The Death List mw-1

by Paul Johnson

  “Like it will when I fill your mouth with it,” I muttered. “If you’re dumb enough to want to meet up.”

  Last, but very much not least, you’re the doting father of Lucy Emilia Wells, born King’s College Hospital, Denmark Hill, January 18, 1997, currently attending Form 3M at Dulwich Village Primary School, home address 48C Ferndene Road.

  Now there was a mist obscuring my vision. A sour taste had shot up my throat and my fingernails were cutting into the fabric of my jeans. The bastard knew about Lucy. What did he want with me?

  Oh, I almost forgot, the message continued. For the past three months you’ve been going out with Sara Margaret Robbins, born London, August 22, 1971, reporter on the Daily Independent. Good-looking woman, Matt. God knows what she sees in-

  Right, that was enough. I moved the mouse, intending to log off the e-mail program. Then I saw the pile of banknotes on the floor. WD1612 had shown me that he knew how to get at me and my loved ones, but he’d also given me five grand. It wasn’t as if I had anything more pressing to do.

  So I kept reading.-you. Let’s get down to it, Matt. What do I want for my five thousand? Well, first of all, I need an act of good faith. Don’t worry, it’s nothing too difficult. But it does concern your daughter, Lucy.

  He had my full attention.

  To be more specific, it concerns her bedroom. You need to get round there and clean up. Someone’s made a terrible mess. And, Matt? There’s just one ground rule. Don’t tell anyone about this. Not your ex-wife, not your girlfriend, not your mother, not any of your mates from the rugby club, and certainly not the police. I’ll be watching. You’ll never know when and where, but I’ll be watching. And I’ll be listening. So take the money and do what I say or the people dear to you will feel serious pain. I’ll be in touch again soon and I’ll be wanting an answer from you. Make sure I don’t lose my patience. Now go!

  I was out of the house like an Olympic sprinter on the latest dope.

  It couldn’t have taken me more than three minutes to get to the house in Ferndene Road. It had been half mine until Caroline bought me out last year-I put the money in a trust fund for Lucy-and I didn’t like going back when my daughter wasn’t there. Caroline didn’t like it, either. She only allowed me a key because I needed to lock up after I picked up Lucy in the mornings and to get back in after school. I glanced at my watch as I ran. It was coming up to eleven. What was this mess WD1612 had mentioned? At least I had four hours until I went to pick Lucy up. But how long would my correspondent wait for an answer?

  I slowed down as I approached the house, my knee suddenly starting to complain. It didn’t take much these days. I’d been neglecting my fitness in general. The small front garden was full of bushes and trees that I’d planted, pink and white blossom in their full spring glory. I looked down at the paving stones as I went up the path. There was no sign of any strange footprints. The paint on the door was untouched and there were no scratches around the keyhole. Was this some kind of idiotic hoax?

  I turned the key in both locks and opened the door slowly. The only sound was the hum of the fridge. Caroline’s mail was strewn across the hall carpet. I left it where it was and went up the stairs slowly, turning my head from side to side. I couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. Lucy’s bedroom door was closed. That made my pulse rate soar. I knew for sure that I’d left it open that morning as I chased her downstairs to get her coat. I approached it cautiously, wishing I’d picked up a walking stick or even an umbrella from the front hall. After taking a deep breath, I turned the handle and pushed the pastel yellow panels back.

  The stench that flooded my nostrils made me gag.

  “What the fuck?” I heard myself say over and over again. “What the fuck?”

  The first thing I saw was a large sheet of heavy-duty plastic. It had been laid over Lucy’s bed and the floor in front of it. Then my eyes focused on what was lying on the bed, the source of the horrendous smell. Jesus Christ, could Lucy have been taken from school and brought back here?

  But I quickly realized that the object wasn’t human. I went closer, a handkerchief over my nose and mouth. Bending over the splayed creature, I made out yellow hair matted with blood and a canine snout. The teeth below it were bared in agony.

