The Soul Collector

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 in 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 find 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.”

“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.