The Death List (19 page)

“So between two and four this afternoon,” Turner said. “I’ll go and check the receptionist’s computer.”

“Here you are, ma’am,” the SOCO said, handing her a larger plastic evidence bag with an unfolded piece of A4 paper in it. “I mean, guv.”

Karen Oaten read aloud the cutout fragments of newsprint that had been stuck on the sheet. “‘Like the wild Irish, I’ll ne’er think thee dead Till I can play at football with thy head.’”

“Good God,” the pathologist said. “The monster’s making jokes about it.”

“I think I can guess where this came from,” Oaten said. “In fact, I’ve got a copy of the text in my bag outside.”

Turner came back into the consulting room. “Guv, it’s him all right. I couldn’t get past the receptionist’s password, but she kept a handwritten register, as well. Two-thirty, last patient—Mr. John Webster.”

The chief inspector held up the quotation to him. “This killer thinks he’s funny,” she said, glaring at everyone in the room. “Well, I’m not bloody laughing.”

She and Turner spent another hour there, and then the doctor’s remains were removed to the morgue. They took off their coveralls outside and looked around the reception area. It was expensively furnished, a couple of good modernist paintings on the walls.

Morry Simmons appeared at the door. “Guv? We’ve got him.”

“What?” Oaten turned to him, her eyes wide.

“Well, there’s two of them, actually.” Simmons looked at both of them, the usual slack smile on his lips. “I mean, we’ve got them on the CCTV.”

“You tosser,” Turner said.

“Oh, you thought I meant we’d caught…sorry.” Simmons was suddenly unable to look either of them in the eye.

“All right, Morry,” the chief inspector said wearily. “Show us.”

He led them down to the building supervisor’s office in the basement. The man hadn’t been on duty at the time of the murder—he only worked until one o’clock on Saturdays—but the closed-circuit system ran continuously. He’d rewound the tape to 2:29 and found a single man in a suit entering the building. At nine minutes past three another figure, this one dressed in overalls, went to the lift. At 3:17, the two emerged from the lift together and exited by the main door.

“Can you print these images off?” Oaten asked.

The supervisor shook his head.

“Okay, we’ll be taking the tape, anyway.” She waved him away. “You can wait outside.”

The three detectives gazed up at the screen that was fixed to the wall above the desk.

“Run it again, Morry,” the chief inspector ordered.

After fiddling with the controls, Simmons managed that. They watched as two men of medium height appeared in the corridor.

“Freeze it there,” Oaten said. She craned up at the screen. “Both of them are carrying bags—one of them presumably containing the tools they used to cut the victim up. I’m assuming the other contains his stomach.”

Morry Simmons, who hadn’t seen the body, shivered.

“The guy on the left’s in disguise, surely,” Turner said. “That long hair and mustache are about thirty years out of date.”

“And the hat’s about a hundred years out of date,” the D.C.I. added. “But it obscures his eyes effectively. Expensive-looking suit.” She turned her gaze on the second figure. “I’d say this one works out. Does that beard look real to you?”

“No,” answered Turner at the same time as Simmons said, “Yes.”

“No, Morry,” Karen Oaten said patiently. “It isn’t real. The baseball cap doesn’t help, I admit.”

Simmons tried to redeem himself. “Workman’s overalls.”

“Without any helpful company name on them, as far as I can see,” the chief inspector said. She stepped back. “Right, Morry, start knocking on doors. Find out if anyone saw this pair going in or coming out in the midafternoon. Take Pavlou with you.” She watched the sergeant leave. “And try not to screw up,” she called after him. “Taff, you’d better get the tape to the photo lab. Get them to make the clearest hard copies they can.”

They left the basement together.

“I’ll see you back at the Yard then, guv,” Turner said, glancing at his watch. “No sleep tonight.”

“Not till a lot later, at least,” Oaten said, giving him a wave. After he’d gone, she took the lift back up to the top floor and reclaimed the plastic bag of books she’d left there.

She was about to start going through the text of
The White Devil
when she had a better idea. She took out her mobile and found a number in the memory.

“Lizzie, this is—”

“Karen,” completed the academic. “I recognized your voice. Did you forget something?”

