We came to the last doors. One, two, three. This time I found myself in a wide-open space, with the light of the late-afternoon sun coming in through spaces between the blinds. Again, the room was emptier than a ransacked tomb.
“Jesus!” I heard Andy shout from the other side. I went over quickly. The room was the mirror-image of the one I’d opened. I guessed they were sitting and dining rooms as there was a glass partition between them. I opened it.
Andy was squatting on the floor next to a row of shriveled objects lying on a tarpaulin. There was a rank smell in the air, like game that had hung for far too long.
I put my hand over my mouth and nose. I counted five cats, four dogs and two rats, in varying stages of decomposition. As I went closer, I saw that all had been split open from the breastbone to the anus, the desiccated entrails spread around on the tarp. I immediately thought of Happy. It looked like this was where the Devil had practiced. But why had he kept the corpses? I shivered. Because he was a sick bastard, that was why. Then I looked toward the far corner and saw things that were even worse.
“Oh-oh,” Andy said, following the direction of my gaze.
On a larger tarpaulin lay several gray masses of flesh. This time, they hadn’t been cut open. Instead, they’d been flayed, their skins nailed to the wall behind. There were a couple of large dogs and a cat. But that wasn’t all. In the farthest corner was a large heap of skinless flesh. I made out human arms and legs. Hanging above them were two objects like deflated sex dolls. They were flayed skins.
“Holy shit!” Andy said, his hand to his mouth.
I couldn’t speak. But who were these two victims? They were nameless, unidentifiable without detailed forensic investigation. I felt rage course through me. How could someone have such disregard for his fellow human beings? How could he turn them into anonymous pieces of flesh?
We retreated and checked the rest of the place but found nothing that might lead us to the owner. It was clear from the dust on the floor that he hadn’t been here for some time. We’d left footprints all over, but I didn’t care. I was already in deep enough trouble, both with the Devil and with the police.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
“Good thought.” Andy attempted a smile. “There’s a chance that, when I disabled the alarm, a light started flashing in the local police station.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“We were having such a good time.” He turned away. “Come on.”
We left at speed, encountering no one in the corridor or on the staircase. We were about to open the main door when I saw a panel of mailboxes.
“Can you get into that?”
“With or without damage?”
“It hardly matters now. As quick as you can.”
He forced open the box marked 12 with his screwdriver. I stuck my hand in and came out with a single envelope. I stuffed it into my pocket. “Come on.” It was only as we went out of the door that I saw the CCTV camera on the inside above it.
Too late. Too bad.
When we got back to the BMW, I took the envelope out. It was an electricity bill. “Mr. Lawrence Montgomery,” I read.
“Who’s he?” Andy asked.
I felt a shiver run up my spine. “He might just be the Devil himself.”
We drove off into the evening’s deepening shades.
The three men in the aged Orion were all looking to the front, the passengers’ eyes fixed on the figure weaving in and out of the traffic ahead.
“Pity we haven’t got a bike like that,” the driver said.
“I didn’t hear you volunteering to buy one, Geronimo,” said Wolfe, his tone sharp. There was a dull ring from his pocket. He took out his mobile phone. “Yes?” He listened for a while. “Don’t worry,” he said finally. “We haven’t done anything to the piece of shit.” He cut the connection and looked round at Rommel. “Yet.”
“Our friend the detective?” the man in the backseat asked.
“Yup. Wetting himself that we’re going to chop the guy on the bike up like we did with Smail.”
“We are, aren’t we?” Geronimo asked.
Wolfe gave a hollow laugh. “Assuming he did for Jimmy Tanner, as I’m sure he did, you bet we are.”
The motorbike was about fifty yards ahead of them, moving toward London Bridge. The traffic lights changed and vehicles began to slow. So did the man on the bike. But when he’d come to a complete stop, he suddenly accelerated, narrowly missing a taxi that was turning right.
“Fuck!” Geronimo smacked his palms on the steering wheel.
Wolfe got out quickly and looked ahead. He saw the motorbike disappear over the bridge.
“Now what?” asked Rommel.
“I call our contact,” Wolfe said calmly, taking out his mobile. “It’s me,” he said. “We’ve lost our target.” He listened for a few seconds. “All right, but I’m expecting reliable information. Remember, you owe us.”
The traffic was moving again.
“Where to?” asked Geronimo.
“Find a parking space in Holborn. We’ll be centrally positioned there. Don’t worry, the copper will put a trace on him. After all, Jimmy Tanner saved his uncle’s life in the Falklands.”
“So we just sit and wait?” asked Rommel.
“What else do we do between ops?” The team leader moved his hand to the 9 mm Glock in his shoulder holster. “And when the time comes, we nail the fuckers before the Met get near them.”
The other two men nodded, their expressions set hard.
Karen Oaten looked down over Victoria Street from New Scotland Yard. The last of the commuters were on their way home, some already well lubricated as their erratic movements showed. Why wasn’t she normal? she wondered. Why couldn’t she go down to the pub like everyone else? Because there was a pair of heartless killers on the loose, she told herself. Whether they were called Matt Wells and Andrew Jackson was another matter.
“Guv?”
“Yes, Taff?” She sat down at her desk and massaged her aching neck.
“There have been several calls reporting sightings of Wells and Jackson. We’re checking them out.” He shrugged. “Nothing definite yet.”
That was the problem with public appeals, the chief inspector thought. Some people wanted to be helpful, but gave unhelpful information; other people wanted to shop those they didn’t like; and then there were the crazies who only wanted attention.
“What about the National Lottery?”
“The warrant should be through any time now.” The Welshman shook his head. “Tossers. You’d think they would understand this is a multiple-murder case.”
“They’re bureaucrats, Taff,” Oaten said, staring at the heap of files on her desk. “Like us.”
“Oh, yes,” Turner said, a smile spreading across his lips. “And this call came in for you when you were with the A.C. I had it transcribed.” He handed her a piece of paper.
“‘At 1705 hours, muffled male voice,’” she read. “‘For Detective Chief Inspector Karen Oaten. It may interest you to read chapter 14 of the novel Tirana Blues by Matt Stone.’”
Turner was holding an open book out to her, his smile even wider.
She read through the description of an Albanian’s murder, taking in the similarities with that of Lizzie Everhead. The details hadn’t been released to the public, so the message was obviously either from the killer or someone close to him.
“Pretty conclusive, isn’t it?” the inspector said.
“You think so, Taff?” She was getting irritated by her subordinate’s dogged determination to nail the novelist. “If Matt Wells is the killer, why’s he taking the trouble to frame himself? Think about that.”
“He’s a psychopath,” Turner said, his smile disappearing. “He’s playing games.”
