The Soul Collector (38 page)

“What were you doing?” the journalist continued.

“Buying or selling?”

“Selling, of course,” the earl said, glancing around the
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wood-paneled room. “I…I happened to, em…come across a quantity of the drug and I wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible.”

“For what would appear to be a substantial amount of money.” Andrewes grinned. “That should help with the maintenance of the castle. As well as with your other pursuits.”

The older man’s expression was grim, but he didn’t speak.

“All right, tell me who you sold to,” the journalist said. There was a long pause. “You promise you won’t refer to me? These people were pretty…unpleasant.”

You must have felt right at home, Andrewes thought.

“My word is my bond. I’m working on a big exposé of the drugs trade in London. This will only be a small piece in the jigsaw.”

The earl dabbed a napkin to his damp lips. “Very well. It would be a good thing if the people I sold to were cleared out of this country.”

The journalist made no comment, even though that was hardly the
Daily Independent
’s line on immigration.

“Let me guess,” he said, trying to make things easier for the other man. “Kurds? Turks? There’s been some messy stuff between them recently in East London.”

“Has there?” the earl said indifferently. “No, no, these people were Albanians.”

“Really?” Jeremy Andrewes was impressed by the older man’s nerve. The Albanians were the up-andcoming force and they were even more ruthless than the Turkish Shadows. “I don’t suppose you got any names?”

“Nobody introduced themselves, if that’s what you mean.”

The journalist tried to disguise his disappointment. 350

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The earl gave a twisted smile. “But I’m not a complete idiot. I did do my homework. They’re a family called Shkrelli.” He struggled to pronounce the name and spittle flew from his mouth.

Andrewes felt like a runner who’d just broken the hundred meters world record. A member of the peerage selling coke to the most violent gang in the country—his editor would kiss his feet. He managed to end the conversation and get out of the club, without, he hoped, making the earl suspicious. He thought about going back to his flat to write the piece, but he wanted to be in the office when he submitted it.

He hailed a taxi, took out his BlackBerry and started on a first draft. He was so engrossed that he didn’t notice the figure in black leathers to the rear, weaving through the traffic on a powerful motorbike. It was still there, fifty meters behind, when he got out and went into the
Daily
Indie
building.

Pete was squinting at the computer screen as he scrolled down the plastic surgery clinic’s records. Rog had got into them, but he needed a break from his laptop so Pete had taken over. There were drops of sweat on his bald head. The only problem with Rog’s cousin’s flat was that the central heating control was jammed at twenty-five degrees Celsius. Even though the window was open, the room was like an oven.

“Gotcha!” Pete said. “Get a load of this, Dodger.” He pointed to the screen.

“Are you sure?” Rog said. “You’ve only been looking for a few minutes.”

“Oh, I never take long,” Bonehead said archly. Rog went over and leaned toward the screen. “Lauren
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May Cuthbertson, date of birth 23/5/1972, address Flat 15, Gannett House, Ambledon Street, Stoke Newington.”

He turned to Pete. “What’s the big deal?”

Bonehead clicked on the link titled Pretreatment Photo. “What do you reckon?”

“Jesus.” Rog stared in horror at the face that appeared before him. The nose was bent and flattened. There were also large and pendulous tumors on both sides of the mouth. “It’s the Elephant Woman.”

“Near enough.” Pete clicked on the Post-Treatment Photo.

They watched intently as the image recomposed itself.

“What happened to her?” Rog said.

The tumors had gone, but the skin around and below the mouth was swollen, heavily bruised and scarred. But that wasn’t the worst feature. Although the patient’s nose had been straightened and reconstructed, something terrible had happened to her upper lip. It was split open, the pink gum and front teeth visible. Lauren Cuthbertson was staring straight at the camera, her expression dull-eyed.

“Scary woman,” Pete said. He clicked off the photo and on to her patient file. He moved through it slowly so they could both get the gist. It seemed that the tumors, though not malignant, had grown substantially in the year before the operation. The nose had been damaged in a fight when Lauren Cuthbertson was a teenager. The surgeon, James Maclehose, the man whose body had been found by Pete and Andy in the house in Oxford, had been successful in removing the tumors and in fixing the nose. However, the upper lip had been damaged during surgery. Furthermore, skin grafts placed over the wounds left by the removal of the tumors had not been successful. The patient had been advised to undergo further surgery, but she had refused, 352

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claiming that Maclehose was incompetent. The surgeon’s notes stated that she had been abusive, and had threatened him and his staff. The last time she was in the clinic, the police had been called after she smashed an antique vase over Mr. Maclehose’s computer.