“Um, no. Look, I shouldn’t really be doing this on the phone, but I’m pressed for time. Does this mean anything to you?” She read out the words she’d copied into her notebook from the sheet in the plastic bag.

“Oh, yes,” Lizzie Everhead said cheerfully. “It’s good old John Webster again.”

“I thought it might be,” Oaten said dryly. “From the same play?”

“Bingo. Let me just check the reference.” There was the sound of pages turning. “Yes, I thought so. It’s act 4, scene 1. Lines 136 to 7. This is Francisco speaking about his enemy Brachiano. Francisco’s the good avenger, if you like.” There was a brief pause. “Crikey, I’d forgotten that. The next line’s in Latin—
‘Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.’
I don’t suppose you know Latin, Karen?”

“You don’t suppose correctly.”

The academic giggled. “It’s a quotation from Virgil. Rough translation—if I can’t get the powers above to help me, I’ll appeal to those of the underworld. Rather appropriate for a White Devil, wouldn’t you say?”

The chief inspector wasn’t impressed by Lizzie’s jocularity. “I know you don’t listen to the news, but there’s been another murder.”

“Oh, dammit.” The academic sounded suitably chastened. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“It’s okay. I need something else from you, Lizzie. That crime author you mentioned. Matt Stone? Has he written a scene where someone gets their stomach removed and their head cut off?”

There was silence on the line.

“Lizzie?”

“Are you…are you saying that’s what’s happened?” Her voice was suddenly brittle, that of a little girl.

“Just answer the question,” Oaten said impatiently.

“Let me think…oh, my God, there is such a scene. It’s in his last novel,
Red Sun Over Durres.
A member of the Albanian mafia who betrays his boss has exactly that punishment meted out to him. Then his stomach is fed to the pigs.”

“Christ,” Karen said before she could stop herself. “This writer guy is seriously sick.”

“Not as sick as the person you’re trying to catch,” Lizzie observed.

“True,” the chief inspector agreed. “Thanks for the help. I’ll be in touch.”

She closed her phone and looked down at the bag of books that she’d bought. She was beginning to think it was well past time she had a conversation with this Matt Stone.

The first thing she would be asking was, where was he between 2:29 and 3:17 p.m. today?

My guts were in turmoil when I got back from the pub. Not because of the lager, though there had been enough of that, but because of what the White Devil might have had waiting for me.

I noticed there were three missed calls on my mobile, no numbers given. He’d been after me, all right. Did that mean he, or an accomplice, might not have been on my tail? Before I could think that through, the landline rang.

“Yeah?” I said, making myself sound even more pissed than I was.

“Well, Matt,” said the Devil. There was a faint hint of concern in his voice. “Did you have a good evening?”

Had the bastard or one of his sidekicks been watching me in the pub? Maybe not. I decided it was time I stood up to him. “What do you care?”

He gave a laugh that made me shudder. “Oh, I care, Matt. I care very much. Almost as much as you care for Lucy and Sara.” He let the words sink in. “Now, turn on your computer.”

He didn’t seem to know what had happened to the laptop. That made me feel better.

“I presume you’ve got a backup,” he added, dashing my hopes.

“You piece of shit,” I said, keeping on the offensive. It wasn’t just the lager. Seeing my mates had made me realize that I wasn’t alone, though I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to them. “I know about that Harley Street doctor.”

“Do you?” the Devil asked, his tone ironic. “Do you really? Tell me how he died then, smart-arse.”

I couldn’t answer that. All I was sure of was that he would have copied one of the killings in my books.

“Here’s a clue,” he said. “The character called Emzer in
Red Sun Over Durres.
”

I had to cast my mind back. It was the last book I’d published, but most authors I knew looked ahead to their next project and I was no different, even though I hadn’t had a next project until very recently. It’s surprisingly difficult to recall details of your previous novels. But in Emzer’s case I had no problem. It was one of my most excessive deaths. Jesus.

“You…you stabbed him over and over and cut out his stomach while he was still alive? Then…then you cut off his head? Was that the ‘gruesome manner’ referred to on the television?”

“Precisely.” The Devil sounded very pleased with himself. “And what message do you think I left inside him?”

My mind was all over the place. I couldn’t think of a single line from Webster.

