Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

“Black cat cut up like that,” Turner said, “and the victim’s ear removed…” He broke off. “I presume it hasn’t been found in or near the house.”

“You presume right,” Neville said, squatting down by the pentagram. “What is this shit? Why can’t people just kill each other and leave it at that? The press are going to have a field day.”

“Well, you’d better not encourage them, Inspector,” Oaten said firmly. “At this point, we don’t know if the pentagram has any connection to the killing. The victim herself might have had an interest in devil worship.”

“Excuse me, Chief Inspector,” Lineham said. He looked like a boy bursting for the toilet. “Don’t you think-”

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m thinking,” Oaten ordered.

DC Lineham stared at the pentagram, looking aggrieved.

“Is there something I’m missing here?” Inspector Neville said suspiciously. Then he made the connection. “Oh, Jesus. You’re the ones who investigated that other devil case, the one with the heavy-duty killings.”

“That was the White Devil,” Taff Turner said. “And he’s dead.” He glanced at his boss. They both knew that wasn’t the whole story.

Neville was looking at Oaten. “Are you taking over the case then, ma’am?”

Oaten was sure that he was deliberately using the traditional mode of address for female superiors, despite Redrose’s warning to the other officer. To her, it was sexist, old-fashioned and demeaning. Not only that, it made her feel like the queen. None of those things were acceptable, but she decided against correcting Neville. He would imagine he’d put one over her. “Not yet, Inspector. Please make sure that I receive a copy of the full case file and daily updates. And give me your contact numbers.”

They exchanged cards, and then she and Turner headed for the door.

“Aren’t you going to attend the postmortem, Chief Inspector?” Redrose called after her. “You never know, I might find a message tucked away somewhere…personal.”

Karen Oaten looked over her shoulder. “No,” she said.

“Ghoul,” she continued more quietly to Taff. “He loves seeing us squirm in the morgue.”

“I hope you aren’t going to send me,” Turner said dolefully.

She smiled grimly. “No, that wide boy Neville can have the pleasure.” On the pavement, she stripped off her coverall and overshoes.

“So you don’t think the devil angle should concern us?” the Welshman asked. “Could it be-”

“Don’t say it,” Oaten interrupted. She shrugged. “Whoever’s responsible, it’s not exactly a run-of-the-mill murder.”

“It certainly isn’t as straightforward as a drugs gang killing, not that we’ve got a handle on the scumbag who did that.” He paused. “Even if we don’t mention you-know-who, some smart-arse in the press is bound to.”

Oaten gave him a fierce look. “Let’s just hope this isn’t the first of a series, then,” she said, heading for her car.

Turner watched her drive off. His stomach was still queasy from the sight of the dead woman’s face, as well as from the fact that all his instincts and experience were telling him this wouldn’t be a one-off.

The atmosphere in the crypt off the main cavern was thick, the air filled with the smoke from guttering black candles, dozens of them. The walls of the confined chamber were festooned with animal skulls, the jaws and teeth of wolves and bears dark with dried blood. There were also the skins of lions and antelopes, medieval swords, axes with notched blades, and the battered helms of long-dead knights. In the middle of the flagstones on the floor, a pentagram had been drawn in yellow chalk. Arcane symbols and letters in a strange script adorned each point of the star-shape.

A figure in a plain gray tunic was kneeling inside the pentagram, holding a curved knife in the left hand.

“Come to me, sweet Mephistopheles,” the supplicant intoned. “I am in need of your subtle services.”

There was silence, broken only by the hiss of candle wicks as the flames consumed the wax.

The supplicant raised both hands again. “Come to me.” The voice was tenser. “Do not desert me in my hour of need.”

A wooden panel slid open in front of the kneeling figure. The person who came out was initially obscured by the smoky air. Then the supplicant saw that the devil’s representative was wearing the usual monk’s black robe and cowl.

“Have you forgotten what you must pay?” The voice was soft, but it had a steely edge.

“I have not, sweet Mephistopheles.” The knife cut into the lower right arm and sliced open the skin beneath five similar scars, one of which was still livid. Blood welled up instantly.

The masked figure leaned forward and held out a tarnished silver goblet decorated with precious stones to collect the liquid tribute.

“Very good, Faustus.” The monkish apparition stepped back. “Tell me how the evening went.” A finger was raised. “And omit nothing.”

The supplicant nodded avidly and started to speak. Then a demonic shriek rang out and cut the flow of words off immediately.

I woke up the second that Karen came into the flat-my experiences with the White Devil had made me a permanent light sleeper. She took her boots off on the sofa opposite the bed, but this time there was no question of me making a leading comment. It was after two and she looked like she’d sucked a bag of lemons.

“What happened?” I ventured, going over to embrace her. She resisted for a few moments, and then crushed her body against mine.

“Oh, some sick bastard strangled a woman, beat her face to a pulp and cut off her ear.”

She sighed and I thought I heard a sob. I held her tighter and buried my face in her hair. “It’s all right, my sweet,” I said, feeling for her. Although she was a tough woman cop on the outside, deep down she was a mass of conflicting emotions. That was why I loved her. She was complicated and hard to fathom, hard-edged but also caring. I sometimes wondered what she saw in me.

“Matt, I’m worried,” she said, her voice faint.

I felt a quiver of apprehension. “Don’t be,” I said. “I’ll look after you, Kar.” I only used the diminutive of her name when I was being more tender than either of us was usually comfortable with.

She turned her head so her lips met mine. “What would I do without you?” she murmured.

“Why would you be without me?” I asked, feeling even more apprehensive.

Karen pushed herself away far enough so she could focus on my eyes. “Because there are things we can’t do together.” She dropped her gaze.

“What’s happened? Who was the murder victim?”

“Shirley something…” She rubbed her head. “Higginbottom. I’ve left it with Homicide West, at least for the time being.”

The name stirred something deep in my memory. I tried to excavate it, but failed.

Karen looked up at me and I saw she was about to come out with something bad. She tightened her grip on my midriff. “Look, it probably isn’t significant…”

“Just tell me,” I said, taking a deep breath.

She nodded. “There was a pentagram drawn on flagstones in the garden. And there were Latin words inside it.”

“What were they?”

“You know Latin?” Karen asked.

“I did it for a few years at school.”

Karen sat back. “Okay. Let’s see if that’s enough. ‘FECIT DIABOLUS.’”

“I can get that, all right. ‘The devil did it.’” I looked at her, feeling a sudden chill. “Did what? The murder?”

She shrugged. “I suppose so. It would hardly be the first Satanist killing in Greater London, would it?”

I shook my head. “I don’t like it, Karen. It makes me think of the White Devil and his sister.” I felt a surge of panic. “Jesus, is Sara back?”