The Soul Collector

working on the sum of two million in an Indian bank. I’d asked him before he started if he was happy about breaking the laws of numerous countries.

He just shrugged and said, “Whatever it takes to get Sara off your back.”

Sometimes my friends made me feel very humble.

Andy and Pete had left, armed and wearing baseball caps with large peaks. I didn’t think anyone would be looking for them on the CCTV cameras that were everywhere in the city these days, but there was no point in risking it. I had the feeling we were going to have to resort to disguises before the chase was over and I didn’t want to use them up prematurely.

After I’d checked our weapons and ammunition clips, I sat in front of my laptop, trying to resist the temptation to check my e-mails obsessively. It wasn’t long before I succumbed. There was nothing of importance. While I was on the Internet, I decided to have a look at the Crime Writers’ Society Web site. I got an unpleasant surprise.

Josh Hinkley had posted a call for my immediate expulsion, on the grounds that I had brought the Society into disrepute because of my “cowardly refusal to help the police.” Fortunately, there were several other members who wrote in to say that Josh was, in varying degrees of politeness, full of shit. What the hell was wrong with him? Obviously he was in bed with Jeremy Andrewes, but that was just a publicity gimmick. I knew Josh was jealous of the fact that The Death List had sat at the top of the bestseller list for months. But laying into me on a private site was another story. Then I remembered something Andy had said. What if Sara had got to Josh? He was sufficiently lacking in morals to work for her, especially if there was money involved. Then I had another, even worse thought. What if Josh had murdered Mary Malone and Sandra Devonish?

I got up and walked over to the window. The street below was full of slow-moving cars and the pavements were busy. Somewhere out there, I was sure, Sara was plotting her next move. Could it really be that Josh Hinkley was doing the same thing? Maybe Sara had killed Dave, but it was Josh who had killed the crime writers, entirely on his own. Jesus, the nightmare was getting even worse. How many vicious bastards were out there? I thought of the gangland killings in the east of the city. The answer to that question was, plenty. But Josh Hinkley a serial killer? He had a nasty side, and he certainly loathed crime writers who sold better than he did-Mary Malone and Sandra Devonish both came into that category, as had I with my book. Plus, he was doing his best to put me in the frame for the American’s murder. Was that to keep the spotlight off him?

I went back to my laptop.

“That’s it,” Rog said, turning to me. “You’re now three million dollars better off.”

“What’s next?”

“A juicy little bank in Costa Rica, with a security system that a child could break. She’s got two million in there.” He grinned. “But not for long.”

“Shouldn’t you take a break?” I said. “I mean, log off so that there’s no chance of you being traced.”

“Trust me, Matt, there’s never been any chance of me being traced.”

I let him get on with it, wishing I had a skill that would help find Sara. But I didn’t, so I checked my e-mails again. Christ. There was a message from a sender called thethirdisaman, and the title was “Something rotten in the state of Matt Wells.” The killer was back in touch. I opened the message and read:

Did you like it, Matt? The clue, I mean. Actually, there were any number of clues in the sentence I gave you, but you didn’t get any of them. So, because I’m a gentle soul at heart, I’m giving you some help this time. Note the sender of this message. That means the next victim, my third, is a…have you got it yet? That’s right, a man. Clever crime writer. Why should you trust me? Well, have I lied to you yet? Sandra Devonish-you knew her from those ego-boosting conferences you used to go to in the States, didn’t you? — was lying in the shape of the cross. And why was that? Because I am Doctor Faustus and I have made a deal with the devil. If I gather souls for him, I can do anything I like-and, unlike Christopher Marlowe’s Faustus, I don’t have a time limit. I can continue for as long as I want, or until you catch me. There’s been no evidence so far of you pulling that off. Oh, and just to be sure that you know I’m the real deal-I spitted the lovely Sandra with a single thrust to the heart, and I left the Grateful Dead playing “Friend of the Devil.” Neat, eh?

I suppose I’d better give you the next clue now. Here we go:

The river shrinks bears

And the ice crows for a wife.

The lean man’s imperial heiress

Is the thirsty draw of nothing.

If you don’t work that out, there’s no hope for you, Matt. Or rather, there’s no hope for the person whose name is hidden in that verse. As this clue’s so easy, I’m not giving you more time. You’ve got until midnight tonight to answer. I’ll be e-mailing you at 11:59. Don’t be slow in replying…

In blood,

D.F. alone

(Flaminio’s on a break)

“Fucking hell,” I said.

Rog came over and read the message. “Oh, great,” he said. “Now the cow’s writing poems.”

“Sara never showed any interest in poetry when I knew her. Then again, this isn’t exactly at Seamus Heaney’s level.”

Rog looked at me as if he wasn’t sure who that was, but he didn’t have the nerve to admit it.

“Nobel literature prize winner,” I said. “From Northern Ireland.”

“I knew that,” he replied indignantly, hitting Print. In a few seconds we were both poring over hard copies.

I looked at my watch. It was eleven-thirty. We had just over twelve hours. I went back online and forwarded the message to my mother. At least she’d have more time to work on it this time.

“Can you run it through your decryption programs, Dodger?”

He nodded. “There’s something going on here, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

I looked at the clue. “There’s a truckload of things going on,” I said. “Water, the cold, crows-the most intelligent of birds, but they’re also linked with death, since they eat carrion.”

“Charming,” Rog said.

“‘Lean,’” I continued. “That could be a reference to thin or starving, linking up with ‘thirsty’ in the last line. ‘Imperial’ suggests power, colonies-”

“Mints.”

I put my elbow in his ribs. “Be serious. An heiress is a female child, one who stands to inherit something-a country, an empire?”

“Not if she’s hungry and thirsty. She’ll be dead-like the next victim.”

“Thanks a bunch, Dodger. Run your programs, will you?”

I let him get on with that. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t making any more transfers from Sara’s accounts for the time being. He’d done enough to attract her attention. I thought about sending Karen the clue. That way I’d at least protect myself from criticism of the kind Jeremy Andrewes and Josh Hinkley had poured over me. But when it came out that I’d been in contact with the police, Sara or whoever was playing at Doctor Faustus would know I’d broken the rule. That might lead to even more innocent people being murdered, including my family and the guys. No, I had to keep the clue secret. That decision almost crushed me.

I struggled to my feet and went over to the bookcase. Rog’s cousin had a decent dictionary and thesaurus, as well as a one-volume encyclopedia. I took them to the dining table, along with the hard copy of the message. Then I started checking every word for synonyms-I didn’t bother with antonyms at this stage as there were no negatives in the poem. I also split up the lines into couplets, since each pair formed a sentence. I was working on the idea that each would give me a name. It was possible that every line did that, making four names, but I reckoned the existence of sentences was significant. If the first clue was anything to go by, there would be more than one definition of each name, and the writer had said that this clue was easier than the previous one. Two names, but they weren’t necessarily in the right order.

I sat back in my chair. Was the third victim, supposedly a male, another crime writer? I’d made the mistake of not following up that angle the last time. I hadn’t brought the Crime Writers’ Society directory with me, but I