Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

“Mother, you wrote three thrillers for teenagers back in the seventies. I hardly think you’ll be on the top of the hit list. There may not even be a hit list. It’s gossip. And only one person has died. How’s that a rash? ”

“Come on,” she scoffed. “That Rolling Stones song playing and the killer parading in a cape and top hat-don’t tell me that isn’t suggestive of an organized individual with an agenda.”

“Well, I bow to your superior knowledge,” I said, heading for the kitchen and a liter of orange juice to re-hydrate my failing system.

“Has it even occurred to you that I might be frightened?” she asked with a partially suppressed sob.

That stopped me in my tracks. “Christ, I’m sorry, Mother. Do you want me to come over?”

“No, it’s all right, dear. I know you have Lucy today.”

Shit. I’d forgotten about my daughter. I changed direction and went toward the shower.

“Surely it must have crossed your mind that…that Sara was behind the murder?”

“Em, yes, it did, Mother. But there hasn’t been any message or other form of contact, and everybody on my list has reported in on the last two mornings.”

“You still haven’t told me if Karen’s working the case.”

“Sorry. No, she isn’t. She was called in to take a look, but the local detectives are still in charge, as far as I know.”

“All right, dear. Let me know if you hear anything I should know.”

“Okay, will do. I’ve got to dash now. ’Bye.”

“’Bye,” she repeated, her voice weak.

I twitched my head and chucked the phone onto one of the sofas. Fran lived on her own and was a successful children’s author. I hadn’t heard her so concerned since the White Devil case. The bastard kidnapped her and kept her tied up for days. Mary Malone’s death must have stirred up bad memories for her. She wasn’t the only one.

Remembering that Lucy, let alone her mother, expected me at ten, I rushed my shave, leaving cuts that stung like hell when I had a shower. As I came out, I heard the phone ring. This time it was the special line that I used only for my mates. I dripped water over the carpet as I ran to my desk.

“Hello,” I said, panting.

“Morning, lad.” It was Dave Cummings. I registered immediately that there was something odd about his voice. “Nice weather if you’re a penguin.” The hairs rose on the back of my neck. We’d set up a series of code words in the event that Sara, or anyone else, put the squeeze on us. Between Dave and me, anything to do with nice weather meant that the speaker was in immediate physical danger.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep my tone even. “What’s-”

The call was terminated.

“Shit!” I yelled. After all this time, was the nightmare really starting again? I called Andy, Rog and Pete and told them what had happened. They knew what to do. Then I ran to the bedroom and changed clothes-black cargo pants with numerous pockets, a black denim jacket and boots. I called Caroline and told her something had come up. She understood from my tone that it was serious. I told her to follow plan C, which meant that she should take Lucy, drive up to my mother’s house in Muswell Hill, collect her and head for the M25; she was then to drive around the motorway in a clockwise direction until she heard from me again. Caroline knew the drill and she also knew that the line might be tapped. She still managed to make it sound like it was all my fault-which, in a way, of course, it was, but I didn’t have time to think about that now. I should have called Karen, too, but my friends and I needed a free hand at this stage. The police would only get in the way and maybe put Dave in worse jeopardy.

I parted the hanging clothes in the walk-in wardrobe and pulled up the carpet. The floorboards looked normal, but by pressing the top right corner I released a catch that opened a foot-square panel. From the hole beneath, I removed a 9 mm Glock 19 and silencer, two nine-round clips, a set of knuckle-dusters and a sheathed Glock 78 field knife. I also removed my walkie-talkie and headset from the charger in the hole. Karen would have had a fit if she’d found my gear.

Dave Cummings had spent the last two years teaching me and the others how to behave like soldiers. Now I had to prove that I’d been a good pupil.

“Hello, Karen.”

“Guv.” Oaten shook the hand extended by Detective Superintendent Ron Paskin of Homicide Division East. He was her ex-boss. They were both in white coveralls and overshoes. “I’m surprised to see you down here.”

“Mm.” Paskin was a grizzled bull of a man, who had a reputation for being hard but fair, both with criminals and his subordinates. “I’ll get merry hell from the wife. Normally we spend Saturday mornings at the supermarket.” He lifted the barrier tape and led her down the lane from the black minivan. A tent had been erected over it and the surrounding area. CSIs were coming and going, two of their vans on the pavement to the rear.

“As you know, there’s been some shit going down among the various Turkish gangs, particularly the Shadows,” the superintendent said, his voice low. “But this fellow is a Kurd, a pretty small-time member of the King’s family.”

Oaten chewed her lip, then remembered Inspector Neville’s habit of doing that and stopped. “Do you think the Turks and Kurds are building toward an all-out war?”

Paskin took a deep breath. “If they are, it’ll be the first we’ve heard of it,” he said, expelling the air from his barrel chest. “You know how it is on the streets. The small guys play tough, but the bosses are happy enough with the status quo. They all know that they can’t have everything and they prefer to get what they can with a reasonable degree of security.”

“How about the Albanians?” Oaten suggested. “They’ve been growing their operations recently.”

“Possible,” the superintendent admitted. “They’re the kind to gut a man, too. But we haven’t had a whisper from our snouts. You?”

She shook her head. “Not about this area. They’ve really got a grip on Soho now, much to the disgust of the Chinese, and they’ve been making inroads into Bayswater and the knocking-shops around Paddington. But out here, no.”

“Still,” Paskin said, “it could be a splinter group from any number of nationalities. If anyone can wrest the heroin trade from the Turks and Kurds, they’ll own the city-the whole of southeast England, in fact.”

Oaten nodded. “So what happened here?” She saw John Turner, in a white coverall, come out of the tent. He didn’t look a well man.

“As I said, the victim was gutted with a long-bladed knife, which was taken from the scene, probably by the killer-though you never know what kids will pick up around here. His name’s Nedim Zinar. He was a big man, over six feet, and the doc thinks a smaller guy did for him. The wound suggests that the initial thrust was between the groin and the navel.”

“Delightful. Did you know him?”

The superintendent nodded. “He was a friendly type for an enforcer-had a gang of kids. Mind you, though he’d been in the game for at least fifteen years, he wasn’t much more than standard muscle. If you wanted to make an example, he wouldn’t be your man. Then again, he was an easy target. From what I’ve heard, he parked his car here every night and supervised the locking up of a shop down Lower Clapton Road.”

“Did he have a record?”

“Only minor stuff when he was younger-a bit of thieving. I seem to remember he broke a guy’s jaw outside one of the King’s clubs, but he got off on self-defense.”

Oaten glanced at the tent. “I suppose I’d better have a look,” she said, without much enthusiasm.