The Death List (37 page)

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.

The American zipped up and crouched down. The street was quiet, but he didn’t want his considerable bulk to stick out. He watched as the men went to the back of the van, looked round to satisfy themselves that they were alone, and pulled out a long object wrapped in blankets. Andy immediately felt a surge of concern. Was that one of Matt’s family or friends? Shit, he should call him. No, there wasn’t time. He could take that pair of halfweights easily.

The lead man put a key in the door and opened it while still holding the package. Andy clenched his fists and ran forward.

“Hey, you guys! What are you doing?” He reached the men and pushed the rear one away, grabbing hold of the object. “Stand still!”

Suddenly he found himself with all the weight in his arms. Before he could do anything to protect himself, he felt a blow on the back of his head.

Andy Jackson had started his journey into the depths of night.

“Mother?” I said, leaning over her. “Can you hear me?” I took her wrist and felt a faint pulse. “She’s alive. Fran? Mother?”

She let out a faint groan.

“Matt?” Rog said from the other side of the room. “Look at these.” He pointed to two plastic buckets. “They’re empty, but there are drops of blood in them.”

“Have you got a knife?” I said, trying frantically to undo the knots on Fran’s bonds.

He came over with a penknife and started hacking at the ropes. In a couple of minutes we were able to lift her off the blood-drenched bed and onto the carpet. We turned her over into the recovery position. Her breathing became more regular, her lips parting.

“Get blankets,” I said. I started looking over my mother’s body for wounds.

“Here,” Rog said when he came back from the other front room, his arms full.

“I don’t get it,” I said as we spread the covers over her. “She hasn’t been cut, just tied up. Where did all the blood come from?”

“That’s what I’m saying.” Rog inclined his head to the buckets. “It wasn’t hers.”

I rocked back on my heels. “What did the bastards do? Pour someone else’s blood over her?”

“We need to get her to a hospital,” Rog said.

He was right. But how were we going to do that and avoid the police, let alone the Devil and his accomplice?

“The bastards must have been waiting for us.”

I nodded. “But why? Did they know they were being watched?”

Rog raised his shoulders. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t see me.”

“The Devil’s working to a plan,” I said. “He and his sidekick could easily have surprised us, but they preferred to escape.” I looked at Fran. “All right, I’m going to call the police.” I rang Karen Oaten’s mobile. It no longer mattered if she was able to trace me. I wasn’t planning on sticking around for long.

“Matt!” she said, sounding surprised. “I’ve got news for you. There’s no record of your mother having got on any flight from Heathrow.”

“I know,” I said, holding Fran’s hand. I told Karen what we’d found.

“Where are you? She needs an ambulance.”

“Yes, but I don’t need you taking me in.” I looked at my mother desperately. I didn’t want to leave her, but I had no choice. She seemed to be stable and there were other lives at risk, in particular Sara’s. I wasn’t going to tell Oaten what had happened to her. The Devil was playing a game that was between him and me, and I couldn’t risk bringing the cops any closer. “I’ll give you the address when we…when I’m clear.”

“You’re only making things worse for yourself, Matt.”

“Bye, Karen.”

“Wait!” she shouted. “There’s something else I have to tell you.”

The tone of her voice, a mixture of anger and regret, made my stomach flip. “What is it?” I demanded.

“Your ex-wife. She’s…she’s disappeared.”

“What?”

“Unfortunately our people lost her between her office and Blackfriars Station. She hasn’t shown up at home.”

“Have you called her mobile?”

“It’s switched off. I’m sorry, Matt.”

“Bloody hell, Karen. Now do you see why I can’t trust you?” I cut the connection.

“What is it?” Rog said, as I checked my mother for the last time. She seemed to be reasonably stable. I hoped she wasn’t aware of what had been done to her.

“Caroline’s gone.”

“Fuck. Do you think—”

“It’s the Devil? I’m sure of it.” I led him downstairs.

“We can’t just leave her on her own,” Rog protested.

“I’ll let the police know the location when we’re away from here,” I said, not feeling at all proud of myself. “You continue checking the places on your list, okay? I’ll be in touch.”

We climbed out of the window we’d come in.

“Matt? Don’t you think we should stay together?”

“In a perfect world, yes,” I said, squeezing his arm. “But this isn’t one of those. This is the Devil’s world and we can only catch him by risking everything.”

He nodded and gave me a determined smile. “Got you, Matt.”

We split up at the gate, Rog turning right. I headed back to the main road. The nearest property on my list was in Moorgate. It was only as I passed under a streetlight that I saw the blood on my hands. I spat on to them and wiped them with my handkerchief. If it wasn’t my mother’s, then whose was it?

That thought made me quiver with apprehension. It was likely that the Devil had both Sara and Caroline. Was either of them still alive?

I called Oaten from a public phone and gave her the address, then got into the BMW.

If I didn’t find my tormentor soon, there wasn’t going to be anybody left for me to protect. Then a thought struck me. The Devil could easily have killed my mother, even though he’d made an unplanned exit from the house in East Finchley. Christ, he could probably have done for Roger and me.

Why hadn’t he?

30

Karen Oaten watched the paramedics lift Matt Wells’s mother onto a stretcher and take her out of the bedroom. Their preliminary examination had found only suppurating grazes on her wrists and ankles, suggesting that she’d been tied up for several days. She was suffering from extreme dehydration and a saline drip had been inserted in her arm.

“What’s the story, Taff?” she asked.

The Welshman was standing over the SOCO team leader, who looked up from the buckets and twitched his nose. “I don’t think it’s human blood,” the technician said. “You’ll have to wait for the analysis, but my guess is that it came from a pig.”

“Jesus,” the inspector said, shaking his head. “I haven’t got the faintest idea what happened here, guv.”

“We’re getting several sets of prints,” the SOCO added.

“Wells was here, wasn’t he?” Turner said to Oaten, his voice low.

She nodded. “He admitted as much.”

“And then he disappeared, leaving his own mother behind?” The Welshman’s tone was scathing.

The chief inspector shrugged. “He ascertained that she was okay, and then told me where to find her. What’s your point, Taff?”

“He’s playing you like a big juicy trout,” her subordinate said, glaring at her. “There’s nobody else involved, just him and his mates. Some of them are tall and some of them are short, but all of them are missing. You can’t just let him mess us about like this.”