Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

“No. At least not that I could hear above the sound of your engine.”

“I thought you were in danger. What was it that the rider was holding out?”

“I don’t know. A small package. I think it was wrapped, like a birthday present.”

Andy scratched his head. “And is it your birthday?”

“No, it isn’t.” She looked at him calmly, waiting for the next question.

The American took a surreptitious deep breath. “What about children?” he asked.

Mrs. Carlton-Jones’s eyes opened wide. “Children? What do they have to do with what happened outside?”

Good question, Andy thought. “No, I mean, is there anyone you’d like to come over? Do you have children?”

“Oh, I see.” She looked him straight in the eye. “No, I don’t.”

Andy held her gaze. Now he knew she was a liar.

The man in the mask and cowl walked away from the smoking altar. He heard the footsteps of the naked supplicant behind, as well as the cackling of Beelzebub.

“Where is Faustus tonight?” the supplicant asked.

“Busy,” Mephistopheles said, his tone brooking no further questions.

He slid open the door to the outer chamber. “Your offerings are always welcome, Asmodeus. But this one was somewhat lightweight.”

The supplicant started to dress, and then looked around at the leader of the order. “I am sowing the seeds of destruction, my lord. Soon, great riches will fall into my hands.”

“Into our hands,” Mephistopheles corrected. “We are all depending on you.” He took off his mask. “I am depending on you.”

Asmodeus took in the flawed face. “I will not let you down.”

“Good,” the leader said, shrugging off his cowl and robes. “I wouldn’t like to think that you were only killing for pleasure.”

The supplicant remained silent.

“All that we do is toward the greater glory of our master Satan,” Mephistopheles said. “Do not forget that.” He took the head of a cockerel from his pocket and tossed it to the mandrill.

The two humans watched as the creature’s jaws crunched together, then they smiled.

Andy’s performance in Sydenham put me right off my stride with the clue. At least, that was what I told myself. The truth was, I hadn’t got any further with it. Slash’s suggestion in the message he texted that Doris Carlton-Jones might be the victim was smart, but I found it hard to believe. Sara might have had issues with her birth mother, but I didn’t think she’d murder her. Then again, what did I know? I’d spent over a year sharing a bed with her, and it had never occurred to me until the end that she was working with the White Devil.

Looking at the puzzle again, I couldn’t see any direct link to Doris Carlton-Jones, but I didn’t have enough information to be sure about that. Maybe the sun setting, the westernmost dunes and Alexander’s womankind would mean something to her. I considered getting Andy to ask her, but decided against it. I texted him, saying that he should stay in the vicinity till further notice, just in case she was the target.

I looked at my watch. Under two hours to go. The floor of the hotel room was covered in crumpled paper. I was still trying out ideas, but as the deadline approached, they were getting more and more abstruse. I logged on to the Internet and went to the site Rog had set up. Neither he nor Pete had come up with anything coherent regarding the clue. Rog had managed to run it through all sorts of encryption software and got nothing but gobbledygook. I was sure it was the kind of puzzle that needed a human rather than a digital brain.

I found myself tantalized by some of the words. “Set”-there was something lurking in the back of my mind about that. What else could it mean? As a noun, a number or group of people or things; a complete series; a team of horses; a receiving apparatus, like a wireless set; the movements in a dance. Where did that get me? As a verb, to cause to sit; to place; to sink, like the sun-as in the clue; to prescribe; to adjust; to come into a rigid state. Great-that was also going nowhere. I had the feeling this was a puzzle that didn’t abide by the unwritten rules of crossword clues. Maybe there wasn’t even a logical answer.

It was nearly eleven o’clock. I thought seriously about calling Karen. But what good would that do now? The police were unlikely to come up with a convincing answer when Rog, Pete and I, plus numerous computer programs, hadn’t. If I’d given it to Karen in the morning, she could have got a warrant to find who had set up the who’s next e-mail address-but that would have been pointless, too, because the writer wouldn’t have given a real name and address. Then I remembered the message. Flaminio or Doctor Faustus, whether Sara or not, had told me not to involve the cops, but that I was expected to show the clue to my mother. How did the writer know that Fran was a cryptic crossword addict? Sara did, because she’d seen my mother doing the Guardian crossword and had asked why she didn’t do the one in the Daily Independent, where Sara used to work. Fran had told her that the setter there had an infantile sense of humor. Shit! “Setter”-that derived from “set.” Was that what was going on? Sara had set the clue and hinted in the message that Fran would spot the answer?

There was under three quarters of an hour to go. Was this a deliberate move on Sara’s part to get me to contact my mother? Could she have some sort of surveillance on me or my mother that would be activated by an e-mail or telephone call? I didn’t see how. I’d changed phone and laptop, and Fran would have put a new SIM card in by now. But I was still reluctant. I’d managed to get my mother and Lucy, plus Caroline, out of the killer’s sights. I didn’t want to do anything to put them back in them.

In the end, the steady ticking of the second hand on my watch got to me. I sent an e-mail to Caroline. Nearly half-past eleven. Would they still be awake? My heart started pounding and I paced around the room until the person in the room beneath thumped on his ceiling.

There was a chime from my computer. Caroline had answered.

I’ve woken your mother. She’s looking at the clue. We’ll reply by 11:55. C.

I breathed a sigh of relief. One of the good things about Caroline was her crisis management. She’d got used to panics at the bank and reacted well to pressure. Unless it was from me-somehow she’d never managed to reproduce her cool office manner at home.

Then another thought struck me. Katya. I didn’t know her surname. If she really was the target, Sara might easily disqualify my answer if I didn’t give the full name-the White Devil had done that kind of thing. I called Safet Shkrelli.

The phone was answered with a grunted monosyllable that presumably meant something in Albanian. I explained what I wanted.

“Ask her yourself,” Shkrelli said. There was a rustling noise, then Katya came on the line.

“Are you in a safe place?” I asked.

“Yes, I think so. We are at-”

“Don’t tell me!” I said, the words coming out in a rush. “There may be surveillance. What’s your full name?”

She paused, as if reluctant to give up the last remnant of her self. I was pretty sure that Safet Shkrelli had never bothered to ask her name.

“Katerina Petrova Georgieva.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Take care. And remember, I can get you out of there.”

There was a bitter male laugh. “You, Matt Wells? You’re the one who has put her life in danger. Fuck you.” The connection was cut.

I sat down on the lumpy bed and dropped the phone. Was that really what I had done? Had Sara-or whoever Flaminio/Doctor Faustus was-chosen Katya because of the one meeting I’d had with her? Now, as the minute hand neared twelve, it seemed desperately unlikely. I looked again at the clue, but the words blurred into a meaningless jumble of letters. At least the whole sentence wasn’t an anagram-Rog’s digital tools had checked that.