'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 The Death List, and found out the identity of her mother by the judicious application of sweet talk and bribery. But I hadn't told the woman who her daughter was.
'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 Syd- enham-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 was about two meters away-too far to charge him. He'd considered throwing the knife-he'd been taught how by one of the King's bodyguards-but he knew he'd be shot before he even let the blade go. He had only one option. Bending over the gasping Albanian, he brought the knife close to his face. Then, with a sharp cry, he fell to the floor like a stone, narrowly missing the blood-drenched body.
Faik lay there, waiting for the bullet. It didn't come. He had made sure that the knife clattered away out of his reach, reckoning that would put the killer off guard.
'Get up!' the man with the gun screamed, his voice suddenly high. 'Get up!'
Faik heard rapid footsteps moving to the dresser, and then toward him. A cork was unplugged and a liquid drenched his head. The smell made him gag. It was some spirit, whisky or rum. Faik didn't drink alcohol-his mother would have disowned him.
A hand sheathed in latex grabbed the back of his collar and he was heaved around. Now he was facing the man. He rolled his eyes, showing the whites. That should convince the bastard that he was out. The problem was, Faik couldn't see while his eyes were like that. He waited a few seconds, then felt the cold metal of the silencer on his forehead. It was time.
Faik lashed sideways with his right arm, making contact with the gun. It flew out of the bearded man's hand. Then he got hold of the bloodstained sports shirt and pulled the fucker down, jerking his body to the side. There was a squelching sound as the man's face landed on the Albanian's lacerated chest. Faik forced himself to his feet, ignoring the pain from his thighs. He swung one foot back and smashed it against the side of his opponent's head. He was only wearing training shoes, but the blow was solid enough. The bearded man fell back onto the Albanian's body farther down.
'Fuck you!' Faik yelled, giving him another kick. Then he reached for the gun and pointed it at the man's head.
Slowly, the face turned toward him. The beard was drenched in blood. 'You don't want to shoot me,' the killer said, his voice soft and enticing. 'We can be friends.'
Faik felt a mixture of repulsion and excitement. He held the gun on him. 'Take it off,' he said, breathing hard. 'Take off the beard.'
The man stared at him and then smiled. 'All right,' he said, struggling to his feet and standing up. He gripped the hairs at the side of his face and gently pulled. The thick covering came away.
'Ah-yeeh!' Faik said, stepping back. What he had seen when the beard had slipped before was only a hint of the full horror. The man's upper lip was in two parts, revealing the pink of the gum beneath. There were livid, raised scars across the cheeks and the chin was irregular and swollen, the skin discolored as if it had been repeatedly punched. 'What happened to you?'
The man touched the flaps of his upper lip with his tongue. Faik could now see that there were small scabs on it, as if the skin had been punctured.
'This?' He laughed softly, the sound incongruous. 'Don't you fancy me now?'
Faik gagged on the bitter liquid that had rushed up his throat. 'Is that…is that why you're doing this?' he
