The Death List (17 page)

Lizzie Everhead sat perfectly still for several minutes before she spoke. “Are you familiar with the concept of revenge, Karen?”

“I have run into it occasionally in my line of work,” Oaten replied dryly.

“No, I’m talking about revenge as in revenge tragedy. For the playwrights and audiences of the early seventeenth century, revenge wasn’t just a personal motivation or a way of restoring family honor. It was much more than that. It was a recasting of the traditional concept of justice, the Old Testament dictum of an eye for an eye and—”

“A tooth for a tooth,” Karen completed. “I remember that from religious studies at school.”

“Mmm,” Lizzie Everhead acknowledged. “You see, it was a time when people were beginning to doubt the old certainties. Bear in mind that a Catholic king, the Scottish James VI, had been foisted on England after the death of the Protestant Good Queen Bess. And James’s son Charles drove the country to division and ended up by paying with his head. So we can see in revenge tragedy the first shoots of revolutionary thinking—that the King is not all-powerful and that a different kind of justice, one more attuned to free-thinking human beings, might apply.”

Karen Oaten looked confused. “What’s that got to do with the murders?”

“Well, for one thing, you said both the victims were Catholics.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m interested by that. You see, Jacobean tragedy tended to use foreign settings such as Italy and Spain. Catholic countries that were regarded as having more bloodthirsty customs, particularly concerning personal and family honor.”

“I understand there were quite a few plays of this kind. Why has the killer or killers chosen
The White Devil?
”

Lizzie gave an impatient smile. “I was coming to that. White Devils are hypocrites, people who hide their true base nature beneath a layer of respectability. Could that apply to either of your victims? It sounds like the priest was a prime example of a White Devil.”

Karen nodded. “We’re looking into the ex-schoolteacher, too.”

“Maybe she was harsh. Or maybe she had some family secret.”

“Maybe,” Karen said noncommittally. “What about the lines themselves?”

“Right. ‘What a mockery hath death made of thee.’ That is spoken by Flamineo the revenger, when he sees the ghost of his dead master, Brachiano. Flamineo himself is soon punished for his misdeeds. He describes his life as ‘a black charnel,’ that is, if you like, a mortuary. The point is, sin is repaid by death. There’s a strong parallel with the Catholic vision of damnation, of eternal suffering in Hell.”

“You mean for the person who seeks revenge?” Oaten said, her forehead furrowed. “As if the killer knows he’s going to die and suffer torment.”

“Exactly. I would guess that he or—I suppose there’s at least a small possibility—she was brought up a Catholic.”

The chief inspector made a note. “What about the other line—‘Only persuade him teach the way to death; let him die first’?”

Lizzie stroked her chin with long fingers. “That is spoken by Zanche, the handmaid of Vittoria, Flamineo’s sister. It’s probably fair to say that the latter pair are the greatest of the White Devils alluded to by the title. Vittoria is little more than a high-class whore who connives in the murder of both her husbands. Here, she and Flamineo, the second husband Brachiano’s supposedly loyal servant, are plotting against each other, despite the fact that they supposedly love each other.”

“So sin outweighs even family ties?”

The academic nodded. “Yes. But I can’t take it any further than that. Unless the dead woman had a husband who predeceased her.”

Karen shook her head. “She had a brother, though.”

Lizzie caught her eye. “Interesting. There’s a strong undercurrent of incest in
The White Devil,
as in many plays of the time.”

“How is that going to help me catch the killer?”

“I can’t say. But it’s certainly possible that incest is an important element in this whole ghastly affair…. oh!” The doctor sat back in her chair and unraveled her legs. “How absolutely extraordinary!”

“What?” Karen said, her curiosity piqued.

Lizzie Everhead held up the delicate fingers of her left hand, as if she had plucked something out of the air. “I’ll have to check the texts, but there’s a contemporary crime novelist who’s written a series set in the 1620s. How very strange.”

“What?” the chief inspector said in exasperation.

“Well, one of my other fields of expertise is crime fiction,” Lizzie said, looking back at Karen. “This writer—his name is Matt Stone—has a detective-hero called Sir Tertius Greville. I’m almost certain there’s a murder similar to your priest’s in one of the books, and the removal of an arm in another.”

