The Death Collector

  Neil White was born and brought up around West Yorkshire. He left school at sixteen but studied for a law degree in his twenties, then started writing in 1994. He is now a lawyer by day, crime fiction writer by night. He lives with his wife and three children in Preston.

  Also by Neil White

  Fallen Idols

  Lost Souls

  Last Rites

  Dead Silent

  Cold Kill

  Beyond Evil

  Next to Die

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Sphere

  978-1-4055-1541-2

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Neil White 2014

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  SPHERE

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  The Death Collector

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Neil White

  COPYRIGHT

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

  Fifty-five

  Fifty-six

  Fifty-seven

  Fifty-eight

  Fifty-nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-one

  Sixty-two

  Sixty-three

  Sixty-four

  Sixty-five

  Acknowledgements

  Being a writer is a solitary pursuit most of the time, but that is only part of the story, because my efforts would amount to nothing were it not for the patience and hard work of others. For every bad idea and muddled thought my editor and desk editor at Sphere, Jade Chandler and Thalia Proctor, are always there, to guide and advise, and it is their hard work that turns my first draft into something capable of sitting on a bookshelf.

  A special thank you goes to my agent, as always, the wonderful Sonia Land from Sheil Land Associates, who made it possible for me to work with the people at Sphere, and has been a constant source of sound advice. Long may that continue.

  Outside of the publishing world, I need to be grateful for the patience shown by my family, my wife and three sons, who tolerate me being the man who locks himself away for hours, quiet and moody. Writing can be as hard for them as it is sometimes for me. As for everyone else, it’s the people I meet who inspire me, the source for ideas or characters or those little asides or quirks that somehow make it into the story. They might not know it, and it is often best that they don’t, but I enjoy a secret smile at the knowledge of where they appear.

  One

  He sank back into the shadows as they stepped out of the car.

  There were two of them. The car was parked right up against the wooden garage door, so that they had to walk round the back to go towards the house. There was a man he had seen before – the reason he was there – tall and slender in a grey wool jacket and a silk scarf slung over his shoulder, his shoes pointed brown leather, trendy and smart. The woman next to him was smaller, in high blue heels and a navy skirt that fell just below her knees, elegant and poised. Her heels made loud clicks that echoed as she walked.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, steeled himself, not wanting to be caught. Although concealed by the darkness of a house opposite, along someone’s garden path and in the space where the night still had its grip, he couldn’t take any chances with a stray glance. The streetlights would bathe his face in orange light if he leaned out too far.

  He listened out for any other movement but the street was silent apart from their footsteps. He tried to be patient, to wait until they got into the house, but the need to know was too much. He leaned out.

  It was past midnight, most of the windows along the street were in darkness, with just the blue flicker of televisions visible in some. They were tall Victorian houses, three floors, with stone bay windows and small peaked eaves above attic rooms, cars parked along the street or crammed into the driveways.

  The man fumbled with a key and said something that made the woman laugh, but only briefly and politely, so that his smile lasted longer than hers. She hoisted her handbag onto her shoulder and looked to the floor. Nothing more was said. There was an atmosphere. He was trying too hard. She didn’t look interested. The door opened and they went inside.

  He waited for the door to close and then emerged from his hiding place, his eyes sweeping the street, checking to see if he was being watched. It looked clear. He tried to walk normally to avoid suspicion, but his footsteps seemed like loud crunches that snapped in the night air, making him jumpy.

  At the front of the house he paused, one hand on the gate, small and wooden and painted green. He took a last look around; still no one watching. He pushed and went through.

  The garden was small, with just enough space for a rectangle of grass and flowerbeds. A line of concrete running to the front of the house served as a path. He crouched down as he went, stopping before the door. It matched the gate, wooden and green, with a stained-glass circle in the centre. He leaned forward and then craned his neck to see through, ready to duck back if he saw anything. The hallway was long and led to a kitchen at the rear, lined by polished oak floorboards and deep red wallpaper, the lights shielded by purple shades.

  The main room was to the side, the light turned on. The curtains had been a canvas of dancing lights earlier – a real fire was his guess, left burning when the man went out – but the light was on now and had cancelled it out, turning the dark curtains into a bright red.

