by Paul Johnson
“Right,” he said to the hooded figure. “It’s time we got started.” He watched as their captive tensed. Obviously the effect of the punch was wearing off. Good. The Devil wanted his victim to be aware of what was coming.
Pain was what it was all about, pain and horror. After this killing, the writer would understand that no one he’d ever met was safe. Then they would see how he reacted to real pressure.
The Devil selected a couple of instruments, nodded to his partner and walked over to the prisoner. He removed the blindfold and was gratified by the sight of two damp and terrified eyes. They implored him for mercy, but they also seemed to contain the knowledge that none would be forthcoming.
Then he had a thought. Why not up the pressure on Matt Wells right now? He handed the scalpel and probe to his partner and took his mobile from his pocket.
The smile that spread across his face as he started to speak made his victim whimper and moan.
23
I was finishing the chapter about Alexander Drys when my old mobile rang. My heart skipped a couple of beats. I had to hope that D.C.I. Oaten was being true to her word and hadn’t put a trace on the phone.
“I suppose you think you’ve been very clever, Matt.” The Devil’s voice was worryingly confident.
I moved away from Rog, who was still trying to get into the British Airways system. “What do you mean?”
“I know what you’ve been up to, my friend. I have to say I’m very disappointed.” His tone was mocking and I had a bad feeling about what was about to happen. But it was too late to retreat.
“Like I give a fuck what you feel,” I said, provoking a grin from the guy in a beanie hat at the till. I went outside. “You think you’re so clever, but you’re not the only person with a functioning brain.”
There was a pause. “Is that right, Matt?” His voice was now ice cold. “Have a listen to this.”
I heard what sounded like a slap and then a muffled groan followed by choking, high-pitched screams. Jesus, who did the bastard have?
“Recognize the voice?”
I kept quiet, too shocked to hazard a guess.
“I asked you a question,” the Devil said, almost shouting.
“I don’t know!” I yelled back.
He laughed. “You think you’re so clever, Mr. Award-Winning Crime Novelist. Well, I’m not going to tell you who I’m about to torture and kill. How does that make you feel?”
“Sick,” I said, turning away from a pair of laughing children who’d entered the cafe. “Look, take me instead. If you let the person you’ve got go, I’ll hand myself over to you.”
There was another laugh, this one filled with terrible malevolence. “No, no, it isn’t time for you to suffer pain, Matt. It will be soon enough. In the meantime, be sure that someone you spoke to earlier today is about to die in agony.”
I was so shocked that I almost cried out.
“I hope you haven’t been talking to that bitch detective,” the Devil continued. “Because people you talk to have recently acquired a substantially reduced life expectancy. You’re making this a war between you and me, Matt.”
“Come on!” I shouted. “Let’s finish it now, man to man.”
“Man to man?” he sneered. “I’m not even sure you are a man yet. You’re a writer, a fraudster, someone who lives from making things up. That isn’t my definition of a man.”
I heard the whimpering of the victim in the background.
“Please,” I begged, “don’t hurt any of my family. Or my friends.”
For a few moments I thought I’d got to him. Then he laughed again. “It’s too late for that, Matt. And where’s my chapter? If I don’t have it soon, you’ll be mourning someone a lot closer to you than Alexander Drys.” He gave me a new e-mail address and then cut the connection.
I ran to the public phone and called Dave Cummings.
“Matt, what’s going on, lad?” His voice was normal.
Relief flooded through me. “Is Lucy okay? Are all of you okay?”
“’Course she is, mate. And so are we. Ginny’s taking it well, apart from a bit of whining early on. We’re…well, never mind what we’re doing. Don’t want you working out where we are, do we? What’s up?”
“Nothing,” I said, not wanting to alarm him. “Listen, are you in range of a mobile phone supplier?”
“Aye, I suppose so.”
“Get a new one, pay-as-you-go, and text the number to me with it.” I gave him my new mobile number. “Turn off your old one.”
