The Death List mw-1

by Paul Johnson

  “Yes, Fay, you join me outside King’s College London’s facility just south of Waterloo Bridge. Shortly before noon today, students discovered the body of a female lecturer on the third floor. Police are not releasing the woman’s name, but I can reveal that she was in the English Literature department.”

  Jesus.

  The anchor cut in. “Roy, I gather there are fears that this is the latest in the series of murders that some are attributing to the so-called New Ripper.”

  The reporter was nodding. “Yes, Fay, that is the indication we’re getting. Details of the murder are not being given yet, but I understand that there are links to the other killings. In a sensational development, Detective Chief Inspector Karen Oaten of the VCCT made this statement.”

  The picture cut to what was clearly a lecture room.

  Karen was standing next to the stern Welshman. “We are very anxious to talk to two men who were seen in the building between 11:00 and 11:30 this morning,” she said.

  I froze as photographs of me and Andy came up on the screen. Mine was from a book jacket, while my friend’s had obviously been taken in the hospital yesterday.

  “They are Matthew John Wells, age thirty-eight, a crime novelist who uses the name Matt Stone, and Andrew Krieger Jackson, an American age thirty-seven. Mr. Wells lives in Herne Hill, while Mr. Jackson’s home is in Catford, South London. Anyone who has seen either man in the last twenty-four hours should call this number-” she read it out “-or contact their local police station. All information will be treated with the strictest confidentiality.” Karen Oaten was looking even more determined than I’d seen her before. “This is a particularly horrible crime. It is essential that members of the public do not approach these men. The likelihood is that they are highly dangerous.”

  The reporter was back on the screen. “So there you are, Fay. Although the police are refusing to confirm that Mr. Wells and Mr. Jackson can be linked to the earlier murders, it seems reasonable to draw that conclusion.” He signed off.

  “Shit,” I said as Rog turned down the volume. I glanced at him and Bonehead. “Who’s going to tell Slash?”

  Rog got up and left the room.

  “It’s bollocks, isn’t it, Matt?” Peter said, his eyes locked on mine. “This is your chance to be totally straight with me.”

  “It’s bollocks,” I repeated slowly, my body numb.

  He slapped me on the back. “I knew it was. Now, wake up. We’ve got to catch this arsehole before the cops get to you.”

  Rog came back with Andy, who looked dazed.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “This is us being framed by the Devil,” I said. “He must have been on our tail.”

  “How could he have been?” Bonehead said. “No one knows you’re here. Keep your wits about you, mate.”

  He was right. The Devil was the ultimate planner. He must have targeted Lizzie Everhead earlier-I was sure she was the victim-and we’d been unlucky enough to walk in a few minutes before him and get picked up by the CCTV.

  “All right, what do we do?” Andy said, looking round at all three of us. “I’ll turn myself in if that’ll buy you time, Matt.”

  I could have wept, but I knew that wouldn’t have impressed any of them.

  “Thanks, mate, but there’s no point in doing that. It’s me they want, not you.” I glanced at Roger. “Are you into the lottery site?”

  “Any minute now.”

  “Well, go for it. In the meantime, I’m going to check my e-mails. I’ve got a feeling the bastard will have been in touch.” Before I sat down in front of a screen, I ran my eyes round them. “Peter, Rog, you guys can walk away from this thing right now. So can you, Andy. I’m prepared to find this piece of shit on my own.”

  They all spoke together, a mixture of “Forget it,” “No chance” and “Get outta here,” the last from Andy. Again, I was touched, but I made sure I didn’t show it. Ex-rugby league players only cry when they’ve had a bellyful of ale.

  “Whoah!” Andy yelled, peering at the cloud of smoke outside. “My ribs!” He departed at speed.

