The Soul Collector

Five

I parked my black Saab 9–3 sport sedan at the designated rendezvous two streets away from Dave’s house in North Dulwich. Roger van Zandt and Peter Satterthwaite were waiting for me in the latter’s Grand Cherokee. A minute later, Andy Jackson arrived on his new 600 cc Hornet. We all got into the Cherokee to prepare.

“Any idea where Ginny and the kids are?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Andy said. “Dave said they were going to visit her aunt today. He was going to spend the morning cooking lobster.”

“So he was on his own in the house,” Rog said. “The place is like a fortress. How could anyone get in?”

Pete glanced in the rearview mirror. “Maybe the entry we’re going to use isn’t as hidden as Dave thought.”

As I was the one who was going to be using that entry first, Bonehead’s comment didn’t make me feel great.

Rog turned around. “Did you call him back, Wellsy?”

“Several times, and on his cell. The messaging service cut in both times. I wasn’t going to identify myself.”

“What do you mean?” Andy demanded. “Whoever’s got him will know he called you.”

I shook my head. “Cool it, guys. We talked about this when we set the reporting system up. He called me, which suggests he was free at that time. Maybe he saw trouble coming.”

“What, up the garden path?” Pete said. “If he was on his own, he wouldn’t have used the code.”

“He might have,” I replied. “If he suspected his line was being tapped or his cell phone frequency scanned. Anyway, that’s what we’re here to find out. Let’s get geared up.”

We each made sure our phones were switched to vibrate and checked our weapons-we all had the same pistols, knives and knuckle-dusters. In the quiet time after the White Devil’s death, Dave had encountered some piss-taking because of his insistence that we carry such heavy-duty weapons when the alert codes were used. Now I could see he’d been right. There could have been a squad of hard men hired by Sara in his spacious house.

“What about silencers?” Pete asked.

“The book says put ’em on,” Andy replied. He was referring to the operations manual Dave had given each of us.

“The problem is, the Glock doesn’t fit in a pocket when it’s that long,” Rog said. He shrugged and screwed his silencer on when he saw the way Andy was looking at him. Slash had spent a couple of deeply unhappy years in the marine corps, but at least he’d learned to accept orders-when he agreed with them.

“You’re taking the rifle, aren’t you, Boney?” I said.

He nodded. Dave had obtained a Walther WA2000 sniper’s rifle with Schmidt and Bender telescopic sights from the same dodgy East London arms dealer who had supplied our pistols and silencers. Pete was the best shot apart from Dave, so he got the big gun, which was actually shorter than an ordinary rifle and fitted into a tennis player’s bag.

“Okay,” I said, “we’ll play this by the book, as Slash said.” I opened the copy that Pete handed me; I’d forgotten my own in the rush to leave home. “Rog, you’re on the front, behind the inner hedge and by the garages.”

Dave’s house was detached and surrounded by tall trees and thick bushes. I once asked him how he could afford it on an army pension, even one augmented by First Gulf War and SAS service. He laughed and told me that his wife had inherited a shedload of money from a spinster aunt.

“Pete, you cut down the path that runs along the far end of his garden.” I pointed on the map Dave had drawn.

“I remember,” Bonehead said. “Dave showed me. The neighbors can’t see me and I can cover all the rear windows.”

“Right,” I said. “If there’s a lot of people inside and we get desperate, we’ll try to get to the back of the house.”

“Yeah,” said Andy. “Just make sure you don’t drill us.” He pointed to his blond hair. “This is me.”

Rog finished with his Glock, and turned to Andy and me. “Are you both going in? The book leaves that optional.”

I looked at the American. “What do you think?”

He shrugged. “I’ll hoist you in and we’ll take it from there. You all got your walkie-talkies?”

Dave had insisted that we each buy an identical good-quality walkie-talkie. We were each responsible for ensuring the batteries were permanently charged, and I was glad to see that they’d all fulfilled that requirement. The units fitted to our belts and we each had a mini headset with an earpiece and a microphone that lay across one cheek like a dueling scar.

“We’ll test ’em after we’ve split up,” Andy said.

“Uh, what do we do if someone spots us?” Rog asked. He would be in the most obvious position.

“Say you’re a telecom engineer checking radiation levels,” I said. “That should get them moving on.”

“You’re joking,” he said, his brow lined. “Aren’t you?”

Pete raised a finger. “Remember what Dave always says. When the book doesn’t tell you what to do…”

“Improvise,” we all chorused. The number of times Dave had been mocked about that was huge.

“What if you two both go in and we don’t hear from you?” Boney asked.

“If we don’t come out after half an hour, you call the cops,” I said. “You’ve both got Karen’s number, haven’t you?”

They nodded.

“Why don’t we call them now?” Rog asked.

“Because Dave used the alert code for us,” I said. “And we know from our White Devil experiences that we’re the only people who can look after each other.” I saw their expressions change when I mentioned the monster’s name.

