The Soul Collector (33 page)

“There’s only one way to find out,” I said, looking at my watch. It was coming up to ten. “But it’s too late for a visit tonight. The deadline’s coming up.”

“It’s probably a long shot, anyway. Do you think the cops know about her?”

He had me there. I hadn’t told Karen the woman’s name, but she might have followed the trail from the newspapers without telling me. Given that the motorbike rider had shot out Andy’s windscreen, I didn’t think there were any police personnel watching the house in Syd-
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enham—they’d have shown themselves. Maybe Mrs. Carlton-Jones had been in touch with the real police about the shooting. It was possible that Andy and I had made her suspicious.

“And the answer is?” Rog said, cupping his hand around his ear.

“Sorry, mate, I was just thinking it through. Frankly, I don’t know. We’ll go and talk to her tomorrow.”

I sat down in front of my laptop and tried to think of all the possible consequences of sending the name Adrian Brooks at midnight.

Faik Jabar looked at the man on the floor. His head was a bloody pulp and his bare chest was covered in long knife cuts. He was still breathing, but there was a rattle in his throat and he was mumbling incoherently.

“Do it,” the bearded man said, pointing the silenced pistol at Faik’s groin. He smiled crookedly. Faik looked at the knife he was holding. It was dripping blood. The Albanian had gabbled information about his family’s business after the bearded man set up a camcorder on a tripod. Then he had been beaten with a hammer and slashed with a combat knife. Faik’s captor had taken off his chains. His wounded thighs were in agony because of the wounds and the urine that had soaked into his trousers. Now his captor had given him the knife and told him to cut off the Albanian’s nose. When Faik objected, saying he thought the man was to be ransomed, the bearded man gave a sharp laugh and pointed to the camera. Then he turned it off.

“I will send them the disk and they will prepare payment. He will be alive when I set him free, but that doesn’t mean he has to be a complete man.”

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Faik swallowed. He felt like a small boy who had strayed into adult business. The muzzle of the gun was pointed at his crotch and it didn’t waver.

“I’ll shoot you there and leave you to die,” the bearded man said. “You know I’m capable of it. Think how much nicer things will be when you’ve done what I want. I can make things very…enjoyable for you.”

The sexual tone turned Faik’s stomach. He’d been forced to watch his captor maim the victim. The idea of performing sexual acts with him was horrible. Faik knew he had to fight back. He took a deep breath and looked past the gun.

“All right,” he said, blinking hard as he got to his feet and stepped closer to the Albanian. He had the knife in his right hand and he knew he would only get one chance. He had calculated the distance. The man with the beard was about two meters away—too far to charge him. He’d considered throwing the knife—he’d been taught how by one of the King’s bodyguards—but he knew he’d be shot before he even let the blade go. He had only one option. Bending over the gasping Albanian, he brought the knife close to his face. Then, with a sharp cry, he fell to the floor like a stone, narrowly missing the blood-drenched body. Faik lay there, waiting for the bullet. It didn’t come. He had made sure that the knife clattered away out of his reach, reckoning that would put the killer off guard.

“Get up!” the man with the gun screamed, his voice suddenly high. “Get up!”

Faik heard rapid footsteps moving to the dresser, and then toward him. A cork was unplugged and a liquid drenched his head. The smell made him gag. It was some spirit, whisky or rum. Faik didn’t drink alcohol—his mother would have disowned him.

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A hand sheathed in latex grabbed the back of his collar and he was heaved around. Now he was facing the man. He rolled his eyes, showing the whites. That should convince the bastard that he was out. The problem was, Faik couldn’t see while his eyes were like that. He waited a few seconds, then felt the cold metal of the silencer on his forehead. It was time.

Faik lashed sideways with his right arm, making contact with the gun. It flew out of the bearded man’s hand. Then he got hold of the bloodstained sports shirt and pulled the fucker down, jerking his body to the side. There was a squelching sound as the man’s face landed on the Albanian’s lacerated chest. Faik forced himself to his feet, ignoring the pain from his thighs. He swung one foot back and smashed it against the side of his opponent’s head. He was only wearing training shoes, but the blow was solid enough. The bearded man fell back onto the Albanian’s body farther down.

“Fuck you!” Faik yelled, giving him another kick. Then he reached for the gun and pointed it at the man’s head.

Slowly, the face turned toward him. The beard was drenched in blood. “You don’t want to shoot me,” the killer said, his voice soft and enticing. “We can be friends.”

