The Soul Collector mw-2

by Paul Johnston

  “Maybe Sara’s number is in the memory,” I said.

  She moved it out of my reach. “Maybe it is. We’ll check that.”

  “Give it to me,” I said, dropping my voice. “I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  “Like hell you will,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s over, Matt. Be thankful that I haven’t cuffed you.”

  “Why?” I demanded. “Because I nailed a murderer? Maybe she’s the one who was running rings around you, not Sara.”

  “That’s really going to help your situation,” she said, her eyes on my chest. “You’d better not have a weapon on your person, Matt.”

  “Then I guess you’d better not look.” I flapped my hands in the evidence bags. “Come on, Karen. Let me go.”

  “No chance.” She went over to John Turner and spoke to him, then came back to me. “I’m taking you to the Yard. You owe me an extremely detailed statement.” She took my wrist and led me away, telling a young uniformed policeman to come with us.

  After we’d ducked under the barrier tape, the constable led us through the crowd. Karen’s BMW was on the pavement outside the museum gates. She opened the front passenger door, signaling to me and the PC to get in the back. Karen started the engine, did a three-point turn and drove west.

  She looked at me in the mirror. “You’re saying that the dead woman’s face was messed up by the surgeon James Maclehose, whose body was found in Oxford.”

  I nodded. “The likelihood is that she killed him, as well as the crime writers.”

  “She may have been behind the gangland killings, too,” Karen said.

  “You found a connection?”

  She nodded. “Nail clippings were taken from all but one of the victims.”

  “Satanism?” I asked. “Were there pentagrams and so on?”

  She shook her head. “Do you even realize how much shit you’re in, Matt?” she asked, turning southward.

  I tried to ignore that.

  “Maybe Sara isn’t even in the country anymore,” Karen said. “Have you thought of that, Mr. Smart-arse? Maybe she hightailed it after she murdered Dave. There were no hair or nail clippings taken from him, by the way.”

  “I don’t think it’s very likely. I still think Sara set this whole thing up to hurt me and to see me pilloried. She’ll want to finish me off now, especially when she finds out what I did to her sidekick.”

  “She’s probably got others,” Karen said.

  “Quite possibly.” I wasn’t going to give her the name of the earl that I’d got from Jeremy Andrewes. “But the heat’s on now. It won’t be long before she strikes again.” I needed to check my phone. “Sorry about this,” I said, ripping the bags from my hands before the constable could intervene. Karen couldn’t do anything except look unimpressed. She managed that very well.

  I looked for text messages. There weren’t any. Where the hell was Andy?

  “Nothing from your darling Sara?” Karen asked scathingly.

  I shook my head. I needed to check my e-mails. Maybe Sara had sent another one.

  “Karen, you have to let me go. I’ve already lost Dave. If I’m responsible for another of my friends’ deaths, I won’t be able to live with myself.”

  She snorted. “No chance.”

  I wanted to tell her how much I needed her, but I was deterred by her tone more than the presence of the constable.

  As Karen stopped at the traffic lights by Leicester Square Tube Station, her cell phone rang. She spoke into the hands-free mike and then listened.

  “In the name of God!” she said, breaking the connection.

  “What is it?”

  “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you do have a valid interest. A hiker found three male bodies in the New Forest this morning. Two of them had been shot in the head and the other cut to pieces. The local Serious Crime Squad has just identified them.”

  “The SAS guys who killed the White Devil,” I said, my stomach contracting like an oyster drenched in lemon juice.

  Karen pulled in to the curb. “How did you know that?”

  “It’s obvious. Three men, two shot in the head. Sara went for her brother’s killers after she got their ex-brother in arms, Dave.”

  “Yes, well, that’s only the half of it. A family member of each is missing. An eleven-year-old girl, a six-year-old boy and one of the wives.”

  I put my hand to my forehead. This was it. Sara had upped her game. I had no choice but to do the same.

  “Let me go,” I said, pleading one last time. “You have to trust me, Karen.”

  She shook her head slowly. “You have to be charged and processed, even if it was manslaughter. You also witnessed the Andrewes murder.”

