Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

Then, as I stood up and looked around the crowd, the blood tingling in my legs, I had another unpleasant thought. I still didn’t have the faintest idea where Andy was.

“Pull in over there, please,” Andy Jackson said, as the taxi approached the British Museum.

He’d been unlucky outside the newspaper offices. Just as Jeremy Andrewes had hailed a cab, a woman wearing stiletto heels stepped off the pavement and collapsed into the road as her ankle gave way with a horrible crack. Andy stepped in front of a white van, forcing it to brake hard. He then picked the woman up carefully and took her into the Daily Independent building, telling the receptionist to call an ambulance.

By the time he got back outside, Andrewes was long gone. That wasn’t a problem in itself, as the American knew where Matt had sent him, but the point of him tailing the journalist was to see if anyone else was. He was so far behind that he didn’t see anyone suspicious on the short journey. That state of affairs changed when his taxi went along Great Russell Street. He saw a stationary red motorbike, a Transalp he’d seen before, on the same side of the road as the museum. Near it was the helmeted figure in black leathers he was sure had picked up Doris Carlton-Jones earlier. Not only that, but there was another identical motorbike parked about twenty yards farther on. Andy tried to make sense of the fact that there were two bikers, but couldn’t reach a conclusion. He knew that Rog and Pete were covering Matt’s back. It seemed to him that the best thing he could do was to keep an eye on the rider who was watching through the railings. He wanted to check that Matt was all right, but decided it would be better if he stayed in the taxi, ready to give pursuit.

Ten minutes later, that decision paid off. The figure in black leather outside the railings suddenly turned away and mounted the nearer of the two bikes. It was started and moved off quickly, cutting in front of a minivan to join the left-hand lane, before heading west.

“Follow that bike,” Andy said to the cabby.

“You’re ’avin’ a laugh,” the middle-aged driver said, looking around.

“There’s a twenty in it for you, on top of what the meter shows,” Andy said, watching the red metallic machine slow down behind a bus.

“Fair enough,” the cabby said, pulling out. “Follow that bike…that’s a good one!”

To Andy’s surprise, the rider made no attempt to overtake the bus until it pulled in at a stop near Tottenham Court Road station. Then the bike’s right indicator flashed and the rider headed north, toward Euston Road. The pattern of careful riding was maintained through Camden Town and Highgate, until the bike finally came to a halt in front of a block of flats in Hornsey. Andy told the driver to stop and waited till the rider had gone inside. He saw a key flash in the afternoon sun. Then he paid the cabbie off, bonus included, and got out.

At the glass door, he examined the names on the panel of buttons. He didn’t recognize any of them, but that wasn’t a surprise. If this was Sara, she’d hardly have written S. Robbins on the entry phone. He considered using his lock-breaking rods, but decided against it. Sure enough, a young black woman came out and let him pass without a second glance. The entrance hall smelled of mildew and worse. There was nothing for it but to go up to each floor and snoop around. Maybe he could find a talkative old woman who knew everyone in the block. He tried texting Matt, but the signal was weak and he gave up, not wanting to lose his target. But if that had been her, who was the other rider? Andy scratched his head and then headed for the stairs.

Opening the door, he looked up. The stink in the stairwell was much worse: piss, pot, stale beer-the calling cards of teenage boys. There didn’t seem to be anyone around. He set off up the stairs, hoping he didn’t have to go all the way to the top. The display panel above the lift went as high as fourteen. His knees weren’t what they used to be-too many games of gridiron and rugby league.

He reached the first floor, his breathing hardly affected. He peered through the small safety-glass window in the door. There was no one visible. He put his shoulder to the door, wincing when it gave out a loud creak. After he’d gone through, he grabbed the handle to stop it slamming. Then he turned to the front and saw a red object swinging fast toward his head.

Andy Jackson went down in a constellation of shooting stars.

“Clear the way, please,” shouted a male voice over the sirens that were still blaring on Great Russell Street.

I stood up, looking at Rog and Pete. I mouthed to them to go. They got the message and slipped away through the crowd, taking my bag with them. They headed toward the museum-there was an exit at the rear of the building. I had no choice but to face the music. Fortunately, Karen arrived not long afterward, the morose Welshman in tow. She favored me with a neutral stare, and then turned her attention to the bodies.

“Is that Jeremy Andrewes of the Daily Indie? ” she asked.

I nodded.

“And the woman?”

“Lauren May Cuthbertson,” I said, parroting the name that Pete had said. I watched as uniformed officers urged the crowd to disperse. CSIs were soon on the scene, and police tape sealed off half of the courtyard and steps. Taff Turner called for witnesses and got his subordinates taking preliminary statements.

Karen came closer. “What happened here?”

I told her, skating over my use of Jeremy Andrewes as target-man.

“So you’re saying the woman stabbed Andrewes to death and then you killed her by accident?”

“Yes.”

She glared at me. “Were you on your own? Where are your friends?”

I played dumb, but that didn’t get me anywhere.

“Right, that’s it. I’m taking you in.”

“You can’t,” I said. “The dead woman has some connection with Sara. We’ll only catch her if I can set a trap.”

“You arrogant tosser,” she hissed. “You still think you know better than the professionals, don’t you?”

I shook my head. “I can do different things, that’s all.”

“Put your hands out,” Karen ordered. She signaled to a CSI, who came over and put transparent evidence bags over my hands, attaching them with tape.

I bit my lip. Being caught up in police procedure was the last thing I needed right now. The fact that I had an illegal and silenced handgun in my jacket made things even more critical.

The potbellied pathologist arrived and cast a cold eye over the corpse, and an even colder one over me. “I wondered if you’d turn up again,” he said as he put down a foam pad and kneeled on it.

“Ditto, Doctor,” I said.

He started examining the dead woman. I heard him say the words “severely damaged upper lip” and “recent surgery” to his assistant.

Taff Turner came up to Karen, led her away and spoke to her at length. Their eyes were on me most of the time. Then Karen came back over.

“It seems that your story is broadly corroborated by witnesses,” she said, pursing her lips. “I’m still livid with you, Matt. Why didn’t you call me before you came here?”

I shrugged. “There wasn’t time.”

Her eyes flared. “That’s pathetic. You thought it was Sara, didn’t you? You wanted all the glory of catching her for yourself.”

I felt my cheeks redden. Maybe she was right. I wasn’t too clear about my motives anymore. I’d never killed anyone before. Even though Lauren May Cuthbertson was a murderess and even though it was an accident, I felt guilty and tainted. Finally I understood the difference between writing about death and causing it. The only good thing was that I obviously had nothing in common with Sara and her brother. They enjoyed dispensing death; I just felt sick. Then again, I’d lured Jeremy Andrewes to what seemed to be his predestined end.