Paul Johnson - The Death List

“What was his original name?”

She hesitated. “Leslie Dunn,” she said, and then the line went dead.

The name made me shiver. Was this really the fiend who’d been tormenting me? Suddenly he felt closer, even though he obviously called himself something else now. I struggled to get a grip on myself.

I stayed at the phone and made a call to Caroline’s mobile.

“Matt!” she screamed when I identified myself. “Where’s Lucy? What the hell’s going on? There’s a policeman outside the front door and another one outside yours.”

“Calm down,” I said, realizing how inadequate that must have sounded. “What did the police tell you?”

“Some woman detective-Oates?”

“Oaten.”

“Whatever. She said you were caught up in a murder investigation. You fucking idiot! What have you done? Where’s Lucy?”

“She’s safe. She’s with…friends. Caroline, you’ll have to trust me on this. It’s for the best. She’s in danger. We all are.”

“Because of some lunacy of yours? What have you done? Got yourself involved with some stupid gangsters? Jesus, you really are pathetic.”

I wasn’t going to argue with her. “Caro, do what the police tell you and sit tight. Lucy’s fine. I’ll be in touch.” I replaced the receiver, aware of the level of abuse that would be being cast in my direction.

Back inside the cafe, I called my mother’s number again. I felt an explosion of relief when she answered.

“Fran, what happened? Why was your phone off?”

“Oh, I was tired, Matt. Had a sleep.” She sounded a bit bewildered.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, it is. Let me sleep again now, darling.”

To my surprise, she hung up. And she’d called me “darling” again. Maybe she’d been overindulging in the local firewater, wherever she was.

I went back inside and pulled Rog off the BA system. “What do you know about the National Lottery?”

“Not a lot.” He gave me a crooked grin. “I’ve heard that it’s got one of the toughest antihacking systems of them all.”

“Fancy trying to break in?”

The grin widened. “Do squirrels eat their nuts in winter?”

I gave him the name. Was the man who’d been called Leslie Dunn really the Devil? Suddenly I felt closer to him, even though I knew I probably wasn’t. But if there was one person who could track him down in cyberspace, it was my friend the Dodger.

I watched him as his fingers danced across the keys and began to feel useless. I was allowing the situation to get away from me. What was needed was action. I decided to turn my old mobile on for a minute to see if I had any messages. That turned out to be a good move. There was a text from Andy Jackson. Can’t stay in this shit-hole any longer. Getting out tonight. Call me, I read.

I shared the news with Rog as I turned off the phone.

“That means he can’t be too badly hurt,” he said, his eyes on the screen.

“Maybe. But you know Slash. He played most of one game with a broken arm, remember?”

“Nutter.” He glanced at me. “Look, I won’t be able to get far on this machine. I need something with more memory. Back home I’ve got-”

“-the White Devil potentially watching you.”

“Oh, yeah. Where are we going to spend the night, then?”

It didn’t take me long to come up with the answer. “At Peter Satterthwaite’s.”

Rog stopped typing and turned to me, his eyes wide. “Bonehead? You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, yes I can. Anyway, what are you complaining about? He’ll have all the computers you need. Come on.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he said, clearing the screen.

“Have you got a better one? He’s one person the Devil is unlikely to be watching.”

Rog grinned. “Plus he’s got a security system that Houdini couldn’t get past.”

“Exactly.” I sent Andy a message telling him to meet us there and to turn off his phone. “Let’s go.”

I paid the guy at the till, giving him a tenner tip and asking him to forget we’d ever been there. He nodded and smiled knowingly. Out on the street, I hailed a cab and told him the destination I wanted.

On the way to Blackheath, I thought about what I was doing. Was I out of my mind taking on the Devil? Reggie Hampton had already paid for the few words he’d exchanged with me. I told myself that Christian Fels would have died if I hadn’t sent Andy up to Highgate, but that didn’t make me feel much better. I’d taken all the steps I could to protect my people, but now the lunatic was selecting innocent victims.

The cabbie dropped us at the end of a gated street on the north side of the Heath. “Ponces,” he muttered as he drove off. I didn’t blame him. This was rich man’s alley in spades.

The uniformed guy in the sentry-box eyed us up. “Can I help you?” he asked, his tone unwelcoming in the extreme.

“Yes,” I said. “We’re visiting Peter Satterthwaite.”

“Wait a moment.” He picked up his phone.

I’d decided against calling Bonehead in advance. He’d probably have told me where to stick my head. I was relying on his well-known curiosity to get us inside.

“Your names?” the guard asked.

“Matt Wells and Roger van Zandt.”

He spoke them into the phone with painstaking care and no little distaste. No doubt most visitors to the place looked classier than we did. I was relieved to see disappointment in his expression.

“All right,” the gorilla said, pressing a button. “It’s the house at the end.”

“We know that, pillock,” Rog said under his breath. He might have spent his spare time making models like a geeky kid, but he had a hard streak. Now he wasn’t playing league anymore, I wondered how he was using that up.

We walked down the wide street. The houses on either side were large and detached, a range of this year’s BMWs and Mercedes in the driveways. The curtains were open in most rooms, the residents showing off their antique furniture and modern art works to one another. They didn’t just rely on the goon at the gate for protection. There were alarm boxes on every front wall. Except Bonehead’s. His system was on another level, in every sense.

The heavy black door opened as we walked up the drive.

“Well, blow my dick and send me to heaven,” said the tall, thin figure silhouetted in the light. “I never expected you guys would have the nerve to show up here again.”

“Hello, Boney,” Rog said, keeping his distance.

“Dodger, Wellsy.” Peter Satterthwaite was in his mid-forties. He’d made a fortune when he was young, selling cheap but reliable computers. He moved in exalted circles in the City, but he’d never lost his native Lancastrian accent. “What do you wankers want?”

I laughed. Bonehead had never been one for civility. He’d grown up on an estate in Skelmersdale, which had made him as tough as nails. He was also a homosexual at total ease with his sexuality. He’d shaved his head long before it became the fashion for every man embarrassed about losing his hair.

“I’ve managed to screw up massively,” I said. “I really need your help.”

He stared at me belligerently. “After what you guys did to me? You’ve got a bloody nerve.” One of the few things that had kept him going as a kid had been his love for rugby league. He’d spent most of the cash he nicked or made from stolen goods on attending games at Wigan. After he made his millions, he invested in the South London Bison. Unfortunately some of our teammates didn’t have it in them to take money from someone they referred to behind his back as “a nancy poof,” so he was voted off the board after a year.

I shrugged. “You know that wasn’t down to Rog and me.”