The Soul Collector

by Paul Johnston

  “Morning, Karen,” I said, sliding the chains off and admitting her. I kissed her on the mouth and then ran to my bedroom. “I left the tap running,” I shouted. The pistol was lying in full view on my bedside table. I quickly buried it in a drawer full of old South London Bisons shirts. I didn’t think she’d look there.

  When I came out, she was dangerously near my computer. Fortunately she didn’t have the nerve to touch the keyboard and mouse in front of me, though I suspected she might have had a look if I’d stayed away much longer. She’d be expecting the family and friends who’d gone to ground to be keeping in touch by e-mail. If she saw the message with the clue, she’d be duty bound to investigate it. That could be very costly, if the writer was as ruthless as he or she threatened.

  Karen turned to me after she’d shrugged off her coat. “Did you get any sleep?” she said, opening her arms.

  Feeling a complete bastard for doubting her feelings, I fell into her embrace. “Some,” I said after a while. “You?”

  “Under an hour.” She sniffed the air. “You’ve had a rugby player’s breakfast.”

  I nodded, hoping she wouldn’t open the dishwasher and see the second plate. “What happened?”

  “I was called out.”

  My heart missed a beat. “What was it?”

  “A dead Kurd at Manor House.”

  I breathed out in relief. “Another gang killing?”

  “Looks that way. God, I need a large dose of coffee.”

  I went over to the kitchen, leading her away from the computer. As I was spooning coffee into the filter machine, I asked her about the investigation into Dave’s death.

  “Taff’s handling it,” she said, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island. “It would be fair to say the VCCT is stretched to breaking point.”

  “You’ve taken the case over?”

  She shrugged. “Didn’t have any choice,” she replied. “The AC’s running scared because your friends in the press are drooling at the prospect of another White Devil.” She frowned. “Thanks to your book, they know all about Dave, not to mention Sara.”

  I felt the sting of her words. “Has Taff got anything?” I asked, after I poured her a mug of the black stuff.

  “Not much. The neighbors only saw you and your friends. No one saw a woman, or anyone else in the vicinity of Dave’s house yesterday morning.”

  “Are you sure? It was a Saturday morning. Most people would have been around.”

  “The whole street’s been questioned. Most of them were off shopping or taking the kids to ballet, football, whatever.”

  “What about the houses at the back? Maybe she got in that way.”

  “Those people have been asked, too. They only saw your friend Pete. What exactly was he doing back there?”

  I tried not to be evasive. If someone had noticed the bag he was carrying, Karen would nail me. “He was covering the back in case an intruder bolted. He took a tennis racket with him, would you believe?”

  She held my gaze. “I wouldn’t, but you’re not going to admit to anything else. I don’t suppose you’ve received a message from Sara.”

  I was able to answer that truthfully, at least as regards the names used by the sender. “No.”

  “I’m wondering if there’s some connection with the murders in East London. I don’t suppose Dave ever had a run-in with any of the bad men there.”

  “Not that I’m aware of. I don’t remember him ever working in that area.”

  She sipped from her mug. “Maybe someone’s taking out ex–Special Forces people.”

  “Like an Irish paramilitary group?” I hadn’t thought of that. It wasn’t completely beyond the realms of possibility. “And they copied the modus operandi from my book?”

  She shrugged, avoiding my eyes. “The military intelligence people are following that up with Special Branch. Christ, what am I doing telling you this? Don’t you dare put it in your column.”

  “Oddly enough, my column is the last thing I’m thinking about right now.”

  Karen stood up. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Hang on,” I said, opening a cupboard and finding a plastic travel cup for her coffee. I stalled before giving her it. “Anything new on the Mary Malone murder?”

  “It’s still with Homicide West. Why? Do you think it’s connected?”

  “With Dave’s death? Anything’s possible in that madwoman’s universe.”

  Karen leaned forward and took the cup from me. “Why, though?” she said, pouring coffee from her mug. “To put the shits up you?”

