Paul Johnson - The Death List

The chief inspector glanced at him. “Meaning he could hire killers or get himself trained up and equipped.”

“Mmm.”

“Why aren’t you smiling anymore?”

The Welshman closed his notebook. “Because the trail stops there. Dunn requested the privacy-protection option.” He looked out at the pedestrians on the streets of Camden Town. “Since then he seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.”

Karen Oaten gripped the wheel hard. “With all that money, he wouldn’t have had any problem getting a new identity.” She braked hard as the lights changed. “Shit.”

The chief inspector’s phone rang again. Turner listened, and then cut the connection.

“That was D.C.I. Hardy. One, he’s extremely pissed off that you got the A.C. to transfer his guys out.”

“Tough.”

“And two, there’s been a report about Nicholas Cork.”

Oaten slipped dexterously past a people-carrier laden with kids. “Spit it out, Taff.”

“A badly smashed-up and partially decomposed body was found on the rocks in northern Cornwall last September. There was a video-club card bearing the name N. Cork in a pocket.”

The chief inspector thought for a couple of seconds. “Have we got dental records for him?”

Turner flicked through the pages of his notebook. “Sorry, don’t know, guv,” he said finally.

“Bloody well find out, then!” Oaten shouted. “Until we’re sure the body’s his, Cork is still a suspect for Dunn’s accomplice.”

“Guv?” the inspector asked as they crossed Euston Road. “I can see why Dunn killed the people that he knew, but why would he be after Matt Wells’s circle? What’s in it for him?”

“Good question, Taff,” Oaten said, her face less tense. “Maybe the e-mails will answer that.”

“I’ve got another question,” the Welshman said. “That murder down in Greenwich last night?”

The D.C.I. nodded. “Petty criminal with form, cut up into several pieces, boxed up and left outside his local?”

“That’s the one. Are we sure it isn’t connected with our killer?”

Karen Oaten turned her head to him briefly. “Sure? We aren’t sure about anything in this case, Taff. But there was no plastic bag with a quotation from John Webster and no apparent links to Bethnal Green or Matt Wells, so I’m leaving it to the team down there. For the time being, at least.”

Turner looked doubtful. “I don’t know, guv. Another mutilation job just after Drys and the others? I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I. That’s why we’ll be getting regular updates from the Southern Homicide Division. But we’ve got enough on our plates as it is.”

The inspector nodded, his expression pained. He’d had difficulty eating for days.

The look that Lucy gave me as Dave drove away almost broke my heart. She had been very surprised when I took her out of class. Fortunately her teacher, Mrs. Maggs, was a fan of my books and let us go without asking any awkward questions. Lucy seemed to accept that Dave and his family were taking her on a mystery tour, only asking about her mummy at the last moment. I told her that Caroline knew all about it and would see her later. I was getting good at lying-too good.

I caught the bus to Brixton after walking around the back streets of Dulwich Village for a while. If anyone was on my tail, they were doing a very good job of concealing themselves. The cafe I’d arranged to meet Rog at was called the Vital Spark. It was off Coldharbour Lane and, despite its name, wasn’t well lit. That was just what I wanted. We took our coffees to a deserted back corner.

Rog held up a large plastic bag. “Here’s your stuff,” he said, searching in the pockets of his brown corduroy jacket. “And here’s the receipt.”

I swallowed hard when I saw the amount. Maybe I would have to use the Devil’s money after all. “Look, Dodger,” I said, booting up a computer, “the situation’s changed.” I took in his bewildered expression. I was going to have to come clean, but I wanted him to have the chance to opt out. Rog wasn’t as much of a hard man as Dave and Andy. On the team, he used to weave and sidestep his way round opposition players rather than trample over them. He could put in the hard tackles when it counted, even though, off the pitch, he spent almost as much time on his own as I did-gluing and painting models of tanks and aircraft in his case, rather than pretending to write. “Listen, here’s where I am.”

I filled him in about the White Devil’s activities. His face went from confusion to amazement to horror, and finally to what was unmistakably anger. Then I told him what had happened to Andy. This was the crunch moment. There hadn’t been any point in telling Dave-he was in whatever happened and knowing Andy had been hurt wouldn’t have changed anything for him. With Rog, I wasn’t sure.

“Bastards,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll fucking have them.”

I put my hand on his arm. “This isn’t a run in the park. The Devil’s killed at least eight people and I reckon it could be more.”

He stuck his chest out. “Let him and his sidekick have a go, then. They owe us for what they did to Andy. You sure he’s going to be all right?”

“As sure as I can be without speaking to him. Maybe we’ll manage to do that later.” I nodded at the screen. “Now we’ve got work to do. Set me up with a new e-mail account, will you?” I watched as his fingers sped across the keys. In a few minutes I had another identity, SirZog 1. Then I logged on to my own account, wondering if the police had obtained access to it yet, and printed out the latest e-mail from the Devil.

“Jesus Christ,” Rog said, shaking his head as he read it. “Did he really do all that to the poor sod Drys? Why?”

“Apparently because he gave me some bad reviews.”

“You’re joking.”

“Afraid not. He’s trying to implicate me, and at the same time get me to write his bloody story. I remember reading that some serial killers feel the need for immortality.”

Rog was staring at me. “But if he wants you to write his story, why’s he trying to frame you? You won’t be able to do much from a jail cell.”

“Ah, that’s where he’s smart,” I said, looking over the document. The Devil’s notes about the murder of the critic were as detailed as ever, but it was up to me to turn them into a readable story. “He’s getting me to write his achievements up every day.”

“You’ll have a holiday tomorrow, then,” Rog said, nudging me in the ribs.

“Why?”

“He didn’t manage to kill that Fels bloke, did he?”

I stopped typing. “Jesus.”

“What?”

“That may mean he has a go at someone else to make up for it.” I ran out of the cafe and located the nearest pay phone. First I called my mother’s mobile, letting it ring four times. She picked up when I rang again.

“Hello?” She sounded a bit querulous.

“It’s me. Are you all right? Don’t tell me where you are!”

There was a pause. “Oh, I see. Yes…I’m all right.”

“Good flight?”

“Um, yes.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t worry, everyone else is fine.” She didn’t know Andy, so I didn’t tell her about him. She hated Christian Fels because of what she regarded as his betrayal of me, but now wasn’t the time to mention that-especially given that his gardener had been murdered.

“Oh,” she said hesitantly. “That’s good.”

“Hotel okay?”

“Yes. Look, Matt, I’ve got to go.” Suddenly she was speaking quickly. “I love you, darling.” Then she hung up.

I stood in the booth, peering at the phone. My mother had always had a tendency to distraction, but this was worse than usual. I supposed she was upset by what I was putting her through, but I couldn’t remember the last time she’d addressed me as “darling.”