The Soul Collector Read Free

she felt me between her buttocks. I started to work my fingers across her impressively muscular upper body, all the time moving my lower torso up and down. Things were getting very interesting. And then her cell phone rang.
    “What are we doing here, guv?” DI John Turner was waiting for DCI Oaten on the steps of number 41 Ifield The Soul Collector
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    Road. There was a uniformed policeman below him and a crime scene investigator in a dark blue coverall on his way into the house.
    “Ask the assistant commissioner, Taff,” she said. This time she hadn’t cared about finding a space. She’d doubleparked her silver BMW 318i next to the CSIs’ white van.
    “He seems to think this is up our alley.” She stamped her booted feet in the cold and had a flash of Matt’s face when she was taking them off. She smiled and then let out a groan. “Shit.”
    The inspector followed her gaze down to the highheeled boots. “They’ll look good with a pair of overshoes on.” He grinned, but not for long. Oaten, known only behind her back as Wild Oats, had a notorious temper. A middle-aged man in a white coverall appeared at the door. “Any sign of the very important VCCT?” He made no effort to keep the scorn from his voice. Most other detectives saw the elite Violent Crimes Coordination Team as a gang of interfering glory-snatchers.
    “DCI Oaten and DI Turner of the same,” Karen said icily, taking out her warrant card. “And you are?”
    “DI Luke Neville, Homicide Division West,” he replied, his cocky manner suddenly missing in action. He chewed his unusually large lower lip as Oaten and Turner got into protective gear. “Bit of a weird one, this.”
    Oaten glanced up at him. “Who called it in?”
    “Next-door neighbor,” Neville replied, angling his head to his right. “He was ranting about loud music coming from number 41. Said the lady was always quiet as a mouse. He’d hammered on the door, but got no reply.”
    “What kind of music?” Turner asked.
    Neville was looking pleased with himself again.
    “Well, that’s one of the weird things.” He paused for 20
    Paul Johnston
    effect, then started speaking rapidly when Oaten’s eyes bored into his. “We found a CD with only one song repeated ten times on it.”
    Oaten went up the steps. “And the song was…?”
    “An old Rolling Stones one, actually.” Neville gave a weak smile. “‘Sympathy for the Devil.’ The volume was turned up full.”
    Oaten raised an eyebrow. Matt had got tickets when the band had played Twickenham a couple of years back. That song had been the standout number, Mick Jagger high above the stage in a red top hat and tail coat.
    “I was always more of a Beatles man, myself,” Turner muttered.
    They followed DI Neville inside. The house was impeccably clean and tidy, shelves full of books on every wall. At the far end of the long sitting room, a familiar figure was standing over the short but bulky female corpse lying facedown on the floor. The dead woman wore a calflength blue skirt, and pink slippers with pom-poms were lying at irregular angles to her feet, about a meter away.
    “DCI Oaten, what a pleasure.”
    “Good evening, Dr. Redrose,” Karen said, her tone formal. She didn’t much like the potbellied, red-cheeked pathologist, even though he was good at his job. “What have you got here?” She bent over the remains of the obese woman. The thick legs were bare and marked by the purple cobwebs of varicose veins. There was a patch of blood on the gray carpet at the left side of her head.
    “What I’ve got,” said the medic, “is something less than pleasant.” He looked up at his assistant, who was standing by. “All right, the police photographer’s finished and we’ve taken our shots. Let’s turn her over.”
    The woman was moved onto her back, the two men The Soul Collector
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    grunting with the effort. The victim’s face was a mess of blood and ripped skin.
    Taff Turner swallowed hard, trying to prevent