The Soul Collector

Twelve

Karen Oaten went out of New Scotland Yard and headed for the cafe where she often bought lunch-although she wasn’t often there on a Sunday. She was served by Dino, one of the owner’s swarthy sons. They all had a good line in risque patter, but Dino was the master.

“It is good in the beautiful signora’s life, everything?” he asked as he put together Oaten’s tuna sandwich. The brothers had been to school in West London, but Dino liked to play the cute Italian boy only recently arrived from the old country.

“Wonderful,” she said, surprised by the bitterness in her voice. Even though her desk was piled high with murder files, Karen wasn’t usually daunted by her job. She’d been through worse times-the White Devil’s reign of terror, for example.

“I can help the signora in many ways,” Dino said, raising an eyebrow at her. “Especially in bedroom.” He handed over a plate with her sandwich and an Americano.

“I’m sure,” Karen said, ignoring the innuendo. She paid and headed for a table in the corner. As she ate, she thought about why she was bitter. It didn’t take much effort to pinpoint the reason. Dino, by chance rather than design, had identified the problem. She needed help, but it wasn’t the kind you could get from anyone else-she needed self-help. It was hardly the first time in her life that she’d been troubled by affairs of the heart. Where did that old-fashioned phrase come from? She didn’t read Regency romances or the like. But in the past, such problems had been easily sorted. A sweet-tongued, two-timing barrister had been sent reeling back to his chambers by a well-directed kick to his groin; a chief inspector from Vice whose demands got ever more disturbing was reined in after Karen called his wife; and a VCCT sergeant with ideas substantially above his station was back in uniform, policing football matches. None of those techniques would work with Matt, though.

Karen looked at the people at the counter. A few of them would be police officers in plain clothes or civilian support staff, but most were ordinary members of the public. She wondered what it would be like to work in a nine-to-five job, with nothing more to worry about each day than which TV channel to watch and what to cook for dinner. She never had time to watch television, except occasionally the late news, and Matt always cooked when they were together, even at her place. She was a disaster in the kitchen and survived on frozen meals and tins when she was alone. So what was her problem? She had a man who cared for her, and a job that she treasured, even if it sometimes got to her.

“Is okay?” Dino was standing over the small table, arms akimbo.

Karen knew he wasn’t only asking about the food. “Leave me alone.” She got no pleasure seeing the young man’s head jerk back as if he had been slapped, but she really did need to think things through. Matt loved her, she knew that. And she loved him. That would be enough for most people, but they were different. Weird, in fact. She knew what her problem was-the job made her cold and dispassionate, or rather she had always been that way and working murder cases had made her more so. But Matt, he was a collection of different people in a single body-admittedly a very attractive one, especially since he’d been hitting the gym. He was a father, though she hadn’t had kids so she couldn’t fully fathom that side of him. He was a lover, true to his word and tender as any man she’d known. But he was also a writer, following in his adoptive mother’s footsteps-and writers, particularly those in the crime genre, were skilled liars, experts at concealing motive and ruthless at achieving their ends. That was the problem with Matt. It had been that way during the White Devil investigation, when he hadn’t been able to trust her. Something similar was happening now. He had found one of his best friends dead and suddenly he was putting into operation a carefully organized plan that she was sure she knew only a small part of. Where were the other guys? Andy Jackson, Roger van Zandt and Peter Satterthwaite were up to something-some of them probably trying to pick up Sara Robbins’s trail via her financial transactions, as they had done with the White Devil. She had sent officers to the three homes, but none of them had been there. Matt was keeping things from her, she knew that. If she wanted, she could take him into protective custody-forcibly if necessary. That would put a terrible strain on their relationship, but would it be worse than Matt carrying out a private war against the woman who’d betrayed him? What if that war led to innocent victims?

“Guv?”

Karen looked up. “Oh, hi, Taff.”

“Can I join you?”

“May I join you,” she said. “I had a pedantic old English teacher. Obviously you’re physically capable of joining me. You want to know if I’ll give you permission to join me, which requires ‘may.’”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ shall I?” the Welshman asked, pulling up a chair. He was carrying one plate piled high with toast and another with three fried eggs.

“Going for the premature heart attack?” the chief inspector said, finishing her wholemeal sandwich.

“I haven’t eaten since six this morning.”

“I think you owe me an explanation. Where have you been? I’ve left you several messages.”

John Turner avoided her eyes as he bit into a double layer of toast. “The AC,” he mumbled.

“What?” Karen said loudly, making heads turn. “Has he had you doing things behind my back?”

The inspector wiped egg yolk from his mouth. “He thinks you’re overwhelmed.”

“Fuck that!” she said, provoking stares. “He should have come to me first.” She glared at her subordinate. “And you should have told me what was going on as soon as you left him.”

