Paul Johnson - The Death List

“Matt?” she said, her voice taut. “Can I have a word?”

Before I could reply, she was on her way round. I took Lucy into the dining room and sat her at the piano.

“What’s up?” I said over my shoulder. “Yes, practice the one about the crocodile, darling.”

Shami beckoned me out into the hall.

“You were here during the day yesterday,” she said, stating a fact rather than asking a question.

I managed to hold her gaze. “What do you mean?”

“Mrs. Stewart in number eight says she saw your Volvo when she was having her lunch. You know she always sits in the bow window looking out over the park.”

My gut twisted as I remembered that detail. Mrs. Stewart was a sour-faced old widow who disapproved of anyone who didn’t buy the Daily Mail. She particularly disapproved of people who got divorced, although I was the only one in my family she took that out on-apparently Caroline was guiltless in the matter. The reason she sat staring at Ruskin Park was so she could rush out and berate anyone who didn’t clean up after their dog. Christ. I wondered how much she’d seen.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, giving Shami a slack smile. “I did pop round. I was picking up some cases of books that I left in the attic.” There was an element of truth in that. I was hoping that Caroline wouldn’t go and check out my story, because the cases were all still there. I was getting better at lying to order, but there was still room for improvement.

“You didn’t see Happy?” Shami asked. She was a decent woman, plump with a sweet face, and I didn’t like what I was doing. Then again, if I told her what had really happened to her dog, she’d have a fit.

I shook my head. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t. I thought she was inside.”

The uncertain notes from the piano stopped.

“Daddy?” Lucy called. “Has Happy come back from the dog hospital?”

Shami and I exchanged glances, and then her eyes filled with tears. I touched her shoulder.

“Just a minute, sweetie,” I said.

“I have to go,” Shami said, swallowing a sob. “I need to stay by the phone. We’ve put ads in the papers.” She hurried out.

I watched her leave, thinking that I’d better make sure Lucy didn’t see the papers. I felt like a callous bastard. Then it struck me: maybe that was exactly what the Devil wanted.

I had to retain as much of my own nature as I could if I was going to survive this.

I went back to my place and logged on to my e-mail program. I wasn’t surprised to see a message from the Devil, with another attachment.

Send me what you’ve got, Matt, I read.

I hit Reply and attached my text. I experienced what used to happen when I sent completed novels to my editor-brief sadness that my offspring had left home mixed with apprehension about what the recipient would think of it.

I leaned back in my chair, suddenly feeling exhausted. I was going round to Sara’s when she finished work. I was desperate to see her, even though I couldn’t share my burden. She’d brought me out of the depression that most writers live with often enough, her kindness and quick smile acting on me like a spell. She was my guiding light.

I stood up and headed for the kitchen-which wasn’t more than an alcove-and made a pot of coffee. Then I sat down in front of the TV and turned on the news. I’d missed the national bulletin and the local London report was on. Normally I wouldn’t have bothered watching yet another policy initiative by the mayor and more shots of beleaguered commuters. This time, when I got the gist of what was being presented, I made an exception.

A black female reporter was standing in front of a small Victorian Gothic building.

“…of St. Bartholomew’s Catholic Church in West Kilburn. Detectives from the Metropolitan Police’s elite Violent Crime Coordination Team were called to the scene not long after midnight. The murder victim underwent a horrific attack in the church. Detective Chief Inspector Karen Oaten made this statement.”

The screen was filled by the face of a blond woman who managed to look stern and alluring simultaneously. “I can confirm that the dead man is Father Norman Prendegast.”

The coffee I’d just swallowed shot back up my throat.

“At this time we do not know who his assailant was, but it is likely that he-or possibly she-fled the scene with a substantial amount of blood on his or her clothing. I am appealing to the public to help us locate this very dangerous criminal. Please contact your local police station or call my team.” She gave a phone number. “All information will be treated in the strictest confidentiality.”

The reporter came back on and wrapped the story up. I wasn’t paying attention to her anymore. I was sweating heavily and my gut was coiled in a knot.

I knew the name Father Norman Prendegast. I’d typed it several times that day. It had been in the White Devil’s notes. It was the name of the priest who had abused him-he’d originally been called O’Connell, but the Church had arranged a new identity.

I felt myself falling into the abyss faster than Lucifer in Paradise Lost.

Eventually I got a grip. I kept telling myself not to be surprised. The White Devil had already shown himself to be a ruthless killer with Happy. The most worrying thing was the way he’d set things up. I was playing a game whose rules only he knew.

There was a chime from my computer-a new e-mail.

Facts Pertaining to the Murder of the Boy-Sodomizer Father Norman Prendegast.

One-a solid gold candlestick 1.6 meters in height was inserted into his fundament. Two-his eyes, which saw things they shouldn’t have, were removed and taken to a safe place. Three-after he’d begged for mercy and whined that it wasn’t his fault he liked boys, he was dispatched by a single stab wound to his black heart. Four-he was spread naked across the altar of the Mother Church that he’d defiled by his priesthood, as if he was buggering both it and, by extension, the corrupt leaders who turned a blind eye on his sins. Five-there was a quote from your favorite play about his person. “What a mockery…”

Are there bells ringing in your head, Matt?

There certainly were bells ringing in my head. This was getting beyond even the sickest of jokes. I got up, my knees jelly, and went over to the bookcase by the window where I kept my own first editions. I took out the second Sir Tertius novel, The Devil Murder. My hero had got himself involved with a bunch of demented Scots rebels led by a charlatan, who pretended he was descended from William Wallace. As history showed, rebels often ended up rebelling against one another. The murderous Rennie was set upon by his own followers after Sir Tertius revealed his lies. They performed a black mass in a ruined abbey and killed him by “skewering his fundament,” putting out his eyes and driving a dagger through his heart. When he found out about the murder, my clever-dick hero spouted the line from The White Devil about death making a mockery of the victim.

What was going on? Did the White Devil want me to write his story or was he framing me for the murder of the priest?

I sent a message asking those questions to the last e-mail address. It bounced back with a fatal error, saying the account no longer existed.

The phone rang, making me jump.

“Matt.”

Christ, he did have a camera on me. Or was he just guessing I’d be climbing the walls?

“What are you doing?” I shouted.

“What’s your problem?” he replied mildly. “You’ve got an alibi for last night, haven’t you?”

Sara. I might have known he’d have logged her presence.

“Yeah, that’s true. But still…”

“Why am I using your modus operandi?” He gave a sardonic laugh that made the hairs on my neck stand. “Because I can. And because I genuinely like your books. But you should have written more with Sir Tertius. You disappointed a lot of your fans.”