Paul Johnson - The Death List

“My word,” Redrose said from her side. That counted as a display of emotion from him. “It would appear the victim has been…has been nailed to her desk.” He got down on his knees and inspected the underside of the piece of furniture. “The nails must be at least six inches long. The ends have been bent to prevent the poor woman pulling away.”

“It looks like a chisel has been driven into the base of her skull,” Oaten said, examining the black plastic handle and the base of the blade that was surrounded by the academic’s tousled hair.

“Quite,” said the pathologist, back on his feet. He looked more closely. “The chisel in question has a particularly long blade. The end of it is embedded in the desk.”

Karen Oaten was taking deep breaths. “That…that would have required considerable strength.”

Redrose bent nearer. “Not necessarily. The handle of the tool has been struck by a blunt instrument-I’d guess, the hammer that was used to drive the nails home.”

The chief inspector cursed herself for her inattention. She’d known the dead woman and her gruesome end was hard to take. “There’s a fair amount of blood from the wounds in her hands,” she said quietly.

The pathologist nodded. “I’m afraid she was alive when the nails pierced them. She was kept alive long enough for her to suffer terrible pain.”

“Christ, what a maniac. Any sign of a message?”

“Not at first glance,” Redrose said, leaning in. “She appears to be fully clothed. I’ll have to get her on the mortuary table to explore her…well, you know what I mean.”

The chief inspector squatted down. “There’s something under her left hand.”

“You’re right. I can see the edge of a small plastic bag. It doesn’t appear to be perforated by the nail. I think we can remove it.”

Karen Oaten watched as photographs were taken and then the chief SOCO eased the bag out using tweezers. “I need to see the contents now,” she said.

More photos were taken, then the bag was opened and the folded paper inside removed.

The SOCO opened it out. As on previous occasions, the words were in laser print. They read, “My tragedy must have some idle mirth in’t.” But this time there was more. “Now your expert is gone, I’ll help you. The White Devil, act 4, scene 1, line 118. Ha-ha.”

Oaten felt herself consumed by cold fury. She would not be mocked by a villain, especially not by one who had just killed someone she’d liked. Again, guilt struck her like a blow to the heart. She should have arranged for Lizzie Everhead to be protected. It had never occurred to her that the Devil would take out someone peripheral to the investigation. After Reginald Hampton’s murder, how could she have been so stupid?

“Guv?” John Turner was at her shoulder. “Are you all right?” He took her arm and led her out into the corridor. “Better let the doc and the SOCOs do their jobs now, eh?” He took out a paper handkerchief and handed it to her. She turned to the wall and hurriedly dabbed her eyes.

“How did no one hear the banging as he hammered in the nails?” she said angrily.

“Apparently there have been workmen in all week,” the inspector said, stepping closer. “Listen to this. I’ve had a quick look at the CCTV tape from a camera in the entrance hall.” He paused to make sure she was paying attention. “Guv, Matt Wells was here this morning between 11:04 and 11:17.” He glanced at his notebook. “The body was found at 11:27 by two of her students.”

Oaten felt her eyes open wide. “Matt Wells? He was here?”

“Yes. With that guy Andrew Jackson, the one who was injured at the Fels place yesterday. Apparently he discharged himself from the hospital last night.”

The chief inspector was struggling to take it in. Matt Wells. Could it have been Wells who’d nailed poor Lizzie to her desk? Or had it been the heavily built American? There was something wrong here, she felt that immediately. Yes, that was it. The two figures caught by the cameras at Dr. Keane’s and at the Borough Market were of medium height. Both Wells and the American were bigger than that, the latter substantially so. Did that mean there were four killers out there? She clenched her fists and twitched her head. This needed careful thought. But in the meantime, it was indisputable that Matt Wells had been here this morning. Why?

“We’ve got to pick him up,” Turner said. “I’ll give the order. Will you tell the media?”

Oaten nodded slowly. She’d cut the novelist far too much slack. It was time she pulled him in. If her superiors found out about the contacts she’d had with him, she’d be finished.

But if he was the one who’d murdered Lizzie Everhead, she’d tear him apart with her own hands-and to hell with her career.

We found Peter Satterthwaite and Rog sitting in the former’s study. He hadn’t shown us it last night. It was large and furnished with leather office chairs and several wide desks, all with computers on them.

“Shit, Boney,” Andy said, his arms full with bags of meat, “why’ d’you need so many computers?”

“I sometimes bring my staff here,” Pete said. “You know, Andy? Work. Remember what that is?”

“Go screw yourself,” the American said, grinning. “I’m about to cook your lunch. Where’s your grill?”

“Out the back, in the first shed.” Bonehead waved me over. “Here, look at this, Matt. I’ve found out all sorts of interesting stuff about your Devil.”

He waved a thick sheaf of printouts at me. I peered at one and could make absolutely nothing of it. “Explain, please.”

He grinned. “You can’t even understand the simplest bank details? No wonder you’re so poor. All right, here’s the simpleton’s version. This guy is either very smart or he’s got some very smart advisers.”

“Or both.”

“True. The bottom line is that over the last four years he’s increased the value of his investments to just under thirty-three million U.S. dollars.”

“Bloody hell. How did he manage that?”

“Do you really want to know?”

I raised my hands. “No. Has he broken any laws?”

“Theoretically not.” Bonehead gave a toothy smile. “Well, no more than I have. You’ve got to understand, Matt-when you’ve got a decent wedge, it’s dead easy to make it bigger. All it takes is a bit of nerve-”

“I think we can assume the Devil’s got that in lorry-loads.”

“And the right advice.”

“Ditto.” I straightened up. “So he’s got plenty of cash to spend on surveillance equipment, vehicles, sidekicks, whatever?”

“Definitely.” Pete held out another heap of paper. “He’s withdrawn more than three million quid from various U.K. accounts over the past twelve months.”

I felt a quiver of excitement. “You’ve hacked into banks in this country? So you must have his account details. His name and address.”

Bonehead grimaced. “Sorry, mate. The kind of bank he deals with has levels of security that your average commercial outfit doesn’t bother with. All I’ve got is another list of numbers.”

“No way of getting more than that?”

He raised his shoulders. “I’m talking to a guy I know. He’s even more of a computer whiz kid than the Dodger.” He laughed as Rog flashed him V-signs with both hands. “He’s calling me back before the end of the day.”

I went over to the other operating computer. “Any luck with the National Lottery?”

Rog’s chin jutted forward. “Sort of.”

“Which means?”

“Well, I’m almost in,” he said, his fingers still moving over the keys. “But I reckon there’s a time limit. I might get blown out when I log on because I’ll need some time to orientate myself. If that happens, I won’t be able to get back in. Don’t worry, I can get round it. I’m almost there.”