identification.'
'Just plain clothes,' I said. Mrs. Carlton-Jones didn't miss much. 'I won't beat about the bush,' I said. 'It's come to our attention that your daughter has returned to London.'
'My daughter?' she said, her eyes wide. 'I. My husband and I didn't have children.'
'I'm aware of that,' I said. 'But you did, before you met Mr. Carlton-Jones.'
Now she looked upset. There were beads of sweat on her brow and she started rubbing her hands together. 'I. Yes, I did,' she said, looking down.
'Contrary to what you told Inspector Jansen,' I said harshly. 'Let's stop these games, Mrs. Carlton-Jones. It's in the public domain. We've made the connection to Leslie Dunn, the White Devil. His twin sister, your daughter Sara Robbins, is wanted for murder, conspiracy to murder, kidnapping and malicious wounding, as well as fleeing a crime scene. I have a simple question for you.'
'I know what it is,' the elderly woman said, her voice querulous, 'and the answer is no, I haven't seen her.'
I was watching her carefully. She was pretty convincing, but I needed more, and needed to seem authoritative. 'Then you'll have no objection if I search the house.'
She met my gaze. 'Shouldn't you have a warrant for that?'
'I should, and I will get one if necessary, though failure to cooperate won't do you any favors. If you allow me to check the house, I can be out of here in a matter of minutes and it'll be the last you hear of it.' I gave her what I hoped was an encouraging smile.
'Oh, very well,' she said. 'Go where you like.'
I stood up. 'Thank you, Mrs. Carlton-Jones,' I said, raising a hand. 'Please don't get up. I'd prefer to do this on my own.' I looked around the room, then moved to the rear, where a door led into the kitchen. I opened cupboard doors and ran my eye over the fridge door for any sign of messages from Sara. There was nothing. I checked the drawers, too, in case there was a concealed weapon. There were kitchen knives, but that was all.
I went out of the door that opened on to the hall. There was a cupboard under the stairs-it was full of boxes and a vacuum cleaner. Moving upstairs, I glanced out of the window on the side of the house. I couldn't see Andy. There were four doors on the first floor, two of them open. The front room must have been the main bedroom, a double bed with an embroidered cover neatly spread over it. There was a photo of Doris Carlton-Jones with a smiling bald man, presumably her dead husband. She looked reserved. I wondered if there had ever been a time when she wasn't troubled by the children she gave away in the first days of their lives. The woman looked at least ten years younger in the shot, so it had been taken long before the White Devil and Sara became the focus of frenzied tabloid attention. I tried to imagine what it must have felt like to know that your children were vicious killers. I shivered as Lucy's face flashed before me. My beautiful daughter was in hiding because of the woman downstairs's child. Strangely, I didn't feel anger, but sorrow. I told myself to get a grip. Sara might be waiting for me down the hall.
I took out my pistol and walked to the first door. I touched the handle, then opened the door quickly. Inside, both hands gripping my weapon, I pointed it at the corners, one by one, as Dave had taught us. Nobody. The room was a study, a computer on a desk and rows of books on the shelves. It didn't take me long to find The Death List. The spine showed it had been opened frequently. My photo was on the back cover. That put me on my toes. I went toward the next door, glancing into the bathroom to be sure it was empty. I breathed in and followed the procedure again when I flung the door open. This room too was unoccupied. The duvet on the single bed was plumped and perfectly aligned. I slid a hand underneath. It was stone cold. Back on the landing, I looked up at the ceiling. There was a panel in a wooden frame. I took the chair from the study and stood on it. I was in an awkward position, because I couldn't cover more than one angle with my pistol. There was nothing for it. I pushed the panel up and aside, then looked around. Apart from the water tank and a lot of insulating material, the space was empty.
I put the panel and chair back, and went downstairs, pistol back in my jacket. Mrs. Carlton-Jones was waiting for me.