“Come on,” Andy said, adjusting his microphone. “We were trained by the best. We can handle this.” He glanced at each of us. “Let’s go and get the man.”

Trust Slash to look keen. The rest of us tried to match him, with varying degrees of success.

“Watches, guys,” I said. “I’ve got ten forty-two. Check?”

“Check,” the others replied, after some tweaking.

“Right, communications check in ten minutes,” I said. “Go, Pete.”

He had the farthest to walk and set off at a rapid pace, the bag with its lethal contents on his right shoulder. We gave him five minutes.

“Rog, go,” I said.

After two minutes, Andy and I moved off. There was no point in splitting up. If anyone asked what we were doing, I’d say we were friends of Dave’s from the army. At least we looked the part.

“Breathing steady,” I whispered, under my breath. “Concentration. Be aware of what’s happening around you. Control the adrenaline rush.” That was easier said than done. Andy looked relaxed enough. I pulled a balaclava down my forehead, covering the headset straps.

No one was out on the pavements. We turned rapidly onto the path that ran down the right side of Dave’s house. There were no cars in the drive and the garage doors were shut.

“In position?” I said quietly into my mike.

“Confirmed,” came Roger’s voice, then Pete’s.

“Take this as the comms check,” Andy said. “Confirmed.”

“Any sign of Dave from where you are?” I asked.

“Negative,” said Rog. “Curtains on the front are all open, except in the sitting room. No movement.”

“All the curtains at the rear of the house are open,” Bonehead said. “No sign of anyone.”

I looked at Andy. “Why are the sitting-room curtains closed?”

He raised his shoulders. “Let’s go and find out.” He squeezed my arm. “Steady, my man.”

I checked my Glock one last time and slipped it back under my belt. The silencer jutted out and I hoped the automatic’s trigger safety was as reliable as the manufacturers claimed.

Then I gave Andy a nervous smile. “Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Here we go.”

I reached up toward the small window.

Karen Oaten drove to New Scotland Yard. There were only a few members of her team working the weekend shift. She sat down to clear the backlog of administration work, but found herself thinking about the latest spate of killings. One of the problems she had running a unit that pulled together violent crime from all over the city was keeping in check the tendency to link everything together. It was perfectly possible that the shooting of the Turk and the knife attack on the Kurd were unconnected, just as the overwhelming likelihood was that the murder of the crime writer had nothing to do with those in East London. But still, she found herself trying to make at least some connection between the deaths. That was the curse of the VCCT.

It didn’t help that there was very little to go on with the shooting of the Turk. Mehmet Saka, a twenty-three-year-old, was suspected of being a heroin deliveryman. He’d been gunned down in broad daylight outside a betting shop in Stepney, taking five bullets in his chest. Witnesses had been hard to find, and no one had noted the number of the car that carried the shooter. There were even varying reports of its color and make, ranging from a black Audi 6 to a dark green Citroen Xsara. The bottom line was that people developed very selective memories when it came to identifying gang members. They were swift to exact harsh retribution and there was no point in pulling in known gang members, as the gangs’ versions of omerta were just as tight as the original. Homicide East hadn’t even been able to tempt the Turks themselves to talk, which was hardly surprising if they’d been responsible for the subsequent murder of Nedim Zinar. Then again, maybe the Kurd had just slighted someone. That was one of the few characteristics shared by Turks, Kurds, Greek Cypriots, Albanians and Jamaican Yardies, as well as the long-standing local East End gangs-losing face was totally unacceptable.

Oaten moved on to the latest update from the Mary Malone murder. No other witnesses to a figure in a black cape and top hat had been found. DI Neville surmised that the killer either had a car parked farther down the street or had managed to change clothes somewhere nearby after the attack.

The chief inspector’s cell phone rang. It was her boss, the assistant commissioner.

“I’m in the office, sir.”

“Admirable, Chief Inspector,” he said drily. “I’m expected to play golf with the commander of the Flying Squad, would you believe?” The assistant commissioner resented every minute he had to spend away from his desk. “Update me, please.”

She gave him a rundown of the Saka and Zinar murders.

“And your recommendation?” the AC asked.

“To leave them with Homicide East. I’ll make sure we see the daily case-file updates. If there’s any link, I’ll take them over.”

“Very well. Now, what about the crime novelist?”

She told him where Homicide West had reached.

“That doesn’t sound very impressive,” he said. “Don’t you think we should intervene?”

“Do you mean because of the potential connection to the White Devil case?”

“I mean exactly that.”

Karen thought about it. If she took over the case, the spotlight would inevitably fall on Matt. He was already worried that Sara might be back, even though there was no direct evidence. Then again, she hadn’t heard from him today.

“Tell me honestly, Karen,” he said. “Do you think it’s the start of a series?”

She pursed her lips. How the hell was she supposed to know that? “It could be, sir,” she replied, hedging her bets.

