The Soul Collector mw-2

by Paul Johnston

  “We’ve already mentioned the modus and the scene,” Oaten said. “What else?”

  The pathologist raised a pudgy hand. “Nails had been recently cut from both toes and fingers, as well as hairs from the back of the head and the pubic area.”

  “As per Mary Malone,” DI Neville put in.

  Karen Oaten nodded. “What else?”

  Younger looked at her. “I’d say the killer took a hell of a risk. He-or she-went into a crowded hotel and managed to stab the victim, arrange the body and set the music playing a couple of minutes before the room-service waiter went to the suite. We’re looking at a very assured and cold-blooded killer.”

  John Turner frowned. “You mentioned luck before. That doesn’t sit with your picture of a well-organized killer.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Younger admitted.

  “The fact is,” the Welshman continued, “if the room-service guy had knocked earlier, when he-or she-was inside, the killer could have put on an American accent and asked him to leave the order outside.”

  “You’re meant to sign for it,” Neville said, tugging his lower lip.

  Turner fixed him with a steely eye. “Do you think they insist in a place like Wilde’s?”

  “There’s something else,” Amelia Browning said. “How did the killer find out that Sandra Devonish was staying at Wilde’s?”

  There was silence.

  “I mean, hotels like that don’t give out that sort of information. Who knew that the writer was going to be in London?”

  Younger was nodding. “That’s a good point, Sergeant. We’ve spoken to her publishers. They told us that they always put their important authors in Wilde’s.”

  “So who would know that?” Browning persisted. “People in the publishers.”

  “We’ve established alibis,” Younger said.

  “In the hotel?”

  “As you said, they don’t give guest information out. They fired a receptionist last week for inadvertently confirming a footballer’s presence to a tabloid, so I think we can be pretty sure that the staff were on their toes.”

  “Where does that leave us?” Redrose said, glancing pointedly at his watch.

  Amelia Browning stared over at him. “With a killer who knows the world of crime writing, Doctor.”

  “How about a crime writer, then?” Luke Neville said. “Such as Matt Wells.”

  Karen Oaten didn’t raise her head from her notes. “Tell him, Taff.”

  “Matt Wells has a solid alibi for the Mary Malone murder.”

  “And the other one?” Neville asked.

  Turner glared at him, then shook his head.

  Neville looked around the table. “DCI Oaten said at the beginning that she wanted to establish a common thread in these killings. At the very least, she needs to find Matt Wells. His friend was shot, two fellow crime writers have been killed, one wearing leathers like the biker seen near Dave Cummings’s place. And…” His voice trailed away.

  “And what?” Turner demanded. “He dressed up in a burqa to kill a Turkish hard man?”

  Neville looked down. “He could have,” he said, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

  “What about ballistics?” Oaten asked.

  “We’ve got a match between a bullet found in the wall of the Shadow basement and the three in the Wolfman’s body,” Ron Paskin said.

  “But no match with the bullets taken from Dave Cummings,” added John Turner.

  “So,” Oaten said, looking around the table. “Two different shooters, or just the one using different weapons?”

  There was no reply.

  “And what about the person who’s murdering crime writers? He or she isn’t using firearms at all. Does that mean we’ve got three different killers loose in London?”

  Again, there was silence. The meeting broke up shortly afterward.

  The earl was in his London club. He didn’t like to be away from his country estate-there had been so much going on there recently-but he couldn’t avoid this trip. And the business had been concluded satisfactorily. Not that he’d had much to do with that. He had no knowledge of the illicit drugs trade, despite having had a healthy appetite for cocaine in his student days. Fortunately his companion had been able to extract a reasonable price. Then it had been straight to his bank to make the deposit that would have calmed his account manager down substantially. If they went on like this, the family would soon regain much of its lost standing; because money was all that counted, for aristocrats even more than for the common hordes. Inheriting property was the norm for his class. Keeping the banks happy was much less common.

