The Soul Collector

Four

The woman moved with catlike poise across the carpet of the room, the cold steel of the silver pistol against her cheek. She stood in front of the mirror and looked at her face. For a few moments, it was a stranger who stared back at her. Then she remembered what she’d become and smiled. She was no longer Sara Robbins. She had changed her name, her appearance, her very nature.

The hotel near Victoria Station was cheap, most of its residents being tourists from the U.S. and Australia on budget holidays. They only stayed a few days before moving on to other cities on the modern Grand Tour-Edinburgh, Paris, Berlin-spectral cities filled with memories of slaughter, medieval and modern. But she was here for the duration, had already been in residence for two weeks, preparing, checking and carrying out the most subtle of surveillance. She’d learned the trade from masters, men who slipped unseen through streets and across squares, their weapons never more than a finger’s length away.

Soon she would strike the first blow in the city so large that she could disappear at will into its backstreets and lanes, its underground tunnels and its spacious, forested parks. They would not find her, unless she made the most egregious of errors. That would not happen. Her brother had trained her well. He’d also left a directory of former CIA and Special Forces operatives, and they had completed her education in the arts of deception and death. The White Devil, her brother and lover, would have been so proud.

And yet, she didn’t miss him, at least not in the sense that he was absent. Rather, she felt his presence in everything that she did. He was with her, though not as some spook at her shoulder. He was inside her-he had penetrated every cell and organ of her body, his mind was in hers.

She had felt that from the beginning, when he’d made himself known to her before his great scheme was put into action. And after his passing, she had felt it even more, the possession-not that his soul possessed her, but rather that their twin souls possessed each other. There was never any inequality. The White Devil had treated her as his partner from the start, his partner and his shared destiny. That destiny still awaited them, but her brother could now only experience it through her eyes and ears, her mouth and nose, her touch, while the man responsible for his death was still alive. That fact filled her veins with burning fire and drove her every action. She would destroy Matt Wells, but first she would turn him into a quivering wreck.

Standing at the window and looking through the gap between the dirty gray curtains, the woman took in the people on the street below. It was raining and they were walking quickly, even those with umbrellas. The early morning cloud cover and muted lights blurred everything, making the lines between cars and people indistinct. It was a semiliquid landscape, one poisoned by exhaust gases and the fumes from boilers and pumps. A man-made hell…

…and suddenly she was back in the jungle of Colombia, a hell of nature’s creation, her throat burning and the rotting vegetation making her stomach heave. She made sure her guide didn’t notice that. They were under a kilometer from the target and soon all her concentration would have to be on the job. This would be her first major kill and she felt her brother inside her, urging her forward. He had made a file on the target, checked all the data personally. It was six months since he’d been executed in London. She had spent four of them being trained by different experts-unarmed combat, the use of weapons, covert procedures, advanced computing skills and the mechanics of international finance. Let loose on the world, she had already killed a pusher in Atlanta, a pair of crackheads in Jacksonville and a scumbag who had tried to rape her in the washroom of a bar in Miami. Those murders had been of her own choosing, as the White Devil had suggested in order to build her confidence. But only by hitting major players would she prove her real worth.

Pedro “El Loco” Camargo called himself a guerrilla leader, but the reality was that he ran the area’s cocaine production, treated the workers as slaves and took any girl he wanted to his bed. His private army, the so-called Golden Liberation Fighters, lorded over the villages and shot anyone who showed disobedience or disrespect. The organization was rotten from head to toe. And she was here to remove that head.

El Loco, led astray by the typical dictator’s delusion that his people loved him, allowed them to pay court every Saturday. The men and women who had aired their grievances at the first such reception were found soon afterward with their throats cut and their faces unrecognizable. Since then, the GLF had been forcing workers to present themselves and laud their leader.

“Remember, there will be fighters all around,” said her guide, Esteban, when they reached the tree line. He was a former sidekick of El Loco, but had been bought off by Sara’s brother before his death. “But they will be drunk and drugged up. My people are ready. As soon as you strike, they will deal with the whores’ sons.”

