for aristocrats even more than for the common hordes. Inheriting property was the norm for his class. Keeping the banks happy was much less common.
He sipped the distinctly average tawny port and nodded at the old idiot across the table. Inbreeding had done the aristocracy no favors. At least the earl didn’t have to worry on that score. He had inherited his family’s devotion to the black arts, as well as the considerable talents required to treat with the order’s acolytes.
He got up and went to the room he always took. It was on the top floor, in what would originally have been the servants’ quarters, but he liked it because it reminded him of his house at school. When he had been a student, the head prefect had demanded the use of his mouth and backside. He had prayed for salvation-not to the feeble god the school worshipped in chapel every morning, but to the Lord Beneath the Earth. His father had given him the order’s archives to study before he went to senior school. His prayers, or rather the replies to them, had worked. The prefect slipped outside his room and fell down the stairs, breaking his neck. The fact that the earl had rubbed soap on the floorboards was not noticed, the police being admitted to the school only on sufferance.
That had been his first death dedicated to the Lord Beneath. There had been countless others since, and it wouldn’t be long until the next one.
The earl picked up his cell phone and made a call to one of the order’s most devoted supplicants.
Twenty-One
“Bugger,” Rog said, his fingers tapping rapidly on the keyboard.
I went over. “What is it?”
“Hang on.” His eyes were locked on the screen, as he scrolled down rows of numbers and letters. “That was close. You almost lost everything in your new account.”
“What?”
“Sara’s hired someone red-hot. I got there in time, but only because I’d programed an alert code. All the money I transferred from Sara’s accounts was about to go out again.”
I slapped him on the shoulder. “Well done, Dodger. Sara knows we’re on to her.”
He nodded. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? But are Pete and Andy safe at her place in Oxford?”
“I’ll send a text warning them to be even more careful.” After I’d done that, I looked back at Rog. “So is that account secure now?”
“I’ve built a massive firewall and I’ve also alerted the bank’s security department-anonymously, of course. I don’t think Sara’s hacker will get in again.”
“She’s not going to be happy that I’ve got her money,” I said, wondering what that might drive her to.
“Matt?” Rog said. “Why did you warn that Alistair Bing guy? You solved the clue. When you send the answer at midnight, he should be off the hook.”
“You’re right,” I replied. “He should be-if you’re prepared to trust a murderer who sends puzzles.”
“Got you,” he said, looking around at me. “That tosser Hinkley’s got to you, hasn’t he?”
“Yes. Jeremy Andrewes, too. When this is finished, I’m going to have a serious conversation with that pair.”
“What about Karen?”
I stepped away, unwilling to discuss that-not because I wanted to keep Rog out of the loop, but because I wasn’t sure how to handle her. If I contacted her by phone or e-mail, she’d have to respond officially, which would get me nowhere. But trying to see her would be risky, as well as putting her in a difficult position. She’d probably try to arrest me for my own protection.
“All right, don’t tell me,” Rog said. “I only thought you might want my help since I’m such a stellar performer with women.”
I laughed. Rog wasn’t unattractive, but he’d never been able to hold a woman’s attention, never mind affections, for more than a few weeks-that was, if he managed to pull in the first place. He and Andy were at opposite ends of that spectrum.
“How are we going to nail Sara, Matt?” he asked, his tone serious. “Pete and Andy aren’t going to find her in Oxford. If she’s there, who’s doing the murders in London?”
“It’s only an hour by car or train.”
“Or motorbike,” he said.
“What?”
“Remember the biker that Andy saw outside her mother’s place?”
“Shit,” I said, shaking my head in disgust. How could I have forgotten Doris Carlton-Jones?
“He said the biker was trying to give the old woman something.”
“That’s right. I wonder what it was.”
“Do you think she’s been in contact with Sara? Or vice versa?”
I considered that. Sara could have found out who her birth mother was. She had that right, though she’d have had to find a way into the adoption agency’s database rather than present herself in person-that would have been dangerous, given her status as a wanted woman. If she’d hired a geek who could empty bank accounts, the same specimen could easily have traced her birth mother. The question was, had Doris Carlton-Jones met her daughter? I’d mentioned that Sara and the White Devil had been adopted in
“There’s only one way to find out,” I said, looking at my watch. It was coming up to ten. “But it’s too late for a visit tonight. The deadline’s coming up.”
“It’s probably a long shot, anyway. Do you think the cops know about her?”
He had me there. I hadn’t told Karen the woman’s name, but she might have followed the trail from the newspapers without telling me. Given that the motorbike rider had shot out Andy’s windscreen, I didn’t think there were any police personnel watching the house in Sydenham-they’d have shown themselves. Maybe Mrs. Carlton- Jones had been in touch with the real police about the shooting. It was possible that Andy and I had made her suspicious.
“And the answer is?” Rog said, cupping his hand around his ear.
“Sorry, mate, I was just thinking it through. Frankly, I don’t know. We’ll go and talk to her tomorrow.”
I sat down in front of my laptop and tried to think of all the possible consequences of sending the name Adrian Brooks at midnight.
Faik Jabar looked at the man on the floor. His head was a bloody pulp and his bare chest was covered in long knife cuts. He was still breathing, but there was a rattle in his throat and he was mumbling incoherently.
“Do it,” the bearded man said, pointing the silenced pistol at Faik’s groin. He smiled crookedly.
Faik looked at the knife he was holding. It was dripping blood. The Albanian had gabbled information about his family’s business after the bearded man set up a camcorder on a tripod. Then he had been beaten with a hammer and slashed with a combat knife. Faik’s captor had taken off his chains. His wounded thighs were in agony because of the wounds and the urine that had soaked into his trousers. Now his captor had given him the knife and told him to cut off the Albanian’s nose. When Faik objected, saying he thought the man was to be ransomed, the bearded man gave a sharp laugh and pointed to the camera. Then he turned it off.
“I will send them the disk and they will prepare payment. He will be alive when I set him free, but that doesn’t mean he has to be a complete man.”
Faik swallowed. He felt like a small boy who had strayed into adult business. The muzzle of the gun was pointed at his crotch and it didn’t waver.
“I’ll shoot you there and leave you to die,” the bearded man said. “You know I’m capable of it. Think how much nicer things will be when you’ve done what I want. I can make things very…enjoyable for you.”
The sexual tone turned Faik’s stomach. He’d been forced to watch his captor maim the victim. The idea of performing sexual acts with him was horrible. Faik knew he had to fight back. He took a deep breath and looked past the gun.
“All right,” he said, blinking hard as he got to his feet and stepped closer to the Albanian. He had the knife in his right hand and he knew he would only get one chance. He had calculated the distance. The man with the beard
