The Death List Read Online Free PDF

register me. I checked the street in both directions and headed home. The seven-year-old red Volvo station wagon that I’d inherited from my father was parked outside my place. I drove it back to Caroline’s and opened the tail hatch. Waiting until an elderly couple with a Pekinese had passed, I raced upstairs and brought the bundle down. It was heavier than I’d expected, but it fit in the rear compartment easily enough. I closed and locked the car, then went back to check Lucy’s room. I couldn’t see any sign of what had been on her bed. My stomach flipped when I thought that my daughter was going to have to sleep there tonight, but I had other priorities right now. I went down to the basement and found a spade.
    Now what? How do you dispose of a dead dog in central London in broad daylight? I drove swiftly away, heading for Crystal Palace. I knew there was a public dump somewhere, but I decided against using that. There was too much risk that I’d be spotted or that Happy would be found. In the end, I drove out to Farnborough and took it into the woods behind a bridle path. Since it was a weekday morning, there was no one about. I dug a shallow grave, deposited the wretched animal in it and covered the hole as best I could.
    I got back to my flat at two o’clock. The computer’s screen saver was on, showing a collage of my book jackets that I’d been meaning to get rid of for weeks. I logged back on to my e-mail server and found a message from W1612D, this time via Google. The bastard was moving around the Internet like a ghost.
    Matt, it said. I am impressed! Farnborough, of all places. I won’t tell anyone. Here’s the serious bit. Make sure you don’t, either. Or Lucy will end up in a similar state. Or perhaps your mother. Or Sara. Or Caroline. Or anyone else you know. Do you accept my proposition, Matt?
    I hit Reply and typed, What proposition?
    The answer chime came quickly. I hardly think you’re in a position to quibble, my friend. Besides, you’ve taken my money. Are you going to cooperate or do you want more innocent blood to be spilled?
    I thought about it, but not for long. The fact was, I was shit scared about Lucy. But there was more to it than that. I’d been making up crime stories for years, and now the actual thing had literally landed on my doorstep. I couldn’t resist responding to the lunatic who’d cut up Happy. Like every crime writer, I fancied trying my hand at real-life detective work. I reckoned I could do it better than the clods in Scotland Yard—no way was I telling them about my hotline to the sadistic bastard. It didn’t occur to me that I was walking through the gates of the underworld.
    Okay, I typed. But I don’t want your filthy money.
    Another chime. That’s the deal, Matt. The money’s yours. Don’t make me angry.
    I hit Reply again. Who are you?
    Come on, Matt. I’ve already told you. Bye for now.
    He’d already told me? WD? What the hell did WD mean?
    Then, with a surge of apprehension, it came to me.

3
    The sun was casting a dying red light over the Thames. The view from the penthouse was fantastic, worth every penny of the million and a half he’d paid for it. The place was packed with the equipment he needed, the far end of the huge living area taken up by an ultramodern gym. The watcher at the window closed his eyes and smiled. His story was going to be told, and by a professional writer. It had to be done right, with nothing missing—the way he remembered it from the beginning. He was the hero, he had fought to get where he was now, with all the power in the world.
    He’d begun to realize his true potential the day his father hit him for the last time.
     
    “Les?” His mother’s voice was soft and warm, as it had always been. “You all right?”
    He was in his cramped bedroom in the tower block in Bethnal Green. It was winter and there wasn’t any heating on. His father had taken all the coins and gone down to the pub.
    “That’s a nice