The Death List (27 page)

The agent gave her an exasperated glare. “What has that to do with what happened here today?”

“Allow me to be the judge of that, please.”

Fels found her gaze too piercing for comfort. “Oh, very well. The simple answer is that I wasn’t making enough money from him.”

“And the more complicated one?”

The agent hesitated. “Well, to tell you the truth, I rather liked the fellow at first. He was smart and engaging when I took him on. Then he became obsessed by the ludicrous idea of setting a crime series in Albania. I told him it wouldn’t sell, but he didn’t listen. I don’t think he’s the man he was. I heard that his ex-wife rode roughshod over him in the divorce. Since then he’s been full of self-pity and resentment.” He gave Oaten a crooked smile. “Neither of which qualities is exactly marketable.”

For some reason the chief inspector found herself wanting to stick up for Matt Wells. She restrained herself. “Very well,” she said, moving to the door. “We’ll be in touch to take your formal statement, Mr. Fels. Uniformed officers will patrol the area until further notice.”

“You mean my assailants might come back?” Fels said, his face suddenly even paler than it had been.

Oaten struggled not to smile. The vain old snob seemed to care only about his own skin. “Oh, probably not,” she said, deliberately refusing to give him any more substantial comfort. Maybe that would teach him some humility.

When she and Turner got to the Volvo, she extended her hand for the keys. “I’ll drive. You can bring me up to speed on what the rest of the team’s been up to.” The plan for the day had been a concerted effort to track down Leslie Dunn and Nicholas Cork, the two most suspicious missing men from the lists that had been compiled. The attack on Fels had distracted her from that.

“The last I heard,” Turner said, “Pavlou was on his way to the bank in Hackney. D.C.I. Hardy’s people are following up on Drys’s circle of friends and family, though there isn’t much of the latter. They’re mostly dead or in Greece.”

“They’re a dead end, as well,” the chief inspector said morosely, accelerating down Highgate Road. “He was killed because of his connection with Matt Wells—the bad reviews.”

Turner looked at her, his face a picture of confusion. “Excuse me, guv, but what’s going on with Wells? Since he’s refusing to come in, we have to treat him as a suspect, don’t we?”

Oaten bit her lip. “In theory, yes. I think I believe him when he says his family and other contacts are in danger. He did send his friend to protect Fels, after all. And he put me on to his Internet people. When we’ve read his e-mails, we should have a clearer idea of what’s going on.”

The inspector was peering at his notes. “What are you going to do about Hardy’s people who managed to lose him today?”

“Same as I did with Morry Simmons,” she said, overtaking a bus.

“We need them, guv,” Turner protested.

“So does Traffic,” she said, inclining her head toward a van that was parked illegally. Her phone rang. She tossed it across to her colleague. “Answer that, will you?”

“Turner.” He glanced at her. “She’s got her hands full. Tell me, Paul.” He listened, his lips forming into a smile as he scribbled notes. “Okay, nice one. We’ll see you back at the Yard.” He dropped the phone onto his lap.

“What’s Pavlou got?” Oaten asked impatiently.

“Leslie Dunn,” the inspector answered, the smile turning into a grin. “He worked at the Savings Trust Bank in Hackney for a year, then was fired by the manager—our murder victim Steven Newton—for persistent disobedience and for, quote, ‘an unsatisfactory attitude toward customers.’”

“So we’ve got a motive for that murder.”

“Yep.” Turner gave her a triumphant look. “That’s not all. One of the tellers heard a rumor that Pavlou has just checked out. The bastard won the lottery in September 2001. Nine and a half million quid.”

The chief inspector glanced at him. “Meaning he could hire killers or get himself trained up and equipped.”

“Mmm.”

“Why aren’t you smiling anymore?”

The Welshman closed his notebook. “Because the trail stops there. Dunn requested the privacy-protection option.” He looked out at the pedestrians on the streets of Camden Town. “Since then he seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.”

Karen Oaten gripped the wheel hard. “With all that money, he wouldn’t have had any problem getting a new identity.” She braked hard as the lights changed. “Shit.”

The chief inspector’s phone rang again. Turner listened, and then cut the connection.

“That was D.C.I. Hardy. One, he’s extremely pissed off that you got the A.C. to transfer his guys out.”

“Tough.”

