The Soul Collector

Ten

I thought about calling Karen before I turned in, but decided against it-she needed distance from me if she was to do her job properly. As I lay on the big bed that we’d shared only two nights earlier, I thought about our relationship. I loved her and she said she loved me. But what sort of love was it when both people’s work was the most important thing in their lives? I also had Lucy, Fran and my mates, while Karen, whose parents had died when she was a student, was a loner, with no friends outside the police and, from what she’d said, not many inside-she certainly didn’t meet up with people after work. I was all right as my needs were fulfilled, but it was difficult to tell what she wanted from the relationship as she’d built a protective shield around herself. Sometimes I wondered if a steak, a decent red wine and a massage followed by energetic sex were all she required. When I caught a wistful look or she embraced me more passionately than usual, I realized that she really did love me. I was more open about what I felt for her, but I was also skeptical about the ultimate power of that emotion. The divorce from Caroline and Sara’s comprehensive betrayal had caused that, though I knew I was at fault for much that went wrong in my marriage. I also should have paid more attention to Sara. Every day I’ve blamed myself for failing to perceive her true character.

I didn’t think I’d sleep, especially not with Andy stretched out on a row of cushions on the floor in my bedroom-he’d insisted on staying close-but I dropped fairly quickly into an exhausted slumber. Soon I was jolted awake by a vision of Dave. He was covered in blood and he started to speak. I heard the words, but couldn’t make sense of them-only that he was frightened, and kept looking over my shoulder. I turned to see Sara, her eyes red and her mouth twisted into a demonic smile…

“Matt!”

I came back to the real world, to find Andy shaking my arm.

“You, too, huh?” he said, blinking. His hair was all over the place. “Dave…Christ, it was so real….”

So we sat side by side on the bed and talked about our friend, recalling his exploits on the rugby field, his bravery at the climax of the White Devil case and many nights of epic mayhem in the pubs of South London. I don’t know if that made me feel any better, but it did send me eventually into a dreamless sleep. Dave’s ghost, it seemed, had receded. I hoped he had crossed the bar and passed into the fields of Elysium, avoiding rebirth into this hard and bitter world.

Andy had also gone when I woke up, but it didn’t take long to find him. The smell of bacon from the kitchen was enticing.

“Hungry?” he said. “I’ve got scrambled eggs with red and green peppers, deviled kidneys, French toast, sausages, mushrooms and black pudding.”

“Bloody hell, Slash,” I said, taking in the array on plates. “There’s enough food for an army here.”

“We weren’t up to eating yesterday, remember?”

My stomach was making clear that it needed filling, but I had to check my e-mails first. People I hadn’t told about Dave’s death were asking what had happened. I kept my replies short and told everyone to leave home for a few days if they could. Caroline had sent a brief e-mail saying the three of them had passed the night without problems, and demanding to know why I hadn’t told her about Dave’s death. I didn’t reply. She’d never liked any of my friends and sharing my grief would have felt like disloyalty to Dave. I knew that was immature and that I’d get past it-but not yet. I opened the ghost Web site Rog had set up. Both he and Pete had checked in. They were okay and had started their separate searches for Sara via her financial dealings.

By the time I got to the table, Andy had started eating, but he had scrupulously left half of the food on each platter.

“Everything okay?” he asked, his mouth full.

I nodded. “Apart from catching Sara.”

“Eat!” he ordered. “It’ll set you up for battle.”

I did as I was told. It was one of the best meals I’d ever had. I was putting the plates in the dishwasher when the phone rang. It was Karen.

“Good, you’re at home,” she said after greeting me. She sounded all in.

I glanced at Andy. “Em, yeah, but I’ll be going out soon.”

“Do you want to see me or not?” she asked testily.

“Of course I do,” I replied.

“Said with a huge amount of sincerity. I’ll be around in a quarter of an hour. Don’t worry, I won’t be staying long.”

