The Soul Collector mw-2

by Paul Johnston

  “Okay.” There was another pause. “Hold on, Matt. Maybe the killer’s watching me. If your friends show up, he might get even more pissed off.”

  He wasn’t stupid. It was possible that Sara or some sidekick had him under surveillance. “What do you propose, Alistair?”

  “Let me think,” he said, sounding strangely confident. He was probably having an adrenaline overdose. Being targeted by a serial killer was what every crime writer secretly wanted. I’d felt more alive than ever before when the White Devil was toying with me. “I’ll go home, stay in for a couple of hours, then casually walk out and disappear into the West End. I’ll go and stay-”

  “Don’t tell me!” I yelled. “Don’t tell anyone.” It struck me that I had no idea whether Alistair Bing was married, or what his sexual orientation was. Josh Hinkley would no doubt have told me if he was either gay or a serial shagger. “Does anyone else live with you?”

  “Only my mother.”

  So the author of the ultra-hard Jim Cooler books, who must have been in his early forties like I was, lived with his mum. His publishers didn’t put that in their press releases. “Is she mobile?”

  “What do you mean?” Bing sounded like I’d insulted his family honor. “She can walk. She’s only seventy.”

  “Calm down, Alistair. It’s important that she doesn’t panic.”

  He laughed humorlessly. “Panic? My mother? She’s hard as nails.”

  I wondered if he’d based Jim Cooler on her. “Fair enough. Get her out of London, if you can. Yourself, as well. But don’t go together. Otherwise you might put her in danger.”

  “Mother can look after herself,” Bing said, almost fatalistically. “I’m not sure if I’m up to all that.”

  “Of course you are, Alistair. Just keep a clear head. Don’t tell anyone about this and drop out of circulation.”

  “How long for?”

  “A few days, I suppose.”

  “Should I call you, then? At this number?”

  Shit. I’d forgotten to block the caller ID function. “No,” I said firmly. “I’ll send a text to your cell phone, okay?”

  “Okay,” he repeated. “What about the police? Why aren’t you talking to that woman in Scotland Yard? The one you’re involved with…What’s her name again?”

  “Karen Oaten.” I sighed, tired of the accusatory tone accompanying the mention of Karen. “Look, Alistair, I know Josh has been stirring things up in the Crime Writers’ Society. I don’t give a fuck about that. I’ve got my reasons for staying out of touch with the police. If you want to talk to Karen, I can’t stop you. But the cops have their ways of doing things and they might antagonize the killer, putting you-and your mother-in even greater danger.”

  He thought about that. “All right, Matt. I’ll do as you say. Make sure you text me, though. I can’t spend too many days out of the link. People from Hollywood call me all the time, you know.”

  Tosser, I thought. “Look, buy a new cell phone, but use it as sparingly as possible. Have you read my book, The Death List?”

  “I can’t say I have. Why?”

  I wasn’t sure I believed him. Every crime writer I knew had read the book out of curiosity. “In it I describe the sophisticated surveillance the White Devil used. Don’t log on to your e-mail provider. Set up a new account with a false name at an Internet cafe.”

  “All right.” He gave a weak laugh. “You’re not having me on, are you, Matt?”

  Jesus. “You know what happened to Mary Malone and Sandra Devonish, Alistair? They had something in common with you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They were both international bestsellers. It may be that they were killed by a jealous crime novelist.”

  He wasn’t laughing now. “You mean it isn’t her?” he asked. “The White Devil’s sister?”

  So much for him not having read my book. “I don’t know,” I said, then realized how feeble that sounded. “It could be. Now, get yourself organized.”

  “Right. ’Bye, Matt. And thanks.” The connection was broken.

  I told the others that Brooks was going to duck out of sight.

  “So what now?” Andy asked.

  I looked at him and Pete. “If you’re up for it, you two can check the house in Oxford that Sara bought.”

  “Oh, great,” Pete said, with a marked lack of enthusiasm. “You want to put us in the firing line again. Besides, that city is full of smart-arse students.”

  “Fifty percent of them being female,” I said to Andy.

  “I rest my case,” Pete said.

  “What’s your problem, Boney?” I asked. “What do you think the other fifty percent are?”