“Got you. He might be scanning us. Need any help?”
“No, mate. Just look after Luce and your lot. I’ll be in touch.”
“Get the bastard,” Dave said. “Though I’d really like to do that myself.”
“Yeah, Psycho, I know you would. Got to go.” I signed off, having decided that talking to Lucy would just make her anxious. Then I called D.C.I. Oaten.
“Karen? It’s Matt Wells. Have you got everyone I listed under protection?”
“Almost everyone,” she replied. “What’s happened?”
“I just had the Devil on the phone. He’s got someone I know. He says he’s about to kill whomever it is.”
“Where’s your daughter?” she said, her voice clipped.
“She’s safe.”
“Not as safe as she would be under police protection. Listen, Matt, I’ve been reading the e-mails between you and this White Devil. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Why don’t you come in and help us?”
I wasn’t sure that I believed her. Someone as devious as this killer could have set up the various accounts and sent messages to himself. I reckoned she still had me down as a suspect.
She changed tack. “You realize that you’re obstructing an investigation, maintaining contact with a multiple murder suspect and-”
That made me sure I couldn’t trust her. “Never mind that,” I interrupted. “Who haven’t you been able to locate?” I heard her ask the Welshman for a list.
“Right. You said you’ve taken steps to protect your mother and your editor, Ms. Young-Burke. We’ve spoken to your girlfriend, Sara Robbins. She’s on a story in Oxford, but she’s with a photographer. She’s going to ring us before she separates from him. We haven’t actually been able to speak to your wife, but one of her colleagues assured us that she was in the company building. He thought she was in a meeting because her mobile phone had been turned off. I’ve left messages for her to call me.”
Caroline hadn’t been my top priority since I’d put off telling her about what I’d done with Lucy.
“Other than that, we’ve got people at your publishers. Most of the staff there are accounted for.”
“Most of them?” I asked.
“What, Taff?” she shouted. “Oh. Apparently some of them went out with an author. They were going on to a theater matinee, and then to dinner. We’ll catch up with them.”
“Okay,” I said dubiously. “What about my author friends?”
“Well, you can hardly expect us to send people out all over the country. We’ve notified the local forces and they’ll do what they deem necessary. I have to assume that your Devil is London-based. Essex is as far as he’s gone from the capital.”
“So far. All right.” I had a question for her. I’d seen a report in one of the papers in the cafe about the murder in Greenwich and she’d asked me about the dead man. “Is Terence Smail part of this?”
There was a pause. “No connection has been established yet. Were you being straight with me? The name means nothing to you?”
“I told you, no. Okay, that’s it.”
“Aren’t you going to give me your new contact number, Matt?”
I thought about it. “Sorry, no. I need to keep on the move. Thanks for what you’re doing, Karen.” I hung up, imagining the look on her face and glad that I wasn’t within range of her muscular physique.
Back in the cafe, Rog was still hammering away at the keyboard and cursing under his breath. A pen
cil was stuck through his salt-and-pepper curls.
“No luck?” I asked.
“Getting there, but it’s slow.” He glanced at me. “Of course, only a solid-gold superstar like me could have got even this far.”
I left him to it and finished the Drys chapter. Before I sent it to my tormentor, I tried to imagine who his latest victim could be. My mother had sounded strange on the phone, but it couldn’t have been her. She was a fighter; she wouldn’t have allowed herself to be held captive and pretend otherwise. Caroline? No, she was bound to be still in the office, as Oaten said. Who the hell did he have? Christ, they hadn’t accounted for everyone from Sixth Sense.
I went back out to the public phone and called Jeanie Young-Burke’s mobile, using the agreed method.
“Hello!” she shouted above a lot of background noise.
“It’s Matt.”
“Darling, how sweet of you to call.” I tried to get a word in, but not before she’d let slip where she was. “Paris is a delight. I’ve found the most charming little bistro and I’m surrounded by divine Frenchmen. This was such a good idea of yours.”
