by Paul Johnson
“Amanda Plimpton, known as Mandy. Twenty-two-year-old receptionist at Matt Wells’s publishers, Sixth Sense. Her flatmate’s just reported her missing. Fortunately a smart desk sergeant in Hammersmith got on to Morry.”
“Shit,” the chief inspector said. “We didn’t have her protected, did we?”
The Welshman shook his head. “Matt Wells didn’t give us her name, guv.” He shook his head. “Christ, what more do you need to convince you? The guy’s got this all thought out.”
Oaten glanced at him, this time less fiercely than earlier. Before she could answer, her phone rang again.
“Yeah, Paul, what is it?” Turner said, and then listened. “What? Fucking hell. All right, we’ll be there soon.” He cut the connection and turned to his superior. “Guess what.”
“Just tell me, Taff,” she said resignedly.
“This Royal Brewery we’re headed to. Apparently the penthouse owned by Lawrence Montgomery blew up fifteen minutes ago. The neighbors got out when they were warned via their entry phones.”
“Warned? Who the hell by?” The chief inspector glanced at him, and then ran a red light on Moorgate. “What’s going on?”
“Our friend Wells is covering his tracks,” Turner said. “What’s the betting we find a charred female corpse inside?”
“You can stick those odds,” Oaten said. Her stomach was aching and her throat was dry. If she didn’t catch up soon with the White Devil, the New Ripper, Lawrence Montgomery, Leslie Dunn, Matt Wells, whatever his name was, her career would be his next victim.
There was no way she was going to allow that.
“Boney, where are you?” I shouted into my phone. I started the BMW as Dave flung the Chevrolet round the corner ahead of me. We were leaving what remained of the Royal Brewery behind as fast as we could. Before we parted, Dave had told me that his wife and kids still weren’t answering their phones.
“Coming up Tower Bridge Road. I’ll be with you in-”
“Change of plan, my friend. The Devil’s just blown up his own penthouse.”
“Jesus. Where are you guys?”
“Getting as far away as we can. The place will be swarming with firemen and cops. Did you find anything at that last property?”
“No. Bunch of students playing loud music.”
“Rental, obviously.”
“Yeah. So, do we head for the places Rog and Andy didn’t get to?”
“They still not answering their phones?”
Bonehead sighed. “Afraid not.”
It looked like the Devil or one of his accomplices had caught up with Lucy, and Dave’s family. He had everything to bargain with, we had nothing-that was, if he was serious about us meeting. The killer was obviously in the process of destroying all traces. The easiest thing for him to do now would be to dispose of his victims and activate his escape plan. I had no doubt that he had one of those worked out to the last detail.
“You there, Matt?”
“Sorry, Pete.” I looked out of the window. Dave and I were driving in convoy past the eastern end of Southwark Park. “All right, go back to your place. We’ll meet you there.”
I called Dave.
“The Devil wants me,” I said, trying to reassure him. “Ginny and the kids will be okay.”
“What about Lucy?” His voice was low and menacing, as it used to be during games when we were getting a pummeling. “What about you? Do you think I’m just going to let you walk into the fucker’s arms?”
I was touched by his concern, but I’d already put Rog and Andy in mortal danger, as well as his family. I wasn’t going to let Dave make any needless sacrifices.
We got back to the gated street in Blackheath and were admitted by the sour-faced guard. Pete arrived a few minutes later. As soon as he let us into the house, I headed for the study and booted up a computer. All I had to go on was the Devil’s last e-mail address. There was no guarantee he would be checking his messages-he was obviously very busy with his other activities-but it was the only chance I had.
I hammered out a message.
I just came from your penthouse. You want to meet me, so name the time and place. I’ll do whatever you want as long as you let my daughter and the others go. Anything. Please, answer.
I sent it, hoping the tone was suitably craven, and left the e-mail program online. Then I sat down with my two remaining friends. We talked about what we would do if the Devil got back to me, we tried to plan and we kitted ourselves out as best we could with what Peter had in the house.
