Free The Death List by Paul Johnston Page A

over my shoulder. “Yes, practice the one about the crocodile, darling.”
    Shami beckoned me out into the hall.
    “You were here during the day yesterday,” she said, stating a fact rather than asking a question.
    I managed to hold her gaze. “What do you mean?”
    “Mrs. Stewart in number eight says she saw your Volvo when she was having her lunch. You know she always sits in the bow window looking out over the park.”
    My gut twisted as I remembered that detail. Mrs. Stewart was a sour-faced old widow who disapproved of anyone who didn’t buy the Daily Mail. She particularly disapproved of people who got divorced, although I was the only one in my family she took that out on—apparently Caroline was guiltless in the matter. The reason she sat staring at Ruskin Park was so she could rush out and berate anyone who didn’t clean up after their dog. Christ. I wondered how much she’d seen.
    “Oh, yeah,” I said, giving Shami a slack smile. “I did pop round. I was picking up some cases of books that I left in the attic.” There was an element of truth in that. I was hoping that Caroline wouldn’t go and check out my story, because the cases were all still there. I was getting better at lying to order, but there was still room for improvement.
    “You didn’t see Happy?” Shami asked. She was a decent woman, plump with a sweet face, and I didn’t like what I was doing. Then again, if I told her what had really happened to her dog, she’d have a fit.
    I shook my head. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t. I thought she was inside.”
    The uncertain notes from the piano stopped.
    “Daddy?” Lucy called. “Has Happy come back from the dog hospital?”
    Shami and I exchanged glances, and then her eyes filled with tears. I touched her shoulder.
    “Just a minute, sweetie,” I said.
    “I have to go,” Shami said, swallowing a sob. “I need to stay by the phone. We’ve put ads in the papers.” She hurried out.
    I watched her leave, thinking that I’d better make sure Lucy didn’t see the papers. I felt like a callous bastard. Then it struck me: maybe that was exactly what the Devil wanted.
    I had to retain as much of my own nature as I could if I was going to survive this.
     
    I went back to my place and logged on to my e-mail program. I wasn’t surprised to see a message from the Devil, with another attachment.
    Send me what you’ve got, Matt, I read.
    I hit Reply and attached my text. I experienced what used to happen when I sent completed novels to my editor—brief sadness that my offspring had left home mixed with apprehension about what the recipient would think of it.
    I leaned back in my chair, suddenly feeling exhausted. I was going round to Sara’s when she finished work. I was desperate to see her, even though I couldn’t share my burden. She’d brought me out of the depression that most writers live with often enough, her kindness and quick smile acting on me like a spell. She was my guiding light.
    I stood up and headed for the kitchen—which wasn’t more than an alcove—and made a pot of coffee. Then I sat down in front of the TV and turned on the news. I’d missed the national bulletin and the local London report was on. Normally I wouldn’t have bothered watching yet another policy initiative by the mayor and more shots of beleaguered commuters. This time, when I got the gist of what was being presented, I made an exception.
    A black female reporter was standing in front of a small Victorian Gothic building.
    “…of St. Bartholomew’s Catholic Church in West Kilburn. Detectives from the Metropolitan Police’s elite Violent Crime Coordination Team were called to the scene not long after midnight. The murder victim underwent a horrific attack in the church. Detective Chief Inspector Karen Oaten made this statement.”
    The screen was filled by the face of a blond woman who managed to look stern and alluring simultaneously. “I can confirm that the dead man is Father Norman