They all spoke together, a mixture of “Forget it,” “No chance” and “Get outta here,” the last from Andy. Again, I was touched, but I made sure I didn’t show it. Ex-rugby league players only cry when they’ve had a bellyful of ale.
“Whoah!” Andy yelled, peering at the cloud of smoke outside. “My ribs!” He departed at speed.
“Thanks, guys,” I said quietly, logging on to my new e-mail identity. As I thought, the Devil had sent what he always referred to as notes. They didn’t make for pleasant reading. The bastard had obviously sent them before he’d seen the news, so at least I was spared mockery from him about that. But that was small comfort. He’d gone back to mimicking murders in my books. In Tirana Blues, the first Zog novel, an Albanian politician is found nailed to the table with a chisel rammed into the base of his skull to sever his spinal cord. Jesus. Oaten would be even more convinced I was guilty when she discovered that similarity. She already knew the dead woman had attacked my work, so there was motive-if you lived in the crazy world of the Devil.
It was time I accepted that I was a fellow inhabitant of his underworld.
The only way to catch him was to be as pitiless as he was.
27
The White Devil was sitting in front of the bank of screens in his penthouse overlooking the Thames. Only one of the screens was in operation. It showed a dimly lit enclosed space with no furniture apart from an old armchair that was losing its stuffing. On it was a figure bound around the calves and chest, the head covered by a sack with a hole cut in it to aid the passage of air. There was no way the Devil wanted this captive to expire yet. That would be a tragedy of Jacobean proportions.
He smiled. The stench in the room would be almost unbearable by now, the urine and sweat joining with the reek of the rotting building. Originally, he hadn’t intended going anywhere near the place again. The captive would eventually die of thirst. Not a pleasant death, but there were worse ones. Matt Wells was a wanted man now, so he’d be prepared to take risks. That called for original thinking and flexibility. The Devil was a past master at those.
He thought back to the events of the morning. It had been a classic example of how good planning was rewarded by an unexpected bonus. He had always planned to carry out this murder on his own. It would be broad daylight and going with his partner was too risky. Besides, he wanted to deal with the woman on his own. He’d been in the audience when Dr. Lizzie Everhead had taken Matt Stone’s novels to pieces in what was a very public humiliation. To be fair to Matt, he took it in good part, making jokes at his own expense and appearing to forgive the good doctor for what was an overscholarly attack on fiction for the mass market. Then again, as the novelist once said himself, if crime fiction wanted to be taken seriously, its writers had to expect to be judged by the same standards applied to literary fiction. Dream on, my friend, the Devil thought. The only people taking you seriously from now on will be members of the Metropolitan Police, the media and the judiciary.
Getting into the building had been easy. He’d been inside numerous times over the past three months, wearing overalls and cap, and using a fake but convincing maintenance man’s pass. He’d spotted the absence of cameras beyond the entrance hall, and he’d also worked out the doctor’s timetable. He knew exactly when she was on her own in her office. But how was he to know that Matt was going to turn up with his muscular friend a few minutes before him? It had been a close call-he’d seen them leave-but it had led to Matt being put solidly in the frame for the murder. That really was funny. Originally he hadn’t intended using the modus operandi from the Zog novel, but since the writer had been messing him around, he wanted to pay him back. An anonymous phone call to the Yard later on would make sure the bitch Oaten had yet more to hold against Matt.
Moving over to the penthouse’s tall windows, he looked out at the boats on the Thames. The worm of doubt he had felt about the murder at the Hereward and the men on Corky’s tail was growing. His accomplice was continuing to keep ahead of the Orion, his well-developed sense of self-preservation functioning well. But for how long?
The White Devil shook his head and told himself to ignore Corky. It wasn’t as if he knew where to find the Devil. No, he’d already brought his plans forward and the end was in sight. Soon, he’d be far away where he could never be found. With his partner.
In the meantime, he had work to do.
People to pick up.
Skin to pierce.
And blood to spill.
“I’m in, Matt!” Rog shouted.
Peter Satterthwaite and I dashed over to the desk and watched as he navigated his way skillfully around the lottery site. In a few seconds he’d accessed the list of big winners and typed in the date of the Devil’s win. A couple more clicks and we had it.
Leslie Dunn-Flat 12, Vestine Building, Bermondsey Wall East, London SE16 OPY.
“You did it!” I shouted, grabbing Rog’s shoulders.
“Just a second,” he said, hammering away at the keyboard. “I’m deleting my identity so there’s no way they can trace me. Done.” He turned round and smiled. “So, let’s go and nail the bastard.” He got up and went to the door. “Andy! Get in here. We need you.”
I sat them all down to think things through. “Look, if the Devil really is in this flat in Bermondsey, we need to be pretty careful about going in mob-handed. He’s cunning enough to have taken precautions.”
“You and Andy can’t go anywhere,” Bonehead pointed out. “Your faces will be all over the evening paper.”
He was right, but he could also provide a solution. “Aren’t you into fancy dress?” I asked.
Andy guffawed. “Yeah, I remember when you turned up at the end-of-season dinner wearing a grass skirt.”
Pete gave him an aloof stare. “I’ll have you know that was a genuine South Seas fashion item.” He laughed and turned to me. “As it happens, I have got a wardrobe full of outlandish gear. You’d look great as a Morris dancer, Matt, though maybe you’d attract a bit too much attention. As for you, Andy, I’ve got this great pair of leather trousers with the arse cut away.”
The American looked appalled. “You must be joking, man.”
I raised a hand. “All right, sober up. Yeah, we can disguise ourselves. The question is, how many of us go?”
“All of us,” the three of them said in unison.
I shook my head. “It’s too risky. What if he’s got the place booby-trapped? I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Why don’t we get Dave to check it out?” Rog asked. “He’s a demolition expert, after all.”
I thought about it. “No, Dave needs to get back to Lucy and his family.”
“So,” Bonehead said, “who goes?”
“Since when were you part of this elite squad?” Andy asked.
The multimillionaire smiled at him. “Since you guys invited yourselves here, Slash.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “We need all the help we can get. But we also need someone here to check out any leads we come up with. That means someone who can handle a computer.” I looked at Rog. “And that means you, mate.” His disappointment was obvious. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance.”
“I suppose I’d better stay here, as well,” Bonehead said. “In case there’s more financial stuff to chase up. You never know, I might find the identity he’s using now.”
I nodded, happy he’d worked that out before I had to tell him. “Looks like it’s you and me again, Andy,” I said. “Boney, show us your disguises.”
He led us upstairs. “You do realize that the police might have found out about this place you’re going to and put surveillance on it?”
I nodded. “It has occurred to me. But they’ve been busy with the killings. Maybe they haven’t been into the lottery archive yet.”
Half an hour later we left the house, this time driving our host’s brand-new pale blue BMW 6 Series coupe in case the Jeep had been picked up on CCTV at Waterloo. I was wearing a shoulder-length blond wig and a blue boiler suit, while Andy had a hard hat, a fake Zapata mustache and an anorak. I suppose we might have been taken as genuine workmen. By a blind man.