  “Toffee-nosed gits,” he said.

  Half an hour later, Pete and Andy left. I looked at my watch. It was coming up to eight-thirty. Three and a half hours to go before I sent the correct answer. How would the killer react?

  Twenty

  Karen Oaten was sitting at the head of the table in the conference room on the eighth floor of New Scotland Yard. She was flanked by John Turner and Amelia Browning. Also present were Detective Superintendent Ron Paskin and Detective Inspector Ozal from Homicide East, Detective Chief Inspector Colin Younger from Homicide Central and DI Luke Neville from Homicide West. Just as Oaten was reaching for the phone, Dr. Redrose came in. He offered no apology or explanation for his late arrival.

  “Right, let’s get started,” Karen Oaten said. “I’ve asked you all to this meeting because we need to share insights and ideas. For your information, the assistant commissioner was very keen that we assemble. We have a total of seven murders at different locations across the city and we’ve got either to establish or rule out a common thread. Yes, DI Neville?”

  “Excuse me for asking, but what do gangland killings in the east have to do with my crime-writer murder in Fulham?” He gave Oaten a tight smile. “Which you’ve taken over, in any case, so what am I doing here?”

  Karen gave him an icy look. “You can’t have it both ways, Inspector. The VCCT may have taken the case, as is our right, but we want to keep Homicide West involved. Are you in or out?”

  Neville chewed his lip. “In.”

  “Good,” the chief inspector said. “Let’s see if we can find a connection. Your crime-writer murder, as you call it, came first. Give us your thoughts.”

  The pale-faced inspector shrugged. “Not much to say, really. We’ve been up and down the street, looking for witnesses. No one apart from the teenager saw anything. It was a filthy night, so they were all keeping warm with their curtains closed. We’ve checked the CCTV recordings at Fulham Broadway Station and the traffic cameras there. Your man’s also had a look. We didn’t spot any familiar faces, or anyone who looked suspicious. If there hadn’t been the murder of the second crime novelist, I’d have put the Mary Malone killing down to Satanists. The pentagram and the Latin words, the removal of nail-clippings and hairs, and the decapitation of the black cat are all pointers to devil worship, as is the Rolling Stones song.”

  “The Satanist angle is bollocks,” John Turner said, glaring at Neville. “For a start, how many people have devil worshippers killed in London in the last year?” There was silence. “Correct. A big fat zero. Even more to the point, Satanists usually leave fingerprints all over the place. They also like to empty their bowels and bladders at scenes.”

  “Doesn’t mean there can’t be a careful one,” DI Neville said.

  “There were footprints in the garden and in the house, weren’t there?” Amelia Browning asked.

  Neville nodded. “Size nines. We checked the sole. It’s from a workman’s boot that you can buy on any high street.”

  “The CSIs managed to lift some prints from the carpet in Wilde’s,” DCI Younger put in. “They reckon it’s the same pair as were used in Fulham.”

  Oaten nodded. “Okay, let’s move on to the murder of Dave Cummings,” Oaten said. “Taff, you’ve got this one.”

  The Welshman glanced at the file i
n front of him. “We found a witness two streets away from the scene who saw a motorbike being driven fast at around a quarter to eleven, which squares with the time of death. Unfortunately, the witness, who’s an elderly lady, couldn’t say anything about the bike or the registration number. All she remembers is a figure dressed in black, crouching low.”

  “Sounds like a professional hit man,” DCI Younger said.

  Turner nodded. “The main issue with this killing, which certainly bears the marks of a professional, is its links with the White Devil case. Dave Cummings was injured in the legs by the devil’s sister, Sara Robbins. Those wounds were replicated, and the shots to the head mirror those which killed her brother. CSIs have found various traces including mud and wool fibers, but Matt Wells, who found the body, and his friends were in the house not long after the murder. The likelihood is most of the traces came from them.”

  Dr. Redrose looked at Karen. “I take it Matt Wells’s friends are also-how shall I put it? — out of circulation?”

  Oaten caught his eye and nodded. “And just to be clear, I have had no contact with Matt Wells since we took him to the Yard after his friend’s death, apart from a phone call when I urged him to come in.” She looked around, challenging them all with her eyes, but no one spoke. “Go on, Taff.”