“And two, there’s been a report about Nicholas Cork.”

Oaten slipped dexterously past a people-carrier laden with kids. “Spit it out, Taff.”

“A badly smashed-up and partially decomposed body was found on the rocks in northern Cornwall last September. There was a video-club card bearing the name N. Cork in a pocket.”

The chief inspector thought for a couple of seconds. “Have we got dental records for him?”

Turner flicked through the pages of his notebook. “Sorry, don’t know, guv,” he said finally.

“Bloody well find out, then!” Oaten shouted. “Until we’re sure the body’s his, Cork is still a suspect for Dunn’s accomplice.”

“Guv?” the inspector asked as they crossed Euston Road. “I can see why Dunn killed the people that he knew, but why would he be after Matt Wells’s circle? What’s in it for him?”

“Good question, Taff,” Oaten said, her face less tense. “Maybe the e-mails will answer that.”

“I’ve got another question,” the Welshman said. “That murder down in Greenwich last night?”

The D.C.I. nodded. “Petty criminal with form, cut up into several pieces, boxed up and left outside his local?”

“That’s the one. Are we sure it isn’t connected with our killer?”

Karen Oaten turned her head to him briefly. “Sure? We aren’t sure about anything in this case, Taff. But there was no plastic bag with a quotation from John Webster and no apparent links to Bethnal Green or Matt Wells, so I’m leaving it to the team down there. For the time being, at least.”

Turner looked doubtful. “I don’t know, guv. Another mutilation job just after Drys and the others? I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I. That’s why we’ll be getting regular updates from the Southern Homicide Division. But we’ve got enough on our plates as it is.”

The inspector nodded, his expression pained. He’d had difficulty eating for days.

22

The look that Lucy gave me as Dave drove away almost broke my heart. She had been very surprised when I took her out of class. Fortunately her teacher, Mrs. Maggs, was a fan of my books and let us go without asking any awkward questions. Lucy seemed to accept that Dave and his family were taking her on a mystery tour, only asking about her mummy at the last moment. I told her that Caroline knew all about it and would see her later. I was getting good at lying—too good.

I caught the bus to Brixton after walking around the back streets of Dulwich Village for a while. If anyone was on my tail, they were doing a very good job of concealing themselves. The café I’d arranged to meet Rog at was called the Vital Spark. It was off Coldharbour Lane and, despite its name, wasn’t well lit. That was just what I wanted. We took our coffees to a deserted back corner.

Rog held up a large plastic bag. “Here’s your stuff,” he said, searching in the pockets of his brown corduroy jacket. “And here’s the receipt.”

I swallowed hard when I saw the amount. Maybe I would have to use the Devil’s money after all. “Look, Dodger,” I said, booting up a computer, “the situation’s changed.” I took in his bewildered expression. I was going to have to come clean, but I wanted him to have the chance to opt out. Rog wasn’t as much of a hard man as Dave and Andy. On the team, he used to weave and sidestep his way round opposition players rather than trample over them. He could put in the hard tackles when it counted, even though, off the pitch, he spent almost as much time on his own as I did—gluing and painting models of tanks and aircraft in his case, rather than pretending to write. “Listen, here’s where I am.”

I filled him in about the White Devil’s activities. His face went from confusion to amazement to horror, and finally to what was unmistakably anger. Then I told him what had happened to Andy. This was the crunch moment. There hadn’t been any point in telling Dave—he was in whatever happened and knowing Andy had been hurt wouldn’t have changed anything for him. With Rog, I wasn’t sure.

“Bastards,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll fucking have them.”

I put my hand on his arm. “This isn’t a run in the park. The Devil’s killed at least eight people and I reckon it could be more.”

He stuck his chest out. “Let him and his sidekick have a go, then. They owe us for what they did to Andy. You sure he’s going to be all right?”

“As sure as I can be without speaking to him. Maybe we’ll manage to do that later.” I nodded at the screen. “Now we’ve got work to do. Set me up with a new e-mail account, will you?” I watched as his fingers sped across the keys. In a few minutes I had another identity,
SirZog 1.
Then I logged on to my own account, wondering if the police had obtained access to it yet, and printed out the latest e-mail from the Devil.

“Jesus Christ,” Rog said, shaking his head as he read it. “Did he really do all that to the poor sod Drys? Why?”

