The Soul Collector

by Paul Johnston

  Pete opened the wardrobe. He found three pairs of black jeans, one of which he held against his hip. The flat’s occupant was shorter than he was, so around five foot nine, and solidly built—the shirts were size large. There were bundled pairs of socks on the floor of the wardrobe, as well as folded boxer shorts.

  “Looks like a bloke lives here,” Pete said.

  Andy went into the bathroom. It smelled of pine. He touched the washbasin. It was wet, as was the bath behind the shower curtain.

  “Someone was in here earlier today, Boney,” he called. He ran his eye over a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste, a razor and can of foam and a plastic comb. There were no hairs on the latter, nor were there any in the bath. The metal bin was empty, suggesting that the occupant was very fastidious—or very careful. Andy looked at himself in the round mirror, wondering whose face had been in it a few hours before.

  Pete was in the kitchen, opening drawers. They were filled with cutlery and other utensils. The pedal bin was empty and there were no plates in the sink or on the drying-stand.

  “Someone’s taking a lot of care not to leave traces,” he said.

  Andy checked the cupboards. There was very little food in the place, only a few tins of tuna and mackerel. The fridge contained a tub of butter and a jar of capers, and the freezer seemed to be filled with ice-cube trays.

  “Hang on,” he said, dropping to his knees. He took out the trays and stacked them on the floor. “What have we here?” He removed a clear freezer bag. Inside it was a padded envelope, with no writing on it. He felt the weight. “There’s something heavy in here,” he said. The envelope wasn’t sealed. He slid his hand in and pulled out a switchblade knife.

  Pete put down his pistol and took the knife from Andy. He opened the blade and ran his latex-covered finger along it. “Jeez, this baby is sharp enough to skin a cat. It’s clean, though, and it’s been oiled.”

  Pete looked around. “Look at this lot,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “Nine-millimeter rounds,” Andy said. “Oh, shit. Where’s the gun?”

  They searched the flat again, but found nothing. Another striking feature was the complete lack of anything personal—documents, bills, books, music, photographs.

  “Whoever hangs out here is armed,” Pete said when they’d finished.

  “And it looks like he or she doesn’t have any interests except weapons.”

  “I’m pretty sure that knife is a spare,” Andy said. “The other one will be in our friend’s pocket. Say, isn’t it around here that those gang murders have been happening?”

  The bald man stared at him and nodded. “What are you getting at?”

  “I don’t know….” Andy moved lightly over the bare floorboards. “Shall we ask the old guy downstairs about his neighbor?”

  “And leave a witness that we were here? I don’t think so, Slash. Judging by the racket coming through the floor, he’s in a world of his own anyway.”

  “What are we going to do, then? Wait for Armed and Dangerous to come back?”

  Pete looked at his watch. “Let’s give it an hour,” he said, squatting on the floor behind the sofa, his back against the wall.

  Andy dropped down behind the breakfast bar. “Hey, Boney,” he said after a few minutes.

  “What is it, Slash?”

  “This could be the piece of shit who killed Dave.”

  “Yeah, but we have to be sure of that before it’s payback time.”

  Andy gave a grim laugh. “I think I can get a confession.”

  “I believe you. But Matt will have to be in on that.”

  After about twenty minutes, the sound of the street door closing was just audible above the television. There were footsteps on the stairs.

  Pete stood up slowly, gripping his pistol in both hands. Andy was also covering the door.

  They heard the footsteps stop on the landing outside. There was a pause, then came an almost inaudible sniff. A key was slotted into the lock and the door was opened quickly. Something flew into the flat, landing with a thud on the floor and rolling toward the sofa. Before Pete or Andy could react, the door was slammed shut.

  There was a bright flash as the grenade went off.

  I checked the ghost site about half an hour later and opened the new folder that had arrived from my mother and Caroline. They were being very businesslike about the deadline—then I realized that Caroline must have written the text, with Fran dictating parts. They used to call my ex-wife “Ice-for-Blood” at the first bank she worked for. I was so naive that I didn’t get why they thought of her in that way, but later I went in that direction myself: Caroline referred to me as “glacier-heart” during the divorce. I’d been proud of that for about one minute, and then Lucy walked in.