  That did it. Before the constable next to me could move, I pulled out my Glock and jammed the muzzle of the silencer into his side. His loud gasp made Karen turn around.

  “Are you out of your mind?” she demanded. “Threatening a police officer with an illegal firearm?”

  “At least no one can say you let me go voluntarily,” I said, giving her a slack smile. “You can do whatever you like to me when this is over, but for now I need my freedom.”

  Looking around, I opened the door and stepped into the crowd on the pavement. I held the pistol under my jacket and kept my head low. I was lucky. There was a taxi at the next corner. I told the driver to head north and got out near King’s Cross. Then I took another cab toward Highgate. The man I wanted to see lived somewhere in the northern suburbs: that man being the most dangerous gangster in southeast England.

  When Andy Jackson came around, he blinked and then gasped in pain. He could only see out of one eye. He could also only breathe through his nose, as there was something around his mouth. He tried to stand up, but discovered that his arms were tied behind his back and that he couldn’t move his legs. Looking around, he saw he was in a van that seemed to be stationary. There was some light from the rear windows, though makeshift curtains covered them. There was thick gauze between him and the driver’s compartment. He tried to jerk his body toward it, but there was only a slight movement. He lowered his gaze and realized then that he was in a wheelchair.

  His throat was parched and he had a splitting headache, but Andy was still able to think. His jacket and boots had been removed, but not his trousers. In a specially sewn addition to the left rear pocket, a few centimeters from his pinioned right hand, was an extra-slim pocket knife-he’d learned always to carry a concealed blade. He could feel its outline against his buttock. If he could get his fingers into the narrow space at the side of the pocket and open the blade, he’d be back in business.

  If only he could move his fingers…

  I swore beneath my breath when I realized I hadn’t forced Karen to give me the dead woman’s cell phone. I’d lost a potential link to Sara. I texted Rog and asked him to send Karen the addresses of all the properties Sara had bought. I also told him to see if he could trace any more, probably under a different name. If he did, he wasn’t to supply Karen with that information. We would need to act on it ourselves. I asked if he or Pete had heard from Andy. They hadn’t. Where the hell had he got to? He wasn’t answering his phone. I left him texts and messages, aware that Sara or some other antagonist might pick them up. I didn’t care, it was worth a try. But no answer came.

  Then I called Safet Shkrelli. He didn’t sound at all pleased to hear my voice.

  “You’ve been having dealings with Earl Sternwood,” I said before he hung up.

  “His Lordship?” the Albanian said sarcastically. “I’ve got more important things on my mind right now.”

  “How about we trade information, Safet? You tell me about Sternwood and I’ll tell you about the person who’s been doing the gangland murders in East London.”

  “What?” he said, failing to disguise his surprise. “You must know I’ve just lost a relative over there. What do you know?”

  “I killed her,” I said, trying to sound swollen with pride. I wasn’t, but the only
way to impress gang bosses was to commit murder. I hadn’t known any Albanians had been killed out east, but I didn’t admit that.

  “You?” Shkrelli said in disbelief. “You’re a fucking writer.”

  “Turn on one of the rolling news channels.”

  There was a pause. “All right. Go to Highgate Station. One of my people will pick you up.”

  “I’ll be there in two minutes. How will I know your man?”

  He gave a hollow laugh. “Don’t worry. After what you did to Mustafa, everyone knows what you look like, Matt Wells.”

  Shit. I hoped that the knocking-shop muscle-man hadn’t been transferred to driving for Shkrelli.

  As it happened, I’d never seen the driver of the black Mercedes and the accompanying hard man before. They were both big, wearing black suits, and their faces were covered in heavy stubble. One of them directed me to the backseat, removed my weapon and phone, and then forced my head between my knees. When we stopped about a quarter of an hour later, I had no idea where I was. A hood was slipped over my head before I was allowed out of the car.

  When the hood was removed, I found myself standing in front of Safet Shkrelli. He looked more like a businessman than a gangster, in his white shirt and red silk tie. Then he stared at me and I saw the emptiness in his dark eyes.

