The Death List Read Online Free

bulky in it. I wondered how it had landed on Mrs. Lamb’s doormat without my hearing it. I felt a spasm of apprehension as I got nearer. Surely it couldn’t be a bomb. I’d written about terrorism in the Balkans in the Zog books and I’d expected at least a verbal backlash from one or other of the armed groups. None of them even knew of my existence, of course. Until now?
    I forced myself to walk forward. This was idiotic. WD was just playing games. Then I realized what it had to be. A manuscript. The fool was a budding writer who wanted me to vet his book. How many times had I been asked to do this? The same number of times that I’d told people, not particularly politely, that I was a writer, not a script reader.
    I bent down, feeling the usual twinge in my right knee—that had been what had finally made me stop playing for the South London Bison. The package was weighty enough, but it wasn’t solid in the way several hundred pages of copy paper would be. There were only two words on the envelope. Matt Wells. Now my correspondent really was taking the piss. Each word had been cut from a newspaper, my first name in a small black font and my surname in larger red letters. Who’d been reading too many crime novels?
    I opened the front door and looked down the street, both right and left. There was no sign of anyone. Most people were at work, college or school and the others—retired people or au pairs—were indoors. There weren’t even any builders in evidence, which made a change for Herne Hill. I knew the Lambs weren’t around. They’d gone off to their holiday villa in Cyprus for a month. Whoever made the delivery had pulled off a clean getaway. As there was no address, it obviously hadn’t come from the hands of a postman.
    I felt the package in both hands as I went back upstairs. It was paper, all right—there was nothing hard or metallic inside. Reassured, I tore open the flap and emptied the contents onto my lap.
    The money was new, the colors shining brightly in the light on my desk. There were five bundles of twenty-pound notes. Each bundle contained fifty notes, making a total of £5000.
    My mouth suddenly felt very dry.

2
    I sat in front of the screen again and scrolled down.
    So, Matt, I read. Now you know I’m serious about my business proposition. In case you’re wondering, there are no counterfeit notes. Pick any one out and ask your bank to check it if you want. No, it’s hardly worth the trouble, is it? Before I go into the details of what I want from you, I’d like to blind you with science. Or, more particularly, blind you with what I know about you. It’s always good to do your research on a potential partner, don’t you think?
    “Is that right?” I said under my breath. “And how am I supposed to do research on you, WD?” Or rather, WD1612. There was something about the combination of letters and numbers that rang a bell deep in my memory. My correspondent’s earlier addresses had seemed to be the random numbers assigned by e-mail servers, only the letters seemingly having significance. WD1612. What the hell did it mean?
    Your full name, continued the message, is Matthew John Wells. You were born on March 13, 1967, making you thirty-eight years old. Place of birth—London Hospital, Whitechapel. Height, six foot one; weight, thirteen stone six pounds; hair, dark, no sign of gray yet. Eyes, brown. Great author photo, by the way. Brooding, intense. That must have had the ladies falling over themselves to get their hands on you.
    Yeah, right. I was still puzzled how WD had got past my nom de plume.
    But, in fact, it’s a bit more complicated than that, isn’t it, Matt?
    I felt a stir of disquiet.
    Because you were adopted, weren’t you?
    My parents had told me so when I was Lucy’s age. They’d always been straight with me and I’d never had the desire to go chasing after my birth parents, even though I was aware of a void in my life.
    Don’t worry, WD1612 continued. There’s