Authors: Paul Johnston
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Crime Fiction, #Serial Killers, #Thriller & Suspense, #Contemporary, #Murder, #Contemporary Fiction, #Mystery
The Death List (43 page)
“Ditto,” Rog said. His head was covered in a bandage.
“Thirty-five,” Dave said. “I was the military mastermind, after all. Problem is, Ginny wants half of it. Says she’s traumatized, but I know she’s harder than that. Shit, I’m the one with shell shock.”
There was a flare-up of laughter and abuse, then they all looked at me seriously.
“What about you, man?” Andy asked. “Lucy’s okay, isn’t she?”
I nodded. “Fortunately she slept through almost everything and there have been no serious ill effects of the gas my lunatic ex-girlfriend sprayed them all with.”
“How about Caroline?” Rog asked.
I looked at the floor. “Fighting fit. If she could have got out of bed, she’d have beaten the hell out of me.” I shrugged. “I can’t blame her.”
“Aw, come on, Matt,” Dave said. His legs were enclosed in a kind of tent. He’d been lucky. The bullets had missed his arteries by millimeters. “It wasn’t your fault the lunatic dragged you into his filthy scheme.”
“No, but I still put Lucy and her in danger. I should never have taken his money and written up his notes. But writers are whores and I couldn’t resist a good story.” I shook my head. “I couldn’t resist taking him on. I must have been mad.”
There was an uneasy silence.
“I also put my best friends in danger,” I said, looking at each of them.
“Never mind,” Dave said. “The good guys rescued us in the end.”
I took in the wide grin that had spread across his face. “What do you mean, Psycho?”
“They were SAS,” he said in a low voice.
“I get it. One of them knew you,” I said. “The guy called Rommel. Why was your code name Patton?”
“Because he’s a crazy bastard who never stops an attack,” Andy said with a wide smile.
“What the hell were they doing there?” Roger asked.
Dave shook his head. “Don’t tell anyone who they were if you want to stay alive. Just be thankful they came when they did.”
There was another silence. Eventually it was broken by Bonehead.
“I hope they come again soon,” he said in his campest voice.
The resulting uproar brought in several nurses.
I spent two days being questioned by Karen Oaten and her lugubrious Welsh sidekick. It wasn’t a serious grilling. The chief inspector seemed to be inclined to believe me from the start, and even the man she called Taff was reasonably sympathetic, although he wouldn’t hear a word about rugby league being superior to the union code. We parted on pretty good terms. There were some details left and I was sure it wouldn’t be long before I saw them again. Actually, I wouldn’t have minded seeing Karen again on her own. It seemed I wasn’t cured of my weakness for strong women.
When I finally went back to my flat, I used the equipment Rog had obtained to debug the place. The Devil had been very thorough. There were seven separate pinhole cameras and as many microphones, all wired to my electricity supply and linked to a common transmitter hidden in the loft. He’d presumably managed to install them when I was with Lucy in the mornings and afternoons.
My daughter and Dave’s kids were soon back at school. They were dying to tell their friends what they’d been through. The head teacher had to ban the press from school property. I spent the nights with Luce at my mother’s. The journalists hadn’t been told about Fran’s involvement in the case. She was three days in hospital before she was discharged. Her wrists and ankles were painful, but she had come through the ordeal with her customary strength of will. I decided against telling her that the Devil had killed her husband, my adoptive father. What good would it have done? She was embarrassed by the fact that the lunatic had been able to catch her so easily. He’d arrived outside the house as she was preparing to leave for Heathrow, saying that he was a minicab driver booked by me. Before she knew it, she’d been sprayed with gas and tied up in a deserted building—I never found out where, but I reckon it was the lockup garage in Deptford that I’d checked out.
I spent a lot of time trying to avoid my ex-editor Jeanie Young-Burke. She’d come back from Paris as soon as the Devil died, desperate to sign me up to write a true crime book about the case. She was upset about Reggie Hampton’s murder, and the receptionist’s, but the deal took precedence. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do the book, although the amount of money on offer was so huge that I wasn’t able to resist for long. Besides, the desire for revenge in me that the Devil had played with needed to be written out. Even my tormentor’s execution in cold blood hadn’t made me feel any better disposed toward him. I wasn’t proud of that.
My former agent Christian Fels called, offering to represent me in the negotiations. I decided that, since he’d lost his lover and been terrorized by the Devil, he was entitled to a cut, so I signed up with him again. As for the ten thousand pounds I’d been given by the bastard, I wrapped it up and had it couriered to a charity that helped adopted children with psychological problems.
Relations with Caroline went from bad to worse. One of the Devil’s final acts had been to send a digital image to her office e-mail address. It showed me burying the neighbors’ dog near Farnborough. I managed to convince her not to show it to Shami and Jack, but explaining why I’d done it was a tough one. I was protecting Lucy, but she couldn’t see it that way.
Things got more or less back to normal two weeks later. Dave and the others were out of hospital, Lucy was highly enamored of the neighbors’ new Husky puppy and summer seemed to be on its way. I even managed to set up a date with Karen Oaten at a new Mexican restaurant in Covent Garden. She said yes with unexpected alacrity.
Then, that morning, I got an e-mail from the person I’d been trying to forget. As with the Devil’s messages, it was impossible to trace the account holder. The first part of the sender’s address was “sarakills.”
Matt, Matt. You came through it. Or rather, you think you did. I saw that interview with you in my ex-paper. You said that the desire for revenge was immature, that people in a civilized society should be able to control it. My beloved brother wouldn’t have agreed. Neither do I. Although he trained me in the basics, it seems I have an excess of natural aptitude. It was difficult at first, but I soon got used to killing. Now I have access to the funds that he stashed. I’ve moved them, in case you’re wondering. I owe him. I’ll live in luxury. I’ll never have to work again. But I still have an account to settle with you. I’ll be making my own death list. Look over your shoulder every day for the rest of your life.
John Webster put it well. “I must first have vengeance.” And I will, Matt.
Stay well—until we meet again.
Deep down, I’d expected the lover who betrayed me to get in touch. Now I knew for sure that, sooner or later, the horror would begin again.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-2133-2
THE DEATH LIST
Copyright © 2007 by Paul Johnston.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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