Paul Johnson - The Soul collector

Andy pulled on latex gloves and took his lock-picking rods from his pocket.

"How long do you give me, Boney?" he asked.

Pete shone his torch around the door. "I can't see an alarm. How about one minute, Slash?"

Andy succeeded, just. They went in, closing the door behind them. There was cast-iron garden furniture on a wide wooden veranda. Pete was shining his torch around the rear door.

"Yup, there it is," he said, pointing to a small plastic box at the top of the black-painted door. "Circuit breaker." He took out the electronic device with a pointed end that Rog had given him. "Let's see if this thing works." He held it toward the top of the door for five seconds. "Okay. See what you can do with the lock."

Andy worked his rods again and there was a click. "Dammit," he said in a loud whisper. "There's a mortice lock, as well."

Pete moved the electronic device around the window. "You'll have to cut the glass."

"Sara or her sidekicks will know we've been here."

"Tough," Pete said. "You heard Matt. Any pressure on the bitch is good news."

Andy took a glass-knife and two rubber suckers from his backpack. After he'd attached them, Pete held them while he did the cutting. The pane was soon removed and they climbed in.

"Motion sensors," Pete said, holding Andy back as he moved across the kitchen. He held up the device again. "Okay."

They moved forward and made it to the hall, opening the door carefully.

"Jesus, did something die in here?" Andy said as a wave of rank air hit them.

"Very likely," Pete said, on his knees by the alarm box. Rog had given him another device that was supposed to scramble the unit's brains for up to half an hour.

"What is that stink?" Andy said, shining his torch around the spacious area.

"Whatever it is, it isn't far away," Pete said, close behind him. They came around the bottom of the wide staircase.

"You have got to be kidding," Andy said, putting a hand over his nose and mouth.

Pete shone his torch on the swollen figure that was lying facedown inside the front door. "I'm glad we came in the back," he said, breathing only through his mouth.

"Is it a guy?" Andy asked, peering at the head.

"Those look like suit trousers. Pinstripe. Hold on." Pete took out his digital camera and shot a series of photographs. "That'll keep Matt happy." Andy looked up at him. "We're going to have to turn the poor bastard over." They took hold of the bloated shoulders and managed to get the body on to its back. Pete stepped back and took more photos. The face would scarcely have been recognized by the corpse's best friend. "Look at that," Andy said, pointing. "Throat's been cut." Pete nodded. "Check his pockets. Maybe there's some ID on him." Andy blinked hard and then slid a hand into the trouser pocket nearest to him. He shook his head. "Zilch." Pete tried the pocket on the other side. "Something in here." He brought out a rectangular card. "James Macle- hose," he said, "and a load of letters after his name. Consultant plastic surgeon. There's an address in Harley Street." "He must have really got someone pissed," Andy said, leaning over the dead man's face. "His nose has been cut off. Christ. And his lips." Pete had put the stained card in a plastic bag. "You know what, Slash?" "Tell me," Andy said, raising an eyebrow. "We'll have to turn him over again." "What, so the cops don't realize he's been moved?" "No. So we can check his back pockets." They maneuvered the body again. "Nothing in here," Pete said. "But I've got this." Andy held up a piece of folded paper. "I think there's some writing, but it's run." He held the paper up to Pete's torch beam. "'Sorry, but..'" He squinted in the torchlight. "Nope, can't make it out. Why's someone saying sorry? For killing him?"

"Fuck knows. Let's get out of here before I puke my guts up."

Pete walked to the kitchen.

"Hey, Boney," Andy said, "you need to reactivate the alarm system."

"No, I don't. The place is going to be swarming with cops as soon as we're clear of it." He went through the window space.

When they were back on the street, Pete took out his cell phone and started texting. By the time they reached the main road, he'd had a reply.

"Good," he said. "Matt agrees. I'll call the cops from the city center."

As they walked between medieval college buildings, Andy nudged his friend.

"What do you think about Oxford now, Boney?"

Pete raised his arm and sniffed his jacket. "I still stink of that poor bastard." He glanced at the American. "What do I think about Oxford?" He shivered. "I still bloody hate it."

Andy nodded. "Me, too. But you get a better class of corpse here."

Pete stared at him and shook his head. "Sometimes I despair of you, Slash."

"Me, too, man," Andy replied, watching a blond young woman in a short skirt get off her bicycle. "But I can get over it."

"Aw right, mate," said Josh Hinkley, his feet in their black pointed cowboy boots on the kitchen table. "But tell Spider he's dead if he doesn't show up for poker on Friday. See ya." He dropped the phone onto the book he'd been reading-Offshore Investments Made Simple. His broker had told him it was worth its weight in platinum, which had made Josh laugh. He still thought the guy was a champion arse-licker.

"Time for a drink, I reckon, Josh, old man," he said aloud, getting up and heading for the fridge. He took out a bottle of Urquel lager and flipped the cap. "Oh, yes, my beauty," he said after a series of gulps. Since his wife, Lou, had up and left, he'd taken to talking to himself. It wasn't as if anyone could hear him. Or his music. From the stereo came the sound of The Kinks playing "All Day and All of the Night." He'd always liked Ray Davies and his mates. A genuine London band with genuine London style.

Not that he was a Londoner himself. According to his Web site, he'd been born within the sound of the Bow Bells, but it would have needed a clear day and a massive sound system to have carried the ding-dongs to the hospital in Harlow. Still, at least his ma had been a real Cockney, even though she wasn't too clear about who his old man was. It was a toss-up between an Irish laborer and a Glaswegian layabout. Josh's money was on the former-he had a hell of a work ethic. For the last ten years he'd spent as much time as he could reading the competition. He had transposed American characters to the U.K. and altered the dialogue appropriately. So far as plot was concerned, there was nothing new under the sun, as he liked to say at book signings. Some arsehole critics had clocked what he was up to, but his readers didn't care. And then, out of the bleeding blue, along comes that little squit Alistair Bing with his Jim Cooler books and outsells him all over the world.

The phone rang. "'Allo, darling," Hinkley said with a wide grin. "Yeah, you're bloody right I'm waiting for you. Get that pretty little Chinese ass of yours over here right now, you hear?" He dropped the phone and dug around in his pocket for the bag of coke he'd scored earlier. He chopped some lines on the antique farmhouse table that Lou had made such a fuss about polishing and got to work with a rolled- up fifty-pound note.

"Yeehah!" he shouted, as he made his way unsteadily to his top-of-the-range Bang amp; Olufsen stereo system. A few seconds later, The Jam were crashing their way through his favorite track, "Private Hell"-another set of genuine London sons; well, Surrey sons. And with Chop Suzy on her way, what more could a man ask?

Josh Hinkley slid slowly to the parquet floor. His head was spinning, but he still couldn't get Matt Wells out of his mind. The fucker. He was knobbing that blond bint from the VCCT, so he got the heads-up on every big case in the city. She probably knew exactly where he was and what he was doing. The rozzers were letting Matt break as many laws as he liked. But he was going to get the tosser; he'd already set the wheels in motion. Mr. I Know More About Crime Than Any Other Novelist was going to become a very big cropper.