“Oh, shit,” I said after she’d terminated the call. “Karen’s coming in fifteen, Slash. You’d better find somewhere to lie low. If she finds you here, she’ll take you back to the Yard and squeeze a statement out of you.”

He got up from the table slowly. “She won’t look in the spare bedroom, will she?”

“She’s a detective, big man. She might look anywhere. The walk-in wardrobe there is full of old coats and the like. You could lurk behind them.”

Andy grinned. “I like a good lurk.” He continued clearing plates and stacking them in the dishwasher.

I went back to the computer. There were a few other people I needed to alert-crime writers who lived beyond the South East and who weren’t obvious targets, and a few distant relations in the North. I logged back on to my e-mail program. That turned out to be a very bad idea, though at least I didn’t lose any time. There were two new messages that caught my eye. The first was from Josh Hinkley. He said that he understood I was in shock and that he didn’t expect an apology for the way I’d spoken to him last night. Asshole squared. The other should have made me suspicious earlier than it did. The sender was who’s next? At first I thought it was to do with the Who-I subscribed to the band’s newsletter. I should have been so lucky. After I read the first couple of lines I bellowed out Andy’s name.

Hail, Matt Wells, aka Matt Stone, purveyor of crime fiction and nonfiction to the world. Except there haven’t been too many novels lately, have there? Doesn’t matter. I can help you on the ideas front. Who am I? That’s for you to find out. I read your column in the Daily Independent and I know how well-endowed you are, so to speak, as regards knowledge of crime. That’s why I’ve chosen you. I’ve also read The Death List-what a great book! But would you have been able to corner the White Devil without the help of your friend Dave Cummings? Oh, by the way, my condolences on his death. Very sad, deeply distressing, tragically premature-all the meaningless bullshit people come out with when the “d” word gets uncomfortably close to their pathetic lives.

“Who is this fucking shithead?” Andy shouted over my shoulder.

“Cool it,” I said. “Let’s see where this goes.”

Anyway, time moves ever onwards and, as you’ll see, time is very important. I’m delighted to be in a position to issue a challenge-in fact, a series of challenges. As the title of this message says, the question I’ll be asking you is “Who’s Next?” I know from the archive of concert reviews on your Web site that you’re a big fan of the Who. Sorry to disappoint you, but this has nothing to do with those aged rockers, or rather, Mods. No, this challenge concerns the other side of your writing life, crime fiction.

First, let me tell you various things that haven’t come out in the media. I’m sure you know the details already since you spend so much time with the delectable DCI Oaten, but they’ll establish my credentials, so to speak. The murder of Mary Malone: I took hairs from her head and pubic area; I drew a pentagram in white chalk in the garden to the rear of her house-within it, I wrote the words FECIT DIABOLUS. Is that enough? I hope you liked the reference to the devil and that you approve of my choice of music. I know you love the Stones…

“Jesus,” I said, my stomach now revolting against breakfast. “Unless someone in Karen’s team is playing a seriously bad joke, this is Mary Malone’s killer.”

Andy was staring at the screen. “It gets worse, man.”

I scrolled down and read on.

So, da-daaah! — here’s the challenge. All you have to do is solve the puzzle I’ve set for you by midnight. I’ll contact you by e-mail (obviously not using this address or provider-I learned that from the White Devil…) and ask for your answer. The rules are simple and I promise I’ll observe them. If you e-mail me straight back with the correct answer, I won’t kill my next target. If you don’t, it’s “Good night, sweet lady” or “prince”-no, I’m not going to ask you to identify that; anyone who read English at university, as you did, will spot that I’m riffing on lines from Hamlet. How can you trust me? Well, you haven’t got much choice, have you? I already promised to play by the rules, Matt. That’s all I can say.

Here it is-puzzle number one:

The sun set by the westernmost dunes of Alexander’s womankind.

By the way, Matt, this is for you to work out. I know you’ll ask your mother and your friends to help, there’s nothing I can do to stop that. But if I discover that you’ve told Karen Oaten or anyone else in authority about the challenge, I swear I’ll kill all the names on my list, including your family and everyone else you care for without giving you a second chance. Clear?