Karen Oaten stood up. She’d already bought
Blood, Lust and Gender,
Dr. Everhead’s study of revenge tragedy. “Thanks very much for your help,” she said. “You wouldn’t happen to know where the crime section is?”

The academic nodded. “I’ll show you the way,” she said with a crooked smile.

14

Dr. Bernard Keane looked at his gold Cartier watch. It was nearly two-thirty. He seldom allowed his Saturday clinic to overrun, as he liked to spend the afternoon with his horses, but in this patient’s case he’d been prepared to make an exception. The man’s address in Docklands was exclusive. He knew a politician with a flat in the renovated building—the man, a terrible snob if truth be told—had whispered to him that he’d paid more than two million for it. So Mr. John Webster was obviously a major player and a welcome addition to his list. He’d understood fully his prospective patient’s request for complete privacy—in particular, that his address shouldn’t be entered into the practice records.

The doctor got up from his mahogany desk and opened the gauze curtains. Harley Street. When he’d started off as a newly qualified general practitioner in the run-down East End, he’d never imagined that he would achieve his ambition. The increase in demand for slimming therapies—the public’s absurd desire for the perfect body—had enabled him to specialize in that area. He had developed his own treatment, cobbled together from various well-known books, and, to his amazement, it had worked—no doubt because he stressed discipline. The simple fact was that people responded well to discipline, even when they had to apply it themselves.

The bell rang. Dr. Keane went to answer the door himself. He’d let his petite but well-stacked receptionist, Marianne, leave. It wouldn’t be long before he had her over his desk, as he’d done with all her predecessors. There was an underlying coarseness to her that he knew he could manipulate.

“Dr. Keane?” the man on the landing asked. He was of medium height and build, in early middle age and in no apparent need of a slimming regime. That didn’t matter. People often had ludicrously inaccurate ideas about their appearance.

“Mr. Webster, I presume,” the doctor said with a practiced laugh.

The man smiled back at him. He was wearing a well-cut pin-striped suit and a Homburg hat on top of long black hair. He also had a drooping mustache. His hands were sheathed in black kid gloves. Bernard Keane wondered about his profession. He was probably one of those computer whiz kids who had made a mint.

“Do come in,” the doctor said, closing the door behind him. “You can leave your bag out here.”

“No, I’ll keep hold of it,” Mr. Webster replied. The bag was like the large, rectangular ones that pilots carry. “Thank you,” he said, lowering himself into the leather armchair he’d been ushered toward.

Keane sat down across the desk from him. “So, what can I do for you?” he asked, his eyes on the man. There was something about him that made him feel faintly uneasy. He’d once been stalked by a female patient who used all her wiles to trap him in an inappropriate sexual relationship. That had cost him a lot of money. This Mr. Webster was making his antennae twitch.

“You don’t recognize me?” the man said.

“I…no, should I?” The doctor felt that he was being tested and he didn’t like it.

“No.” Mr. Webster smiled again, showing perfect white teeth that Keane saw had been capped at great expense. The canines were curiously pointed. “In fact, I’m pleased you don’t.” He opened his bag and took out a thick gray file. “Would you indulge me by taking a look at this?” he asked politely, stepping round the desk and standing beside the doctor.

As soon as Keane saw the name on the file, he knew he was in trouble. He reached for the phone, and then let out a scream that was quickly cut off as a gag was stuffed into his mouth. Staring in horror at the knife that had pinned his right hand to the desk in a flash, he scarcely felt the rope that was run round his chest, securing him to the revolving chair. Soon there were ropes on his ankles and left forearm, as well.

Mr. Webster turned the chair toward him, grinning as Keane tried to scream again. The movement had made the knife blade cut laterally through his hand.

“Oh, sorry, how thoughtless of me.” The man laughed harshly. “Then again,
thoughtless
is a word that could be applied to you, couldn’t it, Dr. Keane?”

He tried to speak. He wanted to explain himself, make excuses, beg for forgiveness, but the gag was still in his mouth, a strip of tape now over his lips.

“You remember her, don’t you?” Mr. Webster said, taking off his gloves.

With a spasm of horror, the doctor saw that his assailant was wearing latex surgical gloves beneath. Oh, God, what did he intend to do? What was going on?

