The Death List (6 page)

It wasn’t, but he’d nailed me very successfully. The divorce had been a bad one, with Caroline wanting rid of me and me not wanting to put Lucy through the mangle. This would be just what Caroline needed to get me out of her life. But how did WD know? Or was he just guessing?

I’ll be in touch again tomorrow, the message ended. That’s when you’ll be starting work for me. Get a good night’s sleep.

I hit Reply.

Why are you calling yourself the White Devil? What’s John Webster’s play of that name, first performed in 1612, got to do with anything? I clicked Send.

There was a chime soon afterward.

You got it eventually, Matt. I am the White Devil. Da-da. Cue doom-laden music. What’s the play got to do with it? Come on, you can do better than that. But get some rest now or “Our sleeps are severed.” Good night.

I sat back and looked up at the cracked ceiling. Jesus. This guy really knew how to get to me. “Our sleeps are severed”—
The White Devil,
act 2, scene 1; Brachiano divorcing Isabella, in Webster’s great work of revenge and violent death. It was behind my novel
The Devil Murder,
the title being another quotation from the play. I’d studied Jacobean tragedy at college and been fascinated by it. There was a primitive inevitability to the plays that shook me—the mask of civilization was much flimsier and the seething bedlam beneath much closer than in Shakespeare, apart from
Titus Andronicus.
When I was searching for a plot to hang my third Sir Tertius novel on, I came on that of
The White Devil
—hypocrisy and corruption being justly punished. I even gave John Webster a small part. Most of the critics thought that was a neat touch. Some lunatic was taking his admiration too far.

Then I had another thought. In
The Devil Murder,
the villain, Lord Lucas of Merston, is done to death by the crazed father of a girl he has raped. The father happens to be a farmer and he kills the criminal by hacking him apart with a skinning knife. Sir Tertius finds the lord in the crucifix position, with his entrails hanging out.

Just like Happy’s.

I put down the empty glass by my computer. The big slug of single malt had finally calmed me down. It had even brought a sense of perspective. This was all crazy. What was I doing, letting a nutter implicate me the way he had? It wasn’t as if I was the one who’d killed Happy. It wasn’t as if I’d extorted the five grand out of him. To nip this in the bud, all I needed to do was phone the police. They’d take some time to be convinced, but I would give them the money and show them where Happy’s body was. I’d have a job explaining to Caroline and the Rooneys what I’d done, but I would think of a way. I had the e-mails, after all. Yes, that was it. I was putting a stop to this.

The phone rang before I got any further.

“Hello?” I said hesitantly, wondering if the White Devil had somehow discovered my ex-directory number.

“Matt, is that you?” My mother sounded perturbed.

“What is it, Fran?” I asked, the words coming out in a rush. “Are you all right?” If the bastard had done anything to her, I’d make him pay.

“Of course I’m all right, dear,” she said, her voice softening. “You’re the one who sounds worried.”

That was typical of my mother. She could construct an entire mood around a few words. That was maybe why she was still a published author and I wasn’t.

“Sorry. You know, problems with the writing…”

“Do you want to talk about it?” When I started out, I’d often spoken to Fran about the technicalities of fiction, but in recent years I’d kidded myself that I’d got beyond that stage. It would have been a good idea to get back to the basics with her, but I had other things on my mind tonight.

“No, it’s all right. I’ll sort it out.” I remembered my initial fear. Could the Devil have got to her? “Is everything okay at home? No one’s been…been bothering you?”

“Are you sure you’re well, Matt?” she asked solicitously.

“Please, just answer the question.”

I heard a sharp intake of breath. “As a matter of fact, you asked two questions.” She paused to put me in my place. “Yes, everything is okay. No, no one’s been bothering me. What’s this about, Matt?”

“Nothing,” I said, casting around for a get-out clause. “I saw something in the paper the other day about a prowler in your area.”

“Really?” She didn’t sound too bothered. “It wouldn’t be the first time. Anyway, you know I always keep the doors and windows locked, and put the alarm on when I go to bed.”

“Yes,” I said, realizing that all I’d done was give her a reason to worry. Still, under the circumstances, it would be good if she took extra care.

“Anyway, I phoned to ask if you’d like come round at the weekend. Bring Sara, too.”