Till 23:59 tonight-I’ll give you a minute to reply then. And remember, I’ve killed already. Not just Mary Malone, but her black cat, as well. Off with its head! That wasn’t reported, either, was it?

You could call me Flaminio, but I prefer D.F.

“What is this shit?” Andy said, glancing at me. “Have you got any idea what’s going on here, Matt?”

I blinked and tried to concentrate. “I know that Flaminio is the chief villain and white devil-meaning liar and hypocrite-in Webster’s play of that name.”

Andy’s brow furrowed as he tried to keep up. “The White Devil? So Sara’s behind this.”

I raised my shoulders. “Maybe. But she’s been busy already, assuming she killed Dave, too.”

“Doesn’t seem too likely that you’ve got another mad person on your ass.”

“Thanks for pointing that out, Slash.”

“What’s D.F.?”

“Search me. Direction finder?”

“Yeah, we could use one of those.”

“Defender of the Faith? That means the queen, in case you were wondering. No, it’s probably not her.”

Andy looked at me dubiously. “What about this half-assed challenge? You think whoever wrote this is really going to kill someone just because you can’t work out their identity?”

I raised a hand. “Hold on. We have to assume the writer is serious. Jesus, that clue could lead to Lucy or one of our friends. But you’re messing up the motivation. The next target won’t be killed because of anything I do. The killer’s working to another plan-there’s mention of a list. We’ll have to work out who’s on it from the message-I mean both how it’s written and what it contains. And-if I blow it-by the modus operandi.”

“Yeah, well I think I’ll leave solving the riddle to you,” the American said. “I haven’t done that kind of stuff since high school, and I screwed up in English literature big-time.”

I was looking at the line in red. “The sun set by the westernmost-”

Then I heard keys turn in the locks. I’d forgotten about Karen.

“Into the wardrobe in the guest room,” I hissed to Andy as the door opened and the chains rattled. Fortunately he’d already stashed the bag containing his weapons and other gear. I clicked off my e-mail and went quickly to the door.

Roger van Zandt opened the curtain of his room a couple of centimeters. The pavements in the back streets around Paddington Station were dotted with the rubbish left by representatives of the local subcultures-tarts, junkies, down-and-outs and the people who preyed on them. Rog didn’t view himself as a prude, but this area made him wish that some morally superior politician of the kind he never voted for would launch a cleanup campaign.

He went back to the small desk that he’d been working at until sleep claimed him as dawn was breaking. His laptop sat there, a silver machine that had taken him all over the world from the grimy room. He had bought a cutting-edge processor, and the wireless card meant that he was completely mobile. Later he’d be slipping away from this dump and checking into another hotel. But before then he had to post what he’d found on the impregnable ghost site.

Rog sat down on the rickety chair and started to work on the document. What he had done was follow the money trail from the White Devil’s accounts. He and Pete had originally found them two years back when they were on the trail of Matt’s persecutor. After the madman’s death, Matt had decided not to pursue the money. He didn’t know that Rog and Pete had kept tabs on Sara’s funds. Dave’s murder meant that they had to track Sara down fast via her money, and Rog was glad they had only a small number of transactions to catch up on. It had taken him no more than a few minutes to realize that someone who really knew what they were doing had done their utmost to obscure the trail. Sara had obviously hired a top-notch techie before she went after Dave.

Not that Rog had been stymied. It had taken some time, but he now had a list of bank accounts, ranging from Switzerland to Macau, via the Cayman Islands and Bolivia. He knew where Sara had invested part of the forty-two million dollars she’d acquired-in U.S. and German government stocks, but also in a range of public companies. Pete would be able to work on that side. Last, but definitely not least, Rog had discovered several properties that Sara had bought. Four of those were in the U.K., three in the southeast of England.

