Paul Johnson - The Death List

“‘At 1705 hours, muffled male voice,’” she read. “‘For Detective Chief Inspector Karen Oaten. It may interest you to read chapter 14 of the novel Tirana Blues by Matt Stone.’”

Turner was holding an open book out to her, his smile even wider.

She read through the description of an Albanian’s murder, taking in the similarities with that of Lizzie Everhead. The details hadn’t been released to the public, so the message was obviously either from the killer or someone close to him.

“Pretty conclusive, isn’t it?” the inspector said.

“You think so, Taff?” She was getting irritated by her subordinate’s dogged determination to nail the novelist. “If Matt Wells is the killer, why’s he taking the trouble to frame himself? Think about that.”

“He’s a psychopath,” Turner said, his smile disappearing. “He’s playing games.”

“It was a mistake, making that public appeal. All it’s done is make him even more determined to keep his head down. The idiot’s trying to find the Devil himself.”

“All he has to do is look in the mirror.”

“What else have we got?” Oaten said wearily.

“No fingerprints at the scene except Jackson’s on what looks like an ancient dildo, no significant physical evidence found by SOCOs. And everyone who appeared on the CCTV has been accounted for. Apart from Wells and Jackson.” The inspector suddenly became less assertive. “And one other man, dressed in workman’s clothing and wearing a hard hat.”

Oaten looked up. “So there was someone else at the scene. That could be the killer. I’m telling you, Taff, there’s more to this than Matt Wells and his mate.”

“Maybe it was another of Wells’s mates.”

“Christ, you don’t give up, do you?”

“I’ve been doing some checking,” the Welshman said, looking at his notes. “When Wells gave you those names to be put under protection, he missed out several of his closest friends. I got their names from his ex-wife and crosschecked them with the rugby league club they’re members of. There are two others we can’t trace-David Cummings and Roger van Zandt. Neither of them is as tall as Wells and Jackson. And they haven’t been seen at home for more than twenty-four hours.” He glared at Oaten. “Why are you so dead-set against the writer as our main man, guv?”

It was the same question the A.C. had asked her. She’d only been able to cite the height of the figures on the CCTV at Dr. Keane’s building and Borough Market. But, as her superior had pointed out, such images were often misleading because of the skewed perspective they gave. And there were the other potential suspects. She couldn’t embarrass herself by giving him the main reason, but Taff should have been able to understand it.

“I’ve met him,” she said. “My gut feeling is that he isn’t capable of these killings.”

Turner shrugged. “I’ve got to disagree with you there. I’ve met him, too, and my gut’s telling me that he is. He’s written about murder often enough. He’s also got a reputation as one of the most gruesome crime writers.”

“Writing about it is hardly the same thing as doing it for real,” the chief inspector said. “How many writers have we done for murder over the years?”

“None that I can remember,” the Welshman said reluctantly.

She nodded at him, and then looked away. She wasn’t comfortable thinking about Matt Wells. He’d had more of an effect on her than any man for years.

There was a knock on the door. Paul Pavlou stuck his head round. “Excuse me, guv. The warrant for the lottery’s here.”

Karen Oaten stood up. “Right. Let’s find out where the mysterious Leslie Dunn has got to.”

Turner followed her out, shaking his head. Leslie Dunn was a false trail, he was sure of that. They would be led round in circles, while Matt Wells went on killing people.

For the first time in nine years, he’d begun to doubt his boss’s judgment.

I drove back to the house in Blackheath. There was no point in calling ahead about the name we’d found as we were so close. As soon as we got there, Peter Satterthwaite rang his computer expert while Rog checked for Lawrence Montgomery in the online directories and search engines. Andy went off to the kitchen to make more food-even what he’d seen in the flat hadn’t put him off eating. I called my mother. Again, there was no answer. Now I was getting seriously worried about her. I told the others.

“Why don’t you let the police know?” Rog said. “It can’t do any harm.”

That made sense. I left the house and went out onto the Heath to avoid being located at Bonehead’s, then rang Karen Oaten’s mobile.

“Matt!” she said eagerly when she heard my voice. “I’m very glad you called. Where can I meet you?”

“I’m not coming in.”

“You have to. It’s the only way you can clear your name.”

“What do you care about that? You’re the one who made me public enemy number one.”

She sighed. “I had no option. You’re on the university’s CCTV recording. Answer this question. Did you have anything to do with Lizzie Everhead’s murder?”

“No, of course I fucking didn’t!” I shouted, unable to control my outrage. “I told you, I’m trying to protect the people I care about.”

There was a pause. “You can’t tell me you cared about Dr. Everhead. Why did you go to see her? I presume you don’t deny that’s why you were in the building.”

“No, I don’t. I went to ask her about the Devil’s use of the quotations from the play. And to warn her about him.” I decided to play hardball. “Obviously that never occurred to you. Where was her police protection?”

There was a longer pause. “All right, Matt, I hear you. But I still need you to surrender yourself.”

“Forget it.”

“In that case, why are we talking?”

“Because my mother’s not answering her mobile phone again. Can you find out from the airlines apart from British Airways if she left the country from Heathrow on Friday?”

“You mean you’ve already checked with BA? They don’t give out that kind of information to the general public.”

“Just take my word for it. If she’s not on any flight list, then I think the Devil’s got her.”

I heard her breath whistle between her teeth. “All right, we’ll look into it. At least give me a number to call you.”

“Good try, Karen. I’ll call you. Bye.” I hung up. Jesus. Did the bastard really have my mother? The full horror of that idea struck me as I walked back across the open grassland in the darkness, the wind whipping about me like a mad dog. When would there be an end to the anguish the Devil was visiting on me?

When I got back, Pete yelled at me to join them in the study.

“Progress,” he said, a wide grin on his face. “I just heard from my man. Lawrence Montgomery is the name of the holder of the accounts I tracked down before. Don’t ask me how he did it, but he managed to verify that.”

I nodded, not particularly impressed. “Where does that get us?”

“It gets us precisely here,” Rog said, swinging round in his chair. He held up a printed page. “Properties listed in Lawrence Montgomery’s name. All of them in London and the Southeast.”

“Wow.” That was interesting. I ran my eye down the page. “Bloody hell, how many are there?”

“Twenty-three apart from the one you’ve already been to,” Rog replied. “Everything from a semi in Golders Green, to a penthouse near Tower Bridge, to a cottage near Hythe. Some of them are registered as owner-occupied, some as rented out.”

“How the hell are we going to be able to check all those places?” I said with a groan.