The Soul Collector Page 2

  And then her cell phone rang.

  “What are we doing here, guv?” DI John Turner was waiting for DCI Oaten on the steps of number 41 Ifield Road. There was a uniformed policeman below him and a crime scene investigator in a dark blue coverall on his way into the house.

  “Ask the assistant commissioner, Taff,” she said. This time she hadn’t cared about finding a space. She’d double-parked her silver BMW 318i next to the CSIs’ white van. “He seems to think this is up our alley.” She stamped her booted feet in the cold and had a flash of Matt’s face when she was taking them off. She smiled and then let out a groan. “Shit.”

  The inspector followed her gaze down to the high-heeled boots. “They’ll look good with a pair of overshoes on.” He grinned, but not for long. Oaten, known only behind her back as Wild Oats, had a notorious temper.

  A middle-aged man in a white coverall appeared at the door. “Any sign of the very important VCCT?” He made no effort to keep the scorn from his voice. Most other detectives saw the elite Violent Crimes Coordination Team as a gang of interfering glory-snatchers.

  “DCI Oaten and DI Turner of the same,” Karen said icily, taking out her warrant card. “And you are?”

  “DI Luke Neville, Homicide Division West,” he replied, his cocky manner suddenly missing in action. He chewed his unusually large lower lip as Oaten and Turner got into protective gear. “Bit of a weird one, this.”

  Oaten glanced up at him. “Who called it in?”

  “Next-door neighbor,” Neville replied, angling his head to his right. “He was ranting about loud music coming from number 41. Said the lady was always quiet as a mouse. He’d hammered on the door, but got no reply.”

  “What kind of music?” Turner asked.

  Neville was looking pleased with himself again. “Well, that’s one of the weird things.” He paused for effect, then started speaking rapidly when Oaten’s eyes bored into his. “We found a CD with only one song repeated ten times on it.”

  Oaten went up the steps. “And the song was…?”

  “An old Rolling Stones one, actually.” Neville gave a weak smile. “‘Sympathy for the Devil.’ The volume was turned up full.”

  Oaten raised an eyebrow. Matt had got tickets when the band had played Twickenham a couple of years back. That song had been the standout number, Mick Jagger high above the stage in a red top hat and tail coat.

  “I was always more of a Beatles man, myself,” Turner muttered.

  They followed DI Neville inside. The house was impeccably clean and tidy, shelves full of books on every wall. At the far end of the long sitting room, a familiar figure was standing over the short but bulky female corpse lying facedown on the floor. The dead woman wore a calf-length blue skirt, and pink slippers with pom-poms were lying at irregular angles to her feet, about a meter away.

  “DCI Oaten, what a pleasure.”

  “Good evening, Dr. Redrose,” Karen said, her tone formal. She didn’t much like the potbellied, red-cheeked pathologist, even though he was good at his job. “What have you got here?” She bent over the remains of the obese woman. The thick legs were bare and marked by the purple cobwebs of varicose veins. There was a patch of blood on the gray carpet at the left side of her head.

  “What I’ve got,” said the medic, “is something less than pleasant.” He looked up at his assistant, who was standing by. “All right, the police photographer’s finished and we’ve taken our shots. Let’s turn her over.”

  The woman was moved onto her back, the two men grunting with the effort. The victim’s face was a mess of blood and ripped skin.

  Taff Turner swallowed hard, trying to prevent his weak stomach from erupting.

  “And also rather unusual,” Redrose said, his normally languid tone replaced by one that suggested a fascination bordering on the unhealthy. “Severe lacerations and heavy blows to the face.” He extended an arm. “And the left ear has been removed.”

  “Jesus,” Turner said, averting his eyes from the sight.

  Oaten looked at the carpet around the body and the nearest wall. There was no blood spatter. “I take it the injuries were inflicted after death.”

  Redrose nodded. “I’ve examined the skull. There’s a serious depressed fracture, probably from a fall.” He shook his head and then smiled. “But that wasn’t what killed her.”

