The Death List (32 page)

“Matt, you all right?”

“Hiya, Dave. We were just talking about you.”

“All good, I hope.” He paused. “Who’s we?”

I told him where I was and in whose company. “Christ, good thought, lad,” Dave said. “Bonehead’ll look after you. And he’s got such a lovely complexion.”

“Shut up, you idiot. How’s Lucy?”

“Fine. She’s been asking after you.”

I didn’t have it in me to talk to my little girl. I wanted to keep her as far from the Devil’s filth as I could. “Tell her I’ve had to go on a trip, with her mother, and that we’ll be back soon.” I hated to get Lucy’s hopes up about Caroline and me, but it was the only way I could think of to keep her happy.

“Um, Matt?”

It was obvious that Dave wanted something. “Spit it out.”

“The thing is, I’ve got a big job on today. Old house in Orpington. It’s worth a lot of money.”

“Can’t you get your guys to do it without you?” I asked, my heart sinking.

“Not really, mate. They’re headless chickens.” Dave was like a terrier—he always got his way in the end.

I thought about it. I couldn’t see how the Devil could have tracked Dave. “All right,” I said reluctantly. “But be careful you aren’t followed back from the job, yeah? And remember not to use your old mobile again.”

There was silence on the line.

“Tell me you haven’t used it, Dave,” I said, my heart well and truly sunk.

“Sorry, Matt. I had to check my messages. Some of them were to do with the job today.”

I closed my eyes. What had he done? Could the Devil have been monitoring him out of London? On balance, it was pretty improbable. “All right,” I said. “Just don’t use it again. Take care.”

“Aye, you too. What are you doing?”

“Need-to-know basis only, Dave,” I said, and cut the connection.

Back in the kitchen, Andy and Bonehead were back at each other’s throats, this time about the relative merits of gridiron and rugby league.

“Have you eaten enough, Slash?” I demanded. “Only, if you don’t mind, I’d quite like to get moving.”

Andy’s face immediately took on a serious look. “Okay, man. What are we going to do?”

“Are you up to this?” I said, peering at his chest.

“Sure I am. Maybe I should change my dressing, though. The nice nurse with the big jugs told me that cleanliness was next to—”

“You’ll find a full medical kit in the bathroom off my bedroom,” Pete interjected.

Andy got up from the table. “Cream for hemorrhoids and stuff like that?”

Bonehead managed to restrain himself. “Where are you going?” he asked me.

“It’s probably better if neither of you know,” I said, helping myself to the single remaining sausage. “You’ve got my new mobile number, Rog. Ring me on that if you find anything hot.”

They both looked at me doubtfully, and then nodded.

“Here,” Pete said, tossing me a key. “You’ll see the Grand Cherokee at the side of the house. If you put so much as a scratch on it, I’ll break your legs.”

“You and whose army?”

He raised his middle finger.

I left them at the table, Rog pouring himself yet more coffee. If we hadn’t been up against a murderous bastard like the Devil, I’d almost have enjoyed the camaraderie that had been largely missing from my life since I stopped playing league. As it was, I just felt scared that I’d involved my mates in something they’d probably live to regret. If they lived.

I met Andy in the hall. He’d obviously raided Bonehead’s wardrobe, having kitted himself out in a red-white-and-blue sweater. It suited him nationally but not stylistically, though I didn’t bother pointing that out.

“Neat wheels,” he said as we got into the big Jeep. “Shame about the color.” Bonehead had chosen a seriously vile shade of puce.

I drove to the gate and waited for another sour-faced goon to raise it for us.

“So, are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Andy said, holding the seat belt off his injured chest.

“Okay. We’re going to university.”

“Come again?” Andy was a great guy, but he’d only been at a catering school and he never read anything except the tabloid with the most tits and bums. “What good will I be to you at that kind of place?”

“Wait and see, big man,” I said, directing the Jeep toward the city center. I hoped Pete had paid his congestion charge because I was planning on parking at Waterloo.

When we got there, Andy grimaced as he stood up.

“Are you in pain?” I asked as we headed out of the multi-storey.

“Nothing a few beers won’t sort.”

“Forget it,” I said sternly. “You’re off the booze till I say otherwise.”

