The Soul Collector (18 page)

Paul Johnston

I looked into word exchange—“orb” instead of “sun,”

“group” instead of “set,” “desert” instead of “dunes,” and so on. Nothing flashed up. Were there words hidden in other words? I saw “stern” in “westernmost,” but I didn’t know anyone of that name. I saw “lex” in “Alexander’s”—that was Latin for “law,” which seemed relevant if the next target was a crime writer, though it could also apply to a judge or a policeman. A shiver ran up my spine. Was that a reference to Karen? The word “womankind”

certainly suggested that the victim would be a female. Again, I felt guilty about keeping the clue from her. If her life was in danger and I allowed the killer to catch her unawares, how would I feel? Shit. This was almost as bad as the contortions the White Devil put me through. Which was, no doubt, the point.

I sat back in my chair and looked up at the ceiling. Maybe I was being too clever. Maybe the clue was more basic than I’d thought. How many Alexanders could I think of? Alexander worked as a male first name, and as a surname. “Womankind” suggested a female. Did I know any Ms. Blank Alexanders? I couldn’t think of any. I had a look at the Crime Writers’ Society directory. There were a couple of guys called Alex, including one whose surname was Black and whom I vaguely knew. He lived in Edinburgh. I thought of the cottage in the Scottish Borders that Sara owned. It was too close for comfort. I sent Alex Black an e-mail via a single-use account, suggesting he go to ground until further notice. The other Alex lived in Egypt. I reckoned he was safe enough there. As for women, there were none with the surname of Alexander. I checked the nom de plume section—no Alexanders there, either.

“Bollocks!” I yelled, throwing the directory over my
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shoulder. I went back to the crossword book. Abbreviations? I didn’t see any. Words with two or more meanings? That was more suggestive. Apart from the definite article, all the words had multiple meanings, especially if you considered the symbolic undertones. “Sun” implied light; enlightenment; the central point around which everything else revolves—did the target have a large ego?—

and riches, which could imply a bestseller. “Set” could mean group, but also something that hardens, as in jam. But on a basic level, the sun sets in the west. Was that the point? It seemed unlikely, given that “westernmost” was already in the sentence. “Sand” could be the stuff on the beach—was this a reference to some beach in the far west? But it could also refer to time, as in the sands of…

Even a seemingly innocent word like “by” could mean several things—a book written
by
an author seemed suggestive, but how did that fit with the dunes? Neither of the guys in the directory called Alex had written books whose titles or settings had anything to do with beaches or the west. “By” could also mean “close to”—again, I’d already drawn a blank with proximity to beaches. I stretched out and grabbed the
Oxford Classical Dic-
tionary,
one of my favorite books. But this time it left only a bitter taste in my mouth. There was a lengthy section on Alexander the Great, as well as entries for several other kings of that name. I discovered that the Greek name originally meant “he who wards off men”—a good name for a warrior, but not much help to me now. “Alexander’s womankind”? What women was Alexander involved with? His mother Olympias was reputed to be a witch—could that be significant? Maybe it was a link to the pentagram. Alexander married Roxanna. I knew no one of that name. Besides, 166

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the Macedonian general was better known for his relationships with men. Was there some subtext about homosexuality in the message? Anyway, what did Alexander’s women have to do with “westernmost dunes”? The north of Greece wasn’t sandy, at least in the inland parts where Alexander and his mother came from. There was plenty of desert in central Asia where Roxanna originated, but so what?

Then I remembered. I knew another Alexander. One of the White Devil’s victims was a slimeball of a critic who had slammed my books out of spite—his name was Alexander Drys. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It would be very much in character for Sara to be taunting me by referring to the critic. And the fact was that Alexander Drys had been a notorious womanizer, as I’d discovered when I was writing
The Death List.
Men in his club had told me that he was forever boasting of the whores he’d screwed. He wasn’t the kind of man who would have attracted many women into a long-term relationship, so he took pride in paying for sex. I’d even tracked down one of the women he’d used. She was a Bulgarian called Katya, an English-language student who’d been kidnapped and forced into a brothel in Soho by a vicious Albanian gang. Now I thought of it, Albania was to the west of Alexander the Great’s Macedon. Was that what the clue was hinting at? Could Katya be the target?