  Oaten was irritated by the pathologist’s ability to take pleasure from his work, but she didn’t show it. That would only have encouraged him. She looked back at the dead woman. It was impossible to tell if any other trauma had been inflicted. Apart from the face and head there was no blood, and her clothing didn’t appear to have been disturbed.

  “Let me help you, Chief Inspector,” Redrose said. He turned the victim’s head to the right and put his forefinger close to an area of the neck. “You see the ligature mark?”

  Oaten nodded. The dull red line was narrow. “Any sign of what was used?”

  “Not in the immediate vicinity, ma’am,” a uniformed officer said.

  The pathologist laughed. “Careful, laddie. The chief inspector’s one of those female officers who prefers to be called ‘guv.’”

  Oaten gave Redrose a tight smile. “So she was strangled.”

  “Correct. The marks suggest by something pretty narrow, like a shoelace. I’ll see if there are any fibers later.”

  “And the time of death, Doctor?” Oaten asked.

  The pathologist looked affronted. “Surely you realize it’s too early to say.”

  She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Would you care to hazard a guess?”

  “Oh, very well,” Redrose said, with a brief smile. “Given the body temperature, I’d say no more than two hours ago.”

  Oaten looked at her watch. It was nearly ten.

  DI Neville appeared at her side. “The neighbor called about the noise at 8:43 p.m. So that gives us a pretty tight window of eight to around eight-thirty. I’ve just been talking to the guy next door. He isn’t sure, but he reckons that the music started about a quarter of an hour before he made the call.”

  “Did he see anyone leave the house?” Turner asked, his notebook and pen out.

  Neville shook his head.

  Karen Oaten stood up and took in the room. The back door was ajar and on the carpet near it were some small bloodstains. “What happened there?”

  Neville stepped up. “The CSIs have already taken them away.”

  “Them?”

  “The severed head and body of a black cat,” the detective inspector said. “There’s more blood on the paving stones out back. It looks like it was slaughtered there.” The bottom lip went between his teeth again.

  “Do we know if it was the victim’s?” Oaten asked.

  Neville nodded. “The neighbor confirmed she had one like that. It, or rather he, was called Noir.”

  Black, thought Oaten. The victim must have liked black humor. Or was she into old crime movies? She turned to Neville. “Do we know who she was?”

  “No formal identification yet. The neighbor declined, but we’ll work on him once she’s been cleaned up in the mortuary. There are bank and credit cards in a purse in the hall. The name’s Shirley Higginbottom. There’s a nameplate on the front doorframe that says S. Higginbottom, so there isn’t much doubt that was her.”

  “Any cash?” Turner asked.

  Neville looked at his notebook. “Sixty-four pounds and eight pence. And there are two laptops, a plasma TV and a load of jewelry upstairs.”

  Oaten was looking at the body again. “Well, clearly we’re not looking for a burglar who was interrupted—”

  “Inspector?”

  They all turned to the back door. A fresh-faced young man in a crumpled suit and white overshoes stood there, looking at Oaten and Turner in confusion.

  “DC Lineham,” Neville said unenthusiastically. “Two weeks on the job and thinks he knows it all,” he said to Oaten, not bothering to lower his voice. “What is it then? You can talk in front of our collea
gues from the Violent Crimes Coordination Team.”

  “I thought I recognized DCI Oaten from the TV,” Lineham said, stepping forward.

  “Not inside!” yelled Neville. “You need a coverall and a change of overshoes, idiot.”

  The young constable’s cheeks reddened. “Sorry, guv,” he said. He was well-spoken, probably a graduate on the fast-track scheme. “Perhaps you’d like to come out here then.”

  “What have you found?” Neville said wearily. “Don’t tell me there’s another headless moggy in the garden.”

  “No, sir. It’s a bit more…em, sinister than that.”

  Oaten and Turner exchanged glances and went to the back door. They took off their bootees. Steps led down to a garden that was lit by lamps set into the side of a paved path. A CSI was on his knees on the grass next to one of the stone slabs, examining it close up.

  As they got closer, Karen Oaten’s heart began to sink. This was the last thing she needed.