I raised my eyes to the pale blue sky. Trust Jeanie to fall on her feet. “In case you’re worrying, the police are keeping an eye on everyone I know at your office.”
“Oh, don’t bother about them,” she said with a shrieking laugh. “They know how to look after themselves.”
“Really?” I said, struck by her naivete. “Don’t call any of them, remember? I’ll let you know when you can come back.”
“Fine, darling. Frankly, I don’t know if I ever want to come back.” There was a trill of laughter, and then she cut the connection.
Before I went inside, I called Sara. Her mobile rang for a long time. When she finally replied, she sounded out of breath.
“Hi, it’s me,” I said, catching the noise of a train in the background.
“Oh. Matt.” She sounded surprised.
“Are you still in Oxford?”
“What? Oh, yes. We’ll be heading back soon.”
“I’m sorry about all this.”
“It’s okay. I want the exclusive, though.”
I laughed. “Typical bloody journo. You’ll remember to talk to the police before you get back to the Smoke?”
“Of course,” she said bitterly. “I’m really looking forward to having a cop outside my flat tonight.”
I wasn’t sure where I was going to be later on, but Sara’s place wasn’t an option, given said cop. “I’ll see if I can make it,” I lied.
“Don’t bother. They’ve got you under guard, too, haven’t they?”
“Um, yeah. Okay, I’ll talk to you later. Love you.” I rang off, feeling less than proud of myself for not telling her I’d eluded the surveillance.
I was becoming as duplicitous as the White Devil. The fact that he was bringing me down to his level made me even more determined to nail the bastard.
Before he nailed someone I cared for.
John Turner was driving the unmarked Volvo at speed behind a police car with its lights flashing and siren blaring. It was early evening and the commuter traffic was pulling aside to let them past. Beside him, D.C.I. Oaten was gripping her seat belt with one hand, her mobile in the other.
“No, Paul!” she shouted. “Don’t let the SOCOs start yet. I want to see the scene myself first. We’ll be there-” She broke off and glanced at her colleague. “How long?”
The inspector was watching the car in front like a hawk as it tore along Upper Thames Street toward London Bridge. “Five minutes max,” he said. “The uniformed boys have cordoned off Southwark Cathedral and the Borough Market.”
“In five,” Oaten concluded, letting the phone drop to her lap. “Jesus, Taff, this is getting way out of control.”
Turner’s expression was grim. “Hardy’s people shouldn’t have let Wells give them the slip. He’s in this up to his elbows. What about the guy who was cut up in Greenwich? Could he be linked to the other killings?”
Oaten chewed her lip. “If he is, God knows how. I hope Hardy can find out, but I’m not too confident. Of course, it could be that the killer’s trying to distract us.” She looked out at the lights on the river-leisure boats full of people having a good time, tourists taking in the sights and sounds of “olde” London Town, seagulls swooping down to investigate bits of rubbish. Most people lived normal lives, unperturbed by the horrors in the newspapers. Why the hell wasn’t she one of them? She knew the answer. Because she had a particular talent. She could spot a villain at long range. All her experience was telling her that Matt Wells wasn’t dirty, but she couldn’t be sure. The fact that she felt the unmistakable signs of physical attraction toward him wasn’t helping.
“We’ll see,” she said noncommittally.
“Does the A.C. know you’ve been talking to Wells, guv?” her subordinate asked.
“Drop it, Taff,” she ordered. “The less you know about that the better.”
There was an uneasy silence in the car until Turner pulled up beside Paul Pavlou. The D.S. was standing at the eastern entrance to Borough Market.
“Good evening, guv, sir,” he said. “It’s over here.”
Karen Oaten and the inspector followed him under a police line and down the sloping street. A crowd of onlookers had gathered, their necks straining as they tried to see what was in the large wheeled rubbish bin. A middle-aged man with a slack jaw was standing next to D.S. Simmons.
