Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

“Em, brilliant,” I said, taken aback by the quick solution to our most pressing problem.

Andy arrived a few minutes later.

“What did you do with the van?” I asked.

“Left it outside the hire place. It’s no use to us now.”

“But they’ve got your credit card.”

“No, they haven’t.”

I stared at him. “What did you do?”

He shrugged. “I…em, I bought a fake card from a friend of a friend.”

“Bloody hell, you took a chance,” I said.

“It worked all right when they swiped it,” he said. “What’s the problem? I thought I was meant to use my initiative.”

“You did well, big man,” I said, trying to placate him. “How was Mrs. Carlton-Jones?”

“All right,” he said. “I didn’t get the impression that she’d been hiding her daughter.”

“Do you think it was Sara on the motorbike?”

“Could well have been.”

He was right. And she could well have used the bike to get to and from the latest murder scene.

Half an hour later we were all safely inside Rog’s cousin’s flat. It was a decent-size, two-bedroom place near the tube station. There were even two good-quality computers, which gave us more power in that department. Rog made a pot of coffee and we sat around the dining table.

“So what happened with the clue?” Rog asked.

“I knew the dead woman, Sandra Devonish,” I said.

“I’ve heard of her,” Andy said. “I think I read one of her books. Set in Texas?”

I nodded. “She was quite a woman.”

“Sandra Devonish,” Rog said, taking a large notebook from his bag. “‘The sun set by the westernmost dunes of Alexander’s womankind.’ Oh, I get it. Alexander’s womankind-Sandra comes from Alexandra, the female version of Alexander.”

“Fuck,” I said, under my breath. I should have spotted that. But it wouldn’t necessarily have helped, as I couldn’t think of any other Sandras I knew and I wasn’t even aware that the dead woman was coming to London.

“The sun set…” Pete said.

“My mother spotted that ‘set’ might be the Egyptian god of that name-among other things, he was the god of disorder, so the words, syllables or letters in the clue would be jumbled up.”

Rog looked up from his notebook. “Wasn’t the Egyptian god of the sun called Ra?”

I groaned. “You’re right. And the dunes are made of sand. So that was another pointer to Sand-ra.” I slapped my forehead. I’d been duped twice. “And ‘by the westernmost dunes’ means next to the place with the most westerly beaches in this country, which is Devon rather than Cornwall.”

Rog nodded. “And the ‘kind’ at the end of ‘womankind,’ if it’s taken to mean ‘kind of’-”

“Comes out as ‘-ish,’” I completed. “Jesus! I should have got that.”

The three of them demurred.

“Come on, man,” Andy said, “I’d never have worked that out.”

“Yeah, it was pretty cryptic,” Rog said. “Pete and I didn’t have a clue, either. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“But a woman’s dead,” I said. “I should have guessed the next victim would be another crime writer.”

“Why?” Pete asked. “The White Devil didn’t kill people in the same line of work, did he?”

That was true. But I still blamed myself for not involving my mother sooner. She might well have got the answer in time. Then another thought struck me. Would Sara, or whoever was aping her and the White Devil, have kept her promise and spared Sandra if I had identified her?

I tried to get some sleep on the bed next to Andy. I still felt responsible. Karen was right. I wasn’t up to fighting this war, even with my friends on my side. But it was too late to change tactics now. I had to make sure there were no more deaths, and in order to do that, we had to track Sara down.

Sleep climbed all over me like a ravenous bear and I fell into the depths.

Faik Jabar’s shoulder had been treated by the Kurdish doctor, whose name was Jemal Dawod, and it no longer hurt him so much. The doctor had a house near the Lea Bridge roundabout in Clapton. Faik heard the roar of traffic and wished he could go back to his parents’ house. It was only a mile or so away, but the area would be swarming with Shadows and Jemal wouldn’t let him out during the hours of daylight. Late in the evening, after Faik woke from a deep sleep, they had eaten a meal of spicy stewed lamb that the doctor had prepared.

“That was good,” Faik said, emptying his glass of water. “Now I must go.”

“It is very dangerous for you.”

“And for you. The Shadows know where you live.”

Jemal Dawod nodded. “But they have been told that I did not kill the Wolfman.”

“What about the guard you took out?”

“His memory will be jumbled up for some time.”

“But you were seen trying to take me away.”

“I already told them that I needed another doctor to look at you. Now I will say that you escaped from here.”

“Will they come?”

The doctor shook his head. “They only ever contact me by telephone. I think they are very busy trying to find the Wolfman’s killer.”

“I cannot risk being caught again.”

Jemal smiled. “In that case, you must stay off the streets.”

“They will not see me.”

The doctor smiled again. “You are forgetting something.”

Faik stared at him. “What?”

“The person who killed Izady-maybe that is the same person who wore the burqa this afternoon. He may also be looking for you.”

“He?” Faik sat back. “You think a man was wearing the burqa? ”

Jemal Dawod raised his shoulders. “This is London, not the Middle East. People have different ideas about tradition.”

“Who do you think this killer is?”

“At first I assumed he was working for the Shadows. That explained why he killed Izady. I guessed he’d double-crossed them.”

Faik got up from the low table and shook the tingling from his legs. “But it doesn’t explain why he only shot me in the hand and then knocked me out, rather than killing me.”

The doctor lit a cigarette. “No, it doesn’t. I thought perhaps he left a witness to recount what had happened to the Kurds. But then the Wolfman caught you, so the Shadows couldn’t have hired the killer.”

“So who’s this killer with the false beard working for?”

Jemal Dawod blew out a cloud of smoke. “I have no idea. But I don’t think you should chance meeting him again.”

Faik looked at his watch. It was well after midnight. “I must go, Doctor. Thank you for everything.”

“Make sure those wounds in your legs don’t get infected. You have my cell phone number. Call me in a week and I will remove the stitches from your hand.” Jemal embraced the young man. “May Allah protect you.”

“And you,” Faik said, turning toward the door.

“You have forgotten something else,” the doctor said.

Faik looked back. “I have?”

“If you are escaping, you must leave your mark on me.”

“No, Doctor,” the young man said, his mouth slack.

“Otherwise the Shadows will not believe me and I will be killed.”

Faik took a deep breath. Jemal Dawod was right. They couldn’t risk it. He went up to the doctor and made him stand in front of the sofa. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he drew back his undamaged hand and landed a powerful uppercut on the other man’s chin. He crashed back on the cushions, blood flowing from his lower lip, which had been punctured by his teeth. Faik made sure he was comfortable.

Going to the front door, he let himself out. The night air was chill and he suddenly felt very weak. But it was too late to go back. If he kept to the back streets he should be home soon, as long as he didn’t meet any Shadows. He tried to establish a steady rhythm, but his injured thighs caught painfully on his jeans and the breath was ragged in his throat. Soon he was very thirsty. He stopped after about ten minutes, bending down behind a car. When he stood up, a figure in black biker leathers was standing on the other side of the bonnet, pointing a silenced pistol at his chest. The visor of the helmet had been raised and Faik saw wisps of beard on the upper cheeks.