The Soul Collector

by Paul Johnston

  “Loud music’s a matter for the council, Colin,” Oaten said. “We wouldn’t usually intervene, never mind kick the door down.”

  “No, but that wasn’t all. There was blood on the outside of the street door. And the uniforms found that—” Younger pointed to a clear plastic evidence bag on the hall table “—in the lift.”

  Oaten picked it up. Inside was a long-bladed combat knife with a serrated edge. There was a streak of blood down the center of the blade.

  “The body’s upstairs,” Younger said.

  “All right,” said Oaten. “We should get up there. Was anything else reported?”

  Colin Younger nodded. “The officers said there was a strong smell of perfume.”

  Oaten looked at him. “It couldn’t have been after-shave?”

  “I asked. They were pretty sure. So there had recently been a woman in the flat.”

  “Did they see any women on the street?” Turner asked.

  Younger shook his head. “People only started to gather when the sirens started.”

  There was a bustle at the door.

  “Here we all are again,” said Redrose, the pathologist. “When did you last eat, Inspector Turner?”

  Taff muttered something that no one else caught. It could have been Welsh for “Delighted to see you, Doctor,” but Oaten thought it unlikely.

  “Come along, then,” said the potbellied doctor. “Let’s see what our killer’s left us this time.”

  Younger led the way. Three CSIs were examining different parts of the spacious flat. There was a long living area filled with high-quality furniture, including an Eames chair. An expensive-looking stereo system was on a mahogany table. There was a CD in a plastic evidence bag next to it.

  “Do we know what music was playing?” Oaten asked the nearest technician.

  “Not yet,” replied the woman. “I’ve checked the disk. The same song’s repeated all the way through.”

  “I presume there’s a timer on that machine,” the chief inspector said. “Was it activated?”

  The CSI nodded. “It was set for 10:30 p.m. And the volume was at maximum.”

  “I’ve finished with the stairs,” another white-suited technician said. “Just keep clear of the areas I’ve flagged up.”

  Oaten stepped ahead and started up the wooden staircase. It looked like it had been newly built.

  “This would originally have been attic space,” the medic said. “A friend of mine lives in a similar place around the corner. He hasn’t been able to get planning permission for a conversion.”

  “I wonder how the dead man managed that,” Turner said.

  His boss rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.

  “Surely not,” Redrose said, feigning shock. “Corruption in the City of Westminster? Never.”

  Oaten reached the top step and found herself in a wide hallway. There were five doors, all of them open. Flashes from the police photographer suggested which room was occupied by the body.

  “Look at this, Taff,” Oaten said over her shoulder.

  “Jesus.” The Welshman’s eyes were fixed on the far wall. “Is that blood?”

  Redrose pushed past them. “I think the odds are very high.” He went over to the bed, on which the naked body of a middle-aged man was sprawled.

  Oaten and Turner moved into the thickly carpeted bedroom. On the wall above the king-size bed, there was a pentagram. The circle enclosing the five-pointed star was about a meter across. The red liquid that had been used had dripped in places, but the words within the lines were legible.

  “‘FECIT DIABOLUS,’” Turner read. “The Devil’s done it yet again.”

  Oaten took in the scene and moved forward.

  When they got to the bed, the Welshman’s hand went to his mouth.

  This time even Oaten had to blink hard. The victim’s abdomen looked like a grenade had gone off over it.

  Shortly afterward the female CSI advised them about the music that had been playing. One of the uniformed policemen had identified it as “Devil Woman” by Cliff Richard.

  “No wonder the neighbors called us,” Colin Younger quipped.

  Oaten looked at him thoughtfully. “The reference to ‘woman’ is interesting, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, you mean Sara Robbins.”

  “Maybe.” Karen Oaten saw Dr. Redrose wave.

  “Look what I’ve found,” he said, brandishing a bloodstained object in a pair of forceps.

  “It’s paper,” Turner said. “Where was it?”

