“Stay here till I call you,” I said, opening my door. “And remember to pull that cap down low.”
Bonehead reached across and touched my hand. “You can rely on me, Matt,” he said, giving me a vacant smile.
I walked away from the vehicle. He must have been nervous, but he wasn’t showing it. Peter Satterthwaite had hidden depths. But now I had to concentrate on my own job. I could only hope that he and Dave would be able to carry out theirs. I felt tension in my shoulders, but nowhere else. I was as ready as I’d ever be.
Slowing my pace as I approached the left-hand door, I glanced around. There was no sign of anyone. Then I heard the clang of a bolt being drawn and the door slowly swung outward.
“Matt Wells,” came the Devil’s voice. It sounded reedier that it had on the phone. I narrowed my eyes and tried to see in the bright light that was flooding out. I made out a single figure. Could it be that he was on his own, after all? A surge of optimism ran through me.
I went inside, and then heard a noise at the door behind me. The optimism vanished. A figure of medium height wearing gray overalls and a black balaclava was standing there, a wicked-looking, snub-nosed machine pistol pointing at me. I turned to face the Devil.
“As you see, Matt, I am not alone.” He was wearing overalls, too, but his were white. I might have known. The face under an orange safety helmet was clean-shaven. The features were unexceptional, the brown eyes cold and the lips thin. I could see what looked like dyed blond hair above his ears. Then I saw his teeth. Jesus, the canines were pointed like a vampire’s. He, too, was carrying a machine pistol. “But you suspected that, didn’t you?” He glanced beyond me. “Get the other one in here.” He looked back at me. “I take it that’s Dave Cummings in the Jeep.”
I shrugged.
“Nice wheels,” he continued. “Where did you get them?”
“I borrowed them from a friend.” I was relieved to hear that my voice held firm. I turned my head toward the open space at my right. My heart skipped several beats. There was an array of wooden worktables. Secured to them were motionless figures under white sheets. Christ, had he killed them already? I rapidly counted six.
Three were small, clearly children. Lucy…
“Don’t worry,” the Devil said. “They’re not dead.” He smiled slackly. “Yet.”
I resisted the urge to run at him.
“What have you done to them?” I demanded. “Is Lucy there? Sara? Caroline?”
“All in good time, Matt,” he said. His voice was almost accentless, but I picked up a hint of Cockney. He was back in his old haunts now. “What have you got in your pockets, by the way?” He raised the gun to my upper chest. “Empty them.”
“All right,” I said, dropping to the floor screwdrivers, a torch, the Luger and various other bits of junk Dave had given me. I was hoping he wasn’t going to subject me to a body search-I had one of Peter’s kitchen knives in my belt under my jacket. I needed to distract him, and quickly. “Ah, I get it. You want the story of your life so far to end where it began, don’t you? That’s why we’re back in Bethnal Green, Lawrence. Or should I say Leslie?”
There was the sound of footsteps.
The Devil was looking beyond me again. “Welcome to the party, Dave,” he said, his expression growing suspicious. “Take his hat off.”
The figure in the balaclava flipped the baseball cap off Bonehead’s shaved skull.
The Devil’s eyes knifed into mine. “Where’s Dave Cummings, Matt?” he demanded. He moved quickly to the first worktable and yanked the sheet from the figure on it. It was Ginny. Her face was a real mess. “I can kill his wife in a matter of seconds.” He slung the machine pistol over his shoulder and took a double-edged knife from his pocket. “Where is he?”
I heard the shrill note of panic in my tormentor’s voice. Dave’s tactics were paying off.
“He…he wouldn’t come,” I said, playing my part as best I could. “He was too scared.”
The Devil laughed. It was a humorless, chilling sound. “Dave Cummings was a paratrooper, Matt. Did you think I didn’t know that?”
“Did you also know he left the regiment after the first Gulf War?”
“Yes, I did,” he countered.
“And do you know why?”
The Devil’s eyes were suddenly less certain. “Tell me,” he ordered.
“He was serving in Iraq,” I said, relating the story I’d agreed upon with Dave. “He refused a direct order to go into action, so he was kicked out. They didn’t mention anything about cowardice because he had a good record up to then.”
For a few moments I thought the Devil wasn’t going to buy it. That wouldn’t have surprised me. If he’d done his research, he’d have discovered that Dave had been mentioned in dispatches twice when he was in the Paras, though his SAS service was classified. The reality was that he’d been helicoptered into Iraq before Desert Storm and had single-handedly knocked out an Iraqi guardpost.
“All right,” the Devil said. “I suspected there might be uninvited guests. Who have you brought to replace him? Kojak?”
“Up yours, shithead!” Bonehead yelled. Immediately the guy in the overalls smashed the butt of the machine pistol into his belly and dropped him to the floor.
“This is Peter Satterthwaite,” I said. “Another friend.”
“I hope he wasn’t in the Paras.” The Devil laughed. “It doesn’t much look like he was.”
I looked at the sheet-covered figures. “Can I see Lucy?”
“Just wait, Matt,” the Devil said, raising the hand that wasn’t holding the knife.
“First you’d better see who you’re up against.” He turned his head. “You can come out now, Number Two.” He gave a dry laugh. “Here’s my Dr. Watson.”
I watched as another figure in gray overalls appeared on the far side of the tables. This one was also wearing a balaclava and carrying a machine pistol. My heart began to beat faster as the figure came nearer. There was something familiar about the gait, something very familiar…
“All right,” the Devil said, a wide smile spreading across his thin lips. “Show him who you are.”
The figure nodded and then raised a hand. It seemed to me that whoever it was deliberately moved slowly. Finally the top of the balaclava was grasped and pulled upward.
I felt my breath freeze in my throat.
The person in the overalls was Dave Cummings.
33
D.S. Paul Pavlou went to the corner of the ops room and called a number on his mobile. “I’ve got something,” he said in a low voice.
“Shoot,” Wolfe said.
“Wood supply depot in Bethnal Green. It’s under the name of our man’s mother.”
“Give me the address.” Pavlou did so, hearing the team leader repeat it, and then the sound of an engine being gunned. “Are your lot on the way?”
“Not yet. I haven’t reported the location.”
“Hold off for a bit. We won’t need long.”
Pavlou swallowed nervously. “There better not be another dismembered corpse.”
“We’ll do what we have to do. Your debt is paid.”
Pavlou put his phone back in his pocket. He felt queasy, but also relieved. The weight of his uncle’s obligation to the old soldier Jimmy Tanner had been passed to him by his mother, his Cypriot father being kept unaware of it. At last a few seconds of heroism under Argentinian fire in the South Atlantic had been canceled out.
But at what cost in blood?
I was so shocked that I couldn’t move. Dave, one of the Devil’s sidekicks? It was impossible. What about his family? Ginny was lying unconscious. Who else was under the sheets?