Turner held her gaze. “He told me not to. He knows how loyal I am to you.” He raised his shoulders. “So I thought about it and came to find you. But he is the senior officer and-”

Oaten leaned over the table. “Don’t worry, I’ll be speaking to the senior officer shortly. In the meantime, you’d better tell me what’s been going on. I’m still in charge of the team, remember?”

The Welshman gave her a weary look. “I was about to fill you in, guv.”

That stopped the next cannonade before it was fired. “Fair enough, Taff,” the chief inspector said, smiling. “Let’s have it, then.”

“He called me before I woke up,” Turner said, pushing away his plates. “Told me to go straight to his office. He was waiting for me there. He made me run through all the outstanding case files with him.”

“That must have achieved a lot.”

“Mm. I did my best to make him see that you were doing all you could. It’s the idea that the White Devil’s sister might be back that’s got to him. Or rather, it’s got to the politicians and the commissioner, and the AC’s nuts are in a vise as a consequence.”

“I wish they were,” Oaten said. “I’d give the handle a couple of full turns, clockwise.”

The Welshman laughed. “Me, too.”

“So why did he let you go?”

“Because there wasn’t anything else I could tell him. The Mary Malone case is dead in the water. Homicide West have got no suspects and the top brass are wondering if there’s a connection between that case and the murder of Matt Wells’s friend, Dave Cummings.”

“They think she’s back,” Karen said. “Which means everything that happens in the city is down to her. Don’t tell me they’re trying to pin Homicide East’s gang murders on Sara, too?”

Turner shook his head. “I gather old Ron’s happy he’s still got the cases. They still haven’t found the witness who was shot, I heard.”

“I doubt they will,” his superior said. “He’s either made it to his own people or the Shadows have caught up with him.”

“In which case, bits of him will already be setting in concrete.”

She nodded. “What about Dave Cummings? The last time I looked, you were heading up that case.”

The inspector’s cheeks reddened. “I still am, guv. We found an old woman who thought she heard a motorbike making a racket. A powerful machine, she reckoned.”

“What time?”

“She isn’t sure. Mid to late morning, so within the pathologist’s parameters for the time of death.”

“Sara might have a bike. Though I remember Matt telling me not long ago that his friend Andrew Jackson has got a new one.”

Turner frowned as he took that in, then made a note. “I’ve got Morry Simmons and a team of uniforms checking CCTV and traffic-camera footage in the area. Maybe we can get an identification.”

“What, through her helmet? She’ll probably have dumped the bike by now.” Karen Oaten shook her head and looked away.

After a long silence, the inspector tried to bring her back. “What is it, guv?” he asked gently.

The words made his superior glance back. “Oh, not a lot,” she said ironically. “Matt’s keeping things from me. And I’ve just decided to bring him in.”

The Welshman nodded. “Good idea. If we have him, maybe Sara will do something stupid.”

“Or maybe she’ll just kill people at random till we let him go again.” The chief inspector got up. “I’m going to talk to the AC, then find Matt.” As she walked past the counter, she raised her hand at Dino. He responded with a bitter smile.

John Turner stirred another spoonful of sugar into his tea. He was trying to make up his mind about who he’d rather not be-the AC or Matt Wells. Not that he cared. In his opinion, both needed a long and loud reading of the riot act.

“Hello, Safet,” I said from a public phone in Piccadilly. I’d checked that no one had followed me from the sex club.

“Who’s this?”

The Albanian had an American accent. I remembered he’d spent five years running his clan’s operation in Baltimore.

“Matt Wells,” I said, deepening my voice for effect. I needn’t have bothered. He hung up.

I called the number again. “Don’t do that, Safet. This is the Matt Wells who writes a crime column in the Daily Independent.”

There was silence, and then the gang boss spoke again. “What do you want?” I made out the sound of a keyboard in rapid use. “You have an eleven-year-old daughter named Lucy, living at 32 Oxborne Gardens, Wimbledon. And a mother, Frances Wells, address-”

“All right,” I said, my palms damp. “You’ve made your point.”

“Would you care to make yours?”

There was a hard edge beneath the veneer of politeness. Although I hadn’t met the Albanian, I’d heard stories about his urbanity-he collected seventeenth-century Dutch art and owned a chain of hypertrendy restaurants. He was also said to attend the executions of rival villains and to participate in the torture that preceded them.

The only way to get anywhere with professionals like Safet Shkrelli was to go on the offensive. They respected that, though they’d still happily slit your throat at the first opportunity. “I just came from your place in Lexington Street,” I said.

“Ah, that was you,” he said. “Mustafa wants to kill you.”

“Mustafa being the slob who took a dive?”

“Correct. Holding a gun on a woman isn’t very brave, Matt Wells. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t tell Mustafa where your daughter lives?”

