The Soul Collector (16 page)

or “prince”—no, I’m not going to ask you to identify that; anyone who read English at university, as you did, will spot that I’m riffing on lines from Hamlet. How can you trust me? Well, you haven’t got much choice, have you? I already promised to play by the rules, Matt. That’s all I can say.

Here it is—puzzle number one:

The sun set by the westernmost dunes of Alexander’s womankind. By the way, Matt, this is for you to work out. I know you’ll ask your mother and your friends to help, there’s nothing I can do to stop that. But if I discover that 146

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you’ve told Karen Oaten or anyone else in authority about the challenge, I swear I’ll kill all the names on my list, including your family and everyone else you care for without giving you a second chance. Clear? Till 23:59 tonight—I’ll give you a minute to reply then. And remember, I’ve killed already. Not just Mary Malone, but her black cat, as well. Off with its head!

That wasn’t reported, either, was it?

You could call me Flaminio, but I prefer D.F.

“What is this shit?” Andy said, glancing at me. “Have you got any idea what’s going on here, Matt?”

I blinked and tried to concentrate. “I know that Flaminio is the chief villain and white devil—meaning liar and hypocrite—in Webster’s play of that name.”

Andy’s brow furrowed as he tried to keep up. “The White Devil? So Sara’s behind this.”

I raised my shoulders. “Maybe. But she’s been busy already, assuming she killed Dave, too.”

“Doesn’t seem too likely that you’ve got another mad person on your ass.”

“Thanks for pointing that out, Slash.”

“What’s D.F.?”

“Search me. Direction finder?”

“Yeah, we could use one of those.”

“Defender of the Faith? That means the queen, in case you were wondering. No, it’s probably not her.”

Andy looked at me dubiously. “What about this halfassed challenge? You think whoever wrote this is really going to kill someone just because you can’t work out their identity?”

I raised a hand. “Hold on. We have to assume the writer is serious. Jesus, that clue could lead to Lucy or one of
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our friends. But you’re messing up the motivation. The next target won’t be killed because of anything I do. The killer’s working to another plan—there’s mention of a list. We’ll have to work out who’s on it from the message—I mean both how it’s written and what it contains. And—

if I blow it—by the modus operandi.”

“Yeah, well I think I’ll leave solving the riddle to you,”

the American said. “I haven’t done that kind of stuff since high school, and I screwed up in English literature bigtime.”

I was looking at the line in red. “The sun set by the westernmost—”

Then I heard keys turn in the locks. I’d forgotten about Karen.

“Into the wardrobe in the guest room,” I hissed to Andy as the door opened and the chains rattled. Fortunately he’d already stashed the bag containing his weapons and other gear. I clicked off my e-mail and went quickly to the door.

Roger van Zandt opened the curtain of his room a couple of centimeters. The pavements in the back streets around Paddington Station were dotted with the rubbish left by representatives of the local subcultures—tarts, junkies, down-and-outs and the people who preyed on them. Rog didn’t view himself as a prude, but this area made him wish that some morally superior politician of the kind he never voted for would launch a cleanup campaign. He went back to the small desk that he’d been working at until sleep claimed him as dawn was breaking. His laptop sat there, a silver machine that had taken him all over the world from the grimy room. He had bought a 148

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cutting-edge processor, and the wireless card meant that he was completely mobile. Later he’d be slipping away from this dump and checking into another hotel. But before then he had to post what he’d found on the impregnable ghost site. Rog sat down on the rickety chair and started to work on the document. What he had done was follow the money trail from the White Devil’s accounts. He and Pete had originally found them two years back when they were on the trail of Matt’s persecutor. After the madman’s death, Matt had decided not to pursue the money. He didn’t know that Rog and Pete had kept tabs on Sara’s funds. Dave’s murder meant that they had to track Sara down fast via her money, and Rog was glad they had only a small number of transactions to catch up on. It had taken him no more than a few minutes to realize that someone who really knew what they were doing had done their utmost to obscure the trail. Sara had obviously hired a top-notch techie before she went after Dave.