  “Under the body,” the pathologist replied. “In case anybody’s interested, the cause of death was a stab wound to the throat, which was then cut from ear to ear. The abdomen has been slashed open numerous times. There was no shortage of blood for the killer to use as ink.”

  “Can you read it?” Karen Oaten asked, straining to make out the words that had been laser-printed on the paper.

  Colin Younger nodded. “It says ‘Ask Matt Wells about this.’”

  There was a sudden silence in the dead writer’s bedroom.

  I tried not to, but eventually I’d dropped off in the armchair. I hadn’t turned any lights on in the house and I’d reactivated the alarm system, so I had to keep still. Obviously I managed that, although my sleep had been anything but peaceful. Dave’s body flashed before me, and then I was chasing a woman who I thought was Sara, but showed herself to be a hideous devil when she turned on me, snarling.

  I woke up when the key was turned in the lock and the alarm started to beep. I listened to the footsteps on the polished wood hall floor. Fortunately, only one person had come in. I stood up slowly and took the silenced Glock from my pocket. I heard a bag being dropped on the floor and then a long sigh. I padded to the door, and then showed myself.

  “Matt!” Karen said, her hand flying to her chest. “Jesus, you almost gave me a heart attack.” She was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, one boot removed.

  I checked that she’d put the chain on the front door.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded. “And why are you holding a gun?”

  “Are you going to behave?” I asked, trying for a winning smile but giving up. “I’m serious, Karen. I need to talk to you. After that, I’m going to walk out of here and you aren’t going to follow me.”

  She stood up and glared at me. “Who do you think you are? You disappear, leaving all sorts of questions unanswered, and then you come back and order me about. Screw you!”

  I glanced at my watch. It was four-thirty in the morning and we were in danger of waking the neighbors. “Calm down, will you? I’ll answer any question you ask.”

  That seemed to mollify her slightly, though she stepped out of the way when I tried to embrace her. She went to the kitchen and filled the kettle.

  “You know that Josh Hinkley’s been murdered?” she said over her shoulder.

  I had decided I was going to come clean. “Yes.”

  Karen told me the details, watching me cringe. “There was a message under the body, saying ‘Ask Matt Wells about this,’ like there was with Sandra Devonish.” She caught my eye. “I’m asking.”

  I sat down at the minuscule kitchen table and started to talk. A mug of coffee was thumped down in front of me and Karen sat opposite. Our knees touched. She tried to move back, but there wasn’t room.

  After I’d gone through the clues I’d tried to answer and the sender’s responses, she slumped in her chair.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about all that earlier?” she asked, her tone acid.

  I shrugged. “Because I was specifically told not to involve the police—other people could have been murdered.”

  “What, more than Sara Robbins has killed so far?” She looked at me in disbelief. “And you’ve had a hot line to her. Anybody else would have run screaming to us, but Matt Wells? No, he’s smarter than the Met’s finest, he can handle serial killers on his own.” She laughed bitterly. “I’ll be sure to mention that to Sandra Devonish’s family when t
hey arrive to collect her body.”

  I was finding it hard to look at her. “I did what I could,” I said in a low voice. I caught her eye. “Look, there’s something else you don’t know.” I told her about what Pete and Andy had found in Sara’s house in Oxford.

  She looked at me with slightly less ferocity. “And the note says ‘Sorry’? What about?”

  I shrugged. “I wonder if there’s someone else involved. There have been those gangland killings, too. Do you know who’s behind them?”

  Karen shook her head. “Could be a straightforward war between the Turks and the Kurds.”

  I didn’t think she was convinced by what she’d said, but I let it go. “We don’t actually know that Sara’s responsible for the crime-writer murders. The messages I got were signed Doctor Faustus and, at the start, Flaminio.” She looked blank. “The revenger in Webster’s play The White Devil.”

  “You don’t seriously believe that someone else sent them?” Karen asked, her eyes wide.

  “I’m not sure. There are some anomalies. For a start, Doctor Faustus and Flaminio are male characters.”

