that mean he, or an accomplice, might not have been on my tail? Before I could think that through, the landline rang.
“Yeah?” I said, making myself sound even more pissed than I was.
“Well, Matt,” said the Devil. There was a faint hint of concern in his voice. “Did you have a good evening?”
Had the bastard or one of his sidekicks been watching me in the pub? Maybe not. I decided it was time I stood up to him. “What do you care?”
He gave a laugh that made me shudder. “Oh, I care, Matt. I care very much. Almost as much as you care for Lucy and Sara.” He let the words sink in. “Now, turn on your computer.”
He didn’t seem to know what had happened to the laptop. That made me feel better.
“I presume you’ve got a backup,” he added, dashing my hopes.
“You piece of shit,” I said, keeping on the offensive. It wasn’t just the lager. Seeing my mates had made me realize that I wasn’t alone, though I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to them. “I know about that Harley Street doctor.”
“Do you?” the Devil asked, his tone ironic. “Do you really? Tell me how he died then, smart-arse.”
I couldn’t answer that. All I was sure of was that he would have copied one of the killings in my books.
“Here’s a clue,” he said. “The character called Emzer in Red Sun Over Durres.”
I had to cast my mind back. It was the last book I’d published, but most authors I knew looked ahead to their next project and I was no different, even though I hadn’t had a next project until very recently. It’s surprisingly difficult to recall details of your previous novels. But in Emzer’s case I had no problem. It was one of my most excessive deaths. Jesus.
“You…you stabbed him over and over and cut out his stomach while he was still alive? Then…then you cut off his head? Was that the ‘gruesome manner’ referred to on the television?”
“Precisely.” The Devil sounded very pleased with himself. “And what message do you think I left inside him?”
My mind was all over the place. I couldn’t think of a single line from Webster.
“Clue. What’s the most popular sport in the world?”
“Football,” I answered, without hesitation. Then it came to me. “Like the wild Irish, I’ll never think thee dead Till I can play at football with thy head.” I had a friend from Dublin at college. He wasn’t impressed by those lines, claiming that it was the Lowland Scots who used to kick their enemies’ heads around the town squares. “You’re fucking sick!” I shouted down the phone. “You’re out of your mind!”
There was a long silence, and then he started to speak in a low, menacing voice. “On the contrary, Matt Wells, also known as Stone. I’m in perfect mental and physical health, and I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Well, piss off and leave me alone. If you’re so clever, why do you need a useless writer like me to tell your story?” As the words left my mouth, I had flashes of my daughter and my lover, and realized the danger I was putting them in.
The Devil laughed. “You’re not useless, my friend. You’re just out of synch with the market. That’s why you should be grateful to me for giving you the story that will put you on the bestseller list.”
“But you’re framing me for the murders.”
“Am I? You’ve got alibis, haven’t you? Oh, no, I forgot. You were on your own all afternoon today, weren’t you? What a pity.” He laughed again. “We’re in this together, Matt. When will you realize that? We’re two of a kind. You’re driven by hatred and the desire for revenge just like I am. Soon I’ll make that crystal clear to you. Now, get out your old computer and check your e-mails. I’ve sent you my notes about the latest victim. If you work all night, you’ll be able to spend tomorrow with Lucy after all.”
The line went dead. I hit 1471 but, as usual, the number was restricted. Shit. How did my tormentor know that I had a second laptop? I thought back to the phone conversation. How much had he given away? Very little. Perhaps he hadn’t been spying on me when I’d stashed the money and diskettes in my jacket. Perhaps he didn’t know about my meeting the lads. Suddenly I felt better. Then I remembered what he’d done to the doctor and felt the new vigor drain out of me. What chance did I have of beating him? He was always several steps ahead of me. And what did he mean about making how similar we were crystal clear to me? I had a bad feeling about that.
I went up to the loft and dug out the box with my old laptop in it. After I’d plugged it in and downloaded the updated mail system, I clicked on his message. It was as he’d said. The tabloids would have a field day if they found out these details. Then I thought about the motive. The Devil didn’t specifically say why he’d chosen the victim, but there were hints that he was responsible for the death of a loved one. It was pretty thin. If everyone who had a loved one let down by the National Health Service took lethal revenge, there wouldn’t be many doctors left alive.
I sat back and looked up at the cracks in the ceiling. He was taunting me, I knew it. He was giving me enough information to start tracking him down. There was the school, the church and now the doctor-the likelihood was that he’d once practiced in the East End. Of course, getting hold of the records wasn’t straightforward for an ordinary citizen. Files like that were confidential, and I suspected that the onslaught of journalists after the first two killings would have made the local education authority and the Catholic Church very reluctant to part with information, just as the health authority would be now.
Then it struck me. The Devil himself had given me the means to find out about his background. He’d given me ten thousand pounds. That would be enough to buy anything I needed from bureaucrats on the take. I swallowed the laugh in case he was watching. The irony was enjoyable-until I realized that he had deliberately provided me with funds. He wanted me to find him, if only to prove how alike we were. I wasn’t sure if I had the nerve to meet him head-on.
I spent the next four hours writing the chapter on the latest killing. I felt worryingly comfortable taking on the voice of the killer. I had to make some of it up, such as how the White Devil, Wayne Deakins, got in and out of the building unobserved. I presumed that Harley Street clinics had security cameras, so I resorted to a disguise. The first one that came to mind was the long black hair and droopy mustache that the Devil or his sidekick had used in the park with Lucy. After I’d edited the text, I replied to the Devil’s message and sent the chapter as an attachment. Then, after transferring them to diskette, I deleted the messages. I knew an expert would find them on the hard drive, but at least I was buying myself some time. I put the diskette in a sealed plastic bag and hid it in a packet of cornflakes. Again, a thorough search would reveal it, but I didn’t think the police would get on to me so quickly-as long as I did what the Devil asked.
I tried to get some sleep, but the birds had already started their predawn racket. Anyway, I had too much on my mind.
At last I was beginning to put together a plan to send the Devil back where he came from.
16
D.C.I. Karen Oaten stood in front of her team at the Yard, her eyes bulging.
“Right, you tossers!” she shouted. “Who was it? Who spoke to the journalist from this piece of shit?” She held up a garishly colored tabloid. “I’ve just had the commissioner himself on the phone.” She leaned toward the detectives and watched with satisfaction as they moved back as one. “I don’t like being told that I run a leaky ship, and I particularly don’t like being told that my job is on the line.” She tossed the newspaper away. “So here’s how it is. If my job’s on the line, then so are yours. Are you getting me? All your jobs.” She moved her eyes around them slowly. “We’re chasing what could be the worst serial killer in years. He’s running rings round us. That’s why we’re all in here on a Sunday. This isn’t the time to be protecting someone who’s taking tabloid money.” She turned to her office. “You know what you have to do. I want the squealer in my office by 6:00 p.m. today.” She started to walk. “Inspector Turner, in here.”
The gathering broke up.
“Yes, guv?” the Welshman said as he came in.
“Close the door,” the chief inspector said, waiting till he’d done so. “Sorry, Taff. Nothing personal. I had to put the boot in. Someone’s taking the piss big-time. How do you think the doctor’s family feels, having the fact that his head was cut off and his stomach removed rammed down their…well, you know what I mean.”