Not that Rog had been stymied. It had taken some time, but he now had a list of bank accounts, ranging from Switzerland to Macau, via the Cayman Islands and Bolivia. He knew where Sara had invested part of the forty-two million dollars she’d acquired—in U.S. and German government stocks, but also in a range of public companies. Pete would be able to work on that side. Last, but definitely not least, Rog had discovered several properties that Sara had bought. Four of those were in the U.K., three in the southeast of England.

The interesting thing about the U.K. properties was the name of the owner—Angela Oliver-Merilee. Rog had run identity checks and had found two women with that name.
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One was a ninety-two-year-old resident of a nursing home in Yorkshire, the other the seven-year-old daughter of a classics teacher living in Manchester. Rog was sure the name had been chosen for a reason. Matt would probably have some thoughts on that.

Rog finished the text and sent it to the ghost site, then logged off and shut down his machine.

A few minutes later he was in the shower, water spraying all over the yellowing tiles from a faulty head. Having devoted himself to nailing Sara for so many hours, now Rog couldn’t get Dave out of his mind. Tears ran down his face and were immediately washed down the drain by the jets of lukewarm water.

He stumbled from the shower, dripping water over the floor. Pausing only to dry his hands, Rog logged on to the ghost site again and sent a message to his friends: I can’t do this on my own, guys. What are we doing hiding from the bitch? Dave would have wanted us to stand up and fight her in the open. Matt, at least let me and Pete work together. We’ll look after each other. Please. I’m fucking dying in this dump.

Then Rog cut the connection to the Internet and buried his head in his hands.

“Matt?” Karen called.

“Coming,” I said, trying to remember what I’d done with my Glock. Had I left it anywhere obvious?

“Morning, Karen,” I said, sliding the chains off and admitting her. I kissed her on the mouth and then ran to my bedroom. “I left the tap running,” I shouted. The pistol was lying in full view on my bedside table. I quickly 150

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buried it in a drawer full of old South London Bisons shirts. I didn’t think she’d look there.

When I came out, she was dangerously near my computer. Fortunately she didn’t have the nerve to touch the keyboard and mouse in front of me, though I suspected she might have had a look if I’d stayed away much longer. She’d be expecting the family and friends who’d gone to ground to be keeping in touch by e-mail. If she saw the message with the clue, she’d be duty bound to investigate it. That could be very costly, if the writer was as ruthless as he or she threatened.

Karen turned to me after she’d shrugged off her coat.

“Did you get any sleep?” she said, opening her arms. Feeling a complete bastard for doubting her feelings, I fell into her embrace. “Some,” I said after a while.

“You?”

“Under an hour.” She sniffed the air. “You’ve had a rugby player’s breakfast.”

I nodded, hoping she wouldn’t open the dishwasher and see the second plate. “What happened?”

“I was called out.”

My heart missed a beat. “What was it?”

“A dead Kurd at Manor House.”

I breathed out in relief. “Another gang killing?”

“Looks that way. God, I need a large dose of coffee.”

I went over to the kitchen, leading her away from the computer. As I was spooning coffee into the filter machine, I asked her about the investigation into Dave’s death.

“Taff’s handling it,” she said, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island. “It would be fair to say the VCCT is stretched to breaking point.”

“You’ve taken the case over?”

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She shrugged. “Didn’t have any choice,” she replied.

“The AC’s running scared because your friends in the press are drooling at the prospect of another White Devil.”

She frowned. “Thanks to your book, they know all about Dave, not to mention Sara.”

I felt the sting of her words. “Has Taff got anything?”

I asked, after I poured her a mug of the black stuff.

“Not much. The neighbors only saw you and your friends. No one saw a woman, or anyone else in the vicinity of Dave’s house yesterday morning.”

“Are you sure? It was a Saturday morning. Most people would have been around.”

“The whole street’s been questioned. Most of them were off shopping or taking the kids to ballet, football, whatever.”

“What about the houses at the back? Maybe she got in that way.”

“Those people have been asked, too. They only saw your friend Pete. What exactly was he doing back there?”

