The Death List by Paul Johnston Read Free Book Online Page A

you’ll be starting work for me. Get a good night’s sleep.
    I hit Reply.
    Why are you calling yourself the White Devil? What’s John Webster’s play of that name, first performed in 1612, got to do with anything? I clicked Send.
    There was a chime soon afterward.
    You got it eventually, Matt. I am the White Devil. Da-da. Cue doom-laden music. What’s the play got to do with it? Come on, you can do better than that. But get some rest now or “Our sleeps are severed.” Good night.
    I sat back and looked up at the cracked ceiling. Jesus. This guy really knew how to get to me. “Our sleeps are severed”— The White Devil, act 2, scene 1; Brachiano divorcing Isabella, in Webster’s great work of revenge and violent death. It was behind my novel The Devil Murder, the title being another quotation from the play. I’d studied Jacobean tragedy at college and been fascinated by it. There was a primitive inevitability to the plays that shook me—the mask of civilization was much flimsier and the seething bedlam beneath much closer than in Shakespeare, apart from Titus Andronicus. When I was searching for a plot to hang my third Sir Tertius novel on, I came on that of The White Devil —hypocrisy and corruption being justly punished. I even gave John Webster a small part. Most of the critics thought that was a neat touch. Some lunatic was taking his admiration too far.
    Then I had another thought. In The Devil Murder, the villain, Lord Lucas of Merston, is done to death by the crazed father of a girl he has raped. The father happens to be a farmer and he kills the criminal by hacking him apart with a skinning knife. Sir Tertius finds the lord in the crucifix position, with his entrails hanging out.
    Just like Happy’s.
     
    I put down the empty glass by my computer. The big slug of single malt had finally calmed me down. It had even brought a sense of perspective. This was all crazy. What was I doing, letting a nutter implicate me the way he had? It wasn’t as if I was the one who’d killed Happy. It wasn’t as if I’d extorted the five grand out of him. To nip this in the bud, all I needed to do was phone the police. They’d take some time to be convinced, but I would give them the money and show them where Happy’s body was. I’d have a job explaining to Caroline and the Rooneys what I’d done, but I would think of a way. I had the e-mails, after all. Yes, that was it. I was putting a stop to this.
    The phone rang before I got any further.
    “Hello?” I said hesitantly, wondering if the White Devil had somehow discovered my ex-directory number.
    “Matt, is that you?” My mother sounded perturbed.
    “What is it, Fran?” I asked, the words coming out in a rush. “Are you all right?” If the bastard had done anything to her, I’d make him pay.
    “Of course I’m all right, dear,” she said, her voice softening. “You’re the one who sounds worried.”
    That was typical of my mother. She could construct an entire mood around a few words. That was maybe why she was still a published author and I wasn’t.
    “Sorry. You know, problems with the writing…”
    “Do you want to talk about it?” When I started out, I’d often spoken to Fran about the technicalities of fiction, but in recent years I’d kidded myself that I’d got beyond that stage. It would have been a good idea to get back to the basics with her, but I had other things on my mind tonight.
    “No, it’s all right. I’ll sort it out.” I remembered my initial fear. Could the Devil have got to her? “Is everything okay at home? No one’s been…been bothering you?”
    “Are you sure you’re well, Matt?” she asked solicitously.
    “Please, just answer the question.”
    I heard a sharp intake of breath. “As a matter of fact, you asked two questions.” She paused to put me in my place. “Yes, everything is okay. No, no one’s been bothering me. What’s this about, Matt?”
    “Nothing,” I said, casting around for a get-out