  There was no instant good news, but they had come up with plenty of interesting angles. “The river shrinks bears” was hard to fathom, but they wondered if there was a diminutive at play—small bears are cubs, though they didn’t know what to make of that. Neither did I. Was the next victim a cub reporter? A debut novelist? As for “The ice crows for a wife,” Fran and Caroline thought that was a series of metaphors. “For a wife” was the easy one. Who would call for a wife? A man—so that was confirmation that the victim was male. Maybe the person who set the clue really had made this one more straightforward. But what about “the ice crows”? My mother and ex-wife had been playing with partial anagrams—they came up with “swore” (could that be a reference to Josh Hinkley, the most foul-mouthed person I knew? He was also a crime writer, but it seemed very tenuous); “worse”; “screw” (that was probably Caroline’s); “score”; “wise” (Did I know anyone of that name? No. Anyone who was wise? Not many); and “woes.” They thought that was a dead end, and I agreed.

  Moving on to “the lean man’s imperial heiress,” Fran and Caroline pointed out the male reference. Including the mention in the body of the e-mail text and in the sender’s name (thethirdisaman), that made four times that masculinity had been stressed. Could it be deliberate overkill? Maybe the target was actually a woman, a married one, as suggested by the use of “wife” in the previous line. Very helpful. As for “lean,” did I know anyone who was unusually skinny? Not really. Apart from junkies, most people were overweight these days, myself included, thanks to the additional muscles I’d acquired. My mother and ex-wife picked up on the colonial aspect of “imperial”—did I know anyone from a former colony? A few, and there were millions more I’d never heard of. Again, not much help. As for “heiress,” that suggested “daughter”—they had immediately thought of Lucy, though they accepted she was safe where they were. But was the intended victim female? The White Devil had told plenty of lies during his persecution of me—and, more to the point, he’d covered up or failed to tell me about even more things. Sara might be following his example.

  In the fourth line, “Is the thirsty draw of nothing,” Fran and Caroline spotted the opposition with the first line—“thirsty,” in the sense of “dry,” as against the liquid of “river.” But “draw of nothing” had them stumped. What kind of draw was meant? One where stalemate ensues, or an attraction? Perhaps there was even a hint of artistic technique—but how could you draw nothing? As for the last word, it could simply mean the letter O; or it could be hinting at a person, as in “no thing”; or it could just be there to show that the answer of the clue was without substance—i.e. that we were wasting our time trying to find it. Three seriously unhelpful alternatives. I thanked Fran and Caroline, sent my love to Lucy and logged off.

  Back at the dining table, I started rearranging the words of the message. There was a disturbing number of permutations, but even more worrying was the fact that I wasn’t getting anywhere. It was past three—only nine hours to go. Should I call Karen? I dismissed the thought, but only after long consideration. I asked Rog what he had come up with and was handed a sheaf of printout, none of which left me any the wiser. Could the clue be an acrostic? I wrote down all the first letters—they made
no sense in the order they were in. I changed the order, trying to make a name. I found “Rich”—which applied to several crime writers and a hell of a lot of other people; “Martin”—I knew several of those, both first names and surnames. Should I tell them all to go into hiding? I needed another name; “Watt”—I didn’t know anyone by that name, nor any Martin Watts. I was clutching at straws and I knew it.

  I got up and went to make coffee. As I waited for the kettle to boil, I thought about the first line, “The river shrinks bears.” What was that supposed to mean? I thought back to the ground rules of cryptic crosswords. Repunctuate. If I put a comma after “shrinks,” the sense, such as it was, became very different. Rather than the ridiculous vision of large furry animals being reduced in size by the river, I now had the river doing two things—becoming smaller itself and “bearing” something—carrying? I felt the metaphorical ice in my brain crack. A shrunken river meant a smaller one. So a stream, a burn, a rivulet? I was on the brink of a breakthrough, I was sure of it.

