“There’s a piece of paper in it,” Turner said, catching his superior’s eye. “It’s him again.”
She nodded solemnly. “I think we’d all already come to that conclusion, Taff.” She called over the senior SOCO. “Get the contents out and check the bag for prints.”
“That really ought to be done in the lab,” the technician said.
Oaten gave him a severe look. “Just do what I say, will you? Inspector Turner will be your witness if anyone questions procedure.” She turned back to Redrose. “Time of death?”
He glanced at his notes. “A rough calculation from the temperature readings would be between six and eight hours ago.”
“So between two and four this afternoon,” Turner said. “I’ll go and check the receptionist’s computer.”
“Here you are, ma’am,” the SOCO said, handing her a larger plastic evidence bag with an unfolded piece of A4 paper in it. “I mean, guv.”
Karen Oaten read aloud the cutout fragments of newsprint that had been stuck on the sheet. “‘Like the wild Irish, I’ll ne’er think thee dead Till I can play at football with thy head.’”
“Good God,” the pathologist said. “The monster’s making jokes about it.”
“I think I can guess where this came from,” Oaten said. “In fact, I’ve got a copy of the text in my bag outside.”
Turner came back into the consulting room. “Guv, it’s him all right. I couldn’t get past the receptionist’s password, but she kept a handwritten register, as well. Two-thirty, last patient-Mr. John Webster.”
The chief inspector held up the quotation to him. “This killer thinks he’s funny,” she said, glaring at everyone in the room. “Well, I’m not bloody laughing.”
She and Turner spent another hour there, and then the doctor’s remains were removed to the morgue. They took off their coveralls outside and looked around the reception area. It was expensively furnished, a couple of good modernist paintings on the walls.
Morry Simmons appeared at the door. “Guv? We’ve got him.”
“What?” Oaten turned to him, her eyes wide.
“Well, there’s two of them, actually.” Simmons looked at both of them, the usual slack smile on his lips. “I mean, we’ve got them on the CCTV.”
“You tosser,” Turner said.
“Oh, you thought I meant we’d caught…sorry.” Simmons was suddenly unable to look either of them in the eye.
“All right, Morry,” the chief inspector said wearily. “Show us.”
He led them down to the building supervisor’s office in the basement. The man hadn’t been on duty at the time of the murder-he only worked until one o’clock on Saturdays-but the closed-circuit system ran continuously. He’d rewound the tape to 2:29 and found a single man in a suit entering the building. At nine minutes past three another figure, this one dressed in overalls, went to the lift. At 3:17, the two emerged from the lift together and exited by the main door.
“Can you print these images off?” Oaten asked.
The supervisor shook his head.
“Okay, we’ll be taking the tape, anyway.” She waved him away. “You can wait outside.”
The three detectives gazed up at the screen that was fixed to the wall above the desk.
“Run it again, Morry,” the chief inspector ordered.
After fiddling with the controls, Simmons managed that. They watched as two men of medium height appeared in the corridor.
“Freeze it there,” Oaten said. She craned up at the screen. “Both of them are carrying bags-one of them presumably containing the tools they used to cut the victim up. I’m assuming the other contains his stomach.”
Morry Simmons, who hadn’t seen the body, shivered.
“The guy on the left’s in disguise, surely,” Turner said. “That long hair and mustache are about thirty years out of date.”
“And the hat’s about a hundred years out of date,” the D.C.I. added. “But it obscures his eyes effectively. Expensive-looking suit.” She turned her gaze on the second figure. “I’d say this one works out. Does that beard look real to you?”
“No,” answered Turner at the same time as Simmons said, “Yes.”
“No, Morry,” Karen Oaten said patiently. “It isn’t real. The baseball cap doesn’t help, I admit.”
Simmons tried to redeem himself. “Workman’s overalls.”
“Without any helpful company name on them, as far as I can see,” the chief inspector said. She stepped back. “Right, Morry, start knocking on doors. Find out if anyone saw this pair going in or coming out in the midafternoon. Take Pavlou with you.” She watched the sergeant leave. “And try not to screw up,” she called after him. “Taff, you’d better get the tape to the photo lab. Get them to make the clearest hard copies they can.”
They left the basement together.
“I’ll see you back at the Yard then, guv,” Turner said, glancing at his watch. “No sleep tonight.”
“Not till a lot later, at least,” Oaten said, giving him a wave. After he’d gone, she took the lift back up to the top floor and reclaimed the plastic bag of books she’d left there.
She was about to start going through the text of The White Devil when she had a better idea. She took out her mobile and found a number in the memory.
“Lizzie, this is-”
“Karen,” completed the academic. “I recognized your voice. Did you forget something?”
“Um, no. Look, I shouldn’t really be doing this on the phone, but I’m pressed for time. Does this mean anything to you?” She read out the words she’d copied into her notebook from the sheet in the plastic bag.
“Oh, yes,” Lizzie Everhead said cheerfully. “It’s good old John Webster again.”
“I thought it might be,” Oaten said dryly. “From the same play?”
“Bingo. Let me just check the reference.” There was the sound of pages turning. “Yes, I thought so. It’s act 4, scene 1. Lines 136 to 7. This is Francisco speaking about his enemy Brachiano. Francisco’s the good avenger, if you like.” There was a brief pause. “Crikey, I’d forgotten that. The next line’s in Latin-‘Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.’ I don’t suppose you know Latin, Karen?”
“You don’t suppose correctly.”
The academic giggled. “It’s a quotation from Virgil. Rough translation-if I can’t get the powers above to help me, I’ll appeal to those of the underworld. Rather appropriate for a White Devil, wouldn’t you say?”
The chief inspector wasn’t impressed by Lizzie’s jocularity. “I know you don’t listen to the news, but there’s been another murder.”
“Oh, dammit.” The academic sounded suitably chastened. “I’m terribly sorry.”
“It’s okay. I need something else from you, Lizzie. That crime author you mentioned. Matt Stone? Has he written a scene where someone gets their stomach removed and their head cut off?”
There was silence on the line.
“Lizzie?”
“Are you…are you saying that’s what’s happened?” Her voice was suddenly brittle, that of a little girl.
“Just answer the question,” Oaten said impatiently.
“Let me think…oh, my God, there is such a scene. It’s in his last novel, Red Sun Over Durres. A member of the Albanian mafia who betrays his boss has exactly that punishment meted out to him. Then his stomach is fed to the pigs.”
“Christ,” Karen said before she could stop herself. “This writer guy is seriously sick.”
“Not as sick as the person you’re trying to catch,” Lizzie observed.
“True,” the chief inspector agreed. “Thanks for the help. I’ll be in touch.”
She closed her phone and looked down at the bag of books that she’d bought. She was beginning to think it was well past time she had a conversation with this Matt Stone.
The first thing she would be asking was, where was he between 2:29 and 3:17 p.m. today?
My guts were in turmoil when I got back from the pub. Not because of the lager, though there had been enough of that, but because of what the White Devil might have had waiting for me.
I noticed there were three missed calls on my mobile, no numbers given. He’d been after me, all right. Did