The interesting thing about the U.K. properties was the name of the owner-Angela Oliver-Merilee. Rog had run identity checks and had found two women with that name. One was a ninety-two-year-old resident of a nursing home in Yorkshire, the other the seven-year-old daughter of a classics teacher living in Manchester. Rog was sure the name had been chosen for a reason. Matt would probably have some thoughts on that.

Rog finished the text and sent it to the ghost site, then logged off and shut down his machine.

A few minutes later he was in the shower, water spraying all over the yellowing tiles from a faulty head. Having devoted himself to nailing Sara for so many hours, now Rog couldn’t get Dave out of his mind. Tears ran down his face and were immediately washed down the drain by the jets of lukewarm water.

He stumbled from the shower, dripping water over the floor. Pausing only to dry his hands, Rog logged on to the ghost site again and sent a message to his friends:

I can’t do this on my own, guys. What are we doing hiding from the bitch? Dave would have wanted us to stand up and fight her in the open. Matt, at least let me and Pete work together. We’ll look after each other. Please. I’m fucking dying in this dump.

Then Rog cut the connection to the Internet and buried his head in his hands.

“Matt?” Karen called.

“Coming,” I said, trying to remember what I’d done with my Glock. Had I left it anywhere obvious?

“Morning, Karen,” I said, sliding the chains off and admitting her. I kissed her on the mouth and then ran to my bedroom. “I left the tap running,” I shouted. The pistol was lying in full view on my bedside table. I quickly buried it in a drawer full of old South London Bisons shirts. I didn’t think she’d look there.

When I came out, she was dangerously near my computer. Fortunately she didn’t have the nerve to touch the keyboard and mouse in front of me, though I suspected she might have had a look if I’d stayed away much longer. She’d be expecting the family and friends who’d gone to ground to be keeping in touch by e-mail. If she saw the message with the clue, she’d be duty bound to investigate it. That could be very costly, if the writer was as ruthless as he or she threatened.

Karen turned to me after she’d shrugged off her coat. “Did you get any sleep?” she said, opening her arms.

Feeling a complete bastard for doubting her feelings, I fell into her embrace. “Some,” I said after a while. “You?”

“Under an hour.” She sniffed the air. “You’ve had a rugby player’s breakfast.”

I nodded, hoping she wouldn’t open the dishwasher and see the second plate. “What happened?”

“I was called out.”

My heart missed a beat. “What was it?”

“A dead Kurd at Manor House.”

I breathed out in relief. “Another gang killing?”

“Looks that way. God, I need a large dose of coffee.”

I went over to the kitchen, leading her away from the computer. As I was spooning coffee into the filter machine, I asked her about the investigation into Dave’s death.

“Taff’s handling it,” she said, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island. “It would be fair to say the VCCT is stretched to breaking point.”

“You’ve taken the case over?”

She shrugged. “Didn’t have any choice,” she replied. “The AC’s running scared because your friends in the press are drooling at the prospect of another White Devil.” She frowned. “Thanks to your book, they know all about Dave, not to mention Sara.”

I felt the sting of her words. “Has Taff got anything?” I asked, after I poured her a mug of the black stuff.

“Not much. The neighbors only saw you and your friends. No one saw a woman, or anyone else in the vicinity of Dave’s house yesterday morning.”

“Are you sure? It was a Saturday morning. Most people would have been around.”

“The whole street’s been questioned. Most of them were off shopping or taking the kids to ballet, football, whatever.”

“What about the houses at the back? Maybe she got in that way.”

“Those people have been asked, too. They only saw your friend Pete. What exactly was he doing back there?”

I tried not to be evasive. If someone had noticed the bag he was carrying, Karen would nail me. “He was covering the back in case an intruder bolted. He took a tennis racket with him, would you believe?”

She held my gaze. “I wouldn’t, but you’re not going to admit to anything else. I don’t suppose you’ve received a message from Sara.”

I was able to answer that truthfully, at least as regards the names used by the sender. “No.”