“What do you think?” Pete asked.

“What was the date of the operation?”

“January 21st. And she was last in the clinic on February 29th.”

“Under a month ago.” Rog ran his hands through his hair. “You think she killed Maclehose?”

Pete nodded. “She’s five foot ten and twelve stone three. If she works out—and the notes say that her level of physical fitness was high—she could have overpowered him easily. You saw the most recent photo. She didn’t exactly look friendly.”

“Mm.” Rog moved closer and hit the keys until he found the payment records. “I tell you what puzzles me. She lives in Stoke Newington, in what doesn’t sound like high-end housing. How did she afford a Harley Street surgeon?”

“Good point.”

Rog brought up a statement of account. “Look,” he said, pointing. “She paid by cheque. Twelve thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven pounds.”

“And seventy-three pence,” Pete added. He shrugged.

“Maybe she inherited the dosh.”

“Or she’s protected.”

Pete looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“All those murders in East London—she lives in the vicinity.”

“You mean she’s in one of the gangs?”

Rog nodded. “Could be. They’re not all from abroad,
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you know. And, as far as I can remember, no one in the home-grown gangs has been murdered.”

“Bloody hell, Dodger, you’re using your imagination a lot there. Anyway, why was the body of the surgeon left in a house owned by Sara Robbins?”

“That I don’t know.” Rog smiled. “Yet. I’m going to get into this Lauren’s bank account and find out where the money came from.”

“If she’s in a gang, it could have all been cash deposits,” Pete pointed out. “We should tell Matt.”

“Tell him what? Wait till I’ve checked the source of her funds. My money’s on it being dirty.”

Pete shook his head. “I’m not taking that bet. What I don’t like is the idea that the cow’s running around scotfree. If she really did kill the surgeon, you’d better hope she doesn’t realize you’ve been snooping on her bank account. Otherwise you might be her next victim.”

“We, Boney,” Rog corrected.

Pete looked nervously at the door and drummed his fingers on the butt of his pistol.

After Andy and I had got back to Victoria, we exited the station and headed for a cyber-café. I needed to see if Caroline and Fran had come up with anything on the clue. My own thoughts were still random and chaotic, and there were only two hours left till the next deadline. Even though Doctor Faustus had killed Josh Hinkley instead of Adrian Brooks, I had to believe that I could save the target.

While Andy went to the counter to buy coffee and a Danish, I logged on to my e-mail program. My heart skipped a beat. There was nothing from Caroline or Fran. Jesus, could Sara have got to them via the signals? Surely 354

Paul Johnston

that was impossible. I’d been moving around and the likelihood of her picking up my wi-fi signal in the huge city was minimal. So why hadn’t they replied? Maybe the message hadn’t got through. I sent it again, then looked at my watch. I couldn’t afford to wait. Someone’s life was hanging by a thread. I had to find the solution. Andy came back with a mound of pastries and two mugs of coffee.

“On a diet?” I asked, taking out my notebook.

“Yeah, boss,” he said, grinning. “Whatever you say, boss.”

I looked at the clue. “Bestial Ozzies.” Could that mean animals from Australia? Possums? Crocodiles? Wallabies? Tasmanian devils? Koalas? None of them seemed to get me any further. I reread the last two lines. There was some game being played with Cain and Abel. Why was “Cain” “blind”? I tried to remember the conventions of cryptic crosswords—

this may not have been a crossword, but it was definitely full of hidden secrets. Repunctuate. I did that, removing all the full stops, commas and brackets. Zilch. I removed all the capitals. Ditto. What else? Anagrams. Bugger that—too time-consuming. Word order. I fiddled with that for a couple of minutes, but, again, decided it would take hours. Homophones. The only one that struck me was “Abel”—it sounded like “able.” Words with two or more meanings. I’d already played around with “bestial,” meaning “animal,” and got nowhere. It also meant “brutish”—brutish Australians? The only Aussie crime writer I knew was clever, witty and remarkably well-behaved. How about part for whole? Could

“Ozzies” mean a specific Australian rather than Australians, plural? And the same for “Scotsmen”?

