Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

“Okay,” I said, “we’ll play this by the book, as Slash said.” I opened the copy that Pete handed me; I’d forgotten my own in the rush to leave home. “Rog, you’re on the front, behind the inner hedge and by the garages.”

Dave’s house was detached and surrounded by tall trees and thick bushes. I once asked him how he could afford it on an army pension, even one augmented by First Gulf War and SAS service. He laughed and told me that his wife had inherited a shedload of money from a spinster aunt.

“Pete, you cut down the path that runs along the far end of his garden.” I pointed on the map Dave had drawn.

“I remember,” Bonehead said. “Dave showed me. The neighbors can’t see me and I can cover all the rear windows.”

“Right,” I said. “If there’s a lot of people inside and we get desperate, we’ll try to get to the back of the house.”

“Yeah,” said Andy. “Just make sure you don’t drill us.” He pointed to his blond hair. “This is me.”

Rog finished with his Glock, and turned to Andy and me. “Are you both going in? The book leaves that optional.”

I looked at the American. “What do you think?”

He shrugged. “I’ll hoist you in and we’ll take it from there. You all got your walkie-talkies?”

Dave had insisted that we each buy an identical good-quality walkie-talkie. We were each responsible for ensuring the batteries were permanently charged, and I was glad to see that they’d all fulfilled that requirement. The units fitted to our belts and we each had a mini headset with an earpiece and a microphone that lay across one cheek like a dueling scar.

“We’ll test ’em after we’ve split up,” Andy said.

“Uh, what do we do if someone spots us?” Rog asked. He would be in the most obvious position.

“Say you’re a telecom engineer checking radiation levels,” I said. “That should get them moving on.”

“You’re joking,” he said, his brow lined. “Aren’t you?”

Pete raised a finger. “Remember what Dave always says. When the book doesn’t tell you what to do…”

“Improvise,” we all chorused. The number of times Dave had been mocked about that was huge.

“What if you two both go in and we don’t hear from you?” Boney asked.

“If we don’t come out after half an hour, you call the cops,” I said. “You’ve both got Karen’s number, haven’t you?”

They nodded.

“Why don’t we call them now?” Rog asked.

“Because Dave used the alert code for us,” I said. “And we know from our White Devil experiences that we’re the only people who can look after each other.” I saw their expressions change when I mentioned the monster’s name.

“Come on,” Andy said, adjusting his microphone. “We were trained by the best. We can handle this.” He glanced at each of us. “Let’s go and get the man.”

Trust Slash to look keen. The rest of us tried to match him, with varying degrees of success.

“Watches, guys,” I said. “I’ve got ten forty-two. Check?”

“Check,” the others replied, after some tweaking.

“Right, communications check in ten minutes,” I said. “Go, Pete.”

He had the farthest to walk and set off at a rapid pace, the bag with its lethal contents on his right shoulder. We gave him five minutes.

“Rog, go,” I said.

After two minutes, Andy and I moved off. There was no point in splitting up. If anyone asked what we were doing, I’d say we were friends of Dave’s from the army. At least we looked the part.

“Breathing steady,” I whispered, under my breath. “Concentration. Be aware of what’s happening around you. Control the adrenaline rush.” That was easier said than done. Andy looked relaxed enough. I pulled a balaclava down my forehead, covering the headset straps.

No one was out on the pavements. We turned rapidly onto the path that ran down the right side of Dave’s house. There were no cars in the drive and the garage doors were shut.

“In position?” I said quietly into my mike.

“Confirmed,” came Roger’s voice, then Pete’s.

“Take this as the comms check,” Andy said. “Confirmed.”

“Any sign of Dave from where you are?” I asked.

“Negative,” said Rog. “Curtains on the front are all open, except in the sitting room. No movement.”

“All the curtains at the rear of the house are open,” Bonehead said. “No sign of anyone.”

I looked at Andy. “Why are the sitting-room curtains closed?”

He raised his shoulders. “Let’s go and find out.” He squeezed my arm. “Steady, my man.”

I checked my Glock one last time and slipped it back under my belt. The silencer jutted out and I hoped the automatic’s trigger safety was as reliable as the manufacturers claimed.

Then I gave Andy a nervous smile. “Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Here we go.”

I reached up toward the small window.

Karen Oaten drove to New Scotland Yard. There were only a few members of her team working the weekend shift. She sat down to clear the backlog of administration work, but found herself thinking about the latest spate of killings. One of the problems she had running a unit that pulled together violent crime from all over the city was keeping in check the tendency to link everything together. It was perfectly possible that the shooting of the Turk and the knife attack on the Kurd were unconnected, just as the overwhelming likelihood was that the murder of the crime writer had nothing to do with those in East London. But still, she found herself trying to make at least some connection between the deaths. That was the curse of the VCCT.

It didn’t help that there was very little to go on with the shooting of the Turk. Mehmet Saka, a twenty-three-year-old, was suspected of being a heroin deliveryman. He’d been gunned down in broad daylight outside a betting shop in Stepney, taking five bullets in his chest. Witnesses had been hard to find, and no one had noted the number of the car that carried the shooter. There were even varying reports of its color and make, ranging from a black Audi 6 to a dark green Citroen Xsara. The bottom line was that people developed very selective memories when it came to identifying gang members. They were swift to exact harsh retribution and there was no point in pulling in known gang members, as the gangs’ versions of omerta were just as tight as the original. Homicide East hadn’t even been able to tempt the Turks themselves to talk, which was hardly surprising if they’d been responsible for the subsequent murder of Nedim Zinar. Then again, maybe the Kurd had just slighted someone. That was one of the few characteristics shared by Turks, Kurds, Greek Cypriots, Albanians and Jamaican Yardies, as well as the long-standing local East End gangs-losing face was totally unacceptable.

Oaten moved on to the latest update from the Mary Malone murder. No other witnesses to a figure in a black cape and top hat had been found. DI Neville surmised that the killer either had a car parked farther down the street or had managed to change clothes somewhere nearby after the attack.

The chief inspector’s cell phone rang. It was her boss, the assistant commissioner.

“I’m in the office, sir.”

“Admirable, Chief Inspector,” he said drily. “I’m expected to play golf with the commander of the Flying Squad, would you believe?” The assistant commissioner resented every minute he had to spend away from his desk. “Update me, please.”

She gave him a rundown of the Saka and Zinar murders.

“And your recommendation?” the AC asked.

“To leave them with Homicide East. I’ll make sure we see the daily case-file updates. If there’s any link, I’ll take them over.”