Paul Johnson - The Death List

I squeezed his arm. I was touched by how much my friends were doing for me. I hoped I’d have done the same for them, but I was always more of a loner. Most writers were, as were most rugby wingers, league and union. It wasn’t a characteristic I was particularly proud of.

I rang Dave. As usual, there was a deafening sound of machinery when he answered.

“Hallo, lad,” he said, cutting the revs. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Are you okay?”

“Champion. The roof’ll be coming down any minute.”

“I’m very happy for you. Dave, send me a text message before you leave in case I need you.”

“Right you are. Cheers.”

I went out to the back terrace. Andy was standing there engulfed in smoke.

“Oh, man,” he said, “this charcoal’s sodden. Still, nothing can resist the flaming hands of Aaaandrew Jaaaackson.”

“That’ll be right.” I looked at the array of raw food he’d laid out on a table. Steaks, chops, sausages, corn on the cob.

“Something’s missing,” he said.

“Fifty other guests?” I suggested.

“No, you asshole. The beer.”

“Uh-uh, no booze till we catch the-”

“Matt!” Bonehead’s voice was loud and urgent. “Get in here now!”

I gave Andy a puzzled look and ran back to the study. I found Peter and Rog staring at the TV screen.

“I just heard the headlines,” Bonehead said. “There’s been another murder. At Waterloo.”

I felt the hairs on my neck rise. Jesus. The police cars and the ambulance I’d seen. They must have been heading there.

“This is it,” Rog said.

The newsreader’s heavily made-up face was somber. “We’re getting reports of a murder near Waterloo Station,” she said. “Over to our correspondent at the scene, Roy Meltcher.”

I watched as a man in an anorak spoke to camera. Behind him was a police cordon and a crowd of people. I immediately recognized the building. It was the university block that Andy and I had visited. I began to get a very bad feeling.

“Yes, Fay, you join me outside King’s College London’s facility just south of Waterloo Bridge. Shortly before noon today, students discovered the body of a female lecturer on the third floor. Police are not releasing the woman’s name, but I can reveal that she was in the English Literature department.”

Jesus.

The anchor cut in. “Roy, I gather there are fears that this is the latest in the series of murders that some are attributing to the so-called New Ripper.”

The reporter was nodding. “Yes, Fay, that is the indication we’re getting. Details of the murder are not being given yet, but I understand that there are links to the other killings. In a sensational development, Detective Chief Inspector Karen Oaten of the VCCT made this statement.”

The picture cut to what was clearly a lecture room.

Karen was standing next to the stern Welshman. “We are very anxious to talk to two men who were seen in the building between 11:00 and 11:30 this morning,” she said.

I froze as photographs of me and Andy came up on the screen. Mine was from a book jacket, while my friend’s had obviously been taken in the hospital yesterday.

“They are Matthew John Wells, age thirty-eight, a crime novelist who uses the name Matt Stone, and Andrew Krieger Jackson, an American age thirty-seven. Mr. Wells lives in Herne Hill, while Mr. Jackson’s home is in Catford, South London. Anyone who has seen either man in the last twenty-four hours should call this number-” she read it out “-or contact their local police station. All information will be treated with the strictest confidentiality.” Karen Oaten was looking even more determined than I’d seen her before. “This is a particularly horrible crime. It is essential that members of the public do not approach these men. The likelihood is that they are highly dangerous.”

The reporter was back on the screen. “So there you are, Fay. Although the police are refusing to confirm that Mr. Wells and Mr. Jackson can be linked to the earlier murders, it seems reasonable to draw that conclusion.” He signed off.

“Shit,” I said as Rog turned down the volume. I glanced at him and Bonehead. “Who’s going to tell Slash?”

Rog got up and left the room.

“It’s bollocks, isn’t it, Matt?” Peter said, his eyes locked on mine. “This is your chance to be totally straight with me.”

“It’s bollocks,” I repeated slowly, my body numb.

He slapped me on the back. “I knew it was. Now, wake up. We’ve got to catch this arsehole before the cops get to you.”

Rog came back with Andy, who looked dazed.

“What is this?” he asked.

“This is us being framed by the Devil,” I said. “He must have been on our tail.”

“How could he have been?” Bonehead said. “No one knows you’re here. Keep your wits about you, mate.”

He was right. The Devil was the ultimate planner. He must have targeted Lizzie Everhead earlier-I was sure she was the victim-and we’d been unlucky enough to walk in a few minutes before him and get picked up by the CCTV.

“All right, what do we do?” Andy said, looking round at all three of us. “I’ll turn myself in if that’ll buy you time, Matt.”

I could have wept, but I knew that wouldn’t have impressed any of them.

“Thanks, mate, but there’s no point in doing that. It’s me they want, not you.” I glanced at Roger. “Are you into the lottery site?”

“Any minute now.”

“Well, go for it. In the meantime, I’m going to check my e-mails. I’ve got a feeling the bastard will have been in touch.” Before I sat down in front of a screen, I ran my eyes round them. “Peter, Rog, you guys can walk away from this thing right now. So can you, Andy. I’m prepared to find this piece of shit on my own.”

They all spoke together, a mixture of “Forget it,” “No chance” and “Get outta here,” the last from Andy. Again, I was touched, but I made sure I didn’t show it. Ex-rugby league players only cry when they’ve had a bellyful of ale.

“Whoah!” Andy yelled, peering at the cloud of smoke outside. “My ribs!” He departed at speed.

“Thanks, guys,” I said quietly, logging on to my new e-mail identity. As I thought, the Devil had sent what he always referred to as notes. They didn’t make for pleasant reading. The bastard had obviously sent them before he’d seen the news, so at least I was spared mockery from him about that. But that was small comfort. He’d gone back to mimicking murders in my books. In Tirana Blues, the first Zog novel, an Albanian politician is found nailed to the table with a chisel rammed into the base of his skull to sever his spinal cord. Jesus. Oaten would be even more convinced I was guilty when she discovered that similarity. She already knew the dead woman had attacked my work, so there was motive-if you lived in the crazy world of the Devil.

It was time I accepted that I was a fellow inhabitant of his underworld.

The only way to catch him was to be as pitiless as he was.

The White Devil was sitting in front of the bank of screens in his penthouse overlooking the Thames. Only one of the screens was in operation. It showed a dimly lit enclosed space with no furniture apart from an old armchair that was losing its stuffing. On it was a figure bound around the calves and chest, the head covered by a sack with a hole cut in it to aid the passage of air. There was no way the Devil wanted this captive to expire yet. That would be a tragedy of Jacobean proportions.

He smiled. The stench in the room would be almost unbearable by now, the urine and sweat joining with the reek of the rotting building. Originally, he hadn’t intended going anywhere near the place again. The captive would eventually die of thirst. Not a pleasant death, but there were worse ones. Matt Wells was a wanted man now, so he’d be prepared to take risks. That called for original thinking and flexibility. The Devil was a past master at those.