  “Thanks, guys,” I said quietly, logging on to my new e-mail identity. As I thought, the Devil had sent what he always referred to as notes. They didn’t make for pleasant reading. The bastard had obviously sent them before he’d seen the news, so at least I was spared mockery from him about that. But that was small comfort. He’d gone back to mimicking murders in my books. In Tirana Blues, the first Zog novel, an Albanian politician is found nailed to the table with a chisel rammed into the base of his skull to sever his spinal cord. Jesus. Oaten would be even more convinced I was guilty when she discovered that similarity. She already knew the dead woman had attacked my work, so there was motive-if you lived in the crazy world of the Devil.

  It was time I accepted that I was a fellow inhabitant of his underworld.

  The only way to catch him was to be as pitiless as he was.

  27

  The White Devil was sitting in front of the bank of screens in his penthouse overlooking the Thames. Only one of the screens was in operation. It showed a dimly lit enclosed space with no furniture apart from an old armchair that was losing its stuffing. On it was a figure bound around the calves and chest, the head covered by a sack with a hole cut in it to aid the passage of air. There was no way the Devil wanted this captive to expire yet. That would be a tragedy of Jacobean proportions.

  He smiled. The stench in the room would be almost unbearable by now, the urine and sweat joining with the reek of the rotting building. Originally, he hadn’t intended going anywhere near the place again. The captive would eventually die of thirst. Not a pleasant death, but there were worse ones. Matt Wells was a wanted man now, so he’d be prepared to take risks. That called for original thinking and flexibility. The Devil was a past master at those.

  He thought back to the events of the morning. It had been a classic example of how good planning was rewarded by an unexpected bonus. He had always planned to carry out this murder on his own. It would be broad daylight and going with his partner was too risky. Besides, he wanted to deal with the woman on his own. He’d been in the audience when Dr. Lizzie Everhead had taken Matt Stone’s novels to pieces in what was a very public humiliation. To be fair to Matt, he took it in good part, making jokes at his own expense and appearing to forgive the good doctor for what was an overscholarly attack on fiction for the mass market. Then again, as the novelist once said himself, if crime fiction wanted to be taken seriously, its writers had to expect to be judged by the same standards applied to literary fiction. Dream on, my friend, the Devil thought. The only people taking you seriously from now on will be members of the Metropolitan Police, the media and the judiciary.

  Getting into the building had been easy. He’d been inside numerous times over the past three months, wearing overalls and cap, and using a fake but convincing maintenance man’s pass. He’d spotted the absence of cameras beyond the entrance hall, and he’d also worked out the doctor’s timetable. He knew exactly when she was on her own in her office. But how was he to know that Matt was going to turn up with his muscular friend a few minutes before him? It had been a close call-he’d seen them leave-but it had led to Matt being put solidly in the frame for the murder. That really was funny. Originally he hadn’t intended using the modus operandi from the Zog novel, but since the writer had been messing him around, he wanted to pay him back. An anonymous phone call to the Yard later on would make sure the bitch Oaten had yet more to hold against Matt.

  Moving over to the penthouse’s tall windows, he looked out at the boats on the Thames. The worm of doubt he had felt about the murder at the Hereward and the men on Corky’s tail was growing. His accomplice was continuing to keep ahead of the Orion, his well-developed sense of self-preservation functioning well. But for how long?

  The White Devil shook his head and told himself to ignore Corky. It wasn’t as if he knew where to find the Devil. No, he’d already brought his plans forward a
nd the end was in sight. Soon, he’d be far away where he could never be found. With his partner.

  In the meantime, he had work to do.

  People to pick up.

  Skin to pierce.

  And blood to spill.

  “I’m in, Matt!” Rog shouted.

  Peter Satterthwaite and I dashed over to the desk and watched as he navigated his way skillfully around the lottery site. In a few seconds he’d accessed the list of big winners and typed in the date of the Devil’s win. A couple more clicks and we had it.

  Leslie Dunn-Flat 12, Vestine Building, Bermondsey Wall East, London SE16 OPY.

  “You did it!” I shouted, grabbing Rog’s shoulders.

  “Just a second,” he said, hammering away at the keyboard. “I’m deleting my identity so there’s no way they can trace me. Done.” He turned round and smiled. “So, let’s go and nail the bastard.” He got up and went to the door. “Andy! Get in here. We need you.”

