Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

“Hat off,” he grunted as I reached the top step.

“Okay,” I said, depositing a wave of rainwater from my hat over his trousers and shoes. I smiled. “Oops.”

The gorilla thought about belting me and decided against it. First, they’d take my money, then he could kick my arse.

I put my hand into my pocket and came out with a fifty-pound note.

“Not for you,” I said, whipping it away from the wet muscle-man.

“Thank you, sir,” said a middle-aged woman, who had appeared from the rear of the premises.

“Are you Sexy Susie?” I asked.

She snorted, ran a test pen over the note and then put it through a narrow slit in the door to her left. Anyone who tried to rob the place would not only have to deal with the gorilla, but break down the armored door and face the heavily armed gang member behind it. I didn’t think there would have been many successful attempts.

“Would you care to see what we have to offer, sir?” the woman said. The lines on her face were visible even beneath the thick layer of makeup, and her voice, despite the customer-friendly vocabulary and syntax, was as warm as an ice floe. She pointed to the plasma screen behind her. It was split into eight squares, three of which were blank-danger, men at work. The other five showed women wearing very little and sitting in contorted poses. I looked closer. None of them was Katya.

“No good,” I said. “I want Katya.”

Sexy Susie glanced at the muscle behind me. “Katya?” she said. “I don’t think we have a Katya.” Her tone dripped fake bonhomie. “How about Lena?” she said, pointing to one of the squares.

“Is she over sixteen?” I asked.

The madam lost patience. “Muzzie,” she said, “this gentleman’s just leaving.”

Two large hands came down on my shoulders and turned me around. I could see his belly was slack. Dave had taught us exactly what to do with guys like him. I drew my right hand back quickly and drove it into the upper part of his abdomen, just below the sternum. He went down like a sack of lead weights. Unfortunately for him, the stairs were right behind. He slid down them on his backside, his head hitting the street door with a satisfying thud.

I turned back to Susie. “Katya,” I said. “Now.”

“She isn’t here,” she said, stepping back as I advanced on her. “I swear it.”

“Where is she, then?” I asked, hearing a rattle at the door to my right. I pulled out my Glock and pointed it at the woman’s face. “Stay in there unless you want her brains on the wallpaper!” The rattling stopped.

“I dunno,” the madam said, her voice quivering.

I moved closer, the muzzle of my pistol almost touching her forehead. “You know, all right,” I said, smiling. “I’m counting to three. Not out loud. And I’ve started.”

The woman glared at me, her eyes damp. “Put it away, mister,” she said desperately.

“Talk first.”

“I…Oh, for fuck’s sake. Katya’s with one of the bosses. Jesus, you don’t know what you’ve walked into. They’ll cut your pathetic cock off and stuff it in your mouth.”

“What’s his name?” I said, holding the Glock steady.

“Shkrelli,” she replied. She was trembling now.

“Which one?”

“Safet.”

The Shkrelli clan kept a low profile, but it was one of the Albanian mob’s most powerful operators.

“Have you got a number for him?” I asked.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” the woman said, shaking her head.

“I know,” I said, smiling again. There was nothing like a smile to convince criminals you were serious-it was an unwritten rule for major hard men. I wasn’t one of those, but I could play the part for a while.

She took a pencil with a chewed end from the pocket of her overtight jeans and wrote on the back of a betting slip. “You’d better not use that,” she said as she handed it to me.

I nodded. “Thanks for the advice. Do you want me to hit you?”

She understood what I meant. “Nah, they heard it all anyway. They’ll be the ones doing the hitting.”

“You can walk out of here with me,” I said, lowering the Glock.

She thought about that, then shook her head. “No point,” she said. “You’re going to be dead soon.”

I laughed, which surprised her. I was thinking how disappointed Sara would be if I was taken out by the Albanian mob before she got to me.

“Go, you idiot,” she said, a smile flickering on her lips. “And don’t come back.” The rattling on the door started up again.

I shrugged. “Thanks,” I said, then turned on my heel and ran down the stairs.

The gorilla was just coming around as I reached the street door. He made a half-hearted attempt to grab my legs, but stopped when I knocked his head against the wall.

“Don’t,” I said, pointing the pistol at his face.

He cowered, even when I’d put the Glock back in my jacket. Then I put my cowboy hat back on and stepped confidently on to the street like a well-satisfied customer.

As I turned the corner, I realized that my heart was in overdrive and my throat was as dry as a Balkan mountain in high summer.

Karen Oaten went out of New Scotland Yard and headed for the cafe where she often bought lunch-although she wasn’t often there on a Sunday. She was served by Dino, one of the owner’s swarthy sons. They all had a good line in risque patter, but Dino was the master.

“It is good in the beautiful signora’s life, everything?” he asked as he put together Oaten’s tuna sandwich. The brothers had been to school in West London, but Dino liked to play the cute Italian boy only recently arrived from the old country.

“Wonderful,” she said, surprised by the bitterness in her voice. Even though her desk was piled high with murder files, Karen wasn’t usually daunted by her job. She’d been through worse times-the White Devil’s reign of terror, for example.

“I can help the signora in many ways,” Dino said, raising an eyebrow at her. “Especially in bedroom.” He handed over a plate with her sandwich and an Americano.

“I’m sure,” Karen said, ignoring the innuendo. She paid and headed for a table in the corner. As she ate, she thought about why she was bitter. It didn’t take much effort to pinpoint the reason. Dino, by chance rather than design, had identified the problem. She needed help, but it wasn’t the kind you could get from anyone else-she needed self-help. It was hardly the first time in her life that she’d been troubled by affairs of the heart. Where did that old-fashioned phrase come from? She didn’t read Regency romances or the like. But in the past, such problems had been easily sorted. A sweet-tongued, two-timing barrister had been sent reeling back to his chambers by a well-directed kick to his groin; a chief inspector from Vice whose demands got ever more disturbing was reined in after Karen called his wife; and a VCCT sergeant with ideas substantially above his station was back in uniform, policing football matches. None of those techniques would work with Matt, though.

Karen looked at the people at the counter. A few of them would be police officers in plain clothes or civilian support staff, but most were ordinary members of the public. She wondered what it would be like to work in a nine-to-five job, with nothing more to worry about each day than which TV channel to watch and what to cook for dinner. She never had time to watch television, except occasionally the late news, and Matt always cooked when they were together, even at her place. She was a disaster in the kitchen and survived on frozen meals and tins when she was alone. So what was her problem? She had a man who cared for her, and a job that she treasured, even if it sometimes got to her.