The Soul Collector (43 page)

As they approached the London orbital motorway, Doris Carlton-Jones looked at her daughter.

“Will he go there?” she asked. “Will he understand?”

Sara Robbins shook her head. “Matt Wells isn’t smart enough.”

“Is he smart enough to find Lauren’s people?”

“Probably.”

“That may be good for us.”

The Soul Collector glanced at her passenger. “What do you care? Your part in this is almost over.”

The older woman looked away. “You’re right,” she said casually. “I don’t care what happens to any of them. What about your money?”

“Do you seriously imagine that’s important to me? Even if I didn’t have plenty in places no one can find, I’m only interested in one thing—the complete destruction of Matt Wells and everyone he cares for. You’re the one who wants the money back.”

Doris Carlton-Jones pursed her lips, but didn’t reply. Her surviving child drove on to the M25 and headed eastward as fast as the van’s engine would tolerate. Woe betide the police officer who stopped her for speeding.

The more I thought about it, the less I was convinced by Doris Carlton-Jones’s message. It started off sounding
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reasonable and then talked about Sara as if she was a normal, if rich, person, rather than a calculating killer. And as for the bit about her husband’s skull—how many widows hit the undertakers with a request to remove the deceased’s head? The woman was demented. The question was, how much of her children’s propensity for murder had been inherited? I had an idea why the skull was so shiny. She would have boiled it for days. Bottom line—how much could I trust the woman? Answer—not at all. But that didn’t change the situation with Andy. Even though Sara was getting her money back, he was obviously in serious danger. You wouldn’t want someone like Doris Carlton-Jones to decide whether a friend lived or died.

Rog confirmed that two of the transfers had been reversed. I looked at my watch. Eleven o’clock. At least we hadn’t been given a deadline this time. I wondered about that. The implication was that Lauren Cuthbertson had written the puzzles containing the crime writers’

names before she killed them. Was she capable or educated enough to come up with such complex riddles? Since I had nothing better to do while Rog was at work, I noted down the details of the dead woman from the ghost site. I might as well see what else I could find out about her.

When I’d been researching
The Death List,
Rog had shown me how to access the databases of several government agencies. By good fortune, they covered East London, the area where the White Devil had grown up. I started snooping. I fully expected the security on the Web sites to have been improved over the past couple of years, but it seemed that the agencies hadn’t bothered. In less than five minutes, I was reading Lauren Cuthbertson’s 396

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school reports. She’d been to primary and secondary school in Stoke Newington. She had four O-Levels, all in maths and science, but she’d failed English and French. Her teachers said she was an average pupil, whose homework was often poor. There was no mention of her having been disruptive—perhaps she’d stored it all up. She left school at sixteen and was on benefits for two years. When she signed off, it was to work in a supermarket in Hackney. Not exactly master-criminal material. I hacked into the G.P. surgery where she was registered. The computerized records only went back five years. She had been prescribed drugs for the swellings on her face, but there was no referral to the Harley Street clinic. Who had arranged and paid for that? I sat back in my chair and looked out into the night. The streetlights were dulled by rain that was hitting the windows. I checked my e-mails. Nothing; and no texts from Andy. I went back to the dead woman’s past. The magistrates’ courts: maybe she had a criminal record. I followed the instructions and found myself in a wellmaintained archive. Unlike the surgery, the paper records dating back twenty-five years had been scanned and classified. I typed Lauren Cuthbertson’s name in and found a single entry, referring to a shoplifting charge in 1986, her last year at school. I opened the case file. It seemed she had been caught leaving a Woolworths with three music cassettes, a book and a chocolate bar. Because she’d been stopped numerous times before, the store decided to make an example of her. I scrolled down the record. Lauren had been warned as to her future conduct by the magistrates and ordered to do a week’s community service during her next holidays. A fine was not considered appropriate because of her “troubled family situa-
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tion.” That made me sit up. What family situation? I got into the local Social Services database and searched for her name. She’d been through six different sets of foster parents since she was six, as well as being in care several times. The root of the problem was that her father had murdered her mother when Lauren was in her first year in primary school. I scrolled down farther. Wrong. Her adoptive father had murdered her adoptive—Jesus, she’d been adopted.

