The Soul Collector (35 page)

I was finding it hard to look at her. “I did what I could,”

I said in a low voice. I caught her eye. “Look, there’s something else you don’t know.” I told her about what Pete and Andy had found in Sara’s house in Oxford. She looked at me with slightly less ferocity. “And the note says ‘Sorry’? What about?”

I shrugged. “I wonder if there’s someone else involved. There have been those gangland killings, too. Do you know who’s behind them?”

Karen shook her head. “Could be a straightforward war between the Turks and the Kurds.”

I didn’t think she was convinced by what she’d said, but I let it go. “We don’t actually know that Sara’s responsible for the crime-writer murders. The messages I got were signed Doctor Faustus and, at the start, Flaminio.” She looked blank. “The revenger in Webster’s play
The White
Devil.
”

“You don’t seriously believe that someone else sent them?” Karen asked, her eyes wide.

“I’m not sure. There are some anomalies. For a start, Doctor Faustus and Flaminio are male characters.”

“Big deal. Maybe she thinks she’s her brother reincarnated.”

That wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility. “Then there’s the fact that the last message header was
thethirdisaman.
”

She squinted at me. “So?”

322

Paul Johnston

“Think about it. The first victim was Mary Malone, the second Sandra Devonish—”

“And the third, despite your cleverness, was indeed a man, Josh Hinkley. I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“Well, the overwhelming likelihood is that Sara murdered Dave.”

She nodded slowly. “Making Hinkley her fourth victim. Yes, but maybe she sees Dave’s killing as separate.”

“So she has two death lists?”

Karen frowned. “The second one consisting of?”

“Me, my family and my friends. Probably including you.” The last sentence slipped out before I could stop myself.

“In fact,” she said, with a tight smile, “your name will be on both lists.”

“On the other hand,” I continued, eager to move on,

“maybe Sara’s only interested in me and my people.”

“But if it isn’t her, who is it going after the crime writers? The officers who found Josh Hinkley’s body said they smelled perfume in the air. Could it be another woman?”

I looked at her. I should have asked more about Josh. Whatever he’d said about me, he didn’t deserve to die the way he had. “Maybe the Satanism angle isn’t so weird after all. Maybe some devil-worshipping female psycho has it in for crime writers.”

“I don’t suppose you could suggest a name,” she said drily.

“You’ve got me there. But I’m working on it.”

“Spit it out, Matt. What are you planning?”

I shook my head. “Need-to-know basis only, Karen. Remember how tight a rein her brother kept on me. She could nail me at any moment. That’s why I’m armed. You
The Soul Collector

323

might want to think about getting armed protection yourself.”

“Why don’t we apply for it together?” she said bitterly.

“You’re not going anywhere after what you’ve put me through these past days. I thought you loved me, Jesus, I thought I loved you. But at the first sign of danger, you run away and leave me in a shit storm.”

I couldn’t blame her for feeling that way, even though I hadn’t felt able to act any differently. “I do love you, Karen,” I said, trying to get her to look at me. “Part of the reason I went underground was that I didn’t want you close if Sara got to me.”

She glanced at me, then turned her head away. “You have no idea how much crap’s been dumped over me because of our relationship. For Christ’s sake, there are people in the Met who think
you
murdered the crime writers.”

“Because of the notes fingering me? They smack of the White Devil—remember how he tried to frame me. That could mean Sara is behind the crime-writer murders, even if she isn’t actually carrying them out herself.”

She sat up. “You’re the one who slept with her for a year, Matt. You must have some idea how her mind works. How are we going to catch her?”

I told her about Rog’s campaign against Sara’s wealth, and about the other properties my ex-lover had bought.

“We’ll check them, but how likely is it she’ll be there?”

“Someone was living in the Hackney flat and someone left that body in the Oxford house.”

“It isn’t very likely they’ll go back to those places. Though, if you’d bothered to contact me earlier, we could have run surveillance operations. Tosser.”