  He sipped the distinctly average tawny port and nodded at the old idiot across the table. Inbreeding had done the aristocracy no favors. At least the earl didn’t have to worry on that score. He had inherited his family’s devotion to the black arts, as well as the considerable talents required to treat with the order’s acolytes.

  He got up and went to the room he always took. It was on the top floor, in what would originally have been the servants’ quarters, but he liked it because it reminded him of his house at school. When he had been a student, the head prefect had demanded the use of his mouth and backside. He had prayed for salvation-not to the feeble god the school worshipped in chapel every morning, but to the Lord Beneath the Earth. His father had given him the order’s archives to study before he went to senior school. His prayers, or rather the replies to them, had worked. The prefect slipped outside his room and fell down the stairs, breaking his neck. The fact that the earl had rubbed soap on the floorboards was not noticed, the police being admitted to the school only on sufferance.

  That had been his first death dedicated to the Lord Beneath. There had been countless others since, and it wouldn’t be long until the next one.

  The earl picked up his cell phone and made a call to one of the order’s most devoted supplicants.

  Twenty-One

  “Bugger,” Rog said, his fingers tapping rapidly on the keyboard.

  I went over. “What is it?”

  “Hang on.” His eyes were locked on the screen, as he scrolled down rows of numbers and letters. “That was close. You almost lost everything in your new account.”

  “What?”

  “Sara’s hired someone red-hot. I got there in time, but only because I’d programed an alert code. All the money I transferred from Sara’s accounts was about to go out again.”

  I slapped him on the shoulder. “Well done, Dodger. Sara knows we’re on to her.”

  He nodded. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? But are Pete and Andy safe at her place in Oxford?”

  “I’ll send a text warning them to be even more careful.” After I’d done that, I looked back at Rog. “So is that account secure now?”

  “I’ve built a massive firewall and I’ve also alerted the bank’s security department-anonymously, of course. I don’t think Sara’s hacker will get in again.”

  “She’s not going to be happy that I’ve got her money,” I said, wondering what that might drive her to.

  “Matt?” Rog said. “Why did you warn that Alistair Bing guy? You solved the clue. When you send the answer at midnight, he should be off the hook.”

  “You’re right,” I replied. “He should be-if you’re prepared to trust a murderer who sends puzzles.”

  “Got you,” he said, looking around at me. “That tosser Hinkley’s got to you, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes. Jeremy Andrewes, too. When this is finished, I’m going to have a serious conversation with that pair.”

  “What about Karen?”

  I stepped away, unwilling to discuss that-not because I wanted to keep Rog out of the loop, but because I wasn’t sure how to handle her. If I contacted her by phone or e-mail, she’d have to respond officially, which would get me nowhere. But trying to see her would be risky, as well as putting her in a difficult position. She’d probably try to arrest me for my own protection.

  “All right, don’t tell me,�
�� Rog said. “I only thought you might want my help since I’m such a stellar performer with women.”

  I laughed. Rog wasn’t unattractive, but he’d never been able to hold a woman’s attention, never mind affections, for more than a few weeks-that was, if he managed to pull in the first place. He and Andy were at opposite ends of that spectrum.

  “How are we going to nail Sara, Matt?” he asked, his tone serious. “Pete and Andy aren’t going to find her in Oxford. If she’s there, who’s doing the murders in London?”

  “It’s only an hour by car or train.”

  “Or motorbike,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Remember the biker that Andy saw outside her mother’s place?”

  “Shit,” I said, shaking my head in disgust. How could I have forgotten Doris Carlton-Jones?

  “He said the biker was trying to give the old woman something.”

  “That’s right. I wonder what it was.”

  “Do you think she’s been in contact with Sara? Or vice versa?”

