The Death List (33 page)

“No, Jeremy’s having the time of his life, the ghoul.”

I looked round as a police car raced up the street, its lights flashing and its siren wailing. “Is everything okay at your place?”

“Yeah. Apart from the neighbors asking what the copper was doing outside. I told them I was involved in a pedophilia case. That shut the nosy bastards up. Look, Matt, I’ve got to go. Will I see you later?”

“I doubt it. It’s better if I keep clear of my known haunts.”

“Oh, well, keep in touch.” She cut the connection before I could tell her I loved her.

I took a deep breath and rang Caroline’s number. Another police car went past at high speed. I had to shout to make myself heard.

“Where is she?” My ex-wife’s voice was as near to a scream as she could allow herself in the office. “You’ve no right to keep Lucy from me.”

“Lucy’s safe,” I said. “Are
you
all right?”

Stupid question.

“Of course I’m not all right. I’ve got a policeman at the door, my ex-husband has abducted my child and the CEO just called an unscheduled meeting.”

“I’ll take that as yes, then,” I said, ringing off. I had enough on my plate without Caroline twisting the knife.

“That looked like fun,” Andy said as I got back into the Jeep.

I scowled at him and drove off.

“Let me guess,” he said, unabashed. “We’re going back to Bonehead’s.”

“Wrong. We’re going to the supermarket first. You’re cooking that mixed grill you’re always boasting about for lunch.”

“Now you’re talking,” Andy said, his hands on his belly. “I was beginning to feel a bit hungry.”

As I drove past the Elephant and Castle, I saw an ambulance coming toward us with its lights flashing.

Something bad had obviously just happened at Waterloo.

Oaten and Turner dipped under the cordon outside the university building by Waterloo Bridge. There were weeping students standing in groups, their arms round each other as they waited to be interviewed. Paul Pavlou and Morry Simmons were talking to some of them. Despite the university authorities’ reluctance, the entire place had been evacuated so that it could be searched from top to bottom. One call from the commissioner to the vice chancellor had sufficed.

The SOCOs were standing by on the third floor. In front of them stood Dr Redrose, already kitted out in coveralls.

“We must stop meeting like this, Chief Inspector,” he said with an uneven smile.

“I’m not in the mood for humor,” Oaten replied, taking a set of coveralls from a SOCO. After she’d put on bootees and gloves and pulled the hood over her hair, she went through the partially open door, the photographers at her shoulder. She went over to the window. It was on the west side of the building, looking down over the relentless bridge traffic. One lane on the nearside had been closed by the police vehicles. She steeled herself to take in what had been done to Lizzie Everhead.

“My word,” Redrose said from her side. That counted as a display of emotion from him. “It would appear the victim has been…has been nailed to her desk.” He got down on his knees and inspected the underside of the piece of furniture. “The nails must be at least six inches long. The ends have been bent to prevent the poor woman pulling away.”

“It looks like a chisel has been driven into the base of her skull,” Oaten said, examining the black plastic handle and the base of the blade that was surrounded by the academic’s tousled hair.

“Quite,” said the pathologist, back on his feet. He looked more closely. “The chisel in question has a particularly long blade. The end of it is embedded in the desk.”

Karen Oaten was taking deep breaths. “That…that would have required considerable strength.”

Redrose bent nearer. “Not necessarily. The handle of the tool has been struck by a blunt instrument—I’d guess, the hammer that was used to drive the nails home.”

The chief inspector cursed herself for her inattention. She’d known the dead woman and her gruesome end was hard to take. “There’s a fair amount of blood from the wounds in her hands,” she said quietly.

The pathologist nodded. “I’m afraid she was alive when the nails pierced them. She was kept alive long enough for her to suffer terrible pain.”

“Christ, what a maniac. Any sign of a message?”

“Not at first glance,” Redrose said, leaning in. “She appears to be fully clothed. I’ll have to get her on the mortuary table to explore her…well, you know what I mean.”

The chief inspector squatted down. “There’s something under her left hand.”

“You’re right. I can see the edge of a small plastic bag. It doesn’t appear to be perforated by the nail. I think we can remove it.”

Karen Oaten watched as photographs were taken and then the chief SOCO eased the bag out using tweezers. “I need to see the contents now,” she said.