“Apparently because he gave me some bad reviews.”

“You’re joking.”

“Afraid not. He’s trying to implicate me, and at the same time get me to write his bloody story. I remember reading that some serial killers feel the need for immortality.”

Rog was staring at me. “But if he wants you to write his story, why’s he trying to frame you? You won’t be able to do much from a jail cell.”

“Ah, that’s where he’s smart,” I said, looking over the document. The Devil’s notes about the murder of the critic were as detailed as ever, but it was up to me to turn them into a readable story. “He’s getting me to write his achievements up every day.”

“You’ll have a holiday tomorrow, then,” Rog said, nudging me in the ribs.

“Why?”

“He didn’t manage to kill that Fels bloke, did he?”

I stopped typing. “Jesus.”

“What?”

“That may mean he has a go at someone else to make up for it.” I ran out of the café and located the nearest pay phone. First I called my mother’s mobile, letting it ring four times. She picked up when I rang again.

“Hello?” She sounded a bit querulous.

“It’s me. Are you all right? Don’t tell me where you are!”

There was a pause. “Oh, I see. Yes…I’m all right.”

“Good flight?”

“Um, yes.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t worry, everyone else is fine.” She didn’t know Andy, so I didn’t tell her about him. She hated Christian Fels because of what she regarded as his betrayal of me, but now wasn’t the time to mention that—especially given that his gardener had been murdered.

“Oh,” she said hesitantly. “That’s good.”

“Hotel okay?”

“Yes. Look, Matt, I’ve got to go.” Suddenly she was speaking quickly. “I love you, darling.” Then she hung up.

I stood in the booth, peering at the phone. My mother had always had a tendency to distraction, but this was worse than usual. I supposed she was upset by what I was putting her through, but I couldn’t remember the last time she’d addressed me as “darling.”

Wolfe and Rommel were in the front of the Orion, parked about fifty yards from the house in Forest Hill. According to the now dismembered Terry Smail, this was the home of the man called Corky—the man who had been with Jimmy Tanner in the pub. The street was pretty run-down and there was rubbish strewn around many of the houses’ small front gardens.

There was a squelch from the walkie-talkie on Wolfe’s lap.

“Receiving?”

“Got you, Geronimo. Advise.” Their comrade was standing at the bus stop that was just beyond the house. He’d been there for nearly an hour.

“Still no movement inside. Curtains remain drawn.”

“All right, get back here. Out.”

Wolfe glanced at Rommel as if he expected him to object. “We can see well enough from here. Geronimo’s too obvious where he is.”

Rommel’s expression remained blank as Geronimo opened the back door.

“Cheer up, wanker,” Geronimo said. “The scum will be back soon.”

“Better be,” Rommel said with a scowl. “I’m going to hurt him.”

Wolfe nudged him with his elbow. “Steady. We’re all going to hurt him once we find out what happened to Jimmy. But he’s not the main man. We need him to lead us to the bastard with the pointed teeth, so no lethal force till I say so.”

Rommel looked round at Geronimo and their eyes met. They’d been in similar situations often enough and they knew not to argue with Wolfe.

“It seems we’re not the only ones chopping people up,” their leader said, turning the page of the
Daily Independent.
He read out parts of the story about the murders of a priest, a retired schoolteacher, a doctor and a newspaper critic.

“And the coppers think it’s the same guy?” Rommel said, glaring at a small boy who had stopped his bicycle at the window. The boy departed at speed.

“Looks like it,” Wolfe replied. “And this journalist thinks the body at the Hereward is connected, too.”

Geronimo laughed. “Shows how much journalists know.”

They sat in silence as the afternoon drew on. Geronimo and Rommel started talking about old times, their eyes still fixed on the street and the house. Wolfe let them rattle on. He didn’t care about the past—all that mattered to him was finding out what had happened to his brother-in-arms Jimmy Tanner. Jimmy had saved his life on more than one occasion and he owed him.

“…and then that Iraqi came out of the bunker with his AK47 pointed straight at Dave,” said Geronimo.

“…and Dave just grinned at him,” said Rommel.

“…and emptied a magazine into him before he could move,” Geronimo said with a harsh laugh.

Wolfe looked over his shoulder. “Names,” he said in a low voice. “We don’t use real names out of barracks.”