Paul Johnson - The Soul collector

His throat was parched and he had a splitting headache, but Andy was still able to think. His jacket and boots had been removed, but not his trousers. In a specially sewn addition to the left rear pocket, a few centimeters from his pinioned right hand, was an extra-slim pocket knife-he'd learned always to carry a concealed blade. He could feel its outline against his buttock. If he could get his fingers into the narrow space at the side of the pocket and open the blade, he'd be back in business.

If only he could move his fingers.

I swore beneath my breath when I realized I hadn't forced Karen to give me the dead woman's cell phone. I'd lost a potential link to Sara. I texted Rog and asked him to send Karen the addresses of all the properties Sara had bought. I also told him to see if he could trace any more, probably under a different name. If he did, he wasn't to supply Karen with that information. We would need to act on it ourselves. I asked if he or Pete had heard from Andy. They hadn't. Where the hell had he got to? He wasn't answering his phone. I left him texts and messages, aware that Sara or some other antagonist might pick them up. I didn't care, it was worth a try. But no answer came.

Then I called Safet Shkrelli. He didn't sound at all pleased to hear my voice.

"You've been having dealings with Earl Sternwood," I said before he hung up.

"His Lordship?" the Albanian said sarcastically. "I've got more important things on my mind right now."

"How about we trade information, Safet? You tell me about Sternwood and I'll tell you about the person who's been doing the gangland murders in East London."

"What?" he said, failing to disguise his surprise. "You must know I've just lost a relative over there. What do you know?"

"I killed her," I said, trying to sound swollen with pride. I wasn't, but the only way to impress gang bosses was to commit murder. I hadn't known any Albanians had been killed out east, but I didn't admit that.

"You?" Shkrelli said in disbelief. "You're a fucking writer."

"Turn on one of the rolling news channels."

There was a pause. "All right. Go to Highgate Station. One of my people will pick you up."

"I'll be there in two minutes. How will I know your man?"

He gave a hollow laugh. "Don't worry. After what you did to Mustafa, everyone knows what you look like, Matt Wells."

Shit. I hoped that the knocking-shop muscle-man hadn't been transferred to driving for Shkrelli.

As it happened, I'd never seen the driver of the black Mercedes and the accompanying hard man before. They were both big, wearing black suits, and their faces were covered in heavy stubble. One of them directed me to the backseat, removed my weapon and phone, and then forced my head between my knees. When we stopped about a quarter of an hour later, I had no idea where I was. A hood was slipped over my head before I was allowed out of the car.

When the hood was removed, I found myself standing in front of Safet Shkrelli. He looked more like a businessman than a gangster, in his white shirt and red silk tie. Then he stared at me and I saw the emptiness in his dark eyes.

"Sit down, Matt Wells," he said, pointing to an empty chair. There was a young man sitting next to it, wearing an ill-fitting track suit. His face was cut and bruised and one hand was bandaged, while his feet were bare. I wondered if that was to stop him from running.

"Tell me about this woman you killed," the Albanian ordered.

I gave him a partial version of events. After I'd described her face, Shkrelli asked the young man if that was what he'd seen.

He nodded rapidly, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "The lips," he said, "like a rabbit's. But the eyes, they were a demon's." His head dropped.

The gang boss turned back to me and slid a folder across his desk. "This is what she did to Lefter Omari, my cousin, who was my chief accountant. According to Faik here, she was going to ransom him. Obviously there was a change of plan."

I took in the photos of a severed head, hands and feet, as well as a torso that looked like a pride of lions had feasted on it.

"Why did she do this?" Shkrelli asked. "Was she mad?" I shrugged. "Probably." "They said on the TV that the police are looking for you." "Tough," I said as nonchalantly as I could. "Don't play games, Matt Wells. You called me some days ago, telling me the woman Katya was in danger. I succeed in protecting her, still. But I read in the newspapers about the woman you loved, this Sara." "Robbins," I said. That wasn't the way I wanted the conversation to head. "Never mind her. One of my friends has gone missing and I think this Sternwood scumbag might have him. What can you tell me about the earl?" "Why should I tell you anything, Matt Wells?" Shkrelli said. "Because Sternwood is a risk to you." "I fix my own risks," the gang boss said bluntly. "I can fix this one more effectively and no one will be able to trace it back to you." I'd played all my cards. Either he'd bite or I'd be turned over to Mustafa. "You have capable men?" I nodded. "And no police will be involved?" He gave a crooked smile. "I know you are screwing the VCCT woman. Maybe I should get my men to find out everything you know about her." "No police," I said, holding his gaze despite the thundering in my chest. Finally Shkrelli looked away. "Very well. If you guarantee you can silence Sternwood, I will let you prove that to me." He raised a thick finger. "But if you fail, I will silence you permanently, writer." I tried to look laid-back. The Albanian took another folder out of a drawer and pushed it toward me. "I always do my homework before I enter into business deals. You're in luck. I have an English investigator working for me. This is his report. Go now." I remained sitting. "Let me talk to our friend here," I said, leaning toward the young man. "Faik, right?" He kept his eyes to the ground. "Right," he said. I picked up an East London accent. "What are you? A Turk?" He looked up quickly and said something in a language I didn't recognize but it was obvious he'd sworn at me. "I am a Kurd," he said, glancing at Shkrelli. "I work for the King." I'd heard of that gang. "Let him come with me," I said to the gang boss. "He's seen enough." Safet Shkrelli thought about it and then nodded. He stood up and took a roll of banknotes from his pocket. "I thank you for helping me, Kurd. It was not your fault that my cousin was killed." He nodded to the heavy at the door. A few minutes later we were back in the car, hoods on our heads. "Where you want to go?" the driver asked. "Kentish Town Station," I said. "How about you, Faik?" "That's okay," he replied. When we got there, the hoods were removed and we found ourselves on a rain-dashed street corner. The young Kurd watched the car accelerate away, his face slack. I could see that he'd been through hell. He also knew things that I didn't. "Faik, come with me. I have clothes you can wear." He looked at me with sad eyes. "I want to go home." I put my hand on his arm. "Later. I need to talk to you." He considered that, and then nodded. "I need a bath," he said. "And maybe a doctor." His legs suddenly gave way and I caught him in my arms. I helped him into a taxi for the journey to Rog's cousin's flat. I didn't think there was anyone on our tail. I almost had to drag Faik up the stairs. Pete opened the door on the chain. "Who's that?" he asked. "Just let us in," I said. When he did so, I took the Kurd straight to the bathroom and left him to it. "Any news from Andy?" I asked the others. They both shook their heads. "Any more properties bought by Sara, Rog?" "Maybe. I'm working on a name that I think she used only once." I filled them in about Shkrelli and Faik. Then I split the investigator's report on the ninth Earl Sternwood into three parts and handed them out. Pete sat back in his chair. "Very thorough," he said. "But what makes you think this guy's got anything to do with the murders, Matt?" The photo of the aristocrat had been in the section I'd kept. I showed it to them. "Bloody hell," Rog said. "What happened to his face?" "Which is not dissimilar to Lauren May Cuthbert- son's," Pete said. I nodded. "I doubt that's a coincidence, particularly since the crime-writer murders and the gangland ones seem to be linked." I told them about the nail and hair clippings. "And there's more. The first Earl Sternwood was notorious for the Hell-fire Club he ran." "The what?" Rog asked, looking around from his computer.