The Soul Collector (25 page)

“I cannot risk being caught again.”

Jemal smiled. “In that case, you must stay off the streets.”

“They will not see me.”

The doctor smiled again. “You are forgetting something.”

Faik stared at him. “What?”

“The person who killed Izady—maybe that is the same person who wore the
burqa
this afternoon. He may also be looking for you.”

“He?” Faik sat back. “You think a
man
was wearing the
burqa?
”

Jemal Dawod raised his shoulders. “This is London, not the Middle East. People have different ideas about tradition.”

“Who do you think this killer is?”

“At first I assumed he was working for the Shadows. That explained why he killed Izady. I guessed he’d double-crossed them.”

Faik got up from the low table and shook the tingling from his legs. “But it doesn’t explain why he only shot me in the hand and then knocked me out, rather than killing me.”

The doctor lit a cigarette. “No, it doesn’t. I thought perhaps he left a witness to recount what had happened to the Kurds. But then the Wolfman caught you, so the Shadows couldn’t have hired the killer.”

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“So who’s this killer with the false beard working for?”

Jemal Dawod blew out a cloud of smoke. “I have no idea. But I don’t think you should chance meeting him again.”

Faik looked at his watch. It was well after midnight.

“I must go, Doctor. Thank you for everything.”

“Make sure those wounds in your legs don’t get infected. You have my cell phone number. Call me in a week and I will remove the stitches from your hand.”

Jemal embraced the young man. “May Allah protect you.”

“And you,” Faik said, turning toward the door.

“You have forgotten something else,” the doctor said. Faik looked back. “I have?”

“If you are escaping, you must leave your mark on me.”

“No, Doctor,” the young man said, his mouth slack.

“Otherwise the Shadows will not believe me and I will be killed.”

Faik took a deep breath. Jemal Dawod was right. They couldn’t risk it. He went up to the doctor and made him stand in front of the sofa. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he drew back his undamaged hand and landed a powerful uppercut on the other man’s chin. He crashed back on the cushions, blood flowing from his lower lip, which had been punctured by his teeth. Faik made sure he was comfortable. Going to the front door, he let himself out. The night air was chill and he suddenly felt very weak. But it was too late to go back. If he kept to the back streets he should be home soon, as long as he didn’t meet any Shadows. He tried to establish a steady rhythm, but his injured thighs caught painfully on his jeans and the breath was ragged in his throat. Soon he was very thirsty. He stopped 230

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after about ten minutes, bending down behind a car. When he stood up, a figure in black biker leathers was standing on the other side of the bonnet, pointing a silenced pistol at his chest. The visor of the helmet had been raised and Faik saw wisps of beard on the upper cheeks.

“Will you come with me?” the man asked, his voice hoarse. “I have so much to show you.”

Faik Jabar felt a strange emotion, a kind of attraction to the armed figure. Although he didn’t have much choice, he moved around the car, walking willingly to meet his fate.

Jeremy Andrewes was in the basement of the family house in Chelsea. When he had started working for the
Daily Independent,
his father had banished him to what had been the kitchen and servants’ quarters on the grounds that, since he was working for a “socialist rag,” he should experience life below the stairs. Over the years, Jeremy had done the place up and he still used it for work, even though his parents were long gone and his own family—

a docile wife and three rampant boys—had the run of the whole house, as well as the Hampshire estate. He sat staring at his computer screen, trying to get an original angle on the murder of the American crime writer at Wilde’s. It was 5:00 a.m. and he was being pressured by his editor. He had a contact in Homicide Central, a disillusioned old-timer who regarded DCI Younger as a jumped-up schoolboy. The detective had told him about the message on the body that said “Ask Matt Wells about this.” He’d tried to do that, but the writer wasn’t answering any of his phones. He’d also pressed Karen Oaten and John Turner about potential leads, but he couldn’t give away the fact that he knew about the message. The chief
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inspector had made a brief statement without mentioning it. She wouldn’t confirm that the murder was linked to the Mary Malone case, either, but no one had much doubt about that. So, what to do? Andrewes wasn’t a fan of tabloid-style journalism, but he badly needed to put one over his rivals on the other papers—he’d been beaten to several exclusives and his standing was at an all-time low. Since Matt Wells wasn’t answering his calls, he was the one to be thrown to the wolves.

