Paul Johnson - The Death List

I rang the next number on my list.

Dave Cummings answered his mobile on the second ring. I could hear kids’ voices in the background.

“It’s Matt. Listen, I’m in a lot of trouble and I need your help.”

“Thought you might be, lad,” he said with typical Yorkshire bluntness. “What do you want me to do with the money?”

“Nothing,” I replied. I’d decided to ignore the Devil’s cash. If I used even a small amount of it, I’d be complicit with him. “Keep it hidden, and the diskettes somewhere else. Look, I need several favors. First of all, can you pick Lucy up after school?”

“No problem.”

“Then take her back to your place.”

“Ditto.”

“Then take her and all of your lot off to your cottage in the country till you hear from me.”

“What? The wife, as well?”

“The wife, the dog, everyone.”

There was a pause. “What’s this about, Matt?”

“Lucy’s in danger. So’s anyone who knows me. I need a bit of time to sort this out, and I need to know Lucy and all of you are safe.”

“Lowlife?”

“Very low.”

“I want to help.”

I’d known he would offer support without hesitation. “Look, Psycho, do this today. I’ll need more help later on.” I went through the same mobile contact procedure as with my mother. “All right?”

“Aye, all right. Keep cool, Matt. Remember, you’ve got friends.”

“Thanks, Dave.” I rang off. I knew I could rely on him, but not even he could beat the Devil-at least, not on his own.

Next on the list was Roger van Zandt. He took longer to answer his phone. Being divorced, childless and self-employed, he had no reason to get up early-apart from his computers and the dioramas of Second World War battles that he filled his house with.

“Rog? It’s Matt.”

“What the hell do you-”

“It’s an emergency.”

“It’d better be, Wellsy.” He sounded like he wanted to take my head off. No doubt he’d downed a pint too many last night. “If it’s about your laptop, I’m still working on it. You really messed-”

“Forget the laptop, Dodger. What do you know about surveillance systems? Or rather, about how to disable them?”

“What? Are you sober?”

“Yes!” I shouted. “Listen to me. I’m in danger and so is everyone who knows me. That includes you. Get out of your flat and go into the West End. Find a security-system supplier and pick his brains about how to locate and disable pinhole cameras, listening devices, whatever. Okay? Have you got money?”

“I’ve got plenty of credit on my cards.”

“Good. Get whatever you need and I’ll pay you back. Whatever you do, don’t go back home. I’ll contact you.” I set up the four-ring procedure again. “Look, Rog, I’m really sorry-”

“Forget it, Matt. This is why we’re mates, isn’t it? Ooh, I’ve just come over all excited.”

“Calm down,” I said, touched by his eagerness, but also concerned by it. “I’m not joking. You really are in danger. I’ll tell you about it later, okay?”

I rang off. So far, so good. Next number.

“Andy?”

“Hey, man.” Andrew Jackson’s New Jersey tones blasted out of the earpiece. “Bit early for a social call, isn’t it?” He moved his mouth away from the receiver. “It’s all right, doll. I won’t be a minute.”

I might have known. He was a serial shagger. “I’m afraid you will be a minute, Slash,” I said. “This is serious.” I made it clear to him how much shit we were in.

“You’ve been careless, haven’t you, Wellsy? Never mind. I’ll sort things out for you.”

I’d been hoping he’d say that. If ever a man answered the description of “muscle for hire” it was Andy. Apart from sex, there had been nothing he enjoyed more than mowing down opposition players on both sides of the Atlantic-first as a strongside linebacker back home and then as a lethal prop for the Bisons.

“Can you get off work?”

“Screw work. The restaurant’s been half empty for weeks. Tell me what you need.”

I gave him the name and address I wanted him to keep an eye on, and then set up the same mobile contact as the others. Before I hung up, I heard him telling his bird to hop it. The man was a star.

That left three people to consider. One was my ex-wife. I’d thought about Caroline for some time. If I gave her any hint of what I was up against, she’d go straight to the police. I’d already decided that was a waste of time. They couldn’t protect my friends and family, at least not until they were sure I wasn’t involved in the murders. It wasn’t fair that I was going to take Lucy from her, but I’d try to square it with her later.

The second and much more important person was Sara. I’d thought about warning her, but I was worried that her journalist’s nose for a good story would lead her into danger. I knew she usually worked with a photographer who was a judo black belt. I didn’t feel good about it, but I’d have to hope that he would keep the Devil at bay until I came up with a better plan.

That left one person-me. I knew I was probably under permanent surveillance by both the Devil and the police. That meant I had a very limited range of options. I’d made a list of people the lunatic was most likely to attack on my behalf. Two stood out. Andy Jackson was covering one of them. I had to do what I could for the other.

I made one more phone call and, with difficulty, set up a meeting. Then I ran back home, making myself appear even more knackered than I was. I showered and dressed, and went round to the former family home. That was a nightmare. I had to dissemble to Caroline that everything was normal, and then I had to walk Lucy down to school, wondering all the time if I would ever see her again. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Dave. He’d sacrifice himself for my daughter, I was sure of that. It was myself I was worried about. What chance did I stand taking on the White Devil?

“Bye, Daddy,” Lucy said.

“Bye, sweetest,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Remember, I’ve got a meeting this afternoon. Dave will take you home with Tom.”

“I remember,” she said solemnly. Then she turned and walked into her classroom.

I felt something break inside me, but it was too late to do anything about it. I had made my choices, thrown my dice, crossed my Rubicon.

The question was, would I be coming back?

John Turner walked into his superior’s office. “’Morning, guv.” He looked over his shoulder. “Is it right what I’m hearing? You packed Morry Simmons off to Traffic?”

The chief inspector nodded. “What did you think I was going to do? Keep him on the team after he owned up to selling the story to the press?”

“Yes, but we’re seriously undermanned…I mean, short-staffed…”

Oaten didn’t notice the gender correction. “We’ll survive,” she said.

“Hope so,” the Welshman muttered.

“Let’s get cracking,” Oaten said from behind a heap of files. “We have a list of seventy-three boys who attended Father Prendegast/O’Connell’s church, were taught by Miss Merton and were registered with Doctor Keane.”

“That’s right, guv,” John Turner said from the other side of her desk. He looked at his notebook. “Five are dead. Sixty-two have alibis that check for at least two of the murders.”

“And six we can’t find.” The chief inspector ran a hand across her hair. “In addition to that, we have dozens of people who knew Alexander Drys, most of them members of what they like to call high society. Hardy’s people are checking them, but, frankly, I don’t think there’s a direct link to the previous victims.”

“Despite the fact that the killer appears to be the same person?” Turner shook his head. “Cold-hearted bastard, using the victim’s blood to underline that bit in Wells’s book.”