“Why?” Andy asked, looking puzzled. “Won’t the bastard’s old name be the only one in there?”
“That’s right,” Rog said wearily. “But even people who request privacy are asked to give a forwarding address so that they can be passed messages. It’s amazing how many friends and relatives lottery winners suddenly find they have.”
“Yeah, but surely this guy would just have given a fake one,” Andy said.
I shrugged. “Maybe. But you never know. He might have had a long-lost cousin he always fancied. It’s worth a try, anyway.” I looked at Rog. “After you’ve had a kip.”
He shook his head and poured himself more coffee. “Nah, I’m okay. I want to get this finished. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit worried about Dave.”
Bonehead laughed. “You’re worried about Psycho Cummings? You must be joking.”
Rog grinned. “The poor bloke will be in hell. He’s shacked up somewhere with Ginny the Sour and kids, not to mention Wellsy’s Lucy, and he’s not allowed to play with his demolition machines. He’ll be going round the bend.”
That provoked a round of laughter. Ginny Cummings had never been popular with the lads. Then again, I don’t suppose Caroline had been, either. That was one reason why I hadn’t been bothered about not introducing them to Sara. It was a rule of life that most people learned too late-whatever they might pretend, lovers and mates rarely get on.
I went out to the hall and called my mother on Pete’s line. She had her phone turned off again. I needed to have a serious conversation with her about that. Before I could get back to the kitchen, my mobile rang.
“Matt, you all right?”
“Hiya, Dave. We were just talking about you.”
“All good, I hope.” He paused. “Who’s we?”
I told him where I was and in whose company. “Christ, good thought, lad,” Dave said. “Bonehead’ll look after you. And he’s got such a lovely complexion.”
“Shut up, you idiot. How’s Lucy?”
“Fine. She’s been asking after you.”
I didn’t have it in me to talk to my little girl. I wanted to keep her as far from the Devil’s filth as I could. “Tell her I’ve had to go on a trip, with her mother, and that we’ll be back soon.” I hated to get Lucy’s hopes up about Caroline and me, but it was the only way I could think of to keep her happy.
“Um, Matt?”
It was obvious that Dave wanted something. “Spit it out.”
“The thing is, I’ve got a big job on today. Old house in Orpington. It’s worth a lot of money.”
“Can’t you get your guys to do it without you?” I asked, my heart sinking.
“Not really, mate. They’re headless chickens.” Dave was like a terrier-he always got his way in the end.
I thought about it. I couldn’t see how the Devil could have tracked Dave. “All right,” I said reluctantly. “But be careful you aren’t followed back from the job, yeah? And remember not to use your old mobile again.”
There was silence on the line.
“Tell me you haven’t used it, Dave,” I said, my heart well and truly sunk.
“Sorry, Matt. I had to check my messages. Some of them were to do with the job today.”
I closed my eyes. What had he done? Could the Devil have been monitoring him out of London? On balance, it was pretty improbable. “All right,” I said. “Just don’t use it again. Take care.”
“Aye, you too. What are you doing?”
“Need-to-know basis only, Dave,” I said, and cut the connection.
Back in the kitchen, Andy and Bonehead were back at each other’s throats, this time about the relative merits of gridiron and rugby league.
“Have you eaten enough, Slash?” I demanded. “Only, if you don’t mind, I’d quite like to get moving.”
Andy’s face immediately took on a serious look. “Okay, man. What are we going to do?”
“Are you up to this?” I said, peering at his chest.
“Sure I am. Maybe I should change my dressing, though. The nice nurse with the big jugs told me that cleanliness was next to-”
“You’ll find a full medical kit in the bathroom off my bedroom,” Pete interjected.
Andy got up from the table. “Cream for hemorrhoids and stuff like that?”
Bonehead managed to restrain himself. “Where are you going?” he asked me.
“It’s probably better if neither of you know,” I said, helping myself to the single remaining sausage. “You’ve got my new mobile number, Rog. Ring me on that if you find anything hot.”
They both looked at me doubtfully, and then nodded.
“Here,” Pete said, tossing me a key. “You’ll see the Grand Cherokee at the side of the house. If you put so much as a scratch on it, I’ll break your legs.”
“You and whose army?”
He raised his middle finger.
I left them at the table, Rog pouring himself yet more coffee. If we hadn’t been up against a murderous bastard like the Devil, I’d almost have enjoyed the camaraderie that had been largely missing from my life since I stopped playing league. As it was, I just felt scared that I’d involved my mates in something they’d probably live to regret. If they lived.
I met Andy in the hall. He’d obviously raided Bonehead’s wardrobe, having kitted himself out in a red-white-and-blue sweater. It suited him nationally but not stylistically, though I didn’t bother pointing that out.
“Neat wheels,” he said as we got into the big Jeep. “Shame about the color.” Bonehead had chosen a seriously vile shade of puce.
I drove to the gate and waited for another sour-faced goon to raise it for us.
“So, are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Andy said, holding the seat belt off his injured chest.
“Okay. We’re going to university.”
“Come again?” Andy was a great guy, but he’d only been at a catering school and he never read anything except the tabloid with the most tits and bums. “What good will I be to you at that kind of place?”
“Wait and see, big man,” I said, directing the Jeep toward the city center. I hoped Pete had paid his congestion charge because I was planning on parking at Waterloo.
When we got there, Andy grimaced as he stood up.
“Are you in pain?” I asked as we headed out of the multi-storey.
“Nothing a few beers won’t sort.”
“Forget it,” I said sternly. “You’re off the booze till I say otherwise.”
We walked toward the bridge. I knew exactly where I was going. I’d been there before. King’s College London had a building on the south side of the river. A seminar room on the third floor had been the scene of one of my worst humiliations as a writer.
We walked through crowds of students. It looked like we were in luck. A lecture had obviously just ended. After the last young man emerged, the woman I wanted to speak to followed. She had the same frizzy auburn hair and loose garments that I remembered.
“Dr. Everhead,” I said, trying to sound less nervous than I was. This woman had made me squirm in front of rows of people. She was also a world authority on Jacobean tragedy. I wanted to pick her brains, as well as to warn her about the Devil.
The lecturer’s jaw dropped. Her face went whiter than a wedding dress. For a moment I thought she was going to faint, an unlikely reaction from a battle-hardened feminist. Then she turned and headed at speed for the stairs. I managed to dart in front of her.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to lay into you. You were perfectly entitled to attack my books.”
That didn’t seem to comfort her much. She was looking anxiously to either side of me. Fortunately the corridor was empty, apart from Andy. His bulk wouldn’t have been particularly reassuring to her.
“Matt Stone,” she said, her voice surprisingly faint. “What…what are you doing here?”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
She looked at her watch. “I have a lecture in…oh, all right. My office is round here.” She walked away, looking over her shoulder. “Who’s your friend?”
I introduced Andy. He gave her a wide grin, which didn’t impress her. It had always been clear that Lizzie Everhead preferred women, both as crime writers and as human beings. She ushered us into a small office that was crammed with books and papers, and then stood by the open door. I could see that she was still nervous.