Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

“Presumably giving himself time to get away.” She shuffled through the papers. “Someone must have seen him. Even if he got over the wall of the cemetery unseen, there are plenty of houses whose occupants could have seen him in the street.”

Turner was examining DI Neville’s report. “No witnesses found as yet, locals still being questioned by uniforms. At least they’ve identified the body. In the absence of any relatives in her address book, the neighbor agreed to do it. That must have been a hard job, given the state her face was in. Additional confirmation by dental records is also under way.”

Oaten leaned back in her chair. “So what have we got? A cool customer, who managed to get in the back door-a standard Yale lock, with minimal signs of damage, so he knew what he was doing. He was also lucky as the victim must have forgotten to bolt the door. He was calm enough to draw the pentagram and write the Latin words with a steady hand. The pattern of footprints suggests that Mary Malone hadn’t been in the garden for at least a day and the chalk was recently applied. So, a cold-blooded killer, who waited for the victim. I’d guess the cat was mutilated to terrify her. The killer was determined enough and had sufficient strength to tighten the ligature, though the victim was probably unconscious from the fall. Then he took the ear, hair and nail clippings, and-get this for weird-put her underwear back carefully after he’d abused her from behind. Having achieved all that, he left the Stones song playing so loud that it was bound to attract attention. Why would he take the risk?”

“Because he’s a bastard who’s showing off, daring us to catch him if we can.”

“Possibly,” Oaten said, frowning. “It’s not exactly the kind of behavior you’d expect from a Satanist. They’re usually drug-crazed kids or sad, middle-aged men.” She pointed at him. “We’ve both been saying ‘he,’ but there’s no reason, apart maybe from the shoe size, to rule out a female killer.”

The phone on the desk rang. Oaten identified herself and listened. “All right, thanks for that,” she said, before she put it down again. Her expression was somber.

“What is it, guv?” Turner asked.

She paused before answering. “That was DI Neville. They’ve found a witness, a fifteen-year-old boy on the top floor of a house two doors down on the other side of the road.”

“Great,” the Welshman said. “What did he see?”

Oaten looked away. “He saw a person of average height leaving number 41 just before eight-thirty-he wasn’t sure of the time as he’d been playing poker online and was taking a break. He was a bit surprised as he’d never seen anyone go in or out of the victim’s house-she got her groceries delivered.” She paused. “He was also surprised because the figure was wearing a long black cloak and a black top hat.”

“Shit,” Turner said, in a low voice.

His boss stared at him. “What’s the matter, Taff? Don’t tell me you think it was Old Nick himself?”

The inspector shook his head. “No, guv. It’s a human being dressing up as the devil, and that makes it even worse.”

Karen Oaten tossed the reports onto her desk. “What about the Latin devil reference then, Taff?”

“Did you mention it to Matt Wells?” the inspector countered.

“He was somewhat concerned.”

“I’m not surprised. But anyone who read his book could have been inspired to do that kind of thing.”

Oaten gave a tight smile. “I did point that out to him.”

“So you don’t think it’s her? The White Devil’s sister.”

“Sara Robbins? It could be, but we haven’t got sufficient data to suppose so. Matt hadn’t received any message from her by last night.”

“How about today?” John Turner’s face hardened. “Anyway, would he tell you if he had?”

Karen Oaten met his eyes and then looked away. She wasn’t at all sure that Matt would come clean. That and the nature of Mary Malone/Shirley Higginbottom’s murder gave her a very ominous feeling.

I spent the rest of the day trying to occupy myself with my column. When that did nothing but make me wonder if my archenemy, Sara, was responsible for Mary Malone’s death, I tried writing an album review. Unfortunately, the CD I was to listen to was by the Willard Grant Conspiracy-good stuff, but mainly murder ballads sung by a deep, lugubrious voice that could have emanated from Hades itself. I didn’t manage to write more than the first line. It was obvious that I needed help, so I called my mates. Five minutes later, I’d arranged to meet them later on in a pub near London Bridge. We called it the Zoo, because the clientele was a weird mixture of City whiz kids wearing expensive suits, stallholders from the Borough Market in grubby white coats and bewildered tourists. I didn’t need to twist the others’ arms too much, but the short notice made them curious. Two years back, the White Devil had set up an intricate surveillance system, so we were always succinct when speaking on the phone. Despite the fact that no one apart from us knew what or where the Zoo was, I still couldn’t finish the album review.

A chill wind was blasting up the Thames from the North Sea when I came out of London Bridge Station. The lights of the City blazed out across the river. Apparently the people who ran the financial sector were unaware of global warming-or maybe they just didn’t give a toss. I’d kept an eye out when I was traveling and had stepped off a couple of trains before they left, like the Fernando Rey character in The French Connection. I didn’t think anyone was tailing me. To make sure, I took a roundabout way to the pub, before slipping in as a double-decker bus passed and obscured me from the other side of the road.

Andy Jackson had already occupied the table we always took at the rear. The Zoo’s lights were as low as ever, which was another reason we liked it.

“Yo, writer man,” the blond-haired American said, draining his glass and extending it toward me.

“Yo, chef person,” I replied, heading for the bar. I returned with a pint of Australian lager for him and one of Directors for me. “I don’t know how you can drink that wallaby urine, Slash.” His nickname came from the way he used to cut through the opposition defensive line on the rugby pitch-nothing to do with the big-haired Guns N’ Roses guitarist.

“Yeah, like that bitter wasn’t sprayed out by a hog.” He grinned at me. Andy was tall and muscle-bound, the kind of guy everyone wanted on their team. He’d grown up in a town he called the asshole of New Jersey and had almost made it to the NFL, but his knee was suspect and he was let go. That turned him against his native country, so he crossed the Atlantic, trained as a chef, and now held down a job in a Mexican restaurant near the British Museum.

I took a long drink. “No one on your tail?” I asked in a low voice.

He shook his head. “You gonna come clean about what’s going on, Matt?”

“When the others show.” I caught his eye. “So what’s new on the female front?” Andy was a serious skirt-chaser.

“Same two things there always were,” he said, with a grin. “Judy. Brunette, long legs, big…things on the front, and sent straight from paradise.”

“Bragging again, Slash?” I looked around and saw the stocky figure of Dave Cummings, a pint in his hand. He always got his own-it was some strange ritual he’d learned in the Parachute Regiment or the SAS. He was the hard man of the group, but he was putty in the hands of his kids. “Hello, lad.” He put an arm around my waist. Dave had always treated me like a kid brother, even though he was only three years older. Compared with what he’d seen of the world and its wars, my life was pretty sheltered.