The Soul Collector

the Guardian crossword and had asked why she didn’t do the one in the Daily Independent, where Sara used to work. Fran had told her that the setter there had an infantile sense of humor. Shit! “Setter”-that derived from “set.” Was that what was going on? Sara had set the clue and hinted in the message that Fran would spot the answer?

There was under three quarters of an hour to go. Was this a deliberate move on Sara’s part to get me to contact my mother? Could she have some sort of surveillance on me or my mother that would be activated by an e-mail or telephone call? I didn’t see how. I’d changed phone and laptop, and Fran would have put a new SIM card in by now. But I was still reluctant. I’d managed to get my mother and Lucy, plus Caroline, out of the killer’s sights. I didn’t want to do anything to put them back in them.

In the end, the steady ticking of the second hand on my watch got to me. I sent an e-mail to Caroline. Nearly half-past eleven. Would they still be awake? My heart started pounding and I paced around the room until the person in the room beneath thumped on his ceiling.

There was a chime from my computer. Caroline had answered.

I’ve woken your mother. She’s looking at the clue. We’ll reply by 11:55. C.

I breathed a sigh of relief. One of the good things about Caroline was her crisis management. She’d got used to panics at the bank and reacted well to pressure. Unless it was from me-somehow she’d never managed to reproduce her cool office manner at home.

Then another thought struck me. Katya. I didn’t know her surname. If she really was the target, Sara might easily disqualify my answer if I didn’t give the full name-the White Devil had done that kind of thing. I called Safet Shkrelli.

The phone was answered with a grunted monosyllable that presumably meant something in Albanian. I explained what I wanted.

“Ask her yourself,” Shkrelli said. There was a rustling noise, then Katya came on the line.

“Are you in a safe place?” I asked.

“Yes, I think so. We are at-”

“Don’t tell me!” I said, the words coming out in a rush. “There may be surveillance. What’s your full name?”

She paused, as if reluctant to give up the last remnant of her self. I was pretty sure that Safet Shkrelli had never bothered to ask her name.

“Katerina Petrova Georgieva.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Take care. And remember, I can get you out of there.”

There was a bitter male laugh. “You, Matt Wells? You’re the one who has put her life in danger. Fuck you.” The connection was cut.

I sat down on the lumpy bed and dropped the phone. Was that really what I had done? Had Sara-or whoever Flaminio/Doctor Faustus was-chosen Katya because of the one meeting I’d had with her? Now, as the minute hand neared twelve, it seemed desperately unlikely. I looked again at the clue, but the words blurred into a meaningless jumble of letters. At least the whole sentence wasn’t an anagram-Rog’s digital tools had checked that.

Five minutes till my mother came back with her thoughts, nine till I had to answer…The full significance of what was happening hit me. Someone’s life hung on what I sent. If Sara had set the clue, she’d found a perfect way to get revenge for the White Devil’s death. In effect, I was being turned into a murderer.

The woman woke in the late evening, without a clue where she was.

“Come on, girl,” she said, her Texan accent at odds with the whimsical decor of Wilde’s. It claimed to be the city’s premier hotel for the discerning gay traveler but, as far as she was concerned, lime-green net curtains and pink-and-white-striped wallpaper were several steps too far down the road to Reading Gaol.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she remembered. “I’m in London-according to the incomparable William Cobbett, the Great fuckin’ Wen.”

She got up and went into the bathroom. A large, old-fashioned bath took up most of the room. For someone who was over six feet, that didn’t leave much room for other functions, even if she had kept her weight below the 140 pound mark. As she straddled the toilet, she recalled what had happened earlier in the day. Her publishers had taken her out to lunch, during which her editor had made it very clear that they wanted to sign her up for at least another four books.

“Talk to Lenny,” she’d said. Her agent would know how to squeeze every last drop of money out of them. When her editor, a youngish guy with an earring, went off to the john, she’d spoken to her publicist.

“Lavinia, honey, you gotta get me outta this hotel. Yeah, I know it’s supposed to be the coolest place in town, but it is definitely not my kind of cool.” She listened as her publicist reminded her about the interview she was scheduled to give at Wilde’s the next morning.

“Oh, well, all right, but just tonight. I’d rather stay in a motel than this crummy dump.” She held up a hand. “No, honey, I know you don’t have motels in London. No, you don’t have to come along. I can handle the Times journalist. With one hand tied behind my back.” She had three university degrees, in subjects ranging from English literature to computer science, but she liked to play the Southern belle, lesbian version. She knew that people always paid more attention to your jugs than your certificates. In her case, that meant a lot of attention. Even her ever-so-gay editor couldn’t keep his eyes off them.

Blinking, she gave the bath and its clawed feet a cursory inspection. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d brought herself to climax in one when she was touring books, but she really preferred the shower. What was it with the Brits and their baths? How the hell were you supposed to get clean, sitting in water you’d just made dirty? She turned the regulator up as far as it went, and stepped into the torrent. After ten minutes, the last of her jet lag was well on its way to the departure lounge.

She decided she’d hit a club. As she got dressed in her standard evening wear-boot-cut, slim-fitting black Levi’s and matching shirt with polished quartz buttons, custom-made for her-she thought about the book she’d read on the plane. She knew she’d met the writer at one of the mystery conventions-was it Madison, Wisconsin? — but she was having trouble recalling what he looked like. Why was it that Brits thought they could write American characters? Then again, there were several American crime writers who imagined they could write Brits. The hero she’d shared her journey with was one hell of an asshole, even by real-life FBI standards-and that was saying something. She got hit on all the time by serving cops and special agents, who thought she should get some firsthand knowledge of their business, even though she made no secret of her sexuality. Anyway, she was at a loss as to how sucking their dicks would provide insight.

She sat at the dressing table, her thighs crushed against the underside of the drawer. The mirror was in the shape of a large male head with an extravagant quiff that spread halfway up the wall. Anything that covered the pink-and-white stripes was fine by her. She applied her usual light foundation and bright scarlet lipstick, leaving her eyelashes and the surrounding area untouched-if they ain’t looking at your titties, they’ll be looking at your mouth, one of her few male lovers had told her. Eyes were off-limits for most men, and hair was just a distraction. That was why she kept her blond locks short and unshowy.

The author made sure there were several copies of her novels on the table in the adjoining sitting room. The journalist in the morning wasn’t likely to fall for such blatant product placement, but the photographer would appreciate it. She stood her latest work, Slim Pickings on the Pecos, against a pile of the others. The jacket showed a lowering red sky over the river of the title. It was a good job, better than her publishers back home had done. They preferred a busty blonde with a come-and-fuck-me-boys look, even though her heroine, Detective Dusty Jaxone, was average in looks and size. That was why she was popular as hell, especially with women readers who were sick to the front teeth of smart-ass medical examiners and kickass private eyes.

It would soon be midnight. Time for a cocktail before she went out. With any luck, she’d be several sheets to the wind by the time she hit the dance floor. One thing to be said for Wilde’s was that it listed the best lesbian and gay clubs in its information pack. She phoned room service and ordered a pair of margaritas. They ought to keep her axles greased.

A couple of minutes later there was a knock on the door.

“Is that room service?” she said, overemphasizing the drawl because she knew the Brits loved it.

“Yes, madam,” came a deep voice.

The bestselling author went to the door and opened it, thinking as she did that it would have been a good idea to look through the spy-hole first. But, hell, it was only room service, and they’d moved faster than a