Paul Johnson - The Death List

Back in the kitchen, Andy and Bonehead were back at each other’s throats, this time about the relative merits of gridiron and rugby league.

“Have you eaten enough, Slash?” I demanded. “Only, if you don’t mind, I’d quite like to get moving.”

Andy’s face immediately took on a serious look. “Okay, man. What are we going to do?”

“Are you up to this?” I said, peering at his chest.

“Sure I am. Maybe I should change my dressing, though. The nice nurse with the big jugs told me that cleanliness was next to-”

“You’ll find a full medical kit in the bathroom off my bedroom,” Pete interjected.

Andy got up from the table. “Cream for hemorrhoids and stuff like that?”

Bonehead managed to restrain himself. “Where are you going?” he asked me.

“It’s probably better if neither of you know,” I said, helping myself to the single remaining sausage. “You’ve got my new mobile number, Rog. Ring me on that if you find anything hot.”

They both looked at me doubtfully, and then nodded.

“Here,” Pete said, tossing me a key. “You’ll see the Grand Cherokee at the side of the house. If you put so much as a scratch on it, I’ll break your legs.”

“You and whose army?”

He raised his middle finger.

I left them at the table, Rog pouring himself yet more coffee. If we hadn’t been up against a murderous bastard like the Devil, I’d almost have enjoyed the camaraderie that had been largely missing from my life since I stopped playing league. As it was, I just felt scared that I’d involved my mates in something they’d probably live to regret. If they lived.

I met Andy in the hall. He’d obviously raided Bonehead’s wardrobe, having kitted himself out in a red-white-and-blue sweater. It suited him nationally but not stylistically, though I didn’t bother pointing that out.

“Neat wheels,” he said as we got into the big Jeep. “Shame about the color.” Bonehead had chosen a seriously vile shade of puce.

I drove to the gate and waited for another sour-faced goon to raise it for us.

“So, are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Andy said, holding the seat belt off his injured chest.

“Okay. We’re going to university.”

“Come again?” Andy was a great guy, but he’d only been at a catering school and he never read anything except the tabloid with the most tits and bums. “What good will I be to you at that kind of place?”

“Wait and see, big man,” I said, directing the Jeep toward the city center. I hoped Pete had paid his congestion charge because I was planning on parking at Waterloo.

When we got there, Andy grimaced as he stood up.

“Are you in pain?” I asked as we headed out of the multi-storey.

“Nothing a few beers won’t sort.”

“Forget it,” I said sternly. “You’re off the booze till I say otherwise.”

We walked toward the bridge. I knew exactly where I was going. I’d been there before. King’s College London had a building on the south side of the river. A seminar room on the third floor had been the scene of one of my worst humiliations as a writer.

We walked through crowds of students. It looked like we were in luck. A lecture had obviously just ended. After the last young man emerged, the woman I wanted to speak to followed. She had the same frizzy auburn hair and loose garments that I remembered.

“Dr. Everhead,” I said, trying to sound less nervous than I was. This woman had made me squirm in front of rows of people. She was also a world authority on Jacobean tragedy. I wanted to pick her brains, as well as to warn her about the Devil.

The lecturer’s jaw dropped. Her face went whiter than a wedding dress. For a moment I thought she was going to faint, an unlikely reaction from a battle-hardened feminist. Then she turned and headed at speed for the stairs. I managed to dart in front of her.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to lay into you. You were perfectly entitled to attack my books.”

That didn’t seem to comfort her much. She was looking anxiously to either side of me. Fortunately the corridor was empty, apart from Andy. His bulk wouldn’t have been particularly reassuring to her.

“Matt Stone,” she said, her voice surprisingly faint. “What…what are you doing here?”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

She looked at her watch. “I have a lecture in…oh, all right. My office is round here.” She walked away, looking over her shoulder. “Who’s your friend?”

I introduced Andy. He gave her a wide grin, which didn’t impress her. It had always been clear that Lizzie Everhead preferred women, both as crime writers and as human beings. She ushered us into a small office that was crammed with books and papers, and then stood by the open door. I could see that she was still nervous.

“I…I’ve been talking to the police,” she said, folding her arms defensively.

“Oh, yes?” I wasn’t sure how to take that.

“A Detective Chief Inspector Oaten.”

“Karen. I know her.”

That seemed to surprise her. “Do you? She’s been consulting me about those awful murders.”

Now I got it. Oaten must have been asking her about the references to The White Devil. “The Webster quotations?”

The academic’s eyes sprang wide open. “You know about those?”

I nodded. “Karen Oaten’s been talking to me, too.”

Lizzie Everhead looked down the corridor, the tension in her face easing when she heard voices outside. She turned back to us. “Put that down, please,” she said to Andy, who had picked up a dark-colored wooden object.

“What is it?” he asked.

She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “If you must know, it’s a seventeenth-century dildo.”

I glared at Andy to head off the inevitable wisecrack, and then looked back at her. “So you know that the killer’s been copying murders in my novels?”

She nodded, her expression anxious again. “Have you…have you any idea why?”

I shrugged. “I was going to ask you that.”

Lizzie Everhead looked puzzled. “Me? Why should I be able to give an opinion?”

“You’re an expert on both Webster and crime fiction,” I said, smiling to put her at ease. “Even though you don’t think much of mine.”

“Neither did Alexander Drys,” she said sharply. “And look what happened to him.”

“Were you a friend of his?”

She shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. He was a terrible bigot. But he didn’t deserve to die that way.”

“Of course he didn’t.”

“Exactly what is it that you want from me?” she said, a mixture of irritation and curiosity in her voice.

“Do you honestly think I’m involved in these murders?”

She looked at me dubiously. “I…I don’t know. I suppose not.”

“There’s a vote of confidence for you, man,” Andy said ironically.

I tried to ignore him. “Dr. Everhead, I really need your help. Can you see any pattern in the quotations?”

She thought about that and then shook her head. “Apart from the obvious one of revenge, no. I take it you didn’t know the first three victims.”

“’Course he didn’t, lady,” Andy said, stepping forward.

Lizzie Everhead dodged him and moved out into the corridor. “I think you’d better leave now,” she said firmly.

She obviously didn’t have anything more to say. We headed out. As I passed her, I said, “I don’t want to scare you, but D.C.I. Oaten’s been organizing protection for people who might be targets. Maybe you should ask her about that.”

I could tell Lizzie Everhead was frightened, but she was trying not to show it. “I’m in frequent touch with New Scotland Yard,” she said. “Goodbye.”

“Well, thanks a lot,” I said to Andy as we went down the stairs. “That was a massive success.”