Paul Johnson - The Death List

As the city came slowly to life that morning, the Devil considered the man he had picked out to work for him. He could easily have written his own story; he didn’t need the fool Matt Wells. But he did need a fall guy. A crime writer-a drone who made his living from trying and failing to imagine other people’s pain-was the perfect choice. Crime novelists. What did they know? How many of them had committed a crime worse than scoring a small amount of dope or speeding? How many of them had felt another human being’s life drain away, their eyes flutter as the last darkness came down, their limbs shake in the dance of death? Hypocrites, frauds, White Devils. They were worse than he was. At least he had reasons for what he was doing.

The Devil went back to the bank of screens on the rear wall. There had been an unusually determined look on Matt’s face when he came back from his girlfriend’s earlier on. That was interesting. Could he be stiffening the sinew, summoning up the blood? Could he be going to offer a challenge? That would be a bonus. Not that it would do the writer any good. He would soon be screaming for mercy.

As the literary critic had done. Drys had been a pitiful victim, begging for sympathy while he still had his tongue, offering money, works of art, everything he had. Maybe that was why the Devil’s partner hadn’t been able to hold back with the hammer. For God’s sake, man, he’d thought as he watched the blows. At least die with some dignity. Underlining the Webster quotation in Matt Wells’s first novel had been a nice touch. He wondered if the police had found it yet.

His partner had performed well during the head-smashing-this time there had been no choking back the vomit. The Devil had hoped that the experience of participating in the doctor’s death would bring familiarity, and he’d been right.

He ran his eye down the list. If he was going to slaughter them all, he needed to stick to the plan he’d worked out in such detail and memorized. He didn’t need a print version, but he’d sent one as a hidden attachment to one of the e-mails received by Matt Wells from the various Internet cafes he used-when the police found that, the crime writer would have nowhere to hide. Then he’d destroyed all his hard copies and diskettes. He no longer needed them.

He sat back and looked at the book’s contents page again. The column on the right listed his nameless victims, those he’d learned his trade on-the homeless, the junkies and the whores. He’d referred to them by where he found them-Charing Cross Road, Embankment, Beak Street…Nine of them. They had been his basic training after his father and the bully. No one had even noticed that they’d gone-into the canals and building sites, the car scrapyards and the foundations of the new roads that continuously appeared around London. Here today, gone to hell tomorrow, and nobody cared. The city was a graveyard, a realm of the dead, while people pretended they didn’t know. That was changing. There was hysteria in the air now, after the four murders he’d let them find out about.

The White Devil pointed the TV handset and selected one of the twenty-four-hour news channels. He didn’t hear anything further about the Drys murder. Then an item came on that made him flinch for the first time since he was a kid.

“…outside the Hereward public house in Greenwich, where the horrific discovery was made. A passerby returning from a late-night party saw stray dogs trying to get into three packing cases that had been left at the pub’s door. He saw the severed limbs and head, as well as the torso, of a male. Even more shocking was the fact that he knew the man. The Metropolitan Police has not confirmed the victim’s identity yet, but we understand that next of kin have been informed and that his name is Terence Smail, aged thirty, a regular of the Hereward. No witnesses have come forward and detectives suspect there may be a gangland connection…”

The White Devil got hold of himself, using the breathing techniques that Jimmy Tanner had taught him. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Terence Smail. Terry-he remembered the pathetic specimen who’d hung around the pub. Had he heard anything of what had passed between the Devil, Corky and Tanner? Could he have passed that on to the people who’d killed him? Obviously someone had made an example of him, but who was the example for? It could be, as the reporter said, that he’d fallen foul of one of the numerous criminal operations that used the pub. But what if Jimmy Tanner had mentioned that he was instructing someone to an ex-comrade in the SAS? What if someone had found out Jimmy was missing and was looking for him? Those guys were lethal; they didn’t take prisoners-even the wasted sot Jimmy had been dangerous enough. It could be that he and Corky were in the deepest shit.

The Devil realized he would have to speed up the plan and get away sooner than he’d expected. He glanced at the names. The next victim caught his eye, a person whose life was measured in hours and minutes. Looking up, he caught sight of himself in the ornate Victorian mirror he’d hung beyond the table and laughed.

“‘If the devil Did ever take good shape,’” he declaimed, “‘Behold his picture.’”

John Webster’s play, act 3, scene 2. The long-dead Jacobean was an outstanding dramatist. What would he have made of the way his lines were being used in modern London? Would he have approved of the appropriate punishment of offences? Of course he would.

The White Devil walked to his dressing room to prepare for his next entry.

I got up early the next morning and, assuming that the Devil was watching, made a pretense of being half asleep, stumbling about like a pisshead. I deliberately didn’t boot up my laptop. No doubt there was another load of notes from him to write up. They could wait. I had more pressing things to do. I dug out my lamentably unwashed running kit and set off for Brockwell Park in the early dawn light. My knee gave me gip, but I could bear it. At last I had a purpose in life.

I got to the southern end of the park, my lungs heaving, and spotted the phone box I remembered from walks with Lucy in her buggy. I hoped it was still in working order. Opening the door, I was blasted by the reek of stale urine. I looked around and saw no one except a couple of other middle-aged men bringing forward their heart attacks by jogging far too fast. I had to take the chance that the Devil and his people weren’t on my tail. Or D.C.I. Oaten’s mob.

Taking out the phone card I always kept in my wallet for emergencies, I made the first of my planned calls.

“Hello?” My mother sounded wide-awake but cautious.

“It’s me,” I said, my mouth close to the receiver. “I haven’t got much time. I need you to do something that’s going to surprise you. I want you to go to Heathrow without delay. Book yourself on the first available flight to any destination in Europe. Take your mobile phone with you. Don’t answer it the first time it rings. If it rings four times and then stops, it’ll be me. Pick it up the next time it rings, okay? And don’t tell me where you are.”

“What on earth-”

“Don’t interrupt, Fran,” I said firmly. “You’re in great danger. I can’t tell you about it. But you’ll be fine if you do what I tell you. You’re always on about how you need a holiday. Well, this is your chance. I’ll be in touch. Promise me you’ll do this. For me.” I was ladling on the loving-son treatment, not that it was difficult. I was terrified that the Devil would get his hands on her.

“Well, all right, Matt,” she said doubtfully. “I’ll get going as soon as I can.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch. Have a fine time.” I terminated the call. My mother was strong-willed, but she knew when to listen to other people. She had plenty of money and traveled abroad on her own often enough, always with British Airways. One down.