Before he did that, he called Josh Hinkley. Perhaps the other crime writer would have some startling insight.

“What?” came a hoarse voice.

“Josh, it’s Jeremy.”

There was a pause. “Do you know what fuckin’ time it is?”

“I do. I’m working.”

“Well, have a cigar, public school boy. Normal people are in their beds.” Hinkley laughed coarsely. “And they aren’t on their own. Move over, darling.”

Andrewes shook his head. He was wasting his time, but this was his only chance. “Another crime writer’s been murdered.” He told Hinkley about Sandra Devonish—the victim’s name had been confirmed after her British publisher had identified the body.

“Christ!” Hinkley exclaimed. “It
is
a serial killer, then.”

“Looks like it, though DCI Oaten hasn’t confirmed that and there’s been nothing said about the black magic stuff.”

He paused. “You do realize that this killer is targeting crime novelists.”

“I’d better make sure my alarm system’s working, then. Thanks for the tipoff, Jerry.”

Andrewes nearly laid into Hinkley for addressing him that way, but he managed to control himself. “I didn’t call 232

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to warn you, Josh. Your friend Matt Wells is mixed up in this somehow.” He told him about the message on the body.

“Oh, yus!” Hinkley exclaimed. “That’s very juicy!

What do you think it means?”

Jeremy Andrewes raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I was hoping you might be able to cast some light on that.”

“Oh, yeah?” There was the sound of a cigarette lighter, followed by deep inhalation. “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s that crazy woman he used to shag.”

“I’d got that far on my own, Josh. But what do you think Wells is up to? He’s not answering any of his phones.”

Hinkley drew on his cigarette again. “If the White Devil case is anything to go by, he and his headbanging rugby mates are trying to track her down.”

“They’re not exactly succeeding, are they? Did Wells give you the impression he was going to play the caped crusader?”

“Not really. I told you, he was pretty down in the dumps about his friend Dave Cummings being shot. The fucker chucked me out.”

Andrewes made his mind up. Screw his informer in the Homicide Central and screw Matt Wells—he was going to go for broke on this. “Josh, I want you to give me the full lowdown on Wells—bigheadedness, unreliability, what he was like when he was with Sara Robbins. Basically, anything that makes him look flaky.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Hinkley said with a laugh. “How much imagination am I allowed to use?”

“As much as you like, but I’ll be quoting you.”

“That’s all right, Jerry. I’ll do anything for publicity.”

“Oh, and, Josh?”

“What?”

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“I need it now.”

“Aw, come on. I’m bloody knackered.”

“Anything for publicity?”

“Fuck you. All right, let me think.”

Andrewes spent the time opening a new file in his word processing system. He titled it “JoshdumpsonMW.”

“Em, Jerry?” Hinkley’s tone was suddenly apprehensive.

“What is it? Getting cold feet about ratting on your so-called friend?”

“Nah, bollocks to that. I was just wondering—do you think Matt might be the killer?”

Andrewes stifled a laugh. “What, and he left a message incriminating himself on the body?”

“That might be a distraction. I had a killer do that in one of my books.”

“This isn’t fiction, Josh. This is the real world, and Sandra Devonish was stabbed in the heart.”

“Yeah, well, serves her right for being a bad-tempered dyke. She kneed me in the balls when I came on to her in Washington. I thought I could convert her.”

Jeremy Andrewes managed to bite his tongue. “Are you ready to talk now?”

“Yeah. Here I go.”

