The Death List (35 page)

“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.

I felt a shiver run up my spine. “He might just be the Devil himself.”

We drove off into the evening’s deepening shades.

The three men in the aged Orion were all looking to the front, the passengers’ eyes fixed on the figure weaving in and out of the traffic ahead.

“Pity we haven’t got a bike like that,” the driver said.

“I didn’t hear you volunteering to buy one, Geronimo,” said Wolfe, his tone sharp. There was a dull ring from his pocket. He took out his mobile phone. “Yes?” He listened for a while. “Don’t worry,” he said finally. “We haven’t done anything to the piece of shit.” He cut the connection and looked round at Rommel. “Yet.”

“Our friend the detective?” the man in the backseat asked.

“Yup. Wetting himself that we’re going to chop the guy on the bike up like we did with Smail.”

“We are, aren’t we?” Geronimo asked.

Wolfe gave a hollow laugh. “Assuming he did for Jimmy Tanner, as I’m sure he did, you bet we are.”

The motorbike was about fifty yards ahead of them, moving toward London Bridge. The traffic lights changed and vehicles began to slow. So did the man on the bike. But when he’d come to a complete stop, he suddenly accelerated, narrowly missing a taxi that was turning right.

“Fuck!” Geronimo smacked his palms on the steering wheel.

Wolfe got out quickly and looked ahead. He saw the motorbike disappear over the bridge.

“Now what?” asked Rommel.

“I call our contact,” Wolfe said calmly, taking out his mobile. “It’s me,” he said. “We’ve lost our target.” He listened for a few seconds. “All right, but I’m expecting reliable information. Remember, you owe us.”

The traffic was moving again.

“Where to?” asked Geronimo.

“Find a parking space in Holborn. We’ll be centrally positioned there. Don’t worry, the copper will put a trace on him. After all, Jimmy Tanner saved his uncle’s life in the Falklands.”

“So we just sit and wait?” asked Rommel.

“What else do we do between ops?” The team leader moved his hand to the 9 mm Glock in his shoulder holster. “And when the time comes, we nail the fuckers before the Met get near them.”

The other two men nodded, their expressions set hard.

Karen Oaten looked down over Victoria Street from New Scotland Yard. The last of the commuters were on their way home, some already well lubricated as their erratic movements showed. Why wasn’t she normal? she wondered. Why couldn’t she go down to the pub like everyone else? Because there was a pair of heartless killers on the loose, she told herself. Whether they were called Matt Wells and Andrew Jackson was another matter.

“Guv?”

“Yes, Taff?” She sat down at her desk and massaged her aching neck.

“There have been several calls reporting sightings of Wells and Jackson. We’re checking them out.” He shrugged. “Nothing definite yet.”

That was the problem with public appeals, the chief inspector thought. Some people wanted to be helpful, but gave unhelpful information; other people wanted to shop those they didn’t like; and then there were the crazies who only wanted attention.

“What about the National Lottery?”

“The warrant should be through any time now.” The Welshman shook his head. “Tossers. You’d think they would understand this is a multiple-murder case.”

“They’re bureaucrats, Taff,” Oaten said, staring at the heap of files on her desk. “Like us.”

“Oh, yes,” Turner said, a smile spreading across his lips. “And this call came in for you when you were with the A.C. I had it transcribed.” He handed her a piece of paper.

“‘At 1705 hours, muffled male voice,’” she read. “‘For Detective Chief Inspector Karen Oaten. It may interest you to read chapter 14 of the novel
Tirana Blues
by Matt Stone.’”

Turner was holding an open book out to her, his smile even wider.

She read through the description of an Albanian’s murder, taking in the similarities with that of Lizzie Everhead. The details hadn’t been released to the public, so the message was obviously either from the killer or someone close to him.

“Pretty conclusive, isn’t it?” the inspector said.

“You think so, Taff?” She was getting irritated by her subordinate’s dogged determination to nail the novelist. “If Matt Wells is the killer, why’s he taking the trouble to frame himself? Think about that.”

“He’s a psychopath,” Turner said, his smile disappearing. “He’s playing games.”

“It was a mistake, making that public appeal. All it’s done is make him even more determined to keep his head down. The idiot’s trying to find the Devil himself.”

“All he has to do is look in the mirror.”

“What else have we got?” Oaten said wearily.

“No fingerprints at the scene except Jackson’s on what looks like an ancient dildo, no significant physical evidence found by SOCOs. And everyone who appeared on the CCTV has been accounted for. Apart from Wells and Jackson.” The inspector suddenly became less assertive. “And one other man, dressed in workman’s clothing and wearing a hard hat.”

Oaten looked up. “So there was someone else at the scene. That could be the killer. I’m telling you, Taff, there’s more to this than Matt Wells and his mate.”

“Maybe it was another of Wells’s mates.”

“Christ, you don’t give up, do you?”

“I’ve been doing some checking,” the Welshman said, looking at his notes. “When Wells gave you those names to be put under protection, he missed out several of his closest friends. I got their names from his ex-wife and crosschecked them with the rugby league club they’re members of. There are two others we can’t trace—David Cummings and Roger van Zandt. Neither of them is as tall as Wells and Jackson. And they haven’t been seen at home for more than twenty-four hours.” He glared at Oaten. “Why are you so dead-set against the writer as our main man, guv?”

It was the same question the A.C. had asked her. She’d only been able to cite the height of the figures on the CCTV at Dr. Keane’s building and Borough Market. But, as her superior had pointed out, such images were often misleading because of the skewed perspective they gave. And there were the other potential suspects. She couldn’t embarrass herself by giving him the main reason, but Taff should have been able to understand it.

“I’ve met him,” she said. “My gut feeling is that he isn’t capable of these killings.”

