Paul Johnson - The Soul collector

Oaten's phone rang. She fitted the earpiece and answered.

"Yes, Dr. Redrose," she said, shaking her head at the Welshman. "How can I help you?" She listened, her jaw dropping. "Are you sure?" She listened again, and then thanked him and signed off.

"Jesus," she said. "The old ghoul has his uses."

"What's happened?"

"After the case conference, his curiosity was piqued. He didn't do the autopsies on the gang victims. He went to the morgue and checked the finger and toenails of the two Kurds. Guess what he found?"

"Don't tell me they'd been clipped."

"Yup. But only one toe in each case, as if the killer was being careful not to draw attention." She gave a hollow laugh. "That's how Redrose spotted it, of course. Nobody cuts only one nail themselves, at least not usually. He's pretty sure that a small number of hairs have been taken from the head and groin of each dead man, too. Not enough to make a conclusive link."

"But the toenails do that," Turner said. "The likelihood of both victims having cut one nail recently must be minimal."

Karen Oaten nodded. "So there's a good chance that the same killer is behind the crime writer and the gangland murders. Or the same killers."

The inspector swallowed hard. "And that devil worship played a part in them all."

Neither of them needed to say it aloud, but the White Devil was even more in the frame-and, apparently, even more dangerous than ever.

I found out from a friend at the Daily Indie that Jeremy Andrewes was in the office. Andy and I were outside in Clerkenwell Road-he was twenty meters left of the entrance to the paper's building, and I was about the same distance to the right, both of us on the opposite side of the road. If the journalist stayed inside, I didn't see how Sara could get to him, unless she was already in the office. I didn't think that was too likely. You needed an electronic pass to get past the security door in reception. I could have got in using mine, but it would take me a long time to check the whole place. Besides, I was in the news. As soon as anyone recognized me, I'd have difficulty getting out again and that would screw up my plan completely. I'd removed the fake mustache. I didn't think it would fool people who knew me well.

Ten minutes before twelve, I nodded to Andy and then retired to a cafe down the road that supported wi-fi access. I booted up my laptop. On the ghost site I found a message from my mother. That was a major relief. She'd cracked the "Andrews" part of the clue, but hadn't got Jeremy. Then again, she didn't know the journalist, so she hadn't been able to make the leap that I had.

I clicked on the message that appeared at exactly eleven fifty-nine. It was from wotacarveup. I wrote my reply-Karen Oaten-and sent it. Two minutes later, an answer arrived. Karen Oaten? You really have lost your grip, Matt. And to think that I'd have kept my word if you'd got the right answer. Soon it'll be your turn. Doom and disaster! Helen I smiled and logged off. Then I picked up my cell phone and speed-dialed Jeremy Andrewes's number. "Crime," he answered. "A very good description of your articles, recently." "Hello, Matt." He didn't sound even slightly embarrassed. "All's fair in etc., etc. Where are you?" "Never mind that. I've got an exclusive for you." "Really?" As I'd expected, he was suspicious. "Why don't you write it yourself?" "Because I'm too busy trying to stay alive." He thought about that for a while. "All right," he said, at last. "What are you going to do? Dictate your story to me over the phone?" "No chance. My cell phone frequency might be being scanned. I need you to meet me." "Fair enough. Where?" "In front of the British Museum. You've got fifteen minutes." I cut the connection, put the laptop in my bag and went out on the street. Andy had moved nearer the paper's entrance. He was looking out for me and watched carefully as I hailed a cab. I made sure I raised my right arm. If I'd have used the left, he'd have known something was wrong. I was at the museum in five minutes. That gave me a bit of time to check out the courtyard in front of the wide steps that led to the entrance. It was filled with the usual crowds of tourists and school groups. That was why I'd chosen it. It was busy enough not only to tempt Sara or her sidekicks into thinking that they could have a go at Andrewes, but also to give me cover. There were also security personnel all around. They might come in handy when it came to preventing Sara's getaway, as well as protecting innocent bystanders. I felt queasy about inciting her to violence in such a public place, but I had no option. If I'd invited the journalist to my flat, she'd have smelled a rat, and I'd also have run the risk of the cops finding out where I was, assuming they had the building under surveillance.

I went up the steps and looked at my watch. I reckoned we had five minutes or less. Andy would follow Jeremy Andrewes-he knew what he looked like from the photo above the article he'd written in today's paper. But if he couldn't find a taxi immediately, the journalist would get away from him. If Sara arrived on her motorbike, which I was almost certain she would do even though the only bikers we'd seen in Clerkenwell had been couriers, I needed to position myself as far from the gate as possible. I walked along inside the row of columns and sat halfway down the steps at the far left facing the courtyard. There was a snack vendor in a trailer about ten yards away. Japanese visitors were queuing in an orderly line to sample his wares.

A minute to go. I looked around as casually as I could. I saw a taxi stop on Great Russell Street. Jeremy Andrewes got out and walked toward the gate. Other taxis passed in both directions, but none stopped. Andy had been delayed. My heart was beating faster than normal. When I saw the helmeted head of a motorbike rider through the railings, it started to pound. The biker, clad in black leathers, entered the courtyard about five yards behind Andrewes. I stood up, trying to see any sign of a weapon, particularly a silenced pistol. Sara might get a shot off before the journalist reached me. But there was a crowd of screaming primary school kids between the pair and me, and Jeremy Andrewes had to weave through them. Those movements made him less of a target, though Sara would probably have no qualms about hitting the children. Then he saw me and waved.

I was watching the biker. The leathers disguised the shape of the body beneath, but it definitely could have been a woman's. The helmet was still on, the visor down. That was enough to make me positive that the biker was up to no good. The bike was red and looked like the one we'd been chasing earlier.

Kids were swarming around as I went down the steps.

"Matt," Jeremy Andrewes said with a smile on his lips that I knew was untrustworthy. He was wearing the tweed jacket and corduroy trousers that had resulted in people on the Daily Indie calling him "Squire."

I maneuvered myself so that I was between him and the motorbike rider. "Hello, Jeremy." I turned toward the courtyard. The biker had stopped by the snack trailer. The tinted visor gave the impression of a robot. I immediately thought of the Terminator, a relentless machine in human form. The only difference was that Sara was much more dangerous than Arnold Schwarzenegger ever was.

"What is it?" Andrewes said, turning in the same direction as I had.

"Nothing," I said. "Bloody kids. You can never visit a museum nowadays without thousands of them getting in the way."

"We can't talk here," he said, frowning.

"Why not? It isn't raining, for a change."

He peered at me through thick lenses. "Oh, I get it. You've got people watching us."

I shook my head, wondering where Andy had got to. My stomach tightened. Could Sara have caught up with him?

Andrewes took out a gadget and fiddled with the buttons. "All right if I record you?"