Even though Lucy and Fran were hidden away with Caroline, the threat still made my hands shake. Then I thought of Dave as I’d last seen him. That stiffened my spine.

“Try this one, Safet. Your girlfriend Katya could be the target of a seriously dangerous killer.”

The Albanian gave a dry laugh. “My girlfriend? I am happily married, Matt Wells. And who is this killer?”

I laughed back. “You remember the White Devil?”

There was a pause. “He is dead.”

“But his sister isn’t.”

“Why would this woman want to kill my…want to kill a girl called Katya who maybe works for me? I noticed that you used the words ‘could be.’”

I had to take a calculated risk. “I haven’t the faintest idea why Katya could be the target. Perhaps because I spoke to her when I was writing those columns about the Albanian crime wave.”

“You spoke to her? And she answered your questions?”

“I paid her for her time and, as you well know, she gave me nothing more than background information. I made sure that I didn’t connect your clan to any known crimes.” That was true, though only because Katya had been too terrified to say much and I’d found a braver, or more headstrong, girl who gave me the names and descriptions of men working for a rival clan.

“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” Shkrelli said.

“I wouldn’t hesitate to mention your name if anything happened to Katya.”

“And how would you know?” The question was barked out, all traces of politeness gone. Then he laughed softly. “Don’t worry. Katya will not be treated badly. But tell me this, Matt Wells. How will your killer get past the security system I have installed in my house, never mind the men who are much better than Mustafa?”

“No security system is a hundred percent reliable, and guards can be bribed.”

“True, but my men are family. They are willing to die for me.”

“Men can be bribed,” I repeated.

“And men can be killed, Matt Wells. You are at a public telephone in the underpass beneath Piccadilly Circus.”

Christ. I looked around, but saw no one watching me.

He laughed again. “Don’t worry. I have more important things to worry about than a newspaper columnist.”

“Even one who has close connections with the police?”

“If you have close connections with them, why aren’t they calling me? You haven’t told them. How is it you come to have information about this killer?”

I’d had enough of the smooth-talking gangster. “Make sure Katya isn’t harmed,” I said. “This isn’t a joke. I can damage your operation, Safet.”

“And I can dispose of you and everyone you care for in a matter of hours. Do not threaten me.”

I cut the connection. The Albanian sounded worryingly like the person who’d sent me the message. Or maybe he was the target. I wondered if there were any Albanians called Alexander. Then I got moving as quickly as I could. The last thing I needed right now was a Shkrelli clan hit man on my tail.

Faik Jabar woke up in agony, his eyes jerking open. He looked around the seedy room, then tried to sit up, forgetting that he was tied down. That brought another wave of pain, this time from his thighs. The memory of the Wolfman working on the flesh with a screwdriver made him retch. The Turk was still trying to get him to identify the shooter whose false beard had slipped. He wouldn’t accept that Faik didn’t know the man. At first Faik had been glad of that, because he was sure that as soon as he gave a name, he would be killed. But now, with the torture seemingly endless, he wished he could be done with his life.

He must have cried out, because the door opened and the middle-aged Shadow who was on guard duty came across.

“Shut up, scum.” The man picked up a length of stained cloth from the floor. “Or would you like me to put the gag back on?”

Faik looked away as his entire body started to shake uncontrollably.

“What’s the matter?” the Shadow said. “Does the little boy want his mummy?”

Faik felt the man’s rancid breath on his face as he leaned closer.

“Fuck,” the Turk said, in a low voice. “You aren’t faking, are you?” He walked to the door and pulled out his cell phone.

Faik drifted away, the pain still gnawing at him and a high-pitched wail almost deafening him. He was back in the basement, watching the traitor Izady fall to the floor as though he’d been poleaxed. The wail Faik heard came from his own mouth, as he took the bullet in his hand and then the blow to his head. The face, the devil’s face beneath the beard, was all he saw before he was sent into the dark abyss.

When he woke the next time, it was to the sound of whispered words in Kurdish. The doctor’s mouth was close to his ear, telling him that he’d be all right, and that he’d cut his bonds.

Faik opened his eyes and blinked. He wasn’t dreaming.

The doctor stepped back and shook his head at the Shadow. “He’s very weak. Another session with the Wolfman will kill him.”

“So?” the Turk said with a twisted smile.

The doctor put his left hand into his pocket. “Look at these wounds,” he said, pointing to Faik’s thighs. He waited for the Shadow to approach.

“What about them?”

“They are the work of a pig.”

The Turk’s eyes widened and he turned toward the doctor. “What did you-”

The needle of the syringe punctured his chest near the heart. The doctor pushed the plunger down and stepped back. The Shadow stumbled forward, one hand scrabbling at the syringe and the other stretched out. Then he collapsed to the floor.

“What…?” Faik said.