Andy put a sticky finger on the first line of the clue.

“The English enslaved the Scots, didn’t they?”

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“That’s one way of looking at it,” I said, raising an eyebrow at him. And then I got it. “Shit!” I said, making the pretty girl at the till laugh. “You’re in this, Andy. Or should I say Andrew?”

He stared at me. I looked back down at the clue. “‘I have enslaved Scotsmen.’ They’re Andrews, plural.” I brought my hand down on my knee. “That’s it. Jeremy Andrewes.”

“The shithead journalist who’s been busting your balls?”

I nodded. “Like the other clues, this is a series of alternatives for the different syllables. ‘I have enslaved Scotsmen’ means that the Scotsmen, the Andrews, are mine—so ‘my Andrews.’ ‘My’ is made up of the last two syllables of ‘Jeremy.’”

The American was chewing slowly, his eyes on the clue.

“‘As well as’ is another way of saying ‘and,’ as in

‘Andrews.’”

Finally, I understood the “bestial Ozzies.” I’d been close. “It
is
an Australian animal—the kangaroo, also referred to as ‘roo.’”

“He was in
Winnie the Pooh,
” Andy said. “I used to like that cartoon.”

“I’m very happy for you, Slash. ‘Roos’ sounds like

‘r-u-e-s,’ meaning ‘repents’ or, I suppose, ‘feels sad,’ as in ‘sadly’ in line three.”

Andy was struggling to keep up. “What about ‘Tiny Goethe polishes,’ then?”

I thought about that. Sara or her sidekick had no doubt chosen Goethe to distract me because of the Faust connection. “Goethe was a German. We would have called him a ‘gerry’ if he’d turned up in the Second World War.”

“You mean, like the first bit of ‘Jeremy’?”

“Well done, big man.”

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“Yeah, but why ‘tiny’?” Then Andy laughed. “Maybe it’s the mouse in
Tom and Jerry.
He was pretty small.”

I thought it was probably just that Jerry was a diminutive of Jeremy, but I let him have it. “‘Building cheaply’

is ‘jerry-building’ and ‘blind Cain’…what is that? Blind. Yes! To make someone blind, you take out their eyes.

‘Eye’ sounds like the letter
i
—take it from ‘Cain’ and you get ‘can,’ which means ‘able,’ as in sounds like ‘Abel,’ the Biblical character. Voilà.”

“Jeez, Wellsy, it’s a hell of a lot just for two names.”

He peered at the clue again. “What about ‘polishes’?”

I looked at the letters that made up Andrewes. “It’s an anagram. You can get ‘sand’ or ‘sander’ out of the surname. Sanding is a form of polishing.”

Andy looked at his watch. “We’ve still got an hour and a half. Are you going to tell this Andrewes guy to watch out?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m not. I’m not going to send the right answer at noon, either.”

Andy switched into John MacEnroe mode. “You cannot be serious. Sara might take him down.”

“Not if we’re looking after him.”

He smiled. “I get it. You’re going to use Jeremy Andrewes as bait.”

I nodded. “I think he deserves that, after all the bollocks he’s written about me recently.”

“Neat, my man, very neat.” The smile vanished from his lips. “There’s only one problem. To draw her out, we’re going to have to put Andrewes where he makes a good target. That means we’ll be targets, too.”

“Correct,” I said, catching his eye. “But I’m prepared to risk it for Dave. You?”

“Count me in,” Andy said without a second’s hesitation.
Twenty-Five

Karen Oaten and Amelia Browning were standing outside the house in Stoke Newington with Ron Paskin. CSIs in dark blue coveralls were going up the steps to the front door. There was a crowd of rubberneckers behind the barrier tape. Inspector Ozal and other Homicide East detectives were moving through it, asking people if they had seen anything suspicious.

John Turner brought a painfully thin, elderly woman forward. She was dressed in a faded blue coat and tattered slippers. “This is Mrs. Maisie Jones,” the inspector said.

“She lives across the street.”

“I saw them,” the woman said, gripping Karen Oaten’s arm with a clawlike hand. “There were a lot of them. In big, black cars.” She leaned closer. “They looked
foreign.
”