The Death List (38 page)

Oaten returned his gaze coolly. “Have you got a better idea? None of this adds up, but it will do soon. I’m telling you, Matt Wells is one of the good ones.”

Turner’s expression was grim. “You’d better hope so. The word back at the Yard is that you’ve run out of lives with the A.C.”

“Is that right, Taff?” she said, stepping closer to him. “In that case, you’ve got a decision to make. Are you going to stay as my number two or do you want out?”

The inspector’s eyes dropped after a few seconds. “No, I’m tied to you whatever happens. It’s too late to do anything about that.”

Oaten laughed dryly. “Thanks for the rousing support.”

“What now?” he asked, opening his notebook. “The constable outside Sara Robbins’s place has reported that she’s not shown up there this evening. And she’s not answering her phones.”

The chief inspector’s forehead was furrowed. “So Matt’s girlfriend may have been taken, as well. I’m not looking forward to telling him that.”

“He already knows,” Turner said acidly, “since he was the one who took her. Simmons has tracked down the owner of the flat with the flayed bodies and disemboweled animals in it. It’s a guy by the name of Lawrence Montgomery.”

Karen Oaten ran her fingers slowly down her cheek. “So it looks like Leslie Dunn became Lawrence Montgomery. He’s a wealthy man. Get Morry to find out if he owns any other properties. No, on second thought, get Paul to do it.”

The Welshman looked at his watch. “The council offices are all closed, guv.”

“Well, tell him to squeeze their nuts. The stuff’s all in databases. It won’t need many people to work overtime.”

Turner took out his phone and moved to the landing.

The chief inspector watched him go and then turned back to the crimson bed. All her experience was telling her there was more blood about to be spilled, and that this time it would be the human kind.

If Matt Wells had set her up, she’d personally spill his.

I had just checked out an upper-floor flat off Old Street—no lights or sign of movement—when my mobile rang, making me jump.

“How’s it going, Matt?”

“Bonehead. The bastard had a go at my mother. I sent the cops round. She should be okay.”

“Jesus. What do you mean she should be okay?”

I explained, feeling like a piece of shit for having left her behind.

“Oh, right,” he said, obviously unconvinced that I’d made the right decision. “Have you heard from our American friend?”

“No. Haven’t you?”

“He isn’t answering his phone.”

I felt a cold finger move down my spine. Bloody hell, what was going on? Was the Devil picking up everyone I knew? I should have expected it. He’d warned me often enough.

“Where was he the last time you heard from him?”

“Half an hour ago. He was about to go to the place in Camden Town. Plender Road. You see it on your map?”

I found the cross I’d made. “Yes.” I got into the coupé. “All right, I’m on my way. What about the others?”

“Dave’s between Bexley and Eltham, nothing to report. Rog has just finished in Cricklewood. He’s going to Kilburn next.”

“What about you?” I asked, as I accelerated up the City Road.

“I haven’t seen anything worth talking about. I’m about to check the place in Norwood.”

“Okay. Listen, Boney, keep in touch with the guys as often as you can. The lunatic seems to be picking us off one by one.”

Peter Satterthwaite gave a dry laugh. “Not me, my friend. He doesn’t know anything about me, remember?”

“Unless he trailed one of us back to your place.” That shut him up. “Don’t worry,” I said, relenting. “It isn’t that likely.” I cut the connection, wondering how right I was. The Devil seemed to know everything about all of us. I was hoping Pete was the joker in my pack.

I parked off Camden High Street and walked down the darker back streets. It was after ten and there wasn’t anyone around. Plender Road was narrow, and filled on both sides with parked cars. Number 26 was a terraced, three-story building. There were no lights on inside.

