Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

I managed to order my thoughts. Leaning close to the American, I told him what I wanted him to do. He showed no surprise and nodded his assent.

When we came out of the station, we separated. I took a detour to Northumberland Crescent to allow Andy to get into position. Then I walked up the quiet road to number 47. There was a small Toyota in the driveway. As I’d expected, Sara’s birth mother was still at home at this early hour. I put my hand under my jacket and grasped the butt of my silenced Glock. There was no sign of a motorbike, though. I was still puzzled about what the rider-presumably my former lover-had been trying to hand Mrs. Carlton-Jones.

Taking off my cap and putting it in a pocket, I looked at the upstairs windows. All the curtains were open. Unless her bedroom was at the back, the occupier was up and about. I went up the paved path, looking into the front room as I approached the door.

I took a deep breath, one hand still on my weapon and the other holding my Crime Writers’ Society ID card. It had been designed in the form of a warrant card. I wondered if any of my fellow novelists had used the card for nefarious purposes. Josh Hinkley, the poor sod, would have been a likely candidate, perhaps to get complimentary services from the knocking-shops near his flat.

I rang the bell. After about a minute, a gray-haired woman appeared behind the small diamond-shaped window in the door. She didn’t seem to have changed much since I’d tried to interview her for my book. I hoped the mustache would prevent her from recognizing me.

“Who is it?” she said, keeping the door closed.

“Detective Chief Inspector Mark Oates,” I replied, holding up my card. “We spoke on the phone a few days ago.”

There was a pause. “I remember, Chief Inspector.” The chain rattled and the door opened.

With my thumb obscuring the Crime Writers’ Society logo, most of the photo, and my name, I kept my card visible long enough for her to register that it was official, but not long enough for her to see the details. She didn’t complain when I put it back in my pocket. People had a worrying tendency to believe that strangers were who they said they were. Then again, Doris Carlton-Jones might know exactly who I was and was luring me into a trap. What if the motorbike rider had been trying to hand her a weapon, and had been back since I pulled Andy off the surveillance? Then again, I could just be getting paranoid after everything that’s happened.

The woman was dressed in a dark blue trouser suit. She led me into the sitting room. “Sit down, Chief Inspector,” she said. “How is Inspector Jansen?”

“He’s well,” I said with a smile. “Hard at work.”

“Undercover,” she said, looking at me seriously. “Which you, presumably, are not, since you carry identification.”

“Just plain clothes,” I said. Mrs. Carlton-Jones didn’t miss much. “I won’t beat about the bush,” I said. “It’s come to our attention that your daughter has returned to London.”

“My daughter?” she said, her eyes wide. “I…My husband and I didn’t have children.”

“I’m aware of that,” I said. “But you did, before you met Mr. Carlton-Jones.”

Now she looked upset. There were beads of sweat on her brow and she started rubbing her hands together. “I…Yes, I did,” she said, looking down.

“Contrary to what you told Inspector Jansen,” I said harshly. “Let’s stop these games, Mrs. Carlton-Jones. It’s in the public domain. We’ve made the connection to Leslie Dunn, the White Devil. His twin sister, your daughter Sara Robbins, is wanted for murder, conspiracy to murder, kidnapping and malicious wounding, as well as fleeing a crime scene. I have a simple question for you.”

“I know what it is,” the elderly woman said, her voice querulous, “and the answer is no, I haven’t seen her.”

I was watching her carefully. She was pretty convincing, but I needed more, and needed to seem authoritative. “Then you’ll have no objection if I search the house.”

She met my gaze. “Shouldn’t you have a warrant for that?”

“I should, and I will get one if necessary, though failure to cooperate won’t do you any favors. If you allow me to check the house, I can be out of here in a matter of minutes and it’ll be the last you hear of it.” I gave her what I hoped was an encouraging smile.

“Oh, very well,” she said. “Go where you like.”

I stood up. “Thank you, Mrs. Carlton-Jones,” I said, raising a hand. “Please don’t get up. I’d prefer to do this on my own.” I looked around the room, then moved to the rear, where a door led into the kitchen. I opened cupboard doors and ran my eye over the fridge door for any sign of messages from Sara. There was nothing. I checked the drawers, too, in case there was a concealed weapon. There were kitchen knives, but that was all.

I went out of the door that opened on to the hall. There was a cupboard under the stairs-it was full of boxes and a vacuum cleaner. Moving upstairs, I glanced out of the window on the side of the house. I couldn’t see Andy. There were four doors on the first floor, two of them open. The front room must have been the main bedroom, a double bed with an embroidered cover neatly spread over it. There was a photo of Doris Carlton-Jones with a smiling bald man, presumably her dead husband. She looked reserved. I wondered if there had ever been a time when she wasn’t troubled by the children she gave away in the first days of their lives. The woman looked at least ten years younger in the shot, so it had been taken long before the White Devil and Sara became the focus of frenzied tabloid attention. I tried to imagine what it must have felt like to know that your children were vicious killers. I shivered as Lucy’s face flashed before me. My beautiful daughter was in hiding because of the woman downstairs’s child. Strangely, I didn’t feel anger, but sorrow. I told myself to get a grip. Sara might be waiting for me down the hall.

I took out my pistol and walked to the first door. I touched the handle, then opened the door quickly. Inside, both hands gripping my weapon, I pointed it at the corners, one by one, as Dave had taught us. Nobody. The room was a study, a computer on a desk and rows of books on the shelves. It didn’t take me long to find The Death List. The spine showed it had been opened frequently. My photo was on the back cover. That put me on my toes. I went toward the next door, glancing into the bathroom to be sure it was empty. I breathed in and followed the procedure again when I flung the door open. This room too was unoccupied. The duvet on the single bed was plumped and perfectly aligned. I slid a hand underneath. It was stone cold. Back on the landing, I looked up at the ceiling. There was a panel in a wooden frame. I took the chair from the study and stood on it. I was in an awkward position, because I couldn’t cover more than one angle with my pistol. There was nothing for it. I pushed the panel up and aside, then looked around. Apart from the water tank and a lot of insulating material, the space was empty.

I put the panel and chair back, and went downstairs, pistol back in my jacket. Mrs. Carlton-Jones was waiting for me.

“Satisfied?” she asked brusquely. Clearly she was no longer shaken. “Chief Inspector, I can assure you that if I saw Sara Robbins, I would tell the police immediately. I know what she looks like, thanks to the photographs that were all over the newspapers and TV channels.” She shook her head. “And that awful book her lover wrote.”

I tried not to look embarrassed and was glad she hadn’t recognized me. It was suddenly obvious how much pain The Death List had caused. I remembered what Karen had said, about the book being a Faustian pact. I’d arrogantly signed up to write it, oblivious to the feelings of others-not just of Sara’s birth mother, but of the families whose members the White Devil had slaughtered. Maybe some stories were better left untold.