  “Sit down, Matt Wells,” he said, pointing to an empty chair. There was a young man sitting next to it, wearing an ill-fitting track suit. His face was cut and bruised and one hand was bandaged, while his feet were bare. I wondered if that was to stop him from running.

  “Tell me about this woman you killed,” the Albanian ordered.

  I gave him a partial version of events. After I’d described her face, Shkrelli asked the young man if that was what he’d seen.

  He nodded rapidly, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “The lips,” he said, “like a rabbit’s. But the eyes, they were a demon’s…” His head dropped.

  The gang boss turned back to me and slid a folder across his desk. “This is what she did to Lefter Omari, my cousin, who was my chief accountant. According to Faik here, she was going to ransom him. Obviously there was a change of plan.”

  I took in the photos of a severed head, hands and feet, as well as a torso that looked like a pride of lions had feasted on it.

  “Why did she do this?” Shkrelli asked. “Was she mad?”

  I shrugged. “Probably.”

  “They said on the TV that the police are looking for you.”

  “Tough,” I said as nonchalantly as I could.

  “Don’t play games, Matt Wells. You called me some days ago, telling me the woman Katya was in danger. I succeed in protecting her, still. But I read in the newspapers about the woman you loved, this Sara…”

  “Robbins,” I said. That wasn’t the way I wanted the conversation to head. “Never mind her. One of my friends has gone missing and I think this Sternwood scumbag might have him. What can you tell me about the earl?”

  “Why should I tell you anything, Matt Wells?” Shkrelli said.

  “Because Sternwood is a risk to you.”

  “I fix my own risks,” the gang boss said bluntly.

  “I can fix this one more effectively and no one will be able to trace it back to you.” I’d played all my cards. Either he’d bite or I’d be turned over to Mustafa.

  “You have capable men?”

  I nodded.

  “And no police will be involved?” He gave a crooked smile. “I know you are screwing the VCCT woman. Maybe I should get my men to find out everything you know about her.”

  “No police,” I said, holding his gaze despite the thundering in my chest.

  Finally Shkrelli looked away. “Very well. If you guarantee you can silence Sternwood, I will let you prove that to me.” He raised a thick finger. “But if you fail, I will silence you permanently, writer.”

  I tried to look laid-back.

  The Albanian took another folder out of a drawer and pushed it toward me. “I always do my homework before I enter into business deals. You’re in luck. I have an English investigator working for me. This is his report. Go now.”

  I remained sitting. “Let me talk to our friend here,” I said, leaning toward the young man. “Faik, right?”

  He kept his eyes to the ground. “Right,” he said. I picked up an East London accent.

  “What are you? A Turk?”

  He looked up quickly and said something in a language I didn’t recognize but it was obvious he’d sworn at me.

  “I am a Kurd,” he said, glancing at Shkrelli. “I work for the King.”

  I’d heard of that gang.

  “Let him come with me,” I said to the gang boss. “He’s seen enough.”

  Safet Shkrelli thought about it and then nodded. He stood up and took a roll of banknotes from his pocket. “I thank you for helping me, Kurd. It was not your fault that my cousin was killed.” He nodded to the heavy at the door.

  A few minutes later we were back in the car, hoods on our heads.

  “Where you want to go?” the driver asked.

  “Kentish Town Station,” I said. “How about you, Faik?”

  “That’s okay,” he replied.

  When we got there, the hoods were removed and we found ourselves on a rain-dashed street corner. The young Kurd watched the car accelerate away, his face slack. I could see that he’d been through hell. He also knew things that I didn’t.

  “Faik, come with me. I have clothes you can wear.”

  He looked at me with sad eyes. “I want to go home.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “Later. I need to talk to you.”

  He considered that, and then nodded. “I need a bath,” he said. “And maybe a doctor.” His legs suddenly gave way and I caught him in my arms. I helped him into a taxi for the journey to Rog’s cousin’s flat. I didn’t think there was anyone on our tail. I almost had to drag Faik up the stairs. Pete opened the door on the chain.

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  “Just let us in,” I said. When he did so, I took the Kurd straight to the bathroom and left him to it.

