Free The Soul Collector by Paul Johnston

grow on trees, that’s seriously bad news.”
    “Correct, Karen.” Ron Paskin smiled at her. “Still, you highfliers in the VCCT must be used to that kind of thing.”
    Karen Oaten knew her former boss was only teasing, unlike most of the other divisional officers she came across. “Oh, we get all sorts of weapons. Including knives.”
    “Does that mean you’re going to take over this case?”
    “It almost sounds like you want me to.”
    “Well, we’re as snowed under as ever.”
    “Ditto. I don’t see any reason for us to come in yet, but we’ll keep an eye on your reports. What about that Turk who was killed the other day? Could this be a revenge hit?”
    The superintendent’s brow furrowed. “Maybe. Again, I doubt they’d have gone for someone as minor as Zinar.”
    The chief inspector nodded. “You know that if I can conclusively tie this murder to another one inside or outside your division, I’ll have to take it.”
    Paskin nodded. “No problem.” He inclined his head toward John Turner. “How’s Taff doing?”
    “Good. He’s been my right-hand man ever since we were transferred.”
    “His face looks like a three-day-old piece of cod. He obviously still has that aversion to dead people.”
    Oaten watched her subordinate as he spoke to one of The Soul Collector
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    the local detectives, taking notes studiously. “I sometimes wish I hadn’t got so inured to the results of violence. I think Taff’s more of a normal human being than I am.”
    Paskin nudged her. “Steady on, girl. You’ve got as far as you have because you can shut off your emotions. I don’t see Taff ever running things like you do.” He took another deep breath, and then expelled it forcefully.
    “Christ, this lane stinks. Hell of a place to die.”
    “Hell of a way to die, too,” Oaten added.
    “Could have been worse,” the superintendent said, lighting a cheroot. “He could have had his head chopped off, like that victim in your first big case with the VCCT. The White Devil was really something, wasn’t he?”
    Karen Oaten nodded. “He certainly was. East End boy, as well.”
    Paskin grinned, showing teeth stained by countless cigars. “We have a long tradition of master criminals here. What was the name of that writer-fellow the killer targeted?”
    “Matt Wells.” Karen wasn’t sure if Paskin knew of their relationship. He might have heard on the grapevine, but it wasn’t in his nature to pay attention to innuendo.
    “There was a sister too, wasn’t there?”
    She nodded.
    “If she’s anything like that callous bastard, let’s hope she doesn’t resurface.”
    “Here’s hoping, indeed.” The chief inspector stuck out her hand. “Good to see you again, guv. Take care. You mustn’t have long to go till retirement.”
    “Three months,” he said with a smile.
    “What are you going to do?”
    “We’ve got a cottage in Brittany. I can’t understand a word the locals say, but the food’s a sight better than what 72
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    the wife comes up with these days. Nothing but bloody salad…”
    Karen waved her arm as she headed for Taff. She wasn’t looking forward to examining the body. She’d been on edge all morning and her stomach was still upset. Chewing antacid tablets had only made her feel more queasy.
    If she was lucky, the villains of London would give her the weekend off. But she wasn’t counting on that. The acrid smoke that rose from the altar made the supplicant’s eyes sting and his throat burn, before it was carried away on the air current above the subterranean river. The walls were covered with frescoes depicting demons and the landscape of hell.
    “Does the offering please you, Mephistopheles?”
    “It is not I who must be satisfied, Faustus,” the cowled figure with the white mask said, watching the flames die down. “There is another who receives the hair and nails of our victims with relish.”
    “And…and the ear?”
    Mephistopheles laughed. “I have added it to