Paul Johnson - The Soul collector

"Tell him where we are," the bearded man said to Izady. The King's cousin ran his hand across his damp forehead. "This is a Shadow store." Faik stared at Izady. Their lives were forfeit if the Turks discovered their presence. "What?" Faik said. "Where are the guards?" "They were told to take the evening off," Izady said, his head down. "Yes," the bearded man said. "You see, Aro Izady doesn't only work for the King. He's also a Shadow." "No!" Faik said. "That's impossible!" The stranger was now standing behind Izady. "Tell him," he said. "It's…it's true," Izady said, his eyes not meeting those of his fellow Kurd. "But the Shadows hate us," said Faik. "They'd never have a Kurd in their organization." "Aro is the exception," the bearded man said. "And, in case you're wondering, he isn't playing them off against each other. He's loyal only to the Turks." Faik stepped forward and forced Izady's chin up so he couldn't avoid the young man's gaze. "Is he speaking the truth?" "Ye…yes," he said. Faik had the cutthroat out and open before the man with the mustache could move, but he failed to slash the traitor's throat. There was a spitting sound and the blade spun away. Faik watched as blood welled from the palm of his right hand. "Impressive," the bearded man said. "But this is my show." Izady froze as the muzzle of the silenced pistol touched the side of his head. His eyes bulged, then he started to babble in English. There was a cracking sound, then a spray of blood and brain launched from the other side of his head. He dropped to the floor like an unstrung puppet.

"Wh…why?" Faik said, clutching his wounded hand.

The bearded man smiled. "I like you. You've got a pretty face. Pity." He turned his weapon on the young Kurd.

"No!" Faik screamed.

The man stood in front of Faik, then raised the hand that wasn't holding the gun and tugged his beard and hair.

Faik's eyes opened wide. "No," he said in horror. "No!"

Then the shooter smashed the butt of his weapon against the side of the Kurd's head and darkness overtook his world. Nine Sara couldn't have found Lucy and the others, Matt," Andy said. "It's impossible. You don't know where they are. How could she?" I looked at the curtains that I'd drawn across the wide expanse of the windows. If anyone was watching from across the river, he or she wouldn't even be able to see that the lights were on. "There are plenty of things Sara could have done," I said, turning away from the screen on my desk. "She or a sidekick could have followed Caroline and Lucy from Wimbledon, or got on their tail when they picked up my mother. She could have put bugs on both cars. It wouldn't surprise me if she got a bug into Caroline's handbag." Andy shook his head. "You'll drive yourself crazy thinking that way. They've probably just had computer problems." "She could have sent me a text. Even Lucy could do that." The American raised an eyebrow. "You're losing your cool, man. You told Caroline to take Lucy's cell phone away, to turn it and her own off."

He was right, though I had the feeling Caroline would be reluctant to turn her phone off. I took some deep breaths and tried to get my head in order. I'd just about succeeded when the doorbell from the main entrance rang.

Andy grabbed his weapon. "You expecting anybody?"

I shook my head. "Karen's got keys, but she told me she wouldn't be coming tonight." I went over to the entry- phone. It had a screen that showed who had rung the bell, as long as they stayed within camera range.

"Shit," I said.

"Trouble?" Andy asked.

"No, just an asshole."

"Don't pick up then."

"Then he'll come back." I looked at the face that was mugging at the camera. It was conceivable that Josh Hinkley had heard something useful. He had contacts with criminals, who got him to buy numerous rounds of drinks and generally took the piss.

"Bit late, isn't it, Josh?" I said after signaling to Andy to stay back.

"It's not even eleven. Come on, Matt, let me in." He held up a bottle of Highland Park. That immediately made me suspicious. He wanted something. I needed to find out what. It wasn't beyond the realms of possibility that Sara had got to him, either directly or indirectly.

I pressed the button, then went over to my computer. "You'd better go into my bedroom, Andy. I don't want Josh Hinkley to know anyone's here. He's got a mouth that motors all over London. Leave the door ajar so you can hear what's going on." He departed with his weapon, his jacket and his bag. I switched off my computer and made sure my Glock was out of sight. When the interior bell rang, I went to the spyhole and checked he was on his own. Then I opened the door with the two chains still on, to make a hundred percent sure.

"Hey, Matt," Josh said. "Sorry about your fr-"

I shut the door in his face, realizing that he would have heard about Dave's murder. It had been on the TV and radio news, though Karen had managed to keep my name out of the bulletins-that wouldn't last much longer.

After I'd unhitched the chains, I let Hinkley in.

"As I was saying, sorry about your friend." He handed me the bottle of whisky and walked into the living area. "This is one hell of a pad, Matt." He turned to me and grinned. "Got a football?"

I cracked the seal and pulled the cork. He got a large measure, I took a small one. "Look, Josh, this is a bad time for me."

"I know," he said, his expression serious. "That's why I came. Bit of moral support. You on your own?" He looked toward the bedroom door.

I nodded and led him to one of the leather sofas. "Well, it's good of you, Josh," I said, not buying what he'd said for a moment. "I think what I most need now is to get some sleep."

"Fair enough. I'll wet my whistle and then I'll be off." He took a slug of the neat whisky. "Ah, that does the business!" He looked around at me as he put his glass down on the mahogany coffee table with a thud. "Oops, sorry." He tried to look somber again, but it was a state that he found difficult. His default mode was cynicism spliced with crudity. "We go back a long way, don't we? Being a crime writer, I thought I might be able to…um, like I said, offer support with a bit of empathy in it."

I eyed him skeptically. "How many of your close friends have you seen with their heads blown apart, Josh?"

His cheeks reddened. "Well, when you put it like that."

"I'm not putting it like anything," I said, the anger that had been building up all day finally erupting. "That's the reality. Some fucking bastard shot my friend to death from close range. It was a horror show. Don't tell me you've ever seen anything like it."

Josh had his hands out, like a zookeeper trying to calm down a rabid bear. "Whoa, Matt, steady on. I'm your mate, remember?"

"Yeah," I said, "some mate. When The Death List went to number one, you wrote an article saying that true- crime books were written by voyeurs who didn't have enough imagination to produce decent novels."

He grinned slackly. "Well, you did knock me off the top spot."

I wasn't finished. "You're the mate who told my agent I'd been bad-mouthing him, and my editor that I'd said she was a randy witch."

Hinkley was busy putting some distance between us, his arse sliding squeakily over the leather. He wasn't grinning now.

"So exactly what kind of support do you think you're qualified to offer, you poxy shithead?" I sat back, my heart pounding. Then the anger slowly dissipated. I could see out of the corner of my eye that Josh was watching me intently.

"Don't worry," he said quietly. "I know what it's like, all right. My old ma died last year."

Christ, now I'd given him some leverage. "Sorry," I said, looking at him. "I hadn't heard."

"It's okay. She was over ninety. You're still unprepared for it, though." He took another pull of whisky. "All I was trying to say was that crime writers know something about death and killing."