The Soul Collector

Shadows and was being, as he put it, cross-examined.”

“You mean tortured,” Neville said.

“Well done, Inspector,” Paskin said, without audible irony. “We have a witness who saw a young man with a bandage on his hand and blood on his legs come out of a house in Stoke Newington with a mustachioed man. Tests on blood found there show the same group as that found in the Shadow store, and the DNA will confirm that, I’m sure. As they were getting into a green Opel Astra, the well-known Shadow enforcer known as the Wolfman-we don’t know his real name-came running down the street to stop them. A woman-or possibly not-in a burqa shot him three times. No one realized straightaway what had happened, which means a silencer was used. By the time people had got to the Wolfman he was dead-three shots to the chest-and his killer had vanished. I’m guessing she-or he-had a car around the corner. The young man and the other man with the mustache drove off in the Astra.”

“What do you think about the use of the burqa by the killer, DI Ozal?” Karen Oaten asked.

“It’s a first, at least in this country,” the inspector replied. “As to the shooter’s gender, you wouldn’t find many Muslim men who would willingly put it on.”

“How about non-Muslims?” Younger asked. “Could one of the other gangs be involved? White villains or Yardies?”

“It’s possible,” Paskin said, “but there’s no evidence for it.”

“Seems a dead cert to me,” Luke Neville said. “The Wolfman-crazy name-kills the Kurd Nedim Zinar. Next up, he puts on a false beard and coerces Izady into driving up Green Lanes, collecting the young guy on the way. There’s obviously something said in the basement and the young guy kills the older guy. Then the Wolfman shoots him dead and the other young guy in the hand, and takes him prisoner. Then the King’s men get on Wolfie’s tail and set up the burqa hit.” He looked around. “Bingo. Cases closed.”

Ozal laughed. “Very clever. The problem is, we haven’t heard a whisper from any of our snouts to back that up.”

Neville grinned. “Well, maybe you need to check out the quality of your snouts.”

Oaten looked at Paskin, who shook his head once. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said. “Let’s move on to what is hopefully the last murder. DCI Younger?”

“Sandra Devonish, bestselling American crime novelist, found dead in her suite at Wilde’s hotel yesterday evening.”

“Single stab wound to the heart,” said Redrose, “suggesting a fair degree of skill.”

Younger looked at him. “Or luck.”

The pathologist gave a snort of disdain.

“We’ve got conflicting witness statements,” DCI Younger continued, unperturbed. “Unfortunately the ground- floor bar was very busy with a group of advertising executives. One woman said she saw a tall man in a gray suit walk toward the stairs. The receptionist saw a woman in a red coat walk into the lobby and then out again a few minutes later. And a man who was drinking at the bar said that a bearded man in motorbike leathers went past, holding his helmet under his arm.”

“That sounds suggestive,” Amelia Browning said.

“Yes, it does,” agreed Younger. “Unfortunately, no one has corroborated the sighting and no one saw a motorbike rider leave the hotel. We’re still checking the CCTV recordings.”

“We’ve already mentioned the modus and the scene,” Oaten said. “What else?”

The pathologist raised a pudgy hand. “Nails had been recently cut from both toes and fingers, as well as hairs from the back of the head and the pubic area.”

“As per Mary Malone,” DI Neville put in.

Karen Oaten nodded. “What else?”

Younger looked at her. “I’d say the killer took a hell of a risk. He-or she-went into a crowded hotel and managed to stab the victim, arrange the body and set the music playing a couple of minutes before the room- service waiter went to the suite. We’re looking at a very assured and cold-blooded killer.”

John Turner frowned. “You mentioned luck before. That doesn’t sit with your picture of a well-organized killer.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Younger admitted.

“The fact is,” the Welshman continued, “if the room-service guy had knocked earlier, when he-or she-was inside, the killer could have put on an American accent and asked him to leave the order outside.”

“You’re meant to sign for it,” Neville said, tugging his lower lip.

Turner fixed him with a steely eye. “Do you think they insist in a place like Wilde’s?”

“There’s something else,” Amelia Browning said. “How did the killer find out that Sandra Devonish was staying at Wilde’s?”

There was silence.

“I mean, hotels like that don’t give out that sort of information. Who knew that the writer was going to be in London?”

Younger was nodding. “That’s a good point, Sergeant. We’ve spoken to her publishers. They told us that they always put their important authors in Wilde’s.”

“So who would know that?” Browning persisted. “People in the publishers.”

“We’ve established alibis,” Younger said.

“In the hotel?”

“As you said, they don’t give guest information out. They fired a receptionist last week for inadvertently confirming a footballer’s presence to a tabloid, so I think we can be pretty sure that the staff were on their toes.”

“Where does that leave us?” Redrose said, glancing pointedly at his watch.

Amelia Browning stared over at him. “With a killer who knows the world of crime writing, Doctor.”

“How about a crime writer, then?” Luke Neville said. “Such as Matt Wells.”

Karen Oaten didn’t raise her head from her notes. “Tell him, Taff.”

“Matt Wells has a solid alibi for the Mary Malone murder.”

“And the other one?” Neville asked.

Turner glared at him, then shook his head.

Neville looked around the table. “DCI Oaten said at the beginning that she wanted to establish a common thread in these killings. At the very least, she needs to find Matt Wells. His friend was shot, two fellow crime writers have been killed, one wearing leathers like the biker seen near Dave Cummings’s place. And…” His voice trailed away.

“And what?” Turner demanded. “He dressed up in a burqa to kill a Turkish hard man?”

Neville looked down. “He could have,” he said, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

“What about ballistics?” Oaten asked.

“We’ve got a match between a bullet found in the wall of the Shadow basement and the three in the Wolfman’s body,” Ron Paskin said.

“But no match with the bullets taken from Dave Cummings,” added John Turner.

“So,” Oaten said, looking around the table. “Two different shooters, or just the one using different weapons?”

There was no reply.

“And what about the person who’s murdering crime writers? He or she isn’t using firearms at all. Does that mean we’ve got three different killers loose in London?”

Again, there was silence. The meeting broke up shortly afterward.

The earl was in his London club. He didn’t like to be away from his country estate-there had been so much going on there recently-but he couldn’t avoid this trip. And the business had been concluded satisfactorily. Not that he’d had much to do with that. He had no knowledge of the illicit drugs trade, despite having had a healthy appetite for cocaine in his student days. Fortunately his companion had been able to extract a reasonable price. Then it had been straight to his bank to make the deposit that would have calmed his account manager down substantially. If they went on like this, the family would soon regain much of its lost standing; because money was all that counted,