I felt the blood rush through my veins. The White Devil and his twin, Sara, had also been given up for adoption. That Lauren had, too, was a hell of a coincidence. I got into the Adoption Register. That was tricky because there was a better firewall, but Rog had left me a program to get past it. I typed in Lauren’s full name and waited for the details of her birth parents to come up. It took nearly a minute, but I’d already guessed who her mother was. The archive showed her to be Doris Merilee, now known by her married name, Doris Carlton-Jones. Christ, Sara and the White Devil had a half sister. The records were incomplete, the mother having declared that she’d given birth in France and had lost the certificate. She’d also given a different man’s name as father. That had been enough for me to miss the fact that Sara’s mother had given birth to three rather than two children when I researched my book. All three children had turned out to be murderers. What did that make their mother?

I told Pete and Rog what I’d discovered.

“But where does that leave us, Matt?” Boney asked.

“Lauren Cuthbertson’s dead. How do we find Sara?”

“How we find Andy is more urgent,” I said. “Though he and Sara might well be in the same place.”

“Where are you thinking?” Rog asked.

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“Where’s that cottage you found again?”

“Oldbury, Berkshire.”

“Right, we’ll hit it first. If it’s no good, we’ll move on to Earl Sternwood’s castle.”

We started gathering up our weapons.

Andy Jackson couldn’t be sure how long the van had been moving, but he guessed it was about two hours when it stopped and the engine turned off. He’d spent the time persevering with the blade, but the movement of the vehicle and the fact that all the nails on his right hand were now broken meant that he hadn’t succeeded. He listened as the front doors were opened. The wind was blowing through trees and he could hear cars in the distance. The curtains didn’t permit any helpful visuals. After stopping and starting frequently in the first half hour of the journey—standard city driving he figured—the van had stopped and a helmeted figure in black leathers had maneuvered the motorbike up a plank into the cargo space. He tried to see where they were out the rear doors and was rewarded with a heavy punch to his jaw.

After that the van moved more quickly. He reckoned they’d been on a motorway. Then it was driven more slowly again. Now it was stationary, he wondered if he’d reached the end of his road. He struggled desperately, but still couldn’t get the knife open.

The rear doors opened and a torch was shone in his face. He tried to make out the person holding it, but saw only a helmet with the visor down. Was it Sara Robbins? Why was she still hiding her face? Was there some hope, if she didn’t want him to be able to identify her later? Then he saw she was carrying something, a motionless bundle wrapped in blankets. Jesus, was it a person? The
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face and head were covered, though loosely enough to suggest it would be possible to breathe. As he was sizing up the bundle, which had been laid on the floor on the other side of the bike, the torch was switched off. He’d seen enough to realize it wasn’t large enough to be an adult.

Andy Jackson was in the dark in the back of the van, but he wasn’t alone anymore. He had to see if the new arrival was alive. He slid his fingers back into his back pocket and started trying the knife again. The van’s engine was started again and it moved off. Soon it was being driven at speed, presumably back on a motorway. But where were they heading? Andy realized that Matt and the others could have no idea of his location. He had to save himself and the person who had been wrapped in the blankets, if that person was still breathing. Fortunately Rog’s cousin had a half-decent set of wheels, a Suzuki 4x4, and Rog knew where the spare keys were.

“You drive, Dodger,” I said. “West for the M4.”

When we were under way, I took out my cell phone and called Karen.

“Where are you, Matt?” she demanded. “You do realize you’re looking at prison now?”

“Never mind that,” I said. “Remember I told you about Sara’s birth mother?” She got the name right. “Yeah, that’s her. Can you notify the authorities at ports and airports, especially in the southeast?” I gave a description.

“She might have altered her appearance.”

“What’s she done?” Karen asked.

“For a start, she’s Lauren Cuthbertson’s mother, too.”

There was a pause. “You mean Lauren Cuthbertson was Sara Robbins’s sister?” Karen said.

