directions and headed home. The seven-year-old red Volvo station wagon that I’d inherited from my father was parked outside my place. I drove it back to Caroline’s and opened the tail hatch. Waiting until an elderly couple with a Pekinese had passed, I raced upstairs and brought the bundle down. It was heavier than I’d expected, but it fit in the rear compartment easily enough. I closed and locked the car, then went back to check Lucy’s room. I couldn’t see any sign of what had been on her bed. My stomach flipped when I thought that my daughter was going to have to sleep there tonight, but I had other priorities right now. I went down to the basement and found a spade.
Now what? How do you dispose of a dead dog in central London in broad daylight? I drove swiftly away, heading for Crystal Palace. I knew there was a public dump somewhere, but I decided against using that. There was too much risk that I’d be spotted or that Happy would be found. In the end, I drove out to Farnborough and took it into the woods behind a bridle path. Since it was a weekday morning, there was no one about. I dug a shallow grave, deposited the wretched animal in it and covered the hole as best I could.
I got back to my flat at two o’clock. The computer’s screen saver was on, showing a collage of my book jackets that I’d been meaning to get rid of for weeks. I logged back on to my e-mail server and found a message from W1612D, this time via Google. The bastard was moving around the Internet like a ghost.
Matt, it said. I am impressed! Farnborough, of all places. I won’t tell anyone. Here’s the serious bit. Make sure you don’t, either. Or Lucy will end up in a similar state. Or perhaps your mother. Or Sara. Or Caroline. Or anyone else you know. Do you accept my proposition, Matt?
I hit Reply and typed, What proposition?
The answer chime came quickly. I hardly think you’re in a position to quibble, my friend. Besides, you’ve taken my money. Are you going to cooperate or do you want more innocent blood to be spilled?
I thought about it, but not for long. The fact was, I was shit scared about Lucy. But there was more to it than that. I’d been making up crime stories for years, and now the actual thing had literally landed on my doorstep. I couldn’t resist responding to the lunatic who’d cut up Happy. Like every crime writer, I fancied trying my hand at real-life detective work. I reckoned I could do it better than the clods in Scotland Yard-no way was I telling them about my hotline to the sadistic bastard. It didn’t occur to me that I was walking through the gates of the underworld.
Okay, I typed. But I don’t want your filthy money.
Another chime. That’s the deal, Matt. The money’s yours. Don’t make me angry.
I hit Reply again. Who are you?
Come on, Matt. I’ve already told you. Bye for now.
He’d already told me? WD? What the hell did WD mean?
Then, with a surge of apprehension, it came to me.
3
The sun was casting a dying red light over the Thames. The view from the penthouse was fantastic, worth every penny of the million and a half he’d paid for it. The place was packed with the equipment he needed, the far end of the huge living area taken up by an ultramodern gym. The watcher at the window closed his eyes and smiled. His story was going to be told, and by a professional writer. It had to be done right, with nothing missing- the way he remembered it from the beginning. He was the hero, he had fought to get where he was now, with all the power in the world.
He’d begun to realize his true potential the day his father hit him for the last time.
“Les?” His mother’s voice was soft and warm, as it had always been. “You all right?”
He was in his cramped bedroom in the tower block in Bethnal Green. It was winter and there wasn’t any heating on. His father had taken all the coins and gone down to the pub.
“That’s a nice tank,” Cath Dunn said, kneeling down by her son. “Where d’you get it?”
Les looked up from the model of the Mark One Tiger that he’d stolen from Woolworths. “Gran gave me the money. I fetched her shopping for her.”
Cath smiled. She knew her boy wasn’t being truthful, but she didn’t care. He was a good boy, a lovely boy, with his light hair and nut-brown eyes. And he was so advanced for a twelve-year-old, he knew so much about things-air-planes and tanks, battleships and uniforms. She frowned, hoping that he wouldn’t end up as a squaddie. She remembered how rude they were when they came home on leave, only talking filth and football. But no, her Les wouldn’t be joining the army. He was far too sensitive for that.
Les shivered as his mother’s hand stroked the back of his neck. He forced himself to concentrate on the turret assembly. Recently, every time she touched him, he’d felt the blood run hot in his veins.
He put down the model and stood up. “Mum,” he asked plaintively, “can’t we just go? You and me? You can get a job in a shop somewhere else. We can go to another part of London. He’ll never find us. I’ll look after you and…” He let the words trail away when he saw his mother’s face crease and her eyes fill with tears. He put his arm round her thin shoulders. “It’ll be all right, Mum. Honest, I’ll protect you from-”
“From dirty Billy and his roaming hands?” His father’s voice made them jerk away from each other. He’d taken to coming back from the pub stealthily and sneaking up on them. “Seems to me you’re the one with roaming hands, son. You like the look of yer old mother, do you?” He stepped closer, his right arm raised. “You filthy little pervert!” He brought the hand down hard, but Les moved aside and was caught only a glancing blow on the shoulder.
“No, Billy!” Cath screamed.
“Shut your noise, cow!” Billy yelled, giving her a backhanded slap to the face.
“Stop it!” Les shouted as his mother went down. “That’s enough!” He felt a strength he’d never known. Although his father was six inches taller than he was, his arms thick from years on the building sites, Billy was drunk. He didn’t even see the straight right that broke his nose.
Les stepped back, amazed at what he had done. His father had crashed back against the wall, blood oozing through the gaps between the fingers that were over his face.
“You…you…fucking little bastard,” Billy gasped, glancing at his cowering wife. “Tell him, Cath. Tell him what a bastard he is.” He stumbled away, the front door slamming behind him a few seconds later.
“Are you all right, Mum?” Les asked, raising his mother to her feet. “What did he mean? I’m your son. I’m not a bastard.”
Cath looked at him, her expression a mixture of sadness and pride. “Thank you, Les,” she said, leaning forward to kiss him. “Thank you for getting him off me.” Her skin on her left cheek was red and raised. “He’s nothing but a pathetic bully.”
“Yes, but I am your son, aren’t I, Mum?” Les persisted. “What did he mean? What do you have to tell me?”
Cath led him into the dimly lit sitting room. They sat down on the worn velour sofa.
“Well, Les, strictly speaking you are our son. We did all the adoption papers when you were a baby. Billy didn’t drink so much then and the checks they did weren’t so tough as they are now. And…I wanted a baby so much.” She started to sob. “I couldn’t have any of my own,” she said, her face averted from him. “There was something wrong inside me. He…your father…Billy…he hurt me. That’s why he couldn’t say no when I wanted to adopt.”
“But…but who’s my real mother?” Les said, his eyes locked on her.
Cath smiled nervously. “I am, son. I looked after you when you were a tiny little thing, I’m raising-”
“Yes, but who did I come out of?” Les said, his voice rising. He could find another way to put the question.
“I…I don’t know.” Cath tried to meet his gaze but failed. “Some poor girl who couldn’t keep you. It was much harder then, being an unmarried mother.”
Les sat back on the sofa and looked around the room. His mother did the best she could, but with so little money from her husband and nothing left over from her own wages after food and so on, the place wasn’t much to talk about. A battered black-and-white TV with a ragged lace cloth on it, an armchair with the stuffing coming out and a wobbly table-that was about it. The badly fitted window was covered by a faded orange-and-brown curtain