  “Any news from Andy?” I asked the others.

  They both shook their heads.

  “Any more properties bought by Sara, Rog?”

  “Maybe. I’m working on a name that I think she used only once.”

  I filled them in about Shkrelli and Faik. Then I split the investigator’s report on the ninth Earl Sternwood into three parts and handed them out.

  Pete sat back in his chair. “Very thorough,” he said. “But what makes you think this guy’s got anything to do with the murders, Matt?”

  The photo of the aristocrat had been in the section I’d kept. I showed it to them.

  “Bloody hell,” Rog said. “What happened to his face?”

  “Which is not dissimilar to Lauren May Cuthbertson’s,” Pete said.

  I nodded. “I doubt that’s a coincidence, particularly since the crime-writer murders and the gangland ones seem to be linked.” I told them about the nail and hair clippings. “And there’s more. The first Earl Sternwood was notorious for the Hell-fire Club he ran.”

  “The what?” Rog asked, looking around from his computer.

  I repeated the phrase. “It involved black-magic rituals, sexual depravity and heavy drinking. The meetings were attended by members of high society, bishops and university professors. Oh, and local wenches and nuns were brought in-most disappeared after the parties.”

  “Black magic,” Pete said. “The pentagrams and so on. But why would a peer of the realm kill crime writers, let alone gangbangers?”

  I raised my shoulders. “I think we should ask him that question, don’t you?”

  “Gotcha!” Rog said. “Another of Sara’s house buys. Nine months ago. This one’s in a village called Oldbury. In Berkshire.”

  I felt an icy finger jab into my gut. “Shit. Earl Sternwood’s castle is in the very same county.”

  A moment later Faik let out a shriek of agon
y.

  Twenty-Seven

  Andy Jackson’s face was drenched in sweat. He’d been heaving and twisting against his bonds and had finally got hold of the penknife. But opening it was proving a step too far. He had splintered his thumbnail against the narrow groove in the blade, and he couldn’t get it to move. The light from the rear doors had almost gone.

  Then he heard footsteps. He relaxed, making sure his expression didn’t give him away. A key was inserted into the lock in the rear door, then it opened-at first by only a few centimeters, and then enough for a torch to be shone onto him. He tried to make out a face, but the light made him blink.

  “There’s no escape, Inspector Jansen,” said a female voice. “Or should I say Andrew Jackson.” There was a bitter laugh. “Save your strength. You’re going to need it.” The light went out and the door was closed again.

  Doris Carlton-Jones. When had Sara Robbins’s birth mother discovered his true identity? Surely not the first time he’d met her, when the biker shot out his windscreen. Perhaps she’d known all along, and Sara had just been toying with them.

  The front door opened and someone-presumably Mrs. Carlton-Jones-got in. The engine was started and the van moved off. Andy expected the wheelchair to shift, but it had been well-secured.

  He started fumbling with the knife again. His fingers had benefited from the short rest, and he felt the blade move under his thumb, then slip back into position.

  Andy told himself to keep calm, taking deep breaths. He could take the old woman even with his hands tied. As soon as she released the wheelchair, he’d heave it into motion. Someone would see him, someone would call the cops…

  Then he heard the roar of a high-powered motorbike behind the van. It hadn’t been the old woman who had poleaxed him. It must have been Sara Robbins.

  That made him concentrate even harder on the knife.

  Dave had taught us basic first aid. After I’d dressed the wounds on Faik’s thighs and checked there was no infection in his hand, I helped him get dressed. Rog had found some clothes.

  I checked my e-mails again. Still nothing. No text messages, either. I sat by my computer, hitting Send and Receive every minute or so. While I did that, Faik ate his way through two pizzas Pete had heated up for him. In between bites, he told me about the treacherous Kurd who’d been shot, as well as the doctor who had rescued him from the Wolfman. There was no way of knowing the identity of the person wearing the burqa and chador who had shot the Turk, but I was pretty sure it was Lauren Cuthbertson. Faik was almost more appalled that a non-Muslim might have worn the garment than he was by the deaths he had witnessed.