The Death List (3 page)

Dear Matt, I read. Hope you’re well. I’ve made the most interesting discovery. You haven’t been honest with me! There I was thinking that your name was Matt Stone and now I find that you’re actually called Matt Wells.

That was interesting. I’d never revealed my real name anywhere on my site or in the media. I was a music journalist before I started writing novels, and I wanted to keep my two professions separate. I had the feeling that people who read my interviews with the Pixies and my career assessments of Neil Young and Bob Dylan might not be too impressed by the fact that I also wrote crime novels. I should have realized that being embarrassed about what I did was a bad sign. But the point was, how the hell had WD uncovered my real name?

Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you, my correspondent continued. After all, some of the greatest writers hid behind nom de plumes. George Eliot, Mark Twain, Ross Macdonald, Ed McBain, J.J. Marric—yes, I know, Matt, it is rather a downward progression in terms of quality and you’re at the end of it, but you get my drift. I imagine you wanted to keep your two audiences unaware of your alter ego. Didn’t your publisher’s publicity department give you a hard time about that?

Who was this guy? Not only had he found out my pseudonym, but he’d latched on to the fact that my former publicist had spent years trying to get me to be open about my music journalism in order, as she put it, “to make people realize how cool you are.” Well, I couldn’t be any cooler than I was now in career terms. Cool, as in stone-cold dead. But how did WD know all this?

Anyway, Matt, I imagine you’re wondering how I came by this information. Well, that’ll remain my little secret, for the time being at least. If we come to an agreement, as I’m sure we will, I’ll try to be more forthcoming.

Agreement? What agreement? The only time I’d made an agreement by e-mail with a fan was when a woman called Bev pestered me into meeting her in a Soho pub. She was bigger than I was, not to mention more pissed and substantially more determined to exchange saliva. Fortunately I was a faster runner. Just.

You see, Matt, I have an ongoing project that I think you might be interested in. Before you get too uncomfortable, let me assure you that this is a genuine business proposition. And, as the blessed Zog says in Tirana Blues, “business only works on a cash-up-front basis, my friend.” I seem to remember Sir Tertius saying something similar, except that gold was the commodity required rather than money. Your investigators are nothing if not careful in their financial dealings. It’s a pity you don’t share their acumen!

Arsehole. I was getting irritated now. When I got to the end of WD’s message, I was going to have a lot of fun telling him where to stick his business proposition. The idiot probably wanted to flog me his life story. Why was it that people couldn’t see how boring their lives were?

You’re getting a bit hot under the collar now, Matt, so let’s take a short break. Why don’t you go downstairs and see if there’s been another mail delivery? I know, it’s a bit unlikely, but you never know your luck. Go on, Matt. No time to lose.

What the…? I leaned back in the ridiculously expensive leather chair that I’d bought with my first advance and had somehow managed to keep my hands on in the divorce settlement. Where did this guy get off? I looked at the screen. There was a gap between the line I’d just read and the continuation of the text. A gap that I was supposed to fill by going downstairs and—I sat up straight. How did WD know that I had to go downstairs to get the mail? Even the most wet-behind-the-ears crime novelists knew not to reveal their home addresses to punters. There were too many weird specimens out there, too many crazies. So how had he found out? Was he just guessing? Most people probably did have their studies upstairs.

I looked back at the message and scrolled down. It continued with the words I understand your confusion, Matt. You’re wondering how I know that you have to go downstairs, aren’t you? That’s another of my secrets, to be revealed if you behave. Now, don’t mess me about. GO AND CHECK THE MAIL!!!!

I pushed my chair back on its rollers. What the hell? I could do with stretching my legs, anyway. The pounding my body had taken playing amateur rugby league from my time at university until a couple of years ago meant that my muscles and joints stiffened up all the time. Besides, WD had piqued my curiosity.

I saw the brown paper package lying on the floor when I was halfway down the stairs. It was one of those bubble-filled envelopes, A4 size. There was something bulky in it. I wondered how it had landed on Mrs. Lamb’s doormat without my hearing it. I felt a spasm of apprehension as I got nearer. Surely it couldn’t be a bomb. I’d written about terrorism in the Balkans in the Zog books and I’d expected at least a verbal backlash from one or other of the armed groups. None of them even knew of my existence, of course. Until now?