“Clue. What’s the most popular sport in the world?”

“Football,” I answered, without hesitation. Then it came to me. “Like the wild Irish, I’ll never think thee dead Till I can play at football with thy head.” I had a friend from Dublin at college. He wasn’t impressed by those lines, claiming that it was the Lowland Scots who used to kick their enemies’ heads around the town squares. “You’re fucking sick!” I shouted down the phone. “You’re out of your mind!”

There was a long silence, and then he started to speak in a low, menacing voice. “On the contrary, Matt Wells, also known as Stone. I’m in perfect mental and physical health, and I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“Well, piss off and leave me alone. If you’re so clever, why do you need a useless writer like me to tell your story?” As the words left my mouth, I had flashes of my daughter and my lover, and realized the danger I was putting them in.

The Devil laughed. “You’re not useless, my friend. You’re just out of synch with the market. That’s why you should be grateful to me for giving you the story that will put you on the bestseller list.”

“But you’re framing me for the murders.”

“Am I? You’ve got alibis, haven’t you? Oh, no, I forgot. You were on your own all afternoon today, weren’t you? What a pity.” He laughed again. “We’re in this together, Matt. When will you realize that? We’re two of a kind. You’re driven by hatred and the desire for revenge just like I am. Soon I’ll make that crystal clear to you. Now, get out your old computer and check your e-mails. I’ve sent you my notes about the latest victim. If you work all night, you’ll be able to spend tomorrow with Lucy after all.”

The line went dead. I hit 1471 but, as usual, the number was restricted. Shit. How did my tormentor know that I had a second laptop? I thought back to the phone conversation. How much had he given away? Very little. Perhaps he hadn’t been spying on me when I’d stashed the money and diskettes in my jacket. Perhaps he didn’t know about my meeting the lads. Suddenly I felt better. Then I remembered what he’d done to the doctor and felt the new vigor drain out of me. What chance did I have of beating him? He was always several steps ahead of me. And what did he mean about making how similar we were crystal clear to me? I had a bad feeling about that.

I went up to the loft and dug out the box with my old laptop in it. After I’d plugged it in and downloaded the updated mail system, I clicked on his message. It was as he’d said. The tabloids would have a field day if they found out these details. Then I thought about the motive. The Devil didn’t specifically say why he’d chosen the victim, but there were hints that he was responsible for the death of a loved one. It was pretty thin. If everyone who had a loved one let down by the National Health Service took lethal revenge, there wouldn’t be many doctors left alive.

I sat back and looked up at the cracks in the ceiling. He was taunting me, I knew it. He was giving me enough information to start tracking him down. There was the school, the church and now the doctor—the likelihood was that he’d once practiced in the East End. Of course, getting hold of the records wasn’t straightforward for an ordinary citizen. Files like that were confidential, and I suspected that the onslaught of journalists after the first two killings would have made the local education authority and the Catholic Church very reluctant to part with information, just as the health authority would be now.

Then it struck me. The Devil himself had given me the means to find out about his background. He’d given me ten thousand pounds. That would be enough to buy anything I needed from bureaucrats on the take. I swallowed the laugh in case he was watching. The irony was enjoyable—until I realized that he had deliberately provided me with funds. He wanted me to find him, if only to prove how alike we were. I wasn’t sure if I had the nerve to meet him head-on.

I spent the next four hours writing the chapter on the latest killing. I felt worryingly comfortable taking on the voice of the killer. I had to make some of it up, such as how the White Devil, Wayne Deakins, got in and out of the building unobserved. I presumed that Harley Street clinics had security cameras, so I resorted to a disguise. The first one that came to mind was the long black hair and droopy mustache that the Devil or his sidekick had used in the park with Lucy. After I’d edited the text, I replied to the Devil’s message and sent the chapter as an attachment. Then, after transferring them to diskette, I deleted the messages. I knew an expert would find them on the hard drive, but at least I was buying myself some time. I put the diskette in a sealed plastic bag and hid it in a packet of cornflakes. Again, a thorough search would reveal it, but I didn’t think the police would get on to me so quickly—as long as I did what the Devil asked.

I tried to get some sleep, but the birds had already started their predawn racket. Anyway, I had too much on my mind.