The Death List (18 page)

Keane was horrified at the damage that had been done to his abdomen despite the pain he was in.

“Come in,” he heard Dunn say. Turning slightly, he saw a figure approaching. He couldn’t make out the face.

“We’re just getting to the good bit.” Dunn’s face was close to his again. “Take this thought with you to the eternal furnace, you fucking murderer,” he said. “We’re going to rape your wife and daughter before we cut them apart. Then we’re going to slaughter your horses and feed their guts to your dogs, before we finish them off, too.”

The last thing that Bernard Keane saw though his remaining eye was the carving knife in Leslie Dunn’s right hand and the bone-saw in his left.

Before his world dissolved in a welter of crimson, he wondered who his killer’s accomplice might be. He was an only child when his mother had died….

As soon as I saw the TV news after the Saturday sport, I knew it had to be the White Devil. A Harley Street doctor murdered in what was described as “the most gruesome fashion”—it was just his style. I called Sara on her mobile and asked her if she’d heard anything about it. She told me that Jeremy, the crime correspondent, was back from Belfast and that he was covering the killing. She’d been sent to a climate-change conference in Cambridge after the environment correspondent called in sick. She didn’t think she’d be back till late, so we arranged that I’d go round to her place on Sunday evening. I told her I loved her and she repeated the words, though she sounded distracted.

I sat at my desk wondering what to do. If the bastard had killed the doctor in a way copied from one of my books, it wouldn’t be long before someone made the connection my mother had and contacted the police. If they confiscated my computer and examined the hard disk, they’d find the chapters I’d written for the Devil. They’d also find his e-mails to me, but the different addresses he’d used meant that they could easily say I’d written them myself. Then there was the money. If the police found it, I’d have a lot of explaining to do. I had to get rid of it. But how? My tormentor was watching me, he was listening to me. Whatever I did, he’d know. And then what would happen to Lucy and the others?

Jesus. I was a writer. I used my imagination every day of my life. I had to be able to come up with a plan. I sat with my head in my hands for a long time, but nothing happened. I needed to kick-start my brain. When inspiration didn’t appear during the writing process, I used to put on my headphones and listen to loud music. It was worth a try. I looked through my CD collection and settled on Richmond Fontaine’s
Post to Wire.
My mind filled with images of deserted truck stops and dusty motels, but then the plangent vocals and weeping guitar lines brought the clarity I was after. Things began to come together.

I decided that, whatever I did, it had to be in the open. If the Devil really was watching me all the time, I couldn’t do anything that would raise his suspicions. So I got all the bundles of twenties together and put them in a kit bag from my rugby days. Then I put it in the bottom of my wardrobe. While I was bending down there, I hastily transferred the bundles to a hunting jacket my mother had given my for some reason best known to herself—I’d never hunted anything in my life. It had numerous large pockets for the carcasses of dead game. I kept the lights low in the bedroom, hoping that the Devil couldn’t see what I was up to. If he could, I reckoned he’d be on the phone soon enough to ask what I thought I was doing.

I went back into the sitting room and booted up my computer. I transferred all the e-mails to and from the Devil, plus the chapters I’d written, to diskettes. They would be going in my hunting jacket, too. The difficult part was what to do with the computer itself. I had a plan. Going into the kitchen, I made myself a mug of coffee and then went back to my desk. Looking as nonchalant as I could, I put the mug down beside the laptop. Then I started to type. Given that the bastard seemed to be able to hack into any file I opened, I wrote up my thoughts on the Harley Street killing. That would impress him. At least he hadn’t called—so far.

I picked up my mug and drank, pulling my mouth back with a yelp as if I’d scalded my lips and depositing the coffee all over the keyboard.

“Shit!” I yelled.

As I’d hoped, the machine reacted badly. After a few moments the screen went blank, a grinding noise started and the smell of burning filled my nostrils. I pulled out the mains connection and sat there swearing.

After what I thought was long enough, I picked up my mobile and called my rugby league friend Roger van Zandt, who was a computer expert.

“Hi, Rog,” I said. “You okay?”

“Down the Duck. Why aren’t you here, Wellsy? Shagging again?” He laughed. I could hear raucous sounds in the background. “Dave wants to know if your friend from the newspaper is a page three girl.”

