Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

“All right,” I said, my palms damp. “You’ve made your point.”

“Would you care to make yours?”

There was a hard edge beneath the veneer of politeness. Although I hadn’t met the Albanian, I’d heard stories about his urbanity-he collected seventeenth-century Dutch art and owned a chain of hypertrendy restaurants. He was also said to attend the executions of rival villains and to participate in the torture that preceded them.

The only way to get anywhere with professionals like Safet Shkrelli was to go on the offensive. They respected that, though they’d still happily slit your throat at the first opportunity. “I just came from your place in Lexington Street,” I said.

“Ah, that was you,” he said. “Mustafa wants to kill you.”

“Mustafa being the slob who took a dive?”

“Correct. Holding a gun on a woman isn’t very brave, Matt Wells. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t tell Mustafa where your daughter lives?”

Even though Lucy and Fran were hidden away with Caroline, the threat still made my hands shake. Then I thought of Dave as I’d last seen him. That stiffened my spine.

“Try this one, Safet. Your girlfriend Katya could be the target of a seriously dangerous killer.”

The Albanian gave a dry laugh. “My girlfriend? I am happily married, Matt Wells. And who is this killer?”

I laughed back. “You remember the White Devil?”

There was a pause. “He is dead.”

“But his sister isn’t.”

“Why would this woman want to kill my…want to kill a girl called Katya who maybe works for me? I noticed that you used the words ‘could be.’”

I had to take a calculated risk. “I haven’t the faintest idea why Katya could be the target. Perhaps because I spoke to her when I was writing those columns about the Albanian crime wave.”

“You spoke to her? And she answered your questions?”

“I paid her for her time and, as you well know, she gave me nothing more than background information. I made sure that I didn’t connect your clan to any known crimes.” That was true, though only because Katya had been too terrified to say much and I’d found a braver, or more headstrong, girl who gave me the names and descriptions of men working for a rival clan.

“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” Shkrelli said.

“I wouldn’t hesitate to mention your name if anything happened to Katya.”

“And how would you know?” The question was barked out, all traces of politeness gone. Then he laughed softly. “Don’t worry. Katya will not be treated badly. But tell me this, Matt Wells. How will your killer get past the security system I have installed in my house, never mind the men who are much better than Mustafa?”

“No security system is a hundred percent reliable, and guards can be bribed.”

“True, but my men are family. They are willing to die for me.”

“Men can be bribed,” I repeated.

“And men can be killed, Matt Wells. You are at a public telephone in the underpass beneath Piccadilly Circus.”

Christ. I looked around, but saw no one watching me.

He laughed again. “Don’t worry. I have more important things to worry about than a newspaper columnist.”

“Even one who has close connections with the police?”

“If you have close connections with them, why aren’t they calling me? You haven’t told them. How is it you come to have information about this killer?”

I’d had enough of the smooth-talking gangster. “Make sure Katya isn’t harmed,” I said. “This isn’t a joke. I can damage your operation, Safet.”

“And I can dispose of you and everyone you care for in a matter of hours. Do not threaten me.”

I cut the connection. The Albanian sounded worryingly like the person who’d sent me the message. Or maybe he was the target. I wondered if there were any Albanians called Alexander. Then I got moving as quickly as I could. The last thing I needed right now was a Shkrelli clan hit man on my tail.

Faik Jabar woke up in agony, his eyes jerking open. He looked around the seedy room, then tried to sit up, forgetting that he was tied down. That brought another wave of pain, this time from his thighs. The memory of the Wolfman working on the flesh with a screwdriver made him retch. The Turk was still trying to get him to identify the shooter whose false beard had slipped. He wouldn’t accept that Faik didn’t know the man. At first Faik had been glad of that, because he was sure that as soon as he gave a name, he would be killed. But now, with the torture seemingly endless, he wished he could be done with his life.

He must have cried out, because the door opened and the middle-aged Shadow who was on guard duty came across.

“Shut up, scum.” The man picked up a length of stained cloth from the floor. “Or would you like me to put the gag back on?”

Faik looked away as his entire body started to shake uncontrollably.

“What’s the matter?” the Shadow said. “Does the little boy want his mummy?”

Faik felt the man’s rancid breath on his face as he leaned closer.

“Fuck,” the Turk said, in a low voice. “You aren’t faking, are you?” He walked to the door and pulled out his cell phone.

Faik drifted away, the pain still gnawing at him and a high-pitched wail almost deafening him. He was back in the basement, watching the traitor Izady fall to the floor as though he’d been poleaxed. The wail Faik heard came from his own mouth, as he took the bullet in his hand and then the blow to his head. The face, the devil’s face beneath the beard, was all he saw before he was sent into the dark abyss.

When he woke the next time, it was to the sound of whispered words in Kurdish. The doctor’s mouth was close to his ear, telling him that he’d be all right, and that he’d cut his bonds.

Faik opened his eyes and blinked. He wasn’t dreaming.

The doctor stepped back and shook his head at the Shadow. “He’s very weak. Another session with the Wolfman will kill him.”

“So?” the Turk said with a twisted smile.

The doctor put his left hand into his pocket. “Look at these wounds,” he said, pointing to Faik’s thighs. He waited for the Shadow to approach.

“What about them?”

“They are the work of a pig.”

The Turk’s eyes widened and he turned toward the doctor. “What did you-”

The needle of the syringe punctured his chest near the heart. The doctor pushed the plunger down and stepped back. The Shadow stumbled forward, one hand scrabbling at the syringe and the other stretched out. Then he collapsed to the floor.

“What…?” Faik said.

“I’ve been waiting to do that for years,” the doctor said, lifting the young man up by the shoulders. “Don’t worry, he’ll wake up soon.”

“But…but the Shadows will hunt you down.”

“Swing your legs around.” The doctor smiled at Faik. “That’s it. They can try, but I think the King’s men will protect me if I deliver you to them.” He shrugged. “Besides, the last hold the Turks had over me was my father in Istanbul. He died yesterday.”

Faik was breathing deeply, trying to summon the strength to stand up. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was old and he wanted to join my mother. Now, let’s get you walking. I don’t think I can carry you.”

The young man managed to stand, his injured thighs making him wince. “Where…where are we?”

“At a Shadow safe house in Hackney. My car’s outside. Where shall I take you?”

“My father’s house, off Green Lanes.”

They moved to the door, the doctor’s arm around Faik’s back. The room was on the first floor. The young man almost fainted as they went down the stairs, but his savior kept talking to him, encouraging him and praising his bravery. Then they were at the front door.