I tried not to be evasive. If someone had noticed the bag he was carrying, Karen would nail me. “He was covering the back in case an intruder bolted. He took a tennis racket with him, would you believe?”

She held my gaze. “I wouldn’t, but you’re not going to admit to anything else. I don’t suppose you’ve received a message from Sara.”

I was able to answer that truthfully, at least as regards the names used by the sender. “No.”

“I’m wondering if there’s some connection with the murders in East London. I don’t suppose Dave ever had a run-in with any of the bad men there.”

“Not that I’m aware of. I don’t remember him ever working in that area.”

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She sipped from her mug. “Maybe someone’s taking out ex–Special Forces people.”

“Like an Irish paramilitary group?” I hadn’t thought of that. It wasn’t completely beyond the realms of possibility. “And they copied the modus operandi from my book?”

She shrugged, avoiding my eyes. “The military intelligence people are following that up with Special Branch. Christ, what am I doing telling you this? Don’t you dare put it in your column.”

“Oddly enough, my column is the last thing I’m thinking about right now.”

Karen stood up. “I’ve got to go.”

“Hang on,” I said, opening a cupboard and finding a plastic travel cup for her coffee. I stalled before giving her it. “Anything new on the Mary Malone murder?”

“It’s still with Homicide West. Why? Do you think it’s connected?”

“With Dave’s death? Anything’s possible in that madwoman’s universe.”

Karen leaned forward and took the cup from me.

“Why, though?” she said, pouring coffee from her mug.

“To put the shits up you?”

“Yes, before killing me.” I looked at her, only now aware of the dark rings around her eyes. “Nice thought. You should sleep.”

She gave a hollow laugh. “If that was an attempt to get me into bed, you need to work on your technique.” She put the lid on the cup and moved around the island. “I’ll call you later,” she said, kissing me on the mouth.

“Okay,” I said, watching her go. I went over to the door and put the chains back on. I felt bad about pumping her for information while concealing the message I’d re-
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ceived, but my experience with the White Devil had showed that involving the authorities wasn’t a viable option.

I went into the spare room and knocked on the wardrobe. Andy opened the door, his silenced Glock raised. “Christ,” I gasped. “It’s only me. Karen’s gone.”

He looked past me. “You can’t be too careful, man.”

I knew he was right, but the problem was I had just over fifteen hours to figure out the clue I’d been sent. Right now, I hadn’t the faintest idea whose name was concealed behind “The sun set behind the westernmost dunes of Alexander’s womankind.” The only Alexander I knew was a critic who’d been killed by the White Devil. Was Sara really hiding behind the revenger’s name Flaminio? And what the hell did D.F. mean?

Faik Jabar was cushioned in something like cotton wool, his limbs and body softly supported. His sight had become so acute, he could make out the mountains of the Kurdish homeland he had never visited. The snow on the peaks was bathed in a golden light, and in the villages below the people were waving to him, calling for him to come down, saying that his place was with them, that he was their brother—

He screamed as he suddenly plummeted earthwards and crashed on to the stony ground. Opening his eyes, he did not recognize where he was. His right hand hurt like the bite of a rabid beast. He tried to move, but couldn’t. Looking down the iron bedstead, he saw that his wrists and legs had been strapped to the frame. The mattress he was lying on smelled of sweat and urine.

“Hello?” he called out, first in English, then in Kurdish. He heard sounds behind the faded door. A key turned in the lock.

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“So the brave soldier is awake,” said a man in Kurdish. He had a thick mustache and was wearing a well-cut suit.

“A pity about your friend.”

The scene in the basement flashed before him, the traitor Aro Izady lying in a mess of his own blood. Faik tried to scream again, but his voice had disappeared. Then he saw the face of the killer, the man with the beard. What was it about him? Something weird… What was it? The image came back to him—the beard had come away, revealing part of the face beneath. It had not been a man’s. It was the face of a demon from—

Faik felt a powerful slap on his cheek.

“You will listen when I speak to you, Kurdish shit!”