Excellent. Two birds with one stone. “Tell Dave I’m coming down there to sort him out. Hey, Dodger, can you have a look at my laptop? I just managed to pour a mug of coffee over it.”

“You jackass. Yeah, all right. Bring it with you. And prepare to get very drunk.”

I cut the connection. So far so good. I put the computer in a heavy-duty plastic bag and then went into my bedroom, not bothering to turn on the light. I slipped the diskettes into my hunting jacket and then put it on. I also pulled on a pair of trainers I hadn’t used for months. If I was lucky, there wouldn’t be a bug in them. I took off my watch and threw it onto the bed. Making sure my mobile stayed on the desk, I picked up my keys and left the flat.

I felt like the Michelin Man in my money-inflated jacket, but I was hoping it would be taken for one of those puffer things that skiers wear. Walking at medium pace down the streets to the Village, I kept my eyes and ears open. I couldn’t see anyone on my tail. Then again, the Devil wouldn’t need to bother. He probably knew exactly where I was going.

The Duck was as packed as it always gets on a Saturday. I spotted Rog and Dave in the far corner. They were with Andrew Jackson, an American guy from the rugby club. The next hour passed in the standard way—talk about the state of the league game, whinging about kids, mockery about wives and girlfriends. Sara had made it clear from the start that she didn’t want to meet my male friends. The problem was, that made them think she was a snooty bitch, as Rog so pleasantly put it.

Then Dave turned to me and stroked his boxer’s nose.

“So what about these murders then, Mr. Crime Writer?”

“Oh yeah,” said Andy Jackson. He was tall, heavily built and fair-haired. A chef by profession, he’d come to the U.K. ten years back to get married to a woman from Croydon. They’d got divorced a year later, but he’d never got home again. He found an undemanding restaurant to work in and spent the rest of his time in the pub or playing rugby league. “They must be giving you some ideas, man.”

I shrugged and swallowed lager. “I don’t need ideas.” I tapped my head. “I’ve got a wonderfully healthy imagination, Slash.” We called him that because of the way he took the legs away from opposition players—nothing to do with the Guns N’ Roses guitarist.

“Screw you,” he replied with a grin. “I remember you telling me you read the papers every day for stuff.”

Rog, a curly-haired and deceptively thin former center who used to put in heavy tackles, was giving me a thoughtful look. “Didn’t you have someone killed in a church with something up his arse in one of your books, Matt?”

Shit. I went on the offensive. “So?” I said, glancing around the pub. Everyone else seemed to be involved in their own conversations and there was no one obviously watching me. “You think people read my books and carry out copycat murders?”

The three of them sat back, surprised by my vehemence.

“Of course not,” Andy said. “Take it easy.”

I let my shoulders drop. “Sorry. Bad day at the typeface.” I handed the bag with my computer to Rog. “See what you can do with this.”

“Okay,” he said doubtfully. “But if liquid’s got to the hard disk, I’ll have to replace it.”

That was what I was hoping. I nodded, my expression fake unhappy. “Whatever it takes. No hurry. I’ve got my old one in the loft.”

“He’s got an old one in the loft,” Andy said in an attempt at a Bela Lugosi accent. “In the east wing.”

“Pete Satterthwaite’s the only person I know with a house big enough to have wings,” I said.

Rog laughed. “Bonehead? He’s also got all sorts of skeletons in his cupboards.”

We talked a bit about the team’s former main sponsor, who was balder than the baldest coot. Then we got on to the inadequacies of the current Great Britain Test team, until Dave got up to take a leak. I let him go ahead, then followed him. I’d kept my jacket on despite the heat in the pub. Now came the tricky bit. Dave was my closest friend, in as much as writers have close friends. I trusted him, but would he trust me?

Inside the toilet, I waited until a pisshead fumbled with his buttons and left. Then I beckoned to Dave.

“What’s up, Matt?” he said, one hand on his member. When he’d finished, he followed me into the only crapper. “People will talk,” he said with a grin.

“Listen, Psycho,” I said, my voice low. “I want you to keep something for me.” I pulled a plastic bag out of a pocket and started filling it with the bundles of banknotes.

Dave whistled. “Jesus, have you been robbing banks?”