We walked toward the bridge. I knew exactly where I was going. I’d been there before. King’s College London had a building on the south side of the river. A seminar room on the third floor had been the scene of one of my worst humiliations as a writer.

We walked through crowds of students. It looked like we were in luck. A lecture had obviously just ended. After the last young man emerged, the woman I wanted to speak to followed. She had the same frizzy auburn hair and loose garments that I remembered.

“Dr. Everhead,” I said, trying to sound less nervous than I was. This woman had made me squirm in front of rows of people. She was also a world authority on Jacobean tragedy. I wanted to pick her brains, as well as to warn her about the Devil.

The lecturer’s jaw dropped. Her face went whiter than a wedding dress. For a moment I thought she was going to faint, an unlikely reaction from a battle-hardened feminist. Then she turned and headed at speed for the stairs. I managed to dart in front of her.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to lay into you. You were perfectly entitled to attack my books.”

That didn’t seem to comfort her much. She was looking anxiously to either side of me. Fortunately the corridor was empty, apart from Andy. His bulk wouldn’t have been particularly reassuring to her.

“Matt Stone,” she said, her voice surprisingly faint. “What…what are you doing here?”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

She looked at her watch. “I have a lecture in…oh, all right. My office is round here.” She walked away, looking over her shoulder. “Who’s your friend?”

I introduced Andy. He gave her a wide grin, which didn’t impress her. It had always been clear that Lizzie Everhead preferred women, both as crime writers and as human beings. She ushered us into a small office that was crammed with books and papers, and then stood by the open door. I could see that she was still nervous.

“I…I’ve been talking to the police,” she said, folding her arms defensively.

“Oh, yes?” I wasn’t sure how to take that.

“A Detective Chief Inspector Oaten.”

“Karen. I know her.”

That seemed to surprise her. “Do you? She’s been consulting me about those awful murders.”

Now I got it. Oaten must have been asking her about the references to
The White Devil.
“The Webster quotations?”

The academic’s eyes sprang wide open. “You know about those?”

I nodded. “Karen Oaten’s been talking to me, too.”

Lizzie Everhead looked down the corridor, the tension in her face easing when she heard voices outside. She turned back to us. “Put that down, please,” she said to Andy, who had picked up a dark-colored wooden object.

“What is it?” he asked.

She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “If you must know, it’s a seventeenth-century dildo.”

I glared at Andy to head off the inevitable wisecrack, and then looked back at her. “So you know that the killer’s been copying murders in my novels?”

She nodded, her expression anxious again. “Have you…have you any idea why?”

I shrugged. “I was going to ask you that.”

Lizzie Everhead looked puzzled. “Me? Why should I be able to give an opinion?”

“You’re an expert on both Webster and crime fiction,” I said, smiling to put her at ease. “Even though you don’t think much of mine.”

“Neither did Alexander Drys,” she said sharply. “And look what happened to him.”

“Were you a friend of his?”

She shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. He was a terrible bigot. But he didn’t deserve to die that way.”

“Of course he didn’t.”

“Exactly what is it that you want from me?” she said, a mixture of irritation and curiosity in her voice.

“Do you honestly think I’m involved in these murders?”

She looked at me dubiously. “I…I don’t know. I suppose not.”

“There’s a vote of confidence for you, man,” Andy said ironically.

I tried to ignore him. “Dr. Everhead, I really need your help. Can you see any pattern in the quotations?”

She thought about that and then shook her head. “Apart from the obvious one of revenge, no. I take it you didn’t know the first three victims.”

“’Course he didn’t, lady,” Andy said, stepping forward.

Lizzie Everhead dodged him and moved out into the corridor. “I think you’d better leave now,” she said firmly.

She obviously didn’t have anything more to say. We headed out. As I passed her, I said, “I don’t want to scare you, but D.C.I. Oaten’s been organizing protection for people who might be targets. Maybe you should ask her about that.”

I could tell Lizzie Everhead was frightened, but she was trying not to show it. “I’m in frequent touch with New Scotland Yard,” she said. “Goodbye.”

“Well, thanks a lot,” I said to Andy as we went down the stairs. “That was a massive success.”

