Paul Johnson - The Death List

Smail had kept the best till last. Wolfe knew that would be the way. That was why they had moved on to their captive’s groin after damaging his knees beyond repair. Just before he passed out, Terry revealed where the bearded man called Corky lived. By squeezing him they’d find Count Dracula and they’d put a stake through his black heart-after they’d heard him tell them what had happened to Jimmy.

They were on their way to Forest Hill now.

I wasn’t in the mood for any more of the White Devil’s games when I got back from Sara’s, so I didn’t check my e-mails. If the bastard wanted me badly enough, he’d call me up when he saw that I’d returned. As it turned out, I was allowed a break. Although it took some time to come, I eventually dropped into a deep and surprisingly untroubled sleep.

Next morning I walked Lucy to school as usual. She was still subdued. Apparently the neighbors had been shouting at each other again. I tried to comfort her, but I was aware that I wasn’t doing a very good job.

When I got back, I made coffee and ate a couple of pieces of toast. Then, reluctantly, I booted up my reserve laptop. First I checked the main newspaper sites. There was plenty of speculation about the doctor’s murder, all the correspondents being positive that a serial killer one tabloid had dubbed “the New Ripper” had struck again, even though this time he hadn’t been on his own. At least they’d got that much right. The rest of their reporting had about as much substance as the worst scenes in my novels.

I logged on to my e-mail program. To my surprise, there was no message from the Devil. To my dismay, there was one via my Web site from k. oaten@met. police. uk. That was all I needed. I leaned back in my chair and worked out my choices. I could get in touch with the sternly attractive female D.C.I. I’d seen on the TV-either telling her everything I knew or dissembling as best I could; or I could keep my head down. She obviously didn’t know my real name, but it wouldn’t be long till she discovered it. All she had to do was contact my ex-editor or agent. I could get out of London, but then I’d be leaving Lucy and the others at the mercy of the Devil. I could hardly gather together my daughter, Sara, my mother, Caroline and all of my friends and their families, and spirit them away. No, there was nothing else for it. I had to talk to Karen Oaten in order to get her off my case-but I couldn’t tell her anything about my tormentor. Did I have it in me to lie to a senior police officer? I would soon find out.

I picked up the phone and dialed the mobile number given in her e-mail.

“Oaten,” she answered crisply.

“Um, hello, my name’s Matt Wells. You sent me a message.”

“Matt Wells?” She sounded puzzled.

I was pleased that I’d put her on the back foot. “Also known as Matt Stone.”

“Oh, yes. Thanks very much for getting in touch, Mr. Stone…Mr. Wells. I’d very much like to talk to you.” Her tone had turned insistent.

“You mean now?”

“If that’s all right. We can come to you.”

“Hold on a minute.” I looked around the flat. It was in a mess, but that wasn’t what was bothering me. The Devil was probably watching and listening. If I volunteered to meet the policewoman elsewhere, he might think that I was spilling my guts about him. I couldn’t risk that. “Sure, all right.” I gave her the address. She said she’d be round in under half an hour and hung up.

I spent the time saving to diskette and then deleting the last messages to and from the Devil. I didn’t imagine she’d be turning up with a warrant to search the place. If she did, I was stuffed-unless I got rid of the laptop, which would immediately raise her suspicions as I’d obviously read her e-mail. No, I’d have to brazen things out. I tried to think myself into the minds of my two fictional investigators. How would Sir Tertius and Zog have prepared for an interrogation? With total lack of concern in the former case and deep foreboding in the latter. Neither was much help to me.

When the bell rang, I made myself walk downstairs at a leisurely pace. The woman I opened the door to was accompanied by a burly man in a crumpled blue suit. She was tall and well proportioned, with the look of an ex-athlete who’d kept in shape. Her blond hair was pulled back, emphasizing features that were more striking in real life than on TV.

“Mr. Wells?” she asked. “I suppose I should use your real name.”

I nodded. “Hello.” I gave her what I hoped wasn’t too expansive a smile. “And I suppose I should see some ID.”

She opened her wallet to display her warrant card, her colleague doing the same.

“This is Detective Inspector Turner,” Oaten said. “We won’t take up much of your time.”

I led them upstairs, my heart racing. These people clearly knew what they were about. I felt like a total amateur, despite my theoretical knowledge of police procedure.

“Not working?” the chief inspector asked, glancing at the dark screen of my laptop.

“Thinking,” I said, tapping my head. “Unfortunately, writers never get even a minute off.”

They both looked at me dubiously.

I ushered them to the sofa. “Coffee? Tea?”

“No, thanks,” Oaten replied. “We’re rather busy, as you’ll no doubt appreciate.”

“How do you mean?” I said, playing dumb.

“Mr. Wells, I imagine you’re aware of the recent murders in and around London,” the chief inspector said. Her colleague took out a notebook and pen.

“I’ve seen the news,” I replied, raising my shoulders. I had to be careful here.

The Devil had told me plenty of details that hadn’t been made public.

Oaten leaned forward, long fingers splayed on the black fabric of her trousers. “Mr. Wells, has it struck you that there are certain similarities with certain murders in your novels?”

I kept my eyes on her. “I had begun to wonder. Though the reports haven’t gone into enough detail for me to take the links too seriously.” I hoped I was playing the scene with sufficient cool.

The chief inspector pursed her lips. “What if I were to tell you that the murders of Father Norman Prendegast, Miss Evelyn Merton and Dr. Bernard Keane were almost exact replicas of those in three of your books?” She turned to her colleague and he read out the titles and page references.

I felt their eyes on me, cold and unwavering. My lower jaw dropped in what I wanted to look like astonishment. “What?” I said weakly. “You can’t be serious.”

Oaten stood up and took a position in front of me, one leg in front of the other like a boxer preparing to fight. “We’re serious, all right, Mr. Wells. I need to know where you were on the following dates and times.” She raised her hand and the man, who had also got to his feet, read from his notebook.

I tried to look intimidated-which wasn’t difficult-and opened my diary. “Um, on the first, I was here. With my girlfriend. Last Friday I was here, working. On Saturday afternoon I was here.” My stomach was in turmoil. “Both times, on my own.” I stared up at them.

“Did you know any of the victims?” the inspector asked. He had a Welsh accent.

“Of course not.”

Karen Oaten was still standing over me. “Mr. Wells, you’re familiar with a seventeenth-century play called The White Devil.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“Yes, I am. I studied English literature at university.”

“And you used the dramatist John Webster as a minor character in your novel The Devil Murder.” The chief inspector glanced at her colleague and they sat down again.

“You’ve read my books?” I said, unable to conceal the novelist’s pleasure at finding readers even in a nightmare situation like this one.