  It was the neighbors’ golden retriever, lying spread-eagled. Her name was Happy and she was what Lucy described as “a teenage dog,” being not fully grown. She had been skillfully cut open, her rib cage cracked and her front paws stretched wide in what looked like a travesty of the crucifixion.

  I got the message.

  Lucy loved playing with Happy.

  No one was safe.

  It took me less time than I’d initially thought to clean up. There were only a few spots of blood on the pink rug and I managed to make them disappear. I went over to the window and looked out over the back gardens. The neighbors, Jack and Shami Rooney, were childless insurance executives. On decent days like today, Happy was left in the garden, where she had a kennel. I banished speculation about how the killing had been carried out and concentrated on getting the carcass out of Lucy’s bedroom. It never occurred to me to disobey the command. Lucy would have screamed for days if she saw what had been done to the dog she loved.

  I found a roll of large black bin bags in the kitchen. I was about to lean over the dog when I realized that my clothes would get covered in blood and other matter. There was nothing else for it. I stripped and, breathing through my mouth, managed to wrestle the body into a bag. At least rigor mortis hadn’t yet set in. I wrapped it as securely as I could, putting the bloody plastic sheet in another bag and lashing the whole thing together with string.

  Then it struck me. How was I going to get rid of Happy?

  I washed myself clean in the shower and put my clothes back on. Then I went back downstairs and let myself out. There were some people in Ruskin Park, but none near enough to register me. I checked the street in both directions and headed home. The seven-year-old red Volvo station wagon that I’d inherited from my father was parked outside my place. I drove it back to Caroline’s and opened the tail hatch. Waiting until an elderly couple with a Pekinese had passed, I raced upstairs and brought the bundle down. It was heavier than I’d expected, but it fit in the rear compartment easily enough. I closed and locked the car, then went back to check Lucy’s room. I couldn’t see any sign of what had been on her bed. My stomach flipped when I thought that my daughter was going to have to sleep there tonight, but I had other priorities right now. I went down to the basement and found a spade.

  Now what? How do you dispose of a dead dog in central London in broad daylight? I drove swiftly away, heading for Crystal Palace. I knew there was a public dump somewhere, but I decided against using that. There was too much risk that I’d be spotted or that Happy would be found. In the end, I drove out to Farnborough and took it into the woods behind a bridle path. Since it was a weekday morning, there was no one about. I dug a shallow grave, deposited the wretched animal in it and covered the hole as best I could.

  I got back to my flat at two o’clock. The computer’s screen saver was on, showing a collage of my book jackets that I’d been meaning to get rid of for weeks. I logged back on to my e-mail server and found a message from W1612D, this time via Google. The bastard was moving around the Internet like a ghost.

  Matt, it said. I am impressed! Farnborough, of all places. I won’t tell anyone. Here’s the serious bit. Make sure you don’t, either. Or Lucy will end up in a similar state. Or perhaps your mother. Or Sara. Or Caroline. Or anyone else you know. Do you accept my proposition, Matt?

  I hit Reply and typed, What proposition?

  The answer chime came quickly. I hardly think you’re in a position to quibble, my friend. Besides, you’ve taken my money. Are you going to cooperate or do you want more innocent blood to be spilled?

  I thought about it, but not for long. The fact was, I was shit scared about Lucy. But there was more to it than that. I’d been making up crime stories
for years, and now the actual thing had literally landed on my doorstep. I couldn’t resist responding to the lunatic who’d cut up Happy. Like every crime writer, I fancied trying my hand at real-life detective work. I reckoned I could do it better than the clods in Scotland Yard-no way was I telling them about my hotline to the sadistic bastard. It didn’t occur to me that I was walking through the gates of the underworld.

  Okay, I typed. But I don’t want your filthy money.

  Another chime. That’s the deal, Matt. The money’s yours. Don’t make me angry.

  I hit Reply again. Who are you?

  Come on, Matt. I’ve already told you. Bye for now.

  He’d already told me? WD? What the hell did WD mean?

  Then, with a surge of apprehension, it came to me.