“How do you want to play it? The newspapers are having a field day. It would calm things down if they knew the VCCT was on it. We might scare the killer into backing off.”

Oaten raised her eyes to the ceiling. The AC had been in the alternative reality inhabited by senior ranks for far too long. “I doubt it, sir. How about we leave it with Homicide West for the time being? If there’s another murder, we’ll take over.”

Her boss considered that for a long time. “You’re not losing your appetite for messy cases, are you, DCI Oaten?”

Karen felt her cheeks redden. “Certainly not, sir. You have no reason to suppose that.”

The AC was taken aback by her tone. “No, of course not. I apologize. Very well, do it your way. Let’s hope it’s a one-off.” He cut the connection.

“Tosser!” Oaten yelled.

John Turner put his head around her door. “Not me, I hope, guv?”

She glared at him. “Why? Have you got something to be guilty about?”

The Welshman shrugged. He knew better than to cross swords with his boss when she was in a temper. “I just had Neville the Lip on the phone. He couldn’t get through to you.”

“Because I was talking to the idiot on the golf course,” Oaten said, shaking her head until curiosity got the better of her. “Have they got something?”

“It isn’t good news. Still nobody else in Ifield Road who saw the figure in the cape and top hat.”

“Oh, great.”

“That’s not all. The rubbish was collected early this morning.”

“What, Neville didn’t seal the street?”

“Apparently not well enough.”

“For pity’s sake.”

“So the killer could have dumped the fancy costume in any of the bins on the street and walked off into the night. There’s no sign of anyone dressed like that on the recordings at Fulham Broadway Station. Homicide West is following up the owners of cars that showed on the local traffic-control cameras, but so far they all have cast-iron alibis.”

Karen Oaten leaned back in her chair. “What interests me is why the killer chose a novelist as the victim, Taff. Is Neville doing any work on that?”

“They’ve been checking her e-mails for signs of a stalker or the like. Nothing so far.” The Welshman caught his superior’s eye. “You should be getting background on her from your…from Matt Wells.” He failed to keep his disapproval of Oaten’s partner from his voice.

She gave him a sour look. “I’m working on that. What are you doing here, anyway? You should be at home with your kids.”

“I’m on my way, unless you’ve got anything for me.”

Karen Oaten shook her head. “Have a good one.”

“You too, guv.”

As soon as Turner had left her office, she called Matt. She got the messaging service on his landline and cell phone. She was about to call the ex-directory number that only she and his close circle had when she remembered that he was to have had Lucy today.

Karen settled back to the heap of files, and hoped that there were no more murders-at least until after the weekend.

I felt around for the security lock that Dave had fitted to the outside of the window for exactly this eventuality. The hole was concealed by a blob of putty the same shade of pale gray as the paint on the frame. Only Rog, Andy, Pete and I had extra keys. When I finally located and cleared it, I inserted the key and turned it until the window was loose. Then I pushed it inward, slowly and silently. I turned and nodded to Andy. He cupped his hands and, after I’d put one foot in them, lifted me smoothly upward. Moving carefully, I put my hands through the open window and dragged my stomach over the ledge with Andy’s help. For a moment I went into a partial dive, but I stopped the fall when my hands hit the floor. I stayed in that position until the muscles in my arms began to burn, listening. I heard nothing. I walked forward on my palms before bringing my legs in and letting my feet slide gradually to the floor. I was in. Then I felt a vibration in my pocket. I pulled my phone out and saw that it was Karen’s office number. I knew she’d call at some stage to arrange the evening, but this was hardly the best moment. I let it ring out.

I moved forward and stood at the pantry door for a full two minutes. I still couldn’t hear anything. That wasn’t good news. Either Dave had been taken away, or he was the bait in a trap. I stopped myself from thinking about the other possibilities.

“Okay,” I said to Andy.

He heaved himself up with ease and was soon standing beside me.

“There’s no noise,” I whispered.

He nodded, and then took the silenced Glock from his belt. I followed suit.

“Go for it,” Andy said, his eyes narrowed.

I opened the door slowly-it was always deliberately left an inch ajar by Dave and his family so we could get in without making undue noise. I looked around. There was no one in the kitchen. Holding the automatic in two hands, I walked very slowly down the carpeted hall. On my left was the dining room. Looking cautiously around the door frame, I quickly established that no one was inside. On my right was the sitting room. The door was a couple of inches open. Through the gap I could see no occupants, but most of the room was out of sight.

My heart began to pound and I took several deep breaths again. I turned to Andy. He pointed to his chest, meaning did I want him to go first? I shook my head. That was my job. I was the one who’d brought Dave into danger and I owed it to him to get him out of trouble now. I steeled myself and pushed the door hard and swung around it into the room, Glock raised.

I felt my mouth open as I took in the scene. I sank to my knees, unable to speak or scream and blinded by tears.