Then we waited, unable to eat or rest.
Answer, I kept saying to myself. Answer, you crazy freak. I swore to myself that if the Devil had done anything to Lucy, to Sara, to Rog and Andy, to Ginny and the kids, to Caroline, I would have no mercy on him.
After half an hour there had been no reply. We decided to drive up to north London in the Jeep and check the properties that Andy and Rog hadn’t got to. Fortunately Boney had a state-of-the-art laptop with an Internet connection via his mobile phone.
As we headed toward the Blackwall Tunnel, I had the distinct feeling that we were going in the wrong direction.
I sincerely hoped I was mistaken.
32
The White Devil stopped the van outside Free Forests Timber Supplies in Bethnal Green and waited while Corky unchained and opened the gate. He had set the company up under his mother’s name and it wasn’t likely that Matt Wells or the police would be on his track here-at least not yet. His accomplice unlocked the left-hand shed and the Devil drove in. Now they were completely out of everyone’s view. There was a converted Victorian school about fifty yards away, but the occupants of the flats were all young professionals. They were too busy getting pissed or stoned, shagging each other or catching up on their shuteye to pay attention to the wood yard.
Between them they carried the three bodies through to the main shed and laid them out on the tables that had been prepared. There were leather straps to tie the comatose victims down. Another six spaces were awaiting the arrival of Dave Cummings’s family plus Matt Wells’s daughter, and then Matt and Dave themselves. The last one, behind a partition, the Devil had set up himself. Corky didn’t know about it. He didn’t know about the explosive charges that had been set all over the building, either.
He checked for messages on his laptop. Matt’s desperate plea for an answer was gratifying. It meant that he knew he was at the Devil’s mercy. It was always good to put the opposition on the back foot. No doubt that applied in rugby league, as well. Soon Matt would have his answer, but in the meantime there was something else to be done.
The Devil selected one of several mobiles in his briefcase and found the number he wanted in the memory.
“Six six six,” he said when his partner replied.
“The number of the beast,” came the smooth reply. “All’s gone according to plan.”
“Where are you?”
“Should be with you in ten minutes.”
He cut the connection. That accounted for the Cummings family and little Lucy. They had all succumbed to the knock-out gas and wouldn’t come round for at least an hour. By which time Matt and Dave would be on site for a tearful reunion.
“What’s so funny?” Corky demanded, a roll-up in the corner of his mouth. “This is bloody sick, if you ask me.”
“I’m not asking you,” the Devil replied, his tone sharp. It was just as well that his school friend hadn’t seen what he’d done to the succulent receptionist in the penthouse. It was a pity he’d had to destroy the flat-he’d had some good times there and he’d have liked to take his dioramas. But if Matt hadn’t found the place, the police eventually would have. Watching the writer’s horrified reaction to the sight of the strung-up girl on the video link had been a lot of fun, and it got even better when the writer had forced himself to put his arms round the body. “Ah, Matt,” he said to himself. “I’m going to miss you.”
It wasn’t long before he heard the sound of the van outside. Corky ope
ned the doors again. The Devil waved to his partner behind the wheel of the white vehicle and received a tight smile in return. The three of them transferred the comatose bodies to the tables. Matt’s little girl really was a looker. On the other hand, his friend Dave’s wife looked like she’d been several rounds with Mike Tyson.
“What happened to her?” he asked.
His partner shrugged. “The gas didn’t knock her out completely. She was stumbling around trying to protect the kids, so I had to lay her out.”
“Nice work,” the Devil said admiringly. “You didn’t have any trouble getting them into the van?”
“Do I look like an eight-stone weakling?”
He laughed, and then looked at Corky. “All right, it’s time for the end game. You both know what you’re doing?”
After they’d nodded, he turned to the laptop and tapped out his final message to Matt Wells.
