Paul Johnson - The Soul collector

Karen looked at the people at the counter. A few of them would be police officers in plain clothes or civilian support staff, but most were ordinary members of the public. She wondered what it would be like to work in a nine-to-five job, with nothing more to worry about each day than which TV channel to watch and what to cook for dinner. She never had time to watch television, except occasionally the late news, and Matt always cooked when they were together, even at her place. She was a disaster in the kitchen and survived on frozen meals and tins when she was alone. So what was her problem? She had a man who cared for her, and a job that she treasured, even if it sometimes got to her.

"Is okay?" Dino was standing over the small table, arms akimbo.

Karen knew he wasn't only asking about the food. "Leave me alone." She got no pleasure seeing the young man's head jerk back as if he had been slapped, but she really did need to think things through. Matt loved her, she knew that. And she loved him. That would be enough for most people, but they were different. Weird, in fact. She knew what her problem was-the job made her cold and dispassionate, or rather she had always been that way and working murder cases had made her more so. But Matt, he was a collection of different people in a single body-admittedly a very attractive one, especially since he'd been hitting the gym. He was a father, though she hadn't had kids so she couldn't fully fathom that side of him. He was a lover, true to his word and tender as any man she'd known. But he was also a writer, following in his adoptive mother's foot- steps-and writers, particularly those in the crime genre, were skilled liars, experts at concealing motive and ruthless at achieving their ends. That was the problem with Matt. It had been that way during the White Devil investigation, when he hadn't been able to trust her. Something similar was happening now. He had found one of his best friends dead and suddenly he was putting into operation a carefully organized plan that she was sure she knew only a small part of. Where were the other guys? Andy Jackson, Roger van Zandt and Peter Satterthwaite were up to something-some of them probably trying to pick up Sara Robbins's trail via her financial transactions, as they had done with the White Devil. She had sent officers to the three homes, but none of them had been there. Matt was keeping things from her, she knew that. If she wanted, she could take him into protective custody-forcibly if necessary. That would put a terrible strain on their relationship, but would it be worse than Matt carrying out a private war against the woman who'd betrayed him? What if that war led to innocent victims? "Guv?" Karen looked up. "Oh, hi, Taff." "Can I join you?" "May I join you," she said. "I had a pedantic old English teacher. Obviously you're physically capable of joining me. You want to know if I'll give you permission to join me, which requires 'may.'" "I'll take that as a 'yes,' shall I?" the Welshman asked, pulling up a chair. He was carrying one plate piled high with toast and another with three fried eggs. "Going for the premature heart attack?" the chief inspector said, finishing her wholemeal sandwich. "I haven't eaten since six this morning." "I think you owe me an explanation. Where have you been? I've left you several messages." John Turner avoided her eyes as he bit into a double layer of toast. "The AC," he mumbled. "What?" Karen said loudly, making heads turn. "Has he had you doing things behind my back?" The inspector wiped egg yolk from his mouth. "He thinks you're overwhelmed." "Fuck that!" she said, provoking stares. "He should have come to me first." She glared at her subordinate. "And you should have told me what was going on as soon as you left him." Turner held her gaze. "He told me not to. He knows how loyal I am to you." He raised his shoulders. "So I thought about it and came to find you. But he is the senior officer and-" Oaten leaned over the table. "Don't worry, I'll be speaking to the senior officer shortly. In the meantime, you'd better tell me what's been going on. I'm still in charge of the team, remember?"

The Welshman gave her a weary look. "I was about to fill you in, guv."

That stopped the next cannonade before it was fired. "Fair enough, Taff," the chief inspector said, smiling. "Let's have it, then."

"He called me before I woke up," Turner said, pushing away his plates. "Told me to go straight to his office. He was waiting for me there. He made me run through all the outstanding case files with him."

"That must have achieved a lot."

"Mm. I did my best to make him see that you were doing all you could. It's the idea that the White Devil's sister might be back that's got to him. Or rather, it's got to the politicians and the commissioner, and the AC's nuts are in a vise as a consequence."

"I wish they were," Oaten said. "I'd give the handle a couple of full turns, clockwise."

The Welshman laughed. "Me, too."

"So why did he let you go?"

"Because there wasn't anything else I could tell him. The Mary Malone case is dead in the water. Homicide West have got no suspects and the top brass are wondering if there's a connection between that case and the murder of Matt Wells's friend, Dave Cummings."

"They think she's back," Karen said. "Which means everything that happens in the city is down to her. Don't tell me they're trying to pin Homicide East's gang murders on Sara, too?"

Turner shook his head. "I gather old Ron's happy he's still got the cases. They still haven't found the witness who was shot, I heard."

"I doubt they will," his superior said. "He's either made it to his own people or the Shadows have caught up with him."

"In which case, bits of him will already be setting in concrete."

She nodded. "What about Dave Cummings? The last time I looked, you were heading up that case."

The inspector's cheeks reddened. "I still am, guv. We found an old woman who thought she heard a motorbike making a racket. A powerful machine, she reckoned."

"What time?"

"She isn't sure. Mid to late morning, so within the pathologist's parameters for the time of death."

"Sara might have a bike. Though I remember Matt telling me not long ago that his friend Andrew Jackson has got a new one."

Turner frowned as he took that in, then made a note. "I've got Morry Simmons and a team of uniforms checking CCTV and traffic-camera footage in the area. Maybe we can get an identification."

"What, through her helmet? She'll probably have dumped the bike by now." Karen Oaten shook her head and looked away.

After a long silence, the inspector tried to bring her back. "What is it, guv?" he asked gently.

The words made his superior glance back. "Oh, not a lot," she said ironically. "Matt's keeping things from me. And I've just decided to bring him in."

The Welshman nodded. "Good idea. If we have him, maybe Sara will do something stupid."

"Or maybe she'll just kill people at random till we let him go again." The chief inspector got up. "I'm going to talk to the AC, then find Matt." As she walked past the counter, she raised her hand at Dino. He responded with a bitter smile.

John Turner stirred another spoonful of sugar into his tea. He was trying to make up his mind about who he'd rather not be-the AC or Matt Wells. Not that he cared. In his opinion, both needed a long and loud reading of the riot act.

"Hello, Safet," I said from a public phone in Piccadilly. I'd checked that no one had followed me from the sex club.

"Who's this?"

The Albanian had an American accent. I remembered he'd spent five years running his clan's operation in Baltimore.

"Matt Wells," I said, deepening my voice for effect. I needn't have bothered. He hung up.

I called the number again. "Don't do that, Safet. This is the Matt Wells who writes a crime column in the Daily Independent."