As Hinkley came out with a character assassination that Carlos the Jackal would have been proud of, the thought that Matt Wells could have been the killer kept nagging away at Jeremy Andrewes. And while he didn’t believe for one moment that Wells would murder his fellow crime writers, he knew that suspicion would sell plenty of newspapers. The Soul Collector woke in her van. She opened the back door a few centimeters and listened. Although she 234

Paul Johnston

had parked a long way up a track in rural Worcestershire, she couldn’t be sure no one had spotted the vehicle. The early dawn light was faint and mist had gathered over the fields. She decided she was safe for another half hour. Sara Robbins used the time to go over her plan. She had timed everything carefully and had built in an extra ten minutes. Today was the day that she put the squeeze on the former SAS men. The cottage in Berkshire was waiting to receive guests. She’d bought it with funds that not even a genius hacker would have been able to identify as hers. The other properties were in compound names, including her mother’s, that Matt and his friends might well have found. They were welcome to check them out. She put her papers into a folder and stuck it under the front seat. She had memorized everything and she was ready. This was the biggest test of her abilities yet. Killing people was easy, if you were cold enough about it—and she certainly was. But kidnapping people, keeping them alive, that was more of a challenge. As was luring and outthinking three former elite soldiers. Not even her brother had managed to pull anything like that off. She loved him, but her ambition was to be even more ruthless, even more invincible. Today would be the making of her. The Soul Collector was the god beneath the ground, the final enemy of mankind—Hades, Persephone, Hecate, Dis, Proserpina, Hel, Lucifer. It was striking how many of those ancient deities were female. Women were usually seen as the source of life, but not Sara Robbins. The Soul Collector was Death Incarnate.

Sixteen

I was woken by a hand shaking my shoulder.

“Matt? You’ve got to see this.” Pete’s expression was a mixture of anger and dismay.

“What is it?” I asked, sitting up and stretching my arms. I looked at my watch and saw it was eight-thirty. Rog was sitting in front of a computer. He looked over his shoulder. “Morning, Matt. Take a deep breath.”

I rubbed my eyes and bent over to read the text that was displayed. I immediately recognized the layout of the
Daily Indie
’s Web site. Then I started to read.

“ ‘American Novelist Murdered—Five Questions for Matt Wells.’ ”

I sat down heavily on the chair that Pete had brought over. “What is this?”

“That scumbag Jeremy Andrewes seems to think you’re behind the killings,” Rog said.

After a description of the event, written in a tone more appropriate to the paper’s tabloid rivals, came the questions: 236

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One—why did Matt Wells’s name appear on a note left on Sandra Devonish’s body?

Two—why is Matt Wells not answering any of his phones?

Three—what is the connection between this murder and the shooting of Matt Wells’s close friend David Cummings?

Four—has Matt Wells been in contact with his former lover, Sara Robbins, sister of the notorious White Devil?

And, five—does Matt Wells hate his fellow crime writers so much that he could kill them?

There followed a lengthy list of my supposed transgressions at crime-writing festivals and events, largely based on the testimony of the bullshit-merchant Josh Hinkley. Throwing him out of my apartment had obviously not been such a smart move.

“How much of this is true?” Rog asked.

“A bit,” I admitted. “But it’s all been given the worst possible spin. For instance, I
did
pour a pint of beer over Josh Hinkley in Manchester, but that was because he kept feeling up my publicist. I
did
tell Sandra Devonish to fuck off, but we were both rat-arsed, and she said it to me first. And I suppose, though my memory’s a bit hazy about this, I might have called the Crime Writers’ Society ‘the Jurassic Park of literature’ during an event in Aberdeen, but that was probably because bleeding Josh had called it something much worse. I could kick that wanker’s teeth in.”

“Probably not a good idea at this current juncture,”

Pete said.

There was a series of knocks on the door.
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Pete walked over, silenced Glock in hand. He looked through the spy-hole. “Slash,” he said, taking off the chain and letting the American in.

“Goddamn English weather!” he said, shaking his soaked blond mop. He was carrying a flagon of milk in one hand and a large bag of shopping in the other. I scrolled down the rest of the article. There was a section about Sandra Devonish, mentioning her bestknown books and the movies that had been made from them—one was pretty good, I remembered. There was also what was obviously a publicity photo of her standing against one of those huge cacti in a red desert. Then there was a sanctimonious wrap-up from Jeremy Andrewes, in which he regretted putting “this paper’s own crime columnist on the spot,” but that “the truth and the need for the police to carry out their duties without interference from a misguided crime writer take precedence over personal considerations.” He wouldn’t be getting a Christmas card from me again.