The Soul Collector (24 page)

“The shape of the cross,” Younger said, in a faint Scottish accent.

Karen Oaten nodded. “No sign of a pentagram?”

“Like the author who was killed in Fulham?” The chief inspector shook his head. “No.”

“Maybe this was all the bastard had time to do,” John Turner said.

Oaten nodded. “What about the message?”

Younger handed her a transparent evidence bag. “It was lying over her face.”

The words “Ask Matt Wells about this” were written
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in capitals, in blue ink. Oaten’s expression remained impassive.

“Turn it over,” Younger said.

She did so and saw the words “FECIT DIABOLUS”

in red ink. Whoever had spoken to Amelia Browning had failed to mention that.

“It’s the same killer,” Turner said.

“Given that we didn’t release the Latin words to the press, I’d say there’s a good chance of that, Taff,” Oaten said. She looked at Younger. “I gather no one saw anything.”

He shrugged. “Someone must have seen the killer. All the exits are alarmed, so he—or she—must have come in through the main entrance. The problem is, the bar was busy and it would have been easy to slip in unnoticed. We’re talking to everyone who was in the building when we arrived. We’ll narrow it down and get a description.”

He frowned. “If you don’t take the case from us.”

Oaten glanced at Taff. “We’re taking it—it’s clearly linked to the Mary Malone case. We’ll have to take that, too. I’ll talk to your super. I’d like your team to stay on the case. Taff here will act as liaison.”

Younger’s face flushed. “So we do the hard graft and you get the glory?”

Oaten shook her head. “You know I don’t work like that, Colin. Give me a break, for Christ’s sake. Apart from these murders, we’ve got the shooting south of the river, plus what looks like the makings of a major gang war in East London. I’m asking for your help. Don’t make me show my teeth.”

Younger pursed his lips, and then nodded. “Fair enough.”

“What’s the victim’s name?” Oaten asked.

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“Obviously we haven’t had a formal identification yet, but the books over there have got her photo on them. We also found her passport. She’s Sandra Lee-Anne Devonish, born San Antonio, Texas, on January 15th, 1970. According to the back of the books, she’s one of the world’s highest-selling crime novelists.”

Karen Oaten felt a chill finger stir in her gut. Another crime writer. She was certain Matt knew something about the case. The message that Sara or whoever killed Sandra Devonish had left on the body suggested there had been some kind of communication. Where the hell was Matt when his fellow crime writer was being stabbed with such frightening precision?

“What was the music?” she asked, coming back to herself.

“Sorry?” Younger had also been lost in thought. “Oh, yes. According to my sergeant, who knows about rock—

I only listen to the classics—it’s a song called ‘Friend of the Devil’ by the Grateful Dead.”

Karen Oaten grunted. The tabloid papers would love that.

Fifteen

I couldn’t stay in my hotel room any longer. The thought that someone was being killed because of my failure to crack the clue drove me onto the streets of Bloomsbury. I brushed past a kid who asked for money, provoking justified abuse. I walked around the quiet streets and lost track of time. Eventually, in front of the British Museum, I looked up at the neo-classical facade and tried to get a grip. The shouts of some pissed students brought me back to reality. There were people laughing and enjoying themselves, but I had put myself beyond the boundaries of ordinary humanity. I had tried to take on a killer and someone else had paid for my arrogance.

I found a public phone and called Karen’s cell phone.

“Matt,” she said in a low voice, “where are you?”

“Never mind. There’s been a murder, hasn’t there?”

“How did you know that?” she demanded. “Where are you? I need you to come in.” Her tone was icy.

“Who was it?” I asked, desperate to know whose name had been concealed in the clue.

“When I see you, I’ll tell you,” she replied. “One thing 222

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you might like to know now, though—there was a message on the body. The Devil did it, in Latin, as in Mary Malone’s garden.”

“Shit,” I said. Had Sara struck again so quickly?

“That’s not all it said.”

Something about her tone made me instantly apprehensive. The White Devil had tried to frame me several times.

“Suddenly you’ve gone all quiet,” she said ironically.

“The killer also wrote ‘Ask Matt Wells about this.’ So, I’m asking.”