I’d forgotten all about Sara. She was supposed to finish the story she’d been working on and come round to my place to spend the night.

“I’m…I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ll give you a ring. Good night.”

The way Fran returned the greeting made it clear that she thought I was losing my grip.

Which was true.

Before I could move from the phone, I heard the key turn in the lock. Sara appeared, her brown hair tousled and her face lined. The furrows had been getting deeper in recent months. She worked too hard, and I knew I didn’t always give her enough support.

“Hello, stranger,” she said, dropping her bag. She peered at me. “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Um, no,” I said, getting up and going over to kiss her. I’d been frantically trying to remember if I’d left anything around that would alert her to what had been going on. The screen saver was on the computer. I thought about switching the machine off, but that would only draw attention to it. I would shut it down normally when she was in the shower. She always headed straight for the bathroom after work.

“Hello, Sara,” she said, giving me an encouraging smile. “It’s lovely to see you. I’ve missed you so much.”

I repeated the words, laughing. Sara had the ability to make anyone smile, not a quality widespread among journalists. It had helped her break some major stories.

“Sorry,” I added. “I’ve had a hard day at the typeface.”

Shit. Now she was on her way over to the screen.

“What have you been working on?” She looked at me hopefully. “Not the new novel.”

I wasn’t quick enough to dissemble. “Uh, no. Just some reviews.”

The smile didn’t fade. “Never mind. I’m sure it’ll come together soon.”

“Sara, my darling,” I said, taking her arms. Her scent filled my nostrils. It took me back to the first time I’d met her. She’d walked up in a wave of perfume and I’d fallen head over heels in love on the spot. That had never happened to me before. Even more amazingly, she told me she’d had the same experience the first time she laid eyes on me across the crowded room. I shook my head to dispel the memory. “I…there’s something I have to tell you.” My serious tone made her move her head back to study me. I’d had it with the bastard I’d let into my life. I was going to share the burden. “Well, it’s a bit weird. This morning I—”

My mobile rang. I raised my hands at her and went to my jacket pocket.

“Hello?”

“Matt, you will remember not to tell anyone about today, won’t you?” The White Devil’s voice was calm, almost cheerful. It had a neutral tone, as if it weren’t really his—as if he was putting it on.

How did he know I was about to tell Sara?

“Matt, I know you’re there. Speak!”

“Yes…I will remember that.” I tried to smile at Sara as she went past me into the bathroom. I waited till the door had closed. “You bastard. Are you bugging me?”

There was a laugh that tailed off into a snarl. “What do you know about surveillance technology, Mr. Award-Winning Crime Novelist? As much as a sparrow can crap.” The line went dead.

I sat down, my heart pounding. He was right. I didn’t have a clue about modern surveillance hardware. He could have been beaming a camera down from a satellite for all I knew. The bastard had even found out my mobile number, though I guessed that wouldn’t take either too much time or money. Shit. I was in this alone, after all. I couldn’t risk anything happening to Lucy.

When Sara came out, I’d turned my computer off. I had my head in my hands.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, clutching me to her warm body. “Who was that on the phone?”

“Just some tosser,” I mumbled. Understatement of the millennium. Suddenly I remembered how close Sara and I had become over the past nine months. I was at the stage where I trusted her with everything. She was my savior; she could make anything better.

“Come to bed,” she said, tugging at me gently, her cheeks red—they were always like that when she was aroused.

I followed her into the bedroom, the blood hot in my veins. But my head was filled with confused thoughts. Something was trying to make itself known.

“Come on,” Sara said, tugging back the duvet. “I’ll make you feel—”

The thought that had been nagging me burst to the surface.

“No!” I said, lunging forward.

“Well, well, Mr. Wells,” Sara said, her smile slowly disappearing. “What have you been up to?”

She picked up the bundles of twenty-pound notes that I’d stuck under the covers when I brought Lucy round, and gave me a questioning stare.

5

After what seemed like an eternity, Mrs. O’Grady, seventy-three and deeply wrinkled, finished arranging her bucket and mop in the cupboard off the sacristy. “Will that be all for tonight, Father Prendegast?” she asked.