“Wanker. No, I got paid in cash for a job. I’ll tell you about it later. I don’t want Caroline to find out about it or she’ll be on my back for maintenance, even though she earns a fortune. Can you keep it for me?”

Dave stared down at the bag. “How much is it?”

“Ten grand.”

“Bloody hell! Why can’t you put it in a deposit account?”

“I will. But not yet.” I touched my nose with my forefinger. “I’ve got my reasons.”

Dave shrugged. “All right. I’ll stick it under the floorboards.”

“One more thing,” I said, grabbing his arm. “I don’t want the other guys to see it. Can you stuff it down your shirt?”

“What?” He looked at the bulky bag. “There isn’t room for my belly in this shirt.”

Fortunately he had kept on his loose parka. After a lot of fiddling, we managed to secrete the money and the backup diskettes down his back and front. Then I stuffed my own pockets with all the toilet paper I could find so that my jacket kept its former shape.

“Are you all right?” Dave said, rubbing his chin.

“I’ll explain everything later.”

When we got back to the table, the other two looked up at us.

“I don’t think buggery’s permitted in the head here,” Andy said with a wide grin.

“Sod off,” Dave said, provoking a gale of laughter.

It was only as I was buying the next round that I realized what I’d done. I’d brought my best mates into the Devil’s field of fire.

That betrayal made me feel lower on the evolutionary scale than an earthworm.

15

John Turner stood in his white coveralls and bootees, trying to get his breathing under control. The body had been found by a doctor on the floor below who’d come up to borrow a journal. That man had had a lucky escape.

The inspector opened the gauze curtains and looked down at Harley Street. Ordinary people were going about their ordinary lives, black cabs passing and foreign teenagers shouting at one another. Why did he have to put up with scenes of horror like this on a more or less daily basis? He knew the answer well enough. His father had been a copper, ending up as a desk sergeant in central Cardiff, and his grandfather had walked the beat, too. It was in his blood. He froze, conscious again of the torn body to his right. It was bad enough, but what lay on the floor beyond had gone beyond anything he’d ever experienced. Even the most degenerate horror film scriptwriter would have struggled to come up with anything as horrendous as that.

Karen Oaten looked up at him from where she was squatting by the severed head. “Come on, Taff. It’s got to be done.” She turned to the pathologist, Redrose, who was at her side. “Well?”

“It’s Bernard Keane, all right,” the potbellied medic said, shaking his head. “I knew him from one of our charity committees. This is appalling.” He returned her gaze. “Jesus, someone will have to tell his wife.”

“She’s on her way,” Oaten said. “Don’t worry, I can handle that. You’re sure it’s him, though? I don’t want to put her through identifying him formally until the undertakers have been to work on him.” She shook her head. “They’ll have their work cut out.”

“I’m sure it’s him, Chief Inspector.” The pathologist got to his feet unsteadily.

Oaten gave him a few moments. “What about the cause of death?”

“Take your pick. Shock or loss of blood.” Redrose moved over to the chair where the victim’s body lay sprawled. “Judging by the lack of blood spray, I’d say that the head was removed postmortem. Conversely, these wounds, or at least many of them, were inflicted while Bernard…Dr. Keane was still breathing. My initial examination indicates that the stomach has been cut out.” He looked at Oaten and then at Turner. “There’s a clear plastic packet inside the abdominal cavity.”

Turner’s hand moved to his mouth before he could stop it.

“Take it out,” the chief inspector instructed the pathologist.

“I should really wait for the postmor—” Redrose broke off when he saw her expression. “Very well.” He picked up a pair of tweezers from his bag and, pulling up his mask and bending over the opened midriff, carefully removed a flat, square object.

“There’s a piece of paper in it,” Turner said, catching his superior’s eye. “It’s him again.”

She nodded solemnly. “I think we’d all already come to that conclusion, Taff.” She called over the senior SOCO. “Get the contents out and check the bag for prints.”

“That really ought to be done in the lab,” the technician said.

Oaten gave him a severe look. “Just do what I say, will you? Inspector Turner will be your witness if anyone questions procedure.” She turned back to Redrose. “Time of death?”

He glanced at his notes. “A rough calculation from the temperature readings would be between six and eight hours ago.”