The phone on the desk rang. Oaten identified herself and listened. "All right, thanks for that," she said, before she put it down again. Her expression was somber.
"What is it, guv?" Turner asked.
She paused before answering. "That was DI Neville. They've found a witness, a fifteen-year-old boy on the top floor of a house two doors down on the other side of the road."
"Great," the Welshman said. "What did he see?"
Oaten looked away. "He saw a person of average height leaving number 41 just before eight-thirty-he wasn't sure of the time as he'd been playing poker online and was taking a break. He was a bit surprised as he'd never seen anyone go in or out of the victim's house-she got her groceries delivered." She paused. "He was also surprised because the figure was wearing a long black cloak and a black top hat."
"Shit," Turner said, in a low voice.
His boss stared at him. "What's the matter, Taff? Don't tell me you think it was Old Nick himself?"
The inspector shook his head. "No, guv. It's a human being dressing up as the devil, and that makes it even worse."
Karen Oaten tossed the reports onto her desk. "What about the Latin devil reference then, Taff?"
"Did you mention it to Matt Wells?" the inspector countered.
"He was somewhat concerned."
"I'm not surprised. But anyone who read his book could have been inspired to do that kind of thing."
Oaten gave a tight smile. "I did point that out to him."
"So you don't think it's her? The White Devil's sister."
"Sara Robbins? It could be, but we haven't got sufficient data to suppose so. Matt hadn't received any message from her by last night."
"How about today?" John Turner's face hardened. "Anyway, would he tell you if he had?"
Karen Oaten met his eyes and then looked away. She wasn't at all sure that Matt would come clean. That and the nature of Mary Malone/Shirley Higginbottom's murder gave her a very ominous feeling. Three I spent the rest of the day trying to occupy myself with my column. When that did nothing but make me wonder if my archenemy, Sara, was responsible for Mary Ma- lone's death, I tried writing an album review. Unfortunately, the CD I was to listen to was by the Willard Grant Conspiracy-good stuff, but mainly murder ballads sung by a deep, lugubrious voice that could have emanated from Hades itself. I didn't manage to write more than the first line. It was obvious that I needed help, so I called my mates. Five minutes later, I'd arranged to meet them later on in a pub near London Bridge. We called it the Zoo, because the clientele was a weird mixture of City whiz kids wearing expensive suits, stallholders from the Borough Market in grubby white coats and bewildered tourists. I didn't need to twist the others' arms too much, but the short notice made them curious. Two years back, the White Devil had set up an intricate surveillance system, so we were always succinct when speaking on the phone. Despite the fact that no one apart from us knew what or where the Zoo was, I still couldn't finish the album review.
A chill wind was blasting up the Thames from the North Sea when I came out of London Bridge Station. The lights of the City blazed out across the river. Apparently the people who ran the financial sector were unaware of global warming-or maybe they just didn't give a toss. I'd kept an eye out when I was traveling and had stepped off a couple of trains before they left, like the Fernando Rey character in The French Connection. I didn't think anyone was tailing me. To make sure, I took a roundabout way to the pub, before slipping in as a double-decker bus passed and obscured me from the other side of the road.
Andy Jackson had already occupied the table we always took at the rear. The Zoo's lights were as low as ever, which was another reason we liked it.
"Yo, writer man," the blond-haired American said, draining his glass and extending it toward me.
"Yo, chef person," I replied, heading for the bar. I returned with a pint of Australian lager for him and one of Directors for me. "I don't know how you can drink that wallaby urine, Slash." His nickname came from the way he used to cut through the opposition defensive line on the rugby pitch- nothing to do with the big-haired Guns N' Roses guitarist.
"Yeah, like that bitter wasn't sprayed out by a hog." He grinned at me. Andy was tall and muscle-bound, the kind of guy everyone wanted on their team. He'd grown up in a town he called the asshole of New Jersey and had almost made it to the NFL, but his knee was suspect and he was let go. That turned him against his native country, so he crossed the Atlantic, trained as a chef, and now held down a job in a Mexican restaurant near the British Museum.
I took a long drink. "No one on your tail?" I asked in a low voice.
He shook his head. "You gonna come clean about what's going on, Matt?"
"When the others show." I caught his eye. "So what's new on the female front?" Andy was a serious skirt- chaser.
"Same two things there always were," he said, with a grin. "Judy. Brunette, long legs, big…things on the front, and sent straight from paradise."
"Bragging again, Slash?" I looked around and saw the stocky figure of Dave Cummings, a pint in his hand. He always got his own-it was some strange ritual he'd learned in the Parachute Regiment or the SAS. He was the hard man of the group, but he was putty in the hands of his kids. "Hello, lad." He put an arm around my waist. Dave had always treated me like a kid brother, even though he was only three years older. Compared with what he'd seen of the world and its wars, my life was pretty sheltered.
"Hello, Psycho," I said, pulling a stool out for him. His hair was cut close to his scalp. "How's the demolition business?"
"Falling," he said with a laugh. It was a long-running gag. "Hey, Slash, what's the best way to cook lobster?"
"Are they talking about food again?" Roger van Zandt had appeared at my side. The other two nodded at him and continued talking. Curly-haired and slight, Roger had been famous for the tackles he put in on much beefier men.
"Hi, Rog," I said, getting up and going over to the bar. "How's it going?"
"Quiet," he said, picking up the pint I'd bought him. "I've been reduced to writing programs for an advertising company, would you believe?" Rog ran his own computer consultancy. "That bad, eh? Before you know it, you'll be giving hacking lessons to teenagers." "Shh," he said, raising his hand. "I'm already doing that." "The hell you are," came Pete Satterthwaite's voice. "Bonehead!" I said, signaling for another pint. "What kept you?" "A very naughty young man," he said, with a lascivious grin. Pete was gay and proud of it. He was also a self- made millionaire, who now spent his time moving his investments around and watching them grow. "Sorry. Did I miss something juicy?" His Lancashire accent was still audible beneath the layers of boardroom English he'd acquired. "They're talking about cooking," Rog said, inclining his head toward Andy and Dave. "Ooh, lovely," Pete said, running his hand over his naturally bald scalp. "I should have brought my apron." We all sat down. "What's the verdict then, Slash?" I asked. "Thermidor, got to be," the American said. "The dwarf here wants to make bisque. What a waste!" I leaned forward. "Okay, guys, huddle," I said, my voice low. The sounds of "Woman" by Free came from the front of the bar-the Zoo had one of the best jukeboxes in London, which was another reason we liked it. "What's up, Wellsy?" Dave said. "You sounded a bit…I dunno…jumpy on the phone." The others agreed. So much for me trying to play it cool. "Yeah, well, there's a reason for that."
"It's her, isn't it?" Pete said. "The ex-girlfriend from hell, literally." I could have lived without that characterization of Sara, but it was true. What she'd done with the White Devil and the way she'd deceived me had turned the love I'd once felt for her into dread, something far more disabling than hate.