The woman wondered, not for the first time, why Esteban’s supporters had not taken the apparently simple step themselves. But she dismissed the thought, content to do her brother’s will, even if the Colombian was temporarily taking advantage of her. She unslung her pack and took out tattered peasant woman’s clothes. She caught Esteban’s eye as she was undoing her trousers. He turned away quickly when he saw the look on her face.

After that, it was easy. She had to stand in line with the sweating, broken people, her head bent and her steps as unsteady as theirs. The long, black wig she was wearing, along with the dirt she had rubbed on to her face, arms and legs, made her inconspicuous. As she got closer to El Loco, she glanced left and right. Heavily armed men were leaning against the walls of what used to be the village school, their eyes bloodshot and vacant. They saw her, but they didn’t see what she was. That meant they’d enjoyed running their hands all over her in a fruitless search for weapons.

Now she was inside-more men with Kalashnikovs and American weapons, the smell of fear and destitution more noisome. The man in front of her launched into a lengthy tribute to his master. After five minutes, Camargo, a tall, bearded man who had run to fat, nodded and the talkative man was hustled away by two GLF men. It was her turn.

She kept her head low as she stepped up to the metal chair that had been placed on the platform. She didn’t know much Spanish, but she understood that El Loco was asking what she wanted to say. It was then that she looked up and gave him a smile that suggested everything she might give him. El Loco beckoned to her and she stepped on to the platform, leaned close and, in the split second it took to pull the inch-long blade from the wooden cross around her neck, realized that her heart rate hadn’t increased at all. If anything, it had slowed. The training routines had become second nature.

Camargo was grinning at her, his lips wet. Then his eyelids jerked wide apart as she buried the razor-sharp blade into his neck two centimeters above and to the left of his Adam’s apple. As she moved quickly behind the chair, she grabbed the greasy hair beneath the wide-peaked officer’s cap, pulled his head back and ripped the blade to the right. As she ducked down, she saw a fine spray of crimson fill the air above the next man in the line.

Immediately there was an explosion of automatic weapon fire and a welter of screaming. She stayed down, her arms over her head, but she had no fear. After a time, the firing moved outside and there was less noise from the people in the building. As she looked out from beneath Camargo’s chair, she saw why. The place was full of bodies, both of GLF men and of the innocent.

The woman heard Esteban’s voice. He was telling her that it was over. She snaked an arm around El Loco’s body and removed a silver-plated semiautomatic pistol from his belt. She racked the slide and held the weapon in a two-handed grip as she slowly stood up. Esteban lowered his own pistol when he saw the way she was looking at him.

“Okay,” he said with a slack smile. “It is okay, devil-woman.”

She gave him a tight smile and then fired two shots into Pedro Camargo’s groin.

The few remaining villagers in the school cheered. As she walked out, they clapped their hands. The woman ignored them. The only approbation she needed was from the soul that had merged with her own.

…she blinked and was back in London, the damp in the streets much colder than those of Colombia. But she had never forgotten that big killing, when she had first felt the attraction of silver-colored weapons. She owned several now. It was also then that she had turned herself into the Soul Collector, on behalf of the precious soul inside her very being.

There were several to be gathered in England, and soon Matt Wells’s time on the earth would be over. But there was a world of pain for him to endure first.

I woke up to the sound of the telephone. The display told me it was nine-thirty.

“Yeah?” I mumbled.

“Hello, dear. Late night?”

“Hello, Fran. What’s up?” Fran was my adoptive mother and had encouraged me to call her by her first name since I went to senior school. The White Devil and his sister had also been adopted, and that was one reason that he had chosen me as his fall guy. But he had forced his mother into a sexual relationship, while I had only the standard feelings of a dutiful son for Fran.

“Why does anything have to be up for me to call my son and heir?”

“Um, right. Full of the joys of spring, are we?” I swung my legs out of bed and reached for my robe. I had a flash of my ex-wife’s face and remembered her visit from the night before. That made me groan.

“What is it, dear?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. I could have told her about the fright Caroline had given me, but she would just have started on a rant about how she’d never been right for me and that I’d got married far too young. I usually pointed out that she wouldn’t have had a granddaughter if I’d stayed single, which invariably tested her saintlike patience.

