The Soul Collector (29 page)

“So,” he said, forcing himself to be sociable, “you’re a Londoner now.”

“Oh, no, never that,” Bing said mildly. “But I’m on national radio and TV so much that I needed a base down here. I ended up buying the whole house.” He gave a slack smile. “It’s an investment, you know.”

“Right,” Hinkley said. Now he
was
impressed. He was still paying off a mortgage.

Bing took a small sip of beer. “The first Jim Cooler movie’s in preproduction, so I’m flying to L.A. every month.”

Josh Hinkley bit the bullet and asked how that was
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going, trying to damp down his jealousy. One of his Lenny “The Gore” Gray novels had been made into a TV

series, but it had been miscast and directed by a smartarse who ballsed up the story in a big way. He was forced to listen to Bing talking about Hollywood stars like they were his best mates. But there was something different about his fellow author. When Josh had first met him, at a bookshop event somewhere in the Midlands, he’d been shy and nervous. Now he acted like he was a master of the universe and nothing seemed to faze him. He appeared on late-night review programs and took on so-called intellectuals, he wrote columns for the broadsheets that combined analysis of modern life with unexpected wit, and he even turned up on kids’ TV as the token person with a brain who didn’t mind being asked brainless questions. There must have been something in the water up north. It certainly wasn’t in the beer—Bing still hadn’t finished his half-pint.

Eventually Josh Hinkley couldn’t take any more namedropping, even though Bing had offered to introduce him to several of the movie executives and television producers he knew. “This Matt Wells thing, Alistair,” he asked.

“Where do you stand on that?”

“I’m with you, Josh,” Bing said, smiling ingratiatingly.

“I think the way he’s behaving is absolutely outrageous. It was bad enough the first time around, with that White Devil killer. He should be cooperating with the police. It isn’t as if he has to go out of his way to do that—he’s sleeping with a senior detective.”

“So you agree that he should be booted out of the Crime Writers’ Society?”

Alistair Bing nodded. “Certainly. I’ve sent the directors an e-mail supporting you.”

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“Thanks.” Hinkley was pleased, but he was also slightly suspicious. He couldn’t see what was in it for Bing. “Of course, you’ll make some enemies.”

The other author shrugged. “That’s life. Sometimes you have to make difficult decisions.” He leaned over the table. “I can assure you, that’s nowhere near the hardest one I’ve taken.”

Hinkley wondered what could have been so difficult for Bing. Shall I accept two million pounds for my next four books or not? Shall I sell my character to Hollywood so I can set myself up for life, or stay unknown? Shall I buy a whole house in Harley Street, or just half? There was something about the way the Yorkshireman was looking at him that hinted at hidden depths. The bastard was probably a grand master at chess, as well. But there was one area where Josh was sure Alistair Bing would never succeed.

“How’s your love life?” he said, wondering if he was ever going to get another drink.

Spots of color appeared on Bing’s cheeks. “Well, you know, I’m not much of a ladies’man.” He looked at his beer.

“Oh, come on,” Hinkley said, determined to rub his nose in it. “There must have been dozens of willing young nubiles in Hollywood.”

Alistair Bing nodded, but his eyes stayed down.

“Or do you prefer men?”

That made Bing look up. “Definitely not!” he exclaimed, spittle flying from his lips. Hinkley sat back. “Calm down. I don’t care one way or another.”

“I do,” Alistair Bing said firmly. “I suppose I’d better get you another drink.” He picked up the empty glass and went to the bar.

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Josh Hinkley watched the diminutive figure thread his way between the raucous drinkers. He was no nearer to understanding what had turned a minor writer of police procedurals into a massive bestseller. Maybe it was the fact that his books were bland and unchallenging. He almost convinced himself that was the case. As Alistair Bing came back, his forehead lined as he concentrated on not spilling the pint, Hinkley realized that he hated the Yorkshireman’s guts.

Eighteen

I read the text message from Andy aloud. “‘At London Hospital. Bastard threw grenade. Pick us up.’ What the fuck?”

“It could be a trap,” Rog said.

“He used the right confirmation code.”

