Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

“Crime,” he answered.

“A very good description of your articles, recently.”

“Hello, Matt.” He didn’t sound even slightly embarrassed. “All’s fair in etc., etc. Where are you?”

“Never mind that. I’ve got an exclusive for you.”

“Really?” As I’d expected, he was suspicious. “Why don’t you write it yourself?”

“Because I’m too busy trying to stay alive.”

He thought about that for a while. “All right,” he said, at last. “What are you going to do? Dictate your story to me over the phone?”

“No chance. My cell phone frequency might be being scanned. I need you to meet me.”

“Fair enough. Where?”

“In front of the British Museum. You’ve got fifteen minutes.” I cut the connection, put the laptop in my bag and went out on the street. Andy had moved nearer the paper’s entrance. He was looking out for me and watched carefully as I hailed a cab. I made sure I raised my right arm. If I’d have used the left, he’d have known something was wrong.

I was at the museum in five minutes. That gave me a bit of time to check out the courtyard in front of the wide steps that led to the entrance. It was filled with the usual crowds of tourists and school groups. That was why I’d chosen it. It was busy enough not only to tempt Sara or her sidekicks into thinking that they could have a go at Andrewes, but also to give me cover. There were also security personnel all around. They might come in handy when it came to preventing Sara’s getaway, as well as protecting innocent bystanders. I felt queasy about inciting her to violence in such a public place, but I had no option. If I’d invited the journalist to my flat, she’d have smelled a rat, and I’d also have run the risk of the cops finding out where I was, assuming they had the building under surveillance.

I went up the steps and looked at my watch. I reckoned we had five minutes or less. Andy would follow Jeremy Andrewes-he knew what he looked like from the photo above the article he’d written in today’s paper. But if he couldn’t find a taxi immediately, the journalist would get away from him. If Sara arrived on her motorbike, which I was almost certain she would do even though the only bikers we’d seen in Clerkenwell had been couriers, I needed to position myself as far from the gate as possible. I walked along inside the row of columns and sat halfway down the steps at the far left facing the courtyard. There was a snack vendor in a trailer about ten yards away. Japanese visitors were queuing in an orderly line to sample his wares.

A minute to go. I looked around as casually as I could. I saw a taxi stop on Great Russell Street. Jeremy Andrewes got out and walked toward the gate. Other taxis passed in both directions, but none stopped. Andy had been delayed. My heart was beating faster than normal. When I saw the helmeted head of a motorbike rider through the railings, it started to pound. The biker, clad in black leathers, entered the courtyard about five yards behind Andrewes. I stood up, trying to see any sign of a weapon, particularly a silenced pistol. Sara might get a shot off before the journalist reached me. But there was a crowd of screaming primary school kids between the pair and me, and Jeremy Andrewes had to weave through them. Those movements made him less of a target, though Sara would probably have no qualms about hitting the children. Then he saw me and waved.

I was watching the biker. The leathers disguised the shape of the body beneath, but it definitely could have been a woman’s. The helmet was still on, the visor down. That was enough to make me positive that the biker was up to no good. The bike was red and looked like the one we’d been chasing earlier.

Kids were swarming around as I went down the steps.

“Matt,” Jeremy Andrewes said with a smile on his lips that I knew was untrustworthy. He was wearing the tweed jacket and corduroy trousers that had resulted in people on the Daily Indie calling him “Squire.”

I maneuvered myself so that I was between him and the motorbike rider. “Hello, Jeremy.” I turned toward the courtyard. The biker had stopped by the snack trailer. The tinted visor gave the impression of a robot. I immediately thought of the Terminator, a relentless machine in human form. The only difference was that Sara was much more dangerous than Arnold Schwarzenegger ever was.

“What is it?” Andrewes said, turning in the same direction as I had.

“Nothing,” I said. “Bloody kids. You can never visit a museum nowadays without thousands of them getting in the way.”

“We can’t talk here,” he said, frowning.

“Why not? It isn’t raining, for a change.”

He peered at me through thick lenses. “Oh, I get it. You’ve got people watching us.”

I shook my head, wondering where Andy had got to. My stomach tightened. Could Sara have caught up with him?

Andrewes took out a gadget and fiddled with the buttons. “All right if I record you?”

“Sure.” I sat down on the steps. After he’d inspected the surface, he joined me.

“Jeremy Andrewes, interviewing Matt Wells, date-”

“Never mind that,” I said, keeping an eye on the figure in leathers. “Here’s the story. I know the identity of the person responsible for the murders of Mary Malone, Sandra Devonish-” I broke off as the biker began to walk across the courtyard in front of us.

“Yes?” prompted the journalist.

“Em, Sandra Devonish, Josh Hinkley, Dave Cummings and several gang members in East London.”

“What?” Andrewes said, his eyes wide. “One person is responsible?”

I watched the helmeted figure out of the corner of my eye as it moved up the steps toward the museum entrance. The biker could now approach us behind the columns without me seeing. But it was imperative that I didn’t turn my head to avoid putting her off, assuming it was Sara. I took a deep breath and tried to get my heart rate under control.

“Are you all right?” Andrewes asked. I was pretty sure he was worried he might not get his exclusive rather than genuinely concerned.

“Sure,” I said, my voice hoarse.

“You’re saying the same person killed all those people?”

I nodded. The temptation to look around was enormous, but I fixed my eyes on the short Japanese woman who was buying several cans of lemonade.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me that’s Sara Robbins,” Andrewes said, determined to steal my thunder.

Somehow I resisted the urge to tell him that she was creeping up on us with murder in her heart. Where the hell was Andy? I’d been hung out to dry. Unless-

“Sara Robbins?” said a female voice behind us.

We both turned our heads. The motorbike rider had sat down two steps above us. She had raised her visor only a few centimeters, so I couldn’t make out her face. She pulled off one glove and unzipped her jacket, then slipped her hand inside. When it came back out, she was holding an object that I couldn’t immediately identify. She leaned forward and gripped Jeremy Andrewes’s shoulder with her other hand and pulled him back, so that the hand holding the object was near his neck.

“This is a spring-loaded stiletto,” the woman said. “I can have it in his jugular before you move, Matt.”

“What?” Andrewes said, his voice rising several tones. “Who are you?”

It was a good question. The voice had a similar timbre to Sara’s, but there was a lot of East London in it. Then again, Sara was quite capable of picking up accents. She used to do a very convincing Margaret Thatcher.

“I’m your death,” the figure in leathers said. Then she gave a laugh that was as depraved as the White Devil’s. “Don’t move, Jeremy, and don’t even think about calling out.”