“Catherine Dunn. Date of birth March 21, 1947. Address, 14 Marlin Court, Bethnal Green. Telephone, none.” The man bent over him and he caught the smell of expensive aftershave and aromatic tobacco. “Attended your surgery on March 12, 1983, complaining of stomach pains.” He turned a page. “See, here are your notes. ‘Patient is clearly undernourished. Given advice about diet. No follow-up required.’” Webster grabbed his cheeks and pressed hard. The doctor felt like his eyes were about to pop out. “No follow-up required,” his captor repeated.

Webster stepped back and took off his hat. Then he gripped his hair at the top of his forehead and peeled it back. Beneath the wig was short fair hair, almost certainly peroxide. The mustache was pulled away next. “Now do you recognize me, Doctor?”

Keane had already suspected the worst. Although the hair and build were different, the unwavering brown eyes were the same. It was the youth who had stormed into his surgery, screaming about how his mother had died in agony of stomach cancer, how it was Keane’s fault and how he was going to pay for it. If his partner, a former army medic, hadn’t intervened, he might have been made to pay for it there and then. But the young man had been dragged out, shouting and swearing. He said he’d be back, but he’d never showed up. He’d always been lurking in Keane’s mind, though, even years after he moved from Bethnal Green. The rage in his eyes, the savagery in him—the doctor had never seen anything like it.

He closed his eyes, the pain in his hand worsening.

“Not crying, are you, Doctor?” Webster said, his tone mocking.

Webster. His name wasn’t Webster. It was Dunn. Lance? Leslie? That was it, Leslie Dunn. Keane remembered treating him for measles when he was younger. He had a black eye and his nose had been broken. The father, no doubt. Not that he’d reported it to the police or social services. Families like that were drunken and feckless. There was no point in trying to improve their lives.

His captor leaned close again. “You’re probably wondering why Leslie Dunn didn’t bother you again. Well, I’ll tell you. You took my mother away from me, you destroyed my life back then. But if I’d hurt you, what would have happened? I’d have been caught, sent to a young offenders’ institution, had the shit kicked out of me. I didn’t fancy that at all.” His smile was pitiless, as cold as the heart of an iceberg. “Besides, I reckoned you wouldn’t forget me.” He glanced around the expensively decorated room. “Even in the middle of all this conspicuous wealth.” He looked back at Keane. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

The doctor nodded slowly. The boy had been too ignorant to launch a medical negligence suit, but the guilt had always been there, lurking like a malevolent spider in the most inaccessible part of his mind. If only he’d been brought up a Catholic, like the trembling, dispirited woman who had come to him for help all those years ago. He’d have been able to confess his sin and get on with his life. But it didn’t matter now. He was sure he was at the end of his road.

Keane watched as the man who’d called himself Webster stripped off his suit and shirt. Beneath them he was wearing a white coverall with a hood like the ones used by scenes-of-crime officers on the TV. He dug deeper into his bag and brought out an oilskin bundle. Clearing the desk with a backhand sweep of his arm, he unrolled the oilskin. Gleaming surgical instruments were lodged in pockets. They ranged from needle-thin probes to a large bone-saw.

“Nnngg!” Keane moaned, pulling on his bonds. The pain in his hand didn’t bother him now. He was consumed by fear of what was to come.

“Take your punishment like a man,” Dunn said, laughing emptily. He picked up a scalpel. “Now, where shall I begin? Oh, I know. You failed to diagnose a case of advanced stomach cancer. You didn’t even bother to order the most basic of tests. Have you any idea how much pain my mother was in?” He pulled open the doctor’s striped shirt and caught his eye. “For someone who specializes in dieting, you don’t set a very good example, do you?” He ran the scalpel down the support girdle Keane wore and pulled it apart. “The pain my mother suffered was like this.”

The doctor jerked back in the chair as his stomach was pierced, almost swallowing the gag.

“And like this.”

Another stabbing pain.

“And like this.”

Again and again he tried to scream, breathing desperately through his nose. He was in agony, his eyes blurred by tears. The thrusting and cutting continued. He had no idea how many wounds had been made. The pain was almost unbearable, but he didn’t pass out.

At last Dunn stood up and tossed the bloody scalpel onto the desk. “Take a look,” he said, wrenching the doctor’s head down.