'Satisfied?' she asked brusquely. Clearly she was no longer shaken. 'Chief Inspector, I can assure you that if I saw Sara Robbins, I would tell the police immediately. I know what she looks like, thanks to the photographs that were all over the newspapers and TV channels.' She shook her head. 'And that awful book her lover wrote.'
I tried not to look embarrassed and was glad she hadn't recognized me. It was suddenly obvious how much pain The Death List had caused. I remembered what Karen had said, about the book being a Faustian pact. I'd arrogantly signed up to write it, oblivious to the feelings of others- not just of Sara's birth mother, but of the families whose members the White Devil had slaughtered. Maybe some stories were better left untold.
I thanked Mrs. Carlton-Jones.
As she closed the door, she said, 'I hope we won't meet again.'
I walked away, feeling like a leper. Then I saw Andy appear from behind the garage. His expression was grim and he was carrying what looked very much like a human skull.
Faik Jabar had found a heap of old clothes outside a charity shop in Stoke Newington. They didn't smell too good, but neither did he. In a dank alleyway, he stripped off his trousers, gasping as the fabric came away from the wounds on his legs. The trousers were an old man's, the bottoms flapping above his trainers, and the ancient tan duffel coat was tight across his shoulders. At least the pistol he'd taken from his tormentor fitted into one of the inside pockets. Head down, Faik walked out on to the pavement and headed west. He had no money, so he couldn't use public transport. Walking was the only option. It took him three hours to get to Soho.
The strip joints and massage parlors were open, but there wasn't much activity. At the first one he tried, a thick-set muscle-man told him to go fuck himself, there were no Albanians there. But he struck lucky at the next one. He went upstairs, following the signs to!Sexy Susie's Sauna EtSEXera! When he asked for Safet Shkrelli, the bottle blonde, who must have been older than his mother, told him to wait.
A thin man with a pencil mustache, wearing a grubby suit, came out to meet him. 'What does a piece of crap like you want with Mr. Shkrelli?' he demanded, eyeing the young man and wrinkling his nose. 'What are you? A Turk?'
'Kurd,' replied Faik. 'Tell him I know where his missing numbers man is.'
The man raised an eyebrow, then took out his cell phone. He spoke rapidly in a language like no other Faik had ever heard. When he'd finished, he smiled insincerely. 'Mr. Shkrelli would like to see you. Come downstairs when I call.' He headed for the street.
A few minutes later, Faik heard his voice again. When he reached the main door, he saw a black Mercedes at the curb, its engine idling and the nearside rear door open. His weapon was taken by a gorilla. Faik thought of what had happened the last time he'd got into a gang member's car, but he didn't hesitate. Someone had to stop the bitch with the devil's face who had set the gangs at each others' throats, and Safet Shkrelli was the best bet, probably the only bet.
Neither the man from the sauna nor the heavily-built driver spoke to him. They went north, but after King's Cross he was told to put his head between his knees. He felt the point of a knife in his side, so he obeyed. He preferred not to know where Shkrelli lived.
After what Faik thought was about twenty minutes, the car drove over gravel and stopped. He was told to stay as he was, then a door opened and a black hood was pulled over his head. He was led inside, tripping on steps. It seemed they walked for a long time before he was pushed into a seat and the hood tugged off.
Faik blinked and took in a large, young-looking man with close-cropped black hair. He was sitting behind an enormous desk.
'I'm Safet Shkrelli,' the man said, picking up a silver revolver with pearl handles. 'Tell me why I shouldn't shoot you right now.'
'You know why,' Faik replied. His voice was steady; he had nothing to lose. 'I can take you to your numbers man.'
'Where is he?'
Faik shook his head slowly. 'I take you there,' he repeated. 'Then you protect me.'
Shkrelli thought about that. 'Is he alive?' he asked.
'He was when I last saw him-just.'
'What happened to him?'
'I'll tell you when we get there.'
The muzzle of the weapon was suddenly pointing at Faik's face. 'Are you setting me up, boy?' the Albanian
