The Death List mw-1

by Paul Johnson

  Taking out the phone card I always kept in my wallet for emergencies, I made the first of my planned calls.

  “Hello?” My mother sounded wide-awake but cautious.

  “It’s me,” I said, my mouth close to the receiver. “I haven’t got much time. I need you to do something that’s going to surprise you. I want you to go to Heathrow without delay. Book yourself on the first available flight to any destination in Europe. Take your mobile phone with you. Don’t answer it the first time it rings. If it rings four times and then stops, it’ll be me. Pick it up the next time it rings, okay? And don’t tell me where you are.”

  “What on earth-”

  “Don’t interrupt, Fran,” I said firmly. “You’re in great danger. I can’t tell you about it. But you’ll be fine if you do what I tell you. You’re always on about how you need a holiday. Well, this is your chance. I’ll be in touch. Promise me you’ll do this. For me.” I was ladling on the loving-son treatment, not that it was difficult. I was terrified that the Devil would get his hands on her.

  “Well, all right, Matt,” she said doubtfully. “I’ll get going as soon as I can.”

  “Good. I’ll be in touch. Have a fine time.” I terminated the call. My mother was strong-willed, but she knew when to listen to other people. She had plenty of money and traveled abroad on her own often enough, always with British Airways. One down.

  I rang the next number on my list.

  Dave Cummings answered his mobile on the second ring. I could hear kids’ voices in the background.

  “It’s Matt. Listen, I’m in a lot of trouble and I need your help.”

  “Thought you might be, lad,” he said with typical Yorkshire bluntness. “What do you want me to do with the money?”

  “Nothing,” I replied. I’d decided to ignore the Devil’s cash. If I used even a small amount of it, I’d be complicit with him. “Keep it hidden, and the diskettes somewhere else. Look, I need several favors. First of all, can you pick Lucy up after school?”

  “No problem.”

  “Then take her back to your place.”

  “Ditto.”

  “Then take her and all of your lot off to your cottage in the country till you hear from me.”

  “What? The wife, as well?”

  “The wife, the dog, everyone.”

  There was a pause. “What’s this about, Matt?”

  “Lucy’s in danger. So’s anyone who knows me. I need a bit of time to sort this out, and I need to know Lucy and all of you are safe.”

  “Lowlife?”

  “Very low.”

  “I want to help.”

  I’d known he would offer support without hesitation. “Look, Psycho, do this today. I’ll need more help later on.” I went through the same mobile contact procedure as with my mother. “All right?”

  “Aye, all right. Keep cool, Matt. Remember, you’ve got friends.”

  “Thanks, Dave.” I rang off. I knew I could rely on him, but not even he could beat the Devil-at least, not on his own.

  Next on the list was Roger van Zandt. He took longer to answer his phone. Being divorced, childless and self-employed, he had no reason to get up early-apart from his computers and the dioramas of Second World War battles that he filled his house with.

  “Rog? It’s Matt.”

  “What the hell do you-”

  “It’s an emergency.”

  “It’d better be, Wellsy.” He sounded like he wanted to take my head off. No doubt he’d downed a pint too many last night. “If it’s about your laptop, I’m still working on it. You really messed-”

  “Forget the laptop, Dodger. What do you know about surveillance systems? Or rather, about how to disable them?”

  “What? Are you sober?”

  “Yes!” I shouted. “Listen to me. I’m in danger and so is everyone who knows me. That includes you. Get out of your flat and go into the West End. Find a security-system supplier and pick his brains about how to locate and disable pinhole cameras, listening devices, whatever. Okay? Have you got money?”

  “I’ve got plenty of credit on my cards.”

  “Good. Get whatever you need and I’ll pay you back. Whatever you do, don’t go back home. I’ll contact you.” I set up the four-ring procedure again. “Look, Rog, I’m really sorry-”

  “Forget it, Matt. This is why we’re mates, isn’t it? Ooh, I’ve just come over all excited.”