“I’ve been waiting to do that for years,” the doctor said, lifting the young man up by the shoulders. “Don’t worry, he’ll wake up soon.”

“But…but the Shadows will hunt you down.”

“Swing your legs around.” The doctor smiled at Faik. “That’s it. They can try, but I think the King’s men will protect me if I deliver you to them.” He shrugged. “Besides, the last hold the Turks had over me was my father in Istanbul. He died yesterday.”

Faik was breathing deeply, trying to summon the strength to stand up. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was old and he wanted to join my mother. Now, let’s get you walking. I don’t think I can carry you.”

The young man managed to stand, his injured thighs making him wince. “Where…where are we?”

“At a Shadow safe house in Hackney. My car’s outside. Where shall I take you?”

“My father’s house, off Green Lanes.”

They moved to the door, the doctor’s arm around Faik’s back. The room was on the first floor. The young man almost fainted as they went down the stairs, but his savior kept talking to him, encouraging him and praising his bravery. Then they were at the front door.

“Is there…anyone outside?” Faik asked, gasping for breath.

The doctor smiled. “I hope not. There isn’t usually. The lads across the road play at being hard men, but we’ll be in the car before they do anything.” He put his hand on the lock. “Ready? Here we go.”

He opened the door quickly and helped Faik out. The sun wasn’t very bright, but it made the young man blink. They got down the steps to the pavement and moved toward a green Opel Astra. The doctor opened the front passenger door and helped Faik in.

“Doctor!” came a shout.

Faik turned and saw the Wolfman running down the street toward the vehicle. “Get in,” he said in Kurdish. “Get in!”

The doctor remained standing. “No, I’m not going to let this animal hurt you anymore.” He fumbled in his pocket.

“Hands where I can see them!” the Wolfman said. He was pointing a silver pistol at the doctor, who reluctantly complied.

Faik lowered his head, vaguely aware that a veiled figure in a burqa and chador was approaching the car. He was desperate, he wanted to get out of the car to face the Wolfman and finish things, but he couldn’t, he was too exhausted, too feeble to help the doctor-

The three rapid spits and the slap of bullets hitting flesh at close range made him look up. He had heard that sound before. He looked around and saw the Wolfman lying prone on the pavement with his arms flung out. Blood was emerging from holes in his shirt.

“Don’t follow me,” came a voice that Faik recognized.

He saw the figure in the black robe and headdress bend to scoop up the Wolfman’s pistol. “Get in the car, Doctor,” he said. The young men on the other side of the road were beginning to gather, staring at them. The killer had already disappeared around the street corner.

The doctor opened the driver’s door and got in quickly. He started the engine and pulled out. Faik turned his head and saw a cluster of people around the dead Shadow.

“Who was that?” the doctor said breathlessly.

“Don’t ask me,” Faik said, twitching his head. He wasn’t going to admit that he recognized the killer’s voice-not to the doctor and not to any of the King’s men. He had no idea why his life had been spared in the basement and then saved on the street, but he had a nasty feeling that he’d have to repay the debt.

In the meantime, he just wanted to eat and sleep. Then he saw again the face of the man who had killed Izady and the Wolfman-an inhuman, devilish face.

Faik Jabar suddenly realized that he was nothing more than a pawn in a world full of pain and betrayal. He let out a sob for his lost innocence, and then another as the doctor, who had risked his life for him, gently squeezed his arm.

The Soul Collector was in the back of her van, holding a torch over the notes she’d made. Over the previous twelve hours, she had staked out the homes of the SAS men known as Rommel and Geronimo. Although the men were no longer in the regiment, they still lived close to its base at Hereford-Rommel in the town itself and his comrade in a village ten minutes’ drive to the east. Geronimo didn’t have kids, so she would have to take his wife. She seemed to be the lazy type, who rose late and sat around the house drinking numerous cups of coffee. Like many middle-aged women who were losing their looks, she seemed to be locked in a world of her own-in the six hours the Collector watched her, she never once spoke on the telephone. As for Rommel, he had two girls under five and a boy who was in the second year of primary school. His wife looked exhausted and incapable of putting up much of a struggle.

The woman turned a page and studied the timeline she had constructed. She was sure that the ex-SAS men would have set up a reporting system with their families-they would be aware of potential reprisals by Irish paramilitaries and foreign agents. That meant she had to snatch her targets as quickly as possible. Rommel’s and Geronimo’s people didn’t present a problem as they were close together. But she then had to get to Wolfe’s house in Warwickshire, a drive of at least an hour, before the alarm was raised. With the men far away, she was sure that would be long enough.

Sara turned off the torch and smiled as she stretched out on the sleeping bag. Her knee banged against the steel box that contained her gear.

She had everything she needed to kill, maim and incapacitate. Which of the three she used would depend on the circumstances. She was prepared for anything.