I forced myself to walk forward. This was idiotic. WD was just playing games. Then I realized what it had to be. A manuscript. The fool was a budding writer who wanted me to vet his book. How many times had I been asked to do this? The same number of times that I’d told people, not particularly politely, that I was a writer, not a script reader.

I bent down, feeling the usual twinge in my right knee—that had been what had finally made me stop playing for the South London Bison. The package was weighty enough, but it wasn’t solid in the way several hundred pages of copy paper would be. There were only two words on the envelope.
Matt Wells.
Now my correspondent really was taking the piss. Each word had been cut from a newspaper, my first name in a small black font and my surname in larger red letters. Who’d been reading too many crime novels?

I opened the front door and looked down the street, both right and left. There was no sign of anyone. Most people were at work, college or school and the others—retired people or au pairs—were indoors. There weren’t even any builders in evidence, which made a change for Herne Hill. I knew the Lambs weren’t around. They’d gone off to their holiday villa in Cyprus for a month. Whoever made the delivery had pulled off a clean getaway. As there was no address, it obviously hadn’t come from the hands of a postman.

I felt the package in both hands as I went back upstairs. It was paper, all right—there was nothing hard or metallic inside. Reassured, I tore open the flap and emptied the contents onto my lap.

The money was new, the colors shining brightly in the light on my desk. There were five bundles of twenty-pound notes. Each bundle contained fifty notes, making a total of £5000.

My mouth suddenly felt very dry.

2

I sat in front of the screen again and scrolled down.

So, Matt, I read. Now you know I’m serious about my business proposition. In case you’re wondering, there are no counterfeit notes. Pick any one out and ask your bank to check it if you want. No, it’s hardly worth the trouble, is it? Before I go into the details of what I want from you, I’d like to blind you with science. Or, more particularly, blind you with what I know about you. It’s always good to do your research on a potential partner, don’t you think?

“Is that right?” I said under my breath. “And how am I supposed to do research on you, WD?” Or rather, WD1612. There was something about the combination of letters and numbers that rang a bell deep in my memory. My correspondent’s earlier addresses had seemed to be the random numbers assigned by e-mail servers, only the letters seemingly having significance. WD1612. What the hell did it mean?

Your full name, continued the message, is Matthew John Wells. You were born on March 13, 1967, making you thirty-eight years old. Place of birth—London Hospital, Whitechapel. Height, six foot one; weight, thirteen stone six pounds; hair, dark, no sign of gray yet. Eyes, brown. Great author photo, by the way. Brooding, intense. That must have had the ladies falling over themselves to get their hands on you.

Yeah, right. I was still puzzled how WD had got past my nom de plume.

But, in fact, it’s a bit more complicated than that, isn’t it, Matt?

I felt a stir of disquiet.

Because you were adopted, weren’t you?

My parents had told me so when I was Lucy’s age. They’d always been straight with me and I’d never had the desire to go chasing after my birth parents, even though I was aware of a void in my life.

Don’t worry, WD1612 continued. There’s nothing to be ashamed about. Even though your real mother was a Cockney slapper called Mary Price. Good name for one of her kind! Except, I think her price was never more than a few port and lemons.

There was a gap of several lines. I let go of my cableless mouse and leaned back. Normally I could make out patterns in the cracks on the ceiling, rivers winding and splitting like the Amazon or the Nile. But now I couldn’t see anything. My vision was dulled. Was the bastard telling the truth? What right did he have digging into my past? I blinked and ran my sleeve across my eyes. I was about to click on the reply button and terminate the exchange when I saw the next line after the gap.

KEEP READING, MATT! I realize you’re pissed off with me now. You didn’t know, did you? You didn’t want to know. I just want you to understand that I do. I know everything about you. Your other mother, so to speak, is Frances, known as Fran, age sixty-three, address 24 Collingwood Grove, Muswell Hill. Profession—children’s author. Surely she could give you some hints about how to get back into the publishing business. She still produces a book a year. The last one was Milly’s Excellent Adventure, wasn’t it? DO NOT STOP READING, MATT! I’ve got much more to tell you.

