The Soul Collector

Twenty-Six

“Pull in over there, please,” Andy Jackson said, as the taxi approached the British Museum.

He’d been unlucky outside the newspaper offices. Just as Jeremy Andrewes had hailed a cab, a woman wearing stiletto heels stepped off the pavement and collapsed into the road as her ankle gave way with a horrible crack. Andy stepped in front of a white van, forcing it to brake hard. He then picked the woman up carefully and took her into the Daily Independent building, telling the receptionist to call an ambulance.

By the time he got back outside, Andrewes was long gone. That wasn’t a problem in itself, as the American knew where Matt had sent him, but the point of him tailing the journalist was to see if anyone else was. He was so far behind that he didn’t see anyone suspicious on the short journey. That state of affairs changed when his taxi went along Great Russell Street. He saw a stationary red motorbike, a Transalp he’d seen before, on the same side of the road as the museum. Near it was the helmeted figure in black leathers he was sure had picked up Doris Carlton-Jones earlier. Not only that, but there was another identical motorbike parked about twenty yards farther on. Andy tried to make sense of the fact that there were two bikers, but couldn’t reach a conclusion. He knew that Rog and Pete were covering Matt’s back. It seemed to him that the best thing he could do was to keep an eye on the rider who was watching through the railings. He wanted to check that Matt was all right, but decided it would be better if he stayed in the taxi, ready to give pursuit.

Ten minutes later, that decision paid off. The figure in black leather outside the railings suddenly turned away and mounted the nearer of the two bikes. It was started and moved off quickly, cutting in front of a minivan to join the left-hand lane, before heading west.

“Follow that bike,” Andy said to the cabby.

“You’re ’avin’ a laugh,” the middle-aged driver said, looking around.

“There’s a twenty in it for you, on top of what the meter shows,” Andy said, watching the red metallic machine slow down behind a bus.

“Fair enough,” the cabby said, pulling out. “Follow that bike…that’s a good one!”

To Andy’s surprise, the rider made no attempt to overtake the bus until it pulled in at a stop near Tottenham Court Road station. Then the bike’s right indicator flashed and the rider headed north, toward Euston Road. The pattern of careful riding was maintained through Camden Town and Highgate, until the bike finally came to a halt in front of a block of flats in Hornsey. Andy told the driver to stop and waited till the rider had gone inside. He saw a key flash in the afternoon sun. Then he paid the cabbie off, bonus included, and got out.

At the glass door, he examined the names on the panel of buttons. He didn’t recognize any of them, but that wasn’t a surprise. If this was Sara, she’d hardly have written S. Robbins on the entry phone. He considered using his lock-breaking rods, but decided against it. Sure enough, a young black woman came out and let him pass without a second glance. The entrance hall smelled of mildew and worse. There was nothing for it but to go up to each floor and snoop around. Maybe he could find a talkative old woman who knew everyone in the block. He tried texting Matt, but the signal was weak and he gave up, not wanting to lose his target. But if that had been her, who was the other rider? Andy scratched his head and then headed for the stairs.

Opening the door, he looked up. The stink in the stairwell was much worse: piss, pot, stale beer-the calling cards of teenage boys. There didn’t seem to be anyone around. He set off up the stairs, hoping he didn’t have to go all the way to the top. The display panel above the lift went as high as fourteen. His knees weren’t what they used to be-too many games of gridiron and rugby league.

He reached the first floor, his breathing hardly affected. He peered through the small safety-glass window in the door. There was no one visible. He put his shoulder to the door, wincing when it gave out a loud creak. After he’d gone through, he grabbed the handle to stop it slamming. Then he turned to the front and saw a red object swinging fast toward his head.

Andy Jackson went down in a constellation of shooting stars.

“Clear the way, please,” shouted a male voice over the sirens that were still blaring on Great Russell Street.

I stood up, looking at Rog and Pete. I mouthed to them to go. They got the message and slipped away through the crowd, taking my bag with them. They headed toward the museum-there was an exit at the rear of the building. I had no choice but to face the music. Fortunately, Karen arrived not long afterward, the morose Welshman in tow. She favored me with a neutral stare, and then turned her attention to the bodies.

“Is that Jeremy Andrewes of the Daily Indie?” she asked.

I nodded.

“And the woman?”

“Lauren May Cuthbertson,” I said, parroting the name that Pete had said. I watched as uniformed officers urged the crowd to disperse. CSIs were soon on the scene, and police tape sealed off half of the courtyard and steps. Taff Turner called for witnesses and got his subordinates taking preliminary statements.

Karen came closer. “What happened here?”

I told her, skating over my use of Jeremy Andrewes as target-man.

“So you’re saying the woman stabbed Andrewes to death and then you killed her by accident?”

“Yes.”

She glared at me. “Were you on your own? Where are your friends?”

I played dumb, but that didn’t get me anywhere.

“Right, that’s it. I’m taking you in.”

“You can’t,” I said. “The dead woman has some connection with Sara. We’ll only catch her if I can set a trap.”

“You arrogant tosser,” she hissed. “You still think you know better than the professionals, don’t you?”

I shook my head. “I can do different things, that’s all.”

“Put your hands out,” Karen ordered. She signaled to a CSI, who came over and put transparent evidence bags over my hands, attaching them with tape.

I bit my lip. Being caught up in police procedure was the last thing I needed right now. The fact that I had an illegal and silenced handgun in my jacket made things even more critical.

The potbellied pathologist arrived and cast a cold eye over the corpse, and an even colder one over me. “I wondered if you’d turn up again,” he said as he put down a foam pad and kneeled on it.

“Ditto, Doctor,” I said.

He started examining the dead woman. I heard him say the words “severely damaged upper lip” and “recent surgery” to his assistant.

Taff Turner came up to Karen, led her away and spoke to her at length. Their eyes were on me most of the time. Then Karen came back over.

“It seems that your story is broadly corroborated by witnesses,” she said, pursing her lips. “I’m still livid with you, Matt. Why didn’t you call me before you came here?”

I shrugged. “There wasn’t time.”

Her eyes flared. “That’s pathetic. You thought it was Sara, didn’t you? You wanted all the glory of catching her for yourself.”

I felt my cheeks redden. Maybe she was right. I wasn’t too clear about my motives anymore. I’d never killed anyone before. Even though Lauren May Cuthbertson was a murderess and even though it was an accident, I felt guilty and tainted. Finally I understood the difference between writing about death and causing it. The only good thing was that I obviously had nothing in common with Sara and her brother. They enjoyed dispensing death; I just felt sick. Then again, I’d lured Jeremy Andrewes to what seemed to be his predestined end.

“Get me out of here, Karen,” I said. “I need to catch up with the guys. I don’t know where Andy is. He should have got here a few seconds after her.” I inclined my head toward the body.

“You’re staying with me,” she said, stepping toward the pathologist.

I looked over my shoulder as casually as I could. There were armed police on the museum steps, and more in the courtyard. Running for it wasn’t an option.

Karen was holding up an evidence bag and examining the contents, a cell phone. I walked over to her quickly.

“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 agony.