  “Calm down,” I said, touched by his eagerness, but also concerned by it. “I’m not joking. You really are in danger. I’ll tell you about it later, okay?”

  I rang off. So far, so good. Next number.

  “Andy?”

  “Hey, man.” Andrew Jackson’s New Jersey tones blasted out of the earpiece. “Bit early for a social call, isn’t it?” He moved his mouth away from the receiver. “It’s all right, doll. I won’t be a minute.”

  I might have known. He was a serial shagger. “I’m afraid you will be a minute, Slash,” I said. “This is serious.” I made it clear to him how much shit we were in.

  “You’ve been careless, haven’t you, Wellsy? Never mind. I’ll sort things out for you.”

  I’d been hoping he’d say that. If ever a man answered the description of “muscle for hire” it was Andy. Apart from sex, there had been nothing he enjoyed more than mowing down opposition players on both sides of the Atlantic-first as a strongside linebacker back home and then as a lethal prop for the Bisons.

  “Can you get off work?”

  “Screw work. The restaurant’s been half empty for weeks. Tell me what you need.”

  I gave him the name and address I wanted him to keep an eye on, and then set up the same mobile contact as the others. Before I hung up, I heard him telling his bird to hop it. The man was a star.

  That left three people to consider. One was my ex-wife. I’d thought about Caroline for some time. If I gave her any hint of what I was up against, she’d go straight to the police. I’d already decided that was a waste of time. They couldn’t protect my friends and family, at least not until they were sure I wasn’t involved in the murders. It wasn’t fair that I was going to take Lucy from her, but I’d try to square it with her later.

  The second and much more important person was Sara. I’d thought about warning her, but I was worried that her journalist’s nose for a good story would lead her into danger. I knew she usually worked with a photographer who was a judo black belt. I didn’t feel good about it, but I’d have to hope that he would keep the Devil at bay until I came up with a better plan.

  That left one person-me. I knew I was probably under permanent surveillance by both the Devil and the police. That meant I had a very limited range of options. I’d made a list of people the lunatic was most likely to attack on my behalf. Two stood out. Andy Jackson was covering one of them. I had to do what I could for the other.

  I made one more phone call and, with difficulty, set up a meeting. Then I ran back home, making myself appear even more knackered than I was. I showered and dressed, and went round to the former family home. That was a nightmare. I had to dissemble to Caroline that everything was normal, and then I had to walk Lucy down to school, wondering all the time if I would ever see her again. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Dave. He’d sacrifice himself for my daughter, I was sure of that. It was myself I was worried about. What chance did I stand taking on the White Devil?

  “Bye, Daddy,” Lucy said.

  “Bye, sweetest,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Remember, I’ve got a meeting this afternoon. Dave will take you home with Tom.”

  “I remember,” she said solemnly. Then she turned and walked into her classroom.

  I felt something break inside me, but it was too late to do anything about it. I had made my choices, thrown my dice, crossed my Rubicon.

  The question was, would I be coming back?

  John Turner walked into his superior’s office. “’Morning, guv.” He looked over his shoulder. “Is it right what I’m hearing? You packed
Morry Simmons off to Traffic?”

  The chief inspector nodded. “What did you think I was going to do? Keep him on the team after he owned up to selling the story to the press?”

  “Yes, but we’re seriously undermanned…I mean, short-staffed…”

  Oaten didn’t notice the gender correction. “We’ll survive,” she said.

  “Hope so,” the Welshman muttered.

  “Let’s get cracking,” Oaten said from behind a heap of files. “We have a list of seventy-three boys who attended Father Prendegast/O’Connell’s church, were taught by Miss Merton and were registered with Doctor Keane.”

  “That’s right, guv,” John Turner said from the other side of her desk. He looked at his notebook. “Five are dead. Sixty-two have alibis that check for at least two of the murders.”

  “And six we can’t find.” The chief inspector ran a hand across her hair. “In addition to that, we have dozens of people who knew Alexander Drys, most of them members of what they like to call high society. Hardy’s people are checking them, but, frankly, I don’t think there’s a direct link to the previous victims.”