  “Yes, before killing me.” I looked at her, only now aware of the dark rings around her eyes. “Nice thought. You should sleep.”

  She gave a hollow laugh. “If that was an attempt to get me into bed, you need to work on your technique.” She put the lid on the cup and moved around the island. “I’ll call you later,” she said, kissing me on the mouth.

  “Okay,” I said, watching her go. I went over to the door and put the chains back on. I felt bad about pumping her for information while concealing the message I’d received, but my experience with the White Devil had showed that involving the authorities wasn’t a viable option.

  I went into the spare room and knocked on the wardrobe. Andy opened the door, his silenced Glock raised. “Christ,” I gasped. “It’s only me. Karen’s gone.”

  He looked past me. “You can’t be too careful, man.”

  I knew he was right, but the problem was I had just over fifteen hours to figure out the clue I’d been sent. Right now, I hadn’t the faintest idea whose name was concealed behind “The sun set behind the westernmost dunes of Alexander’s womankind.” The only Alexander I knew was a critic who’d been killed by the White Devil. Was Sara really hiding behind the revenger’s name Flaminio? And what the hell did D.F. mean?

  Faik Jabar was cushioned in something like cotton wool, his limbs and body softly supported. His sight had become so acute, he could make out the mountains of the Kurdish homeland he had never visited. The snow on the peaks was bathed in a golden light, and in the villages below the people were waving to him, calling for him to come down, saying that his place was with them, that he was their brother—

  He screamed as he suddenly plummeted earthwards and crashed on to the stony ground. Opening his eyes, he did not recognize where he was. His right hand hurt like the bite of a rabid beast. He tried to move, but couldn’t. Looking down the iron bedstead, he saw that his wrists and legs had been strapped to the frame. The mattress he was lying on smelled of sweat and urine.

  “Hello?” he called out, first in English, then in Kurdish. He heard sounds behind the faded door. A key turned in the lock.

  “So the brave soldier is awake,” said a man in Kurdish. He had a thick mustache and was wearing a well-cut suit. “A pity about your friend.”

  The scene in the basement flashed before him, the traitor Aro Izady lying in a mess of his own blood. Faik tried to scream again, but his voice had disappeared. Then he saw the face of the killer, the man with the beard. What was it about him? Something weird…What was it? The image came back to him—the beard had come away, revealing part of the face beneath. It had not been a man’s. It was the face of a demon from—

  Faik felt a powerful slap on his cheek.

  “You will listen when I speak to you, Kurdish shit!”

  Faik blinked away the involuntary tears that had filled his eyes. He made out a different man, this one younger, maybe in his early thirties. He was wearing a brown leather jacket and his face was covered in heavy stubble.

  “Now do you hear me?” the man said. He was speaking English, but with a strong accent that Faik immediately recognized. His captor was a Turk.

  “Yes,” Faik replied. “I hear you.” He gasped as his wounded hand was squeezed hard.

  “Oh, you’re beginning to remember things, are you?” the Turk said, his voice mocking. “The doctor here is one of your people, but he is happy to take our money. He cleaned the wou
nd and stitched it. You were lucky. The tendons are in good shape. With rest, full movement will be restored.” He gave a laugh that turned into a grunt. “If you live that long.”

  “Who are you?” Faik demanded, grimacing as the pain struck again.

  “Hurts like hell, doesn’t it?” the Turk said. “Particularly since we haven’t given you any painkillers.”

  Faik struggled to look impassive. It took him some time. He was aware that the Turk continued talking, asking him what he had been doing in the basement, what had happened to Aro Izady, but most of all, asking who had shot Izady and him.

  Faik clenched every muscle he could when the butt of a pistol came down hard on his injured hand. He closed his eyes and saw only red, a similar red to the blood that had fountained from Aro Izady’s head.

  “Who fired the shots?” the Turk yelled. “Tell me his name.”

  Faik opened his eyes and saw the gun over his shoulder. “No name,” he said with a gasp. “Izady brought him in his car.”

