Then we drove into the pounding heart of the city, each of us sunk in his thoughts. Mine were full of a burning desire for vengeance on the Devil, who looked to have taken my mother and my lover.
I remembered another line from Webster’s play-“To fashion my revenge more seriously.”
That was what I had to if I was going to save Sara.
Karen Oaten was standing next to the array of human and animal corpses in Flat 12 of the Vestine Building in Bermondsey.
“It’s them,” John Turner said, coming into the room. “Wells and Jackson. They’re wearing disguises, but the CCTV shots are clear enough. I’m sure of it.”
His superior nodded. “The question is, what were they doing here?”
“Maybe they had some other dead body to get rid of.”
Oaten frowned. “And how did they do that, Taff? They didn’t carry it out, did they?”
“No,” he admitted. “But they took a letter from the post box.”
“Has it occurred to you that they’re doing exactly the same as we are?” she said, giving him a piercing look. “Trying to find the Devil.”
Turner looked perplexed. “How did they know to come here?”
“Christ knows. Maybe they’ve got a friend who’s a computer expert.”
The Welshman turned pages in his notebook. “Bloody hell, you’re right. This Roger van Zandt guy, one of the pair we can’t locate. He runs his own computing consultancy.”
“There you are, then. They’re several steps ahead of us.” She pressed buttons on her phone. “Paul, any news on Matt Wells’s mother?” She listened. “Nothing yet? All right, get them to keep checking.”
Turner moved closer. “What’s that going to tell us?”
“Whether the Devil’s got his next victim.” She walked out of the stinking room where the murderer had honed his skills. Dr. Redrose had confirmed that the human remains were months, even years old.
“And what if it was Wells all along, taking the piss out of us?”
“Then I’ll buy you a very large drink, Taff.” She turned back to him. “And you’ll buy me one if I’m right.”
He shrugged and followed her out. The fact was, they were playing catch-up and they knew it. Until the Devil-whether he was Wells or not-struck again, the Met’s finest were nowhere. Civilian staff were trying to find out who owned the flat, but he had the feeling they wouldn’t get on the killer’s trail that way.
Christ, he wished his boss hadn’t mentioned drink. He could have done with numerous pints of Brains, his favorite Welsh beer.
I got out of the BMW in Evelyn Street in Deptford, having dropped the others off at the station. The first property on my list was in Benbow Lane, a few minutes’ walk away. As I turned into the street, I realized it was classic criminal territory-a derelict factory on one side and a row of extremely suspicious-looking lockup garages on the other. Almost all had reinforced doors and heavy padlocks. Number 35 was even better protected than most, with a steel roll-down door over the original wooden one. Not even Andy at his most creative could have found his way through that. I stepped back and saw that there was a small window in the roof. No light shone through it.
I was about to mark the place off with a cross on my list when I saw a ladder lying on the ground a few doors down. A length of guttering was next to it, obviously in the process of being reattached. Both were chained to the garage door. I took the chisel from my pocket, found a loose cobblestone and started hammering. Fortunately the padlock wasn’t a strong one and it soon gave way. I put the ladder against the wall and scrambled up it, then inched my way up the slate-covered incline.
There was a layer of heavy-duty wire over the window, but I could see inside by shining my torch down. I almost dropped it. Jesus. There was an old chair in the middle of an open space. The leather straps on the arms and legs made it obvious that someone had been held captive there. The chair also had dark stains on it. I had the feeling that something very bad had happened here.
But there wasn’t anything I could do about it now. As far as I could see, there was no one living or dead in the lockup. I would send the police to it later, but in the meantime I had to move on.
The next property on my list was a flat in what I reckoned was an exclusive block near Tower Bridge.
What would I find in Number 6, The Royal Brewery?
The White Devil was driving a nondescript blue van through the sparse traffic on North End Way. Hampstead Heath was in the darkness to his right. He turned to his accomplice, whom he’d met half an hour after Corky gave the men in the Orion the slip.
“Not long now. Tonight we’ll get them all.”
“Then what?” answered the bearded figure in the padded black anorak.
“You know that,” he said, smiling broadly. “The Caribbean, and then the world is ours.”
“How can I trust you?”
The Devil laughed. “After all we’ve been through? Come on, Corky. We’ve known each other since we were in primary school.”
“That’s what I’m worried about. You never did tell me if you had anything to do with what happened to Richard Brady.”
“What, the bully? He was found dead in a wood outside Watford, wasn’t he?”
The other man gave a sharp laugh. “Yes, and I remember how pleased you were with yourself after the summer holidays. Come on, you can tell me. Did you do him?”
The driver looked over his shoulder. “She’s moving around a lot. Make sure her gag’s okay. And the ropes round her wrists.”
His accomplice sighed as he climbed between the seats, then inched past the motorbike he’d loaded earlier. He’d had a gutful of being ordered around. Still, the payoff would make that all worthwhile-as long as he never turned his back on the man who used to be Leslie Dunn.
29
I was driving through Bermondsey in the BMW when my mobile rang.
“Matt? It’s Dave. I’ve been to that cottage outside Hythe. There were no lights on. I had a snoop around. No sign of life.”
“Okay. Call Bonehead. He’ll tell you where to go next.”
“Yes, I know, lad. I just want to tell you that I’m behind you one hundred percent. We’ll get this lunatic. See you soon.” He cut the connection.
I was glad I had him on my side. Dave Cummings wasn’t known as “Psycho” just because he liked taking out opposition players for the Bison. He’d told us some seriously nasty stories about his time in Northern Ireland with the Paras, and later with the SAS. To be fair to him, he wasn’t proud of what he and his brothers-in-arms had done. But if there was one of us capable of taking on the Devil, it was Dave.
I looked out at the lights in the buildings as I went through the southern Docklands. The place was full of people even at ten in the evening. Pissed-up commuters, young people out for a night on the town even though it was the middle of the week. There were so many of them. The city was packed to the rafters with millions of human beings. How were we going to find the Devil among them? Christ, what had happened to Sara? And to my mother?
I parked near Tower Bridge, paying no attention to its fairy-tale appearance. In the backstreets beyond, I passed through a chic area full of trendy wine bars and cafes. They were busy, the inhabitants of the recently developed former warehouse district out in force. It didn’t take me long to find the Royal Brewery. It was a free-standing Victorian block next to the river, its brick facade lit up by well-positioned spotlights. There were lights on in a couple of the flats, but not in the penthouse. I was about to go in the gate when my phone rang again.
“It’s Rog, Matt.” He sounded anxious. “Where are you?”
I told him.
“Well, if there’s nothing going on there you’d better get up here sharpish.”
I felt a twinge of alarm. “What is it?”