Paul Johnson - The Death List

That bastard Wells. He had actually taken steps to protect the people he thought would be targets. The Devil grinned. That wouldn’t do the fool any good. It would be a long time before anyone caught up with them. And even if that happened, there would be a container-load of pain to endure.

“Right,” he said to the hooded figure. “It’s time we got started.” He watched as their captive tensed. Obviously the effect of the punch was wearing off. Good. The Devil wanted his victim to be aware of what was coming.

Pain was what it was all about, pain and horror. After this killing, the writer would understand that no one he’d ever met was safe. Then they would see how he reacted to real pressure.

The Devil selected a couple of instruments, nodded to his partner and walked over to the prisoner. He removed the blindfold and was gratified by the sight of two damp and terrified eyes. They implored him for mercy, but they also seemed to contain the knowledge that none would be forthcoming.

Then he had a thought. Why not up the pressure on Matt Wells right now? He handed the scalpel and probe to his partner and took his mobile from his pocket.

The smile that spread across his face as he started to speak made his victim whimper and moan.

I was finishing the chapter about Alexander Drys when my old mobile rang. My heart skipped a couple of beats. I had to hope that D.C.I. Oaten was being true to her word and hadn’t put a trace on the phone.

“I suppose you think you’ve been very clever, Matt.” The Devil’s voice was worryingly confident.

I moved away from Rog, who was still trying to get into the British Airways system. “What do you mean?”

“I know what you’ve been up to, my friend. I have to say I’m very disappointed.” His tone was mocking and I had a bad feeling about what was about to happen. But it was too late to retreat.

“Like I give a fuck what you feel,” I said, provoking a grin from the guy in a beanie hat at the till. I went outside. “You think you’re so clever, but you’re not the only person with a functioning brain.”

There was a pause. “Is that right, Matt?” His voice was now ice cold. “Have a listen to this.”

I heard what sounded like a slap and then a muffled groan followed by choking, high-pitched screams. Jesus, who did the bastard have?

“Recognize the voice?”

I kept quiet, too shocked to hazard a guess.

“I asked you a question,” the Devil said, almost shouting.

“I don’t know!” I yelled back.

He laughed. “You think you’re so clever, Mr. Award-Winning Crime Novelist. Well, I’m not going to tell you who I’m about to torture and kill. How does that make you feel?”

“Sick,” I said, turning away from a pair of laughing children who’d entered the cafe. “Look, take me instead. If you let the person you’ve got go, I’ll hand myself over to you.”

There was another laugh, this one filled with terrible malevolence. “No, no, it isn’t time for you to suffer pain, Matt. It will be soon enough. In the meantime, be sure that someone you spoke to earlier today is about to die in agony.”

I was so shocked that I almost cried out.

“I hope you haven’t been talking to that bitch detective,” the Devil continued. “Because people you talk to have recently acquired a substantially reduced life expectancy. You’re making this a war between you and me, Matt.”

“Come on!” I shouted. “Let’s finish it now, man to man.”

“Man to man?” he sneered. “I’m not even sure you are a man yet. You’re a writer, a fraudster, someone who lives from making things up. That isn’t my definition of a man.”

I heard the whimpering of the victim in the background.

“Please,” I begged, “don’t hurt any of my family. Or my friends.”

For a few moments I thought I’d got to him. Then he laughed again. “It’s too late for that, Matt. And where’s my chapter? If I don’t have it soon, you’ll be mourning someone a lot closer to you than Alexander Drys.” He gave me a new e-mail address and then cut the connection.

I ran to the public phone and called Dave Cummings.

“Matt, what’s going on, lad?” His voice was normal.

Relief flooded through me. “Is Lucy okay? Are all of you okay?”

“’Course she is, mate. And so are we. Ginny’s taking it well, apart from a bit of whining early on. We’re…well, never mind what we’re doing. Don’t want you working out where we are, do we? What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I said, not wanting to alarm him. “Listen, are you in range of a mobile phone supplier?”

“Aye, I suppose so.”

“Get a new one, pay-as-you-go, and text the number to me with it.” I gave him my new mobile number. “Turn off your old one.”

“Got you. He might be scanning us. Need any help?”

“No, mate. Just look after Luce and your lot. I’ll be in touch.”

“Get the bastard,” Dave said. “Though I’d really like to do that myself.”

“Yeah, Psycho, I know you would. Got to go.” I signed off, having decided that talking to Lucy would just make her anxious. Then I called D.C.I. Oaten.

“Karen? It’s Matt Wells. Have you got everyone I listed under protection?”

“Almost everyone,” she replied. “What’s happened?”

“I just had the Devil on the phone. He’s got someone I know. He says he’s about to kill whomever it is.”

“Where’s your daughter?” she said, her voice clipped.

“She’s safe.”

“Not as safe as she would be under police protection. Listen, Matt, I’ve been reading the e-mails between you and this White Devil. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Why don’t you come in and help us?”

I wasn’t sure that I believed her. Someone as devious as this killer could have set up the various accounts and sent messages to himself. I reckoned she still had me down as a suspect.

She changed tack. “You realize that you’re obstructing an investigation, maintaining contact with a multiple murder suspect and-”

That made me sure I couldn’t trust her. “Never mind that,” I interrupted. “Who haven’t you been able to locate?” I heard her ask the Welshman for a list.

“Right. You said you’ve taken steps to protect your mother and your editor, Ms. Young-Burke. We’ve spoken to your girlfriend, Sara Robbins. She’s on a story in Oxford, but she’s with a photographer. She’s going to ring us before she separates from him. We haven’t actually been able to speak to your wife, but one of her colleagues assured us that she was in the company building. He thought she was in a meeting because her mobile phone had been turned off. I’ve left messages for her to call me.”

Caroline hadn’t been my top priority since I’d put off telling her about what I’d done with Lucy.

“Other than that, we’ve got people at your publishers. Most of the staff there are accounted for.”

“Most of them?” I asked.

“What, Taff?” she shouted. “Oh. Apparently some of them went out with an author. They were going on to a theater matinee, and then to dinner. We’ll catch up with them.”

“Okay,” I said dubiously. “What about my author friends?”

“Well, you can hardly expect us to send people out all over the country. We’ve notified the local forces and they’ll do what they deem necessary. I have to assume that your Devil is London-based. Essex is as far as he’s gone from the capital.”

“So far. All right.” I had a question for her. I’d seen a report in one of the papers in the cafe about the murder in Greenwich and she’d asked me about the dead man. “Is Terence Smail part of this?”

There was a pause. “No connection has been established yet. Were you being straight with me? The name means nothing to you?”