"Who is this fucking shithead?" Andy shouted over my shoulder.
"Cool it," I said. "Let's see where this goes."
Anyway, time moves ever onwards and, as you'll see, time is very important. I'm delighted to be in a position to issue a challenge-in fact, a series of challenges. As the title of this message says, the question I'll be asking you is "Who's Next?" I know from the archive of concert reviews on your Web site that you're a big fan of the Who. Sorry to disappoint you, but this has nothing to do with those aged rockers, or rather, Mods. No, this challenge concerns the other side of your writing life, crime fiction.
First, let me tell you various things that haven't come out in the media. I'm sure you know the details already since you spend so much time with the delectable DCI Oaten, but they'll establish my credentials, so to speak. The murder of Mary Malone: I took hairs from her head and pubic area; I drew a pentagram in white chalk in the garden to the rear of her house-within it, I wrote the words FECIT DIABOLUS. Is that enough? I hope you liked the reference to the devil and that you approve of my choice of music. I know you love the Stones.
"Jesus," I said, my stomach now revolting against breakfast. "Unless someone in Karen's team is playing a seriously bad joke, this is Mary Malone's killer."
Andy was staring at the screen. "It gets worse, man."
I scrolled down and read on.
So, da-daaah!-here's the challenge. All you have to do is solve the puzzle I've set for you by midnight. I'll contact you by e-mail (obviously not using this address or provider-I learned that from the White Devil.) and ask for your answer. The rules are simple and I promise I'll observe them. If you e-mail me straight back with the correct answer, I won't kill my next target. If you don't, it's "Good night, sweet lady" or "prince"-no, I'm not going to ask you to identify that; anyone who read English at university, as you did, will spot that I'm riffing on lines from Hamlet. How can you trust me? Well, you haven't got much choice, have you? I already promised to play by the rules, Matt. That's all I can say.
Here it is-puzzle number one:
The sun set by the westernmost dunes of Alexander's womankind.
By the way, Matt, this is for you to work out. I know you'll ask your mother and your friends to help, there's nothing I can do to stop that. But if I discover that you've told Karen Oaten or anyone else in authority about the challenge, I swear I'll kill all the names on my list, including your family and everyone else you care for without giving you a second chance. Clear? Till 23:59 tonight-I'll give you a minute to reply then. And remember, I've killed already. Not just Mary Malone, but her black cat, as well. Off with its head! That wasn't reported, either, was it? You could call me Flaminio, but I prefer D.F. "What is this shit?" Andy said, glancing at me. "Have you got any idea what's going on here, Matt?" I blinked and tried to concentrate. "I know that Flaminio is the chief villain and white devil-meaning liar and hypocrite-in Webster's play of that name." Andy's brow furrowed as he tried to keep up. "The White Devil? So Sara's behind this." I raised my shoulders. "Maybe. But she's been busy already, assuming she killed Dave, too." "Doesn't seem too likely that you've got another mad person on your ass." "Thanks for pointing that out, Slash." "What's D.F.?" "Search me. Direction finder?" "Yeah, we could use one of those." "Defender of the Faith? That means the queen, in case you were wondering. No, it's probably not her." Andy looked at me dubiously. "What about this half- assed challenge? You think whoever wrote this is really going to kill someone just because you can't work out their identity?" I raised a hand. "Hold on. We have to assume the writer is serious. Jesus, that clue could lead to Lucy or one of our friends. But you're messing up the motivation. The next target won't be killed because of anything I do. The killer's working to another plan-there's mention of a list. We'll have to work out who's on it from the message-I mean both how it's written and what it contains. And- if I blow it-by the modus operandi."
"Yeah, well I think I'll leave solving the riddle to you," the American said. "I haven't done that kind of stuff since high school, and I screwed up in English literature big- time."
I was looking at the line in red. "The sun set by the westernmost-"
Then I heard keys turn in the locks. I'd forgotten about Karen.
"Into the wardrobe in the guest room," I hissed to Andy as the door opened and the chains rattled. Fortunately he'd already stashed the bag containing his weapons and other gear. I clicked off my e-mail and went quickly to the door.
Roger van Zandt opened the curtain of his room a couple of centimeters. The pavements in the back streets around Paddington Station were dotted with the rubbish left by representatives of the local subcultures-tarts, junkies, down-and-outs and the people who preyed on them. Rog didn't view himself as a prude, but this area made him wish that some morally superior politician of the kind he never voted for would launch a cleanup campaign.
He went back to the small desk that he'd been working at until sleep claimed him as dawn was breaking. His laptop sat there, a silver machine that had taken him all over the world from the grimy room. He had bought a cutting-edge processor, and the wireless card meant that he was completely mobile. Later he'd be slipping away from this dump and checking into another hotel. But before then he had to post what he'd found on the impregnable ghost site.
Rog sat down on the rickety chair and started to work on the document. What he had done was follow the money trail from the White Devil's accounts. He and Pete had originally found them two years back when they were on the trail of Matt's persecutor. After the madman's death, Matt had decided not to pursue the money. He didn't know that Rog and Pete had kept tabs on Sara's funds. Dave's murder meant that they had to track Sara down fast via her money, and Rog was glad they had only a small number of transactions to catch up on. It had taken him no more than a few minutes to realize that someone who really knew what they were doing had done their utmost to obscure the trail. Sara had obviously hired a top-notch techie before she went after Dave.
Not that Rog had been stymied. It had taken some time, but he now had a list of bank accounts, ranging from Switzerland to Macau, via the Cayman Islands and Bolivia. He knew where Sara had invested part of the forty-two million dollars she'd acquired-in U.S. and German government stocks, but also in a range of public companies. Pete would be able to work on that side. Last, but definitely not least, Rog had discovered several properties that Sara had bought. Four of those were in the U.K., three in the southeast of England.
The interesting thing about the U.K. properties was the name of the owner-Angela Oliver-Merilee. Rog had run identity checks and had found two women with that name. One was a ninety-two-year-old resident of a nursing home in Yorkshire, the other the seven-year-old daughter of a classics teacher living in Manchester. Rog was sure the name had been chosen for a reason. Matt would probably have some thoughts on that.
Rog finished the text and sent it to the ghost site, then logged off and shut down his machine.
A few minutes later he was in the shower, water spraying all over the yellowing tiles from a faulty head. Having devoted himself to nailing Sara for so many hours, now Rog couldn't get Dave out of his mind. Tears ran down his face and were immediately washed down the drain by the jets of lukewarm water.