“What’s Morry doing here?” Turner said under his breath.
“I reinstated him,” Oaten said. “You were right. We need all the hands we can get.”
“I don’t suppose he’ll be running to the press again after the strip you tore off him.”
“No, neither do I. He paid the money he got over to the Police Benevolence Fund. Voluntarily, of course.”
“’Evening, guv,” Simmons said, his tie done up and his hair less chaotic than usual. “This is Alfred Andrews. He found the-” The sergeant inclined his head to the bin. “He saw the-”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” the chief inspector said, pulling on a pair of gloves and nodding to the SOCOs who were standing by. “Get a provisional statement, Taff.”
They went to the bin, one photographer holding a videocam and another flashing away with a digital camera. As Oaten got closer, she saw what had attracted the cleaner’s attention. Two hands, the fingers long and delicate, were protruding from the almost closed lid of the bin, as if someone had tried unsuccessfully to clamber out. Even more striking than the hands was what had been done to them. The ends of the digits were smeared by blackening blood, like those of a child who’d been playing with finger paints. When she leaned into the lights that had been set up, Oaten saw that all ten fingernails were missing, and the tissue beneath badly damaged. She took a deep breath. The bastard had pulled out the victim’s fingernails, but she had a feeling that was just the start.
She took a step back and watched as the lid was lifted and propped up.
Behind her, a voice said, “Delightful.”
She turned to meet the steady gaze of the pathologist Redrose.
Together they advanced to the rim of the rectangular steel structure. It must have been emptied recently as there wasn’t much in it. Only a human body. Oaten told herself to get a grip. She found herself hoping like hell it wasn’t someone close to Matt Wells. Could the White Devil really have got to one of them?
The naked victim was in a kneeling position, the forearms over the edge and the fair-haired head bent forward to touch the inside of the bin. The chief inspector tried to make out the features, but it was impossible.
“Let’s push the body back,” Redrose said to his assistants. Photographs were taken first. After they’d handled the torso carefully, the movement showing that rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet, he looked downward. “Male,” he said. “And young-under thirty, I’d say. My God. Lift me up.” His assistants obliged. After a short examination, he signaled that he be lowered back down
.
“Well?” Karen Oaten said, having taken in the gaping wounds to the face, throat and chest.
“This is preliminary, of course,” the doctor said, “but it looks to me like the poor man’s been savagely bitten. His nose is missing, as is a substantial section of the front of the neck. His nipples have also been bitten off.”
Oaten peered back into the bin. “There isn’t much blood in there. Obviously he was assaulted elsewhere.”
“Yes. We’ll have to get him out of here.” Redrose looked round. “Ah, good, they’ve got the tent up. I’ll be able to carry out a more detailed exam there.”
“Want to have a guess at the cause of death?”
“Not really. But I’ll say shock or loss of blood for the time being.”
“Okay. Let me know if you find anything on the body or-”
“In its orifices.” The medic gave her a tight smile. “I haven’t much doubt it’s your killer again.”
Oaten went back to Turner. “What have you got?”
“Not much. The market had been closed for a couple of hours when he started his cleaning rounds. Mr. Andrews saw the bin being emptied around six-thirty, so the body was deposited after that. He didn’t see anything happen around the bin, but he did notice a white van drive off at some stage. He isn’t sure when.” The Welshman shrugged. “He doesn’t wear a watch.”
“It should all be on film,” the chief inspector said, pointing at the security cameras hanging from the eaves.
“I’ve already sent Pavlou off to get the tapes.”
“Good. Any other witnesses?”
“Morry and a couple of the others are canvassing the crowd and the neighboring shops. Nothing yet.” Turner shrugged. “You know what it’s like in a busy street.”
“Everyone minding their own business. We’ll put an appeal for information out on the ten o’clock news. We may get lucky and find a passing driver who had a perfect view of the killers’ faces.”