  The investigator looked up at them. “White chalk, drawn with a steady hand, I’d say. It’s a—”

  “Pentagram,” Oaten and Turner said in unison. They’d worked more than one case involving the paraphernalia of Satanism.

  “What’s that writing in the middle?” Neville asked, peering forward from the closest stepping plates that had been put down to protect any footprints.

  “It’s Latin,” put in DC Lineham eagerly. “‘FECIT DIABOLUS.’” He looked around the blank faces excitedly.

  “Meaning?” Oaten prompted.

  “Meaning ‘The devil did it.’”

  Inspector Neville groaned and slapped his forehead. “This and the bloody Stones track. We’ve only gone and got ourselves a sodding Satanist murder.”

  Oaten looked at John Turner, then they both concentrated on the pentagram.

  “Black cat cut up like that,” Turner said, “and the victim’s ear removed…” He broke off. “I presume it hasn’t been found in or near the house.”

  “You presume right,” Neville said, squatting down by the pentagram. “What is this shit? Why can’t people just kill each other and leave it at that? The press are going to have a field day.”

  “Well, you’d better not encourage them, Inspector,” Oaten said firmly. “At this point, we don’t know if the pentagram has any connection to the killing. The victim herself might have had an interest in devil worship.”

  “Excuse me, Chief Inspector,” Lineham said. He looked like a boy bursting for the toilet. “Don’t you think—”

  “Don’t interrupt me when I’m thinking,” Oaten ordered.

  DC Lineham stared at the pentagram, looking aggrieved.

  “Is there something I’m missing here?” Inspector Neville said suspiciously. Then he made the connection. “Oh, Jesus. You’re the ones who investigated that other devil case, the one with the heavy-duty killings.”

  “That was the White Devil,” Taff Turner said. “And he’s dead.” He glanced at his boss. They both knew that wasn’t the whole story.

  Neville was looking at Oaten. “Are you taking over the case then, ma’am?”

  Oaten was sure that he was deliberately using the traditional mode of address for female superiors, despite Redrose’s warning to the other officer. To her, it was sexist, old-fashioned and demeaning. Not only that, it made her feel like the queen. None of those things were acceptable, but she decided against correcting Neville. He would imagine he’d put one over her. “Not yet, Inspector. Please make sure that I receive a copy of the full case file and daily updates. And give me your contact numbers.”

  They exchanged cards, and then she and Turner headed for the door.

  “Aren’t you going to attend the postmortem, Chief Inspector?” Redrose called after her. “You never know, I might find a message tucked away somewhere…personal.”

  Karen Oaten looked over her shoulder. “No,” she said.

  “Ghoul,” she continued more quietly to Taff. “He loves seeing us squirm in the morgue.”

  “I hope you aren’t going to send me,” Turner said dolefully.

  She smiled grimly. “No, that wide boy Neville can have the pleasure.” On the pavement, she stripped off her coverall and overshoes.

  “So you don’t think the devil angle should concern us?” the Welshman asked. “Could it be—”

  “Don’t say it,” Oaten interrupted. She shrugged. “Whoever’s responsible, it’s not exactly a run-of-the-mill murder.”

  “It certainly isn’t as straightforward as a drugs gang killing, not that we’ve got a handle on the scumbag who did that.” He paused. “Even if we don’t mention you-know-who, some smart-arse in the press is bound to.”

  Oaten gave him a fierce look. “Let’s just hope this isn’t the first of a series, then,” she said, heading for her car.

  Turner watched her drive off. His stomach was still queasy from the sight of the dead woman’s face, as well as from the fact that all his instincts and experience were telling him this wouldn’t be a one-off.

  Two

  The atmosphere in the crypt off the main cavern was thick, the air filled with the smoke from guttering black candles, dozens of them. The walls of the confined chamber were festooned with animal skulls, the jaws and teeth of wolves and bears dark with dried blood. There were also the skins of lions and antelopes, medieval swords, axes with notched blades, and the battered helms of long-dead knights. In the middle of the flagstones on the floor, a pentagram had been drawn in yellow chalk. Arcane symbols and letters in a strange script adorned each point of the star-shape.