Faik felt a mixture of repulsion and excitement. He held the gun on him. “Take it off,” he said, breathing hard. “Take off the beard.”

The man stared at him and then smiled. “All right,” he said, struggling to his feet and standing up. He gripped the hairs at the side of his face and gently pulled. The thick covering came away.

“Ah-yeeh!” Faik said, stepping back. What he had seen 306

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when the beard had slipped before was only a hint of the full horror. The man’s upper lip was in two parts, revealing the pink of the gum beneath. There were livid, raised scars across the cheeks and the chin was irregular and swollen, the skin discolored as if it had been repeatedly punched. “What happened to you?”

The man touched the flaps of his upper lip with his tongue. Faik could now see that there were small scabs on it, as if the skin had been punctured.

“This?” He laughed softly, the sound incongruous.

“Don’t you fancy me now?”

Faik gagged on the bitter liquid that had rushed up his throat. “Is that…is that why you’re doing this?” he asked, inclining his head toward the Albanian. “To make him uglier than you?”

The laugh was repeated. “You’re clever, as well as beautiful. Come on, we can have a wonderful time together.” The man raised his hands slowly and began to open the buttons of his shirt, then latched his fingers on to the collar of the T-shirt beneath and ripped it apart. Faik watched in astonishment as the material was parted. He saw a pair of dark nipples and soft, heavy breasts.

“Don’t worry, I’m not a transsexual.” Without the beard, the woman’s smile was pitiful. “I’m yours.”

Faik Jabar let out a cry of anguish and repulsion, then staggered to the door of the flat. In a few seconds he was on the pavement, breathing in the cold night air. He jammed the pistol into the waistband of his still damp trousers. Before he started to move forward, he looked up to the top floor. The curtain was half-open and the face of the monster looked down at him. Now there was no trace of a smile. He remembered something from school about hell, fury and a scorned woman.

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* * *

Pete and Andy took the train to Oxford and walked to the house. It was over a mile from the station, in what was obviously a well-heeled area. Apart from a pissed student lurching home, the place was deserted. The building was detached and about twenty meters back from the road. There was a thick and high privet hedge all around the front garden.

“Good cover,” Andy said as they approached. “And no lights. Let’s hope that means no one’s at home.”

The street was quiet, cars parked on both sides. A narrow path ran up the left side of the property to a tennis club.

“Not even lunatic Oxford professors will be playing at this time of night in March,” Pete said. “How convenient. There’s a side door.”

Andy pulled on latex gloves and took his lock-picking rods from his pocket.

“How long do you give me, Boney?” he asked. Pete shone his torch around the door. “I can’t see an alarm. How about one minute, Slash?”

Andy succeeded, just. They went in, closing the door behind them. There was cast-iron garden furniture on a wide wooden veranda. Pete was shining his torch around the rear door.

“Yup, there it is,” he said, pointing to a small plastic box at the top of the black-painted door. “Circuit breaker.”

He took out the electronic device with a pointed end that Rog had given him. “Let’s see if this thing works.” He held it toward the top of the door for five seconds. “Okay. See what you can do with the lock.”

Andy worked his rods again and there was a click.

“Dammit,” he said in a loud whisper. “There’s a mortice lock, as well.”

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Pete moved the electronic device around the window.

“You’ll have to cut the glass.”

“Sara or her sidekicks will know we’ve been here.”

“Tough,” Pete said. “You heard Matt. Any pressure on the bitch is good news.”

Andy took a glass-knife and two rubber suckers from his backpack. After he’d attached them, Pete held them while he did the cutting. The pane was soon removed and they climbed in.

“Motion sensors,” Pete said, holding Andy back as he moved across the kitchen. He held up the device again.

“Okay.”

They moved forward and made it to the hall, opening the door carefully.

“Jesus, did something die in here?” Andy said as a wave of rank air hit them.

“Very likely,” Pete said, on his knees by the alarm box. Rog had given him another device that was supposed to scramble the unit’s brains for up to half an hour.

“What is that stink?” Andy said, shining his torch around the spacious area.

“Whatever it is, it isn’t far away,” Pete said, close behind him. They came around the bottom of the wide staircase.

“You have got to be kidding,” Andy said, putting a hand over his nose and mouth.

Pete shone his torch on the swollen figure that was lying facedown inside the front door. “I’m glad we came in the back,” he said, breathing only through his mouth.