“Aw, come on, man. She needed shaking up a bit. In fact, she obviously needed—”

“That’s enough, you moron.” It had just occurred to me that Karen Oaten might be very interested to hear that I’d paid Lizzie Everhead a visit.

I had the distinct feeling that the academic was on the line to her right now.

John Turner was sitting in D.C.I. Oaten’s office, ticking off the notes that he had made. “The CCTV images from Borough Market aren’t much help,” he said. “They show a pair of men of medium height in overalls with caps pulled low over their faces. It’s pretty obvious they knew where the cameras were. It’s impossible to distinguish their features. It looks like one had a mustache, but you know how blurred those pictures are. They got out of a white van, registration P692 MDG, and carried a large object in dark-colored wrapping to the bin. Unfortunately, the open lid obscured what they did then.”

“But they were obviously removing the wrapping and arranging the body,” Karen Oaten said. “They then went back to the van with the wrapping and drove off.”

Turner nodded. “And the van was found in a back street in Streatham at 10:35 p.m. The SOCOs haven’t found a single usable print on it.”

“No witnesses, of course.”

The inspector shook his head. “What about the autopsy, guv?”

Oaten picked up a gray file. “Redrose found that the bites to the face and neck were made by a person whose canine teeth appear to have been sharpened.”

“What?”

“And that the nipples were bitten off by a different individual, someone with normal teeth.”

“Dental records are no use to us.”

“Not until we have someone in custody to check the bites against.” The chief inspector looked out of the window. Dark clouds were blotting out the sun.

“What about the quotation?” Turner asked.

“I spoke to Lizzie Everhead last night. She didn’t have much to say, only that it suggests the victim wasn’t so closely linked to the general pattern of revenge.”

“What reason would these lunatics have to take revenge on a twenty-six-year-old publisher’s assistant, anyway?” the Welshman demanded in frustration. “All the friends and colleagues we’ve spoken to said that he was a decent guy with no vices and no dodgy friends.”

Oaten grunted. “No vices apart from screwing his boss.”

“His boss who conveniently disappeared yesterday.”

“Calm down, John. She’s not involved in this. Matt Wells told her to lie low.”

“Yes, Matt Wells,” the inspector said, standing up. “Everything seems to lead back to him. The attachments say ‘
I
severed her arm,’ ‘
I
cut off his head’ and so on. That means it’s him, surely.”

Oaten stared at him. She didn’t think he was right. She didn’t know much about novels, but she reckoned that writing one in the voice of a killer didn’t mean the author was automatically one him- or herself. Besides, there was a charm about Wells that she was pretty sure wasn’t an act. Still, the fact remained that Matt had to be brought in. But he was smart. He’d been keeping his head down. What if Taff was right? What if Matt Wells really was the Devil and he was taking the piss out of her? All her instincts told her that he wasn’t a callous killer, but his involvement with the murders was undeniable.

“What about the MO?” Turner asked.

“There was a mutilated body found in a garbage container in Matt Stone’s
Tirana Blues,
” the D.C.I. said, avoiding the Welshman’s gaze.

The phone on her desk rang.

“Oaten.” She listened, her stomach tightening like a vice. “What? Oh, no! Where? We’re on our way.”

“What is it, guv?” Turner asked as she headed for the door.

“Lizzie Everhead,” she said, her face pale and her expression grim. “She’s been found dead in her office. Apparently it’s a real mess.”

They passed quickly through the main office, each shouting orders to subordinates.

26

“Now what?” Andy said as I drove the Jeep out of the car park.

“I’ve got some calls to make.” I spotted a payphone on Waterloo Road and pulled in.

The first person I rang was my mother. Her phone was still turned off. I felt stirrings of major concern. She’d sounded different both times I’d talked to her, and it wasn’t like her to forget to turn her phone on. But what could I do? Rog was busy enough tracking down the Devil. I had to assume she’d either got on a BA flight from Terminal 4 or had broken the habit of a lifetime and used another airline.

I called Sara. Again, it took her a long time to answer.

“Hi,” I said. “Are you all right?”

“Sure,” she replied. “You?”

“Surviving.”

“I see there was another murder last night.”

“You’re not covering it, are you?”