  Then my phone beeped twice. I’d been sent a text. Apart from Rog, only Pete and Andy had my new number. What had they discovered in the flat? I hit the buttons and read the message.

  Josh Hinkley walked into the pub in Soho and went straight to the bar. He didn’t care if the person he was meeting was there already. He urgently needed a drink. He ordered a double ten-year-old Macallan and emptied it in one. That immediately put a different complexion on the day.

  He’d spent most of it on the phone to members of the Crime Writers’ Society, or answering their e-mails. It seemed that Matt Wells had a lot of friends, and they objected to his being pilloried in the press and on the Internet. Some had even accused Josh of shamelessly seeking publicity. Well, that was true enough, not that he could admit it. So he’d given them a load of bollocks about how crime writers had a duty to assist the police. Some of his fellow novelists had refused to accept that Matt had chickened out by going underground. Eventually, Josh had told one of them where he could stick his telephone and put his own in one of the kitchen drawers. That didn’t stop it ringing, so he left.

  It was only when he was approaching the Goat and Gooseberry that he remembered why he was going there. He’d got a call from another crime writer before the hue and cry had started, asking if they could meet. A year ago, Josh Hinkley wouldn’t have bothered to cross the street to talk to Alistair Bing, but now he wanted to pick the diminutive Yorkshireman’s brains. Bing had started off about ten years back with a desperately tedious series about a pair of rural coppers, set in the Moors. The fact that one of them was a black man and the other a half-Chinese woman didn’t help on the realism front. For some reason, his publishers had continued with the series for six books before finally realizing that sales so low couldn’t be justified, even with a minimal advance. Everyone—Josh included—had assumed that was the last they’d hear of Alistair Bing, but he turned out to be a persistent bugger. He managed to reinvent himself as a writer, coming out with a hard-as-nails ex-FBI protagonist called Jim Cooler, who basically went around the world beating the shit out of bad people and giving one to every luscious female he encountered. The first book had rocketed to the top of the charts in every significant country, turning Bing into a publishing sensation and a very wealthy man. Now Hollywood producers were his best friends.

  “Hello, Josh.”

  Hinkley turned and took in the short, bespectacled multimillionaire. He still dressed like a 1950s schoolmaster, but now the tweed jacket was bespoke and the glasses the best that Milan could provide.

  “Alistair, how the hell are you? I’m just getting another. What would you like?”

  “It’s all right,” Bing said, his voice still the drone of the permanently unhappy Northerner. “I’ve got one over at that table.” He moved his arm limply.

  “Let’s go, then.” Josh Hinkley led him back to his own table. A half-pint glass was sitting there, three-quarters full. “Sure you don’t want a shot to go with that?”

  “Oh, no, I never drink spirits.” Alistair Bing carefully folded up the newspaper he’d been reading.

  “So, what brings you to London?”

  “Oh, I live here now. Off Harley Street, actually.”

  “Really?” Josh Hinkley had assumed Bing was tied to the north by chains of Sheffield steel. “We’re practically neighbors.”

  “Yes, I walked past your place the other day. I imagine it’s nicer inside than it looks from the outside.”

  Hinkley was unimpressed, both by the slur on his home and the idea of Alistair Bing checking up on him, but he managed not to let that show. “I like to be close to the people I write about,” he said, aware that he sounded like a bleeding-heart liberal. The reality was, he hated the sleazeballs who hung around the pubs and strip joints. His double flat was on the top of a building otherwise used as offices; it was an air-conditioned oasis where he could hide away and write.

  “So,” he said, forcing himself to be sociable, “you’re a Londoner now.”

  “Oh, no, never that,” Bing said mildly. “But I’m on national radio and TV so much that I needed a base down here. I ended up buying the whole house.” He gave a slack smile. “It’s an investment, you know.”

  “Right,” Hinkley said. Now he was impressed. He was still paying off a mortgage.

  Bing took a small sip of beer. “The first Jim Cooler movie’s in preproduction, so I’m flying to L. A. every month.”