Turner shrugged. “I’ve got to disagree with you there. I’ve met him, too, and my gut’s telling me that he is. He’s written about murder often enough. He’s also got a reputation as one of the most gruesome crime writers.”

“Writing about it is hardly the same thing as doing it for real,” the chief inspector said. “How many writers have we done for murder over the years?”

“None that I can remember,” the Welshman said reluctantly.

She nodded at him, and then looked away. She wasn’t comfortable thinking about Matt Wells. He’d had more of an effect on her than any man for years.

There was a knock on the door. Paul Pavlou stuck his head round. “Excuse me, guv. The warrant for the lottery’s here.”

Karen Oaten stood up. “Right. Let’s find out where the mysterious Leslie Dunn has got to.”

Turner followed her out, shaking his head. Leslie Dunn was a false trail, he was sure of that. They would be led round in circles, while Matt Wells went on killing people.

For the first time in nine years, he’d begun to doubt his boss’s judgment.

28

I drove back to the house in Blackheath. There was no point in calling ahead about the name we’d found as we were so close. As soon as we got there, Peter Satterthwaite rang his computer expert while Rog checked for Lawrence Montgomery in the online directories and search engines. Andy went off to the kitchen to make more food—even what he’d seen in the flat hadn’t put him off eating. I called my mother. Again, there was no answer. Now I was getting seriously worried about her. I told the others.

“Why don’t you let the police know?” Rog said. “It can’t do any harm.”

That made sense. I left the house and went out onto the Heath to avoid being located at Bonehead’s, then rang Karen Oaten’s mobile.

“Matt!” she said eagerly when she heard my voice. “I’m very glad you called. Where can I meet you?”

“I’m not coming in.”

“You have to. It’s the only way you can clear your name.”

“What do you care about that? You’re the one who made me public enemy number one.”

She sighed. “I had no option. You’re on the university’s CCTV recording. Answer this question. Did you have anything to do with Lizzie Everhead’s murder?”

“No, of course I fucking didn’t!” I shouted, unable to control my outrage. “I told you, I’m trying to protect the people I care about.”

There was a pause. “You can’t tell me you cared about Dr. Everhead. Why did you go to see her? I presume you don’t deny that’s why you were in the building.”

“No, I don’t. I went to ask her about the Devil’s use of the quotations from the play. And to warn her about him.” I decided to play hardball. “Obviously that never occurred to you. Where was her police protection?”

There was a longer pause. “All right, Matt, I hear you. But I still need you to surrender yourself.”

“Forget it.”

“In that case, why are we talking?”

“Because my mother’s not answering her mobile phone again. Can you find out from the airlines apart from British Airways if she left the country from Heathrow on Friday?”

“You mean you’ve already checked with BA? They don’t give out that kind of information to the general public.”

“Just take my word for it. If she’s not on any flight list, then I think the Devil’s got her.”

I heard her breath whistle between her teeth. “All right, we’ll look into it. At least give me a number to call you.”

“Good try, Karen. I’ll call you. Bye.” I hung up. Jesus. Did the bastard really have my mother? The full horror of that idea struck me as I walked back across the open grassland in the darkness, the wind whipping about me like a mad dog. When would there be an end to the anguish the Devil was visiting on me?

When I got back, Pete yelled at me to join them in the study.

“Progress,” he said, a wide grin on his face. “I just heard from my man. Lawrence Montgomery is the name of the holder of the accounts I tracked down before. Don’t ask me how he did it, but he managed to verify that.”

I nodded, not particularly impressed. “Where does that get us?”

“It gets us precisely here,” Rog said, swinging round in his chair. He held up a printed page. “Properties listed in Lawrence Montgomery’s name. All of them in London and the Southeast.”

“Wow.” That
was
interesting. I ran my eye down the page. “Bloody hell, how many are there?”

“Twenty-three apart from the one you’ve already been to,” Rog replied. “Everything from a semi in Golders Green, to a penthouse near Tower Bridge, to a cottage near Hythe. Some of them are registered as owner-occupied, some as rented out.”

“How the hell are we going to be able to check all those places?” I said with a groan.

“You could give the list to the cops,” Bonehead suggested.

“What if the Devil’s got my mother at one of the houses?” I said, slamming my hand on the desk. “What if he or one of his sidekicks kills her the second the law shows up?”

“The same thing could happen if we show up,” Rog pointed out.

“That’s why we have to be careful. Ultracareful.”

Andy appeared in the doorway. “Chow time. I’ve made chili.”

We went through. I didn’t think I’d be able to get anything down, but Andy was a good cook and I suddenly discovered I had an appetite. When everyone had finished, Andy having scraped the bowl and licked the wooden spoon, I sent Dave a text message. He replied saying that all was okay. At least Lucy was secure.

“What are we going to do, then?” Andy asked, putting down the spoon at last.

“It’s time we took the game to this tosser.”

“Easier said than done,” I said, suddenly remembering the notes that the Devil had sent me about Lizzie Everhead’s death. He’d be expecting another chapter, but I wasn’t going to play according to his rules anymore. I went through to the study and logged on to my e-mail server. As I’d expected, there was a new message from him, with yet another identity, this time WD999. No doubt he thought using the emergency number was very funny.

Matt, Matt, I read. You’ve been a bad boy. Who gave you permission to break into Flat 12 in the Vestine Building? That was really dumb. I hope you liked my collection of humans and fauna. Tonight I’m going to make you pay for your nosiness. People you love are going to die in agony, Matt, and all because you thought you could take me on. Do you remember what John Webster wrote? “As in this world there are degrees of evils, So in this world there are degrees of devils.” I’m the worst kind, as you’re about to find out.