“‘Far be it from my thoughts to seek revenge,’” Oaten read.
“That White Devil play again?” Turner said from behind her.
“Probably. What’s the lunatic saying now? That revenge isn’t anything to do with this killing?”
“I have more,” Redrose said proudly, holding out a clamp with a crumpled and stained piece of card in it. “Here, I can straighten it.” He applied another clamp.
“Where was this?” the chief inspector asked.
“In his rectal passage.”
“Jesus,” Turner said with a scowl.
“Reginald Hampton,” Oaten read. “Editorial assistant.” She looked at her subordinate. “He worked for Sixth Sense Ltd. They’re Matt Wells’s publishers.”
The inspector’s expression grew even sterner. “I told you, guv. That guy’s all wrong.”
Karen Oaten returned his stare. “Maybe,” she said, stepping out into the street.
The crowd had begun to thin, people dispersing to the pub to discuss the day’s unexpected highpoint. They didn’t yet know that the same killer and his accomplice had struck again, though they probably suspected it. The idea of the frenzy that would create in the media made the chief inspector feel almost as disgusted as the condition of the victim had.
Maybe she was getting soft, but she was going to catch the degenerates who did this.
No matter what it did to her.
24
Rog finally cracked the British Airways entry codes. I watched in mounting panic as he went through the day’s flights. My mother’s name wasn’t on any of them. I’d called her mobile number earlier, but it had been turned off. That was very unlike her. She’d taken a while to get used to modern technology, but now she was a great fan. As far as I knew, she never shut down her phone. As soon as Rog confirmed that she hadn’t left Heathrow from BA in Terminal One, I ran outside and called Karen Oaten.
“I’m busy, Matt,” she said wearily.
“My mother,” I said, the words tumbling out. “I think the Devil may have got her.”
“What? Why?”
I explained the situation.
“I don’t know,” she said, moving away from other people who were talking loudly. “I think he’s been otherwise engaged.”
“What?”
“Matt, do you know someone at your publishers called Reginald Hampton?”
I had a brief flash of the tall apprentice editor who’d taken me to Jeanie that morning and felt my stomach somersault. “Yes. What’s happened to him?”
There was a pause. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. It looks like the White Devil has killed him.”
My knees went weak and I leaned against the side of the phone booth. “Oh, my God. But that’s ridiculous. I only met Reggie for a couple of minutes this morning.” I gulped down the bitter liquid that had risen up my throat. “How…how do you know it was the Devil?”
She was almost whispering. “He left one of his messages. Something about it being far from his thoughts to seek revenge.”
I took a deep breath. “It’s him, all right. Was Reggie…what was done to him?”
“Horrific things. I’ve told you enough, Matt. You really need to come in. I can’t cover for you much longer.” She paused. “What do you want me to do about your mother?”
I felt a wave of hopelessness crash over me. No doubt the modus operandi was tied to one of my books, making me even more of a hot suspect. Anyway, what could the police do? They hadn’t been able to protect the innocent editorial assistant. “Nothing,” I said. “This is all down to me and I have to sort it myself.”
“Matt, at least give me your number!”
I prepared to hang up. “No.”
“Hold on,” she said urgently. “Your wife finally got in touch. Apparently she’d been kept late by some Japanese bankers. She was very upset, wanted to know where your daughter was…”
“I’ll call her. Bye, Karen.”
“Wait,” she said, lowering her voice. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, either, but maybe it’ll help you find the animal before he gets to you and your daughter.”
“What is it?”
“He won the lottery in 2001. Nine and a half million pounds. The thing is, he took the privacy option and hasn’t been seen since. Presumably he’s changed his name.”
“What was his original name?”
She hesitated. “Leslie Dunn,” she said, and then the line went dead.
The name made me shiver. Was this really the fiend who’d been tormenting me? Suddenly he felt closer, even though he obviously called himself something else now. I struggled to get a grip on myself.
I stayed at the phone and made a call to Caroline’s mobile.
“Matt!” she screamed when I identified myself. “Where’s Lucy? What the hell’s going on? There’s a policeman outside the front door and another one outside yours.”
“Calm down,” I said, realizing how inadequate that must have sounded. “What did the police tell you?”
“Some woman detective-Oates?”
“Oaten.”
“Whatever. She said you were caught up in a murder investigation. You fucking idiot! What have you done? Where’s Lucy?”
“She’s safe. She’s with…friends. Caroline, you’ll have to trust me on this. It’s for the best. She’s in danger. We all are.”
“Because of some lunacy of yours? What have you done? Got yourself involved with some stupid gangsters? Jesus, you really are pathetic.”
I wasn’t going to argue with her. “Caro, do what the police tell you and sit tight. Lucy’s fine. I’ll be in touch.” I replaced the receiver, aware of the level of abuse that would be being cast in my direction.
Back inside the cafe, I called my mother’s number again. I felt an explosion of relief when she answered.
“Fran, what happened? Why was your phone off?”
“Oh, I was tired, Matt. Had a sleep.” She sounded a bit bewildered.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, it is. Let me sleep again now, darling.”
To my surprise, she hung up. And she’d called me “darling” again. Maybe she’d been overindulging in the local firewater, wherever she was.
I went back inside and pulled Rog off the BA system. “What do you know about the National Lottery?”
“Not a lot.” He gave me a crooked grin. “I’ve heard that it’s got one of the toughest antihacking systems of them all.”
“Fancy trying to break in?”
The grin widened. “Do squirrels eat their nuts in winter?”
I gave him the name. Was the man who’d been called Leslie Dunn really the Devil? Suddenly I felt closer to him, even though I knew I probably wasn’t. But if there was one person who could track him down in cyberspace, it was my friend the Dodger.
I watched him as his fingers danced across the keys and began to feel useless. I was allowing the situation to get away from me. What was needed was action. I decided to turn my old mobile on for a minute to see if I had any messages. That turned out to be a good move. There was a text from Andy Jackson. Can’t stay in this shit-hole any longer. Getting out tonight. Call me, I read.
I shared the news with Rog as I turned off the phone.
“That means he can’t be too badly hurt,” he said, his eyes on the screen.
“Maybe. But you know Slash. He played most of one game with a broken arm, remember?”
“Nutter.” He glanced at me. “Look, I won’t be able to get far on this machine. I need something with more memory. Back home I’ve got-”
“-the White Devil potentially watching you.”
“Oh, yeah. Where are we going to spend the night, then?”
It didn’t take me long to come up with the answer. “At Peter Satterthwaite’s.”
Rog stopped typing and turned to me, his eyes wide. “Bonehead? You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, yes I can. Anyway, what are you complaining about? He’ll have all the computers you need. Come on.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he said, clearing the screen.