I nodded. "The likelihood is that she killed him, as well as the crime writers."
"She may have been behind the gangland killings, too," Karen said.
"You found a connection?"
She nodded. "Nail clippings were taken from all but one of the victims."
"Satanism?" I asked. "Were there pentagrams and so on?"
She shook her head. "Do you even realize how much shit you're in, Matt?" she asked, turning southward.
I tried to ignore that.
"Maybe Sara isn't even in the country anymore," Karen said. "Have you thought of that, Mr. Smart-arse? Maybe she hightailed it after she murdered Dave. There were no hair or nail clippings taken from him, by the way."
"I don't think it's very likely. I still think Sara set this whole thing up to hurt me and to see me pilloried. She'll want to finish me off now, especially when she finds out what I did to her sidekick."
"She's probably got others," Karen said.
"Quite possibly." I wasn't going to give her the name of the earl that I'd got from Jeremy Andrewes. "But the heat's on now. It won't be long before she strikes again." I needed to check my phone. "Sorry about this," I said, ripping the bags from my hands before the constable could intervene. Karen couldn't do anything except look unimpressed. She managed that very well.
I looked for text messages. There weren't any. Where the hell was Andy?
"Nothing from your darling Sara?" Karen asked scathingly.
I shook my head. I needed to check my e-mails. Maybe Sara had sent another one.
"Karen, you have to let me go. I've already lost Dave. If I'm responsible for another of my friends' deaths, I won't be able to live with myself."
She snorted. "No chance."
I wanted to tell her how much I needed her, but I was deterred by her tone more than the presence of the constable.
As Karen stopped at the traffic lights by Leicester Square Tube Station, her cell phone rang. She spoke into the hands-free mike and then listened.
"In the name of God!" she said, breaking the connection.
"What is it?"
"I shouldn't be telling you this, but you do have a valid interest. A hiker found three male bodies in the New Forest this morning. Two of them had been shot in the head and the other cut to pieces. The local Serious Crime Squad has just identified them."
"The SAS guys who killed the White Devil," I said, my stomach contracting like an oyster drenched in lemon juice.
Karen pulled in to the curb. "How did you know that?"
"It's obvious. Three men, two shot in the head. Sara went for her brother's killers after she got their ex-brother in arms, Dave."
"Yes, well, that's only the half of it. A family member of each is missing. An eleven-year-old girl, a six-year-old boy and one of the wives."
I put my hand to my forehead. This was it. Sara had upped her game. I had no choice but to do the same.
"Let me go," I said, pleading one last time. "You have to trust me, Karen."
She shook her head slowly. "You have to be charged and processed, even if it was manslaughter. You also witnessed the Andrewes murder."
That did it. Before the constable next to me could move, I pulled out my Glock and jammed the muzzle of the silencer into his side. His loud gasp made Karen turn around.
"Are you out of your mind?" she demanded. "Threatening a police officer with an illegal firearm?"
"At least no one can say you let me go voluntarily," I said, giving her a slack smile. "You can do whatever you like to me when this is over, but for now I need my freedom."
Looking around, I opened the door and stepped into the crowd on the pavement. I held the pistol under my jacket and kept my head low. I was lucky. There was a taxi at the next corner. I told the driver to head north and got out near King's Cross. Then I took another cab toward Highgate. The man I wanted to see lived somewhere in the northern suburbs: that man being the most dangerous gangster in southeast England.
When Andy Jackson came around, he blinked and then gasped in pain. He could only see out of one eye. He could also only breathe through his nose, as there was something around his mouth. He tried to stand up, but discovered that his arms were tied behind his back and that he couldn't move his legs. Looking around, he saw he was in a van that seemed to be stationary. There was some light from the rear windows, though makeshift curtains covered them. There was thick gauze between him and the driver's compartment. He tried to jerk his body toward it, but there was only a slight movement. He lowered his gaze and realized then that he was in a wheelchair.
His throat was parched and he had a splitting headache, but Andy was still able to think. His jacket and boots had been removed, but not his trousers. In a specially sewn addition to the left rear pocket, a few centimeters from his pinioned right hand, was an extra-slim pocket knife-he'd learned always to carry a concealed blade. He could feel its outline against his buttock. If he could get his fingers into the narrow space at the side of the pocket and open the blade, he'd be back in business.
If only he could move his fingers.
I swore beneath my breath when I realized I hadn't forced Karen to give me the dead woman's cell phone. I'd lost a potential link to Sara. I texted Rog and asked him to send Karen the addresses of all the properties Sara had bought. I also told him to see if he could trace any more, probably under a different name. If he did, he wasn't to supply Karen with that information. We would need to act on it ourselves. I asked if he or Pete had heard from Andy. They hadn't. Where the hell had he got to? He wasn't answering his phone. I left him texts and messages, aware that Sara or some other antagonist might pick them up. I didn't care, it was worth a try. But no answer came.
Then I called Safet Shkrelli. He didn't sound at all pleased to hear my voice.
"You've been having dealings with Earl Sternwood," I said before he hung up.
"His Lordship?" the Albanian said sarcastically. "I've got more important things on my mind right now."
"How about we trade information, Safet? You tell me about Sternwood and I'll tell you about the person who's been doing the gangland murders in East London."
"What?" he said, failing to disguise his surprise. "You must know I've just lost a relative over there. What do you know?"
"I killed her," I said, trying to sound swollen with pride. I wasn't, but the only way to impress gang bosses was to commit murder. I hadn't known any Albanians had been killed out east, but I didn't admit that.
"You?" Shkrelli said in disbelief. "You're a fucking writer."
"Turn on one of the rolling news channels."
There was a pause. "All right. Go to Highgate Station. One of my people will pick you up."
"I'll be there in two minutes. How will I know your man?"
He gave a hollow laugh. "Don't worry. After what you did to Mustafa, everyone knows what you look like, Matt Wells."
Shit. I hoped that the knocking-shop muscle-man hadn't been transferred to driving for Shkrelli.
As it happened, I'd never seen the driver of the black Mercedes and the accompanying hard man before. They were both big, wearing black suits, and their faces were covered in heavy stubble. One of them directed me to the backseat, removed my weapon and phone, and then forced my head between my knees. When we stopped about a quarter of an hour later, I had no idea where I was. A hood was slipped over my head before I was allowed out of the car.
When the hood was removed, I found myself standing in front of Safet Shkrelli. He looked more like a businessman than a gangster, in his white shirt and red silk tie. Then he stared at me and I saw the emptiness in his dark eyes.
"Sit down, Matt Wells," he said, pointing to an empty chair. There was a young man sitting next to it, wearing an ill-fitting track suit. His face was cut and bruised and one hand was bandaged, while his feet were bare. I wondered if that was to stop him from running.