Paul Johnson - The Death List

“I…oh fuckin’ hell, it hurts. All right, all right, I’ll tell you. Just let me down.”

The team leader gave him another thirty seconds in the air, then nodded to his colleagues. The chain was loosened and the captive dumped unceremoniously on the rough floor.

“We’re listening, Terry,” Wolfe said. “Talk and we’ll let you go.”

Smail looked at him disbelievingly, and then sobbed as he took in the bloody mess of his ankles. The chain had almost cut through to the bones.

“Jimmy Tanner drank with…?”

“Oh, Christ, I can’t. They’ll kill me.”

“And we won’t?”

“All right, all right. Jimmy, he didn’t much drink with anyone. He got vicious when he’d had a skin-full and we’d seen what he could do. He broke Big Mikey’s arm like it was a stick.” Terry Smail glanced at the three men around him. “Oh, I get it. You’re like him. You’re SAS like he said he used to be, ain’t you?”

“Keep talking,” said the leader, raising the scraper.

The captive gulped. “It must’ve been about six months ago. These two blokes turned up at the Hereward. We all reckoned they was dodgy, but they got talking to Knives, the landlord. I reckon money changed hands. Anyway, Knives introduces them to Jimmy and soon they’re getting on like a house on fire. I heard…I heard they wanted Jimmy to show them things.” He looked at his captors again. “The kind of things you people do.”

“What were their names?”

“I dunno. Aah-ee!” Smail tried to swing away from the rusty blade that was being dragged down his chest. “Corky. That’s all I know. One of them was called Corky. I dunno nothing about the other one.”

“And they used to drink with Jimmy till when?”

“Till about six weeks ago. When he…when he stopped coming. What’s this all about? What’s happened to Jimmy?”

Wolfe shook his head. “That’s what you’re going to tell us, Terry.”

“I…I dunno.” Smail’s eyes moved around frantically. “Honest I don’t.”

Wolfe pulled the scraper back. “Describe the men.”

Terry let out a long sigh of relief. “Um, the one called Corky was nothing special. Not too tall. He had a crappy beard that had bits of food in it and he always wore a woolly hat.” He broke off and looked up at the men. “Like you guys. His nose looked like it’d been flattened by a brick and his eyes were all bloodshot. He was a pisshead, I reckon, even though he only ever drank mineral water.”

“And the man with no name?”

“He was smaller than me. He always wore a baseball cap, red, with some cartoon character on it. He had this shitty long hair, black, in kinda rat’s tails. Oh, yeah, and he had these weird teeth. Pointed. Looked like he was a fuckin’ vampire. That’s what we used to call him. Count Dracula.” He let out a string of feeble, cracked laughs, and then stopped when he saw the three men’s faces. “That’s all I know. Honest. Can I go now?”

Wolfe stood up and looked at his companions. “Oh, you can go all right.” He leaned over the naked man. “You can go on the express elevator to hell. But first you’re going to tell us what you’re holding back. Who is the man with the pointed teeth? We want to meet him very badly.” He tossed the scraper to Geronimo.

Terence Smail’s screams echoed round the empty building. The seagulls outside took up a keening chant that obscured his travails from every passerby.

I went back to the Volvo and drove home, having placed the leather bag unopened on the front passenger seat. I felt even more intensely the mixture of rage and impotence that had weighed me down since the Devil first got his claws into me. But there was another emotion now. I tried to resist it because I knew he had planted it in me and was assiduously cultivating it-the desire for revenge. He had spoken to Lucy, he’d touched her. I was going to make him pay. He’d been studying me; he knew how my mind worked even though he’d never met me. But why did he want me to go after him? Did he have some weird kind of death wish, or was he sure that he could keep me at a distance?

I parked outside my place and went inside, the bag under my jacket. For some reason I didn’t want anyone to see me carrying it. As I was climbing the stairs, I understood why not. It was blood money, tainted by the deaths of the Devil’s victims. What was I going to do with it? Hide it in the loft? The money was another part of my tormentor’s plan that I didn’t understand. He’d made me his slave by threatening Lucy and everyone else I loved. He didn’t need to pay me. Did that betray a psychological weakness, that he had to pay for attention? Or was there something more subtle in his thinking?

I checked my e-mails. There was one from Sara, saying that she was tied up with the story and would ring me when she could. There was also one from my mother, and it made my heart pound again.

Dearest,

I hope this finds you well. I know we spoke on the phone the other day, but I wanted to get in touch and I feel more comfortable writing-you understand how writers are, defter by pen and keyboard than by tongue (that could be taken as rude!). You sounded troubled when I called you. I know that your problems with publishers and agents have been getting to you. Don’t let the bastards grind you down! You just have to get on with the next book and prove them wrong. I know you can do it!

Now, something else. Have you been following the news recently? I’m sure you will have been. Those two murders in the headlines. Have you noticed how similar they are to two of the killings in your books? I looked up the particular passages. The priest in Kilburn seems to have been done as per chapter 21 of The Devil Murder. And the poor woman in Chelmsford had her arm severed, just like the vile Blakeston in The Revenger’s Comedy, chapter 26. Isn’t that extraordinary? Obviously a coincidence, but rather a chilling one. Have you had any of your fans pointing it out?

Anyway, don’t worry. I won’t bring it to the attention of the police!

Must get on with Elvira and Tiffany Go to the Beach. Give my love to Lucy (and the opposite to Caroline-sorry, only joking!).

With fondest love,

Fran

“Jesus,” I said under my breath. “Thanks a lot for that, Mother.”

Then my mobile rang. There was no number on the screen.

“Hello, Matt. What-”

“You fucking piece of shit!” I shouted. “What were you doing talking to Lucy? How dare you touch her? I’m going to-”

“You’re going to what?” the Devil answered, his voice steely. “Find me? Catch me? Kill me? Oh, yes, please, Matt. That would be so much fun. You see, I have this enormous death wish.” His laugh was as far from humorous as I could imagine. “Just calm down. What makes you so sure that I was Mr. White? I might have dozens of helpers, hundreds for all you know. Do you really think I would take a risk like that myself?”

I kept silent. I had the feeling that he was quite capable of getting a kick from a stunt like that, but I had no way of knowing how many people were working for him.

“Anyway, be a good little writer and open the bag now, will you?”

I held the phone between my shoulder and ear, and reached across for it. I could see the bundles of twenty-pounds notes before the zip was fully open.

“All right?” the Devil asked.

“There seems to be another five thousand,” I said, emptying the bag.

He laughed, this time more warmly. “I don’t think you’ve got everything I put in for you. Look in the side pocket.”

I felt a stab of concern. What else had the calculating son of a bitch sent me? I pulled the button on the small pocket open. Christ. What was it? I put my fingers in carefully and felt a wiry substance. Taking it out, I saw a mass of brown and white hairs.