The Soul Collector (3 page)

“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, Inspec-26
Paul Johnston

tor. 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 youknow-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.”

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Paul Johnston

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
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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 diminutive 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.

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Paul Johnston

“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.”

“Tell me exactly what you found, will you?” I said, suddenly noticing that I was pacing up and down. “Please, Karen.” I sat down next to her on the bed. After instructing me not to mention anything about the murder in my column, she did.

“Are you sure there was no message on the body?” I asked when she’d finished.

“Redrose said there wasn’t. You know how keen he is to check that kind of thing. We’ll know for certain when he does the postmortem tomorrow.”

I got up and went over to the laptop I kept in the bedroom. I logged on and checked my e-mails. There was
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nothing from Sara—no taunts, no threats, no disposable e-mail addresses.

“Okay?” Karen said, giving me a reassuring smile.

“Not really,” I said.

Karen shook her head. “For God’s sake, Matt! Has it ever occurred to you that, in writing
The Death List,
you gave every psycho lunatic in London, no, in the whole country, if not the whole world—”

“The global sales
were
good, weren’t they?” I said. She ignored that “—an open invitation to pretend they were Sara. You went into such detail about the White Devil’s methods that you’re probably responsible for dozens of murders.” She turned away and murmured,

“Good night.”

Karen, used to seeing dead bodies at all times of day and night, despite her initial disquiet, fell asleep not long afterward. Eventually I dropped off, but not before I’d got out of bed to check the alarm system. I was vaguely aware of Karen rising at some ridiculously early hour and kissing me on the cheek. Then I dropped off again. At least I wasn’t disturbed by nightmares.

When I finally surfaced it was after nine. I would normally have done half an hour on my exercise bike, but today I wanted to be sure that everyone was all right. I ran my eye down the morning e-mails. All my family and friends had confirmed they were okay. I thought about raising the level of alert after the murder last night, but decided against it. Karen was right—a single mention of the devil in Latin wasn’t worth getting too worked up about.

I sat back in my £2000 desk chair and considered the name that Karen had mentioned. Shirley Higginbottom. There was something familiar about it. I looked at the row 32

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of reference books on the nearest shelf.
Who’s Who?
Who’s Who in the Arts? The Rugby League Year Book?
None of them seemed likely, though there was probably no shortage of league players called Higginbottom. Farther along the shelf there was a small yellow booklet. It was the annual directory of members of the Crime Writers’ Society. Something clicked. I grabbed the booklet and found the pages with names beginning in
H.
No Higginbottoms. Then I remembered the section that matched authors’ real names with their noms de plume. I was in that—Matt Stone = Matt Wells. Back when I’d started writing novels, I thought Stone would give me a harder edge in the market. That had been one of my many delusions.

Then I hit pay dirt. There it was: Mary Malone = Shirley Higginbottom. Jesus—Mary Malone. She was a major bestseller. She was also notorious for staying out of the limelight. She’d been invited several times as guest of honor to crime-writing festivals and had always declined. There wasn’t even a publicity photograph of her in circulation, leading to nasty speculation that she was a fearsome hag—or, perhaps, a man. She’d sent her editor to collect her two Historical Crime Novel of the Year awards.

I picked up the phone and called Karen.

“This isn’t a good time, Matt,” she said in a low voice.

“Yes, it is. What would you say if I told you that your murder victim last night was a bestselling crime novelist?”

“What?”

“I was expecting at least one expletive.”

“Tough. So she had a nom de plume?”

“Yup. Mary Malone. She wrote about eighteenthcentury Paris and she was a global bestseller.”

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“Interesting. Look, I’m in a case conference now. I’ll pass that on to the team that’s working the murder.”

“Sure you don’t want to take it over? I could be useful to you. Insider knowledge of the victim’s milieu, personal experience of—”

“You just want to make sure crazy Sara’s not involved, don’t you, Matt? Talk to you later.” The connection was cut.

“Bollocks!” I shouted into the phone. A few seconds later it rang. “It’s all right, darling,” I said. “I forgive you.”

“Very kind of you, Matt. What did I do?”

I recognized the overcooked Cockney tones of Josh Hinkley, author of a popular series of gangster capers. He’d treated me like shit when my career was in the doldrums, but since my success he imagined he was my best friend.

“Sorry, Josh. I thought you were someone else.”

“Not the delightful DCI Oaten, by any chance?”

My relationship with Karen was common knowledge in crime-writing circles. Some authors would have paid good money to go out with a senior police officer, and Hinkley was definitely one of them.

“What are you after, Josh?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering if you knew one of our colleagues was brutally murdered last night.”

“Of course I knew,” I said hastily, surprised that he’d found out so quickly. He didn’t waste any time telling me how.

“Journo on the
Express,
who I drink with, rang me up an hour ago. One of the cops told him they found a Crime Writers’ Society membership card in the name of Mary Malone when they went through her desk. Wondered if I knew her.”

“And what did you tell him?” I asked, wishing I could have told him I’d already tipped Karen off. 34

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I heard Hinkley draw hard on a cigarette. “Well, what could I say? I never met her, did I? None of us ever met her. I did check the membership directory, though. Confirmed that Shirley whatever was her real name.”

“And no doubt
your
name will get mentioned in tomorrow’s paper,” I said snidely.

“Of course, old cock.” He laughed. “I don’t need a column in the
Daily Indie
to show how smart I am.You can pass the pseudonym on to your girlfriend with my compliments.”