The Soul Collector (30 page)

Faik’s eyes opened wide.

“I see you know the name.”

Faik nodded.

“The Albanians have a lot in common with the Kurds and the Turks,” the bearded man said.

Faik nodded. “They…they keep as much business as they can in the family.”

“Very good, my friend. This fucker of children is Safet Shkrelli’s first cousin.”

A feeling of deep foreboding overwhelmed Faik.

“What are you going to do to him?” he asked.

“What are
we
going to do to him?” the bearded man corrected. “Don’t worry, we aren’t going to kill him.”

Faik breathed out. “Good.”

The bearded man smiled. “We’re just going to hurt him till he tells us everything he knows about the Albanian mafia’s business in London.”

“You are insane!” the man on the floor said.
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“And then we’re going to give him back to Safet Shkrelli, for a price.” The man with the beard looked back at the Albanian. “Me? Insane?” He plunged the combat knife into the man’s thigh, ramming a handkerchief into his mouth before the scream could be heard. “Oh, no, I’m not insane.” He looked around at Faik. “I’m the sanest person you’ll ever meet.” He laughed. “I just enjoy hurting people.”

Then the worst experience of Faik’s short but horrorfilled life began. When we got back at Rog’s cousin’s flat, I immediately checked for messages. There were two files from my mother and Caroline. I asked Rog if he’d got anywhere.

“Your mother and Caroline think that the first two lines refer to the name Brooks.”

I looked at the screen. As they’d thought, “The river shrinks” was a diminutive. One of the words for a small river was “brook”—and an archaic synonym for “bears,”

in the sense of allowing something, was “brooks.” The second line clinched it. “Crows” were “rooks” and ice, or cold, made people say (or “crow”) “brr,” although “br”

with one
r
would produce the same sound. They hadn’t got anywhere with “for a wife,” and were assuming it meant the Brooks person was male, as the message said.

“Brooks,” I said aloud, hoping that would give the name familiarity, but it didn’t. “I don’t know anyone called Brooks.”

“Me, neither. I’m assuming it’s a surname. I ran a search on the Internet and came up with a list.” He handed me several pages of printout. “No crime writers, though.”

“No, I didn’t think so.” I ran my eye down the list. There was an admiral, a senior civil servant in the Home 276

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Office, a professor of palaeontology and another of veterinary medicine, an actress and a load of less illustrious people. But why would Sara choose any of them?

“Brooks,” I said again. “I suppose it could be a first name. American, maybe?”

Rog nodded. “I thought that, too. Here’s a list of them.”

This printout was shorter. There were a couple of academics, a dancer, a businessman in Idaho, a fireman, and so on. Again, not very likely targets for Sara, and they were all a long way from London.

“Shit,” I said. “We need more.” I looked at the material from Fran and Caroline. They said they were working on the second couplet, but that they hadn’t come up with anything yet. My mother was thinking about the “imperial heiress”—heiress and wife were both female, and that had made her wonder about the target’s gender again. I went over to the window. It was dark already, and there would soon be only five hours to go. We had one name—surely we weren’t going to fail because we couldn’t work out the other? I looked at the second sentence again. “The lean man’s imperial heiress/Is the thirsty draw of nothing.” I told myself to ignore the second part—if the pattern was repeated, it would be an alternative clue to the first part. “The lean man’s”—it was harder to take these words separately because of the apostrophe
s.
The lean man’s what? Who was the lean man? I sat down and rubbed my eyes, then looked over at the bookcase. On the top shelf was a movie guide I’d always meant to buy. I was about to get up and have a look at it when I had a flash of insight. The words could be taken separately, and “lean” didn’t need a synonym or any other substitute word. It was a name in its own right, that of Britain’s most revered film director, David Lean—the
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definite article might have been used to put us off. But who was David Lean’s “imperial heiress”?

“Yes!” I yelled, punching the air.

“What?” Rog said, pushing his chair back and coming over. Andy and Pete were watching with interest.

“We’ve been made fools of,” I said, “but not anymore.” I underlined the second, third, fourth and fifth letters of “heiress.”

