The Soul Collector mw-2 Read online

  Moving on to “the lean man’s imperial heiress,” Fran and Caroline pointed out the male reference. Including the mention in the body of the e-mail text and in the sender’s name (thethirdisaman), that made four times that masculinity had been stressed. Could it be deliberate overkill? Maybe the target was actually a woman, a married one, as suggested by the use of “wife” in the previous line. Very helpful. As for “lean,” did I know anyone who was unusually skinny? Not really. Apart from junkies, most people were overweight these days, myself included, thanks to the additional muscles I’d acquired. My mother and ex-wife picked up on the colonial aspect of “imperial”-did I know anyone from a former colony? A few, and there were millions more I’d never heard of. Again, not much help. As for “heiress,” that suggested “daughter”-they had immediately thought of Lucy, though they accepted she was safe where they were. But was the intended victim female? The White Devil had told plenty of lies during his persecution of me-and, more to the point, he’d covered up or failed to tell me about even more things. Sara might be following his example.

  In the fourth line, “Is the thirsty draw of nothing,” Fran and Caroline spotted the opposition with the first line-“thirsty,” in the sense of “dry,” as against the liquid of “river.” But “draw of nothing” had them stumped. What kind of draw was meant? One where stalemate ensues, or an attraction? Perhaps there was even a hint of artistic technique-but how could you draw nothing? As for the last word, it could simply mean the letter O; or it could be hinting at a person, as in “no thing”; or it could just be there to show that the answer of the clue was without substance-i.e. that we were wasting our time trying to find it. Three seriously unhelpful alternatives. I thanked Fran and Caroline, sent my love to Lucy and logged off.

  Back at the dining table, I started rearranging the words of the message. There was a disturbing number of permutations, but even more worrying was the fact that I wasn’t getting anywhere. It was past three-only nine hours to go. Should I call Karen? I dismissed the thought, but only after long consideration. I asked Rog what he had come up with and was handed a sheaf of printout, none of which left me any the wiser. Could the clue be an acrostic? I wrote down all the first letters-they made no sense in the order they were in. I changed the order, trying to make a name. I found “Rich”-which applied to several crime writers and a hell of a lot of other people; “Martin”-I knew several of those, both first names and surnames. Should I tell them all to go into hiding? I needed another name; “Watt”-I didn’t know anyone by that name, nor any Martin Watts. I was clutching at straws and I knew it.

  I got up and went to make coffee. As I waited for the kettle to boil, I thought about the first line, “The river shrinks bears.” What was that supposed to mean? I thought back to the ground rules of cryptic crosswords. Repunctuate. If I put a comma after “shrinks,” the sense, such as it was, became very different. Rather than the ridiculous vision of large furry animals being reduced in size by the river, I now had the river doing two things-becoming smaller itself and “bearing” something-carrying? I felt the metaphorical ice in my brain crack. A shrunken river meant a smaller one. So a stream, a burn, a rivulet? I was on the brink of a breakthrough, I was sure of it.

  Then my phone beeped twice. I’d been sent a text. Apart from Rog, only Pete and Andy had my new number. What had they discovered in the flat? I hit the buttons and read the message.

  Josh Hinkley walked into the pub in Soho and went straight to the bar. He didn’t care if the person he was meeting was there already. He urgently needed a drink. He ordered a double ten-year-old Macallan and emptied it in one. That immediately put a different complexion on the day.

  He’d spent most of it on the phone to members of the Crime Writers’ Society, or answering their e-mails. It seemed that Matt Wells had a lot of friends, and they objected to his being pilloried in the press and on the Internet. Some had even accused Josh of shamelessly seeking publicity. Well, that was true enough, not that he could admit it. So he’d given them a load of bollocks about how crime writers had a duty to assist the police. Some of his fellow novelists had refused to accept that Matt had chickened out by going underground. Eventually, Josh had told one of them where he could stick his telephone and put his own in one of the kitchen drawers. That didn’t stop it ringing, so he left.

  It was only when he was approaching the Goat and Gooseberry that he remembered why he was going there. He’d got a call from another crime writer before the hue and cry had started, asking if they could meet. A year ago, Josh Hinkley wouldn’t have bothered to cross the street to talk to Alistair Bing, but now he wanted to pick the diminutive Yorkshireman’s brains. Bing had started off about ten years back with a desperately tedious series about a pair of rural coppers, set in the Moors. The fact that one of them was a black man and the other a half-Chinese woman didn’t help on the realism front. For some reason, his publishers had continued with the series for six books before finally realizing that sales so low couldn’t be justified, even with a minimal advance. Everyone-Josh included-had assumed that was the last they’d hear of Alistair Bing, but he turned out to be a persistent bugger. He managed to reinvent himself as a writer, coming out with a hard-as-nails ex-FBI protagonist called Jim Cooler, who basically went around the world beating the shit out of bad people and giving one to every luscious female he encountered. The first book had rocketed to the top of the charts in every significant country, turning Bing into a publishing sensation and a very wealthy man. Now Hollywood producers were his best friends.

  “Hello, Josh.”

  Hinkley turned and took in the short, bespectacled multimillionaire. He still dressed like a 1950s schoolmaster, but now the tweed jacket was bespoke and the glasses the best that Milan could provide.

  “Alistair, how the hell are you? I’m just getting another. What would you like?”

  “It’s all right,” Bing said, his voice still the drone of the permanently unhappy Northerner. “I’ve got one over at that table.” He moved his arm limply.

  “Let’s go, then.” Josh Hinkley led him back to his own table. A half-pint glass was sitting there, three-quarters full. “Sure you don’t want a shot to go with that?”

  “Oh, no, I never drink spirits.” Alistair Bing carefully folded up the newspaper he’d been reading.

  “So, what brings you to London?”

  “Oh, I live here now. Off Harley Street, actually.”

  “Really?” Josh Hinkley had assumed Bing was tied to the north by chains of Sheffield steel. “We’re practically neighbors.”

  “Yes, I walked past your place the other day. I imagine it’s nicer inside than it looks from the outside.”

  Hinkley was unimpressed, both by the slur on his home and the idea of Alistair Bing checking up on him, but he managed not to let that show. “I like to be close to the people I write about,” he said, aware that he sounded like a bleeding-heart liberal. The reality was, he hated the sleazeballs who hung around the pubs and strip joints. His double flat was on the top of a building otherwise used as offices; it was an air-conditioned oasis where he could hide away and write.

  “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 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 smart-arse 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 somet
hing 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 name-dropping, 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.”

  “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.

  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.”

  “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 a
nd 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.