“You aren’t very talkative this morning,” my mother observed.

“No,” I said, turning on the laptop and logging on to the e-mail program. I had a burning need to see if I’d received any messages from the woman who had threatened vengeance upon me after the White Devil’s death.

“I wanted to talk to you about Mary Malone.”

Having seen that there were no messages from unknown senders, I was checking my family’s and friends’ confirmations.

“Did you hear me, Matt?”

“Mm.” Everyone was okay. “Sorry, you were saying about Mary Malone.”

“Yes, dear,” Fran said with a long-suffering sigh. “You really can be infuriating sometimes. I suppose you’re checking that everyone’s all right.”

“Yup,” I said, irritated that she could read me so easily.

“I presume they are,” she continued. “So, Mary Malone.”

“I never met her, Mother. None of us in the crime fiction world did. She was a loner. What’s your interest?”

“You’ve forgotten that I’m a member of the Crime Writers’ Society, too.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” I asked testily.

“Well, if there’s going to be a rash of crime novelists being killed, I’d like to know in advance.”

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “Who said anything about a rash?”

“Oh, you know how the papers like to gossip. Has Karen taken the case on?”

“Speaking of gossip,” I said.

“Don’t take that tone, Matt. I’m serious.”

“Mother, you wrote three thrillers for teenagers back in the seventies. I hardly think you’ll be on the top of the hit list. There may not even be a hit list. It’s gossip. And only one person has died. How’s that a rash?”

“Come on,” she scoffed. “That Rolling Stones song playing and the killer parading in a cape and top hat-don’t tell me that isn’t suggestive of an organized individual with an agenda.”

“Well, I bow to your superior knowledge,” I said, heading for the kitchen and a liter of orange juice to re-hydrate my failing system.

“Has it even occurred to you that I might be frightened?” she asked with a partially suppressed sob.

That stopped me in my tracks. “Christ, I’m sorry, Mother. Do you want me to come over?”

“No, it’s all right, dear. I know you have Lucy today.”

Shit. I’d forgotten about my daughter. I changed direction and went toward the shower.

“Surely it must have crossed your mind that…that Sara was behind the murder?”

“Em, yes, it did, Mother. But there hasn’t been any message or other form of contact, and everybody on my list has reported in on the last two mornings.”

“You still haven’t told me if Karen’s working the case.”

“Sorry. No, she isn’t. She was called in to take a look, but the local detectives are still in charge, as far as I know.”

“All right, dear. Let me know if you hear anything I should know.”

“Okay, will do. I’ve got to dash now. ’Bye.”

“’Bye,” she repeated, her voice weak.

I twitched my head and chucked the phone onto one of the sofas. Fran lived on her own and was a successful children’s author. I hadn’t heard her so concerned since the White Devil case. The bastard kidnapped her and kept her tied up for days. Mary Malone’s death must have stirred up bad memories for her. She wasn’t the only one.

Remembering that Lucy, let alone her mother, expected me at ten, I rushed my shave, leaving cuts that stung like hell when I had a shower. As I came out, I heard the phone ring. This time it was the special line that I used only for my mates. I dripped water over the carpet as I ran to my desk.

“Hello,” I said, panting.

“Morning, lad.” It was Dave Cummings. I registered immediately that there was something odd about his voice. “Nice weather if you’re a penguin.” The hairs rose on the back of my neck. We’d set up a series of code words in the event that Sara, or anyone else, put the squeeze on us. Between Dave and me, anything to do with nice weather meant that the speaker was in immediate physical danger.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep my tone even. “What’s-”

The call was terminated.

“Shit!” I yelled. After all this time, was the nightmare really starting again? I called Andy, Rog and Pete and told them what had happened. They knew what to do. Then I ran to the bedroom and changed clothes-black cargo pants with numerous pockets, a black denim jacket and boots. I called Caroline and told her something had come up. She understood from my tone that it was serious. I told her to follow plan C, which meant that she should take Lucy, drive up to my mother’s house in Muswell Hill, collect her and head for the M25; she was then to drive around the motorway in a clockwise direction until she heard from me again. Caroline knew the drill and she also knew that the line might be tapped. She still managed to make it sound like it was all my fault-which, in a way, of course, it was, but I didn’t have time to think about that now. I should have called Karen, too, but my friends and I needed a free hand at this stage. The police would only get in the way and maybe put Dave in worse jeopardy.