  Josh Hinkley bit the bullet and asked how that was going, trying to damp down his jealousy. One of his Lenny “The Gore” Gray novels had been made into a TV series, but it had been miscast and directed by a smart-arse who ballsed up the story in a big way. He was forced to listen to Bing talking about Hollywood stars like they were his best mates. But there was something different about his fellow author. When Josh had first met him, at a bookshop event somewhere in the Midlands, he’d been shy and nervous. Now he acted like he was a master of the universe and nothing seemed to faze him. He appeared on late-night review programs and took on so-called intellectuals, he wrote columns for the broadsheets that combined analysis of modern life with unexpected wit, and he even turned up on kids’ TV as the token person with a brain who didn’t mind being asked brainless questions. There must have been something in the water up north. It certainly wasn’t in the beer—Bing still hadn’t finished his half-pint.

  Eventually Josh Hinkley couldn’t take any more name-dropping, even though Bing had offered to introduce him to several of the movie executives and television producers he knew. “This Matt Wells thing, Alistair,” he asked. “Where do you stand on that?”

  “I’m with you, Josh,” Bing said, smiling ingratiatingly. “I think the way he’s behaving is absolutely outrageous. It was bad enough the first time around, with that White Devil killer. He should be cooperating with the police. It isn’t as if he has to go out of his way to do that—he’s sleeping with a senior detective.”

  “So you agree that he should be booted out of the Crime Writers’ Society?”

  Alistair Bing nodded. “Certainly. I’ve sent the directors an e-mail supporting you.”

  “Thanks.” Hinkley was pleased, but he was also slightly suspicious. He couldn’t see what was in it for Bing. “Of course, you’ll make some enemies.”

  The other author shrugged. “That’s life. Sometimes you have to make difficult decisions.” He leaned over the table. “I can assure you, that’s nowhere near the hardest one I’ve taken.”

  Hinkley wondered what could have been so difficult for Bing. Shall I accept two million pounds for my next four books or not? Shall I sell my character to Hollywood so I can set myself up for life, or stay unknown? Shall I buy a whole house in Harley Street, or just half? There was something about the way the Yorkshireman was looking at him that hinted at hidden depths. The bastard was probably a grand master at chess, as well. But there was one area where Josh was sure Alistair Bing would never succeed.

  “How’s your love life?” he said,
wondering if he was ever going to get another drink.

  Spots of color appeared on Bing’s cheeks. “Well, you know, I’m not much of a ladies’ man.” He looked at his beer.

  “Oh, come on,” Hinkley said, determined to rub his nose in it. “There must have been dozens of willing young nubiles in Hollywood.”

  Alistair Bing nodded, but his eyes stayed down.

  “Or do you prefer men?”

  That made Bing look up. “Definitely not!” he exclaimed, spittle flying from his lips.

  Hinkley sat back. “Calm down. I don’t care one way or another.”

  “I do,” Alistair Bing said firmly. “I suppose I’d better get you another drink.” He picked up the empty glass and went to the bar.

  Josh Hinkley watched the diminutive figure thread his way between the raucous drinkers. He was no nearer to understanding what had turned a minor writer of police procedurals into a massive bestseller. Maybe it was the fact that his books were bland and unchallenging. He almost convinced himself that was the case. As Alistair Bing came back, his forehead lined as he concentrated on not spilling the pint, Hinkley realized that he hated the Yorkshireman’s guts.

  Eighteen

  I read the text message from Andy aloud. “‘At London Hospital. Bastard threw grenade. Pick us up.’ What the fuck?”

  “It could be a trap,” Rog said.

  “He used the right confirmation code.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe Sara or her sidekicks got it out of him.”

  I stared at him. “Why would they send me to the London Hospital? It’s hardly the ideal place to stage an ambush.”

  “She could be trying to distract you from solving that clue.”

  I nodded. “Which means that you have to keep working on it. Keep in contact with my mother and Caroline via the ghost site.”

  “All right,” he said reluctantly. “But I’d rather come with you.”

  “Please, Dodger,” I said as I checked my Glock and slipped it inside my jacket. “We can’t all be in the same public place.”