right.'
'Okay.' There was another pause. 'Hold on, Matt. Maybe the killer's watching me. If your friends show up, he might get even more pissed off.'
He wasn't stupid. It was possible that Sara or some sidekick had him under surveillance. 'What do you propose, Alistair?'
'Let me think,' he said, sounding strangely confident. He was probably having an adrenaline overdose. Being targeted by a serial killer was what every crime writer secretly wanted. I'd felt more alive than ever before when the White Devil was toying with me. 'I'll go home, stay in for a couple of hours, then casually walk out and disappear into the West End. I'll go and stay-'
'Don't tell me!' I yelled. 'Don't tell anyone.' It struck me that I had no idea whether Alistair Bing was married, or what his sexual orientation was. Josh Hinkley would no doubt have told me if he was either gay or a serial shagger. 'Does anyone else live with you?'
'Only my mother.'
So the author of the ultra-hard Jim Cooler books, who must have been in his early forties like I was, lived with his mum. His publishers didn't put that in their press releases. 'Is she mobile?'
'What do you mean?' Bing sounded like I'd insulted his family honor. 'She can walk. She's only seventy.'
'Calm down, Alistair. It's important that she doesn't panic.'
He laughed humorlessly. 'Panic? My mother? She's hard as nails.'
I wondered if he'd based Jim Cooler on her. 'Fair enough. Get her out of London, if you can. Yourself, as well. But don't go together. Otherwise you might put her in danger.'
'Mother can look after herself,' Bing said, almost fatalistically. 'I'm not sure if I'm up to all that.'
'Of course you are, Alistair. Just keep a clear head. Don't tell anyone about this and drop out of circulation.'
'How long for?'
'A few days, I suppose.'
'Should I call you, then? At this number?'
Shit. I'd forgotten to block the caller ID function. 'No,' I said firmly. 'I'll send a text to your cell phone, okay?'
'Okay,' he repeated. 'What about the police? Why aren't you talking to that woman in Scotland Yard? The one you're involved with. What's her name again?'
'Karen Oaten.' I sighed, tired of the accusatory tone accompanying the mention of Karen. 'Look, Alistair, I know Josh has been stirring things up in the Crime Writers' Society. I don't give a fuck about that. I've got my reasons for staying out of touch with the police. If you want to talk to Karen, I can't stop you. But the cops have their ways of doing things and they might antagonize the killer, putting you-and your mother-in even greater danger.'
He thought about that. 'All right, Matt. I'll do as you say. Make sure you text me, though. I can't spend too many days out of the link. People from Hollywood call me all the time, you know.'
Tosser, I thought. 'Look, buy a new cell phone, but use it as sparingly as possible. Have you read my book, The Death List?'
'I can't say I have. Why?'
I wasn't sure I believed him. Every crime writer I knew had read the book out of curiosity. 'In it I describe the sophisticated surveillance the White Devil used. Don't log on to your e-mail provider. Set up a new account with a false name at an Internet cafe.'
'All right.' He gave a weak laugh. 'You're not having me on, are you, Matt?'
Jesus. 'You know what happened to Mary Malone and Sandra Devonish, Alistair? They had something in common with you.'
'What's that?'
'They were both international bestsellers. It may be that they were killed by a jealous crime novelist.'
He wasn't laughing now. 'You mean it isn't her?' he asked. 'The White Devil's sister?'
So much for him not having read my book. 'I don't know,' I said, then realized how feeble that sounded. 'It could be. Now, get yourself organized.'
'Right. 'Bye, Matt. And thanks.' The connection was broken.
I told the others that Brooks was going to duck out of sight.
'So what now?' Andy asked. I looked at him and Pete. 'If you're up for it, you two can check the house in Oxford that Sara bought.' 'Oh, great,' Pete said, with a marked lack of enthusiasm. 'You want to put us in the firing line again. Besides, that city is full of smart-arse students.' 'Fifty percent of them being female,' I said to Andy. 'I rest my case,' Pete said. 'What's your problem, Boney?' I asked. 'What do you think the other fifty percent are?' 'Toffee-nosed gits,' he said. Half an hour later, Pete and Andy left. I looked at my watch. It was coming up to eight-thirty. Three and a half hours to go before I sent the correct answer. How would the killer react? Twenty Karen Oaten was sitting at the head of the table in the conference room on the eighth floor of New Scotland Yard. She was flanked by John Turner and Amelia Browning. Also present were Detective Superintendent Ron Paskin and Detective Inspector Ozal from Homicide East, Detective Chief Inspector Colin Younger from Homicide Central and DI Luke Neville from Homicide West. Just as Oaten was reaching for the phone, Dr. Redrose came in. He offered no apology or explanation for his late arrival.
'Right, let's get started,' Karen Oaten said. 'I've asked you all to this meeting because we need to share insights and ideas. For your information, the assistant commissioner was very keen that we assemble. We have a total of seven murders at different locations across the city and we've got either to establish or rule out a common thread. Yes, DI Neville?'
'Excuse me for asking, but what do gangland killings in the east have to do with my crime-writer murder in Fulham?' He gave Oaten a tight smile. 'Which you've taken over, in any case, so what am I doing here?'
Karen gave him an icy look. 'You can't have it both ways, Inspector. The VCCT may have taken the case, as is our right, but we want to keep Homicide West involved. Are you in or out?'
Neville chewed his lip. 'In.'
'Good,' the chief inspector said. 'Let's see if we can find a connection. Your crime-writer murder, as you call it, came first. Give us your thoughts.'
The pale-faced inspector shrugged. 'Not much to say, really. We've been up and down the street, looking for witnesses. No one apart from the teenager saw anything. It was a filthy night, so they were all keeping warm with their curtains closed. We've checked the CCTV recordings at Fulham Broadway Station and the traffic cameras there. Your man's also had a look. We didn't spot any familiar faces, or anyone who looked suspicious. If there hadn't been the murder of the second crime novelist, I'd have put the Mary Malone killing down to Satanists. The pentagram and the Latin words, the removal of nail- clippings and hairs, and the decapitation of the black cat are all pointers to devil worship, as is the Rolling Stones song.'
'The Satanist angle is bollocks,' John Turner said, glaring at Neville. 'For a start, how many people have devil worshippers killed in London in the last year?' There was silence. 'Correct. A big fat zero. Even more to the point, Satanists usually leave fingerprints all over the place. They also like to empty their bowels and bladders at scenes.'
'Doesn't mean there can't be a careful one,' DI Neville said.
'There were footprints in the garden and in the house, weren't there?' Amelia Browning asked.
Neville nodded. 'Size nines. We checked the sole. It's from a workman's boot that you can buy on any high street.'
'The CSIs managed to lift some prints from the carpet in Wilde's,' DCI Younger put in. 'They reckon it's the same pair as were used in Fulham.'
Oaten nodded. 'Okay, let's move on to the murder of Dave Cummings,' Oaten said. 'Taff, you've got this one.'
The Welshman glanced at the file in front of him. 'We found a witness two streets away from the scene who saw a motorbike being driven fast at around a quarter to eleven, which squares with the time of death. Unfortunately, the witness, who's an elderly lady, couldn't say anything about the bike or the registration number. All she remembers is a figure dressed in black, crouching low.'
'Sounds like a professional hit man,' DCI Younger said.
