The Soul Collector (15 page)

Browning raised her hand. “Maybe Izady was a turncoat and the King found out. Killing him here would be a good way to get back at the Turks.”

“Imaginative,” said Paskin. “But you haven’t got a shred of evidence.”

The sergeant went back to scribbling in her notepad. The women headed up the steps to the pavement. Paskin followed them, pausing to catch his breath.

“This is getting out of hand,” Oaten said. “A Turk, a Kurd and now another Kurd. Soon we’ll have a full-scale gang war on our hands.”

Paskin’s expression was blank. “It’s a possibility.”

“Still nothing on the grapevine about another gang moving in?” Oaten asked.

Paskin shook his head. “That’s the strange part of all this. No one’s saying anything about Albanians or Russians. 136

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And this is too neat for the Jamaicans. It can’t be internal, because both Turks and Kurds are being hit.”

Karen Oaten took off her protective cap and smoothed her hair down. “You know, there was another shooting with what we presume was a silenced pistol this morning. South of the river.”

“I heard. Potential connection to the White Devil.”

The chief inspector nodded. “Maybe the same person’s screwing with the gangs up here. Some serious money’s been spent to get the information these hits would have needed.”

Paskin looked away. “Sounds like a job for the VCCT

then, Karen. Are you going to take these cases away from us?”

She sniffed. “As if I have the personnel. Taff Turner’s running the Dulwich murder. Obviously I can’t have any direct involvement…”

“I know about your conflict of interest,” the superintendent said gently.

“And DS Pavlou’s trying to kick some life into Homicide West over the woman author who was murdered. That’s another dead end so far, though at least she wasn’t shot.”

Paskin touched her arm. “Are you taking over my cases or not?”

Oaten shook her head. “Not for the time being.” She smiled weakly. “They’re in good hands. We still have no direct evidence connecting the three gang murders. The AC has insisted we take the Dulwich murder because of the press interest in the White Devil connection.” She rubbed her forehead. “If there are any more murders, my job’s going to be harder than a Middle East negotiator’s.”

“You’ll manage,” the superintendent said. “And the weather’s so much nicer in London.”

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Karen Oaten snorted and watched Ron Paskin walk away, the coverall making him look like an overweight polar bear. She didn’t remember him making that kind of quip when she worked for him. Maybe he kept them for jackasses parachuted in from New Scotland Yard. She certainly felt that someone was committed to ridiculing her in public. If she didn’t get a break soon, the AC would put her head on the revolving sign outside the Met.

“Mummy!” Lucy screamed.

Caroline came down the stairs in a tumble. “What is it?” she asked, eyes wide as she looked around the hall of the detached house.

“You gave me the wrong password. That’s why we haven’t got e-mail. I’ve been trying other combinations and finally I got in.”

Her mother glared at her. “You screamed as if you’d been…as if you’d seen a ghost because of that? I almost had a heart attack.” Something similar had happened when Lucy had run up shouting at the motorway services, when Caroline had been talking to a woman who had asked her about her shoes. The child had her father’s tendency to overreact.

“It’s your fault,” Lucy said. “Daddy will be so worried, not hearing from us. I’m going to send him a message now.”

“Don’t stay online any longer than you have to,”

Caroline ordered. She was sure she’d typed in the right password. She’d been required to learn it by heart after being handed a sealed envelope by a solicitor over a year ago. He had then taken the envelope and its contents back, and run them through a shredder. She normally had an excellent memory for numerical and alphabetic codes, but 138

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she had so many to remember and today had been very tense. She would have killed for a gin and tonic, but whoever had stocked the cupboards had not included alcohol. Maybe Matt was behind that.

“Daddy’s sent a reply,” Lucy called from the front room. “He’s angry that you took your car.”

“You told him?” Caroline said in disbelief. “Get off that chair.” She pulled it from beneath her daughter and peered at the screen.

…you might have compromised the operation and put all three of you in danger. Caroline, this is not a game. If you’ve watched the news, you’ll understand that. Please follow every other instruction to the letter. And do not stay online for more than a few minutes at a time. M.

