Paul Johnson - The Death List

The naked victim was in a kneeling position, the forearms over the edge and the fair-haired head bent forward to touch the inside of the bin. The chief inspector tried to make out the features, but it was impossible.

“Let’s push the body back,” Redrose said to his assistants. Photographs were taken first. After they’d handled the torso carefully, the movement showing that rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet, he looked downward. “Male,” he said. “And young-under thirty, I’d say. My God. Lift me up.” His assistants obliged. After a short examination, he signaled that he be lowered back down.

“Well?” Karen Oaten said, having taken in the gaping wounds to the face, throat and chest.

“This is preliminary, of course,” the doctor said, “but it looks to me like the poor man’s been savagely bitten. His nose is missing, as is a substantial section of the front of the neck. His nipples have also been bitten off.”

Oaten peered back into the bin. “There isn’t much blood in there. Obviously he was assaulted elsewhere.”

“Yes. We’ll have to get him out of here.” Redrose looked round. “Ah, good, they’ve got the tent up. I’ll be able to carry out a more detailed exam there.”

“Want to have a guess at the cause of death?”

“Not really. But I’ll say shock or loss of blood for the time being.”

“Okay. Let me know if you find anything on the body or-”

“In its orifices.” The medic gave her a tight smile. “I haven’t much doubt it’s your killer again.”

Oaten went back to Turner. “What have you got?”

“Not much. The market had been closed for a couple of hours when he started his cleaning rounds. Mr. Andrews saw the bin being emptied around six-thirty, so the body was deposited after that. He didn’t see anything happen around the bin, but he did notice a white van drive off at some stage. He isn’t sure when.” The Welshman shrugged. “He doesn’t wear a watch.”

“It should all be on film,” the chief inspector said, pointing at the security cameras hanging from the eaves.

“I’ve already sent Pavlou off to get the tapes.”

“Good. Any other witnesses?”

“Morry and a couple of the others are canvassing the crowd and the neighboring shops. Nothing yet.” Turner shrugged. “You know what it’s like in a busy street.”

“Everyone minding their own business. We’ll put an appeal for information out on the ten o’clock news. We may get lucky and find a passing driver who had a perfect view of the killers’ faces.”

“You’re assuming it’s the two of them again?”

“It would have been difficult for one person to get the body into the bin.”

“Perhaps they had it wrapped in something that they took with them.”

Oaten nodded. “Good thinking. But more interesting is why the hands were left out. It’s like they wanted the body to be found quickly.”

“Chief Inspector?”

Redrose was standing at the door of the white incident tent, a mask pushed down around his neck. There was something in his hand. As she got closer, taking rapid steps, Oaten saw that it was a small, clear plastic bag.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s been photographed. It was in his mouth.”

Inside the tent, the victim lay stretched out on an open black body bag. He was a tall young man, she now realized. She wondered what connection he had to Wells, if there was one at all. She beckoned the SOCO team leader forward. The folded sheet of paper was removed and smoothed out, then inserted in an evidence bag. It was laser-printed.

“‘Far be it from my thoughts to seek revenge,’” Oaten read.

“That White Devil play again?” Turner said from behind her.

“Probably. What’s the lunatic saying now? That revenge isn’t anything to do with this killing?”

“I have more,” Redrose said proudly, holding out a clamp with a crumpled and stained piece of card in it. “Here, I can straighten it.” He applied another clamp.

“Where was this?” the chief inspector asked.

“In his rectal passage.”

“Jesus,” Turner said with a scowl.

“Reginald Hampton,” Oaten read. “Editorial assistant.” She looked at her subordinate. “He worked for Sixth Sense Ltd. They’re Matt Wells’s publishers.”

The inspector’s expression grew even sterner. “I told you, guv. That guy’s all wrong.”

Karen Oaten returned his stare. “Maybe,” she said, stepping out into the street.

The crowd had begun to thin, people dispersing to the pub to discuss the day’s unexpected highpoint. They didn’t yet know that the same killer and his accomplice had struck again, though they probably suspected it. The idea of the frenzy that would create in the media made the chief inspector feel almost as disgusted as the condition of the victim had.

Maybe she was getting soft, but she was going to catch the degenerates who did this.

No matter what it did to her.

Rog finally cracked the British Airways entry codes. I watched in mounting panic as he went through the day’s flights. My mother’s name wasn’t on any of them. I’d called her mobile number earlier, but it had been turned off. That was very unlike her. She’d taken a while to get used to modern technology, but now she was a great fan. As far as I knew, she never shut down her phone. As soon as Rog confirmed that she hadn’t left Heathrow from BA in Terminal One, I ran outside and called Karen Oaten.

“I’m busy, Matt,” she said wearily.

“My mother,” I said, the words tumbling out. “I think the Devil may have got her.”

“What? Why?”

I explained the situation.

“I don’t know,” she said, moving away from other people who were talking loudly. “I think he’s been otherwise engaged.”

“What?”

“Matt, do you know someone at your publishers called Reginald Hampton?”

I had a brief flash of the tall apprentice editor who’d taken me to Jeanie that morning and felt my stomach somersault. “Yes. What’s happened to him?”

There was a pause. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. It looks like the White Devil has killed him.”

My knees went weak and I leaned against the side of the phone booth. “Oh, my God. But that’s ridiculous. I only met Reggie for a couple of minutes this morning.” I gulped down the bitter liquid that had risen up my throat. “How…how do you know it was the Devil?”

She was almost whispering. “He left one of his messages. Something about it being far from his thoughts to seek revenge.”

I took a deep breath. “It’s him, all right. Was Reggie…what was done to him?”

“Horrific things. I’ve told you enough, Matt. You really need to come in. I can’t cover for you much longer.” She paused. “What do you want me to do about your mother?”

I felt a wave of hopelessness crash over me. No doubt the modus operandi was tied to one of my books, making me even more of a hot suspect. Anyway, what could the police do? They hadn’t been able to protect the innocent editorial assistant. “Nothing,” I said. “This is all down to me and I have to sort it myself.”

“Matt, at least give me your number!”

I prepared to hang up. “No.”

“Hold on,” she said urgently. “Your wife finally got in touch. Apparently she’d been kept late by some Japanese bankers. She was very upset, wanted to know where your daughter was…”

“I’ll call her. Bye, Karen.”

“Wait,” she said, lowering her voice. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, either, but maybe it’ll help you find the animal before he gets to you and your daughter.”

“What is it?”

“He won the lottery in 2001. Nine and a half million pounds. The thing is, he took the privacy option and hasn’t been seen since. Presumably he’s changed his name.”