The Soul Collector

notorious for the Hell-fire Club he ran.”

“The what?” Rog asked, looking around from his computer.

I repeated the phrase. “It involved black-magic rituals, sexual depravity and heavy drinking. The meetings were attended by members of high society, bishops and university professors. Oh, and local wenches and nuns were brought in-most disappeared after the parties.”

“Black magic,” Pete said. “The pentagrams and so on. But why would a peer of the realm kill crime writers, let alone gangbangers?”

I raised my shoulders. “I think we should ask him that question, don’t you?”

“Gotcha!” Rog said. “Another of Sara’s house buys. Nine months ago. This one’s in a village called Oldbury. In Berkshire.”

I felt an icy finger jab into my gut. “Shit. Earl Sternwood’s castle is in the very same county.”

A moment later Faik let out a shriek of agony.

Twenty-Seven

Andy Jackson’s face was drenched in sweat. He’d been heaving and twisting against his bonds and had finally got hold of the penknife. But opening it was proving a step too far. He had splintered his thumbnail against the narrow groove in the blade, and he couldn’t get it to move. The light from the rear doors had almost gone.

Then he heard footsteps. He relaxed, making sure his expression didn’t give him away. A key was inserted into the lock in the rear door, then it opened-at first by only a few centimeters, and then enough for a torch to be shone onto him. He tried to make out a face, but the light made him blink.

“There’s no escape, Inspector Jansen,” said a female voice. “Or should I say Andrew Jackson.” There was a bitter laugh. “Save your strength. You’re going to need it.” The light went out and the door was closed again.

Doris Carlton-Jones. When had Sara Robbins’s birth mother discovered his true identity? Surely not the first time he’d met her, when the biker shot out his windscreen. Perhaps she’d known all along, and Sara had just been toying with them.

The front door opened and someone-presumably Mrs. Carlton-Jones-got in. The engine was started and the van moved off. Andy expected the wheelchair to shift, but it had been well-secured.

He started fumbling with the knife again. His fingers had benefited from the short rest, and he felt the blade move under his thumb, then slip back into position.

Andy told himself to keep calm, taking deep breaths. He could take the old woman even with his hands tied. As soon as she released the wheelchair, he’d heave it into motion. Someone would see him, someone would call the cops…

Then he heard the roar of a high-powered motorbike behind the van. It hadn’t been the old woman who had poleaxed him. It must have been Sara Robbins.

That made him concentrate even harder on the knife.

Dave had taught us basic first aid. After I’d dressed the wounds on Faik’s thighs and checked there was no infection in his hand, I helped him get dressed. Rog had found some clothes.

I checked my e-mails again. Still nothing. No text messages, either. I sat by my computer, hitting Send and Receive every minute or so. While I did that, Faik ate his way through two pizzas Pete had heated up for him. In between bites, he told me about the treacherous Kurd who’d been shot, as well as the doctor who had rescued him from the Wolfman. There was no way of knowing the identity of the person wearing the burqa and chador who had shot the Turk, but I was pretty sure it was Lauren Cuthbertson. Faik was almost more appalled that a non-Muslim might have worn the garment than he was by the deaths he had witnessed.

The young man came from a London community that I knew nothing about, one based on violence and coercion, but also a strange kind of honor. They killed only to protect their business, which was bad enough-but why had Lauren Cuthbertson been murdering gang members? And why had she dismembered the body of the Albanian accountant? Because Sara had told her? There had to be more to it than that. At least killing the surgeon who had disfigured her made some kind of sense-she’d taken revenge, just as the White Devil had done with his first victims. She’d left no traces except that stained and almost illegible note of apology-could that have been for Sara? There had been very little evidence at the crime scenes in East London, too. That smacked of the extreme care that Sara learned from her brother. Had she trained the disfigured young woman from Stoke Newington?

Were there others like her on Sara’s payroll?

But I suddenly found myself thinking about Doris Carlton-Jones. Maybe she was the one behind the murders. Could the elderly woman be a cold-blooded killer like her daughter? She’d certainly kept very calm when I was searching her house. She must have called the motorbike rider, presumably Lauren, when I went upstairs. When Andy appeared with the skull (and whose was that?), she took the opportunity, while I was distracted, to dash to the road. The rider wore black leathers and helmet, as Lauren had. Maybe Karen was right when she suggested that Sara had nothing to do with the crime-writer and gangland murders. Maybe she had killed Dave and the former SAS guys, and left the rest to her mother and Lauren. But how would Doris Carlton-Jones have found a stone killer with a ruined face on her own? There wasn’t a section for those in the Yellow Pages.

There was a chime from my computer. I leaned forward and saw the name of the new message’s sender: dc-j/urgent. It looked like Sara’s mother was indeed calling the shots. I read what she’d written:

There’s been enough killing. And enough pretense. I don’t know what you did to poor Lauren, but at least she’s at peace now. I’m sorry for everything she did. I tried to stop her, but she was a different person after the operations. Mr. Wells, I have to tell you that my daughter Sara has contacted me. Apparently someone has been removing large sums of money from her bank accounts. She is sure you are behind that so I have arranged for your friend Andrew Jackson to be taken prisoner. Unless the money is returned to Sara’s accounts, I will have no option but to leave him where he is. It will be a cold, slow and thirsty death, with no chance of him ever being found. When you have returned the money, I will e-mail you from a different address and tell you where your friend is.

Doris Carlton-Jones

P.S. I was very glad to find my husband’s skull in Mr. Jackson’s pack. I obtained it at some expense from the undertaker before the cremation, but I grew tired of having it on my dressing-table. It was fitting that I put it in the garage. He spent hours in there every weekend, carving wooden animals for the local children.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention. The woman was clearly demented. She seemed to be suggesting that Lauren was responsible for all the murders. Perhaps she didn’t know what Sara had done to Dave and the other SAS men. Multiple killers were still at work, including, I was sure, Earl Sternwood. Could Sara be manipulating everyone, including her birth mother? I wouldn’t have put it past her. But what was I to do about Andy?

I told Rog to start returning the money to Sara’s accounts. He wasn’t happy.

“Em, what is happening?” Faik asked from close behind me.

I tried to block the screen. “You don’t want to read that, my friend.”

He looked at me dubiously. “Are there more like her? Is the killing to go on?”

I shook my head. “It’s finished,” I said with more conviction than I felt.

The young Kurd nodded. “I don’t want anyone else to die like the Albanian did.” He headed for the door. “I will send you money for the clothes.”

“Forget it,” Rog said.

I gave him my card. “Call me if you need help, okay?”

He looked at me solemnly. “I’m finished with life on the streets. I’m going to study.”

“Good for you. What do you want to do?”

“Teach. I want to make sure kids don’t screw up like me.”

“Good luck,” I said, extending my hand.

He nodded solemnly.

I closed the door behind him. At least one person had come through the cycle of violence to the good. Then I