Paul Johnson - The Death List

“Spoken like the caring soul you are,” I said, unable to hold back. “Since when did you know anything about the publishing business?”

I realized too late that I’d given her an open goal.

“I’m an economist, stupid,” she said, touching her temple. “It’s what I do.”

Lucy looked round from the sofa. “Mummy, Daddy, stop arguing,” she said plaintively.

I felt something break inside me. It seemed that Caroline had a similar experience. We nodded to each other and declared a silent truce.

There was an uneasy silence while Lucy watched Hades get his comeuppance and I pretended to write about the new Laura Veirs album. Then they got their things together and headed downstairs.

I followed them, fear welling up inside me. “Do you want me to walk round with you?”

Caroline stared at me. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“All right,” I said, bending down to kiss Lucy. “See you in the morning, sweetie.”

“Good night, Daddy,” she said, glancing at each of us in turn. “It would be so nice if we could all sleep in the same house sometimes.”

Both Caroline and I failed to come up with a response to that.

I watched them down the street as far as I could see them, and then went after them, skulking in the dark areas between the streetlights. They got home without incident. As I turned to go home, I saw an elderly man in Ruskin Park with his dog.

He glared at me as if I were a stalker.

The irony of that did not make me feel any better at all.

When I got back, I opened my e-mail program. I’d managed to put off doing that while Lucy was there, but now I had no excuse. I felt my stomach constrict as the receiving mail icon flashed. The process went on for some time.

When the chime went, I saw that I had a message with an attachment from 1612WD via another mail provider. The bastard. I now understood what he was calling himself, but I had no idea why. What was in the attachment? I downloaded a digital image. It showed me carrying the wrapped remains of Happy to the Volvo. Shit. He’d been there, judging by the angle and trees at the far side of the park. He must have had a camera with a seriously good zoom. I couldn’t remember anyone taking pictures in the vicinity when I was loading the car.

I went back to the message.

It’s me again, Matt. Thought you’d like to see one of my snaps from today. There are plenty more, some from inside Lucy’s bedroom before you got there and others from Farnborough. I don’t think your ex-wife or her neighbors would be too happy if they saw them, let alone your daughter. She was very fond of the dog, wasn’t she?

How the hell did he know all this? He must have been staking us out for weeks.

I’ve also got some e-mail addresses that I won’t hesitate to forward the photos to if you start being uncooperative, Matt. I read on. He’d somehow managed to get hold of Caroline’s company e-mail, as well as Jack’s and Shami’s at their places of employment. I don’t imagine your ex-wife would be impressed if she found out that you’d disposed of the neighbors’ dog. She’d take it as an indirect threat to Lucy and get her lawyers on to you straightaway. No visiting rights, no nothing. You get the picture? Sorry, that wasn’t funny.

It wasn’t, but he’d nailed me very successfully. The divorce had been a bad one, with Caroline wanting rid of me and me not wanting to put Lucy through the mangle. This would be just what Caroline needed to get me out of her life. But how did WD know? Or was he just guessing?

I’ll be in touch again tomorrow, the message ended. That’s when you’ll be starting work for me. Get a good night’s sleep.

I hit Reply.

Why are you calling yourself the White Devil? What’s John Webster’s play of that name, first performed in 1612, got to do with anything? I clicked Send.

There was a chime soon afterward.

You got it eventually, Matt. I am the White Devil. Da-da. Cue doom-laden music. What’s the play got to do with it? Come on, you can do better than that. But get some rest now or “Our sleeps are severed.” Good night.

I sat back and looked up at the cracked ceiling. Jesus. This guy really knew how to get to me. “Our sleeps are severed”-The White Devil, act 2, scene 1; Brachiano divorcing Isabella, in Webster’s great work of revenge and violent death. It was behind my novel The Devil Murder, the title being another quotation from the play. I’d studied Jacobean tragedy at college and been fascinated by it. There was a primitive inevitability to the plays that shook me-the mask of civilization was much flimsier and the seething bedlam beneath much closer than in Shakespeare, apart from Titus Andronicus. When I was searching for a plot to hang my third Sir Tertius novel on, I came on that of The White Devil-hypocrisy and corruption being justly punished. I even gave John Webster a small part. Most of the critics thought that was a neat touch. Some lunatic was taking his admiration too far.

Then I had another thought. In The Devil Murder, the villain, Lord Lucas of Merston, is done to death by the crazed father of a girl he has raped. The father happens to be a farmer and he kills the criminal by hacking him apart with a skinning knife. Sir Tertius finds the lord in the crucifix position, with his entrails hanging out.

Just like Happy’s.

I put down the empty glass by my computer. The big slug of single malt had finally calmed me down. It had even brought a sense of perspective. This was all crazy. What was I doing, letting a nutter implicate me the way he had? It wasn’t as if I was the one who’d killed Happy. It wasn’t as if I’d extorted the five grand out of him. To nip this in the bud, all I needed to do was phone the police. They’d take some time to be convinced, but I would give them the money and show them where Happy’s body was. I’d have a job explaining to Caroline and the Rooneys what I’d done, but I would think of a way. I had the e-mails, after all. Yes, that was it. I was putting a stop to this.

The phone rang before I got any further.

“Hello?” I said hesitantly, wondering if the White Devil had somehow discovered my ex-directory number.

“Matt, is that you?” My mother sounded perturbed.

“What is it, Fran?” I asked, the words coming out in a rush. “Are you all right?” If the bastard had done anything to her, I’d make him pay.

“Of course I’m all right, dear,” she said, her voice softening. “You’re the one who sounds worried.”

That was typical of my mother. She could construct an entire mood around a few words. That was maybe why she was still a published author and I wasn’t.

“Sorry. You know, problems with the writing…”

“Do you want to talk about it?” When I started out, I’d often spoken to Fran about the technicalities of fiction, but in recent years I’d kidded myself that I’d got beyond that stage. It would have been a good idea to get back to the basics with her, but I had other things on my mind tonight.

“No, it’s all right. I’ll sort it out.” I remembered my initial fear. Could the Devil have got to her? “Is everything okay at home? No one’s been…been bothering you?”

“Are you sure you’re well, Matt?” she asked solicitously.

“Please, just answer the question.”

I heard a sharp intake of breath. “As a matter of fact, you asked two questions.” She paused to put me in my place. “Yes, everything is okay. No, no one’s been bothering me. What’s this about, Matt?”

“Nothing,” I said, casting around for a get-out clause. “I saw something in the paper the other day about a prowler in your area.”

“Really?” She didn’t sound too bothered. “It wouldn’t be the first time. Anyway, you know I always keep the doors and windows locked, and put the alarm on when I go to bed.”