I deserved that for not keeping in touch. I could have texted her, but that would have done her no good if anyone in the Met had found out we were communicating. 324

Paul Johnston

I stood up.

“Where are you going?” she said, getting up and trying to block the door.

“Don’t, Karen. You have to let me go. There are things you can’t do. Ultimately, I’m the one Sara wants. You asked how we can catch her. I’m the answer to that. When she runs out of money, she’ll come after me pronto. All I have to do is let her know where I’ll be.”

“Are you out of your mind?” she said, pounding her hands on my chest. “Can’t you understand? I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

I put my arms around her. She resisted at first, but eventually she acquiesced. “I didn’t say anything about letting Sara hurt me,” I said. “What do you think I am? Some kind of hero?”

She laughed softly. “No.
Some
kind of man.” She pulled away and looked at me. “A brave but headstrong one. If you get yourself killed, I’ll…” She let out a frustrated moan.

“I’ll move into your flat and throw all your CDs into the river.”

“That’s it then,” I said, kissing her on the lips. “It’s been nice knowing you.” I turned away and headed for the front door.

She caught up with me as I was unfastening the chain. She held me close and kissed me. “Don’t do anything that makes me cut you loose,” she said softly. It was still a definite order.

I nodded, but didn’t make a verbal commitment. Nailing Sara and the people she probably had working for her couldn’t be done by observing the law. That way lay death, which wasn’t in my diary for this or any other year soon. I returned her kisses, then slipped into the early morning gloom.

The Soul Collector

325

* * *

The man in the white mask breathed in the smoke from the paltry offering. He patted the mandrill’s head and then turned to the kneeling supplicant.

“Faustus, what else did you take from your victim that we can dedicate to the Lord Beneath the Earth?”

The naked man smiled. “Before I killed him, I made him transfer a million pounds to the account in Venezuela. The money will soon be at your disposal, Mephistopheles.”

“Untraceable?”

“You can be sure of that.”

“Very good, Faustus.” The masked man leaned closer.

“You are doing well. We must consider who will be the next sacrifice.”

The supplicant extended a hand toward Mephistopheles’ robes, but withdrew it when Beelzebub bared his fangs then snapped them shut.

“Be careful, my Faustus. You know how protective my familiar is.”

“My apologies,” the naked man said, lowering his head. “I wished to ask if you would permit me to decide on the identity of the next victim.”

The man in the mask stepped back and looked around the large subterranean chamber. “Do you have someone in mind?” He raised his hand. “Don’t tell me. Only make sure that the tribute to the Lord Beneath is substantial, Faustus.”

It was cold, but the supplicant did not shiver. He was possessed by a fire that burned through his veins and made him more powerful than any man.

Twenty-Three

The Soul Collector was in position near the rendezvous point. She had been in the hide for four hours. She assumed the former SAS men had returned to their homes from Aberdeen as soon as they had been told about their missing family members. The details did not concern her. She had watched the television news the night before and in the morning. There had been no mention of the story. She knew that was because the men were intending to act themselves. She kept them on tenterhooks till midday. At that time, the woman had called the man known as Wolfe—the lawyer she’d used to employ the trio had given her the number. She’d disguised herself on the only occasion she met the solicitor and the only address he had for her was in Madagascar, so the targets had no means of tracking her. But now there was no longer any need for selfeffacement.

“This is Sara Robbins,” she said, when he answered breathlessly. “The White Devil’s sister.”

“You have the three of them?” Wolfe said after a pause.

“I do.”

The Soul Collector

327

“Where are they?”

“This is not going to be a conversation. Don’t speak until I tell you to. Listen and do exactly what I say or Amanda Mary and the others will experience agonizing deaths.” She stopped to test him. The former Special Forces man knew the meaning of discipline; he did not speak. “Good. Amanda Mary, Josh and Alison are perfectly well. I have no interest in harming them. That does not apply to you and your men. I’m going to give you a map reference. The three of you will go there together at exactly six o’clock this evening. Don’t worry, I’ll give you a chance to defend yourselves. Bring all the weapons you want, but the three of you must stay close together and you must be unaccompanied. If anyone else comes, you can be sure you’ll never find your loved ones. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I’m now terminating this call. I’ll text you the map reference and send you some photographs to keep you honest, as the saying goes.”