After scribbling a note for Andy and leaving it, as we’d agreed, in my copy of
Rugby League—Sport of Heroes,
I slipped my pistol into the pocket of my leather jacket. I put the silencer and a set of knuckle-dusters into the other pockets. If I was going to walk into the belly of the Albanian beast, I would need all the weapons I could
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pack. I thought about my field knife, but decided against it. If I couldn’t use my Glock in time, I’d be finished. As I walked out of my apartment, I thought about texting Andy. I knew the number of his new cell phone. Running down the stairs, I decided against it. We needed to spread our resources. If I didn’t show, he’d know where to look for me, though I’d told him in the note to concentrate on nailing Sara. The problem was, he’d never been much good at following instructions he didn’t like. Improvisation was the American’s major virtue, but it was also his Achilles’ heel.

Even though the radio in the white van, playing Son Volt’s latest album, was turned down low enough so that passersby couldn’t hear it, Andy Jackson felt very uncomfortable. He had tried to fit his tall frame across the front seats, but that had resulted in serious muscle pain and cramping. Now he was crouching behind the seats, in the empty cargo space. The problem was that he would struggle to get into the driving-seat to follow Doris Carlton-Jones if she got into the Japanese hatchback in her driveway and turned right. She might get away before he could execute the necessary three-point turn. Andy fingered the pistol in his belt. If he should see Sara, he would save Matt and everyone else a lot of trouble by drilling her full of holes. He didn’t give a shit if he was arrested for murder. As far as he was concerned, he’d be doing a public service. Besides, he was pretty sure that Sara would be armed and he’d be able to claim he fired in self-defense. But first he had to find her, and he wasn’t going to do that by sitting in a back street in Sydenham.

He was about to clamber over the seats when he saw the 168

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front door of number 47 open. He dropped back into cover and watched as a well-preserved, gray-haired woman wearing a dark blue trouser-suit came out. She headed for her car.

“Shit,” Andy said under his breath. “Turn left, lady. Turn left!”

He waited until the car was moving before getting into the front. As he did so, he saw the left indicator come on.

“Way to go!” he said, turning the key in the ignition. Then he waited till he saw the red hatchback indicate right at the end of the road. He eased the van into gear and drove off in restrained pursuit.

Andy Jackson reckoned Matt would have been pleasantly surprised. I took the Tube to Leicester Square and came out to a blustery squall. Even though it was Sunday, there were plenty of people around, not all of them foreign, judging by the swearing in various English accents as umbrellas were blown inside out and clothes were drenched. I was wearing a leather cowboy hat with a wide brim that I’d bought in Texas. It had the additional advantage of shielding my face from the CCTV surveillance cameras. I didn’t want to compromise Karen by showing up on video, should things get nasty at Katya’s place of work. The rain drummed on my hat and I could feel the brim being weighed down. It only took me a few minutes to find the place I’d chosen from my list of businesses controlled by the Albanian mob. Six months ago, I’d written about gangs that had moved into London in recent years. The joint was a walk-up, the entrance-door open. The battered sign said !Sexy Susie’s Sauna etSEXera! I wondered if the Albanians had come up with that. At the
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top of the stairs my way was blocked by an unshaven gorilla in a black T-shirt that was stretched to the limit by his biceps.

“Hat off,” he grunted as I reached the top step.

“Okay,” I said, depositing a wave of rainwater from my hat over his trousers and shoes. I smiled. “Oops.”

The gorilla thought about belting me and decided against it. First, they’d take my money, then he could kick my arse.

I put my hand into my pocket and came out with a fifty-pound note.

“Not for you,” I said, whipping it away from the wet muscle-man.

“Thank you, sir,” said a middle-aged woman, who had appeared from the rear of the premises.

“Are you Sexy Susie?” I asked.