  His captor paused. “What happened to Aro?”

  Faik wondered who the man was, to be on first-name terms with Izady.

  “Answer!” the Turk said, his mouth close to Faik’s head.

  “Izady was a traitor. He was working for you. You are a Shadow, are you not?”

  There was silence, then the man’s mouth came close again.

  “Describe the man who shot you.”

  “He…he had dark hair and…and a beard.” Faik broke off, trying to put his thoughts into words. “Medium height, well built, black clothes.”

  “What language did he speak?”

  “English. He wasn’t one of us.” Faik paused. “Or you.”

  “What else?” the Turk demanded. “You’re hiding something. Watch my hand!”

  Faik saw the point of the pistol rest against the bandage on his hand.

  “Unless you want two holes instead of one, you’d better come clean, you blue-eyed fuck!”

  “I…I don’t know…how to say…”

  The Turk turned his head. “Doctor!” he shouted.

  The man in the suit reappeared, looking uneasy.

  “Tell him in your own language,” the Turk ordered Faik.

  The young man gabbled to the other in Kurdish. The doctor seemed puzzled and spoke again. Faik repeated what he had said.

  “It seems that the beard was false,” the doctor said to the Turk. “Part of it came off.” He broke off.

  “And?” the Turk said, going over to the man in the suit. “What did he see?”

  “He…he says he saw a terrible face, like a devil’s…”

  “What?” The Turk looked at the bound young man. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “It was a devil face,” Faik said. “Out of shape, swollen, scarred. I saw black and red wounds, lumps…It was horrible.”

  The Turk stared at Faik and then brought the pistol down on his wounded hand again. “Bullshit! You know who it was, don’t you?”

  Faik Jabar was in agony. He shook his head. “It’s true,” he said. “That’s what I saw.”

  “Let me try another question,” the Turk said. “Do you know who I am?”

  The young man shook his head. He didn’t want to know. If he could identify his captor, his life would be worth nothing.

  The Turk grinned. “I am known as the Wolfman.”

  Faik groaned and shut his eyes. The Wolfman was the savage who did the Shadows’ dirtiest work. But the face he’d seen beneath the false beard was much more frightening than that of the unshaven Turk.

  “Again the hair and nails of an unbeliever burn to the greater glory of the Lord Beneath the Earth!”

  The masked man in the cowl and robe lowered his arms. He looked around the cavern. The mandrill Beelzebub was squatting by the sluggish stream, splashing his paws in it. There were no fish in the shallow water. Perhaps he was trying to catch his reflection. One might have thought the fangs would scare him, but the beast was made of sterner stuff.

  As was the naked supplicant at the altar. Mephistopheles had seen some wonderfully sinister devotees in the years he had directed the order, but there had never been one such as this. His faith in his Master had been restored, as, soon, would be the family fortunes.

  Beelzebub screamed and came charging over the stone floor. When the supplicant turned, the mandrill stopped immediately and lowered his head. He had always respected the stronger, more vicious creature whose face was uglier than his own.

  Eleven

  “Shit,” I said, leaning back from my desk.

  Andy was quickly behind me.

  “Don’t worry, it isn’t another puzzle,” I said. “It’s Rog.”

  The American read our friend’s plea, then looked at me. “He’s right, Matt. We’re sticking together. So should Rog and Pete.”

  I thought about it. My instinct for safety told me it was a bad idea, but there was no question that Dave would have wanted us to get in Sara’s face. “All right,” I said, leaning toward the keyboard. “I’ll tell them to set up base at Pete’s place. Even Sara will have a job getting past his alarm system.”

  Andy nodded. “And maybe we’ll catch her trying.”

  I wasn’t convinced by that, but it was worth a shot. Besides, Dave had taught us how to look after ourselves and each other. Not that it had done him any good. I also sent Rog the puzzle and asked him to run it through any deciphering programs he had access to.