The Soul Collector broke the connection, then sent the location and three photographs. There was one of each of the hostages, bound and gagged, in their coffins. She was sure they’d get the message about how serious she was.

The woman looked around the clearing in the New Forest, near the south coast. It was half an hour’s fast walk from the nearest road and even during daylight hours, there had been few people around. Certainly none had seen her setting up her equipment and constructing her hide. She was equipped with night-vision gear, as well as black combat fatigues and helmet. By her side on the groundsheet were her laptop and auxiliary weapons—

328

Paul Johnston

silenced Ruger Standard pistol, sheathed combat knife and six fragmentation grenades. A modified Walther WA2000 sniper’s rifle, the short stock against her right shoulder, was her main weapon, and her H&K pistol was in her belt.

The fact that she didn’t hear or see them coming didn’t surprise her. She knew they would come well-equipped, and not just with weapons. They didn’t have night-vision gear, but they made it to the center of the clearing by crawling from three different points. When it was exactly six o’clock, one of the men stood up.

The Soul Collector had rigged up a speaker on the opposite side of the clearing. She spoke into the microphone on her cheek.

“Stand up, all three of you,” she ordered. “If you want to see your loved ones alive.”

The other two men slowly rose from the grass. Now she needed all the marksmanship skills she had learned. She had to take the three of them out in rapid succession. She could see their shapes clearly enough, she had practiced the shots hundreds of time. She aimed at the back of the man on the left’s thigh—she was sure they would be wearing upper-body armor.

She fired once; twice; and thrice. The men grabbed their legs, their gasps audible, then they crashed to the ground. The specially made compound in the darts was both fastacting tranquilizer and muscle relaxant. The beauty of it—

a very expensive beauty—was that the victims would remain conscious and able to feel pain, but unable to speak or move.

The woman collected her auxiliary weapons and walked slowly to the three men. She removed the men’s Uzi
The Soul Collector

329

machine-pistols, semiautomatics and knives. Then she turned them all on their backs and looked into their glazed eyes.

“It’s time for you to pay for what you did to my brother,” she said. Bending forward, she spat in each of their faces. “Yes, I know I said you’d get a chance to defend yourselves and to save your people.” She laughed.

“I lied. They’ll take days to die.” She squatted next to one of them and stripped off his balaclava. “Wolfe. Also known as Sergeant Norman Lashton. You were the man in charge. I’m going to execute your men in the same way you killed my brother.”

The Soul Collector stood up quickly and fired three shots into the heads of Rommel and Geronimo from pointblank range. Then she lowered her face over Wolfe’s.

“But you aren’t getting anything as quick and easy, you murdering scum. I’m going to cut everything I can off you and leave you to bleed out. You’ll still be alive when the crows are eating you for breakfast.”

It took her half an hour to finish with him. Then she went back to the hide, stripped off the mask, coverall and shoe protectors she’d put on before starting the knife work, and packed up. She was still smiling when she got back to the hedge where she’d stashed her motorbike. Roger van Zandt finished the pot of coffee he’d made and went back to his laptop. Matt had sent a text a few minutes earlier, asking him to hack into the Web site of the Harley Street clinic where the dead man in Oxford had worked. The idea was to access patient records. That could have been a motive for murder.

Rog hammered away at the keys and was soon working on the site’s firewall. He had spent the night transferring 330

Paul Johnston

as much as he could from Sara’s various accounts. He’d come up against two banks that had security systems he’d need more time to crack, but they were in the Virgin Islands and Manila, and he didn’t think Sara would be able to withdraw cash from them in the U.K. Unless she was traveling with a suitcase full of cash—which couldn’t be ruled out—she was about to become as poor as a church rat.

There was a triple knock on the door. He got up, heart accelerating despite the prearranged signal, taking the silenced pistol from the desk.