Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

“So you agree that he should be booted out of the Crime Writers’ Society?”

Alistair Bing nodded. “Certainly. I’ve sent the directors an e-mail supporting you.”

“Thanks.” Hinkley was pleased, but he was also slightly suspicious. He couldn’t see what was in it for Bing. “Of course, you’ll make some enemies.”

The other author shrugged. “That’s life. Sometimes you have to make difficult decisions.” He leaned over the table. “I can assure you, that’s nowhere near the hardest one I’ve taken.”

Hinkley wondered what could have been so difficult for Bing. Shall I accept two million pounds for my next four books or not? Shall I sell my character to Hollywood so I can set myself up for life, or stay unknown? Shall I buy a whole house in Harley Street, or just half? There was something about the way the Yorkshireman was looking at him that hinted at hidden depths. The bastard was probably a grand master at chess, as well. But there was one area where Josh was sure Alistair Bing would never succeed.

“How’s your love life?” he said, wondering if he was ever going to get another drink.

Spots of color appeared on Bing’s cheeks. “Well, you know, I’m not much of a ladies’ man.” He looked at his beer.

“Oh, come on,” Hinkley said, determined to rub his nose in it. “There must have been dozens of willing young nubiles in Hollywood.”

Alistair Bing nodded, but his eyes stayed down.

“Or do you prefer men?”

That made Bing look up. “Definitely not!” he exclaimed, spittle flying from his lips.

Hinkley sat back. “Calm down. I don’t care one way or another.”

“I do,” Alistair Bing said firmly. “I suppose I’d better get you another drink.” He picked up the empty glass and went to the bar.

Josh Hinkley watched the diminutive figure thread his way between the raucous drinkers. He was no nearer to understanding what had turned a minor writer of police procedurals into a massive bestseller. Maybe it was the fact that his books were bland and unchallenging. He almost convinced himself that was the case. As Alistair Bing came back, his forehead lined as he concentrated on not spilling the pint, Hinkley realized that he hated the Yorkshireman’s guts.

I read the text message from Andy aloud. “‘At London Hospital. Bastard threw grenade. Pick us up.’ What the fuck?”

“It could be a trap,” Rog said.

“He used the right confirmation code.”

He shrugged. “Maybe Sara or her sidekicks got it out of him.”

I stared at him. “Why would they send me to the London Hospital? It’s hardly the ideal place to stage an ambush.”

“She could be trying to distract you from solving that clue.”

I nodded. “Which means that you have to keep working on it. Keep in contact with my mother and Caroline via the ghost site.”

“All right,” he said reluctantly. “But I’d rather come with you.”

“Please, Dodger,” I said as I checked my Glock and slipped it inside my jacket. “We can’t all be in the same public place.”

“What if the cops are there?” he asked. “If a grenade went off, someone will have reported it.”

“I’ll have to take that chance.”

I heard him say “Good luck” as I left. I hailed a passing taxi and told him the destination. The traffic was heavy and it was nearly an hour before we reached the hospital in Whitechapel. I worked on the clue during the journey, but I had little inspiration. “The river shrinks”-a stream, a brook, a runnel? “Bears”-carries, produces, suffers? “The ice crows.” Ice-cold, hard, opaque? Crows-calls out, verb, or black carrion birds? Cries or ravens? What were crows known for? Crow’s nests? As the crow flies? And who was “the lean man,” never mind his “imperial heiress”? As for “the thirsty draw of nothing,” the last word said it all. I only hoped Rog, Fran or Caroline had more ideas.

As we went down Whitechapel Road, I leaned forward and asked the driver if he would do a U-turn and then wait for me as near the hospital as possible. The twenty-pound note I showed him provoked a broad grin. I got out and crossed the road. The hospital was a large Victorian building with modern additions. There was no sign of any police personnel, but if Karen or her team were around, I probably wouldn’t see them. There was nothing for it. I walked into the Accident and Emergency unit and headed for reception.

A pretty nurse asked if she could help.

“I have friends,” I said, in a heavy accent that I hoped sounded Eastern European. “They hurt.”

She nodded and smiled, obviously used to dealing with people whose English was limited. “What are their names?”

I looked blank.

“Their names,” the nurse repeated. “What are they called?”

I looked around helplessly, checking if there were any police in the vicinity.

“Ah, na-ames,” I said. “Yes. Nishani and Pepa.”

She tapped on her keyboard. “Oh, I remember. Gentlemen who’d been in a fire?”

That must have been how the guys had explained their injuries.

“They okay?” I asked.

“I think they’re being treated now,” she replied. “If you take a seat, I’ll see if I can find out.”

I moved away, but not far. I located the CCTV camera nearest reception and turned my back to it casually.

A few minutes later the nurse called me over. “Your friends have just been discharged,” she said.

I saw two familiar figures. Pete had a bandage around his forehead. Andy seemed unhurt, but as they came closer I realized they both had bloodshot eyes.

“What happened?” I said as soon as we were out of earshot.

“Whoever the motherfucker was,” Andy said, “he or she realized we were inside and threw in a grenade. Some kind of special-edition number-it went off with a loud enough bang, but its main effect was to fill the room with tear gas. By the time we got out, the piece of shit was long gone.”

“You all right, Pete?” I asked as I led them to the taxi.

“Yeah. You should see the sofa.”

“And you didn’t see anything of who threw it?”

They both shook their heads.

I told the cabbie to take us to Camden Town. “What about the flat?”

“Somebody was living there,” Andy said, “but we couldn’t be sure if it was a man or a woman. The boxers made it seem like a man, but if it’s a woman, she’s bigger than Sara.” He took something out of his pocket. “Ninemil Parabellum shells-there were twenty-five like this one. There was also a seriously sharp switchblade. They were hidden in the deep-freeze.”

“How do you think you were spotted?”

Pete scratched his head beneath the bandage. “I think he or she smelled the oil from Slash’s lock tools.”

I sat back and thought about what they’d found in the flat. The knife could have been used in the Sandra Devonish murder, and it also could have been used to cut the hairs from Mary Malone. But the pistol ammunition was another story. Could it be that the flat that Sara bought had nothing to do with whoever had killed the two authors and was sending me messages? Maybe she’d rented it out without changing the name of the council tax payer. Or maybe it was part of a carefully laid plan to mess with my brain before she struck decisively.

“Sorry I sent you over there,” I said.

“We went willingly,” Pete said with a wry smile. “We almost caught the bastard.”

“You almost caught a bastard,” I said. I told them about the second message.

“You and Rog will work it out,” Andy said with a lot more confidence than I was feeling.

“What about the other properties that Sara owns?” Pete asked.

“Haven’t you had enough for one day? Anyway, now we’ve got to try and save someone’s life.”