Paul Johnson - The Death List

“Right. I’m behind a hedge. Do you think we should get Andy and the others up?”

“Let’s see how it looks when I get there.” I was loath to pull the guys off the other properties until I was sure we had the Devil in our sights.

“Okay.” He rang off.

The drive through Islington and up Holloway Road seemed to take an eternity. I was trying to work out what to do, how to approach the Devil, but I couldn’t come up with any coherent plan. If he had one of my loved ones in his possession, I didn’t have many options. Could I persuade him to take me instead?

At last I got to East End Road in East Finchley. My mother lived about half a mile away. Was it possible she’d never left home? Had the bastard got to her that early? And what about Sara? Her mobile was still switched off.

I forced myself to walk at medium pace into the back streets, the worn heels of my shoes not making much noise. The area was solidly middle-class-overpriced cars on the roadsides, Victorian artisans’ houses that had experienced an astronomical increase in value over the past decade, normal families trying to spend some time together after the rigors of the working day. Curtains were drawn, blinds were down and everyone was studiously ignoring what their neighbors were getting up to. I was as liberal as the next man, but not where abduction and murder were concerned. How did the Devil and his sidekick manage to move around without attracting attention?

I slowed my pace as I approached number 14, looking at it from the other side of the road. The first-floor lights were still on, a blue van parked outside.

“Matt!” The loud whisper made me jump. I’d forgotten to warn Rog of my approach. “Come in the gate.”

I went up the path that led to number 13 and saw his back. He was hiding in a hedge that wasn’t too dense.

“There doesn’t seem to be anyone in this place,” he said, inclining his head toward the house behind us.

“Anything new?” I asked, pushing through the foliage beside him.

He shook his head. “I got shots of the bastards,” he said, holding up his mobile phone. I remembered the ribbing we’d given him when he’d shown off the model that was equipped with a camera. Now I was glad he’d bought it, but I couldn’t make out any faces. The long bundle they carried inside definitely could have been a person.

“What are we going to do?” Rog asked.

I’d come to a decision about that after I’d got out of the BMW. “We check the place out. There’s no use just hanging around here. If they really have got a prisoner, God knows what they might be doing to her.”

“Or him.”

I shrugged. I hadn’t considered that the captive might be a male, but it was perfectly possible. I had plenty of male crime-writer friends, as well as other former teammates from the Bison. Where would the Devil stop?

“Right, you go to the front,” I said. “I’ll check the back. If you spot any obvious way in that we can use our tools on, ring me. My mobile’s on vibrate, too. I’ll let you know if I find anywhere interesting.”

“We’re going in?” Rog said with a slack grin.

“Hold your horses, you headbanger. Only if we reckon we can surprise them.”

He nodded, and then retreated from the hedge. Looking around and seeing that the coast was clear, we moved quickly across the road. I opened and closed the gate of number 14 as quietly as I could and left Rog at the front. As I skirted the side of the house, its flower beds tidy and the hedges trimmed, I felt my heart begin to pound. Was this innocuous-looking place really the Devil’s lair? What horrors were we about to uncover?

The back garden was equally well tended. Had Rog only seen a house-proud owner and his mate bringing in a new carpet? No, that wasn’t likely. The property was owned by Lawrence Montgomery, a multimillionaire who’d taken every step to cover his tracks. Something suspicious was going on.

The curtains hadn’t been closed at the back. There was a thick, high hedge between the garden and that of the house behind. The kitchen door was well secured with a lock that looked new. But the window of the dining room was original and there was a gap between it and the frame. I reckoned I could get it open with the chisel Boney had given me. I rang Rog. He appeared a few seconds later.

I pointed at the window. He nodded and watched as I inserted the shank. It took a bit of work, but I finally managed to get the latch to move. I pulled the window outward and stuck my head in. I couldn’t hear any noise inside the house. Rog shone the narrow beam of his torch on the ledge as I climbed over it, then I did the same for him.

We went through the dining room on tiptoes. Fortunately the floors were carpeted so we didn’t make a sound. I glanced into the sitting room, and then shone my torch round. It was a typical suburban front room-widescreen TV, leather sofa, armchairs. But there was a total absence of photographs, artwork, CDs, videos-anything to personalize it. I had the feeling this was what the secret services would refer to as a safe house-where the Devil could bolt in times of need.

I took a deep breath. The men were presumably upstairs. Was I about to make a fatal error? I couldn’t see any other way ahead. The Devil had shown what little regard he had for human life. If a prisoner had been brought here, that person’s time was surely running out. I nodded as encouragingly as I could to Rog and set off up the staircase. There were a few creaks, but nothing too loud. When we got to the first floor, I pointed him to the back. There were three rooms there, all with their doors open. He checked each one and shook his head. That left the two front rooms. The doors to both of them were closed.

Rog came forward and took up a position outside the one to the left. He put his screwdriver between his teeth-that would have made Dave laugh-and held his torch and chisel in his hands. I had my chisel in my right hand and screwdriver in my left. I mouthed “One…two…three.”

We put our shoulders to the doors and burst in. I saw no sign of the men, but something a lot worse. Rog was at my shoulder a few seconds later.

“Clear,” he murmured, his breath catching in his throat. “Jesus Christ.”

We stepped forward like automata, engrossed by what was in front of us. On the double bed lay a naked female figure. There were ropes attached to her wrists and ankles, binding them to the wooden bedframe. She had a gag round her mouth and she was unconscious, her eyes half open. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Her hair was soaked and she was lying in a pool of blood that was dripping off the bedcover onto the carpet.

Suddenly there was the roar of an engine from outside. I ran to the window and wrenched the curtains apart. The blue van was already at the end of the road. Jesus Christ, the Devil and his accomplice had been lurking in or around the house when we broke in. I’d been that close to him, but he’d manage to evade me.

“Shit!” I yelled, turning back to the bed.

It was only when I stepped close and bent over the face of the captive that I recognized her.

Andrew Jackson turned onto Plender Road in Camden Town. He’d checked two of the properties on his list and seen no sign of anything suspicious. He was feeling like a complete dickhead with the fake ’tache on his upper lip and the baseball cap pulled low over the wig, but that wasn’t his worst problem. He’d stopped for a pint in between each of the previous places and his bladder was now in urgent need of emptying. He pulled out his best friend and was letting rip between two parked cars when he saw a blue van pull up on the other side of the road-right outside number 36, the property he was meant to be watching.

A man of medium height got out of the driver’s seat. He was wearing a boiler suit and a workman’s cap. Another man of similar stature opened the passenger door. He was dressed in similar clothes, but had a baseball cap low over his face like Andy did. He appeared to have a beard.