  “Despite the fact that the killer appears to be the same person?” Turner shook his head. “Cold-hearted bastard, using the victim’s blood to underline that bit in Wells’s book.”

  Oaten leaned back in her chair and stared up at the ceiling. “Yes, there’s Matt Wells, too. Anything interesting on him?”

  “We caught up with his girlfriend this morning. She confirmed his alibi for the priest’s murder. For what that’s worth.”

  The chief inspector’s eyes met his. “Meaning?”

  “She’s a typical journalist. She seemed to be more interested in the murders than her man.”

  “Do you think he told her to expect us?”

  “She said not. Again, for what that’s worth.”

  “The modus squares with Wells’s book, too,” Karen Oaten said.

  “Yes, it does.” There was excitement in the Welshman’s voice.

  Oaten looked unconvinced. “There’s more?” she asked.

  Turner nodded and scowled. “Hardy’s guys who’re on surveillance say that Wells had an early-morning run today. He went round Brockwell Park while they stopped for breakfast. Tossers. Then he walked his daughter to school and went back to his place. They say he’s still there.”

  Karen Oaten examined the notes she’d made. “Let’s leave Wells out of this for the time being. We can’t link him to the first three murders. Obviously he had motive for the Drys killing-you saw the reviews the victim wrote of his books-but he has the perfect alibi. From us. We need to concentrate on the six missing men from the list. Run through the names again, will you, Taff?”

  “John Marriott, Peter Jones, Leslie Dunn, Adam O’Riley, Luke Towne and Nicholas Cork.”

  “What have we got on them?”

  “Marriott was a seaman, last seen in 1996. His family haven’t heard from him since, but they reckon he’s shacked up with a woman in Brazil. He jumped ship there.”

  “Forget him for the time being.”

  “Jones and Towne both had problems with alcohol. They were inside for burglary, separate incidents, in the nineties. Their families think they’ll be on the streets. If they’re alive.”

  “I can’t see alkies being capable of these murders, can you?”

  The Welshman shrugged. “Not really. That leaves Dunn, O’Riley and Cork. O’Riley’s got form for Grievous Bodily Harm. But he has a drug problem. As well as being as thick as two short planks, according to his school report.”

  “Not too likely it’s him, then.”

  “So we’re down to Dunn and Cork. They’re the most interesting ones, too. Cork seems to have been the violent type. His sister says he used to beat up his parents as soon as he got big enough. They haven’t heard from him for years and they’re happy about that. According to the school reports, Dunn was a pain in the arse. He was also bullied. His father was killed in an accident on a building site when the boy was twelve. His mother died of cancer when he was seventeen. Later, he worked in a call center. The personnel manager there thinks he went to work in a bank afterward, but doesn’t remember which one. We’re still checking that.” Turner stared across at his superior. “What is it, guv?”

  Oaten raised a hand, her face creased in thought. “Hackney,” she said.

  “What about it?”

  “Remember that case we worked before we transferred here? The guy whose belly was ripped open, the wife who was a lawyer and the baby? We never found the killer.”

  John Turner’s jaw dropped. “Christ. He was a bank manager, wasn’t he? Do you think there’s a link?”

  She nodded. “Maybe. There was no message left about his person, but maybe he was a dress rehearsal before the killer got on to his real agenda. Check the file and get on to the branch he worked at. If Leslie Dunn was employed there, he might well be our man.”

  Turner was on his way to the door. “It could be Cork’s working with him,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Could be.” Oaten stood up as he left. She slapped her forehead hard. She should have made the connection before. Hackney. She’d hated working in the area, but it had been the making of her career with its high drug-related crime rate and plentiful murders. Except that she’d managed to overlook what might turn out to be the crucial link. Then she sat down again slowly, her expression grim. They were still nowhere near cracking the case. Even if Dunn did turn out to have worked for the murdered bank manager, they still had to find him. She found his file among the pile on her desk. It seemed that none of his school contemporaries had seen him since he left at sixteen.