More photos were taken, then the bag was opened and the folded paper inside removed.

The SOCO opened it out. As on previous occasions, the words were in laser print. They read, “My tragedy must have some idle mirth in’t.” But this time there was more. “Now your expert is gone, I’ll help you.
The White Devil,
act 4, scene 1, line 118. Ha-ha.”

Oaten felt herself consumed by cold fury. She would not be mocked by a villain, especially not by one who had just killed someone she’d liked. Again, guilt struck her like a blow to the heart. She should have arranged for Lizzie Everhead to be protected. It had never occurred to her that the Devil would take out someone peripheral to the investigation. After Reginald Hampton’s murder, how could she have been so stupid?

“Guv?” John Turner was at her shoulder. “Are you all right?” He took her arm and led her out into the corridor. “Better let the doc and the SOCOs do their jobs now, eh?” He took out a paper handkerchief and handed it to her. She turned to the wall and hurriedly dabbed her eyes.

“How did no one hear the banging as he hammered in the nails?” she said angrily.

“Apparently there have been workmen in all week,” the inspector said, stepping closer. “Listen to this. I’ve had a quick look at the CCTV tape from a camera in the entrance hall.” He paused to make sure she was paying attention. “Guv, Matt Wells was here this morning between 11:04 and 11:17.” He glanced at his notebook. “The body was found at 11:27 by two of her students.”

Oaten felt her eyes open wide. “Matt Wells? He was here?”

“Yes. With that guy Andrew Jackson, the one who was injured at the Fels place yesterday. Apparently he discharged himself from the hospital last night.”

The chief inspector was struggling to take it in. Matt Wells. Could it have been Wells who’d nailed poor Lizzie to her desk? Or had it been the heavily built American? There was something wrong here, she felt that immediately. Yes, that was it. The two figures caught by the cameras at Dr. Keane’s and at the Borough Market were of medium height. Both Wells and the American were bigger than that, the latter substantially so. Did that mean there were four killers out there? She clenched her fists and twitched her head. This needed careful thought. But in the meantime, it was indisputable that Matt Wells had been here this morning. Why?

“We’ve got to pick him up,” Turner said. “I’ll give the order. Will you tell the media?”

Oaten nodded slowly. She’d cut the novelist far too much slack. It was time she pulled him in. If her superiors found out about the contacts she’d had with him, she’d be finished.

But if he was the one who’d murdered Lizzie Everhead, she’d tear him apart with her own hands—and to hell with her career.

We found Peter Satterthwaite and Rog sitting in the former’s study. He hadn’t shown us it last night. It was large and furnished with leather office chairs and several wide desks, all with computers on them.

“Shit, Boney,” Andy said, his arms full with bags of meat, “why’ d’you need so many computers?”

“I sometimes bring my staff here,” Pete said. “You know, Andy? Work. Remember what that is?”

“Go screw yourself,” the American said, grinning. “I’m about to cook your lunch. Where’s your grill?”

“Out the back, in the first shed.” Bonehead waved me over. “Here, look at this, Matt. I’ve found out all sorts of interesting stuff about your Devil.”

He waved a thick sheaf of printouts at me. I peered at one and could make absolutely nothing of it. “Explain, please.”

He grinned. “You can’t even understand the simplest bank details? No wonder you’re so poor. All right, here’s the simpleton’s version. This guy is either very smart or he’s got some very smart advisers.”

“Or both.”

“True. The bottom line is that over the last four years he’s increased the value of his investments to just under thirty-three million U.S. dollars.”

“Bloody hell. How did he manage that?”

“Do you really want to know?”

I raised my hands. “No. Has he broken any laws?”

“Theoretically not.” Bonehead gave a toothy smile. “Well, no more than I have. You’ve got to understand, Matt—when you’ve got a decent wedge, it’s dead easy to make it bigger. All it takes is a bit of nerve—”

“I think we can assume the Devil’s got that in lorry-loads.”

“And the right advice.”

“Ditto.” I straightened up. “So he’s got plenty of cash to spend on surveillance equipment, vehicles, sidekicks, whatever?”

“Definitely.” Pete held out another heap of paper. “He’s withdrawn more than three million quid from various U.K. accounts over the past twelve months.”