“You know I didn’t kill anyone.”

“So why should I tell you who the victim was?” She had obviously had it with me.

“Tell me who it was, Karen. Please.”

“Screw you, Matt,” she hissed. “Who do you think you are? Why should I share information with you when all you do is disappear so you can run your personal campaign?”

I took a deep breath. “Because I’m the only person who can catch Sara. When it comes to the crisis point, I’ll be the bait she can’t resist.”

“And how many people have to die before you eventually play that heroic part?”

My stomach somersaulted as I realized she would have seen the number I was calling from on her screen. If she’d got someone to find the phone booth’s location, a car full of cops could be on its way as we spoke.

“I’m hanging up, Karen. Last chance to tell me the name. You know I can make good use of it.”

“Do I?” she said, the anger in her voice replaced by what sounded like regret. “Maybe I did once. But you’re flailing about now, Matt. Come in, for God’s sake.”

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“The name, Karen.”

There was a pause before she spoke again. “It’ll be on the news soon enough. Sandra Devonish.”

I broke the connection and ran for my hotel. I stopped a couple of times to check that there was no one on my tail. Either I’d got away in time or Karen hadn’t traced the number. I wasn’t taking any chances about where I spent the rest of the night. I went up to my room, packed up the laptop and the rest of my gear and went out past the dozing night porter.

Back on the street, I saw a cab and hailed it.

“Where to, squire?” the driver asked.

I told him to drive toward Victoria and thought about it. Getting out of London was tempting, but I needed to be close to the scenes of the crimes. Maybe I’d be able to prevent another. Christ, who was I kidding? I hadn’t been able to help Sandra Devonish. I’d met her a couple of times at crime-writing conferences in the States. She played the Southern belle, with the full set of long vowels and perfect manners, then would turn into a wisecracking, in-your-face lesbian. She could drink most men under the bar. I shook my head to dispel the vision of the stunning American. I needed to think about what to do now. I couldn’t handle this on my own any longer. It could be risky meeting up with Rog and Pete, but it had to be done. If we were going to catch Sara, we needed to go on the offensive and to do that effectively, we had to be together. I took out my laptop, booted up and asked the driver to pull in. My wireless card picked up a signal and I logged on to the Internet. I sent a message to Rog’s ghost site. I told him and Pete to meet me on the Embankment, under Hungerford Bridge. I sent Andy a text saying the same thing. Then I walked from Victoria to Embankment, 224

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checking there was no one on my tail. As I was going under the railway bridge, a low whistle came from my left.

“Over here, Matt,” Pete said in a low voice. I joined him in a dim alcove. “God, it’s good to see a friendly face,” I said, grabbing his hand.

“Steady on,” he said, trying to look at my face.

“What’s up?”

I told him about Sandra Devonish. I could see he was trying to make sense of the clue now that we knew the answer, but that wasn’t the priority right now.

“Where do you think we should go, Boney?” I asked. He thought about it. “You’ve got a safe house for yourself, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, but it’s outside the M25. I don’t think we should leave the Smoke.”

He nodded. “How about my place? The bitch from hell won’t be able to get past my alarm system easily.”

“No chance,” I replied. “Karen knows where you live. She’ll check it out.”

“We can hide in the wine cellar.”

“No, I can’t take the chance. If we get taken into custody, protective or not, we’ll never catch Sara.”

Footsteps approached. Pete whistled again and Rog came across.

“Good to see you,” I said, punching him lightly on the chest. Two of them had made it. Now there was only Andy.

“We need to find a base in London,” I said to Rog.

“Preferably not too far out of the center.”

“No problem,” he said, fumbling in his pocket. “These are the keys to my cousin’s flat in Camden Town. He’s on holiday. I’m supposed to water the plants, but I haven’t managed that yet.”

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“Em, brilliant,” I said, taken aback by the quick solution to our most pressing problem. Andy arrived a few minutes later.

“What did you do with the van?” I asked.

“Left it outside the hire place. It’s no use to us now.”

“But they’ve got your credit card.”

“No, they haven’t.”

I stared at him. “What did you do?”

He shrugged. “I…em, I bought a fake card from a friend of a friend.”