I parted the hanging clothes in the walk-in wardrobe and pulled up the carpet. The floorboards looked normal, but by pressing the top right corner I released a catch that opened a foot-square panel. From the hole beneath, I removed a 9 mm Glock 19 and silencer, two nine-round clips, a set of knuckle-dusters and a sheathed Glock 78 field knife. I also removed my walkie-talkie and headset from the charger in the hole. Karen would have had a fit if she’d found my gear.

Dave Cummings had spent the last two years teaching me and the others how to behave like soldiers. Now I had to prove that I’d been a good pupil.

“Hello, Karen.”

“Guv.” Oaten shook the hand extended by Detective Superintendent Ron Paskin of Homicide Division East. He was her ex-boss. They were both in white coveralls and overshoes. “I’m surprised to see you down here.”

“Mm.” Paskin was a grizzled bull of a man, who had a reputation for being hard but fair, both with criminals and his subordinates. “I’ll get merry hell from the wife. Normally we spend Saturday mornings at the supermarket.” He lifted the barrier tape and led her down the lane from the black minivan. A tent had been erected over it and the surrounding area. CSIs were coming and going, two of their vans on the pavement to the rear.

“As you know, there’s been some shit going down among the various Turkish gangs, particularly the Shadows,” the superintendent said, his voice low. “But this fellow is a Kurd, a pretty small-time member of the King’s family.”

Oaten chewed her lip, then remembered Inspector Neville’s habit of doing that and stopped. “Do you think the Turks and Kurds are building toward an all-out war?”

Paskin took a deep breath. “If they are, it’ll be the first we’ve heard of it,” he said, expelling the air from his barrel chest. “You know how it is on the streets. The small guys play tough, but the bosses are happy enough with the status quo. They all know that they can’t have everything and they prefer to get what they can with a reasonable degree of security.”

“How about the Albanians?” Oaten suggested. “They’ve been growing their operations recently.”

“Possible,” the superintendent admitted. “They’re the kind to gut a man, too. But we haven’t had a whisper from our snouts. You?”

She shook her head. “Not about this area. They’ve really got a grip on Soho now, much to the disgust of the Chinese, and they’ve been making inroads into Bayswater and the knocking-shops around Paddington. But out here, no.”

“Still,” Paskin said, “it could be a splinter group from any number of nationalities. If anyone can wrest the heroin trade from the Turks and Kurds, they’ll own the city-the whole of southeast England, in fact.”

Oaten nodded. “So what happened here?” She saw John Turner, in a white coverall, come out of the tent. He didn’t look a well man.

“As I said, the victim was gutted with a long-bladed knife, which was taken from the scene, probably by the killer-though you never know what kids will pick up around here. His name’s Nedim Zinar. He was a big man, over six feet, and the doc thinks a smaller guy did for him. The wound suggests that the initial thrust was between the groin and the navel.”

“Delightful. Did you know him?”

The superintendent nodded. “He was a friendly type for an enforcer-had a gang of kids. Mind you, though he’d been in the game for at least fifteen years, he wasn’t much more than standard muscle. If you wanted to make an example, he wouldn’t be your man. Then again, he was an easy target. From what I’ve heard, he parked his car here every night and supervised the locking up of a shop down Lower Clapton Road.”

“Did he have a record?”

“Only minor stuff when he was younger-a bit of thieving. I seem to remember he broke a guy’s jaw outside one of the King’s clubs, but he got off on self-defense.”

Oaten glanced at the tent. “I suppose I’d better have a look,” she said, without much enthusiasm.

“Suit yourself,” said Paskin. “Oh, there’s one thing that you won’t find.”

“What’s that?”

“Tough guys like him carry a weapon. The CSIs found three full clips of 9 mm Parabellum rounds in a stash box under one of the rear seats.”

