Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

“Suit yourself,” said Paskin. “Oh, there’s one thing that you won’t find.”

“What’s that?”

“Tough guys like him carry a weapon. The CSIs found three full clips of 9 mm Parabellum rounds in a stash box under one of the rear seats.”

“Shit. That means one more handgun on the streets of London. Unlike in the U.S.A., where weapons grow on trees, that’s seriously bad news.”

“Correct, Karen.” Ron Paskin smiled at her. “Still, you highfliers in the VCCT must be used to that kind of thing.”

Karen Oaten knew her former boss was only teasing, unlike most of the other divisional officers she came across. “Oh, we get all sorts of weapons. Including knives.”

“Does that mean you’re going to take over this case?”

“It almost sounds like you want me to.”

“Well, we’re as snowed under as ever.”

“Ditto. I don’t see any reason for us to come in yet, but we’ll keep an eye on your reports. What about that Turk who was killed the other day? Could this be a revenge hit?”

The superintendent’s brow furrowed. “Maybe. Again, I doubt they’d have gone for someone as minor as Zinar.”

The chief inspector nodded. “You know that if I can conclusively tie this murder to another one inside or outside your division, I’ll have to take it.”

Paskin nodded. “No problem.” He inclined his head toward John Turner. “How’s Taff doing?”

“Good. He’s been my right-hand man ever since we were transferred.”

“His face looks like a three-day-old piece of cod. He obviously still has that aversion to dead people.”

Oaten watched her subordinate as he spoke to one of the local detectives, taking notes studiously. “I sometimes wish I hadn’t got so inured to the results of violence. I think Taff’s more of a normal human being than I am.”

Paskin nudged her. “Steady on, girl. You’ve got as far as you have because you can shut off your emotions. I don’t see Taff ever running things like you do.” He took another deep breath, and then expelled it forcefully. “Christ, this lane stinks. Hell of a place to die.”

“Hell of a way to die, too,” Oaten added.

“Could have been worse,” the superintendent said, lighting a cheroot. “He could have had his head chopped off, like that victim in your first big case with the VCCT. The White Devil was really something, wasn’t he?”

Karen Oaten nodded. “He certainly was. East End boy, as well.”

Paskin grinned, showing teeth stained by countless cigars. “We have a long tradition of master criminals here. What was the name of that writer-fellow the killer targeted?”

“Matt Wells.” Karen wasn’t sure if Paskin knew of their relationship. He might have heard on the grapevine, but it wasn’t in his nature to pay attention to innuendo.

“There was a sister too, wasn’t there?”

She nodded.

“If she’s anything like that callous bastard, let’s hope she doesn’t resurface.”

“Here’s hoping, indeed.” The chief inspector stuck out her hand. “Good to see you again, guv. Take care. You mustn’t have long to go till retirement.”

“Three months,” he said with a smile.

“What are you going to do?”

“We’ve got a cottage in Brittany. I can’t understand a word the locals say, but the food’s a sight better than what the wife comes up with these days. Nothing but bloody salad…”

Karen waved her arm as she headed for Taff. She wasn’t looking forward to examining the body. She’d been on edge all morning and her stomach was still upset. Chewing antacid tablets had only made her feel more queasy.

If she was lucky, the villains of London would give her the weekend off. But she wasn’t counting on that.

The acrid smoke that rose from the altar made the supplicant’s eyes sting and his throat burn, before it was carried away on the air current above the subterranean river. The walls were covered with frescoes depicting demons and the landscape of hell.

“Does the offering please you, Mephistopheles?”

“It is not I who must be satisfied, Faustus,” the cowled figure with the white mask said, watching the flames die down. “There is another who receives the hair and nails of our victims with relish.”

“And…and the ear?”

Mephistopheles laughed. “I have added it to our collection, fear not.”

The supplicant stood up slowly, licking his lips nervously. The masked figure seemed to be alone, so Faustus allowed himself to relax.

Then, with a high-pitched snarl, the beast came bounding across the cave floor, his jaws wide apart and the yellowed incisors bared.

Faustus forced himself to stand firm. At least the mandrill called Beelzebub did what his master told him. There was a human animal, thankfully not present tonight, who had begun to find their activities insufficiently visceral. Faustus swallowed hard and steeled himself. He could kill as well as anyone else and the Lord Beneath the Earth knew that.

I parked my black Saab 9–3 sport sedan at the designated rendezvous two streets away from Dave’s house in North Dulwich. Roger van Zandt and Peter Satterthwaite were waiting for me in the latter’s Grand Cherokee. A minute later, Andy Jackson arrived on his new 600 cc Hornet. We all got into the Cherokee to prepare.

“Any idea where Ginny and the kids are?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Andy said. “Dave said they were going to visit her aunt today. He was going to spend the morning cooking lobster.”

“So he was on his own in the house,” Rog said. “The place is like a fortress. How could anyone get in?”

Pete glanced in the rearview mirror. “Maybe the entry we’re going to use isn’t as hidden as Dave thought.”

As I was the one who was going to be using that entry first, Bonehead’s comment didn’t make me feel great.

Rog turned around. “Did you call him back, Wellsy?”

“Several times, and on his cell. The messaging service cut in both times. I wasn’t going to identify myself.”

“What do you mean?” Andy demanded. “Whoever’s got him will know he called you.”

I shook my head. “Cool it, guys. We talked about this when we set the reporting system up. He called me, which suggests he was free at that time. Maybe he saw trouble coming.”

“What, up the garden path?” Pete said. “If he was on his own, he wouldn’t have used the code.”

“He might have,” I replied. “If he suspected his line was being tapped or his cell phone frequency scanned. Anyway, that’s what we’re here to find out. Let’s get geared up.”

We each made sure our phones were switched to vibrate and checked our weapons-we all had the same pistols, knives and knuckle-dusters. In the quiet time after the White Devil’s death, Dave had encountered some piss-taking because of his insistence that we carry such heavy-duty weapons when the alert codes were used. Now I could see he’d been right. There could have been a squad of hard men hired by Sara in his spacious house.

“What about silencers?” Pete asked.

“The book says put ’em on,” Andy replied. He was referring to the operations manual Dave had given each of us.

“The problem is, the Glock doesn’t fit in a pocket when it’s that long,” Rog said. He shrugged and screwed his silencer on when he saw the way Andy was looking at him. Slash had spent a couple of deeply unhappy years in the marine corps, but at least he’d learned to accept orders-when he agreed with them.

“You’re taking the rifle, aren’t you, Boney?” I said.

He nodded. Dave had obtained a Walther WA2000 sniper’s rifle with Schmidt and Bender telescopic sights from the same dodgy East London arms dealer who had supplied our pistols and silencers. Pete was the best shot apart from Dave, so he got the big gun, which was actually shorter than an ordinary rifle and fitted into a tennis player’s bag.