The traffic was moving again.
“Where to?” asked Geronimo.
“Find a parking space in Holborn. We’ll be centrally positioned there. Don’t worry, the copper will put a trace on him. After all, Jimmy Tanner saved his uncle’s life in the Falklands.”
“So we just sit and wait?” asked Rommel.
“What else do we do between ops?” The team leader moved his hand to the 9 mm Glock in his shoulder holster. “And when the time comes, we nail the fuckers before the Met get near them.”
The other two men nodded, their expressions set hard.
Karen Oaten looked down over Victoria Street from New Scotland Yard. The last of the commuters were on their way home, some already well lubricated as their erratic movements showed. Why wasn’t she normal? she wondered. Why couldn’t she go down to the pub like everyone else? Because there was a pair of heartless killers on the loose, she told herself. Whether they were called Matt Wells and Andrew Jackson was another matter.
“Guv?”
“Yes, Taff?” She sat down at her desk and massaged her aching neck.
“There have been several calls reporting sightings of Wells and Jackson. We’re checking them out.” He shrugged. “Nothing definite yet.”
That was the problem with public appeals, the chief inspector thought. Some people wanted to be helpful, but gave unhelpful information; other people wanted to shop those they didn’t like; and then there were the crazies who only wanted attention.
“What about the National Lottery?”
“The warrant should be through any time now.” The Welshman shook his head. “Tossers. You’d think they would understand this is a multiple-murder case.”
“They’re bureaucrats, Taff,” Oaten said, staring at the heap of files on her desk. “Like us.”
“Oh, yes,” Turner said, a smile spreading across his lips. “And this call came in for you when you were with the A.C. I had it transcribed.” He handed her a piece of paper.
“‘At 1705 hours, muffled male voice,’” she read. “‘For Detective Chief Inspector Karen Oaten. It may interest you to read chapter 14 of the novel Tirana Blues by Matt Stone.’”
Turner was holding an open book out to her, his smile even wider.
She read through the description of an Albanian’s murder, taking in the similarities with that of Lizzie Everhead. The details hadn’t been released to the public, so the message was obviously either from the killer or someone close to him.
“Pretty conclusive, isn’t it?” the inspector said.
“You think so, Taff?” She was getting irritated by her subordinate’s dogged determination to nail the novelist. “If Matt Wells is the killer, why’s he taking the trouble to frame himself? Think about that.”
“He’s a psychopath,” Turner said, his smile disappearing. “He’s playing games.”
“It was a mistake, making that public appeal. All it’s done is make him even more determined to keep his head down. The idiot’s trying to find the Devil himself.”
“All he has to do is look in the mirror.”
“What else have we got?” Oaten said wearily.
“No fingerprints at the scene except Jackson’s on what looks like an ancient dildo, no significant physical evidence found by SOCOs. And everyone who appeared on the CCTV has been accounted for. Apart from Wells and Jackson.” The inspector suddenly became less assertive. “And one other man, dressed in workman’s clothing and wearing a hard hat.”
Oaten looked up. “So there was someone else at the scene. That could be the killer. I’m telling you, Taff, there’s more to this than Matt Wells and his mate.”
“Maybe it was another of Wells’s mates.”
“Christ, you don’t give up, do you?”
“I’ve been doing some checking,” the Welshman said, looking at his notes. “When Wells gave you those names to be put under protection, he missed out several of his closest friends. I got their names from his ex-wife and crosschecked them with the rugby league club they’re members of. There are two others we can’t trace-David Cummings and Roger van Zandt. Neither of them is as tall as Wells and Jackson. And they haven’t been seen at home for more than twenty-four hours.” He glared at Oaten. “Why are you so dead-set against the writer as our main man, guv?”
It was the same question the A.C. had asked her. She’d only been able to cite the height of the figures on the CCTV at Dr. Keane’s building and Borough Market. But, as her superior had pointed out, such images were often misleading because of the skewed perspective they gave. And there were the other potential suspects. She couldn’t embarrass herself by giving him the main reason, but Taff should have been able to understand it.
“I’ve met him,” she said. “My gut feeling is that he isn’t capable of these killings.”
Turner shrugged. “I’ve got to disagree with you there. I’ve met him, too, and my gut’s telling me that he is. He’s written about murder often enough. He’s also got a reputation as one of the most gruesome crime writers.”
“Writing about it is hardly the same thing as doing it for real,” the chief inspector said. “How many writers have we done for murder over the years?”
“None that I can remember,” the Welshman said reluctantly.
She nodded at him, and then looked away. She wasn’t comfortable thinking about Matt Wells. He’d had more of an effect on her than any man for years.
There was a knock on the door. Paul Pavlou stuck his head round. “Excuse me, guv. The warrant for the lottery’s here.”
Karen Oaten stood up. “Right. Let’s find out where the mysterious Leslie Dunn has got to.”
Turner followed her out, shaking his head. Leslie Dunn was a false trail, he was sure of that. They would be led round in circles, while Matt Wells went on killing people.
For the first time in nine years, he’d begun to doubt his boss’s judgment.
28
I drove back to the house in Blackheath. There was no point in calling ahead about the name we’d found as we were so close. As soon as we got there, Peter Satterthwaite rang his computer expert while Rog checked for Lawrence Montgomery in the online directories and search engines. Andy went off to the kitchen to make more food-even what he’d seen in the flat hadn’t put him off eating. I called my mother. Again, there was no answer. Now I was getting seriously worried about her. I told the others.
“Why don’t you let the police know?” Rog said. “It can’t do any harm.”
That made sense. I left the house and went out onto the Heath to avoid being located at Bonehead’s, then rang Karen Oaten’s mobile.
“Matt!” she said eagerly when she heard my voice. “I’m very glad you called. Where can I meet you?”
“I’m not coming in.”
“You have to. It’s the only way you can clear your name.”
“What do you care about that? You’re the one who made me public enemy number one.”
She sighed. “I had no option. You’re on the university’s CCTV recording. Answer this question. Did you have anything to do with Lizzie Everhead’s murder?”
“No, of course I fucking didn’t!” I shouted, unable to control my outrage. “I told you, I’m trying to protect the people I care about.”
There was a pause. “You can’t tell me you cared about Dr. Everhead. Why did you go to see her? I presume you don’t deny that’s why you were in the building.”
“No, I don’t. I went to ask her about the Devil’s use of the quotations from the play. And to warn her about him.” I decided to play hardball. “Obviously that never occurred to you. Where was her police protection?”
There was a longer pause. “All right, Matt, I hear you. But I still need you to surrender yourself.”
“Forget it.”
“In that case, why are we talking?”
“Because my mother’s not answering her mobile phone again. Can you find out from the airlines apart from British Airways if she left the country from Heathrow on Friday?”
“You mean you’ve already checked with BA? They don’t give out that kind of information to the general public.”