'Who's in charge from Central?' Oaten asked as she pulled on a set of protective clothing and gloves.
'DCI Younger.'
'Could be worse.' When she was ready, she followed the Welshman up the stairs. CSIs had run tape down one half and were examining the floor and banisters for prints.
They came out into the third-floor corridor, black-and- white geometric paintings mounted on the pale pink wallpaper. The victim's suite-the Windermere-was first on the left, a large Japanese fan spread open and mounted on the gray door. As they went in, they met Dr. Redrose on his way out.
'Ah, the chief of the elite,' he said, jowls wobbling. 'I was wondering when you'd make an appearance.'
Karen gave him a dispassionate look. 'Going somewhere, Doctor?'
'I'm finished,' Redrose said, one hand on his protruding stomach. 'A simple case. One stab wound to the heart, a smooth, two-edged blade. The murderer is right-handed, probably not as tall as the victim, who is fractionally over six feet, and the time of death was after 11:00 p.m. according to the body temperature, though I gather the poor woman placed a room-service order at eleven fifty-three and the waiter found her at ten past twelve, so you already have a tight window.'
'Hello, Chief Inspector,' said a gray-haired man with a curiously boyish face.
'Ditto, Colin,' Oaten said, looking around the spacious suite.
There was a pair of cocktail glasses and a tray on the floor near the door, and some damp patches on the puce carpet. Beyond them, the body of a tall woman with short blond hair, wearing what looked like a black cowboy outfit, lay on the floor. Her arms were at exact right angles to her torso and her legs were straight, the heels of her boots touching. Her shirt was stained with blood. Her eyelids were wide apart and her mouth open, as if in utter astonishment.
'The shape of the cross,' Younger said, in a faint Scottish accent.
Karen Oaten nodded. 'No sign of a pentagram?'
'Like the author who was killed in Fulham?' The chief inspector shook his head. 'No.'
'Maybe this was all the bastard had time to do,' John Turner said.
Oaten nodded. 'What about the message?'
Younger handed her a transparent evidence bag. 'It was lying over her face.'
The words 'Ask Matt Wells about this' were written in capitals, in blue ink. Oaten's expression remained impassive.
'Turn it over,' Younger said.
She did so and saw the words 'FECIT DIABOLUS' in red ink. Whoever had spoken to Amelia Browning had failed to mention that.
'It's the same killer,' Turner said.
'Given that we didn't release the Latin words to the press, I'd say there's a good chance of that, Taff,' Oaten said. She looked at Younger. 'I gather no one saw anything.'
He shrugged. 'Someone must have seen the killer. All the exits are alarmed, so he-or she-must have come in through the main entrance. The problem is, the bar was busy and it would have been easy to slip in unnoticed. We're talking to everyone who was in the building when we arrived. We'll narrow it down and get a description.' He frowned. 'If you don't take the case from us.'
Oaten glanced at Taff. 'We're taking it-it's clearly linked to the Mary Malone case. We'll have to take that, too. I'll talk to your super. I'd like your team to stay on the case. Taff here will act as liaison.'
Younger's face flushed. 'So we do the hard graft and you get the glory?'
Oaten shook her head. 'You know I don't work like that, Colin. Give me a break, for Christ's sake. Apart from these murders, we've got the shooting south of the river, plus what looks like the makings of a major gang war in East London. I'm asking for your help. Don't make me show my teeth.'
Younger pursed his lips, and then nodded. 'Fair enough.'
'What's the victim's name?' Oaten asked.
'Obviously we haven't had a formal identification yet, but the books over there have got her photo on them. We also found her passport. She's Sandra Lee-Anne Devon- ish, born San Antonio, Texas, on January 15th, 1970. According to the back of the books, she's one of the world's highest-selling crime novelists.'
Karen Oaten felt a chill finger stir in her gut. Another crime writer. She was certain Matt knew something about the case. The message that Sara or whoever killed Sandra Devonish had left on the body suggested there had been some kind of communication. Where the hell was Matt when his fellow crime writer was being stabbed with such frightening precision?
'What was the music?' she asked, coming back to herself.
'Sorry?' Younger had also been lost in thought. 'Oh, yes. According to my sergeant, who knows about rock- I only listen to the classics-it's a song called 'Friend of the Devil' by the Grateful Dead.'
Karen Oaten grunted. The tabloid papers would love that. Fifteen I couldn't stay in my hotel room any longer. The thought that someone was being killed because of my failure to crack the clue drove me onto the streets of Bloomsbury. I brushed past a kid who asked for money, provoking justified abuse. I walked around the quiet streets and lost track of time. Eventually, in front of the British Museum, I looked up at the neo-classical facade and tried to get a grip. The shouts of some pissed students brought me back to reality. There were people laughing and enjoying themselves, but I had put myself beyond the boundaries of ordinary humanity. I had tried to take on a killer and someone else had paid for my arrogance.
I found a public phone and called Karen's cell phone.
'Matt,' she said in a low voice, 'where are you?'
'Never mind. There's been a murder, hasn't there?'
'How did you know that?' she demanded. 'Where are you? I need you to come in.' Her tone was icy.
'Who was it?' I asked, desperate to know whose name had been concealed in the clue.
'When I see you, I'll tell you,' she replied. 'One thing you might like to know now, though-there was a message on the body. The Devil did it, in Latin, as in Mary Malone's garden.'
'Shit,' I said. Had Sara struck again so quickly?
'That's not all it said.'
Something about her tone made me instantly apprehensive. The White Devil had tried to frame me several times.
'Suddenly you've gone all quiet,' she said ironically. 'The killer also wrote 'Ask Matt Wells about this.' So, I'm asking.'
'You know I didn't kill anyone.'
'So why should I tell you who the victim was?' She had obviously had it with me.
'Tell me who it was, Karen. Please.'
'Screw you, Matt,' she hissed. 'Who do you think you are? Why should I share information with you when all you do is disappear so you can run your personal campaign?'
I took a deep breath. 'Because I'm the only person who can catch Sara. When it comes to the crisis point, I'll be the bait she can't resist.'
'And how many people have to die before you eventually play that heroic part?'
My stomach somersaulted as I realized she would have seen the number I was calling from on her screen. If she'd got someone to find the phone booth's location, a car full of cops could be on its way as we spoke.
'I'm hanging up, Karen. Last chance to tell me the name. You know I can make good use of it.'
'Do I?' she said, the anger in her voice replaced by what sounded like regret. 'Maybe I did once. But you're flailing about now, Matt. Come in, for God's sake.'
'The name, Karen.'
There was a pause before she spoke again. 'It'll be on the news soon enough. Sandra Devonish.'
I broke the connection and ran for my hotel. I stopped a couple of times to check that there was no one on my tail. Either I'd got away in time or Karen hadn't traced the number. I wasn't taking any chances about where I spent the rest of the night. I went up to my room, packed up the laptop and the rest of my gear and went out past the dozing night porter.
Back on the street, I saw a cab and hailed it.
'Where to, squire?' the driver asked.
I told him to drive toward Victoria and thought about it. Getting out of London was tempting, but I needed to
