Paul Johnson - The Death List

Oaten leaned back in her chair and stared up at the ceiling. “Yes, there’s Matt Wells, too. Anything interesting on him?”

“We caught up with his girlfriend this morning. She confirmed his alibi for the priest’s murder. For what that’s worth.”

The chief inspector’s eyes met his. “Meaning?”

“She’s a typical journalist. She seemed to be more interested in the murders than her man.”

“Do you think he told her to expect us?”

“She said not. Again, for what that’s worth.”

“The modus squares with Wells’s book, too,” Karen Oaten said.

“Yes, it does.” There was excitement in the Welshman’s voice.

Oaten looked unconvinced. “There’s more?” she asked.

Turner nodded and scowled. “Hardy’s guys who’re on surveillance say that Wells had an early-morning run today. He went round Brockwell Park while they stopped for breakfast. Tossers. Then he walked his daughter to school and went back to his place. They say he’s still there.”

Karen Oaten examined the notes she’d made. “Let’s leave Wells out of this for the time being. We can’t link him to the first three murders. Obviously he had motive for the Drys killing-you saw the reviews the victim wrote of his books-but he has the perfect alibi. From us. We need to concentrate on the six missing men from the list. Run through the names again, will you, Taff?”

“John Marriott, Peter Jones, Leslie Dunn, Adam O’Riley, Luke Towne and Nicholas Cork.”

“What have we got on them?”

“Marriott was a seaman, last seen in 1996. His family haven’t heard from him since, but they reckon he’s shacked up with a woman in Brazil. He jumped ship there.”

“Forget him for the time being.”

“Jones and Towne both had problems with alcohol. They were inside for burglary, separate incidents, in the nineties. Their families think they’ll be on the streets. If they’re alive.”

“I can’t see alkies being capable of these murders, can you?”

The Welshman shrugged. “Not really. That leaves Dunn, O’Riley and Cork. O’Riley’s got form for Grievous Bodily Harm. But he has a drug problem. As well as being as thick as two short planks, according to his school report.”

“Not too likely it’s him, then.”

“So we’re down to Dunn and Cork. They’re the most interesting ones, too. Cork seems to have been the violent type. His sister says he used to beat up his parents as soon as he got big enough. They haven’t heard from him for years and they’re happy about that. According to the school reports, Dunn was a pain in the arse. He was also bullied. His father was killed in an accident on a building site when the boy was twelve. His mother died of cancer when he was seventeen. Later, he worked in a call center. The personnel manager there thinks he went to work in a bank afterward, but doesn’t remember which one. We’re still checking that.” Turner stared across at his superior. “What is it, guv?”

Oaten raised a hand, her face creased in thought. “Hackney,” she said.

“What about it?”

“Remember that case we worked before we transferred here? The guy whose belly was ripped open, the wife who was a lawyer and the baby? We never found the killer.”

John Turner’s jaw dropped. “Christ. He was a bank manager, wasn’t he? Do you think there’s a link?”

She nodded. “Maybe. There was no message left about his person, but maybe he was a dress rehearsal before the killer got on to his real agenda. Check the file and get on to the branch he worked at. If Leslie Dunn was employed there, he might well be our man.”

Turner was on his way to the door. “It could be Cork’s working with him,” he said over his shoulder.

“Could be.” Oaten stood up as he left. She slapped her forehead hard. She should have made the connection before. Hackney. She’d hated working in the area, but it had been the making of her career with its high drug-related crime rate and plentiful murders. Except that she’d managed to overlook what might turn out to be the crucial link. Then she sat down again slowly, her expression grim. They were still nowhere near cracking the case. Even if Dunn did turn out to have worked for the murdered bank manager, they still had to find him. She found his file among the pile on her desk. It seemed that none of his school contemporaries had seen him since he left at sixteen.

That was about as cold a trail as you could get.

I spotted the cops after I’d got dressed. I was wearing my leather jacket, black shirt and trousers, and Dr. Martens-standard male crimewriter’s garb. The cops were in a blue Rover about fifty yards down the street. I hadn’t seen them in the morning when I went running. Maybe they weren’t on shift then. I hoped they hadn’t spotted me making the phone calls. That would have piqued Karen Oaten’s curiosity. I thought about her for a moment. There was something about her, even though she was potentially an enemy thanks to the Devil.

I left the flat, looking as nonchalant as I could about the men on my tail. They were welcome to follow me now. I walked down to Herne Hill station and bought a travel card. I spotted a guy in a crumpled parka getting on the carriage behind mine. I paid him no further attention. At Victoria, I took the Tube up to Tottenham Court Road and walked to the nearby square where Sixth Sense Ltd., my former publishers, had their office.

“I’ve an appointment with Jeanie Young-Burke,” I said to the attractive, raven-haired young woman at reception. I’d never seen her before. The rapid turnover of receptionists had always struck me. Presumably they were driven up the wall by would-be novelists trying to do a sales job on their magnum opus, or by previously published writers like me desperately trying to get back into the business.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Stone.” She gave me a brilliant smile. “My name’s Mandy. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I love the Sir Tertius books.”

I was taken aback by her friendliness and we got talking. Like all the postuniversity recruits, she wanted to become an editor. The way she spoke about writing, not just mine, suggested that she would make a pretty good one. Our conversation was interrupted by a courier and I sat down. I was still surprised that my former editor had agreed to see me. Then again, I had told her a very large lie.

A tall, solemn young man wearing round glasses came through the security door. “Mr. Stone? Matt?”

I stood up and shook his hand. “And you are?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, blushing. He looked like he wasn’t long out of primary school. “Reggie Hampton. I’m Jeanie’s assistant.”

“Right,” I said, following him through the door. My ex-editor went through staff even quicker than the front desk. There were rumors that, since her divorce, she used them for bedroom as well as office services. “How do you find it here?”

“Fascinating,” he said, flashing me a toothy smile. “I want to be an editor myself.”

I refrained from pointing out to him that the attrition rate of editors was almost as high as that of subalterns on the Somme-unless they found a copper-bottomed bestseller sharpish. Then again, what did I know about bestsellers?

Reggie left me at Jeanie’s workstation. It was separated from the rest of the open-plan office by glass panels, indicating her seniority. I’d lost touch with her job title. It seemed to change every few months. The last one I remembered was associate publisher, but no doubt that was out of date.

My former editor waved me to a seat in front of her desk. She was on the phone. I soon realized she was telling some unlucky agent how little she appreciated being sent a book that she described as “terribly substandard.” She’d probably used a similar phrase about my last contracted tome.