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“Half sister. You’d better advise them that Sara might be trying to go through, as well.”

“They were issued with her details and description after the White Devil case.”

“Yeah, but she might well look different now and you can be sure they’ll both have different identities.”

“All right. Matt, please tell me where you are and what you’re doing.”

“I’m trying to save Andy’s life,” I said bluntly.

“I can send backup.”

“Uh-uh. I have to do this on my own.” I felt Pete’s eyes on me again. “I’m not losing another of my friends. I’ll be in touch.” I cut the connection.

“You have to do it on
your own?
” Boney said ironically. I caught his gaze. “If this gets messy, which it could well if Sara’s around, you two are in the clear as far as the authorities are concerned.”

“If we don’t get wounded,” Rog pointed out.

“Or killed,” Pete added.

“Matt,” Rog said, turning his head. “Something’s been bothering me about the properties Sara bought. Why did she put them in her mother’s maiden name? Surely she’d know we might spot that.”

I thought about that. “I’m not sure she would. I didn’t mention her mother’s maiden name in
The Death List.
It’s true that the tabloids dug it up, but I think Sara was probably cocking a snook at everyone looking for her. You know, giving us a pretty obvious clue and seeing if we noticed it. Besides, the name on the deeds was Angela Oliver-Merilee, remember? She also used the names she and her brother had been given by Doris. Not many people are aware of them.”

“Why didn’t she use Lauren Cuthbertson’s original first name, as well?” Pete asked.

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“There wasn’t one in the files,” I replied. “For some reason, Doris Carlton-Jones didn’t give her a name. Maybe Sara doesn’t know about her.”

“I doubt that,” Rog said.

“So do I.”

“Sara will know we went to the flat in Hackney,” Pete said. “Was Lauren staying there, do you think?”

“Probably,” I said. “There’s no current address for her in Stoke Newington. I doubt it was Sara. She’ll be staying in the Ritz or such like.”

“Bit of a risk,” Rog said with a grin.

“I’ve had enough wordplay, thanks. She’s changed her appearance, I’m sure of that,” I said.

“Maybe she used the surgeon who botched Lauren’s operation,” Pete said.

That struck me as unlikely. It would have been much safer for her to have surgery abroad. But she’d probably given her half sister the money to pay for the op.

“There is a chance she’s waiting for us to show up at the cottage,” Rog said, his face sallow in the headlights of the cars coming toward us.

I nodded. “We’ll just have to take that chance, won’t we? For Andy.”

“Yes, we will,” Pete said forcefully.

I kept my laptop on as we sped down the M4. The wi-fi signal was patchy, but as we passed Slough, it picked up and I saw there were no further messages from Doris Carlton-Jones or from Doctor Faustus.

When we approached Oldbury, I got Rog to pull in to a lay-by. There was a large house beyond and I picked up a signal. I found a mapping site and downloaded a plan of the village.

“That must be the cottage,” Rog said, checking the de-402
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scription of the property on his laptop. “There are about a hundred meters between it and the next house.”

“Let’s have a look at the cottage’s layout, Dodger,” I said. It appeared on his screen.

“Single-story, but long—the two original cottages have been knocked together.”

“What’s that?” Pete asked, pointing to a rectangular shape on the end of the building away from the village.

“Shed or guesthouse, according to the spec,” Rog replied.

“How do we do this?” Boney asked.

I had been thinking about the training we’d got from Dave. “Pete, you’ve picked up some of Andy’s lockpicking skills, so you go for the front door. I’ll be right behind you. Dodger, you cover the rear in case someone makes a run for it.”

“What if you guys come under fire?” Rog asked.

“Blow the back door in with a grenade and take the shooter from behind,” I said.

“And if the place is booby-trapped?”

“Jesus, Dodger,” Pete said. “Improvise. Or run away.”

“Screw you, Boney. Dave told us to take every possibility into account.”

“You’re right,” I said, trying to calm them down. “But we haven’t much time. Who knows what kind of state Andy’s in by now?”