“Yes, yes,” the priest replied impatiently, his head with its large bald patch bowed over the papers on the table.

“Are you sure now?” Mrs. O’Grady had been doing the Wednesday night cleaning at St. Bartholomew’s, West Kilburn, for more than thirty years and she prided herself on the solicitude that she afforded the men of God. The previous fathers had appreciated her, but this one was different. Although he’d been there for nearly ten years, she hardly felt that she knew him at all. He paid her little attention. She didn’t like gossip, but she’d begun to believe what some of the other ladies said—that he’d come to their church under a cloud. There had been a scandal somewhere in the East End that was hushed up. She raised her head to the stained ceiling. Dear God, she thought, why can’t your representatives on earth keep their hands to themselves?

Mrs. O’Grady took a step back when she realized Father Prendegast was glaring at her, as if he knew what was in her mind. She took her coat and hurried away, mumbling, “Good night to you, then.” She stopped when she got outside and shivered. It wasn’t cold—the last of the sun had spread in a red carpet over the western sky and its warmth was still in the air—but she felt a chill. There was something about that man, something she could almost smell. He was…he was dirty, a wrong ’un. She walked quickly down the gravel path, anxious to get back to her council flat and her little dog. She didn’t notice the figure that rose up from behind one of the larger gravestones and moved silently toward the door of the church.

Norman Prendegast pushed his chair back and got up. At last the old cow had left him in peace. He selected a key from the ring on his belt and slotted it into the bottom drawer of an antique rolltop desk. He took the bottle of Jameson that one of the faithful had given him at Easter and broke the seal. The first few gulps did nothing, and then he began to feel the warmth rising from his belly. That was the stuff. He went back to the table and sat down again, setting the bottle on the accounts book he’d been trying to complete. He’d leave that chore to another night.

After he’d taken another long pull from the bottle, the priest fell into a reverie. Fifteen years he’d been in exile from his flock in Bethnal Green; fifteen years he’d been banned from even visiting them in his time off. It wasn’t fair. He’d been everything a priest should be—unstinting in his efforts, a source of comfort to the faithful in times of loss and pain, a beacon of joy at weddings. His choir, his football and cricket teams, they’d won prizes. He swallowed again, but now the spirit tasted bitter as his grievances rose up around him like a demented chorus. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were only offering them friendship. The boys loved you. The boys wanted you to touch them.

Father Prendegast heard a noise from the church. Mrs. O’Grady must have forgotten something. He stayed where he was. He didn’t like the way she looked at him. She knew, he was sure of it. The hypocrites, the old harpies. They all knew about him, but they pretended they didn’t. They pretended he was a normal priest rather than one who’d been given a last chance by the archbishop, and that only because the church couldn’t face the shame. Five years in an isolated retreat in County Kerry and then this run-down hole. It was only full when the sinners came at Christmas and Easter. No one bothered to confess anything other than venial sins these days, anyway. They thought that meant they could forget the truly bad things they’d done. Hypocrites. Whited sepulchers. At least he’d confessed, though it had been required of him. Confessed and asked forgiveness. His conscience was clean, even if his desires still tormented him.

Norman Prendegast drank again. The bottle was still at his lips when the sacristy door opened, and then closed again.

“Who’s that?” he demanded, his vision blurred. “Is it you, Mrs. O’Grady?”

The key turned in the lock.

“What’s going on?” the priest said, his voice wavering. He tried to get the bottle out of sight. “This is a private room.”

“Calm down, Father,” said a low male voice. “I’ve just come for a little chat.” The figure drew closer. “About old times.”

There was something familiar about the voice, although the words were free of any recognizable accent.

“Who are you?” Father Prendegast asked, staring through the whisky-induced haze. “Do I know you?”

“Oh, yes,” the man said. He was standing next to him now. “Don’t you remember me?”

A gloved hand suddenly grabbed the priest’s chin and forced his face round.

“Take a good look.”

Prendegast blinked and tried to make out the features. The man was wearing a black cap, which he took off to reveal short blond hair. That meant nothing to him. But the features did. The small nose, the half smile on the pinched lips, but most of all the eyes—so brown that he could hardly distinguish between iris and pupil. Oh, sweet Jesus, was it really him, the one who’d brought him down? After all these years?