  “Big deal. Maybe she thinks she’s her brother reincarnated.”

  That wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility. “Then there’s the fact that the last message header was thethirdisaman.”

  She squinted at me. “So?”

  “Think about it. The first victim was Mary Malone, the second Sandra Devonish—”

  “And the third, despite your cleverness, was indeed a man, Josh Hinkley. I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”

  “Well, the overwhelming likelihood is that Sara murdered Dave.”

  She nodded slowly. “Making Hinkley her fourth victim. Yes, but maybe she sees Dave’s killing as separate.”

  “So she has two death lists?”

  Karen frowned. “The second one consisting of?”

  “Me, my family and my friends. Probably including you.” The last sentence slipped out before I could stop myself.

  “In fact,” she said, with a tight smile, “your name will be on both lists.”

  “On the other hand,” I continued, eager to move on, “maybe Sara’s only interested in me and my people.”

  “But if it isn’t her, who is it going after the crime writers? The officers who found Josh Hinkley’s body said they smelled perfume in the air. Could it be another woman?”

  I looked at her. I should have asked more about Josh. Whatever he’d said about me, he didn’t deserve to die the way he had. “Maybe the Satanism angle isn’t so weird after all. Maybe some devil-worshipping female psycho has it in for crime writers.”

  “I don’t suppose you could suggest a name,” she said drily.

  “You’ve got me there. But I’m working on it.”

  “Spit it out, Matt. What are you planning?”

  I shook my head. “Need-to-know basis only, Karen. Remember how tight a rein her brother kept on me. She could nail me at any moment. That’s why I’m armed. You might want to think about getting armed protection yourself.”

  “Why don’t we apply for it together?” she said bitterly. “You’re not going anywhere after what you’ve put me through these past days. I thought you loved me, Jesus, I thought I loved you. But at the first sign of danger, you run away and leave me in a shit storm.”

  I couldn’t blame her for feeling that way, even though I hadn’t felt able to act any differently. “I do love you, Karen,” I said, trying to get her to look at me. “Part of the reason I went underground was that I didn’t want you close if Sara got to me.”

  She glanced at me, then turned her head away. “You have no idea how much crap’s been dumped over me because of our relationship. For Christ’s sake, there are people in the Met who think you murdered the crime writers.”

  “Because of the notes fingering me? They smack of the White Devil—remember how he tried to frame me. That could mean Sara is behind the crime-writer murders, even if she isn’t actually carrying them out herself.”

  She sat up. “You’re the one who slept with her for a year, Matt. You must have some idea how her mind works. How are we going to catch her?”

  I told her about Rog’s campaign against Sara’s wealth, and about the other properties my ex-lover had bought.

  “We’ll check them, but how likely is it she’ll be there?”

  “Someone was living in the Hackney flat and someone left that body in the Oxford house.”

  “It isn’t very likely they’ll go back to those places. Though, if you’d bothered to contact me earlier, we could have run surveillance operations. Tosser.”

  I deserved that for not keeping in touch. I could have texted her, but that would have done her no good if anyone in the Met had found out we were communicating.

  I stood up.

  “Where are you going?” she said, getting up and trying to block the door.

  “Don’t, Karen. You have to let me go. There are things you can’t do. Ultimately, I’m the one Sara wants. You asked how we can catch her. I’m the answer to that. When she runs out of money, she’ll come after me pronto. All I have to do is let her know where I’ll be.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” she said, pounding her hands on my chest. “Can’t you understand? I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  I put my arms around her. She resisted at first, but eventually she acquiesced. “I didn’t say anything about letting Sara hurt me,” I said. “What do you think I am? Some kind of hero?”

  She laughed softly. “No. Some kind of man.” She pulled away and looked at me. “A brave but headstrong one. If you get yourself killed, I’ll…” She let out a frustrated moan. “I’ll move into your flat and throw all your CDs into the river.”

  “That’s it then,” I said, kissing her on the lips. “It’s been nice knowing you.” I turned away and headed for the front door.