He shrugged. “Maybe Sara or her sidekicks got it out of him.”

I stared at him. “Why would they send me to the London Hospital? It’s hardly the ideal place to stage an ambush.”

“She could be trying to distract you from solving that clue.”

I nodded. “Which means that you have to keep working on it. Keep in contact with my mother and Caroline via the ghost site.”

“All right,” he said reluctantly. “But I’d rather come with you.”

“Please, Dodger,” I said as I checked my Glock and slipped it inside my jacket. “We can’t all be in the same public place.”

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“What if the cops are there?” he asked. “If a grenade went off, someone will have reported it.”

“I’ll have to take that chance.”

I heard him say “Good luck” as I left. I hailed a passing taxi and told him the destination. The traffic was heavy and it was nearly an hour before we reached the hospital in Whitechapel. I worked on the clue during the journey, but I had little inspiration. “The river shrinks”—a stream, a brook, a runnel? “Bears”—carries, produces, suffers? “The ice crows.” Ice—cold, hard, opaque? Crows—calls out, verb, or black carrion birds? Cries or ravens? What were crows known for? Crow’s nests? As the crow flies? And who was “the lean man,” never mind his “imperial heiress”? As for “the thirsty draw of nothing,” the last word said it all. I only hoped Rog, Fran or Caroline had more ideas.

As we went down Whitechapel Road, I leaned forward and asked the driver if he would do a U-turn and then wait for me as near the hospital as possible. The twenty-pound note I showed him provoked a broad grin. I got out and crossed the road. The hospital was a large Victorian building with modern additions. There was no sign of any police personnel, but if Karen or her team were around, I probably wouldn’t see them. There was nothing for it. I walked into the Accident and Emergency unit and headed for reception.

A pretty nurse asked if she could help.

“I have friends,” I said, in a heavy accent that I hoped sounded Eastern European. “They hurt.”

She nodded and smiled, obviously used to dealing with people whose English was limited. “What are their names?”

I looked blank.

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“Their names,” the nurse repeated. “What are they called?”

I looked around helplessly, checking if there were any police in the vicinity.

“Ah, na-ames,” I said. “Yes. Nishani and Pepa.”

She tapped on her keyboard. “Oh, I remember. Gentlemen who’d been in a fire?”

That must have been how the guys had explained their injuries.

“They okay?” I asked.

“I think they’re being treated now,” she replied. “If you take a seat, I’ll see if I can find out.”

I moved away, but not far. I located the CCTV camera nearest reception and turned my back to it casually. A few minutes later the nurse called me over. “Your friends have just been discharged,” she said. I saw two familiar figures. Pete had a bandage around his forehead. Andy seemed unhurt, but as they came closer I realized they both had bloodshot eyes.

“What happened?” I said as soon as we were out of earshot.

“Whoever the motherfucker was,” Andy said, “he or she realized we were inside and threw in a grenade. Some kind of special-edition number—it went off with a loud enough bang, but its main effect was to fill the room with tear gas. By the time we got out, the piece of shit was long gone.”

“You all right, Pete?” I asked as I led them to the taxi.

“Yeah. You should see the sofa.”

“And you didn’t see anything of who threw it?”

They both shook their heads.

I told the cabbie to take us to Camden Town. “What about the flat?”

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“Somebody was living there,” Andy said, “but we couldn’t be sure if it was a man or a woman. The boxers made it seem like a man, but if it’s a woman, she’s bigger than Sara.” He took something out of his pocket. “Ninemil Parabellum shells—there were twenty-five like this one. There was also a seriously sharp switchblade. They were hidden in the deep-freeze.”

“How do you think you were spotted?”

Pete scratched his head beneath the bandage. “I think he or she smelled the oil from Slash’s lock tools.”

I sat back and thought about what they’d found in the flat. The knife could have been used in the Sandra Devonish murder, and it also could have been used to cut the hairs from Mary Malone. But the pistol ammunition was another story. Could it be that the flat that Sara bought had nothing to do with whoever had killed the two authors and was sending me messages? Maybe she’d rented it out without changing the name of the council tax payer. Or maybe it was part of a carefully laid plan to mess with my brain before she struck decisively.

