Paul Johnson - The Death List

Wolfe and Rommel were in the front of the Orion, parked about fifty yards from the house in Forest Hill. According to the now dismembered Terry Smail, this was the home of the man called Corky-the man who had been with Jimmy Tanner in the pub. The street was pretty run-down and there was rubbish strewn around many of the houses’ small front gardens.

There was a squelch from the walkie-talkie on Wolfe’s lap.

“Receiving?”

“Got you, Geronimo. Advise.” Their comrade was standing at the bus stop that was just beyond the house. He’d been there for nearly an hour.

“Still no movement inside. Curtains remain drawn.”

“All right, get back here. Out.”

Wolfe glanced at Rommel as if he expected him to object. “We can see well enough from here. Geronimo’s too obvious where he is.”

Rommel’s expression remained blank as Geronimo opened the back door.

“Cheer up, wanker,” Geronimo said. “The scum will be back soon.”

“Better be,” Rommel said with a scowl. “I’m going to hurt him.”

Wolfe nudged him with his elbow. “Steady. We’re all going to hurt him once we find out what happened to Jimmy. But he’s not the main man. We need him to lead us to the bastard with the pointed teeth, so no lethal force till I say so.”

Rommel looked round at Geronimo and their eyes met. They’d been in similar situations often enough and they knew not to argue with Wolfe.

“It seems we’re not the only ones chopping people up,” their leader said, turning the page of the Daily Independent. He read out parts of the story about the murders of a priest, a retired schoolteacher, a doctor and a newspaper critic.

“And the coppers think it’s the same guy?” Rommel said, glaring at a small boy who had stopped his bicycle at the window. The boy departed at speed.

“Looks like it,” Wolfe replied. “And this journalist thinks the body at the Hereward is connected, too.”

Geronimo laughed. “Shows how much journalists know.”

They sat in silence as the afternoon drew on. Geronimo and Rommel started talking about old times, their eyes still fixed on the street and the house. Wolfe let them rattle on. He didn’t care about the past-all that mattered to him was finding out what had happened to his brother-in-arms Jimmy Tanner. Jimmy had saved his life on more than one occasion and he owed him.

“…and then that Iraqi came out of the bunker with his AK47 pointed straight at Dave,” said Geronimo.

“…and Dave just grinned at him,” said Rommel.

“…and emptied a magazine into him before he could move,” Geronimo said with a harsh laugh.

Wolfe looked over his shoulder. “Names,” he said in a low voice. “We don’t use real names out of barracks.”

“Shit,” Geronimo said, dropping his gaze. “Sorry, boss. Patton-Patton was the one who shot the towel-head.”

Wolfe nodded. “That’s right, Patton. Good soldier-nerves of steel and smart with it. Shame he left the regiment.”

“Shame he was pushed, you mean,” Rommel said bitterly.

“Yeah, well, he sometimes got a bit too clever for his own good,” said Geronimo. He kept his eyes off Wolfe. The boss had been instrumental in easing their old comrade Dave Cummings out because he had become a bit of a loose cannon. That didn’t mean that Geronimo and Rommel hadn’t kept in touch with Dave, though. He’d been a good mate of Jimmy Tanner’s, too.

“Motorbike approaching from rear,” Rommel said, lowering himself in his seat. “Reducing speed. Could be our man.”

Wolfe dropped lower, too, his eyes fixed on the road. “Okay, get ready. If he stops outside the house, we’ll take him as he gets off the bike.”

Rommel started the Orion’s engine. At the same moment the motorbike came level with them. The rider, kitted out in leathers and wearing a black helmet with an opaque visor, turned his head toward the car. Suddenly he revved the engine and moved off rapidly down the street, forcing a woman with a child to jump out of the way.

“Go!” Wolfe yelled. He was slammed back in his seat as Rommel hit the accelerator.

“Shit, the bastard spotted us straight off,” Geronimo said from the rear.

“Don’t worry.” Wolfe watched as the motorbike took a right turn, the rider’s knee close to the asphalt. “He can run, but he can’t hide from us.”

The next number I called was Karen Oaten’s. She was in a meeting, but she must have walked out-I heard the other voices fade and then disappear.

“Matt, I’m glad you got in touch. Listen, we think we know who the Devil is.”

I felt relief flood through me. “Who?”

“That’s the problem. He seems to have changed identity in the past four years. We’re trying to track down his new name.”

The anxiety came back with a vengeance. “So you haven’t got any way of stopping him.”

“I’m afraid not. At least, not yet.”

“Jesus. I think he might make another attempt today.”

“To kill?” Her voice was tense. “Why?”

“Because he failed with Christian Fels.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve got people at his house.”

“I don’t think he’ll be dumb enough to try there again, Karen. I’ve taken steps to protect my family and my ex-editor. But there are plenty of others he could target.”

“Give me names and addresses,” she said quickly.

I admired her professionalism. I told her where Sara and Caroline were to be found. Then I reeled off several names at my former publishers, including the owner. I went through friends I had in the crime-writing world-authors, journalists, booksellers and dealers, collectors, anyone I could think of. I couldn’t remember all their addresses, but I knew the localities. I didn’t mention my friends, though. I needed them to remain unknown to the police.

“It’s going to need a lot of manpower,” I said.

“Yes, it is.” For a moment she sounded uncertain. “I’ll do what I can. I can’t promise we’ll be able to cover everyone.” She paused. “Matt. It’s important that you come in. You can help us.”

“Have you read the e-mails yet?”

“No, the warrant’s on its way as we speak.”

“When you’ve read them, you’ll understand why I’m doing this. Listen, I want to ask you a favor, Karen.”

She gave a wry laugh. “I hardly think you’re in a position to-”

“You know I am,” I interrupted. “At least until you can track me down-and that would be a waste of your precious manpower. Listen, I want you to promise not to put a trace on my mobile phone. The Devil might do something horrendous if he can’t get through to me. Will you do that?”

There was a long silence. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Still, it may be that in all the rush here your phone gets forgotten for an hour or two.”

“Thanks, Karen. I appreciate it.”

“Yes, well, you owe me now. I’ll be expecting payment very soon, Matt. In the meantime, have you ever met or do you have any knowledge of a man by the name of Terence-Terry-Smail?”

“No,” I said. “Never heard of him.”

“You’d better be telling the truth.”

The phone went dead. Who the hell was Terry Smail? I wondered as I turned on my old mobile and went back into the cafe. I got down to writing the latest chapter while Rog tried to hack into the British Airways system to find out where my mother had gone. I wasn’t happy about how she’d sounded on the phone. I was halfway through when my old mobile phone rang.

It was the Devil and he had company.

Caroline Zerb had walked out of the bank in Cornhill at precisely 1:00 p.m. She had just completed a meeting with her staff about an important section in the monthly Far East Economic Review, and she felt an even greater need than usual to get out of the office for lunch. Her ex-husband thought she stayed at her desk to eat her wholemeal sandwiches, but, as with so many other things, he was way off target. She was dedicated to her job, but she was also capable of taking time for herself. She’d found that she worked much better in the afternoon when she took an hour off.