Caroline leaned forward and typed a reply. Time’s up. Logging off NOW. C.

That would teach him to order them about, she thought triumphantly. But what did he mean about the news?

“Lucy,” she said, “it’s well past your bedtime. Upstairs now, young lady.”

“Oh, Mu—” The child broke off when she saw the look on her mother’s face. “’Night,” she said, kissing Caroline on the cheek. “’Night, Gran.”

“What, dear?” Fran said, raising her eyes from the book she was reading. “Oh, good night. Sleep tight.” She watched as Caroline turned on the television and moved from channel to channel. Only BBC24 was showing a news bulletin. It was from there that they learned of Dave Cummings’s murder.
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“Oh my God,” Caroline said, her hand to her mouth.

“Poor Dave. How awful for Ginny and the children.”

Caroline and Fran looked at each other and clasped hands, something they’d never done before. It made them feel better, but not much.

Ten

I thought about calling Karen before I turned in, but decided against it—she needed distance from me if she was to do her job properly. As I lay on the big bed that we’d shared only two nights earlier, I thought about our relationship. I loved her and she said she loved me. But what sort of love was it when both people’s work was the most important thing in their lives? I also had Lucy, Fran and my mates, while Karen, whose parents had died when she was a student, was a loner, with no friends outside the police and, from what she’d said, not many inside—she certainly didn’t meet up with people after work. I was all right as my needs were fulfilled, but it was difficult to tell what she wanted from the relationship as she’d built a protective shield around herself. Sometimes I wondered if a steak, a decent red wine and a massage followed by energetic sex were all she required. When I caught a wistful look or she embraced me more passionately than usual, I realized that she really did love me. I was more open about what I felt for her, but I was also skeptical about the ultimate power of that emotion. The divorce from Caro-
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line and Sara’s comprehensive betrayal had caused that, though I knew I was at fault for much that went wrong in my marriage. I also should have paid more attention to Sara. Every day I’ve blamed myself for failing to perceive her true character.

I didn’t think I’d sleep, especially not with Andy stretched out on a row of cushions on the floor in my bedroom—he’d insisted on staying close—but I dropped fairly quickly into an exhausted slumber. Soon I was jolted awake by a vision of Dave. He was covered in blood and he started to speak. I heard the words, but couldn’t make sense of them—only that he was frightened, and kept looking over my shoulder. I turned to see Sara, her eyes red and her mouth twisted into a demonic smile…

“Matt!”

I came back to the real world, to find Andy shaking my arm.

“You, too, huh?” he said, blinking. His hair was all over the place. “Dave… Christ, it was so real….”

So we sat side by side on the bed and talked about our friend, recalling his exploits on the rugby field, his bravery at the climax of the White Devil case and many nights of epic mayhem in the pubs of South London. I don’t know if that made me feel any better, but it did send me eventually into a dreamless sleep. Dave’s ghost, it seemed, had receded. I hoped he had crossed the bar and passed into the fields of Elysium, avoiding rebirth into this hard and bitter world.

Andy had also gone when I woke up, but it didn’t take long to find him. The smell of bacon from the kitchen was enticing.

“Hungry?” he said. “I’ve got scrambled eggs with red 142

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and green peppers, deviled kidneys, French toast, sausages, mushrooms and black pudding.”

“Bloody hell, Slash,” I said, taking in the array on plates. “There’s enough food for an army here.”

“We weren’t up to eating yesterday, remember?”

My stomach was making clear that it needed filling, but I had to check my e-mails first. People I hadn’t told about Dave’s death were asking what had happened. I kept my replies short and told everyone to leave home for a few days if they could. Caroline had sent a brief e-mail saying the three of them had passed the night without problems, and demanding to know why I hadn’t told her about Dave’s death. I didn’t reply. She’d never liked any of my friends and sharing my grief would have felt like disloyalty to Dave. I knew that was immature and that I’d get past it—

but not yet. I opened the ghost Web site Rog had set up. Both he and Pete had checked in. They were okay and had started their separate searches for Sara via her financial dealings.

By the time I got to the table, Andy had started eating, but he had scrupulously left half of the food on each platter.

