Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

I went on with the lists of alternatives. Somehow it was easier to live with the idea of Sara as the writer of the messages. If there was another ruthless killer out there, my chances of surviving would be halved.

The aristocrat put down his coffee cup and got up from the long table. His ancestors had eaten from it for over two hundred years, and it would cost a small fortune to restore it; a small fortune he didn’t have. The first earl had been ennobled by King George II for generously supporting the country’s foreign wars. The origins of the family wealth had been in slaves, tobacco and the port wine trade-about as politically incorrect as you could get nowadays. But there was none of that left. The present earl had spent far too much on his private interests, not that he regretted a penny of it.

He strolled out onto the terrace that ran the length of the family seat. It was a fine spring morning, the dew burning off in clouds of steam in the light of the sun. The prize-winning herd of Aberdeen Angus cattle was grazing in the field to the left of the arrow-straight road that bisected the open panorama ahead. The site had been carefully chosen and landscaped to keep the Berkshire countryside below out of sight. On the right were the goats that produced overpriced and foul-tasting organic cheese. The earl never ate any cheese other than Stilton. Loyalty to the traditions of England was paramount.

He stepped briskly across the uneven flagstones, the steel caps of his brogues clicking loudly. The main facade of the castle, with its high, mullioned windows, dated from the 1750s, but at the western end it had been built onto the original medieval stronghold. The gray limestone bastion stood up to receive the sunlight, rooks circling above the red-and-black family flag-in its center was the coat of arms, a unicorn rampant on a silver background. The first earl had carried out his own researches into the supernatural.

His heir paused at the bottom of the great fifteenth-century wall of the fortress. It had never been taken in battle or siege. On one occasion, the defenders had been forced to eat the horses and then every other living thing inside. Foot soldiers and archers, who complained that their womenfolk had been slaughtered for meat by their commander, were hung from the walls after the siege had been lifted. Because the country needed strong leaders, he had never been prosecuted. That set an example to his descendants.

A cell phone rang inside the earl’s tweed jacket. He answered it and spoke briefly, then walked around the tower, the bottoms of his cavalry twill trousers absorbing dew from the grass not yet reached by the sun. By the great studded door, he stopped for a moment before taking out a set of keys and opening the three locks that had been set into the black-painted wood.

Inside, the air was dry. The original ceilings were no longer there, only the firing slits remaining. They had never been closed up. It was good to have fresh air in the refurbished bastion. The second earl had no doubt found that necessary. He had been involved in a Hell-fire Club at Oxford that had been notorious for unbridled licentiousness and depravity. The university authorities had eventually reprimanded the unruly students, though only commoners were sent down-the scions of noble families were given a metaphorical clip on the ear and left to find new ways to corrupt themselves. When he was older, the second earl set up his own version of a Hell-fire Club in this very fortification. It was rumored that defrocked ministers and former monks made merry with willing nuns and local wenches carted in for the ceremonies. It had also been said that few of the latter were ever seen again.

The present earl breathed in the castle’s air, then turned on his heel after satisfying himself that the grated window at ground level was immovable. Pulling the door to, he heard the scream of a peacock, one of several he allowed to wander the grounds.

As he walked back along the front terrace, His Lordship caught sight of himself in one of the windows. He stopped and tightened his regimental tie-he had been a captain in the Queen’s Own Horse Guards-then smoothed a hand over his well-disciplined and still jet-black hair. Despite his fifty-five years, he was slim and fit. His uneven face was smoothly shaved by the cutthroat razor he stropped every day. It was a matter for regret that he had produced no son and heir. His wife, Priscilla, had died three years ago, of complications following a supposedly routine breast remodelling procedure. She was past child-bearing age, anyway. There was still time for him to marry again and continue the bloodline. If he could find a suitable bride.

The phone rang again. The earl’s expression lightened after he answered it. He went back inside through the main entrance.

Soon there would be another rite for him to preside over.

Pete Satterthwaite and Andy Jackson stood outside the flat in East London that Sara had bought in the name Angela Oliver-Merilee. Although the main road looked like it ran through a war zone, with the shop windows covered in heavy wire even during opening hours, the side street was tree lined and quiet. The cars parked on both sides were the standard minivans and hatchbacks of the urban bourgeoisie.

“It’s the upper flat,” Pete said, as they approached number twelve. Across the street, two young Indian boys were playing with water pistols. They stopped to look at the men.

“Smile, Slash,” Pete said, under his breath.

The American obliged, making one of the boys run inside.

“Nice one.”

“Sorry. I’m no good with kids, Boney.” Andy stepped up to the street door and moved his finger to the higher of the two bells, but he didn’t press it. With Pete shrouding him from view, he slid two flat steel rods into the keyhole and manipulated them. Andy hadn’t needed tuition from Dave in opening locks because he’d learned in the youth gang he’d run with back in New Jersey. There was a click and the door opened.

“We’re in,” Andy said, moving forward. He had his right hand on the butt of his silenced Glock.

Pete closed the door quietly behind him. The house had been divided into two flats, with common access. The sound of a television at high volume came from the ground-floor flat-according to the records search that Rog had carried out, it was owned by an eighty-two-year-old man. They moved carefully up the narrow, uncarpeted wooden stairs. There was a smell of damp about the place.

At the first-floor door, which had recently been painted green, Andy stopped, his left hand raised. He put his ear to the door, then looked around at Pete, shaking his head. They both knew that an absence of sound didn’t mean the place was unoccupied. According to the local council’s database, the owner lived alone and paid full council tax, but Pete and Andy knew there was no such person as Angela Oliver-Merilee. So who was using the flat?

Andy stuck his weapon in his belt and took out the steel rods again. Pete raised his Glock in a two-handed grip, pointing it at the door above the American’s blond mass of hair. They were taking a chance. If the occupant was inside and had put on the chain, Andy would have to shoulder-charge the door quickly.

Again, there was a dull click. Andy put the rods away and opened the door enough for him to slide his fingers around the edge, then moved them upward.

“No chain,” he mouthed to Pete. Then he stood up, took his Glock from his belt and nodded. The door opened as he pushed it. Andy stepped in quickly, his weapon raised. He moved his arms up and down, covering the angles that a potential assailant could come from. When Pete entered the flat, Andy passed him and went through the living area to the rear. There were two open doors, one to a bathroom and the other to a bedroom.