The Soul Collector by Paul Johnston Read Free Book Online Page A

long blade that went into his belly to the hilt. The breath went out of him and he looked down at the hand holding the instrument of his death. It was sheathed in black leather. He tried to scream as the blade was wrenched upward, but he no longer had control over his voice. He dropped to his knees, dimly aware of the crack they made on the cobblestones. By then, the pain from his abdomen had made his eyes blur with tears. He felt shame, but not for long. The blade was biting, tearing into his very being. He toppled sideways, his shoulder hitting the car. Then the knife was pulled out in a rapid movement. Nedim Zinar clutched the gaping wound, feeling the slick coils of his gut spill through his fingers. Then the horror came to a climax when he saw his killer’s face. It was that of a scarred and deformed devil. I went home without making too many detours. People stared at me when I did my on-off performance with three trains, but I made like I was drunker than I really was. No one paid much attention—behavior like that is pretty standard in London after the pubs shut. I took more care when I came out of Fulham Broadway Station, stopping in doorways and doubling back down a couple of alleyways. There was no sign of anyone following me. As I headed toward the river, my cell phone rang.
    “Where are you, Matt?” Karen asked. She sounded wiped out.
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    “Homeward bound. You?”
    “My place. Sorry. I’ve got early meetings tomorrow.”
    “Fair enough. Any news?” A stretch limo full of screaming young women passed and I had to shout over them. “I mean, on the Mary Malone case.”
    “Homicide West isn’t much further on. I don’t suppose you’ve had any messages from you-know-who?”
    “I might have had on the landline. I’ll ring after I’ve checked.”
    “Okay.” She paused, as if there was something she wanted to say. “Good night” was all she managed.
    “’Night,” I replied. I should have told her I loved her, and that I was going to jump in a cab and come to her house in Shepherd’s Bush. I wanted to nestle up to her so we could both drop into a deep, uninterrupted sleep, rather than go back to an empty flat where a ghost from the past might be waiting to haunt me all over again. But I’d missed my chance and I was sure that she knew it as well as I did.
    I shook my head and tried to get a grip. Given the security system in my so-called “ultra-exclusive” block, Sara would have done well even to have got past the armored glass main door. It was over twenty-four hours since Mary Malone’s killing and there had been no sign of her. Some scumbag Satanists had got their kicks out of murdering a defenseless woman. Then I asked myself if I really believed that. The answer wasn’t encouraging. She was coming for me—even if not now, it would happen at some point in the future.
    I found myself walking more quickly, eager to get home to see if Sara was hiding in the wardrobe or even lying on my bed, bold as love. Then it occurred to me that she might not be alone. She was rich enough to hire a The Soul Collector
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    small army of mercenaries and hit men. I considered calling Dave. He’d have come without hesitating and he wouldn’t have blamed me if the flat was clean.
    “Come off it,” I told myself. “It’s been two years. Why would she come back now?”
    I slowed my pace as the glass building rose up ahead of me. It wasn’t completely bathed in light, but it was close. I realized that my block and its inhabitants were just as wasteful as the pinstriped specimens in the City. In some cases, they were one and the same, although a lot of the owners were self-employed. I was probably the poorest of those. Still, I’d have to raise the issue at the next building meeting. There were far too many lights in the common areas.
    Then I saw something that made me stop walking. My stomach somersaulted and my heart started to hammer. My flat was on the front and the left sides of the