Paul Johnson - The Death List

But that didn’t mean the emotions I felt were any less strong. I didn’t want to kill Christian or Jeanie, but I’d happily have humiliated them or made them weep. How different was I from my tormentor? I thought of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde-two sides of the same man, the evil “hidden” beneath the good. Or Joseph Conrad’s “secret sharer”-the doppelganger, a reflection of yourself that you struggle to come to terms with. Was that why the Devil had chosen me? Was he so smart? Nothing he’d done up till now contradicted such a conclusion. He’d read my books-Sir Tertius in the violent stew of a London enthused by revenge tragedy, Zog Hadzhi in the vendetta-stricken badlands of Albania. He’d also read my article. The bastard knew me better than I did myself. He may even have understood my fascination with revenge before I found myself in the position of wanting it.

Sickened by the realization that I was driven by the same urges as the murderer, I hammered out a couple of thousand words about the death of the bully. When I reread it, I saw that I’d given the narrator/murderer, Wayne Deakins, a psychological profile based as much on my own as on the one I’d inferred the Devil possessed. Bloody hell. He was pulling my strings as if I were a marionette.

By three o’clock in the afternoon, I’d had enough. I walked down to the village and went into the newsagent’s, planning to read the paper while I was waiting for Lucy. I couldn’t miss the tabloid headlines. Dead Priest Was Pedophile, Shame of Church Cover-Up, Murder Victim Was Pervert. I bought a selection of tabloids and broadsheets, and found a bench in Dulwich Park.

The consensus was that the Catholic Church had spirited Father Prendegast away from his church in the East End of London in May 1979, when complaints were made about his conduct by some altar and choirboys. He’d been sent to a remote monastery in western Ireland and given a new identity. The Church had taken out injunctions against all the papers, threatening to sue if the dead man’s former name was published. Its line was that the boys and their families needed to be protected from “unwanted intrusion into their privacy.” The tabloids weren’t cowed any longer. They’d gone ahead and printed the priest’s real name of Patrick O’Connell and the name of his church-St. Peter’s in Bonner Street. They also had interviews, no doubt paid for, with two boys, now in their late thirties, who claimed that Father Pat, as he’d encouraged them to call him, had fondled them, taken off their clothes and submitted them to repeated sexual abuse. They expressed horror that he’d been given a new identity and another job by the Church. The archbishop wasn’t commenting, and neither were the police. They were the only ones who’d shut up shop. Everyone from MPs to Anglican bishops had got in on the act, condemning the Catholic Church and demanding that it put its house in order. Lawyers, no doubt in private rubbing their hands with glee at the prospect of juicy compensation cases, were also to the fore.

I looked up at the sky, pale blue dotted with cotton-wool clouds, and worked through what this meant for me. I now knew where the priest had worked, and the names of two of his victims. It wouldn’t be difficult to find out the names of other boys who had attended St. Peter’s. In fact, it would be very easy. I wondered if the White Devil was indirectly challenging me to discover who he was. He must have known that the priest’s background would come out. Was he relying on the fact that I would be too frightened for Lucy and Sara to take any steps? I lowered my eyes and looked around. Apart from some women with buggies and toddlers, there was no one in the vicinity. But the Devil-or someone working for him-could be watching from the bushes, waiting for me to make a wrong move. I wasn’t prepared to do that, especially now that I was about to have Lucy with me.

But later? Maybe I would try to contact the men who’d been interviewed. One of them ran a tool shop in Carlisle now, while the other had a fruit and vegetable stall on the Roman Road-Harry Winder was his name. Then I had a thought that made me sit up. Could he be the Devil? Or could Andrew Lough, the hardware man in the north? I examined their photographs. Winder was tall, thickset and balding, a family man with four children, while Lough was in a wheelchair suffering from early-onset multiple sclerosis. Neither of them were likely candidates, though I couldn’t rule them out. In any case, they would probably remember the names of other boys.

My mobile phone rang. No number was displayed on the screen.

“Hello, Matt.” It was the White Devil. “Enjoying the papers?”

“Where are you?” I said, standing up and turning round 360 degrees. I could see no one speaking on a phone.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He chuckled, but there was no warmth in his voice. “So now you know about the good father’s dirty past. What are you going to do? Dash off down the Roman and talk to Harry Winder? Ring up Andy Lough? I didn’t know he had MS. Still, he always was a bit of a tosser.”

Bastard. He was way ahead of me.

“Matt? You’ve gone all quiet.”

“What do you want?”

“Oh, just passing the time of day. Have you written up the bully episode?”

“Yes. I’ll send it to you later.”

“You are doing well. Another chapter and you’ll be in line for the next cash payment.”

“I don’t want your filthy money.”

“Oh, yes, you do.” The Devil’s tone hardened. “That’s our agreement, remember?” He gave a dry laugh. “Besides, you never know. You might catch me when I deliver it.”

“What the fuck are you playing at?” I shouted, getting a sharp look from a woman with a small girl. I lowered my voice. “Are you trying to frame me? Did you have to kill the priest the way you did?”

“That was a token of my admiration for your books,” he replied smoothly. “You shouldn’t go putting ideas in people’s heads, Matt. Yes, you’re right to be concerned. One anonymous call to Scotland Yard and you become suspect number one.”

“Oh, bollocks,” I said, trying to play tough. “Who’s going to believe that a crime novelist would go around murdering people the way he does in his books? Not even the police are that thick.”

“Don’t panic, Matt. Remember, you’ve got an alibi.” He paused. “Of course, you could have hired someone else to do your dirty work. That happens in your books, too.”

“Screw you,” I said under my breath.

“Careful,” the Devil replied, his tone sharp again. “Your alibi would disappear if I decided to make a move on Sara.”

I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. “You-” I broke off when I realized the danger of provoking him further.

“Now, go off like a good daddy and pick up Lucy, Matt. I’m looking forward to the piece you’ve written. I know you’re enjoying this project. It’s right up your street, isn’t it?”

I didn’t answer.

“Isn’t it?”

“I suppose I have an interest in revenge, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean, all right, Matt. You’re no different from me. Oh, in case you were thinking of it, don’t bother checking up on my background in the East End.” He laughed. “Priests aren’t the only people who can get new identities. And priests aren’t the only people who die in agony for their sins.”

He rang off.

I shivered. The threat was clear. I was no nearer to him than when he’d first contacted me. But, as he’d just shown, he was very close to me and the ones I loved. Then an alternative meaning of his last words struck me. Jesus, was he lining up to murder someone else? Was he going to use another of the methods from my novels?