  3

  The sun was casting a dying red light over the Thames. The view from the penthouse was fantastic, worth every penny of the million and a half he’d paid for it. The place was packed with the equipment he needed, the far end of the huge living area taken up by an ultramodern gym. The watcher at the window closed his eyes and smiled. His story was going to be told, and by a professional writer. It had to be done right, with nothing missing-the way he remembered it from the beginning. He was the hero, he had fought to get where he was now, with all the power in the world.

  He’d begun to realize his true potential the day his father hit him for the last time.

  “Les?” His mother’s voice was soft and warm, as it had always been. “You all right?”

  He was in his cramped bedroom in the tower block in Bethnal Green. It was winter and there wasn’t any heating on. His father had taken all the coins and gone down to the pub.

  “That’s a nice tank,” Cath Dunn said, kneeling down by her son. “Where d’you get it?”

  Les looked up from the model of the Mark One Tiger that he’d stolen from Woolworths. “Gran gave me the money. I fetched her shopping for her.”

  Cath smiled. She knew her boy wasn’t being truthful, but she didn’t care. He was a good boy, a lovely boy, with his light hair and nut-brown eyes. And he was so advanced for a twelve-year-old, he knew so much about things-air-planes and tanks, battleships and uniforms. She frowned, hoping that he wouldn’t end up as a squaddie. She remembered how rude they were when they came home on leave, only talking filth and football. But no, her Les wouldn’t be joining the army. He was far too sensitive for that.

  Les shivered as his mother’s hand stroked the back of his neck. He forced himself to concentrate on the turret assembly. Recently, every time she touched him, he’d felt the blood run hot in his veins.

  He put down the model and stood up. “Mum,” he asked plaintively, “can’t we just go? You and me? You can get a job in a shop somewhere else. We can go to another part of London. He’ll never find us. I’ll look after you and…” He let the words trail away when he saw his mother’s face crease and her eyes fill with tears. He put his arm round her thin shoulders. “It’ll be all right, Mum. Honest, I’ll protect you from-”

  “From dirty Billy and his roaming hands?” His father’s voice made them jerk away from each other. He’d taken to coming back from the pub stealthily and sneaking up on them. “Seems to me you’re the one with roaming hands, son. You like the look of yer old mother, do you?” He stepped closer, his right arm raised. “You filthy little pervert!” He brought the hand down hard, but Les moved aside and was caught only a glancing blow on the shoulder.

  “No, Billy!” Cath screamed.

  “Shut your noise, cow!” Billy yelled, giving her a backhanded slap to the face.

  “Stop it!” Les shouted as his mother went down. “That’s enough!” He felt a strength he’d never known. Although his father was six inches taller than he was, his arms thick from years on the building sites, Billy was drunk. He didn’t even see the straight right that broke his nose.

  Les stepped back, amazed at what he had done. His father had crashed back against the wall, blood oozing through the gaps between the fingers that were over his face.

  “You…you…fucking little bastard,” Billy gasped, glancing at his cowering wife. “Tell him, Cath. Tell him what a bastard he is.” He stumbled away, the front door slamming behind him a few seconds later.

  “Are you all right, Mum?” Les asked, raising his mother to her feet. “What did he mean? I’m your son. I’m not a bastard.”

  Cath looked at him, her expression a mixture of sadness and pride. “Thank you, Les,” she said, leaning forward to kiss him. “Thank you for getting him off me.” Her skin on her left cheek was red and raised. “He’s nothing but a pathetic bully.”

  “Yes, but I am your son, aren’t I, Mum?” Les persisted. “What did he mean? What do you have to tell me?”

  Cath led him into the dimly lit sitting room. They sat down on the worn velour sofa.

  “Well, Les, strictly speaking you are our son. We did all the adoption papers when you were a baby. Billy didn’t drink so much then and the checks they did weren’t so tough as they are now. And…I wanted a baby so much.” She started to sob. “I couldn’t have any of my own,” she said, her face averted from him. “There was something wrong inside me. He…your father…Billy…he hurt me. That’s why he couldn’t say no when I wanted to adopt.”

