Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

“Very well. Now, what about the crime novelist?”

She told him where Homicide West had reached.

“That doesn’t sound very impressive,” he said. “Don’t you think we should intervene?”

“Do you mean because of the potential connection to the White Devil case?”

“I mean exactly that.”

Karen thought about it. If she took over the case, the spotlight would inevitably fall on Matt. He was already worried that Sara might be back, even though there was no direct evidence. Then again, she hadn’t heard from him today.

“Tell me honestly, Karen,” he said. “Do you think it’s the start of a series?”

She pursed her lips. How the hell was she supposed to know that? “It could be, sir,” she replied, hedging her bets.

“How do you want to play it? The newspapers are having a field day. It would calm things down if they knew the VCCT was on it. We might scare the killer into backing off.”

Oaten raised her eyes to the ceiling. The AC had been in the alternative reality inhabited by senior ranks for far too long. “I doubt it, sir. How about we leave it with Homicide West for the time being? If there’s another murder, we’ll take over.”

Her boss considered that for a long time. “You’re not losing your appetite for messy cases, are you, DCI Oaten?”

Karen felt her cheeks redden. “Certainly not, sir. You have no reason to suppose that.”

The AC was taken aback by her tone. “No, of course not. I apologize. Very well, do it your way. Let’s hope it’s a one-off.” He cut the connection.

“Tosser!” Oaten yelled.

John Turner put his head around her door. “Not me, I hope, guv?”

She glared at him. “Why? Have you got something to be guilty about?”

The Welshman shrugged. He knew better than to cross swords with his boss when she was in a temper. “I just had Neville the Lip on the phone. He couldn’t get through to you.”

“Because I was talking to the idiot on the golf course,” Oaten said, shaking her head until curiosity got the better of her. “Have they got something?”

“It isn’t good news. Still nobody else in Ifield Road who saw the figure in the cape and top hat.”

“Oh, great.”

“That’s not all. The rubbish was collected early this morning.”

“What, Neville didn’t seal the street?”

“Apparently not well enough.”

“For pity’s sake.”

“So the killer could have dumped the fancy costume in any of the bins on the street and walked off into the night. There’s no sign of anyone dressed like that on the recordings at Fulham Broadway Station. Homicide West is following up the owners of cars that showed on the local traffic-control cameras, but so far they all have cast-iron alibis.”

Karen Oaten leaned back in her chair. “What interests me is why the killer chose a novelist as the victim, Taff. Is Neville doing any work on that?”

“They’ve been checking her e-mails for signs of a stalker or the like. Nothing so far.” The Welshman caught his superior’s eye. “You should be getting background on her from your…from Matt Wells.” He failed to keep his disapproval of Oaten’s partner from his voice.

She gave him a sour look. “I’m working on that. What are you doing here, anyway? You should be at home with your kids.”

“I’m on my way, unless you’ve got anything for me.”

Karen Oaten shook her head. “Have a good one.”

“You too, guv.”

As soon as Turner had left her office, she called Matt. She got the messaging service on his landline and cell phone. She was about to call the ex-directory number that only she and his close circle had when she remembered that he was to have had Lucy today.

Karen settled back to the heap of files, and hoped that there were no more murders-at least until after the weekend.

I felt around for the security lock that Dave had fitted to the outside of the window for exactly this eventuality. The hole was concealed by a blob of putty the same shade of pale gray as the paint on the frame. Only Rog, Andy, Pete and I had extra keys. When I finally located and cleared it, I inserted the key and turned it until the window was loose. Then I pushed it inward, slowly and silently. I turned and nodded to Andy. He cupped his hands and, after I’d put one foot in them, lifted me smoothly upward. Moving carefully, I put my hands through the open window and dragged my stomach over the ledge with Andy’s help. For a moment I went into a partial dive, but I stopped the fall when my hands hit the floor. I stayed in that position until the muscles in my arms began to burn, listening. I heard nothing. I walked forward on my palms before bringing my legs in and letting my feet slide gradually to the floor. I was in. Then I felt a vibration in my pocket. I pulled my phone out and saw that it was Karen’s office number. I knew she’d call at some stage to arrange the evening, but this was hardly the best moment. I let it ring out.

I moved forward and stood at the pantry door for a full two minutes. I still couldn’t hear anything. That wasn’t good news. Either Dave had been taken away, or he was the bait in a trap. I stopped myself from thinking about the other possibilities.

“Okay,” I said to Andy.

He heaved himself up with ease and was soon standing beside me.

“There’s no noise,” I whispered.

He nodded, and then took the silenced Glock from his belt. I followed suit.

“Go for it,” Andy said, his eyes narrowed.

I opened the door slowly-it was always deliberately left an inch ajar by Dave and his family so we could get in without making undue noise. I looked around. There was no one in the kitchen. Holding the automatic in two hands, I walked very slowly down the carpeted hall. On my left was the dining room. Looking cautiously around the door frame, I quickly established that no one was inside. On my right was the sitting room. The door was a couple of inches open. Through the gap I could see no occupants, but most of the room was out of sight.

My heart began to pound and I took several deep breaths again. I turned to Andy. He pointed to his chest, meaning did I want him to go first? I shook my head. That was my job. I was the one who’d brought Dave into danger and I owed it to him to get him out of trouble now. I steeled myself and pushed the door hard and swung around it into the room, Glock raised.

I felt my mouth open as I took in the scene. I sank to my knees, unable to speak or scream and blinded by tears.

The Soul Collector took off all her clothes-what an inspiration the disguise had been-and stood naked in the cheap hotel room. There was a mirror near the bathroom door and she studied herself in it. Some mornings she still didn’t recognize what she saw, but this wasn’t one of them. She glanced at the watch she had removed from her coat pocket. It was coming up to eleven o’clock. Matt and his idiot friends would be at the house in Dulwich. She wondered how he would take the work of art she had left him. Badly, she was sure of that. He had always been weak, for all his claims to understand the criminal mind. That book-he would regret what he’d written about her brother and her, as would all the people he loved. Not that the ex-SAS man had shown her the pain he was undoubtedly feeling. Eventually, after he’d finally agreed to make the call to alert Matt and even managed not to sound like a man in terrible agony, she put an end to it. She admired him for that, if nothing else.

Eyes still fixed on her perfect body, the unsupported breasts firm and the lines of her face even more striking than they had been, she took off the black leather outer gloves and put them in an opaque rubbish bag. Her hands were still covered with latex, the pale gray flecked with blood that hadn’t washed away in the target’s sink. She stripped them off and put them in a different bag. Then she stepped gracefully onto the uneven bathroom tiles and into the battered shower cabinet. The hot water cleansed her, but the cold she stood under for much longer was what she really enjoyed. It made her skin tingle and her nipples harden. She always felt like this after “a mission”-that was what the men who’d trained her had called killings. She knew they used the euphemism to distance themselves from what they did to their fellow human beings. She had no such scruples. She killed because she was good at it and because it brought her closer to her dead brother-the brother who had also been her lover. She put her fingers between her legs, then took them away. There would be time for that later. Now she wanted to glory in what she had achieved, doused in the cold that was her natural medium.