The Wrath of Angels

‘No.’

‘If you’re concerned about ruining your health, or becoming addicted, I wouldn’t worry.’

Tate tried not to think about what that might mean.

‘I asked you what you’re planning to do with me,’ said Tate.

‘I heard you. I’ve been thinking about the question. Barbara Kelly is dead, so her fate is already decided.’

‘Did you kill her?’

‘No, but I would have, given the opportunity.’

‘So who did kill her?’

‘Her own people.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she was turning against them. She was sick, and frightened, and she feared for her soul, so she set out to make recompense for her sins. By betraying their secrets, she believed that she might save herself. But then there is Becky Phipps . . .’

On the table beside the man lay Tate’s cell phone. With the cigarette clamped between his teeth, the Collector flicked through the list of contacts until he found the name that he wanted. A forefinger pressed itself against the screen, and the number was dialed. Tate heard it ringing. The call was answered on the third ring, and Tate knew from the echo that the recipient’s phone was on speaker.

‘Davis,’ said Becky Phipps’s voice. She didn’t sound particularly pleased to be hearing from him, Tate thought. Bitch. You think you have problems. ‘This isn’t a good time. Can I call you back later, or tomorrow?’

The stranger indicated to Tate that he should speak. He swallowed. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. In the end, he settled for honesty.

‘It’s not such a good time for me either, Becky. Something’s come up.’

‘What now?’

Tate looked at the Collector, who nodded his assent.

‘There’s a man here with me, in my apartment. I think he wants to talk to you.’

The stranger took a long drag on his cigarette before leaning close to the phone.

‘Hello, Ms Phipps,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure, although I’m sure that we will in the near future.’

Phipps took a couple of seconds to reply. When she did, her tone had changed. She was cautious, and her voice trembled slightly. It caused Tate to wonder if she knew the identity of the caller already, despite her next question.

‘Who is this?’ she said.

The man leaned yet closer to the phone, so that his lips were almost touching it. He frowned, and his nostrils twitched.

‘Is there someone there with you, Ms Phipps?’

‘I asked you a question,’ said Phipps, and her voice became even less steady, belying her attempt at bravado. ‘Who are you?’

‘A collector,’ came the reply. ‘The Collector.’

‘A collector of what?’

‘Debts. Regrets. Souls. You’re stalling for time, Ms Phipps. You know who I am, and what I am.’

There was a pause, and Tate knew that the Collector was right: there was someone else with Becky. He could picture her looking to the other for guidance.

‘That was you in the bar, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘Davis was right to be worried. I thought he was just jittery, but it seems that he was more sensitive than I gave him credit for.’

Tate didn’t like his producer’s use of the past tense in association with his name.

‘He is remarkably sensitive in more ways than one,’ said the Collector. ‘He screamed very loudly when I sliced through his earlobe. Thankfully, these old brownstones have thick walls. Will you scream when I come for you, Ms Phipps? It won’t matter either way, so don’t be too concerned. I always bring earplugs. And I really do believe that there is someone with you. That’s my particular sensitivity. Who is it? One of your ‘‘Backers’’, perhaps? Put him on. Let him speak. It is a “he”, isn’t it? I can almost see the price tag on his suit. Be sure, whoever you are, that I’ll find you too, and your associates. I’ve learned a great deal about you already.’

There was an intake of breath before Phipps started shouting.

‘What did you tell him, Davis? What did you tell him about us? You keep your mouth shut. You keep it shut or I swear, I swear we’ll put you—’

The Collector killed the connection.

‘That was all very amusing,’ he said.

‘You warned her,’ said Tate. ‘She knows you’re coming now. Why would you do that?’

‘Because in her fear she’ll draw out the others, and then I can take them too. And if they choose to remain hidden, well, she’ll give me their names when I find her.’

‘But how will you do that? Won’t she hide from you? Won’t she be protected?’

‘I find your concern for her very touching,’ said the Collector. ‘One would almost think that you liked her, rather than merely being obligated to her. You really should have examined that contract more closely, you know. It made clear your obligations to them, while leaving them with none to you. It is in the nature of their bargains to do so.’

‘I don’t read Latin,’ said Tate glumly.

‘Very remiss of you. It’s the lingua franca of the law. What kind of fool signs a contract written in a language that he can’t read?’

‘They were very persuasive. They said it was a one-off deal. They told me that if I turned it down, there were others who would accept.’

‘There are always others who will accept.’

‘They told me I’d have my own TV show, that I’d get to publish books. I wouldn’t even have to write them, just put my name to them.’

‘And how did that work out?’ the Collector asked, and he seemed almost sympathetic.

‘Not so good,’ admitted Tate. ‘They said I had a face made for radio. You know, like Rush Limbaugh.’

The Collector patted him on the shoulder. The small gesture of humanity increased Tate’s hope that the word ‘perhaps’ had become less a piece of driftwood to which he might cling than a life boat to keep him safe from the cold waters that currently lapped at his chin.

‘Your friend Becky has a bolt-hole in New Jersey. That’s where she’ll run to, and that’s where I’ll find her.’

‘She’s not my friend. She’s my producer.’

‘It’s an interesting distinction. Do you have any friends?’

Tate thought about the question. ‘Not many,’ he admitted.

‘I suppose that it’s difficult to keep them in your line of work.’

‘Why, because I’m so busy?’

‘No, because you’re so unpleasant.’

Tate conceded the point.

‘So,’ said the Collector. ‘What should I do with you now?’

‘You could let me go,’ said Tate. ‘I’ve told you all that I know.’

‘You’ll call the police.’

‘No’, said Tate, ‘I won’t.’

‘How can I be sure?’

‘Because I know that you’ll come back for me if I do.’

The Collector appeared impressed with his reasoning. ‘You may be smarter than I thought,’ he said.

‘I get that a lot,’ said Tate. ‘There’s something more that I can give you, to convince you to let me go.’

‘What would that be?’

‘They’re going to abduct a girl,’ said Tate. ‘Her name is Penny Moss. They’ll blame whatever happens to her on some raghead.’