacks of the urban bourgeoisie.
“It’s the upper flat,” Pete said, as they approached number twelve. Across the street, two young Indian boys were playing with water pistols. They stopped to look at the men.
“Smile, Slash,” Pete said, under his breath.
The American obliged, making one of the boys run inside.
“Nice one.”
“Sorry. I’m no good with kids, Boney.” Andy stepped up to the street door and moved his finger to the higher of the two bells, but he didn’t press it. With Pete shrouding him from view, he slid two flat steel rods into the keyhole and manipulated them. Andy hadn’t needed tuition from Dave in opening locks because he’d learned in the youth gang he’d run with back in New Jersey. There was a click and the door opened.
“We’re in,” Andy said, moving forward. He had his right hand on the butt of his silenced Glock.
Pete closed the door quietly behind him. The house had been divided into two flats, with common access. The sound of a television at high volume came from the ground-floor flat—according to the records search that Rog had carried out, it was owned by an eighty-two-year-old man. They moved carefully up the narrow, uncarpeted wooden stairs. There was a smell of damp about the place.
At the first-floor door, which had recently been painted green, Andy stopped, his left hand raised. He put his ear to the door, then looked around at Pete, shaking his head. They both knew that an absence of sound didn’t mean the place was unocc
upied. According to the local council’s database, the owner lived alone and paid full council tax, but Pete and Andy knew there was no such person as Angela Oliver-Merilee. So who was using the flat?
Andy stuck his weapon in his belt and took out the steel rods again. Pete raised his Glock in a two-handed grip, pointing it at the door above the American’s blond mass of hair. They were taking a chance. If the occupant was inside and had put on the chain, Andy would have to shoulder-charge the door quickly.
Again, there was a dull click. Andy put the rods away and opened the door enough for him to slide his fingers around the edge, then moved them upward.
“No chain,” he mouthed to Pete. Then he stood up, took his Glock from his belt and nodded. The door opened as he pushed it. Andy stepped in quickly, his weapon raised. He moved his arms up and down, covering the angles that a potential assailant could come from. When Pete entered the flat, Andy passed him and went through the living area to the rear. There were two open doors, one to a bathroom and the other to a bedroom.
“Nobody at home,” the American reported, lowering his pistol.
“What a relief,” Pete said. He put his weapon in his jacket pocket and looked around the place. It had been furnished sparely, but with good taste. A burgundy-colored leather sofa and armchair were facing a medium-size high-definition TV, with a modern standard lamp between them. The walls had been papered in white and there were a couple of framed Cézanne posters. At the back, a breakfast bar separated the living area from a well-equipped kitchen. The windows, front and rear, were covered by Venetian blinds that let in only a small amount of light. In the bedroom, there was an antique wardrobe and a double bed, its pale blue cover neatly in place.
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