  She caught up with me as I was unfastening the chain. She held me close and kissed me. “Don’t do anything that makes me cut you loose,” she said softly. It was still a definite order.

  I nodded, but didn’t make a verbal commitment. Nailing Sara and the people she probably had working for her couldn’t be done by observing the law. That way lay death, which wasn’t in my diary for this or any other year soon.

  I returned her kisses, then slipped into the early morning gloom.

  The man in the white mask breathed in the smoke from the paltry offering. He patted the mandrill’s head and then turned to the kneeling supplicant.

  “Faustus, what else did you take from your victim that we can dedicate to the Lord Beneath the Earth?”

  The naked man smiled. “Before I killed him, I made him transfer a million pounds to the account in Venezuela. The money will soon be at your disposal, Mephistopheles.”

  “Untraceable?”

  “You can be sure of that.”

  “Very good, Faustus.” The masked man leaned closer. “You are doing well. We must consider who will be the next sacrifice.”

  The supplicant extended a hand toward Mephistopheles’ robes, but withdrew it when Beelzebub bared his fangs then snapped them shut.

  “Be careful, my Faustus. You know how protective my familiar is.”

  “My apologies,” the naked man said, lowering his head. “I wished to ask if you would permit me to decide on the identity of the next victim.”

  The man in the mask stepped back and looked around the large subterranean chamber. “Do you have someone in mind?” He raised his hand. “Don’t tell me. Only make sure that the tribute to the Lord Beneath is substantial, Faustus.”

  It was cold, but the supplicant did not shiver. He was possessed by a fire that burned through his veins and made him more powerful than any man.

  Twenty-Three

  The Soul Collector was in position near the rendezvous point. She had been in the hide for four hours. She assumed the former SAS men had returned to their homes from Aberdeen as soon as they had been told about their missing family
members. The details did not concern her. She had watched the television news the night before and in the morning. There had been no mention of the story. She knew that was because the men were intending to act themselves. She kept them on tenterhooks till midday.

  At that time, the woman had called the man known as Wolfe—the lawyer she’d used to employ the trio had given her the number. She’d disguised herself on the only occasion she met the solicitor and the only address he had for her was in Madagascar, so the targets had no means of tracking her. But now there was no longer any need for self-effacement.

  “This is Sara Robbins,” she said, when he answered breathlessly. “The White Devil’s sister.”

  “You have the three of them?” Wolfe said after a pause.

  “I do.”

  “Where are they?”

  “This is not going to be a conversation. Don’t speak until I tell you to. Listen and do exactly what I say or Amanda Mary and the others will experience agonizing deaths.” She stopped to test him. The former Special Forces man knew the meaning of discipline; he did not speak. “Good. Amanda Mary, Josh and Alison are perfectly well. I have no interest in harming them. That does not apply to you and your men. I’m going to give you a map reference. The three of you will go there together at exactly six o’clock this evening. Don’t worry, I’ll give you a chance to defend yourselves. Bring all the weapons you want, but the three of you must stay close together and you must be unaccompanied. If anyone else comes, you can be sure you’ll never find your loved ones. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m now terminating this call. I’ll text you the map reference and send you some photographs to keep you honest, as the saying goes.”

  The Soul Collector broke the connection, then sent the location and three photographs. There was one of each of the hostages, bound and gagged, in their coffins. She was sure they’d get the message about how serious she was.

  The woman looked around the clearing in the New Forest, near the south coast. It was half an hour’s fast walk from the nearest road and even during daylight hours, there had been few people around. Certainly none had seen her setting up her equipment and constructing her hide. She was equipped with night-vision gear, as well as black combat fatigues and helmet. By her side on the groundsheet were her laptop and auxiliary weapons—silenced Ruger Standard pistol, sheathed combat knife and six fragmentation grenades. A modified Walther WA2000 sniper’s rifle, the short stock against her right shoulder, was her main weapon, and her H&K pistol was in her belt.