She snorted, ran a test pen over the note and then put it through a narrow slit in the door to her left. Anyone who tried to rob the place would not only have to deal with the gorilla, but break down the armored door and face the heavily armed gang member behind it. I didn’t think there would have been many successful attempts.

“Would you care to see what we have to offer, sir?” the woman said. The lines on her face were visible even beneath the thick layer of makeup, and her voice, despite the customer-friendly vocabulary and syntax, was as warm as an ice floe. She pointed to the plasma screen behind her. It was split into eight squares, three of which were blank—danger, men at work. The other five showed women wearing very little and sitting in contorted poses. I looked closer. None of them was Katya.

“No good,” I said. “I want Katya.”

Sexy Susie glanced at the muscle behind me. “Katya?”

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she said. “I don’t think we have a Katya.” Her tone dripped fake bonhomie. “How about Lena?” she said, pointing to one of the squares.

“Is she over sixteen?” I asked.

The madam lost patience. “Muzzie,” she said, “this gentleman’s just leaving.”

Two large hands came down on my shoulders and turned me around. I could see his belly was slack. Dave had taught us exactly what to do with guys like him. I drew my right hand back quickly and drove it into the upper part of his abdomen, just below the sternum. He went down like a sack of lead weights. Unfortunately for him, the stairs were right behind. He slid down them on his backside, his head hitting the street door with a satisfying thud. I turned back to Susie. “Katya,” I said. “Now.”

“She isn’t here,” she said, stepping back as I advanced on her. “I swear it.”

“Where is she, then?” I asked, hearing a rattle at the door to my right. I pulled out my Glock and pointed it at the woman’s face. “Stay in there unless you want her brains on the wallpaper!” The rattling stopped.

“I dunno,” the madam said, her voice quivering. I moved closer, the muzzle of my pistol almost touching her forehead. “You know, all right,” I said, smiling.

“I’m counting to three. Not out loud. And I’ve started.”

The woman glared at me, her eyes damp. “Put it away, mister,” she said desperately.

“Talk first.”

“I… Oh, for fuck’s sake. Katya’s with one of the bosses. Jesus, you don’t know what you’ve walked into. They’ll cut your pathetic cock off and stuff it in your mouth.”

“What’s his name?” I said, holding the Glock steady.
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“Shkrelli,” she replied. She was trembling now.

“Which one?”

“Safet.”

The Shkrelli clan kept a low profile, but it was one of the Albanian mob’s most powerful operators.

“Have you got a number for him?” I asked.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” the woman said, shaking her head.

“I know,” I said, smiling again. There was nothing like a smile to convince criminals you were serious—it was an unwritten rule for major hard men. I wasn’t one of those, but I could play the part for a while. She took a pencil with a chewed end from the pocket of her overtight jeans and wrote on the back of a betting slip. “You’d better not use that,” she said as she handed it to me.

I nodded. “Thanks for the advice. Do you want me to hit you?”

She understood what I meant. “Nah, they heard it all anyway. They’ll be the ones doing the hitting.”

“You can walk out of here with me,” I said, lowering the Glock.

She thought about that, then shook her head. “No point,” she said. “You’re going to be dead soon.”

I laughed, which surprised her. I was thinking how disappointed Sara would be if I was taken out by the Albanian mob before she got to me.

“Go, you idiot,” she said, a smile flickering on her lips. “And don’t come back.” The rattling on the door started up again.

I shrugged. “Thanks,” I said, then turned on my heel and ran down the stairs.

The gorilla was just coming around as I reached the 172

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street door. He made a half-hearted attempt to grab my legs, but stopped when I knocked his head against the wall.

“Don’t,” I said, pointing the pistol at his face. He cowered, even when I’d put the Glock back in my jacket. Then I put my cowboy hat back on and stepped confidently on to the street like a well-satisfied customer. As I turned the corner, I realized that my heart was in overdrive and my throat was as dry as a Balkan mountain in high summer.

Twelve

Karen Oaten went out of New Scotland Yard and headed for the café where she often bought lunch—although she wasn’t often there on a Sunday. She was served by Dino, one of the owner’s swarthy sons. They all had a good line in risqué patter, but Dino was the master.