Paul Johnson - The Death List

How did he know? How long had he been bugging me? I’d ranted about Drys to Sara, but not recently. The poor bastard hadn’t even bothered to review my last novel.

“Matt? At least congratulate me on ridding the world of a literary bloodsucker.”

“You’re out of your mind,” I finally managed to say. “Why did you pick on him? He couldn’t have done anything to you.” Then I remembered what he’d said-hands, tongue, hammer to skull-and my stomach constricted even tighter. “Christ, that was what happened to one of the villains in the first Sir Tertius novel.”

“The Italian Tragedy, that’s right.” The Devil gave an easy laugh. “Hey, Matt, we’re friends, aren’t we? I’ve got to the end of my own death list, so now I’ve started on yours.”

My blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb. And don’t worry. You’ve got the perfect alibi. The police were round at your place when Drys got his.” He sniggered. “Of course, you could have hired someone to kill him.” He gave an even nastier laugh. “You could have hired me.” The line went dead.

I threw the phone down in despair. What did he mean by my death list? Jesus, was he going to wipe out everyone I’d ever expressed a negative feeling about? If that was the case, there were going to be a lot of dead people in the publishing business-editors, agents, publicity girls, marketing people, fellow novelists whose success I resented, booksellers who hadn’t chosen my books for their three-for-two promotions…

The Devil couldn’t be serious.

D.C.I. Karen Oaten and D.I. John Turner were standing in Alexander Drys’s drawing room. They were kitted out in white coveralls and bootees.

“Hell’s teeth,” the inspector said, looking away from the abomination on the chaise longue.

“Steady, Taff,” said his superior, bending over the naked dead man’s blood-spattered face. She glanced at the pathologist. “You say his tongue’s been removed. Has anything been inserted into the mouth?”

Redrose shook his head. “I expected that question. No, there’s no plastic bag with a line of poetry or whatever in it.”

“Nowhere about his person?”

“Nowhere. The only thing that’s been inserted is his tongue into his-”

“Yes, you mentioned that.” Oaten glanced at the white-faced Turner. “Any idea why?”

“I just collect the severed body parts,” the pathologist said, inclining his head toward the table where the critic’s severed hands lay in clear plastic bags. They were like grotesque ornaments, the palms downward and the fingers tensed like a piano player’s. “It’s for you people to work out what goes on in the monster’s mind.”

“Thanks a lot,” the chief inspector said ironically.

Redrose looked up at her. “All right, if you want my provisional opinion, it’s the same killer as in the previous three murders. The hands were removed with a modicum of expertise, but nothing to suggest that the perpetrator had medical or even butcher’s training. The tongue was pulled outward with what the marks on top and bottom suggest was a pair of pliers and cut off with a very sharp, nonserrated blade.” He turned to the smashed remains of the head. “As for the skull, it was shattered with a large number of blows from a relatively compact, rounded instrument-my guess is one of those hammers, what are they called?”

“Ball-peen,” Turner said, his eyes still averted.

“That’s the ticket,” the pathologist said approvingly. “Into DIY are we, Inspector? All right, here’s my psychological analysis, for what it’s worth. I’d say the hands being removed has an obvious link with the man’s job-he was a literary critic who wrote for a living, wasn’t he? The tongue in the rectal passage is a bit more obscure. Was he a sexual deviant?”

Oaten shrugged. “We haven’t got that far yet. The blows to the head that killed him interest me. The previous killings were carried out with what you described in your reports as ‘controlled brutality.’ So was this one, apart from the head. Why was it smashed up the way it was?”

“Maybe he was struggling with his assailant,” Turner suggested.

“No, the victim was restrained,” said the pathologist, pointing to rope burns on the stumps of the arms.

“So it was in cold blood,” the chief inspector said. She moved over to the lead SOCO. “Anything interesting?”

“Two people, like at the doctor’s. Looks like they changed their clothes on the landing after the murder. There are no traces, at least not so far, on the staircase or around the rear window where they gained access by cutting out a pane.”

“No sign of a plastic bag with a message?”

The man raised his shoulders and looked around the room. “Not yet. Then again, there are a lot of books in here.” The shelves that covered three of the walls rose to the ceiling and were all full.

Karen Oaten swung her gaze across the thousands of volumes. The SOCO team leader was smart. Even though there was no message in the body, it was possible, given the victim’s profession, that one had been left in a book. “Get one of your lot to run an eye over the books in here,” she said to the technician. “I’m particularly interested in anything by John Webster or Matt Stone.”

The SOCO nodded.

Oaten’s mobile rang. Her heart sank when she heard the commissioner’s less-than-dulcet tones. She brought him up to speed with the investigation.

“D.C.I. Oaten, I’ve been talking to the A.C.,” he said. “We feel you’re underresourced. D.C.I. Hardy’s team will be joining yours. You’ll retain operational command, but I don’t want any pissing about. Share what you know and cooperate with each other. This lunatic is making us look like incompetents. If there are more murders, it’ll be very hard to keep you in place.” The connection was cut.

The chief inspector stood staring at her phone. She had mixed feelings. Hardy’s people helping out would be useful, but she didn’t want that nicotine-stained tosser breathing down her neck. As for the threat of being kicked off the case, that only made her more determined to find the killers. Anyone who thought she was going to allow her career to be stalled by a pair of bloodthirsty savages-no doubt male-would find out how wrong they were. She was a woman in the Met. What she’d gone through to get where she was made catching these lunatics look like a pissing contest-and she’d won the last of those she’d undertaken by using a hand-operated pump to hit the ceiling during her leaving party from her previous job. There was something nagging her about her time in East London. Something-

“Guv?” John Turner was standing at the far end of the room. “The SOCOs are all snowed under. I’ll have a look for that wanker Wells’s, I mean, Stone’s, books myself.”

Oaten went over. “What have you got against him?” She’d found the novelist rather alluring, not that she’d let it show.

“I told you in the car,” he said, staring up at the rows of books. “There’s something wrong about him. He’s hiding things.”

The chief inspector laughed. “Everyone hides things from us, Taff. We’re coppers, remember?”

Turner wasn’t listening. “They’re in alphabetical order,” he said triumphantly. “This shouldn’t take long.” He went to the left-hand wall by the window. “Over here,” he said, beckoning to the photographer. “One of the books is sticking out.”

Oaten joined him and waited for the photos to be taken, blinking as the flash discharged. “The Italian Tragedy. That was his first book, as I remember.” She removed the hardback volume carefully and opened it. There was a press release inside proclaiming “the debut of an immense new talent in crimewriting.” She ran the pages past her latex-covered thumb. A flicker of red caught her eye. She went back to the page, her heart suddenly racing.