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I looked up at the sky, pale blue dotted with cotton-wool clouds, and worked through what this meant for me. I now knew where the priest had worked, and the names of two of his victims. It wouldn’t be difficult to find out the names of other boys who had attended St. Peter’s. In fact, it would be very easy. I wondered if the White Devil was indirectly challenging me to discover who he was. He must have known that the priest’s background would come out. Was he relying on the fact that I would be too frightened for Lucy and Sara to take any steps? I lowered my eyes and looked around. Apart from some women with buggies and toddlers, there was no one in the vicinity. But the Devil-or someone working for him-could be watching from the bushes, waiting for me to make a wrong move. I wasn’t prepared to do that, especially now that I was about to have Lucy with me.

But later? Maybe I would try to contact the men who’d been interviewed. One of them ran a tool shop in Carlisle now, while the other had a fruit and vegetable stall on the Roman Road-Harry Winder was his name. Then I had a thought that made me sit up. Could he be the Devil? Or could Andrew Lough, the hardware man in the north? I examined their photographs. Winder was tall, thickset and balding, a family man with four children, while Lough was in a wheelchair suffering from early-onset multiple sclerosis. Neither of them were likely candidates, though I couldn’t rule them out. In any case, they would probably remember the names of other boys.

My mobile phone rang. No number was displayed on the screen.

“Hello, Matt.” It was the White Devil. “Enjoying the papers?”

“Where are you?” I said, standing up and turning round 360 degrees. I could see no one speaking on a phone.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He chuckled, but there was no warmth in his voice. “So now you know about the good father’s dirty past. What are you going to do? Dash off down the Roman and talk to Harry Winder? Ring up Andy Lough? I didn’t know he had MS. Still, he always was a bit of a tosser.”

Bastard. He was way ahead of me.

“Matt? You’ve gone all quiet.”

“What do you want?”

“Oh, just passing the time of day. Have you written up the bully episode?”

“Yes. I’ll send it to you later.”

“You are doing well. Another chapter and you’ll be in line for the next cash payment.”

“I don’t want your filthy money.”

“Oh, yes, you do.” The Devil’s tone hardened. “That’s our agreement, remember?” He gave a dry laugh. “Besides, you never know. You might catch me when I deliver it.”

“What the fuck are you playing at?” I shouted, getting a sharp look from a woman with a small girl. I lowered my voice. “Are you trying to frame me? Did you have to kill the priest the way you did?”

“That was a token of my admiration for your books,” he replied smoothly. “You shouldn’t go putting ideas in people’s heads, Matt. Yes, you’re right to be concerned. One anonymous call to Scotland Yard and you become suspect number one.”

“Oh, bollocks,” I said, trying to play tough. “Who’s going to believe that a crime novelist would go around murdering people the way he does in his books? Not even the police are that thick.”

“Don’t panic, Matt. Remember, you’ve got an alibi.” He paused. “Of course, you could have hired someone else to do your dirty work. That happens in your books, too.”

“Screw you,” I said under my breath.

“Careful,” the Devil replied, his tone sharp again. “Your alibi would disappear if I decided to make a move on Sara.”

I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. “You-” I broke off when I realized the danger of provoking him further.

“Now, go off like a good daddy and pick up Lucy, Matt. I’m looking forward to the piece you’ve written. I know you’re enjoying this project. It’s right up your street, isn’t it?”

I didn’t answer.

“Isn’t it?”

“I suppose I have an interest in revenge, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean, all right, Matt. You’re no different from me. Oh, in case you were thinking of it, don’t bother checking up on my background in the East End.” He laughed. “Priests aren’t the only people who can get new identities. And priests aren’t the only people who die in agony for their sins.”

He rang off.

I shivered. The threat was clear. I was no nearer to him than when he’d first contacted me. But, as he’d just shown, he was very close to me and the ones I loved. Then an alternative meaning of his last words struck me. Jesus, was he lining up to murder someone else? Was he going to use another of the methods from my novels?

I didn’t know what to do.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder when I was in the playground waiting for Lucy. I whipped my head round, my eyes wide.

“Christ, Matt, what’s up?”

“Sorry, mate.” I slapped my friend Dave Cummings on the arm. “Don’t go creeping up on people.” I nodded to Ginny, who was hanging back as if she didn’t want to intrude. Her face was pale, but her eyes were fixed on her husband with a mixture of boredom and dislike. I’d begun to wonder how their marriage survived.

He eyed me dubiously. “Are you all right? You don’t look too good.”

“Not enough sleep,” I said, yawning.

Dave grinned. He was a Yorkshireman, of medium height but heavily built. His nose had been broken so many times that the surgeons could do nothing but shape it into a ragged slalom. He used to be a useful scrum-half with a turn of speed that brought us a lot of scores. “New book on the go?”

“Yeah,” I replied listlessly.

“Got a contract?”

“Not yet.”

“You should get a real job, mate.” He ran his hand over his thick brown hair.

All the time I’d known him, he’d worn it short at the front and long at the back in the much-mocked mullet style-he said he’d missed his chance when he was young.

“What, like yours?” Dave was an ex-paratrooper. He had a reputation for barely restrained ferocity on the field and his club nickname was Psycho. He was equally forceful in his business. He ran a demolition company and took great pleasure in operating the machines himself whenever he could.

“What’s wrong with my line of work?” he said, squaring up to me with mock aggression. “At least I don’t sit around making things up all day.”

I wished that was what I was engaged in at present. “What are you doing here, anyway? Have you knocked down every old building south of the river?”

He gave me another manic grin. “No. I gave myself the afternoon off. I’m taking Tom go-karting.”

“Don’t get behind the controls yourself, you lunatic.”

He laughed and slapped his gut. He’d given up playing around the same time I had. “I wish I could.”

The bell rang and the sound of children’s voices started to rise to a crescendo.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Matt?” Dave said, looking at me with concern.

I nodded and concentrated on finding Lucy. “Of course I am.”

“Here, Tom!” he shouted, waving to his crew-cut eight-year-old. He nudged me in the ribs. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” he said, smiling at Lucy. “I mean it.”

I bent down to kiss my daughter. Over her head I watched Dave wait for Ginny and their daughter, Annie, with ill-concealed impatience. I felt my eyes sting. That was the problem. I couldn’t tell Psycho or anyone else about the bastard who was haunting me in case he turned on them and theirs.