“Eire?” Rog said. “As in Ireland.”

“Correct. And what was the David Lean movie made in Ireland?”

“I know that,” Andy said. “It had Robert Mitchum in it, and that woman who always gets her jugs out.”

“Kate Winslet?” Pete asked.

“Sarah Miles, you moron,” I said. “And the movie’s name is?”

“Ryan’s Daughter,”
Andy said, raising his arm in triumph.

Rog looked at me. “So what have we got? Ryan Brooks?”

I shook my head. “We’re not finished yet. What about

‘imperial’?”

“Something to do with the British Empire?” Rog asked.

“There’s stuff about the I.R.A. in
Ryan’s Daughter,
” Pete said. “They were fighting against the empire, weren’t they?”

He was right, but I couldn’t see where that got us.

“What about other empires?”

“The Roman,” Slash said.

“That is the biggie, isn’t it?” I said, nodding. “Wait a minute. Emperors.” My mind was working on some dimension that I couldn’t control. The list of emperors that I’d learned in history at school flashed before me—

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Augustus, Tiberius, Nero… Then it hit me like a lightning bolt and I groaned. “Of course. It’s Hadrian.”

Rog looked at me. “How do you work that out?”

“Rian,” I said, pronouncing the last four letters of the word like “ryan.”

“Bugger!” Rog said, glancing at Pete. “Sorry, Boney.”

I had moved on to the last line. Hadrian. Obviously there weren’t many people called that these days.

“Thirsty,” I said. “Dry. The third, fourth and fifth letters of Hadrian are
d, r
and
i
—sounds like ‘dry.’”

“So?” Rog said.

“What draws people?” I asked, myself as much as the others.

“A painter,” Andy said. “A brush.”

I shook my head. “Another sense of ‘draw.’ As in

‘attract.’”

“A poster,” said Pete.

“An advert.” Rog and I spoke simultaneously.

“Also known as an ad,” I said. Now I saw it all. “And

‘nothing’ in a well-known foreign language is?”

“Nada,” said Andy.

“Oh, Christ,” Rog said, his eyes wide. “The French for

‘nothing’ is ‘rien.’ Ad-rien. Is that Adrienne, female, or Adrian, male?”

“Good question,” I said. “Run a search on both Adrian and Adrienne Brooks.”

He went over to his computer.

I was frantically trying to think if I knew anyone called Adrian Brooks. It seemed familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Adrienne Brooks? That seemed less likely, for some reason.

“I’ve got another professor,” Rog shouted, “with the female name. But she’s in Alaska.”

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I shook my head. We were casting the net too wide. The first two victims had been crime writers. That was where the answer lay. I went over to my laptop and logged on, then called up the Crime Writers’ Society Web site. On the home page, I clicked Directory. I scrolled down the list of real names, their pseudonyms alongside. And there it was.

“Adrian Brooks,” I yelled. “It’s the real name of Alistair Bing!”

That didn’t mean much to the others, but it did to me. I went back to the site’s home page and clicked on Members’ Details, then clicked on the letter
B
and found a phone number and an address in central London. I picked up the phone, called the number and waited for the next victim to pick up.

Nineteen

The Soul Collector stood in the small structure next to her cottage at the edge of Oldbury village in southern Berkshire. Although it was only twenty miles from Heathrow Airport, she felt as if she was in a safe and isolated place. She looked at the earth floor. She had raked and then brushed it, so there was no obvious sign that it had been disturbed recently. It had been good exercise, digging the meter-deep hole for the three coffins. Now her hostages lay bound and gagged in their last homes. When the effect of the gas she had used to knock them out wore off, they would wake up in the darkness and they would be terrified. The Soul Collector smiled. Her plan had gone perfectly. First she had picked up Geronimo’s wife, Alison. That had been very easy. A knock at the door, having checked there was no one in the vicinity, a blast of the same gas she had used when she had been working with her brother, and into the van. Then she had driven to the school a few miles away. From her surveillance she knew that Rommel’s son, Josh, walked the short distance home with the Slo-
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venian au pair Maria. She picked him and the girl up, saying that she was a friend and the mother had been taken to hospital. She sprayed them both on the country road and dumped the au pair in a ditch. Given the disguise she was wearing and the van’s false plates, she’d never be traced. Then she’d driven as fast as she could to Wolfe’s house in Warwickshire. There was no time for subtlety now—Rommel’s wife could be in touch any moment. She knocked out Wolfe’s wife with a truncheon blow when she answered the door, cracked the son’s head when he came out of the kitchen and gassed Amanda Mary. Then she had disappeared into the twilight.