  I sat them all down to think things through. “Look, if the Devil really is in this flat in Bermondsey, we need to be pretty careful about going in mob-handed. He’s cunning enough to have taken precautions.”

  “You and Andy can’t go anywhere,” Bonehead pointed out. “Your faces will be all over the evening paper.”

  He was right, but he could also provide a solution. “Aren’t you into fancy dress?” I asked.

  Andy guffawed. “Yeah, I remember when you turned up at the end-of-season dinner wearing a grass skirt.”

  Pete gave him an aloof stare. “I’ll have you know that was a genuine South Seas fashion item.” He laughed and turned to me. “As it happens, I have got a wardrobe full of outlandish gear. You’d look great as a Morris dancer, Matt, though maybe you’d attract a bit too much attention. As for you, Andy, I’ve got this great pair of leather trousers with the arse cut away.”

  The American looked appalled. “You must be joking, man.”

  I raised a hand. “All right, sober up. Yeah, we can disguise ourselves. The question is, how many of us go?”

  “All of us,” the three of them said in unison.

  I shook my head. “It’s too risky. What if he’s got the place booby-trapped? I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Why don’t we get Dave to check it out?” Rog asked. “He’s a demolition expert, after all.”

  I thought about it. “No, Dave needs to get back to Lucy and his family.”

  “So,” Bonehead said, “who goes?”

  “Since when were you part of this elite squad?” Andy asked.

  The multimillionaire smiled at him. “Since you guys invited yourselves here, Slash.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “We need all the help we can get. But we also need someone here to check out any leads we come up with. That means someone who can handle a computer.” I looked at Rog. “And that means you, mate.” His disappointment was obvious. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance.”

  “I suppose I’d better stay here, as well,” Bonehead said. “In case there’s more financial stuff to chase up. You never know, I might find the identity he’s using now.”

  I nodded, happy he’d worked that out before I had to tell him. “Looks like it’s you and me again, Andy,” I said. “Boney, show us your disguises.”

  He led us upstairs. “You do realize that the police might have found out about this place you’re going to and put surveillance on it?”

  I nodded. “It has occurred to me. But they’ve been busy with the killings. Maybe they haven’t been into the lottery archive yet.”

  Half an hour later we left the house, this time driving our host’s brand-new pale blue BMW 6 Series coupe in case the Jeep had been picked up on CCTV at Waterloo. I was wearing a shoulder-length blond wig and a blue boiler suit, while Andy had a hard hat, a fake Zapata mustache and an anorak. I suppose we might have been taken as genuine workmen. By a blind man.

  I parked a couple of hundred yards away from the Vestine Building. We walked along the cobbled streets to what turned out to be a converted warehouse. There was a waist-high wall around it, the enclosed parking area filled with luxury cars. There wasn’t any sign of coppers on surveillance, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t hidden themselves. I took a deep breath and tried to slow my breathing.

  “Right,” Andy said in a low voice, putting down his toolbox. “What’s the plan?”

  “We haven’t got much choice. We’ll have to go in the main entrance.” We pulled on gloves, then I led him through the pedestrian gate. There was a panel covered in numbers by the heavy door. “We aren’t going to press number 12,” I said, as he raised his hand. “This usually works in my books.” I pressed several other numbers. When a voice came through the panel, I said “Electricity.”

  There was a buzz and the door opened.

  A woman holding a howling child poked her head out from a door as we headed for the stairs. “Problem on the second floor,” I said, flashing my bank card-fortunately it had a photo on it. She nodded without interest and disappeared. We raced up the stairs, following the signs to Flats 10 to 13. We approached number 12 cautiously.

  I listened outside the door for a while. I could hear nothing inside. “Right, Andy. You’re on.” He’d often boasted about his underage criminal activities in the suburbs of Newark, including burglary. Now was his chance to show he hadn’t lost his skills. “Is there an alarm?”