“Sorry I sent you over there,” I said.

“We went willingly,” Pete said with a wry smile. “We almost caught the bastard.”

“You almost caught
a
bastard,” I said. I told them about the second message.

“You and Rog will work it out,” Andy said with a lot more confidence than I was feeling.

“What about the other properties that Sara owns?”

Pete asked.

“Haven’t you had enough for one day? Anyway, now we’ve got to try and save someone’s life.”

I looked at my watch. It was nearly five. There were seven hours until the deadline.

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* * *

Faik Jabar was chained to a chair, the television in front of him showing children’s programs at high volume. He knew exactly where he was, but that was no help. He tried to recall anything else that might. After the man had found him in Hackney, he had taken off his helmet and put his pistol in his pocket. They’d walked westwards and then north through backstreets. Faik felt the relief grow as they got closer to his parents’ house. Maybe the man was going to take him there. He’d asked if he worked for the King, but the man didn’t answer. Faik’s thighs were burning and he was flagging. They had reached Matthias Road, only a few minutes from Green Lanes, when the bearded man gripped Faik’s arm tightly.

“Don’t struggle or make any noise,” the man hissed.

“You know the Shadows control this street.”

The truth was that Faik was too exhausted to offer resistance. He’d allowed himself to be helped up the stairs to the top-floor flat and remembered being guided to a chair, where he passed out. When he woke up, he found himself in chains.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Help!” Then he realized that the TV wasn’t on for his benefit. He would have to shout very loudly to be heard above the sounds of pop music and cheering children.

Faik tried to make sense of what was going on. The bearded man had said he had so much to show him, but he didn’t even seem to be there. Why had he chained Faik up? The pain in his full bladder was making it hard for the Kurd to concentrate, but he forced himself to admit that he had gone willingly with the man. He’d found himself drawn to him. That disturbed Faik. He wasn’t gay. What was it about the bearded man? Faik remembered what
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he’d seen beneath the false beard in the Shadow basement after Aro Izady was shot. The man was a monster, literally—he had killed a fellow Kurd, but still Faik felt attracted to him. What was going on? Eventually the pressure in his bladder was too much for him and he let go. For a short time, the warmth was comforting—it reminded him of when he was a little boy. But soon the urine cooled and he felt shame. What would his captor think when he saw the evidence of Faik’s unmanliness? The children’s programs were replaced by one of the stupid game shows that were so popular. Faik tried to reassure himself with the thought that his people, the King’s family, would be looking for him by now. The doctor would have told them. But maybe the doctor was no longer alive. The Shadows might not have believed him, they might have killed him. So maybe no one was looking for him. The thought cast Faik into a pit of darkness and he scarcely heard the door when it opened.

“Asleep, my friend?” came the familiar voice. Before Faik could answer, a man was thrown between him and the television. He was balding and his face was pocked by smallpox scars. Blinking hard, Faik saw that he was wearing a gold Rolex and a coat that must have cost many pounds.

“Who is he?” he asked, turning his head.

The bearded man turned his prisoner’s head forcibly.

“Watch and learn,” he said to Faik. “Afterward I might even unchain you.” He sniffed the air. “Oh, I’m sorry, my friend. I should have left you a bottle.” He gave a soft laugh. “Never mind. You aren’t the only one who’ll have pissed his pants by the end of the evening.”

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feet. Izady’s killer was around in a flash to whip the legs from beneath him. Then he kneeled on his captive’s back, a knife at the man’s throat.

“If you try that again, I’ll cut open your belly and tie you up with your own guts.” He leaned closer. “Do you hear me?”

The man on the floor nodded his head rapidly.

“Who is he?” Faik asked, licking his dry lips. The bearded man looked around at him. “I’m sorry, my friend. I would give you something to drink, but I don’t think you’d keep it down.”

There was a high-pitched sound from the man with the Rolex.

“This piece of excrement works for the Albanian mafia. He’s Safet Shkrelli’s chief accountant.”