“I’m wondering if there’s some connection with the murders in East London. I don’t suppose Dave ever had a run-in with any of the bad men there.”

“Not that I’m aware of. I don’t remember him ever working in that area.”

She sipped from her mug. “Maybe someone’s taking out ex-Special Forces people.”

“Like an Irish paramilitary group?” I hadn’t thought of that. It wasn’t completely beyond the realms of possibility. “And they copied the modus operandi from my book?”

She shrugged, avoiding my eyes. “The military intelligence people are following that up with Special Branch. Christ, what am I doing telling you this? Don’t you dare put it in your column.”

“Oddly enough, my column is the last thing I’m thinking about right now.”

Karen stood up. “I’ve got to go.”

“Hang on,” I said, opening a cupboard and finding a plastic travel cup for her coffee. I stalled before giving her it. “Anything new on the Mary Malone murder?”

“It’s still with Homicide West. Why? Do you think it’s connected?”

“With Dave’s death? Anything’s possible in that madwoman’s universe.”

Karen leaned forward and took the cup from me. “Why, though?” she said, pouring coffee from her mug. “To put the shits up you?”

“Yes, before killing me.” I looked at her, only now aware of the dark rings around her eyes. “Nice thought. You should sleep.”

She gave a hollow laugh. “If that was an attempt to get me into bed, you need to work on your technique.” She put the lid on the cup and moved around the island. “I’ll call you later,” she said, kissing me on the mouth.

“Okay,” I said, watching her go. I went over to the door and put the chains back on. I felt bad about pumping her for information while concealing the message I’d received, but my experience with the White Devil had showed that involving the authorities wasn’t a viable option.

I went into the spare room and knocked on the wardrobe. Andy opened the door, his silenced Glock raised. “Christ,” I gasped. “It’s only me. Karen’s gone.”

He looked past me. “You can’t be too careful, man.”

I knew he was right, but the problem was I had just over fifteen hours to figure out the clue I’d been sent. Right now, I hadn’t the faintest idea whose name was concealed behind “The sun set behind the westernmost dunes of Alexander’s womankind.” The only Alexander I knew was a critic who’d been killed by the White Devil. Was Sara really hiding behind the revenger’s name Flaminio? And what the hell did D.F. mean?

Faik Jabar was cushioned in something like cotton wool, his limbs and body softly supported. His sight had become so acute, he could make out the mountains of the Kurdish homeland he had never visited. The snow on the peaks was bathed in a golden light, and in the villages below the people were waving to him, calling for him to come down, saying that his place was with them, that he was their brother-

He screamed as he suddenly plummeted earthwards and crashed on to the stony ground. Opening his eyes, he did not recognize where he was. His right hand hurt like the bite of a rabid beast. He tried to move, but couldn’t. Looking down the iron bedstead, he saw that his wrists and legs had been strapped to the frame. The mattress he was lying on smelled of sweat and urine.

“Hello?” he called out, first in English, then in Kurdish. He heard sounds behind the faded door. A key turned in the lock.

“So the brave soldier is awake,” said a man in Kurdish. He had a thick mustache and was wearing a well-cut suit. “A pity about your friend.”

The scene in the basement flashed before him, the traitor Aro Izady lying in a mess of his own blood. Faik tried to scream again, but his voice had disappeared. Then he saw the face of the killer, the man with the beard. What was it about him? Something weird…What was it? The image came back to him-the beard had come away, revealing part of the face beneath. It had not been a man’s. It was the face of a demon from-

Faik felt a powerful slap on his cheek.

“You will listen when I speak to you, Kurdish shit!”

Faik blinked away the involuntary tears that had filled his eyes. He made out a different man, this one younger, maybe in his early thirties. He was wearing a brown leather jacket and his face was covered in heavy stubble.

“Now do you hear me?” the man said. He was speaking English, but with a strong accent that Faik immediately recognized. His captor was a Turk.

“Yes,” Faik replied. “I hear you.” He gasped as his wounded hand was squeezed hard.

