The Soul Collector

by Paul Johnston

  “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.

  “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?”

  “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.

  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 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 h
is pants by the end of the evening.”

  The man on the floor whimpered and tried to get to his 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.”

  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.

  “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 horror-filled 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 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 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—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 tryin
g 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.”

  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 Slovenian 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.