The Death List Read Online Free Page B

He was getting very close to the bone. Caroline had been a bit naive about life when I first met her on the train to an Emmylou Harris gig in Newcastle. I’d always had a suspicion that she was initially attracted to me because I was well known in the university for my on- and off-field antics.
    After that, WD continued, you moved to Maximum, didn’t you? “The Mag for Lads who Live for Sex, Sport and Rock ’n’ Roll.” That must have gone down really well with Caroline’s friends in the City.
    Jesus, this was getting well beyond a joke. How much more had WD1612 dug up? He knew about Caroline as well as me.
    Anyway, Matt, I won’t bore you with too much about yourself. Just to add that your favorite musicians are The Clash, Richmond Fontaine, The Who, Joni Mitchell, King Crimson and the Drive By Truckers. Nothing if not Catholic, at least in your music tastes if not your religion. (Why do you boast of being an atheist on your Web site? Are you so sure that powers beyond mankind do not exist? Better to be an agnostic, my friend.)
    Better to be a smart-arse, you shithead, I said to myself. He could have worked out my favorite music from my reviews—he didn’t need to have seen my CD collection.
    And you’re a devotee of film noir and crime movies in general, particularly Hitchcock. Good choice, Matt! The dirty old fat man is one of my top five directors, too. When you’re not reading the competition (who, let’s face it, are doing a lot better than you), you’re down at the South London Bison clubhouse getting shitfaced with your former teammates. The South London Bison. Record in your last season—played 21, won 2, drawn 1, lost 18. Not much better this year, are they? Still, win or lose, the mud tastes the same, I guess.
    “Like it will when I fill your mouth with it,” I muttered. “If you’re dumb enough to want to meet up.”
    Last, but very much not least, you’re the doting father of Lucy Emilia Wells, born King’s College Hospital, Denmark Hill, January 18, 1997, currently attending Form 3M at Dulwich Village Primary School, home address 48C Ferndene Road.
    Now there was a mist obscuring my vision. A sour taste had shot up my throat and my fingernails were cutting into the fabric of my jeans. The bastard knew about Lucy. What did he want with me?
    Oh, I almost forgot, the message continued. For the past three months you’ve been going out with Sara Margaret Robbins, born London, August 22, 1971, reporter on the Daily Independent. Good-looking woman, Matt. God knows what she sees in—
    Right, that was enough. I moved the mouse, intending to log off the e-mail program. Then I saw the pile of banknotes on the floor. WD1612 had shown me that he knew how to get at me and my loved ones, but he’d also given me five grand. It wasn’t as if I had anything more pressing to do.
    So I kept reading.—you. Let’s get down to it, Matt. What do I want for my five thousand? Well, first of all, I need an act of good faith. Don’t worry, it’s nothing too difficult. But it does concern your daughter, Lucy.
    He had my full attention.
    To be more specific, it concerns her bedroom. You need to get round there and clean up. Someone’s made a terrible mess. And, Matt? There’s just one ground rule. Don’t tell anyone about this. Not your ex-wife, not your girlfriend, not your mother, not any of your mates from the rugby club, and certainly not the police. I’ll be watching. You’ll never know when and where, but I’ll be watching. And I’ll be listening. So take the money and do what I say or the people dear to you will feel serious pain. I’ll be in touch again soon and I’ll be wanting an answer from you. Make sure I don’t lose my patience. Now go!
    I was out of the house like an Olympic sprinter on the latest dope.
     
    It couldn’t have taken me more than three minutes to get to the house in Ferndene Road. It had been half mine until Caroline bought me out last year—I put the money in a trust fund