I whistle and you’ll come to me, my lad…
And then the Devil felt an icy finger run up his spine. What if the men who had been on Corky’s tail, the men he was sure had cut up Terry Smail, had found a way to locate the wood store? Could his plans really be in jeopardy at the very last moment?
No, he told himself. He could take on anyone. He was the King of the Underworld, Beelzebub, the Lord of the Flies.
Let them come, whoever they were. They would burn in the fires of hell with all the rest.
We were near Euston when I heard the chime from Bonehead’s laptop. The Devil had answered. Boney pulled off to the side as I read out the message, my breathing shallow. Matt-how nice to hear from you. I hope you enjoyed the gift I left you in my penthouse. And the fireworks. I’m so glad you got out in time. You want to see your loved ones, do you? Lucy, Sara and…well, I don’t suppose Caroline is a loved one anymore. Don’t worry, I can oblige. Your mates Roger van Zandt and Andrew Jackson are with me, too. As is Dave Cummings’s family, all three of them.
I heard Dave curse under his breath from the backseat. Then he started checking the gear he had with him in a large holdall. I went on reading aloud.
So, why don’t we meet up? Just you and your friend Dave. No police, if you want any of your people to stay alive. Understood? Here’s where to come. Free Forests Timber Supplies, Mace Place, Bethnal Green.
Hurry on down!!
“He doesn’t know about Boney,” Dave said.
“I knew I was in the clear.” Peter Satterthwaite laughed humorlessly. “That means I can creep up on the fucker and brain him.” He drove forward at speed and managed to complete a U-turn in front of a lorry.
“Watch it,” I said. “The last thing we need is to attract the cops’ attention.”
“Wrong,” Dave said. “The last thing we need is to waste any time. He’s got our kids, remember?” There was a metallic sound that made me look round.
“Jesus, what’s that?”
“It’s a 9 mm Glock automatic pistol with a fourteen-shot magazine,” he said, putting it into the pocket of his leather jacket.
“Where did you get it?” I said, touching the useless Luger in my pocket.
“Never you mind. There are some dodgy people in the demolition business. It’s a good idea to have your own protection.”
I was staring at him. “Dave, you can’t use that. The bastard’s got our families. And he’s obviously not on his own. It’s too risky.”
Dave held my gaze. “You remember what I did in the army?”
I nodded.
“So leave the violence to me, okay?” He handed Bonehead a baseball cap. “Put this on. You’re going to pretend to be me.”
“Oh, great,” the driver said, accelerating down the City Road.
I turned to the front. “You don’t have to get involved, Boney,” I said. “Just take us to the place and wait outside.”
“What, and miss all the fun?” Pete said, his voice shrill. “Just because I’m gay, you think I can’t put myself about?”
Dave leaned forward. “You putting yourself about is exactly what worries me. Now, listen, here’s what we do.”
He spoke, we heard what he had to say and we agreed. Then we sorted out the equipment. By that time we were heading down Bethnal Green Road. Another few minutes and we’d be at the Devil’s lair.
Did I have it in me to save Lucy and Sara, let alone all the others? To my surprise, I found that my breathing was regular, my heart wasn’t racing and my hands were still.
I was calm and I wanted payback.
It seemed that I was even more like the Devil than I’d thought.
Karen Oaten was standing outside the Royal Brewery. Ahead of her, fire engines were pumping water onto the blaze on the top floor. All the other flats had been evacuated, none of the occupants suffering worse than shock and minor injuries. John Turner was beside her, his phone jammed between his ear and his shoulder as he scribbled notes.
“Okay,” he shouted above the noise, “get going with the list, Morry. Give some of the properties to Hardy’s lot. And make sure the bomb squad go in first every time. Out.” He put the phone in his pocket.
“I wonder how many places he’s wired to blow,” the chief inspector said, her eyes on the clouds of smoke that were ascending from the burning building.
“We haven’t found any more explosives yet,” the inspector said. “That makes thirteen that have been checked. There are another seven.”