  I considered that. Sara could have found out who her birth mother was. She had that right, though she’d have had to find a way into the adoption agency’s database rather than present herself in person-that would have been dangerous, given her status as a wanted woman. If she’d hired a geek who could empty bank accounts, the same specimen could easily have traced her birth mother. The question was, had Doris Carlton-Jones met her daughter? I’d mentioned that Sara and the White Devil had been adopted in The Death List, and found out the identity of her mother by the judicious application of sweet talk and bribery. But I hadn’t told the woman who her daughter was.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” I said, looking at my watch. It was coming up to ten. “But it’s too late for a visit tonight. The deadline’s coming up.”

  “It’s probably a long shot, anyway. Do you think the cops know about her?”

  He had me there. I hadn’t told Karen the woman’s name, but she might have followed the trail from the newspapers without telling me. Given that the motorbike rider had shot out Andy’s windscreen, I didn’t think there were any police personnel watching the house in Sydenham-they’d have shown themselves. Maybe Mrs. Carlton-Jones had been in touch with the real police about the shooting. It was possible that Andy and I had made her suspicious.

  “And the answer is?” Rog said, cupping his hand around his ear.

  “Sorry, mate, I was just thinking it through. Frankly, I don’t know. We’ll go and talk to her tomorrow.”

  I sat down in front of my laptop and tried to think of all the possible consequences of sending the name Adrian Brooks at midnight.

  Faik Jabar looked at the man on the floor. His head was a bloody pulp and his bare chest was covered in long knife cuts. He was still breathing, but there was a rattle in his throat and he was mumbling incoherently.

  “Do it,” the bearded man said, pointing the silenced pistol at Faik’s groin. He smiled crookedly.

  Faik looked at the knife he was holding. It was dripping blood. The Albanian had gabbled information about his family’s business after the bearded man set up a camcorder on a tripod. Then he had been beaten with a hammer and slashed with a combat knife. Faik’s captor had taken off his chains. His wounded thighs were in agony because of the wounds and the urine that had soaked into his trousers. Now his captor had given him the knife and told him to cut off the Albanian’s nose. When Faik objected, saying he thought the man was to be ransomed, the bearded man gave a sharp laugh and pointed to the camera. Then he turned it off.

  “I will send them the disk and they will prepare payment. He will be alive when I set him free, but that doesn’t mean he has to be a complete man.”

  Faik swallowed. He felt like a small boy who had strayed into adult business. The muzzle of the gun was pointed at his crotch and it didn’t waver.

  “I’ll shoot you there and leave you to die,” the bearded man said. “You know I’m capable of it. Think how much nicer things will be when you’ve done what I want. I can make things very…enjoyable for you.”

  The sexual tone turned Faik’s stomach. He’d been forced to watch his captor maim the victim. The idea of performing sexual acts with him was horrible. Faik knew he had to fight back. He took a deep breath and looked past the gun.

  “All right,” he said, blinking hard as he got to his feet and stepped closer to the Albanian. He had the knife in his right hand and he knew he would only get one chance. He had calculated the distance. The man with the beard was about two meters away-too far to charge him. He’d considered throwing the knife-he’d been taught how by one of the King’s bodyguards-but he knew he’d be shot before he even let the blade go. He had only one option. Bending over the gasping Albanian, he brought the knife close to his face. Then, with a sharp cry, he fell to the floor like a stone, narrowly missing the blood-drenched body.

  Faik lay there, waiting for the bullet. It didn’t come. He had made sure that the knife clattered away out of his reach, reckoning that would put the killer off guard.

  “Get up!” the man with the gun screamed, his voice suddenly high. “Get up!”

  Faik heard rapid footsteps moving to the dresser, and then toward him. A cork was unplugged and a liquid drenched his head. The smell made him gag. It was some spirit, whisky or rum. Faik didn’t drink alcohol-his mother would have disowned him.

  A hand sheathed in latex grabbed the back of his collar and he was heaved around. Now he was facing the man. He rolled his eyes, showing the whites. That should convince the bastard that he was out. The problem was, Faik couldn’t see while his eyes were like that. He waited a few seconds, then felt the cold metal of the silencer on his forehead. It was time.

