“Yes, sweetie?”
“Do you think Happy will come back from the dog hospital?”
I looked down at her freckled features and squeezed her hand. “Of course she will.”
“It’s just…” She paused and I heard a tiny sob.
“What is it, darling?” I said, bending down.
“It’s just, Martin Swallow’s dog got ill and he never…he never came home.” Her eyes had filled with tears.
I gave her a hug and tried to comfort her. While I was telling her lies about Happy’s imminent return, anger coursed through me. That bastard. He was already screwing up my daughter’s life. What would happen when Caroline and Shami had to come clean about Happy having gone for good? One way or another, I was going to get back at him.
The rage was still in me when I got back to the flat. I’d only been in for a couple of minutes when the phone rang.
“’Morning, Matt.” The White Devil’s voice was jaunty. “Ready to start writing my life story?”
I swallowed hard and tried not to show any emotion. “I’m ready.” It seemed that his proposition really was that I tell his story for him.
“Good. Turn on your computer. You’ll find plenty of information. Read it and see what you think. Then do what you’re good at. Don’t worry, I don’t want a biography. I want you to turn what I’ve done into the best crime story ever written. Add whatever you think is necessary, but don’t take anything out. And make sure it’s in the first person, okay? I, I, I.” He gave a dry laugh. “I’m a reasonable man, Matt. Do me ten thousand words in a week and I’ll send you another five grand. You’ll get more information every day.” He broke off. “And, Matt, remember the ground rule. Don’t tell anyone.” His voice was harsher. “You’ll never know when I’m watching or when I’m listening. Just like you’ll never know if I decide to make a move on Lucy or anyone else you care about.”
The line went dead. I hit 1471 and was told that the caller’s number was unavailable. Shit. Then I realized that he’d used my restricted landline. How had he found that number?
I booted up my computer and checked my e-mails. As the Devil had said, there was a message from WD1578, with an attachment. 1578. I knew what he meant-1578 was taken as the date of John Webster’s birth by many scholars. I copied the attached text to my hard disk and opened it.
Jesus. The guy-he didn’t name his family-had been beaten regularly by his father and sodomized by his local priest. By the time he was nine, he was an accomplished shoplifter, fencing his loot to fund his collection of model tanks and soldiers. But that was only the beginning. When I got to the end, I discovered that he’d killed his old man by pushing him off the third floor of a partially completed building. He’d been twelve when he did that.
I felt the blood run cold in my veins.
A strange thing happened as I got down to work on the Devil’s material. It was as if a curtain had been raised in my mind. For the past three months, I’d been clutching in the dark for a plot for my next novel. Suddenly it seemed that I could see things clearly, like at the beginning of a play. I could see the backdrop-Bethnal Green and its run-down tower blocks-and the characters had appeared on the stage: the pedophile priest, the bullying father, the quiet and loving mother. And in the center was the White Devil himself, small and devious, his spite and viciousness concealed.
And then I understood why he’d chosen to call himself that. The White Devil was a play in which evil and guilt were hidden under the guise of courtly manners. White Devils were hypocrites, corrupt evildoers lurking beneath layers of apparent probity. That was how the bastard had got away with the murder of his father. No one had suspected that the quiet altar boy could have stood up to a drunken laborer, let alone push him to his death.
I felt the quickening of breath I used to have when I hit on a plot that I knew I could turn into a decent book. It had been a couple of years since that had happened. Maybe Caroline was right. I’d constructed a comfort zone with my Albanian books, writing stuff that interested me and not much caring what readers might want. But this had the ring of credibility about it; this was cut from the rough fabric of life rather than the tissue of my imagination.
As happened when things were going well, I made fast progress. In the past, I’d thought about books for months before I started writing-wrangling about who was going to tell the story, what the relationships between the characters would be, what theme I wanted to tackle. But in the last Sir Tertius book, that had all come together without much advance planning. I’d just sat down, scribbled a few notes and started writing. That was also what happened with the Devil’s story. By the time I went to pick up Lucy, I’d written the first chapter. It ended with the antihero I was calling Wayne Deakins (the initials WD being significant) knocking his father out in the living room. Before I left, I backed up what I’d written onto a diskette. Then it occurred to me that I should have copied all of the Devil’s messages, too. I’d do that later.
Christ, was I really going to get a publishable novel out of the lunatic’s life? Then I remembered how deep the Devil had his claws in me. He was obviously as mad as the avenging killers in Webster’s play.
What chance did I have of exiting the final scene upright?
I had to think on my feet when I took Lucy back to Ferndene Road after school.
Shami Rooney was sitting in the front room next door. I knew she’d taken the day off work because of Happy. She stood up as soon as we opened the gate and came out.
“Matt?” she said, her voice taut. “Can I have a word?”
Before I could reply, she was on her way round. I took Lucy into the dining room and sat her at the piano.
“What’s up?” I said over my shoulder. “Yes, practice the one about the crocodile, darling.”
Shami beckoned me out into the hall.
“You were here during the day yesterday,” she said, stating a fact rather than asking a question.
I managed to hold her gaze. “What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Stewart in number eight says she saw your Volvo when she was having her lunch. You know she always sits in the bow window looking out over the park.”
My gut twisted as I remembered that detail. Mrs. Stewart was a sour-faced old widow who disapproved of anyone who didn’t buy the Daily Mail. She particularly disapproved of people who got divorced, although I was the only one in my family she took that out on-apparently Caroline was guiltless in the matter. The reason she sat staring at Ruskin Park was so she could rush out and berate anyone who didn’t clean up after their dog. Christ. I wondered how much she’d seen.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, giving Shami a slack smile. “I did pop round. I was picking up some cases of books that I left in the attic.” There was an element of truth in that. I was hoping that Caroline wouldn’t go and check out my story, because the cases were all still there. I was getting better at lying to order, but there was still room for improvement.
“You didn’t see Happy?” Shami asked. She was a decent woman, plump with a sweet face, and I didn’t like what I was doing. Then again, if I told her what had really happened to her dog, she’d have a fit.
I shook my head. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t. I thought she was inside.”
The uncertain notes from the piano stopped.
“Daddy?” Lucy called. “Has Happy come back from the dog hospital?”
Shami and I exchanged glances, and then her eyes filled with tears. I touched her shoulder.
“Just a minute, sweetie,” I said.
“I have to go,” Shami said, swallowing a sob. “I need to stay by the phone. We’ve put ads in the papers.” She hurried out.
I watched her leave, thinking that I’d better make sure Lucy didn’t see the papers. I felt like a callous bastard. Then it struck me: maybe that was exactly what the Devil wanted.
I had to retain as much of my own nature as I could if I was going to survive this.