“Shit. That means one more handgun on the streets of London. Unlike in the U.S.A., where weapons grow on trees, that’s seriously bad news.”

“Correct, Karen.” Ron Paskin smiled at her. “Still, you highfliers in the VCCT must be used to that kind of thing.”

Karen Oaten knew her former boss was only teasing, unlike most of the other divisional officers she came across. “Oh, we get all sorts of weapons. Including knives.”

“Does that mean you’re going to take over this case?”

“It almost sounds like you want me to.”

“Well, we’re as snowed under as ever.”

“Ditto. I don’t see any reason for us to come in yet, but we’ll keep an eye on your reports. What about that Turk who was killed the other day? Could this be a revenge hit?”

The superintendent’s brow furrowed. “Maybe. Again, I doubt they’d have gone for someone as minor as Zinar.”

The chief inspector nodded. “You know that if I can conclusively tie this murder to another one inside or outside your division, I’ll have to take it.”

Paskin nodded. “No problem.” He inclined his head toward John Turner. “How’s Taff doing?”

“Good. He’s been my right-hand man ever since we were transferred.”

“His face looks like a three-day-old piece of cod. He obviously still has that aversion to dead people.”

Oaten watched her subordinate as he spoke to one of the local detectives, taking notes studiously. “I sometimes wish I hadn’t got so inured to the results of violence. I think Taff’s more of a normal human being than I am.”

Paskin nudged her. “Steady on, girl. You’ve got as far as you have because you can shut off your emotions. I don’t see Taff ever running things like you do.” He took another deep breath, and then expelled it forcefully. “Christ, this lane stinks. Hell of a place to die.”

“Hell of a way to die, too,” Oaten added.

“Could have been worse,” the superintendent said, lighting a cheroot. “He could have had his head chopped off, like that victim in your first big case with the VCCT. The White Devil was really something, wasn’t he?”

Karen Oaten nodded. “He certainly was. East End boy, as well.”

Paskin grinned, showing teeth stained by countless cigars. “We have a long tradition of master criminals here. What was the name of that writer-fellow the killer targeted?”

“Matt Wells.” Karen wasn’t sure if Paskin knew of their relationship. He might have heard on the grapevine, but it wasn’t in his nature to pay attention to innuendo.

“There was a sister too, wasn’t there?”

She nodded.

“If she’s anything like that callous bastard, let’s hope she doesn’t resurface.”

“Here’s hoping, indeed.” The chief inspector stuck out her hand. “Good to see you again, guv. Take care. You mustn’t have long to go till retirement.”

“Three months,” he said with a smile.

“What are you going to do?”

“We’ve got a cottage in Brittany. I can’t understand a word the locals say, but the food’s a sight better than what the wife comes up with these days. Nothing but bloody salad…”

Karen waved her arm as she headed for Taff. She wasn’t looking forward to examining the body. She’d been on edge all morning and her stomach was still upset. Chewing antacid tablets had only made her feel more queasy.

If she was lucky, the villains of London would give her the weekend off. But she wasn’t counting on that.

The acrid smoke that rose from the altar made the supplicant’s eyes sting and his throat burn, before it was carried away on the air current above the subterranean river. The walls were covered with frescoes depicting demons and the landscape of hell.

“Does the offering please you, Mephistopheles?”

“It is not I who must be satisfied, Faustus,” the cowled figure with the white mask said, watching the flames die down. “There is another who receives the hair and nails of our victims with relish.”

“And…and the ear?”

Mephistopheles laughed. “I have added it to our collection, fear not.”

The supplicant stood up slowly, licking his lips nervously. The masked figure seemed to be alone, so Faustus allowed himself to relax.

Then, with a high-pitched snarl, the beast came bounding across the cave floor, his jaws wide apart and the yellowed incisors bared.

Faustus forced himself to stand firm. At least the mandrill called Beelzebub did what his master told him. There was a human animal, thankfully not present tonight, who had begun to find their activities insufficiently visceral. Faustus swallowed hard and steeled himself. He could kill as well as anyone else and the Lord Beneath the Earth knew that.