  “It appears Dave Cummings opened the door to his killer-there’s no sign of a break-in. It’s impossible to be sure, but the likelihood is that the killer was in some sort of disguise, maybe as a postman.”

  DI Neville swallowed a laugh. “What? He-or rather, she-was wearing a postie’s uniform under the leathers?”

  “Have you got a better idea?” Turner demanded.

  DCI Younger raised a hand. “It strikes me that there’s no evidence to connect the killer of Mary Malone-and Sandra Devonish, for that matter-with the person who shot Dave Cummings. The modus operandi is different, there was none of the devil-worship paraphernalia, no music playing and no message, in Latin or any other language.” He ran a hand over his gray hair. “Just a thought.”

  “Thanks, Colin,” Karen Oaten said. “You’re quite right. Despite the absence of evidence, I’m sure that Sara Robbins was behind the shooting of Dave Cummings, even if she contracted it out. Apart from the Latin reference to the devil, there is indeed no direct evidence that Sara Robbins murdered the two crime writers.”

  DI Ozal looked at her. “But you think she did.”

  Oaten remained impassive. “She’s definitely a suspect, Inspector. I don’t think Matt would…Matt Wells would have gone underground with his friends if there hadn’t been a direct threat of some kind.”

  Superintendent Paskin nodded. “I know what the newspapers are saying, stirred up by another crime writer as far as I can see. But do you really think Wells has been in touch with Sara Robbins?”

  All eyes were on Karen Oaten. “Vice versa, I’d say.”

  “Why would she do that?” Paskin asked.

  “Because she’s emulating her brother-you’ll remember he sent Matt texts to work on. I think Sara Robbins is doing something similar, her aim ultimately being to kill Matt in revenge for what happened to her brother.”

  “As far as I recall,” Paskin said, “three unknown men killed the White Devil. Wasn’t there a hint they were Special Forces?”

  Oaten nodded. “Matt had to be careful about that in his book.”

  “What if Sara Robbins is after them, too?” Amelia Browning asked.

  Neville laughed. “I’d like to see a woman try to take out three SAS types.”

  Oaten ignored that and continued to look thoughtfully at Amelia. She twitched her head. “Superintendent Paskin,” she said. “Maybe you could tell us how you’re getting on with the four murders in your area.”

  The superintendent gave her an avuncular smile. “We’ve arrested another Turk for the murder of Mehmet Saka, the first victim. There was a family feud and the killing doesn’t appear to have any connection with the subsequent ones. The second, the Kurd Nedim Zinar, was an enforcer of sorts for the King.”

  “Of sorts?” asked Dr. Redrose.

  “Well, he was a big softy really, wasn’t he, Mustafa?”

  DI Ozal gave a solemn nod. “Even some of the ethnic Turks liked him. He used to help people out.” He glanced at his boss. “We used him as an informer occasionally.”

  “Could that have been a motive for his murder?” Turner asked.

  “I doubt it, Taff,” Ron Paskin said. “I’d say he was chosen because he was an easy target.”

  “Easy?” Amelia Browning said, screwing her eyes up. “He was over six feet and sixteen stone. Whoever stabbed him must have had some nerve, let alone strength.”

  “True enough,” the superintendent said. “What I meant was that it would have been easy to establish his routine. He parked his car in a conveniently quiet alley.”

  “It was one of your lot, wasn’t it?” DI Neville said to DI Ozal. “The Turks hate the Kurds. They told me that when I was on my holidays there.”

  Paskin put a heavy hand on Ozal’s arm. “You’re oversimplifying, Inspector,” he said, his eyes cold. “Mustafa here has his ear to the ground. He’d have heard if this was a gang killing.”

  “You’re saying it wasn’t?” Neville asked. “What about the other bodies you’ve got? They’re all gang-related.”

  “Thank you, DI Neville,” Oaten said. “Go on, guv.”

  Paskin took a deep breath. “Right, Karen. To finish on Nedim Zinar, the presence of ammunition in his vehicle suggests he was carrying a weapon, probably a pistol. It wasn’t found at the scene. The CSIs weren’t able to identify any prints from the time of the murder. And, surprise, surprise, there were no witnesses.”