Andy Jackson still wasn’t answering his phone. I felt my heart begin to pound. I had to try to get inside. What if he was tied up like my mother? Or worse. Making sure the coast was clear, I approached the front door on the balls of my feet. As I was going up the two steps, I noticed that there was a piece of paper protruding from the letter box. I went closer and shone my torch on it. My stomach flipped as I made out my name in red letters. I pulled on my leather gloves and removed it swiftly and silently. At least it looked like the lettering was in ink rather than blood. I unfolded the sheet and read:

Is it you, Matt? Are you hot on my trail? I really hope so. But you’re too late here. Oh, you’ll be wondering about your American hunk. I thought I’d dealt with him the other day, but he just keeps coming back for more. I don’t think he’ll be coming back this time. Don’t bother breaking the door down. He’s not inside. Can you save the others, or will you be the only man left standing? What does it feel like to be responsible for so many people’s lives? Is it a heavy weight? No, I don’t think it’s troubling you so much. You’re like me, aren’t you, Matt? In the final analysis, all you care about is yourself and your own pathetic concerns—your writing, your inventing stories, your lying. Come on, let the anger out! You can track me down if you really want to. But have you got what it takes? Can you walk the walk? Remember what John Webster said. “Noble friend, Our danger shall be like in this design.” We’re two of a kind, Matt. You’ll see that when we meet.

When, not if.

WD

The bastard. What had he done to Andy? I called Pete and let him know. He’d call Rog and Dave, and tell them to be especially careful.

I walked down the street. The Devil was playing with me. He knew that we had found out about the properties he owned. The question was, which one was he in? Or was he on the move? I felt that things were racing to a climax. Unless he had bought other properties under a false name, he would have guessed that the police would soon be on his trail whether we told them or not. So what was his plan? And where were Sara and Caroline?

I called Dave, breathing hard.

“Are you sure Lucy’s safe?” I asked as soon as he answered. “Is there any way the Devil could have tracked you down to wherever it is you’ve been staying?”

“I don’t see how,” he replied. “But, if you like, I can tell Ginny to get the kids into the car and hit the road.”

I thought about it. “Where are they, Dave? In an isolated place?”

“Yeah. Friend of mine who’s on holiday. He’s got a farm up on the Downs above the Elham Valley.”

I didn’t know it. “Where’s that?”

“About ten miles beyond Canterbury.”

I took the decision. “All right, tell her to get on the motorway and head toward London. Tell her not to go home, but to keep driving round the M25 till she hears different, okay?”

“All right, lad. Is everyone else okay?”

“No.” I told him about Andy and the contents of the Devil’s note.

“Christ, what a devious fuckwit. Wait till I get my hands on him.”

“Hold your horses, Psycho. There’s a lot of people at risk. Hang on a minute, what’s Ginny driving? I thought you were driving the four-by-four.”

“Nah, I left it there. My mate’s got this brilliant Chevrolet pickup, an Avalanche, that he lets me drive. I’ve been going to work in it.”

Something bothered me about that, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Whatever the case, Lucy and Dave’s family would be safer on the move.

“All right, keep in touch with Boney,” I said.

“Aye, lad. Mind how you go.”

As I walked back to the main road, I wished I had Dave with me. He’d been in the SAS. He could kill a man with his bare hands, as he’d frequently told us. Even the Devil would be scared of him. Then I remembered that my adversary had already dealt with two hundred and thirty pounds of American beef. Christ, Andy. Where was he?

I looked at my list. The next property was on Leadenhall Street in the City. I headed there.

The White Devil looked in the mirror. The two bound bodies in the back of the van were motionless and silent now. The big man had been groaning, but he’d stopped when Corky belted him about the head again. The other shrouded form had been motionless for more than two hours. The injection wouldn’t wear off for at least another one. By that time the Devil would be close to his goal—and Matt Wells would be facing the ultimate test.

His accomplice squeezed between the seats. Corky’s breath was rank, a mixture of roll-ups and dirty teeth. The Devil could remember the stink, not quite as strong, from when they were kids. But now Nicholas Cork’s face was covered in a salt-and-pepper beard. He’d traced him a year back, then found a down-and-out with the same build and smashed his head in before leaving the body on the rocks in Cornwall with ID suggesting he was Corky. That would have kept the cops guessing—or rather, fumbling around without a clue.

They both leaned forward as the van coasted to a stop. The Devil owned a shop in Brondesbury Road with a flat above it. He rented the place to a Pakistani family via an agency. There were lights on upstairs and he knew that would attract Wells’s friend. They could have taken him in East Finchley, but it had been more fun to get Matt himself up there. Seeing his mother like that would have put the shits up him, as would their daring escape.

