she is? Here’s a clue. You spoke to her in person not long ago. Still stumped? She’s, I mean, she was the receptionist at your publishers.
I let out a sob as I remembered the enthusiastic girl who’d told me she liked my books. Mandy was her name. I had a flash of her attractive face, and then it was replaced by the horror in front of me. The heartless monster. Was no one safe from him? I forced myself to continue reading.
Amanda Plimpton, she was called. The police obviously didn’t think she was a likely target, so she didn’t get protection. Did you include her in your list to the bitch Karen Oaten? No, I didn’t think so. Oh, by the way, Matt, did you notice the box on the beam, a meter from the hook?
I looked up and saw a black metal object the size and shape of a shoebox. There was a wire leading from it to the hook.
No, you didn’t, did you? It’s packed with Semtex. The detonator’s attached to a timer, which was activated when you took the body off the hook. It’s set for seven minutes. How long have you got left to get out?
Run, Matt, run!
I scrambled backward and got to my feet. I had no idea how much time had passed since I’d taken the poor woman down, but it must have been several minutes. As I headed for the door, I caught a glimpse of a couple of dioramas covered with tanks and soldiers, then a bank of screens on the rear wall. This must have been where my tormentor had been watching me from. Was he really going to blow up all his precious gear? I wasn’t going to wait and see.
I ran down the stairs rather than risk being trapped in the lift if the explosion was as big as I suspected it would be. When I reached the front door, I opened it and pressed all the buttons to the other flats.
“Get out!” I yelled. “Get out now! There’s going to be an-”
There was a muffled crump from the top floor. I ran back across the parking area, then out into the street. I could see fire in the penthouse. Then there were more explosions, more smoke and flame. The Devil had obviously rigged a whole series of charges. People appeared at the door, screaming and ushering children out. I retreated and ducked down behind a van. The smoke was roiling up into the night, caught in the floodlights. All the windows in the block had shattered. I hoped that no one had been hurt-no one apart from the innocent young woman that the bastard had butchered. Now I had yet another reason to hunt him down and exact vengeance.
I was sitting on the pavement, trying to stomach the fact that I really was turning into the Devil’s twin, when I heard a vehicle draw up. It was a large American pickup truck. I staggered over to it.
“Dave,” I gasped. “You made it.”
He eyed me up. “Christ, is that blood?” Then he looked up at the blaze. “Not much of a job,” he said. “I could have done a lot better.”
Maybe he would soon get the chance to show how lethal he really was.
D.C.I. Oaten was sitting in the Volvo outside the terraced house in Plender Road, Camden Town. They had just finished searching it and found nothing of significance. It was rented to a man who was an airline pilot. Although he was absent, there were several uniforms in a wardrobe.
“Where to now?” John Turner asked.
“Pavlou’s finally managed to get people to wake up south of the river. A place called the Royal Brewery near Tower Bridge is the nearest. Hardy’s people are on the last property we’ve got in the north. Some dump off Old Street. It doesn’t sound hopeful. Let’s get down to Bermondsey.” She drove off.
A few minutes later her mobile rang.
“Get that, will you, Taff?”
The inspector reached across, picked the phone gingerly from between her legs and answered it. He listened, his expression growing somber.
“Jesus Christ, Morry, didn’t anyone notice earlier? Yeah, all right, get over there and take their statements. Find out if there’s anywhere else she could be.”
“What is it?” Oaten asked, with more anxiety in her voice than she wanted.
“Amanda Plimpton, known as Mandy. Twenty-two-year-old receptionist at Matt Wells’s publishers, Sixth Sense. Her flatmate’s just reported her missing. Fortunately a smart desk sergeant in Hammersmith got on to Morry.”
“Shit,” the chief inspector said. “We didn’t have her protected, did we?”
The Welshman shook his head. “Matt Wells didn’t give us her name, guv.” He shook his head. “Christ, what more do you need to convince you? The guy’s got this all thought out.”
Oaten glanced at him, this time less fiercely than earlier. Before she could answer, her phone rang again.
“Yeah, Paul, what is it?” Turner said, and then listened. “What? Fucking hell. All right, we’ll be there soon.” He cut the connection and turned to his superior. “Guess what.”
“Just tell me, Taff,” she said resignedly.
“This Royal Brewery we’re headed to. Apparently the penthouse owned by Lawrence Montgomery blew up fifteen minutes ago. The neighbors got out when they were warned via their entry phones.”
“Warned? Who the hell by?” The chief inspector glanced at him, and then ran a red light on Moorgate. “What’s going on?”
“Our friend Wells is covering his tracks,” Turner said. “What’s the betting we find a charred female corpse inside?”
“You can stick those odds,” Oaten said. Her stomach was aching and her throat was dry. If she didn’t catch up soon with the White Devil, the New Ripper, Lawrence Montgomery, Leslie Dunn, Matt Wells, whatever his name was, her career would be his next victim.
There was no way she was going to allow that.
“Boney, where are you?” I shouted into my phone. I started the BMW as Dave flung the Chevrolet round the corner ahead of me. We were leaving what remained of the Royal Brewery behind as fast as we could. Before we parted, Dave had told me that his wife and kids still weren’t answering their phones.
“Coming up Tower Bridge Road. I’ll be with you in-”
“Change of plan, my friend. The Devil’s just blown up his own penthouse.”
“Jesus. Where are you guys?”
“Getting as far away as we can. The place will be swarming with firemen and cops. Did you find anything at that last property?”
“No. Bunch of students playing loud music.”
“Rental, obviously.”
“Yeah. So, do we head for the places Rog and Andy didn’t get to?”
“They still not answering their phones?”
Bonehead sighed. “Afraid not.”
It looked like the Devil or one of his accomplices had caught up with Lucy, and Dave’s family. He had everything to bargain with, we had nothing-that was, if he was serious about us meeting. The killer was obviously in the process of destroying all traces. The easiest thing for him to do now would be to dispose of his victims and activate his escape plan. I had no doubt that he had one of those worked out to the last detail.
“You there, Matt?”
“Sorry, Pete.” I looked out of the window. Dave and I were driving in convoy past the eastern end of Southwark Park. “All right, go back to your place. We’ll meet you there.”
I called Dave.
“The Devil wants me,” I said, trying to reassure him. “Ginny and the kids will be okay.”
“What about Lucy?” His voice was low and menacing, as it used to be during games when we were getting a pummeling. “What about you? Do you think I’m just going to let you walk into the fucker’s arms?”
I was touched by his concern, but I’d already put Rog and Andy in mortal danger, as well as his family. I wasn’t going to let Dave make any needless sacrifices.
We got back to the gated street in Blackheath and were admitted by the sour-faced guard. Pete arrived a few minutes later. As soon as he let us into the house, I headed for the study and booted up a computer. All I had to go on was the Devil’s last e-mail address. There was no guarantee he would be checking his messages-he was