  Faik lashed sideways with his right arm, making contact with the gun. It flew out of the bearded man’s hand. Then he got hold of the bloodstained sports shirt and pulled the fucker down, jerking his body to the side. There was a squelching sound as the man’s face landed on the Albanian’s lacerated chest. Faik forced himself to his feet, ignoring the pain from his thighs. He swung one foot back and smashed it against the side of his opponent’s head. He was only wearing training shoes, but the blow was solid enough. The bearded man fell back onto the Albanian’s body farther down.

  “Fuck you!” Faik yelled, giving him another kick. Then he reached for the gun and pointed it at the man’s head.

  Slowly, the face turned toward him. The beard was drenched in blood. “You don’t want to shoot me,” the killer said, his voice soft and enticing. “We can be friends.”

  Faik felt a mixture of repulsion and excitement. He held the gun on him. “Take it off,” he said, breathing hard. “Take off the beard.”

  The man stared at him and then smiled. “All right,” he said, struggling to his feet and standing up. He gripped the hairs at the side of his face and gently pulled. The thick covering came away.

  “Ah-yeeh!” Faik said, stepping back. What he had seen when the beard had slipped before was only a hint of the full horror. The man’s upper lip was in two parts, revealing the pink of the gum beneath. There were livid, raised scars across the cheeks and the chin was irregular and swollen, the skin discolored as if it had been repeatedly punched. “What happened to you?”

  The man touched the flaps of his upper lip with his tongue. Faik could now see that there were small scabs on it, as if the skin had been punctured.

  “This?” He laughed softly, the sound incongruous. “Don’t you fancy me now?”

  Faik gagged on the bitter liquid that had rushed up his throat. “Is that…is that why you’re doing this?” he asked, inclining his head toward the Albanian. “To make him uglier than you?”

  The laugh was repeated. “You’re clever, as well as beautiful. Come on, we can have a wonderful time together.” The man raised his hands slowly and began to open the buttons of his shirt, then latched his fingers on to the collar of the T-shirt beneath and ripped it apart.

  Faik watched in astonishment as
the material was parted. He saw a pair of dark nipples and soft, heavy breasts.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not a transsexual.” Without the beard, the woman’s smile was pitiful. “I’m yours.”

  Faik Jabar let out a cry of anguish and repulsion, then staggered to the door of the flat. In a few seconds he was on the pavement, breathing in the cold night air. He jammed the pistol into the waistband of his still damp trousers. Before he started to move forward, he looked up to the top floor. The curtain was half-open and the face of the monster looked down at him. Now there was no trace of a smile. He remembered something from school about hell, fury and a scorned woman.

  Pete and Andy took the train to Oxford and walked to the house. It was over a mile from the station, in what was obviously a well-heeled area. Apart from a pissed student lurching home, the place was deserted. The building was detached and about twenty meters back from the road. There was a thick and high privet hedge all around the front garden.

  “Good cover,” Andy said as they approached. “And no lights. Let’s hope that means no one’s at home.”

  The street was quiet, cars parked on both sides. A narrow path ran up the left side of the property to a tennis club.

  “Not even lunatic Oxford professors will be playing at this time of night in March,” Pete said. “How convenient. There’s a side door.”

  Andy pulled on latex gloves and took his lock-picking rods from his pocket.

  “How long do you give me, Boney?” he asked.

  Pete shone his torch around the door. “I can’t see an alarm. How about one minute, Slash?”

  Andy succeeded, just. They went in, closing the door behind them. There was cast-iron garden furniture on a wide wooden veranda. Pete was shining his torch around the rear door.

  “Yup, there it is,” he said, pointing to a small plastic box at the top of the black-painted door. “Circuit breaker.” He took out the electronic device with a pointed end that Rog had given him. “Let’s see if this thing works.” He held it toward the top of the door for five seconds. “Okay. See what you can do with the lock.”