“Bloody hell, you took a chance,” I said.

“It worked all right when they swiped it,” he said.

“What’s the problem? I thought I was meant to use my initiative.”

“You did well, big man,” I said, trying to placate him.

“How was Mrs. Carlton-Jones?”

“All right,” he said. “I didn’t get the impression that she’d been hiding her daughter.”

“Do you think it was Sara on the motorbike?”

“Could well have been.”

He was right. And she could well have used the bike to get to and from the latest murder scene. Half an hour later we were all safely inside Rog’s cousin’s flat. It was a decent-size, two-bedroom place near the tube station. There were even two good-quality computers, which gave us more power in that department. Rog made a pot of coffee and we sat around the dining table.

“So what happened with the clue?” Rog asked.

“I knew the dead woman, Sandra Devonish,” I said.

“I’ve heard of her,” Andy said. “I think I read one of her books. Set in Texas?”

I nodded. “She was quite a woman.”

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“Sandra Devonish,” Rog said, taking a large notebook from his bag. “‘The sun set by the westernmost dunes of Alexander’s womankind.’ Oh, I get it. Alexander’s womankind—Sandra comes from Alexandra, the female version of Alexander.”

“Fuck,” I said, under my breath. I should have spotted that. But it wouldn’t necessarily have helped, as I couldn’t think of any other Sandras I knew and I wasn’t even aware that the dead woman was coming to London.

“The sun set…” Pete said.

“My mother spotted that ‘set’ might be the Egyptian god of that name—among other things, he was the god of disorder, so the words, syllables or letters in the clue would be jumbled up.”

Rog looked up from his notebook. “Wasn’t the Egyptian god of the sun called Ra?”

I groaned. “You’re right. And the dunes are made of sand. So that was another pointer to Sand-ra.” I slapped my forehead. I’d been duped twice. “And ‘by the westernmost dunes’ means next to the place with the most westerly beaches in this country, which is Devon rather than Cornwall.”

Rog nodded. “And the ‘kind’ at the end of ‘womankind,’ if it’s taken to mean ‘kind of’—”

“Comes out as ‘-ish,’” I completed. “Jesus! I should have got that.”

The three of them demurred.

“Come on, man,” Andy said, “I’d never have worked that out.”

“Yeah, it was pretty cryptic,” Rog said. “Pete and I didn’t have a clue, either. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“But a woman’s dead,” I said. “I should have guessed the next victim would be another crime writer.”

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“Why?” Pete asked. “The White Devil didn’t kill people in the same line of work, did he?”

That was true. But I still blamed myself for not involving my mother sooner. She might well have got the answer in time. Then another thought struck me. Would Sara, or whoever was aping her and the White Devil, have kept her promise and spared Sandra if I had identified her? I tried to get some sleep on the bed next to Andy. I still felt responsible. Karen was right. I wasn’t up to fighting this war, even with my friends on my side. But it was too late to change tactics now. I had to make sure there were no more deaths, and in order to do that, we had to track Sara down.

Sleep climbed all over me like a ravenous bear and I fell into the depths.

Faik Jabar’s shoulder had been treated by the Kurdish doctor, whose name was Jemal Dawod, and it no longer hurt him so much. The doctor had a house near the Lea Bridge roundabout in Clapton. Faik heard the roar of traffic and wished he could go back to his parents’ house. It was only a mile or so away, but the area would be swarming with Shadows and Jemal wouldn’t let him out during the hours of daylight. Late in the evening, after Faik woke from a deep sleep, they had eaten a meal of spicy stewed lamb that the doctor had prepared.

“That was good,” Faik said, emptying his glass of water. “Now I must go.”

“It is very dangerous for you.”

“And for you. The Shadows know where you live.”

Jemal Dawod nodded. “But they have been told that I did not kill the Wolfman.”

“What about the guard you took out?”

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“His memory will be jumbled up for some time.”

“But you were seen trying to take me away.”

“I already told them that I needed another doctor to look at you. Now I will say that you escaped from here.”

“Will they come?”

The doctor shook his head. “They only ever contact me by telephone. I think they are very busy trying to find the Wolfman’s killer.”