“And more to come, I suspect.” Oaten glanced at her subordinate. “Of course, the Devil’s smart enough to have bought properties under other names. In fact, I’m wondering if the reason he kept so many in the name of Lawrence Montgomery was to tie Matt Wells and us up.”
“What do you mean?” the Welshman asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Think about it, Taff. The Devil sends us running all over the city while he’s happily installed in some secret location with the people he’s been abducting-Matt Wells’s girlfriend, his ex-wife, God knows who else. Maybe he’s even got the little girl.”
Turner was chewing his lip. “And if the Devil turns out to be Matt Wells?”
“Come on, Taff, you don’t really believe that.” Oaten could see that he still wasn’t convinced. “Didn’t you just take a statement from one of the residents identifying Wells as entering the building not long before it blew?”
The inspector raised his shoulders. “So? Maybe he had the explosives on a timer.”
“Why?”
“To destroy the evidence, of course. We aren’t going to find much up there when the fire’s eventually out, are we?”
Karen Oaten sighed. “Didn’t we just also hear from the same resident that the owner of the penthouse is a man of medium height with short fair hair. Meaning he is not Matt Wells.”
“So?” Turner said stubbornly. “That guy might be an accomplice of Wells.”
“All right, forget it,” she said, giving up. It made no difference to the investigation at this stage. Until they could locate Wells or the Devil, they were up sewage river with no form of propulsion. “Come on, where’s the next property on your list?”
“Deptford,” he said. “A lock-up garage.”
Oaten looked at him. “Really? That sounds interesting. Have you told the bomb squad?”
“They’re on their way. As you can imagine, we’re stretching them tonight.”
“It’s part of his plan, Taff,” she said, heading for the car. “I’m telling you.”
“Yes,” he said, catching her up. “But who is he if he isn’t Wells?”
The chief inspector drove away, flames dancing in the rearview mirror.
It was like a vision of hell in some medieval painting.
The Jeep slowed after we turned off the Roman Road.
“First right,” Dave said, his eyes on the map. “Okay, stop here.”
There was a Victorian school that looked to have been turned into flats. I saw a sign for Free Forests pointing round the back of the block.
“There it is,” I said. “How long do you want, Dave?�
�
He grinned at me. “Ten minutes, Matt. You both clear about what we’re doing?”
Pete and I nodded.
“Christ, look at him,” Bonehead said. “No wonder they call him Psycho. He’s actually enjoying this.”
“I can’t believe I’m riding in a puce vehicle.” Dave’s grin faded. “My kids are in there. No one messes with my kids.”
“Right,” I said. “The same goes for Lucy.”
“Okay, check the time. It’s 12:14 in three, two, one, zero.”
We synchronized watches.
“Just like in those war movies I used to hate when I was a young lad,” Boney said. “I always preferred musicals.”
Dave gave him a despairing look, then squeezed my arm and moved away round the corner.
“You sure you’re up for this, Pete?” I asked, checking the gear I’d filled my pockets with.
He did the same. “Of course. This is what friends are for, isn’t it?”
I hadn’t even regarded him as a close friend until the last couple of days. I still felt guilty about the prejudice he’d suffered from the Bison.
Those ten minutes were the longest I had ever lived. My mind was filled with images of the ones I loved. How would Lucy be coping with this horror? She was only eight years old, for Christ’s sake. Dave’s son, Tom, wasn’t much more. And what about Sara? She was tougher than most women I knew-she’d fought off a security guard once when she was doing an undercover story about banking fraud-but the Devil had a way of finding people’s weak spots. As for Caroline, I couldn’t bear to think what she’d have to say to me if we got out of this. If we got out of it. Bloody hell, what were we thinking of? Did we seriously imagine we could take on a genuine psychopath and his accomplices, however many they were? I felt for my phone.
“Steady,” Bonehead said, sticking out his hand. “Remember what the scumbag said. No police.”
“How did you know I was going to call them?”
“It’s logical, isn’t it?” he said with a faint smile. “Any normal person would. But we aren’t normal, are we?”