I felt a quiver of excitement. “You’ve hacked into banks in this country? So you must have his account details. His name and address.”

Bonehead grimaced. “Sorry, mate. The kind of bank he deals with has levels of security that your average commercial outfit doesn’t bother with. All I’ve got is another list of numbers.”

“No way of getting more than that?”

He raised his shoulders. “I’m talking to a guy I know. He’s even more of a computer whiz kid than the Dodger.” He laughed as Rog flashed him V-signs with both hands. “He’s calling me back before the end of the day.”

I went over to the other operating computer. “Any luck with the National Lottery?”

Rog’s chin jutted forward. “Sort of.”

“Which means?”

“Well, I’m almost in,” he said, his fingers still moving over the keys. “But I reckon there’s a time limit. I might get blown out when I log on because I’ll need some time to orientate myself. If that happens, I won’t be able to get back in. Don’t worry, I can get round it. I’m almost there.”

I squeezed his arm. I was touched by how much my friends were doing for me. I hoped I’d have done the same for them, but I was always more of a loner. Most writers were, as were most rugby wingers, league and union. It wasn’t a characteristic I was particularly proud of.

I rang Dave. As usual, there was a deafening sound of machinery when he answered.

“Hallo, lad,” he said, cutting the revs. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Are you okay?”

“Champion. The roof’ll be coming down any minute.”

“I’m very happy for you. Dave, send me a text message before you leave in case I need you.”

“Right you are. Cheers.”

I went out to the back terrace. Andy was standing there engulfed in smoke.

“Oh, man,” he said, “this charcoal’s sodden. Still, nothing can resist the flaming hands of Aaaandrew Jaaaackson.”

“That’ll be right.” I looked at the array of raw food he’d laid out on a table. Steaks, chops, sausages, corn on the cob.

“Something’s missing,” he said.

“Fifty other guests?” I suggested.

“No, you asshole. The beer.”

“Uh-uh, no booze till we catch the—”

“Matt!” Bonehead’s voice was loud and urgent. “Get in here now!”

I gave Andy a puzzled look and ran back to the study. I found Peter and Rog staring at the TV screen.

“I just heard the headlines,” Bonehead said. “There’s been another murder. At Waterloo.”

I felt the hairs on my neck rise. Jesus. The police cars and the ambulance I’d seen. They must have been heading there.

“This is it,” Rog said.

The newsreader’s heavily made-up face was somber. “We’re getting reports of a murder near Waterloo Station,” she said. “Over to our correspondent at the scene, Roy Meltcher.”

I watched as a man in an anorak spoke to camera. Behind him was a police cordon and a crowd of people. I immediately recognized the building. It was the university block that Andy and I had visited. I began to get a very bad feeling.

“Yes, Fay, you join me outside King’s College London’s facility just south of Waterloo Bridge. Shortly before noon today, students discovered the body of a female lecturer on the third floor. Police are not releasing the woman’s name, but I can reveal that she was in the English Literature department.”

Jesus.

The anchor cut in. “Roy, I gather there are fears that this is the latest in the series of murders that some are attributing to the so-called New Ripper.”

The reporter was nodding. “Yes, Fay, that is the indication we’re getting. Details of the murder are not being given yet, but I understand that there are links to the other killings. In a sensational development, Detective Chief Inspector Karen Oaten of the VCCT made this statement.”

The picture cut to what was clearly a lecture room.

Karen was standing next to the stern Welshman. “We are very anxious to talk to two men who were seen in the building between 11:00 and 11:30 this morning,” she said.

I froze as photographs of me and Andy came up on the screen. Mine was from a book jacket, while my friend’s had obviously been taken in the hospital yesterday.

“They are Matthew John Wells, age thirty-eight, a crime novelist who uses the name Matt Stone, and Andrew Krieger Jackson, an American age thirty-seven. Mr. Wells lives in Herne Hill, while Mr. Jackson’s home is in Catford, South London. Anyone who has seen either man in the last twenty-four hours should call this number—” she read it out “—or contact their local police station. All information will be treated with the strictest confidentiality.” Karen Oaten was looking even more determined than I’d seen her before. “This is a particularly horrible crime. It is essential that members of the public do not approach these men. The likelihood is that they are highly dangerous.”