Paul Johnson - The Death List

“The team will start pulling in people today, including the ones we’ve already spoken to. They know that anyone whose alibis for the three killings don’t check or who are suspicious in any other way are to be held for us to question.” Turner’s voice was downbeat. “These people are smart, guv. They aren’t going to have left anything obvious.”

Oaten nodded. “But we have to check it all, don’t we?”

“What about the writer?” the inspector asked, inclining his head toward the piles of novels on his boss’s desk. “He could be involved, couldn’t he?”

“I doubt it. He spends his days at a computer making murders up, not committing them. But there are too many coincidences with the MOs to ignore him.” She gave her subordinate a tight smile. “And we don’t like coincidences in our business, do we?”

Turner was stroking his unshaven cheek. “No, we don’t. What are you going to do about him, guv?”

Oaten started tapping on her keyboard. “The problem is, Matt Stone is a pseudonym. I’ve been on his Web site, but I can’t get the agent and publisher on the contacts page to answer the phone to find out his real name. No one in that industry answers the phone out of office hours, apparently. So I’m going to send him an e-mail asking him to get in touch.”

Turner raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit risky, isn’t it? If he is involved, he’ll scarper.”

“Yes, he will,” the chief inspector replied. “Then we’ll know.” She looked round at him. “The most likely result is that he doesn’t answer. He’ll probably be away for the weekend. People like him usually are.” She finished typing. “There it goes, anyway.”

John Turner stood up. “Guv?”

“Christ, Taff, you look like even more of a streak of misery than you usually do.”

“Yeah, well, lack of sleep, you know. Look, as you pointed out to the team, the time between the murders is getting shorter. There’s going to be another one soon.”

Oaten nodded slowly. “I reckon there is.”

“But we haven’t got a clue who the victim will be.”

“No.”

Turner closed his notebook with a snap. “Don’t you ever get frustrated by this job?”

Karen Oaten straightened her back. “Of course I do. That’s why I swore to myself that I’m going to catch this animal-or animals, plural, as they now are.” Her chin jutted forward. “You’ve got to stay hungry, Taff. Otherwise the beasts in the jungle out there will rip you to shreds.”

The inspector headed out. Not for the first time, his boss’s determination made him worry more about the effect it might have on her than on the people she was hunting.

I spent the day with Lucy. It wasn’t a great success. I was tired and she was fretting about Happy-there had been shouting and crying from the neighbors’ the previous night. The dog’s name had been heard frequently. So much had happened that I’d almost forgotten the Devil’s first demonstration of his power. I had a couple of flashes of the horrible scene on my daughter’s bed and felt like a total scumbag for having got her involved. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t have left Happy’s carcass where it was.

Maybe taking Lucy to the South Bank didn’t help. There was a showing of Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday at the National Film Theatre and I thought she’d like Jacques Tati’s crazy behavior. She laughed a few times, but was generally subdued. Maybe she didn’t like the fact that it was a black-and-white movie. Afterward we just stood on Waterloo Bridge and watched the water flow by.

I went straight to Sara’s after I’d dropped Lucy off back home. She was just in, having been at the newspaper. We kissed and I instantly felt better.

“How are you doing?” I asked when we’d settled on her sofa with a bottle of cava.

“Not great,” she said. “I thought I was going to be able to sleep late this morning, but I got sent off to a church in Potter’s Bar. The priest declared he was gay during the week and there were all these demonstrators with placards saying Gay Clergy Get Lost and No Buggers in Church. Can you believe it?”

“Not as bad as your lot,” I said. “The pope thinks homosexuality’s abhorrent, doesn’t he? How many millions in compensation have been paid out to the victims of abuse by priests?”

“Whoa, Matt,” she said, her eyes bulging. They were bloodshot and there were dark rings around them. “I may be a lapsed Catholic, but I’m still a member of the church. You should respect that.”

“Sorry,” I said, my face reddening. “I was only messing around.”

“Yes,” she said, gulping wine. “That’s your problem, isn’t it? You spend your life making up stories and living in your little protected pocket in Herne Hill. Some of us have to deal with the real world.” She emptied her glass.

I refilled it and gradually the atmosphere lightened.

“Look, I’m sorry,” she said. “You’ll have to cut me some slack. I’ve been having a hard time at work recently.”

“The murders?” I said, putting my arm round her.

She nodded, but didn’t reply. I managed to get her talking by telling her about Monsieur Hulot’s idiocies-we’d seen Traffic a few months back. But her heart wasn’t in it and, after a quick meal, she went off to bed. I kissed her good-night, but I knew there was no point in joining her. Her body language made it clear that making love was off the menu. Sometimes she was hard to get to, and I’d learned to leave her be on those occasions. She always came round eventually. At the beginning of our relationship, I had been needy. My father had just been killed and she’d helped me through that. Lately it had begun to seem like she was the vulnerable one. It was just as well I hadn’t told her about the White Devil.

I spent the rest of the evening reading the Sunday papers and listening to the only band Sara had any time for-the Grateful Dead. I didn’t find out anything about the murder of Dr. Keane that the Devil hadn’t already told me. It seemed that my suspicions about there being a security camera at the scene had been right. Two men were being sought, one with the long hair and mustache that sounded very like the man Lucy had seen in the park, and another with a beard. At least I now had confirmation of my suspicion that the Devil had at least one accomplice. Eventually I turned off the stereo and went to the bedroom, but I didn’t get undressed. The expression on Sara’s sleeping face was tranquil. She’d obviously conquered her demons, so I decided not to disturb her.

I went out of the house quietly and drove back to my flat, reflecting on how far off the mark Sara was. The “protected pocket” she thought I lived in had been infiltrated by a savage killer, who was doing his best to incriminate me. If I wasn’t careful, she’d be in as much danger from him as Lucy, my mother and even Caroline were.

That thought chilled me to the bones.

It was nearly three in the morning. The Hereward in Greenwich, lock-in long over, was chained up and deserted when the Orion came round the corner, Geronimo at the wheel. It took only a few seconds to deliver Terry Smail back to his local. The team took pursuit precautions after they left, but it was soon clear that no one was on their tail.

Sitting in the front passenger seat, Wolfe allowed himself to relax a fraction. They had obtained more than he’d expected from the fourth-division lowlife. It seemed that the man named Corky wasn’t the main player-the one with the pointed teeth was in charge. Smail came out with that when Rommel had taken a screwdriver to his kneecaps. Apparently, one time the slimebag had tried to ingratiate himself with Jimmy Tanner and his new friends, only to be told in a seriously menacing way by the nameless man to leave them alone. It seemed hard to believe that the old soldier could have been taken by a pair of wide-boys, no matter how good they were, but the drink had really got to him-he’d hardly recognized Wolfe the last time they met, even though they’d served together in the SAS for more than five years.