Paul Johnson - The Death List

“I told you, no. Okay, that’s it.”

“Aren’t you going to give me your new contact number, Matt?”

I thought about it. “Sorry, no. I need to keep on the move. Thanks for what you’re doing, Karen.” I hung up, imagining the look on her face and glad that I wasn’t within range of her muscular physique.

Back in the cafe, Rog was still hammering away at the keyboard and cursing under his breath. A pencil was stuck through his salt-and-pepper curls.

“No luck?” I asked.

“Getting there, but it’s slow.” He glanced at me. “Of course, only a solid-gold superstar like me could have got even this far.”

I left him to it and finished the Drys chapter. Before I sent it to my tormentor, I tried to imagine who his latest victim could be. My mother had sounded strange on the phone, but it couldn’t have been her. She was a fighter; she wouldn’t have allowed herself to be held captive and pretend otherwise. Caroline? No, she was bound to be still in the office, as Oaten said. Who the hell did he have? Christ, they hadn’t accounted for everyone from Sixth Sense.

I went back out to the public phone and called Jeanie Young-Burke’s mobile, using the agreed method.

“Hello!” she shouted above a lot of background noise.

“It’s Matt.”

“Darling, how sweet of you to call.” I tried to get a word in, but not before she’d let slip where she was. “Paris is a delight. I’ve found the most charming little bistro and I’m surrounded by divine Frenchmen. This was such a good idea of yours.”

I raised my eyes to the pale blue sky. Trust Jeanie to fall on her feet. “In case you’re worrying, the police are keeping an eye on everyone I know at your office.”

“Oh, don’t bother about them,” she said with a shrieking laugh. “They know how to look after themselves.”

“Really?” I said, struck by her naivete. “Don’t call any of them, remember? I’ll let you know when you can come back.”

“Fine, darling. Frankly, I don’t know if I ever want to come back.” There was a trill of laughter, and then she cut the connection.

Before I went inside, I called Sara. Her mobile rang for a long time. When she finally replied, she sounded out of breath.

“Hi, it’s me,” I said, catching the noise of a train in the background.

“Oh. Matt.” She sounded surprised.

“Are you still in Oxford?”

“What? Oh, yes. We’ll be heading back soon.”

“I’m sorry about all this.”

“It’s okay. I want the exclusive, though.”

I laughed. “Typical bloody journo. You’ll remember to talk to the police before you get back to the Smoke?”

“Of course,” she said bitterly. “I’m really looking forward to having a cop outside my flat tonight.”

I wasn’t sure where I was going to be later on, but Sara’s place wasn’t an option, given said cop. “I’ll see if I can make it,” I lied.

“Don’t bother. They’ve got you under guard, too, haven’t they?”

“Um, yeah. Okay, I’ll talk to you later. Love you.” I rang off, feeling less than proud of myself for not telling her I’d eluded the surveillance.

I was becoming as duplicitous as the White Devil. The fact that he was bringing me down to his level made me even more determined to nail the bastard.

Before he nailed someone I cared for.

John Turner was driving the unmarked Volvo at speed behind a police car with its lights flashing and siren blaring. It was early evening and the commuter traffic was pulling aside to let them past. Beside him, D.C.I. Oaten was gripping her seat belt with one hand, her mobile in the other.

“No, Paul!” she shouted. “Don’t let the SOCOs start yet. I want to see the scene myself first. We’ll be there-” She broke off and glanced at her colleague. “How long?”

The inspector was watching the car in front like a hawk as it tore along Upper Thames Street toward London Bridge. “Five minutes max,” he said. “The uniformed boys have cordoned off Southwark Cathedral and the Borough Market.”

“In five,” Oaten concluded, letting the phone drop to her lap. “Jesus, Taff, this is getting way out of control.”

Turner’s expression was grim. “Hardy’s people shouldn’t have let Wells give them the slip. He’s in this up to his elbows. What about the guy who was cut up in Greenwich? Could he be linked to the other killings?”

Oaten chewed her lip. “If he is, God knows how. I hope Hardy can find out, but I’m not too confident. Of course, it could be that the killer’s trying to distract us.” She looked out at the lights on the river-leisure boats full of people having a good time, tourists taking in the sights and sounds of “olde” London Town, seagulls swooping down to investigate bits of rubbish. Most people lived normal lives, unperturbed by the horrors in the newspapers. Why the hell wasn’t she one of them? She knew the answer. Because she had a particular talent. She could spot a villain at long range. All her experience was telling her that Matt Wells wasn’t dirty, but she couldn’t be sure. The fact that she felt the unmistakable signs of physical attraction toward him wasn’t helping.

“We’ll see,” she said noncommittally.

“Does the A.C. know you’ve been talking to Wells, guv?” her subordinate asked.

“Drop it, Taff,” she ordered. “The less you know about that the better.”

There was an uneasy silence in the car until Turner pulled up beside Paul Pavlou. The D.S. was standing at the eastern entrance to Borough Market.

“Good evening, guv, sir,” he said. “It’s over here.”

Karen Oaten and the inspector followed him under a police line and down the sloping street. A crowd of onlookers had gathered, their necks straining as they tried to see what was in the large wheeled rubbish bin. A middle-aged man with a slack jaw was standing next to D.S. Simmons.

“What’s Morry doing here?” Turner said under his breath.

“I reinstated him,” Oaten said. “You were right. We need all the hands we can get.”

“I don’t suppose he’ll be running to the press again after the strip you tore off him.”

“No, neither do I. He paid the money he got over to the Police Benevolence Fund. Voluntarily, of course.”

“’Evening, guv,” Simmons said, his tie done up and his hair less chaotic than usual. “This is Alfred Andrews. He found the-” The sergeant inclined his head to the bin. “He saw the-”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” the chief inspector said, pulling on a pair of gloves and nodding to the SOCOs who were standing by. “Get a provisional statement, Taff.”

They went to the bin, one photographer holding a videocam and another flashing away with a digital camera. As Oaten got closer, she saw what had attracted the cleaner’s attention. Two hands, the fingers long and delicate, were protruding from the almost closed lid of the bin, as if someone had tried unsuccessfully to clamber out. Even more striking than the hands was what had been done to them. The ends of the digits were smeared by blackening blood, like those of a child who’d been playing with finger paints. When she leaned into the lights that had been set up, Oaten saw that all ten fingernails were missing, and the tissue beneath badly damaged. She took a deep breath. The bastard had pulled out the victim’s fingernails, but she had a feeling that was just the start.

She took a step back and watched as the lid was lifted and propped up.

Behind her, a voice said, “Delightful.”

She turned to meet the steady gaze of the pathologist Redrose.

Together they advanced to the rim of the rectangular steel structure. It must have been emptied recently as there wasn’t much in it. Only a human body. Oaten told herself to get a grip. She found herself hoping like hell it wasn’t someone close to Matt Wells. Could the White Devil really have got to one of them?