“Everything okay?” he asked, his mouth full. I nodded. “Apart from catching Sara.”

“Eat!” he ordered. “It’ll set you up for battle.”

I did as I was told. It was one of the best meals I’d ever had. I was putting the plates in the dishwasher when the phone rang. It was Karen.

“Good, you’re at home,” she said after greeting me. She sounded all in.

I glanced at Andy. “Em, yeah, but I’ll be going out soon.”

“Do you want to see me or not?” she asked testily.
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“Of course I do,” I replied.

“Said with a
huge
amount of sincerity. I’ll be around in a quarter of an hour. Don’t worry, I won’t be staying long.”

“Oh, shit,” I said after she’d terminated the call.

“Karen’s coming in fifteen, Slash. You’d better find somewhere to lie low. If she finds you here, she’ll take you back to the Yard and squeeze a statement out of you.”

He got up from the table slowly. “She won’t look in the spare bedroom, will she?”

“She’s a detective, big man. She might look anywhere. The walk-in wardrobe there is full of old coats and the like. You could lurk behind them.”

Andy grinned. “I like a good lurk.” He continued clearing plates and stacking them in the dishwasher. I went back to the computer. There were a few other people I needed to alert—crime writers who lived beyond the South East and who weren’t obvious targets, and a few distant relations in the North. I logged back on to my e-mail program. That turned out to be a very bad idea, though at least I didn’t lose any time. There were two new messages that caught my eye. The first was from Josh Hinkley. He said that he understood I was in shock and that he didn’t expect an apology for the way I’d spoken to him last night. Asshole squared. The other should have made me suspicious earlier than it did. The sender was
who’snext?
At first I thought it was to do with the Who—

I subscribed to the band’s newsletter. I should have been so lucky. After I read the first couple of lines I bellowed out Andy’s name.

Hail, Matt Wells, aka Matt Stone, purveyor of crime fiction and nonfiction to the world. Except there 144

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haven’t been too many novels lately, have there? Doesn’t matter. I can help you on the ideas front. Who am I? That’s for you to find out. I read your column in the Daily Independent and I know how well-endowed you are, so to speak, as regards knowledge of crime. That’s why I’ve chosen you. I’ve also read The Death List—what a great book! But would you have been able to corner the White Devil without the help of your friend Dave Cummings? Oh, by the way, my condolences on his death. Very sad, deeply distressing, tragically premature—all the meaningless bullshit people come out with when the “d” word gets uncomfortably close to their pathetic lives.

“Who is this fucking shithead?” Andy shouted over my shoulder.

“Cool it,” I said. “Let’s see where this goes.”

Anyway, time moves ever onwards and, as you’ll see, time is very important. I’m delighted to be in a position to issue a challenge—in fact, a series of challenges. As the title of this message says, the question I’ll be asking you is “Who’s Next?” I know from the archive of concert reviews on your Web site that you’re a big fan of the Who. Sorry to disappoint you, but this has nothing to do with those aged rockers, or rather, Mods. No, this challenge concerns the other side of your writing life, crime fiction.

First, let me tell you various things that haven’t come out in the media. I’m sure you know the details already since you spend so much time with the delectable DCI Oaten, but they’ll establish my credentials, so to speak. The murder of Mary Malone: I took
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hairs from her head and pubic area; I drew a pentagram in white chalk in the garden to the rear of her house—within it, I wrote the words FECIT DIABOLUS. Is that enough? I hope you liked the reference to the devil and that you approve of my choice of music. I know you love the Stones…

“Jesus,” I said, my stomach now revolting against breakfast. “Unless someone in Karen’s team is playing a seriously bad joke, this is Mary Malone’s killer.”

Andy was staring at the screen. “It gets worse, man.”

I scrolled down and read on.

So, da-daaah!—here’s the challenge. All you have to do is solve the puzzle I’ve set for you by midnight. I’ll contact you by e-mail (obviously not using this address or provider—I learned that from the White Devil…) and ask for your answer. The rules are simple and I promise I’ll observe them. If you e-mail me straight back with the correct answer, I won’t kill my next target. If you don’t, it’s “Good night, sweet lady”