  “But…but who’s my real mother?” Les said, his eyes locked on her.

  Cath smiled nervously. “I am, son. I looked after you when you were a tiny little thing, I’m raising-”

  “Yes, but who did I come out of?” Les said, his voice rising. He could find another way to put the question.

  “I…I don’t know.” Cath tried to meet his gaze but failed. “Some poor girl who couldn’t keep you. It was much harder then, being an unmarried mother.”

  Les sat back on the sofa and looked around the room. His mother did the best she could, but with so little money from her husband and nothing left over from her own wages after food and so on, the place wasn’t much to talk about. A battered black-and-white TV with a ragged lace cloth on it, an armchair with the stuffing coming out and a wobbly table-that was about it. The badly fitted window was covered by a faded orange-and-brown curtain that moved in the constant draft.

  “There must be somewhere better than this, Mum,” he said. “There must be.”

  Cath shook her head slowly. “I can’t leave your dad, Les. We’re Catholics, remember? We can’t get divorced.”

  Les felt his fists clench. He knew they were Catholics, all right. Father O’Connell made sure he knew what was right and what was wrong. Father O’Connell was an expert in that department. He was another one he’d pay back. But his father, who he now knew wasn’t even his real father, was number one on his list.

  “All right, Mum,” he said, giving her a smile. He’d realized he was better off after hearing the news that he had been adopted. The piece-of-shit Billy wasn’t related to him and that was a big relief.

  He eyed his mother. And Cath wasn’t a blood relation, either. That changed everything.

  Les moved closer, his hand touching his astonished mother’s breast. By the time she’d started to protest, he’d clamped his mouth over hers.

  No, the watcher at the window said to himself. Not that. The writer wasn’t going to get that. His loving mother’s memory was sacred. Nothing could be allowed to cast a shadow on it.

  He looked around the penthouse. If he’d wanted to, he could have invited a hundred people and still have had room for dancing. But he didn’t know a hundred people. He didn’t want anyone in his home, not even cleaners. It was his safe place, his hideaway-the opposite end of the scale from the dump in Bethnal Green where he’d grown up. His mother would have loved it. She would even have laughed if she’d seen the tanks-dozens of models, hundreds of soldiers, British and German, in the diorama he’d built of the Battle of El Alamein. Beyond that was the sand-covered layout he’d constructed of Lawrence of Arabia’s assault on Aqaba, camels and horsemen charging across the Turks’ lines. He might spend mo
st of his time in the underworld, but he liked to live on the surface of the earth, too-the surface he made himself, not the one outside his safe house.

  No, he thought. Matt Wells wasn’t going to get anything about his mother. But his father’s-his adoptive father’s-story was another matter.

  Billy Dunn had deserved everything he got.

  It was a late December afternoon, three weeks after Billy had last hit him and his mother. He had been planning it ever since. He’d bunked off school several mornings to follow his father to work. He was carrying bricks at an office development in King’s Cross. When he wasn’t drunk, Billy Dunn was quiet, accepting the foreman’s orders without complaint. But Les had seen the anger burning in his father’s eyes and knew that it wouldn’t be long before he started taking it out on Cath again. That wasn’t going to happen.

  He waited for the perfect day. There was heavy drizzle, mist, and people were walking the streets with their heads bowed, concentrating on avoiding the puddles and paying no attention to anyone else. He positioned himself behind a lamppost across the street from the site entrance. Late in the afternoon when the brickies were getting ready to pack up for the day, he slipped inside. He knew exactly where Billy was-on the recently started third floor. Only a few walls had been erected there so far.

  He’d been watching his father and he’d learned how to sneak around. Being small, he’d already picked up a lot of skills like that at school. Avoiding bullies was better than standing up to them, unless there was no other option. He went up to the third floor, making sure no one had spotted him. Most of the men were on their way out, anyway. Billy was over in the corner, hunkered down and lighting a fag.