“Oh, you’re beginning to remember things, are you?” the Turk said, his voice mocking. “The doctor here is one of your people, but he is happy to take our money. He cleaned the wound and stitched it. You were lucky. The tendons are in good shape. With rest, full movement will be restored.” He gave a laugh that turned into a grunt. “If you live that long.”

“Who are you?” Faik demanded, grimacing as the pain struck again.

“Hurts like hell, doesn’t it?” the Turk said. “Particularly since we haven’t given you any painkillers.”

Faik struggled to look impassive. It took him some time. He was aware that the Turk continued talking, asking him what he had been doing in the basement, what had happened to Aro Izady, but most of all, asking who had shot Izady and him.

Faik clenched every muscle he could when the butt of a pistol came down hard on his injured hand. He closed his eyes and saw only red, a similar red to the blood that had fountained from Aro Izady’s head.

“Who fired the shots?” the Turk yelled. “Tell me his name.”

Faik opened his eyes and saw the gun over his shoulder. “No name,” he said with a gasp. “Izady brought him in his car.”

His captor paused. “What happened to Aro?”

Faik wondered who the man was, to be on first-name terms with Izady.

“Answer!” the Turk said, his mouth close to Faik’s head.

“Izady was a traitor. He was working for you. You are a Shadow, are you not?”

There was silence, then the man’s mouth came close again.

“Describe the man who shot you.”

“He…he had dark hair and…and a beard.” Faik broke off, trying to put his thoughts into words. “Medium height, well built, black clothes.”

“What language did he speak?”

“English. He wasn’t one of us.” Faik paused. “Or you.”

“What else?” the Turk demanded. “You’re hiding something. Watch my hand!”

Faik saw the point of the pistol rest against the bandage on his hand.

“Unless you want two holes instead of one, you’d better come clean, you blue-eyed fuck!”

“I…I don’t know…how to say…”

The Turk turned his head. “Doctor!” he shouted.

The man in the suit reappeared, looking uneasy.

“Tell him in your own language,” the Turk ordered Faik.

The young man gabbled to the other in Kurdish. The doctor seemed puzzled and spoke again. Faik repeated what he had said.

“It seems that the beard was false,” the doctor said to the Turk. “Part of it came off.” He broke off.

“And?” the Turk said, going over to the man in the suit. “What did he see?”

“He…he says he saw a terrible face, like a devil’s…”

“What?” The Turk looked at the bound young man. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It was a devil face,” Faik said. “Out of shape, swollen, scarred. I saw black and red wounds, lumps…It was horrible.”

The Turk stared at Faik and then brought the pistol down on his wounded hand again. “Bullshit! You know who it was, don’t you?”

Faik Jabar was in agony. He shook his head. “It’s true,” he said. “That’s what I saw.”

“Let me try another question,” the Turk said. “Do you know who I am?”

The young man shook his head. He didn’t want to know. If he could identify his captor, his life would be worth nothing.

The Turk grinned. “I am known as the Wolfman.”

Faik groaned and shut his eyes. The Wolfman was the savage who did the Shadows’ dirtiest work. But the face he’d seen beneath the false beard was much more frightening than that of the unshaven Turk.

“Again the hair and nails of an unbeliever burn to the greater glory of the Lord Beneath the Earth!”

The masked man in the cowl and robe lowered his arms. He looked around the cavern. The mandrill Beelzebub was squatting by the sluggish stream, splashing his paws in it. There were no fish in the shallow water. Perhaps he was trying to catch his reflection. One might have thought the fangs would scare him, but the beast was made of sterner stuff.

As was the naked supplicant at the altar. Mephistopheles had seen some wonderfully sinister devotees in the years he had directed the order, but there had never been one such as this. His faith in his Master had been restored, as, soon, would be the family fortunes.

Beelzebub screamed and came charging over the stone floor. When the supplicant turned, the mandrill stopped immediately and lowered his head. He had always respected the stronger, more vicious creature whose face was uglier than his own.