“Is it a guy?” Andy asked, peering at the head.

“Those look like suit trousers. Pinstripe. Hold on.”

Pete took out his digital camera and shot a series of photographs. “That’ll keep Matt happy.”

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Andy looked up at him. “We’re going to have to turn the poor bastard over.”

They took hold of the bloated shoulders and managed to get the body on to its back. Pete stepped back and took more photos. The face would scarcely have been recognized by the corpse’s best friend.

“Look at that,” Andy said, pointing. “Throat’s been cut.”

Pete nodded. “Check his pockets. Maybe there’s some ID on him.”

Andy blinked hard and then slid a hand into the trouser pocket nearest to him. He shook his head. “Zilch.”

Pete tried the pocket on the other side. “Something in here.” He brought out a rectangular card. “James Maclehose,” he said, “and a load of letters after his name. Consultant plastic surgeon. There’s an address in Harley Street.”

“He must have really got someone pissed,” Andy said, leaning over the dead man’s face. “His nose has been cut off. Christ. And his lips.”

Pete had put the stained card in a plastic bag. “You know what, Slash?”

“Tell me,” Andy said, raising an eyebrow.

“We’ll have to turn him over again.”

“What, so the cops don’t realize he’s been moved?”

“No. So we can check his back pockets.”

They maneuvered the body again.

“Nothing in here,” Pete said.

“But I’ve got this.” Andy held up a piece of folded paper. “I think there’s some writing, but it’s run.” He held the paper up to Pete’s torch beam. “‘Sorry, but….’” He squinted in the torchlight. “Nope, can’t make it out. Why’s someone saying sorry? For killing him?”

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“Fuck knows. Let’s get out of here before I puke my guts up.”

Pete walked to the kitchen.

“Hey, Boney,” Andy said, “you need to reactivate the alarm system.”

“No, I don’t. The place is going to be swarming with cops as soon as we’re clear of it.” He went through the window space.

When they were back on the street, Pete took out his cell phone and started texting. By the time they reached the main road, he’d had a reply.

“Good,” he said. “Matt agrees. I’ll call the cops from the city center.”

As they walked between medieval college buildings, Andy nudged his friend.

“What do you think about Oxford now, Boney?”

Pete raised his arm and sniffed his jacket. “I still stink of that poor bastard.” He glanced at the American. “What do I think about Oxford?” He shivered. “I still bloody hate it.”

Andy nodded. “Me, too. But you get a better class of corpse here.”

Pete stared at him and shook his head. “Sometimes I despair of you, Slash.”

“Me, too, man,” Andy replied, watching a blond young woman in a short skirt get off her bicycle. “But I can get over it.”

“Aw right, mate,” said Josh Hinkley, his feet in their black pointed cowboy boots on the kitchen table. “But tell Spider he’s dead if he doesn’t show up for poker on Friday. See ya.” He dropped the phone onto the book he’d been reading—
Offshore Investments Made Simple.
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His broker had told him it was worth its weight in platinum, which had made Josh laugh. He still thought the guy was a champion arse-licker.

“Time for a drink, I reckon, Josh, old man,” he said aloud, getting up and heading for the fridge. He took out a bottle of Urquel lager and flipped the cap. “Oh, yes, my beauty,” he said after a series of gulps. Since his wife, Lou, had up and left, he’d taken to talking to himself. It wasn’t as if anyone could hear him. Or his music. From the stereo came the sound of The Kinks playing “All Day and All of the Night.” He’d always liked Ray Davies and his mates. A genuine London band with genuine London style.

Not that he was a Londoner himself. According to his Web site, he’d been born within the sound of the Bow Bells, but it would have needed a clear day and a massive sound system to have carried the ding-dongs to the hospital in Harlow. Still, at least his ma had been a real Cockney, even though she wasn’t too clear about who his old man was. It was a toss-up between an Irish laborer and a Glaswegian layabout. Josh’s money was on the former—he had a hell of a work ethic. For the last ten years he’d spent as much time as he could reading the competition. He had transposed American characters to the U.K. and altered the dialogue appropriately. So far as plot was concerned, there was nothing new under the sun, as he liked to say at book signings. Some arsehole critics had clocked what he was up to, but his readers didn’t care. And then, out of the bleeding blue, along comes that little squit Alistair Bing with his Jim Cooler books and outsells him all over the world.