  “The killer gets a handgun,” Neville said. “And, guess what? Two people are shot dead.”

  Ozal glared across the table at the Homicide West man. “There’s no proof that the weapon taken from Zinar was used in the killings of Aro Izady and the Wolfman.”

  “All right, calm down,” Oaten said. “Guv?”

  The superintendent gave her a long-suffering look. “The body of Aro Izady, a cousin of the King and one of his numbers men, was found in a basement used by the Turkish Shadow gang. He’d been shot in the head at close range.”

  “We think two other men were present,” Inspector Ozal said, taking up the story. “One was Faik Jabar, also linked to the King-a witness saw him getting into Izady’s car. The other, we haven’t been able to identify beyond the fact that he had a beard.”

  “There was blood from another person at the scene,” the pathologist put in. “It seems this Jabar was also shot, though not fatally.”

  Ozal nodded. “Quite so, Doctor. There were bloodstains in the room and on the stairs outside, as well as two 9 mm cartridges. Faik Jabar has not been seen since. One of our informers said that he had been picked up by the Shadows and was being, as he put it, cross-examined.”

  “You mean tortured,” Neville said.

  “Well done, Inspector,” Paskin said, without audible irony. “We have a witness who saw a young man with a bandage on his hand and blood on his legs come out of a house in Stoke Newington with a mustachioed man. Tests on blood found there show the same group as that found in the Shadow store, and the DNA will confirm that, I’m sure. As they were getting into a green Opel Astra, the well-known Shadow enforcer known as the Wolfman-we don’t know his real name-came running down the street to stop them. A woman-or possibly not-in a burqa shot him three times. No one realized straightaway what had happened, which means a silencer was used. By the time people had got to the Wolfman he was dead-three shots to the chest-and his killer had vanished. I’m guessing she-or he-had a car around the corner. The young man and the other man with the mustache drove off in the Astra.”

  “What do you think about the use of the burqa by the killer, DI Ozal?” Karen Oaten asked.

  “It’s a first, at least in this country,” the inspector replied. “As to the shooter’s gender, you wouldn’t f
ind many Muslim men who would willingly put it on.”

  “How about non-Muslims?” Younger asked. “Could one of the other gangs be involved? White villains or Yardies?”

  “It’s possible,” Paskin said, “but there’s no evidence for it.”

  “Seems a dead cert to me,” Luke Neville said. “The Wolfman-crazy name-kills the Kurd Nedim Zinar. Next up, he puts on a false beard and coerces Izady into driving up Green Lanes, collecting the young guy on the way. There’s obviously something said in the basement and the young guy kills the older guy. Then the Wolfman shoots him dead and the other young guy in the hand, and takes him prisoner. Then the King’s men get on Wolfie’s tail and set up the burqa hit.” He looked around. “Bingo. Cases closed.”

  Ozal laughed. “Very clever. The problem is, we haven’t heard a whisper from any of our snouts to back that up.”

  Neville grinned. “Well, maybe you need to check out the quality of your snouts.”

  Oaten looked at Paskin, who shook his head once. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said. “Let’s move on to what is hopefully the last murder. DCI Younger?”

  “Sandra Devonish, bestselling American crime novelist, found dead in her suite at Wilde’s hotel yesterday evening.”

  “Single stab wound to the heart,” said Redrose, “suggesting a fair degree of skill.”

  Younger looked at him. “Or luck.”

  The pathologist gave a snort of disdain.

  “We’ve got conflicting witness statements,” DCI Younger continued, unperturbed. “Unfortunately the ground-floor bar was very busy with a group of advertising executives. One woman said she saw a tall man in a gray suit walk toward the stairs. The receptionist saw a woman in a red coat walk into the lobby and then out again a few minutes later. And a man who was drinking at the bar said that a bearded man in motorbike leathers went past, holding his helmet under his arm.”

  “That sounds suggestive,” Amelia Browning said.

  “Yes, it does,” agreed Younger. “Unfortunately, no one has corroborated the sighting and no one saw a motorbike rider leave the hotel. We’re still checking the CCTV recordings.”