Paul Johnson - The Death List

“Or maybe there’s more to it than that.”

Turner shrugged.

“All right, go on working on that, but I want you to keep an eye on Simmons and Pavlou, too. And, don’t worry, I’ll keep D.C.I. Hardy off your back.”

After he’d left, Karen Oaten pushed the newspapers from her desk and opened a file. In it were her own notes about the case. She was impressed that Taff Turner had gone the same direction as she had. But she, too, was uncertain about the quote from Webster’s The White Devil, so she’d arranged a meeting at the university later in the day with a specialist in Jacobean literature. All Oaten knew about John Webster came from the movie Shakespeare in Love-he was the teenage slimebag who had dropped a mouse down Gwyneth Paltrow’s dress, and squealed on her and the playwright. He was a nasty piece of work, but that wasn’t what was giving her butterflies in her stomach. She’d seen killings as elaborate as this before. In every case the murderer had gone on to strike again-and soon.

It was why she’d joined the Met. What she’d told John Turner wasn’t the whole story. She wished she could forget, but every time she started on a murder case, she thought of her childhood friend Christy Baker. They’d been inseparable from primary through to senior school in St. Albans, they’d shared everything and competed against each other at netball, hockey and athletics without ever falling out. Then, one December night when they were fifteen, Christy had disappeared on her way home from Karen’s. It was only a five-minute walk, but she hadn’t made it. Her naked and mutilated body was found ten miles away in a ditch. The killer, a deliveryman, was eventually caught, but not before he’d claimed seven more victims.

Karen Oaten didn’t think of herself as being in the job for revenge, but deep down she knew that she wanted to catch as many sick bastards as she could. She had no sympathy for them. She’d seen what Christy’s family had gone through; she’d been there herself. It was worse than anyone could imagine.

She twitched her head and came back to the present, wondering what scenes of horror lay in store for her team in the days and weeks ahead.

Evelyn Merton looked out of her kitchen window. The garden to the rear of the bungalow on the outskirts of Chelmsford was full of spring blooms. And so it should have been. She spent hours working in the flower beds and rock garden. Since her beloved brother, Gilbert, had died two years ago, she’d had to take on lawn duties, as well. At least they weren’t too strenuous at this time of year, and the mower with powered wheels that she’d bought was a great help. Evelyn smiled as she saw a robin engaged in noisy combat as he defended his territory from another of his kind. Nature was full of hostility as well as beauty. She’d known that throughout her life, especially after she’d started teaching primary children.

It was so long ago, but she could remember many of the children that had passed through her hands. Of course, when she’d left college in the late fifties, everything had been very different. Although she’d grown up in the comfortable suburb of Chigwell, she chose to work in the underprivileged East End. The children of the poor were dressed in faded, patched clothes that had been handed down from older siblings. They were skinny, their faces wan. The National Health Service was gradually making a difference, but she still saw children with their legs bent by rickets and their complexions ruined by smallpox. At least, back then, they had understood discipline. The last years of her service in Bethnal Green had been marred by persistent bad behavior, particularly among the boys. She had been forced to take stern measures, even though teachers were no longer permitted to employ corporal punishment.

Miss Merton made herself a cup of milky tea and took it into the sitting room. Rajah, her blue Persian, opened an eye as she came in then went back to sleep, purring gently. He was old now and occasionally made a mess on the carpets but, once he’d had his nose rubbed in it, he behaved himself again. Before she settled into her armchair, Evelyn looked up at the class photographs she had hung above the television. There were rows and rows of eleven-year-olds, some of them serious but many grinning cheekily at the camera. The parents were to blame. The parents and the government. There was no discipline in society anymore. If it continued like this, she thought as she turned on the TV, there would be rioting in the streets.

The doorbell rang, provoking a sigh from Evelyn Merton. She enjoyed the morning talk shows, particularly the ones where feckless people were made to see the error of their ways.

A youngish man was standing outside, a blue cap on his head.

“’Mornin’,” he said in a bold way that immediately put Evelyn’s back up.

“Can I help you?” she asked coldly.

“Gas,” he said, smiling to reveal gleaming and unnaturally pointed white teeth. “Come to read the meter.” He looked at a clipboard. “Merton, is it?”

“Miss Merton. Very well, follow me.” Evelyn stopped and turned as she was halfway down the hall. “Show me some identification, please.”

The man closed the door and dropped the snib. He held the clipboard out to her. It was then that she realized he was wearing latex gloves. Surprised, she looked down at the board and took a heavy blow to her left temple.

She grunted, and then felt herself being dragged over the carpet to the main bedroom.

“Quiet, bitch,” the man hissed between tight lips.

“Wha…what do you…want?” Evelyn asked. “No…no money in the house.”

She grunted as she was pulled onto the bed. She could feel ropes being tightened around her wrists.

“No…no,” she said, but she could hear that her voice was faint.

Then she felt ropes on her skin. They were tightened and her legs were opened. Looking up, she realized that her wrists and ankles had been tied to the bedposts.

“No…” she said, fear making her bladder empty.

“Oh, she’s a dirty old woman,” the man said with a sharp laugh. “She’s going to have to lie in her own muck.” He took his hat off and opened the bag he’d been carrying.

Evelyn Merton watched as he zipped a white plastic suit over his clothes, then put what looked like a surgical cap over his short fair hair.

“Scream if you like, Miss Merton,” he said, emphasizing her title as if it were a swear word. “But the problem with living in a bungalow is that your neighbors aren’t very likely to hear you, especially above the racket from your television.” He smiled. “Besides, Mrs. Smith in number thirty-three is out shopping and Mr. Humboldt in number thirty-seven has been in hospital for the past ten days. Not that you’ve bothered to visit him, have you, you poisonous old toad?”

Evelyn started to sob, her eyes blurred by tears. She’d read often enough in the Mail about elderly women being assaulted in their own homes, but she’d never believed it would happen to her. Perhaps she could reason with the man. There was something about him that was familiar, but her throbbing head couldn’t make sense of it. Something about him…

Her assailant sat down on the bed near her face and leaned over. “I imagine you’d like to know what’s going on, Miss Merton,” he said, his voice steady. He had a neutral accent, but to her experienced ear there was a trace of Cockney in it. “Don’t worry, I’ll fill you in.” He gave a laugh that made her blood run cold. “But first, I’m going to shut you up. I used to have to listen to you enough.” He grabbed her face, thumb and fingers pressing hard into her cheeks. She was forced to open her mouth and a cloth of some sort was stuffed into it. She panicked as she was forced to breathe through her nose, and struggled in her bonds.