  “In a place like this? Gotta be. Don’t worry, I can handle it.” He took out a set of short steel rods, some flat and some with bent ends that he’d fashioned in Bonehead’s basement before we left. In under ten seconds he had the door open. I watched as he ran to the beeping alarm box, pulled off the cover and fiddled with a screwdriver. The beeping stopped. I waited for the full-scale apocalypse to be triggered, but nothing happened.

  “Christ, you really do know what you’re doing,” I said, closing the door behind me.

  Andy raised his hands to his lips. We were in a long hallway. I found the light switch. There were three doors on either side, all of them closed.

  “Here,” Andy whispered, pressing a hammer into my hand. He was holding a long screwdriver. “You go left, I’ll go right. We’ll open them together, on three.”

  I went to the first door and looked round at him. He mouthed “One, two, three.” I turned the handle and shoved the door open. The room was completely dark. With my heart thumping, I located the light switch. The place was empty, not even a shade on the lamp. The blinds on the windows were drawn. I looked round to Andy and saw that he’d had the same experience.

  It didn’t look like anyone lived here. Tension slackening, we went to the next doors. Same procedure, same result. I had a bathroom with cobwebs in the corners, he had a kitchen-again, the blinds in both were firmly closed. We came to the last doors. One, two, three. This time I found myself in a wide-open space, with the light of the late-afternoon sun coming in through spaces between the blinds. Again, the room was emptier than a ransacked tomb.

  “Jesus!” I heard Andy shout from the other side. I went over quickly. The room was the mirror-image of the one I’d opened. I guessed they were sitting and dining rooms as there was a glass partition between them. I opened it.

  Andy was squatting on the floor next to a row of shriveled objects lying on a tarpaulin. There was a rank smell in the air, like game that had hung for far too long.

  I put my hand over my mouth and nose. I counted five cats, four dogs and two rats, in varying stages of decomposition. As I went closer, I saw that all had been split open from the breastbone to the anus, the desiccated entrails spread around on the tarp. I immediately thought of Happy. It looked like this was where the Devil had practiced. But why had he kept the corpses? I shivered. Because he was a sick bastard, that was why. Then I looked toward the far corner and saw things that were even worse.

  “Oh-oh,” Andy said, following the direction of my gaze.

  On a larger tarpaulin lay several gray masses of flesh. This time, they hadn’t been cut open
. Instead, they’d been flayed, their skins nailed to the wall behind. There were a couple of large dogs and a cat. But that wasn’t all. In the farthest corner was a large heap of skinless flesh. I made out human arms and legs. Hanging above them were two objects like deflated sex dolls. They were flayed skins.

  “Holy shit!” Andy said, his hand to his mouth.

  I couldn’t speak. But who were these two victims? They were nameless, unidentifiable without detailed forensic investigation. I felt rage course through me. How could someone have such disregard for his fellow human beings? How could he turn them into anonymous pieces of flesh?

  We retreated and checked the rest of the place but found nothing that might lead us to the owner. It was clear from the dust on the floor that he hadn’t been here for some time. We’d left footprints all over, but I didn’t care. I was already in deep enough trouble, both with the Devil and with the police.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  “Good thought.” Andy attempted a smile. “There’s a chance that, when I disabled the alarm, a light started flashing in the local police station.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “We were having such a good time.” He turned away. “Come on.”

  We left at speed, encountering no one in the corridor or on the staircase. We were about to open the main door when I saw a panel of mailboxes.

  “Can you get into that?”

  “With or without damage?”

  “It hardly matters now. As quick as you can.”

  He forced open the box marked 12 with his screwdriver. I stuck my hand in and came out with a single envelope. I stuffed it into my pocket. “Come on.” It was only as we went out of the door that I saw the CCTV camera on the inside above it.

  Too late. Too bad.

  When we got back to the BMW, I took the envelope out. It was an electricity bill. “Mr. Lawrence Montgomery,” I read.

  “Who’s he?” Andy asked.