Paul Johnson - The Soul collector

He was about to clamber over the seats when he saw the front door of number 47 open. He dropped back into cover and watched as a well-preserved, gray-haired woman wearing a dark blue trouser-suit came out. She headed for her car.

"Shit," Andy said under his breath. "Turn left, lady. Turn left!"

He waited until the car was moving before getting into the front. As he did so, he saw the left indicator come on.

"Way to go!" he said, turning the key in the ignition. Then he waited till he saw the red hatchback indicate right at the end of the road. He eased the van into gear and drove off in restrained pursuit.

Andy Jackson reckoned Matt would have been pleasantly surprised.

I took the Tube to Leicester Square and came out to a blustery squall. Even though it was Sunday, there were plenty of people around, not all of them foreign, judging by the swearing in various English accents as umbrellas were blown inside out and clothes were drenched. I was wearing a leather cowboy hat with a wide brim that I'd bought in Texas. It had the additional advantage of shielding my face from the CCTV surveillance cameras. I didn't want to compromise Karen by showing up on video, should things get nasty at Katya's place of work.

The rain drummed on my hat and I could feel the brim being weighed down. It only took me a few minutes to find the place I'd chosen from my list of businesses controlled by the Albanian mob. Six months ago, I'd written about gangs that had moved into London in recent years.

The joint was a walk-up, the entrance-door open. The battered sign said!Sexy Susie's Sauna etSEXera! I wondered if the Albanians had come up with that. At the top of the stairs my way was blocked by an unshaven gorilla in a black T-shirt that was stretched to the limit by his biceps.

"Hat off," he grunted as I reached the top step.

"Okay," I said, depositing a wave of rainwater from my hat over his trousers and shoes. I smiled. "Oops."

The gorilla thought about belting me and decided against it. First, they'd take my money, then he could kick my arse.

I put my hand into my pocket and came out with a fifty-pound note.

"Not for you," I said, whipping it away from the wet muscle-man.

"Thank you, sir," said a middle-aged woman, who had appeared from the rear of the premises.

"Are you Sexy Susie?" I asked.

She snorted, ran a test pen over the note and then put it through a narrow slit in the door to her left. Anyone who tried to rob the place would not only have to deal with the gorilla, but break down the armored door and face the heavily armed gang member behind it. I didn't think there would have been many successful attempts.

"Would you care to see what we have to offer, sir?" the woman said. The lines on her face were visible even beneath the thick layer of makeup, and her voice, despite the customer-friendly vocabulary and syntax, was as warm as an ice floe. She pointed to the plasma screen behind her. It was split into eight squares, three of which were blank-danger, men at work. The other five showed women wearing very little and sitting in contorted poses. I looked closer. None of them was Katya.

"No good," I said. "I want Katya."

Sexy Susie glanced at the muscle behind me. "Katya?" she said. "I don't think we have a Katya." Her tone dripped fake bonhomie. "How about Lena?" she said, pointing to one of the squares.

"Is she over sixteen?" I asked.

The madam lost patience. "Muzzie," she said, "this gentleman's just leaving."

Two large hands came down on my shoulders and turned me around. I could see his belly was slack. Dave had taught us exactly what to do with guys like him. I drew my right hand back quickly and drove it into the upper part of his abdomen, just below the sternum. He went down like a sack of lead weights. Unfortunately for him, the stairs were right behind. He slid down them on his backside, his head hitting the street door with a satisfying thud.

I turned back to Susie. "Katya," I said. "Now."

"She isn't here," she said, stepping back as I advanced on her. "I swear it."

"Where is she, then?" I asked, hearing a rattle at the door to my right. I pulled out my Glock and pointed it at the woman's face. "Stay in there unless you want her brains on the wallpaper!" The rattling stopped.

"I dunno," the madam said, her voice quivering.

I moved closer, the muzzle of my pistol almost touching her forehead. "You know, all right," I said, smiling. "I'm counting to three. Not out loud. And I've started."

The woman glared at me, her eyes damp. "Put it away, mister," she said desperately.

"Talk first."

"I. Oh, for fuck's sake. Katya's with one of the bosses. Jesus, you don't know what you've walked into. They'll cut your pathetic cock off and stuff it in your mouth."

"What's his name?" I said, holding the Glock steady. "Shkrelli," she replied. She was trembling now. "Which one?" "Safet." The Shkrelli clan kept a low profile, but it was one of the Albanian mob's most powerful operators. "Have you got a number for him?" I asked. "You're out of your fucking mind," the woman said, shaking her head. "I know," I said, smiling again. There was nothing like a smile to convince criminals you were serious-it was an unwritten rule for major hard men. I wasn't one of those, but I could play the part for a while. She took a pencil with a chewed end from the pocket of her overtight jeans and wrote on the back of a betting slip. "You'd better not use that," she said as she handed it to me. I nodded. "Thanks for the advice. Do you want me to hit you?" She understood what I meant. "Nah, they heard it all anyway. They'll be the ones doing the hitting." "You can walk out of here with me," I said, lowering the Glock. She thought about that, then shook her head. "No point," she said. "You're going to be dead soon." I laughed, which surprised her. I was thinking how disappointed Sara would be if I was taken out by the Albanian mob before she got to me. "Go, you idiot," she said, a smile flickering on her lips. "And don't come back." The rattling on the door started up again. I shrugged. "Thanks," I said, then turned on my heel and ran down the stairs. The gorilla was just coming around as I reached the street door. He made a half-hearted attempt to grab my legs, but stopped when I knocked his head against the wall.

"Don't," I said, pointing the pistol at his face.

He cowered, even when I'd put the Glock back in my jacket. Then I put my cowboy hat back on and stepped confidently on to the street like a well-satisfied customer.

As I turned the corner, I realized that my heart was in overdrive and my throat was as dry as a Balkan mountain in high summer. Twelve Karen Oaten went out of New Scotland Yard and headed for the cafe where she often bought lunch-although she wasn't often there on a Sunday. She was served by Dino, one of the owner's swarthy sons. They all had a good line in risque patter, but Dino was the master.

"It is good in the beautiful signora's life, everything?" he asked as he put together Oaten's tuna sandwich. The brothers had been to school in West London, but Dino liked to play the cute Italian boy only recently arrived from the old country.

"Wonderful," she said, surprised by the bitterness in her voice. Even though her desk was piled high with murder files, Karen wasn't usually daunted by her job. She'd been through worse times-the White Devil's reign of terror, for example.

"I can help the signora in many ways," Dino said, raising an eyebrow at her. "Especially in bedroom." He handed over a plate with her sandwich and an Americano.

"I'm sure," Karen said, ignoring the innuendo. She paid and headed for a table in the corner. As she ate, she thought about why she was bitter. It didn't take much effort to pinpoint the reason. Dino, by chance rather than design, had identified the problem. She needed help, but it wasn't the kind you could get from anyone else-she needed self-help. It was hardly the first time in her life that she'd been troubled by affairs of the heart. Where did that old-fashioned phrase come from? She didn't read Regency romances or the like. But in the past, such problems had been easily sorted. A sweet-tongued, two-timing barrister had been sent reeling back to his chambers by a well-directed kick to his groin; a chief inspector from Vice whose demands got ever more disturbing was reined in after Karen called his wife; and a VCCT sergeant with ideas substantially above his station was back in uniform, policing football matches. None of those techniques would work with Matt, though.