Paul Johnson - The Death List

“Aw, come on, man. She needed shaking up a bit. In fact, she obviously needed-”

“That’s enough, you moron.” It had just occurred to me that Karen Oaten might be very interested to hear that I’d paid Lizzie Everhead a visit.

I had the distinct feeling that the academic was on the line to her right now.

John Turner was sitting in D.C.I. Oaten’s office, ticking off the notes that he had made. “The CCTV images from Borough Market aren’t much help,” he said. “They show a pair of men of medium height in overalls with caps pulled low over their faces. It’s pretty obvious they knew where the cameras were. It’s impossible to distinguish their features. It looks like one had a mustache, but you know how blurred those pictures are. They got out of a white van, registration P692 MDG, and carried a large object in dark-colored wrapping to the bin. Unfortunately, the open lid obscured what they did then.”

“But they were obviously removing the wrapping and arranging the body,” Karen Oaten said. “They then went back to the van with the wrapping and drove off.”

Turner nodded. “And the van was found in a back street in Streatham at 10:35 p.m. The SOCOs haven’t found a single usable print on it.”

“No witnesses, of course.”

The inspector shook his head. “What about the autopsy, guv?”

Oaten picked up a gray file. “Redrose found that the bites to the face and neck were made by a person whose canine teeth appear to have been sharpened.”

“What?”

“And that the nipples were bitten off by a different individual, someone with normal teeth.”

“Dental records are no use to us.”

“Not until we have someone in custody to check the bites against.” The chief inspector looked out of the window. Dark clouds were blotting out the sun.

“What about the quotation?” Turner asked.

“I spoke to Lizzie Everhead last night. She didn’t have much to say, only that it suggests the victim wasn’t so closely linked to the general pattern of revenge.”

“What reason would these lunatics have to take revenge on a twenty-six-year-old publisher’s assistant, anyway?” the Welshman demanded in frustration. “All the friends and colleagues we’ve spoken to said that he was a decent guy with no vices and no dodgy friends.”

Oaten grunted. “No vices apart from screwing his boss.”

“His boss who conveniently disappeared yesterday.”

“Calm down, John. She’s not involved in this. Matt Wells told her to lie low.”

“Yes, Matt Wells,” the inspector said, standing up. “Everything seems to lead back to him. The attachments say ‘I severed her arm,’ ‘I cut off his head’ and so on. That means it’s him, surely.”

Oaten stared at him. She didn’t think he was right. She didn’t know much about novels, but she reckoned that writing one in the voice of a killer didn’t mean the author was automatically one him- or herself. Besides, there was a charm about Wells that she was pretty sure wasn’t an act. Still, the fact remained that Matt had to be brought in. But he was smart. He’d been keeping his head down. What if Taff was right? What if Matt Wells really was the Devil and he was taking the piss out of her? All her instincts told her that he wasn’t a callous killer, but his involvement with the murders was undeniable.

“What about the MO?” Turner asked.

“There was a mutilated body found in a garbage container in Matt Stone’s Tirana Blues,” the D.C.I. said, avoiding the Welshman’s gaze.

The phone on her desk rang.

“Oaten.” She listened, her stomach tightening like a vice. “What? Oh, no! Where? We’re on our way.”

“What is it, guv?” Turner asked as she headed for the door.

“Lizzie Everhead,” she said, her face pale and her expression grim. “She’s been found dead in her office. Apparently it’s a real mess.”

They passed quickly through the main office, each shouting orders to subordinates.

“Now what?” Andy said as I drove the Jeep out of the car park.

“I’ve got some calls to make.” I spotted a payphone on Waterloo Road and pulled in.

The first person I rang was my mother. Her phone was still turned off. I felt stirrings of major concern. She’d sounded different both times I’d talked to her, and it wasn’t like her to forget to turn her phone on. But what could I do? Rog was busy enough tracking down the Devil. I had to assume she’d either got on a BA flight from Terminal 4 or had broken the habit of a lifetime and used another airline.

I called Sara. Again, it took her a long time to answer.

“Hi,” I said. “Are you all right?”

“Sure,” she replied. “You?”

“Surviving.”

“I see there was another murder last night.”

“You’re not covering it, are you?”

“No, Jeremy’s having the time of his life, the ghoul.”

I looked round as a police car raced up the street, its lights flashing and its siren wailing. “Is everything okay at your place?”

“Yeah. Apart from the neighbors asking what the copper was doing outside. I told them I was involved in a pedophilia case. That shut the nosy bastards up. Look, Matt, I’ve got to go. Will I see you later?”

“I doubt it. It’s better if I keep clear of my known haunts.”

“Oh, well, keep in touch.” She cut the connection before I could tell her I loved her.

I took a deep breath and rang Caroline’s number. Another police car went past at high speed. I had to shout to make myself heard.

“Where is she?” My ex-wife’s voice was as near to a scream as she could allow herself in the office. “You’ve no right to keep Lucy from me.”

“Lucy’s safe,” I said. “Are you all right?”

Stupid question.

“Of course I’m not all right. I’ve got a policeman at the door, my ex-husband has abducted my child and the CEO just called an unscheduled meeting.”

“I’ll take that as yes, then,” I said, ringing off. I had enough on my plate without Caroline twisting the knife.

“That looked like fun,” Andy said as I got back into the Jeep.

I scowled at him and drove off.

“Let me guess,” he said, unabashed. “We’re going back to Bonehead’s.”

“Wrong. We’re going to the supermarket first. You’re cooking that mixed grill you’re always boasting about for lunch.”

“Now you’re talking,” Andy said, his hands on his belly. “I was beginning to feel a bit hungry.”

As I drove past the Elephant and Castle, I saw an ambulance coming toward us with its lights flashing.

Something bad had obviously just happened at Waterloo.

Oaten and Turner dipped under the cordon outside the university building by Waterloo Bridge. There were weeping students standing in groups, their arms round each other as they waited to be interviewed. Paul Pavlou and Morry Simmons were talking to some of them. Despite the university authorities’ reluctance, the entire place had been evacuated so that it could be searched from top to bottom. One call from the commissioner to the vice chancellor had sufficed.

The SOCOs were standing by on the third floor. In front of them stood Dr Redrose, already kitted out in coveralls.

“We must stop meeting like this, Chief Inspector,” he said with an uneven smile.

“I’m not in the mood for humor,” Oaten replied, taking a set of coveralls from a SOCO. After she’d put on bootees and gloves and pulled the hood over her hair, she went through the partially open door, the photographers at her shoulder. She went over to the window. It was on the west side of the building, looking down over the relentless bridge traffic. One lane on the nearside had been closed by the police vehicles. She steeled herself to take in what had been done to Lizzie Everhead.