My heart was pounding. He knew where my mother…my adoptive mother lived. And the tone had changed. This was no longer a besotted fan; this was someone who was able to manipulate. I glanced down at the wads of money in my lap and pushed them to the floor.

Good, you’re still with me! What else have I got for you? Father—not your real one, of course, even I couldn’t find that out; I don’t suppose your birth mother knew herself—father, Paul Jeremy Wells, born September 2, 1932, first secretary at the Department of Transport.

I felt my eyes dampen again.

Killed in a hit-and-run incident in Fortis Green, July 8, 2004. The driver who ran him down was never found. Would you like me to try to find him or her, Matt? My powers of research are formidable, as you can see. Just let me know. You attended Tumblegreen Primary School and Fortis Park Comprehensive. Your parents were—Fran still is—in the Labor Party, the old-style Labor Party, so no hoity-toity private education for you. But you were a good student, you got yourself two As and a D (what happened in that Modern History A level, Matt?) and went off to University College, Durham, to study English. You were on the rugby team there, not the union game that the toffs play, but league, the sport of the northern working man. Bravo, comrade. You were a fast and slippery winger who scored a lot of tries. But you let your studies slide, getting yourself covered in mud most afternoons and pissed most nights, so you ended up with a pretty average two-one. Were Paul and Fran impressed?

The bastard had left another space in his text, no doubt because he guessed that I was smarting. WD1612 was really sticking it to me, the pretence of worship completely abandoned. Maybe he thought that the five grand bought him mocking rights. He’d soon find out otherwise.

No, they weren’t, were they? And Paul was even less pleased when you went off to Cardiff to do a journalism course and got yourself on the staff of Melody Maker before it went down the toilet. Still, I suppose he must have been proud of you when The Italian Tragedy was published. And when it won that award. What was it? The Lord Peter Wimsey Cocktail Glass? Handy.

I looked up at the red display case on the bookshelf above my desk. The tacky piece of engraved glass stood there as a symbol of my pathetic career. I should have smashed it years ago.

Still, I read, Paul and Fran must have been pleased when you and Caroline got married. Caroline Anna-belle Zerb (crazy name…), born Bristol, December 27,1969. Studied economics at Durham and the LSE. City highflier. How on earth did you two get together? Were you her bit of rugby-playing rough?

I clenched my fists. He was getting very close to the bone. Caroline had been a bit naive about life when I first met her on the train to an Emmylou Harris gig in Newcastle. I’d always had a suspicion that she was initially attracted to me because I was well known in the university for my on- and off-field antics.

After that, WD continued, you moved to Maximum, didn’t you? “The Mag for Lads who Live for Sex, Sport and Rock ’n’ Roll.” That must have gone down really well with Caroline’s friends in the City.

Jesus, this was getting well beyond a joke. How much more had WD1612 dug up? He knew about Caroline as well as me.

Anyway, Matt, I won’t bore you with too much about yourself. Just to add that your favorite musicians are The Clash, Richmond Fontaine, The Who, Joni Mitchell, King Crimson and the Drive By Truckers. Nothing if not Catholic, at least in your music tastes if not your religion. (Why do you boast of being an atheist on your Web site? Are you so sure that powers beyond mankind do not exist? Better to be an agnostic, my friend.)

Better to be a smart-arse, you shithead, I said to myself. He could have worked out my favorite music from my reviews—he didn’t need to have seen my CD collection.

And you’re a devotee of film noir and crime movies in general, particularly Hitchcock. Good choice, Matt! The dirty old fat man is one of my top five directors, too. When you’re not reading the competition (who, let’s face it, are doing a lot better than you), you’re down at the South London Bison clubhouse getting shitfaced with your former teammates. The South London Bison. Record in your last season—played 21, won 2, drawn 1, lost 18. Not much better this year, are they? Still, win or lose, the mud tastes the same, I guess.

“Like it will when I fill your mouth with it,” I muttered. “If you’re dumb enough to want to meet up.”

Last, but very much not least, you’re the doting father of Lucy Emilia Wells, born King’s College Hospital, Denmark Hill, January 18, 1997, currently attending Form 3M at Dulwich Village Primary School, home address 48C Ferndene Road.