  An hour later, Andy and I were going through the sheets I’d printed off. Rog wasn’t convinced that the line about the sun setting on the westernmost dunes of Alexander’s womankind was algorithmic or mathematical in form, but he’d tried anyway. He knew a lot about ciphers from the programs he wrote all the time. I’d also asked Pete to think about it. He had the kind of mind that picked up unusual information and noticed things that most people didn’t. Again, I wasn’t very hopeful. I had the feeling the line was more like a crossword clue. The problem was, I’d always been crap at cryptic crosswords.

  Before I got down to serious consideration of the clue, I looked at the material Pete had sent to the Web site. He’d been talking to his friends in the City and was following up several of Rog’s leads. Background material was attached, but there wasn’t enough to act on yet.

  “What now?” Andy asked, papers on the floor around him. He looked substantially out of his depth.

  “We have to work out a strategy, Slash. I’m going to see if I can make any sense out of that bloody riddle. There’s a deadline on it, literally.”

  “Ha,” the American said. “What do you want me to do?”

  I’d been thinking about that, and about the woman who was the owner of the four British properties bought with Sara’s funds.

  “Angela Oliver-Merilee,” I said. “Mean anything to you?”

  Andy ran a hand through his blond thatch. “Should it?”

  “Oh, yes. What was the White Devil’s real name?”

  That made him think. “Shit, man, I can’t remember. Lonnie something?”

  “Close. Leslie Dunn. Except, he was adopted, remember? When I was writing The Death List, I got a copy of the adoption papers.” I held up the file that I’d taken from my safe earlier on.

  “Spit it out, smart-ass,” Andy said impatiently.

  “Well, his birth mother’s name was Doris Merilee.”

  He stared at me. “All right. But I still don’t see where you’re going with this.”

  I opened the file and pointed to a section of the poor-quality copy. “He wasn’t christened, but his birth mother had given him a name. She called him—”

  “Oliver,” he completed. “Jeez. What does that mean?”

  I shrugged. “That depends. Sara’s still hurting about her twin brother’s death and she’s been planning carefully. The first of those properties, the farmhouse in Kent, was bought six months ago. The last, the cottage in the Scottish borders, was bought only a month back. But that’s not all.” I pulled another sheet from t
he file. “Doris Merilee gave Sara a name, too.”

  Andy’s eyes widened. “Angela.”

  I nodded. “On the button.”

  “I still don’t understand where this leads us.”

  I wrote an address on a slip of paper and handed it to him.

  “47 Northumberland Crescent, Sydenham,” he read.

  “That’s where the birth mother lives.”

  Andy stood up slowly. “Christ, she’s still alive?”

  “According to the phone directory. She married three years after she gave the twins up for adoption. Her name’s now Doris Carlton-Jones.”

  “Okay. Shall I bring her in?”

  I laughed. “No, Slash. You aren’t a cop, remember? I’m going to give you my camera. You need to hire a van. Park it near the house and use it for cover while you carry out surveillance. Take photos of her if she comes out.” I gave him a serious look. “Take your gun with you. It’s possible that Sara’s reestablished contact with her and is down there. She might even turn up for a visit.”

  “Jeez, that would solve a lot of problems.”

  I raised my hand, aware that what I was about to say was a waste of breath. “Don’t try to grab Sara if she shows. Call me and I’ll get Karen involved.”

  He looked at me dubiously and then nodded. “Okay.”

  “Call in every hour on the hour, on the secure line.” Rog had done what he could to make the landline I used only for my friends secure. There was still a risk, but it was small and I preferred to know that Andy was okay.

  He nodded. “What about the other two properties Sara bought?”

  “There’s a house in Oxford and a flat in Hackney.”

  “Hackney, East London? That’s a bit down-market for her, isn’t it?”

  I thought about that. “It isn’t clear what she’s doing with the properties. Maybe they’re just investments. Or potential safe houses.”

  “Not anymore. We have to check them out.”

  “We do. But I have to solve this bloody clue first, remember?”

  “Shouldn’t I take a look at the places in and around London rather than watch on the mother?”