  That was about as cold a trail as you could get.

  20

  I spotted the cops after I’d got dressed. I was wearing my leather jacket, black shirt and trousers, and Dr. Martens-standard male crimewriter’s garb. The cops were in a blue Rover about fifty yards down the street. I hadn’t seen them in the morning when I went running. Maybe they weren’t on shift then. I hoped they hadn’t spotted me making the phone calls. That would have piqued Karen Oaten’s curiosity. I thought about her for a moment. There was something about her, even though she was potentially an enemy thanks to the Devil.

  I left the flat, looking as nonchalant as I could about the men on my tail. They were welcome to follow me now. I walked down to Herne Hill station and bought a travel card. I spotted a guy in a crumpled parka getting on the carriage behind mine. I paid him no further attention. At Victoria, I took the Tube up to Tottenham Court Road and walked to the nearby square where Sixth Sense Ltd., my former publishers, had their office.

  “I’ve an appointment with Jeanie Young-Burke,” I said to the attractive, raven-haired young woman at reception. I’d never seen her before. The rapid turnover of receptionists had always struck me. Presumably they were driven up the wall by would-be novelists trying to do a sales job on their magnum opus, or by previously published writers like me desperately trying to get back into the business.

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Stone.” She gave me a brilliant smile. “My name’s Mandy. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I love the Sir Tertius books.”

  I was taken aback by her friendliness and we got talking. Like all the postuniversity recruits, she wanted to become an editor. The way she spoke about writing, not just mine, suggested that she would make a pretty good one. Our conversation was interrupted by a courier and I sat down. I was still surprised that my former editor had agreed to see me. Then again, I had told her a very large lie.

  A tall, solemn young man wearing round glasses came through the security door. “Mr. Stone? Matt?”

  I stood up and shook his hand. “And you are?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, blushing. He looked like he wasn’t long out of primary school. “Reggie Hampton. I’m Jeanie’s assistant.”

  “Right,” I said, following him through the door. My ex-editor went through staff even quicker than the front desk. There were rumor
s that, since her divorce, she used them for bedroom as well as office services. “How do you find it here?”

  “Fascinating,” he said, flashing me a toothy smile. “I want to be an editor myself.”

  I refrained from pointing out to him that the attrition rate of editors was almost as high as that of subalterns on the Somme-unless they found a copper-bottomed bestseller sharpish. Then again, what did I know about bestsellers?

  Reggie left me at Jeanie’s workstation. It was separated from the rest of the open-plan office by glass panels, indicating her seniority. I’d lost touch with her job title. It seemed to change every few months. The last one I remembered was associate publisher, but no doubt that was out of date.

  My former editor waved me to a seat in front of her desk. She was on the phone. I soon realized she was telling some unlucky agent how little she appreciated being sent a book that she described as “terribly substandard.” She’d probably used a similar phrase about my last contracted tome.

  “Matt!” she said, putting the phone down and extending a well-manicured hand. She didn’t get up. Jeanie Young-Burke was in her late forties, but she looked older. Her make-up was applied skillfully enough, but it couldn’t completely hide the lines that twenty-five years in publishing had given her. “What a surprise!”

  “Hello, Jeanie.” I tried not to stare at the publicity photo of her latest prodigy-a stunning former model who had written, or at least put her name to, a novel about murders in the rag trade.

  “Nice to see you, too. Prospering, I presume?”

  “Darling, everything’s wonderful,” she replied, putting a piece of chewing gum between her scarlet lips. She’d given up smoking a couple of years back, but it seemed she always needed something in her mouth. “So sorry we couldn’t publish any more of your lovely Zog books. The market just didn’t seem to like them.”

  I tried to look nonchalant as Reggie arrived with a tray of coffee.

  “Thank you,” Jeanie said, fluttering her eyelashes at him. “Sweet boy,” she whispered after he’d left. “He’s got a first from Oxford, you know.”