  A figure in a plain gray tunic was kneeling inside the pentagram, holding a curved knife in the left hand.

  “Come to me, sweet Mephistopheles,” the supplicant intoned. “I am in need of your subtle services.”

  There was silence, broken only by the hiss of candle wicks as the flames consumed the wax.

  The supplicant raised both hands again. “Come to me.” The voice was tenser. “Do not desert me in my hour of need.”

  A wooden panel slid open in front of the kneeling figure. The person who came out was initially obscured by the smoky air. Then the supplicant saw that the devil’s representative was wearing the usual monk’s black robe and cowl.

  “Have you forgotten what you must pay?” The voice was soft, but it had a steely edge.

  “I have not, sweet Mephistopheles.” The knife cut into the lower right arm and sliced open the skin beneath five similar scars, one of which was still livid. Blood welled up instantly.

  The masked figure leaned forward and held out a tarnished silver goblet decorated with precious stones to collect the liquid tribute.

  “Very good, Faustus.” The monkish apparition stepped back. “Tell me how the evening went.” A finger was raised. “And omit nothing.”

  The supplicant nodded avidly and started to speak. Then a demonic shriek rang out and cut the flow of words off immediately.

  I woke up the second that Karen came into the flat—my experiences with the White Devil had made me a permanent light sleeper. She took her boots off on the sofa opposite the bed, but this time there was no question of me making a leading comment. It was after two and she looked like she’d sucked a bag of lemons.

  “What happened?” I ventured, going over to embrace her. She resisted for a few moments, and then crushed her body against mine.

  “Oh, some sick bastard strangled a woman, beat her face to a pulp and cut off her ear.”

  She sighed and I thought I heard a sob. I held her tighter and buried my face in her hair. “It’s all right, my sweet,” I said, feeling for her. Although she was a tough woman cop on the outside, deep down she was a mass of conflicting emotions. That was why I loved her. She was complicated and hard to fathom, hard-edged but also caring. I sometimes wondered what she saw in me.

  “Matt, I’m worried,” she said, her voice faint.

  I felt a quiver of apprehension. “Don’t be,” I said. “I’ll look after you, Kar.” I only used the diminutiv
e of her name when I was being more tender than either of us was usually comfortable with.

  She turned her head so her lips met mine. “What would I do without you?” she murmured.

  “Why would you be without me?” I asked, feeling even more apprehensive.

  Karen pushed herself away far enough so she could focus on my eyes. “Because there are things we can’t do together.” She dropped her gaze.

  “What’s happened? Who was the murder victim?”

  “Shirley something…” She rubbed her head. “Higginbottom. I’ve left it with Homicide West, at least for the time being.”

  The name stirred something deep in my memory. I tried to excavate it, but failed.

  Karen looked up at me and I saw she was about to come out with something bad. She tightened her grip on my midriff. “Look, it probably isn’t significant…”

  “Just tell me,” I said, taking a deep breath.

  She nodded. “There was a pentagram drawn on flagstones in the garden. And there were Latin words inside it.”

  “What were they?”

  “You know Latin?” Karen asked.

  “I did it for a few years at school.”

  Karen sat back. “Okay. Let’s see if that’s enough. ‘FECIT DIABOLUS.’”

  “I can get that, all right. ‘The devil did it.’” I looked at her, feeling a sudden chill. “Did what? The murder?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose so. It would hardly be the first Satanist killing in Greater London, would it?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t like it, Karen. It makes me think of the White Devil and his sister.” I felt a surge of panic. “Jesus, is Sara back?”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, Matt,” Karen said. She got up and went into the en suite bathroom. “There was nothing connecting the murder to you or any of your friends and relatives.”

  That didn’t make me feel much better. The White Devil had taunted me with quotations from revenge tragedy previously. Maybe this was Sara’s adaptation of that, and she was using Latin to muddy the waters. She was cunning and vicious enough to play that kind of game.

  Karen came back into the bedroom and looked at me. “Get hold of yourself, Matt.”