Paul Johnson - The Death List

He thought back to the events of the morning. It had been a classic example of how good planning was rewarded by an unexpected bonus. He had always planned to carry out this murder on his own. It would be broad daylight and going with his partner was too risky. Besides, he wanted to deal with the woman on his own. He’d been in the audience when Dr. Lizzie Everhead had taken Matt Stone’s novels to pieces in what was a very public humiliation. To be fair to Matt, he took it in good part, making jokes at his own expense and appearing to forgive the good doctor for what was an overscholarly attack on fiction for the mass market. Then again, as the novelist once said himself, if crime fiction wanted to be taken seriously, its writers had to expect to be judged by the same standards applied to literary fiction. Dream on, my friend, the Devil thought. The only people taking you seriously from now on will be members of the Metropolitan Police, the media and the judiciary.

Getting into the building had been easy. He’d been inside numerous times over the past three months, wearing overalls and cap, and using a fake but convincing maintenance man’s pass. He’d spotted the absence of cameras beyond the entrance hall, and he’d also worked out the doctor’s timetable. He knew exactly when she was on her own in her office. But how was he to know that Matt was going to turn up with his muscular friend a few minutes before him? It had been a close call-he’d seen them leave-but it had led to Matt being put solidly in the frame for the murder. That really was funny. Originally he hadn’t intended using the modus operandi from the Zog novel, but since the writer had been messing him around, he wanted to pay him back. An anonymous phone call to the Yard later on would make sure the bitch Oaten had yet more to hold against Matt.

Moving over to the penthouse’s tall windows, he looked out at the boats on the Thames. The worm of doubt he had felt about the murder at the Hereward and the men on Corky’s tail was growing. His accomplice was continuing to keep ahead of the Orion, his well-developed sense of self-preservation functioning well. But for how long?

The White Devil shook his head and told himself to ignore Corky. It wasn’t as if he knew where to find the Devil. No, he’d already brought his plans forward and the end was in sight. Soon, he’d be far away where he could never be found. With his partner.

In the meantime, he had work to do.

People to pick up.

Skin to pierce.

And blood to spill.

“I’m in, Matt!” Rog shouted.

Peter Satterthwaite and I dashed over to the desk and watched as he navigated his way skillfully around the lottery site. In a few seconds he’d accessed the list of big winners and typed in the date of the Devil’s win. A couple more clicks and we had it.

Leslie Dunn-Flat 12, Vestine Building, Bermondsey Wall East, London SE16 OPY.

“You did it!” I shouted, grabbing Rog’s shoulders.

“Just a second,” he said, hammering away at the keyboard. “I’m deleting my identity so there’s no way they can trace me. Done.” He turned round and smiled. “So, let’s go and nail the bastard.” He got up and went to the door. “Andy! Get in here. We need you.”

I sat them all down to think things through. “Look, if the Devil really is in this flat in Bermondsey, we need to be pretty careful about going in mob-handed. He’s cunning enough to have taken precautions.”

“You and Andy can’t go anywhere,” Bonehead pointed out. “Your faces will be all over the evening paper.”

He was right, but he could also provide a solution. “Aren’t you into fancy dress?” I asked.

Andy guffawed. “Yeah, I remember when you turned up at the end-of-season dinner wearing a grass skirt.”

Pete gave him an aloof stare. “I’ll have you know that was a genuine South Seas fashion item.” He laughed and turned to me. “As it happens, I have got a wardrobe full of outlandish gear. You’d look great as a Morris dancer, Matt, though maybe you’d attract a bit too much attention. As for you, Andy, I’ve got this great pair of leather trousers with the arse cut away.”

The American looked appalled. “You must be joking, man.”

I raised a hand. “All right, sober up. Yeah, we can disguise ourselves. The question is, how many of us go?”

“All of us,” the three of them said in unison.

I shook my head. “It’s too risky. What if he’s got the place booby-trapped? I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Why don’t we get Dave to check it out?” Rog asked. “He’s a demolition expert, after all.”

I thought about it. “No, Dave needs to get back to Lucy and his family.”

“So,” Bonehead said, “who goes?”

“Since when were you part of this elite squad?” Andy asked.

The multimillionaire smiled at him. “Since you guys invited yourselves here, Slash.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “We need all the help we can get. But we also need someone here to check out any leads we come up with. That means someone who can handle a computer.” I looked at Rog. “And that means you, mate.” His disappointment was obvious. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance.”

“I suppose I’d better stay here, as well,” Bonehead said. “In case there’s more financial stuff to chase up. You never know, I might find the identity he’s using now.”

I nodded, happy he’d worked that out before I had to tell him. “Looks like it’s you and me again, Andy,” I said. “Boney, show us your disguises.”

He led us upstairs. “You do realize that the police might have found out about this place you’re going to and put surveillance on it?”

I nodded. “It has occurred to me. But they’ve been busy with the killings. Maybe they haven’t been into the lottery archive yet.”

Half an hour later we left the house, this time driving our host’s brand-new pale blue BMW 6 Series coupe in case the Jeep had been picked up on CCTV at Waterloo. I was wearing a shoulder-length blond wig and a blue boiler suit, while Andy had a hard hat, a fake Zapata mustache and an anorak. I suppose we might have been taken as genuine workmen. By a blind man.

I parked a couple of hundred yards away from the Vestine Building. We walked along the cobbled streets to what turned out to be a converted warehouse. There was a waist-high wall around it, the enclosed parking area filled with luxury cars. There wasn’t any sign of coppers on surveillance, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t hidden themselves. I took a deep breath and tried to slow my breathing.

“Right,” Andy said in a low voice, putting down his toolbox. “What’s the plan?”

“We haven’t got much choice. We’ll have to go in the main entrance.” We pulled on gloves, then I led him through the pedestrian gate. There was a panel covered in numbers by the heavy door. “We aren’t going to press number 12,” I said, as he raised his hand. “This usually works in my books.” I pressed several other numbers. When a voice came through the panel, I said “Electricity.”

There was a buzz and the door opened.

A woman holding a howling child poked her head out from a door as we headed for the stairs. “Problem on the second floor,” I said, flashing my bank card-fortunately it had a photo on it. She nodded without interest and disappeared. We raced up the stairs, following the signs to Flats 10 to 13. We approached number 12 cautiously.

I listened outside the door for a while. I could hear nothing inside. “Right, Andy. You’re on.” He’d often boasted about his underage criminal activities in the suburbs of Newark, including burglary. Now was his chance to show he hadn’t lost his skills. “Is there an alarm?”

“In a place like this? Gotta be. Don’t worry, I can handle it.” He took out a set of short steel rods, some flat and some with bent ends that he’d fashioned in Bonehead’s basement before we left. In under ten seconds he had the door open. I watched as he ran to the beeping alarm box, pulled off the cover and fiddled with a screwdriver. The beeping stopped. I waited for the full-scale apocalypse to be triggered, but nothing happened.