The Devil looked down at the portable screen beneath the glove compartment. Someone was using a mobile phone across the road from his property.

“Got him,” Corky said. “He’s behind that tree on the opposite side of the road.”

The Devil drove past and then took the first right turn. He circled round until they were approaching the main road from the rear. The hunched form of Matt Wells’s friend was just ahead of them. He slowed and then stopped, checking they were alone.

“Oy, mate?” Corky shouted. “Any idea how to get to Belsize Road?”

The man watching the shop turned and walked toward the van. He was a lot shorter than the American, though he was solid enough—like all the rugby-playing fools.

He leaned in the open window. “You need to turn—”

The sentence was never finished. Corky slammed his head into the roof, and then, when it dropped, the Devil brought his short steel bar down on the top of the cranium. Roger van Zandt slumped unconscious as Corky held on to him. In a few seconds, the Devil had gone round, grabbed their victim and dragged him to the back of the van. Under a minute later, he was driving toward the city center, while Corky tied up captive number three next to the motorbike.

“Turn off his phone,” the Devil ordered. He was tempted to call Matt Wells on it, but he didn’t want to risk that. There was always the possibility that he’d invested in a scanner and was monitoring his friends’ mobiles. Besides, they were about to move to the next stage. It had been easy nailing the first three, as he’d known where to find them. For the rest, they’d be using a different strategy. Matt Wells was smarter than he’d thought. By getting himself a new phone, he’d put himself temporarily out of the Devil’s reach. But not for long. He wouldn’t be able to resist the bait that was being prepared for him.

He’d be seeking revenge. That made the Devil smile. What would mankind be without the lust for vengeance? Nothing better than the animals. No animal was driven by the desire for revenge, whatever Herman Melville thought about the great white whale. Revenge was what distinguished man from lower beasts. Revenge was mankind’s most salient feature.

The Devil laughed as he turned on to the Marylebone Road.

He was pleased to see that Corky jerked backward apprehensively.

I’d been watching the building in Leadenhall Street for ten minutes. It was a small foreign bank a hundred yards away from the Lloyd’s of London Building. There were lights on all the way up to the fourth and top floor, but I found it unlikely that the Devil was there. There were cleaners moving around on all the floors, and a few eager-to-please employees were still at their desks. It was pretty clear that he’d rented the place out.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

“Matt, thank God I got you.”

“What is it, Boney?” I asked, concerned by his fraught tone.

“It’s Rog. Now
he’s
not answering his phone.”

“Shit.” I lashed out at the base of the streetlamp with my foot and felt a sharp pain. “The mad bastard.” The net was closing around us. I tried to think clearly. How many accomplices did the Devil have? Had he set people on all of us, or did he have some kind of top-of-the-range tracking equipment? He was certainly wealthy enough.

“Matt?”

“Yeah, hang on, I’m thinking.” Peter Satterthwaite should have been outside my tormentor’s loop since he was a late arrival at our party. As for Dave, he had a new phone. Maybe the three of us were still undetected. But what about Ginny? Christ, that was the thought that had eluded me earlier. What if the bastard had put a bug on Dave’s four by four? “Boney, how many properties have we still to check? Leadenhall Street’s a no go.”

There was a brief silence. “That leaves seven. There’s one on Dave’s list, one on mine and one on yours. The last I heard from Rog, he was outside a shop in Brondesbury Road. He didn’t think it was interesting, but he was going to hang on a bit to be sure. He had two more. And there were two more on Andy’s list.”

“Seven? Bloody hell. Okay, I’ll do my last one, that converted brewery near Tower Bridge. You do yours, and then get over there to pick me up.”

“What about Dave?”

“I’ll get him to drive there, too. Assuming those three are all clear, we’ll check out the ones Andy and Rog didn’t manage.”

I broke the connection and called Dave.

“Matt, thank Christ. There’s something funny going on with Ginny. No one’s answering their phones—not her or either of my kids.”

My stomach twisted like an oyster suddenly drenched in lemon juice. Lucy. She didn’t have a mobile. Had the bastard caught up with them?

“Wellsy?” Dave said desperately. “We’ve got to tell the police. The children…”