Back in the cottage, having closed the three padlocks on the shed, the Soul Collector assumed the lotus position. As ever, she thought of her brother. He had called himself the White Devil, but to her he would always be Leslie, the name he’d been given by his adoptive mother. Although she’d since discovered that their birth mother had dubbed him Oliver in the days before she handed them over, that name seemed as unreal as Angela, the one she’d been given. Leslie had made her life. Before he had accosted her outside the
Daily Independent
offices, she had been a typical soulless journalist, with her eyes only on the next story. She didn’t even have a steady boyfriend, just a string of drunken one-night stands that hadn’t even provided good sex. Leslie had given her that. She’d been able to abandon herself to him precisely because he was her brother—breaking the taboo of incest had been incredibly exhilarating. When he’d told her they were twins, she hadn’t believed him. There was little facial resemblance between them, though once they were in contact she was able to commune with him in the strange way 282

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many twins experience. That had made working with him in his great revenge plot so much easier. Leslie had made only one mistake. His desire for his name to go down in history had driven him to involve the writer Matt Wells. The worm who thought he had turned, the useless fuck who was now crying for his friend Dave. Although he hadn’t brought about her brother’s death—the SAS men who had executed Leslie would soon be paying for that—Matt’s resistance had meant that not all the people her brother had planned to kill became victims. She would harvest their souls soon. Her plan had been two years in the making and Leslie would have applauded its subtlety. Vengeance is mine, the woman thought. Was there anything purer and more life-enhancing than revenge? The Jacobean tragedians knew its worth, despite the fact that ultimately they had to kill their revengers to end their works in ways acceptable to the establishment of the time. John Webster, in particular, had more than passing sympathy for his tragic characters, not least the incestuous siblings Vittoria and Flaminio in
The White Devil.
Although the revengers were punished, their lives and deeds were portrayed as tragic, and therefore noble, while the supposedly virtuous characters were no less corrupt and hypocritical, but much less interesting.

Her brother had shown her that revenge was meaningless without killing. The deceived wives who put laxatives in their husbands’ coffee or poured sugar into the petrol tanks of their expensive cars weren’t serious revengetakers. To earn the title of revenger, it was necessary that the people who had injured you died, preferably in as much agony as possible. When Leslie had first given her the opportunity to kill, she had flinched, but only for a few seconds. After that, she’d never had any problem.
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The Soul Collector opened her eyes. It was time to make contact with Wolfe and his men. They were her first targets, even though Matt and his friends were trying to trace her. No doubt the computer expert Roger van Zandt had been responsible for transferring the money out of her accounts. She didn’t care about that. She had her own hacker who would respond, but the money didn’t matter. All she cared about was taking her revenge, slowly and with exquisite pain. She would deal with the fool Matt and his friends when she was ready.

She laughed. So far Matt had reacted exactly as she had expected. He had gone into hiding, and sent his mother, ex-wife and daughter to a secret location. By doing that, he thought he was minimizing the risk to them. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

There was no answer from Alistair Bing’s landline, but I got through on his cell phone.

“Hey,” I said, “it’s Matt Wells.” I’d met Bing at a couple of crime-writing festivals, before he became a bestseller. He’d struck me as a seriously dull person. He wasn’t one of those authors who allowed themselves to be addressed both by their real name and their pseudonym, as I did. He seemed to prefer the latter. Maybe he got a kick out of hiding behind an invented identity. There was a pause. “Hello, Matt. I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Thanks. Listen, this might sound strange, but you’re in a lot of danger.”