  He moved quickly towards the window, to listen out, but then he saw a gap in the curtains. It wasn’t much more than a crack, but it was enough for him to see through.

  He ducked down, took one more look around, and then crept forward. He stopped at the gap and raised his head slowly above the sill, waiting to be seen. His heart hammered in his chest, his throat tight with nerves, as the room came slowly into view.

  It was
as he expected. There was a sofa and two chairs grouped around a fireplace, the man putting on more coal, bending over. Then he straightened and went to the woman, taking her coat from her shoulders, playing the host, the gentleman. She held her right elbow with her left hand so that her left arm acted as a shield. She looked nervous, and the short bursts of laughter that drifted through the window came only from him.

  The man removed his jacket and scarf and put them on one of the chairs as she sat down on another, and then he went over to a table in the corner. As he removed the top from a bottle, she looked round the room as if it was her first time there, stiff and uncomfortable.

  He passed her a glass but she didn’t drink from it. Instead, she held the glass in one hand as her other arm remained across her. He walked over to another part of the room, where there was something on a table. He lifted a lid to reveal a record turntable. It was dated, the colours faded. The man flicked through some albums stacked against the wall, and when he made his selection he took out the black vinyl and surveyed it against the light from the fire. He wiped it with a cloth, handling it only by the edges, and then placed it delicately on the centre spindle of the record player. He clicked a switch and there was a pause before the needle arm moved slowly through the air. As it landed, there was a crackle, and then the opening bars of a song he recognised but didn’t really know burst from the speakers, loud and distorted. He had expected some modern smooch music, some kind of serenade designed to get his guest in the mood, but instead it was old-fashioned, something from decades before.

  He ducked down as the man turned around. He was directly in line, so he waited as the song acquired its rhythm. Crazy, the voice sang, her tone deep and rich, the words distorted by the crackles from the speaker.

  His breaths had got shorter, nerves making his fingers tremble, but still he wanted to watch. It was as if the rest of the street had faded; all he could think of was what was going on in the house.

  He raised his head slowly. The man and woman were closer now, the man holding out his hand, inviting her to dance, his head cocked, expectant. She hesitated, as if embarrassed, awkward and stiff, but then her manners got the better of her. She shrugged and put her glass on a small table nearby before going to him.

  They moved together slowly, one of her hands on the back of his neck, her other loosely behind him, her head rested against his chest. He murmured to her as he swayed from side to side. The flickering light from the fire made her dark curls move and shift, just shadows in the gloom.

  He became engrossed in watching them, their movement hypnotic. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, heavy soles on the concrete path. He just felt the strong arm reach around his neck and then he gasped as he was pulled down to the ground.

  Two

  Joe Parker rubbed his eyes and rang the buzzer outside the police station entrance. It was a modern block of concrete and white windows on one of the roads out of Manchester, protected by high blue railings that were littered with take-away wrappers and crisp packets, blown against them by the passing traffic.

  Summer was a couple of months away, so the spring nights still held some of the chill of winter. Joe shivered and pulled his jacket up to his chin. Lost sleep was one of the downsides of being a defence lawyer, he knew that, but that knowledge never compensated for the fatigue that he knew would pull at him the following day.

  The intercom sparked into life and a bored voice said, ‘Hello, can I help you?’ It was loud along the empty street.

  ‘It’s Joe Parker from Honeywells,’ he said. ‘You’ve got someone in the cells for me.’

  The intercom buzzed and then the door clicked open.

  Joe checked his watch before he pushed his way inside: two thirty a.m. He hoped the visit would be quick; he might just grab a couple of hours sleep before he had to collect his thoughts and make some sense in the courtroom.

  There had been a time when a visit to a police station was exciting, the fun of seeing the wilder side of life, like living out every police drama he had ever seen, but that was in the early days of his legal career. Ten years on, it was just part of the job, an unpleasant intrusion.

  Some of the law firms in Manchester had their own army of clerks and police station runners, wages propped up by overtime, so the qualified lawyers avoided most of the late calls, doing just the duty solicitor roster to stay on the list. Honeywells didn’t have that luxury. It was just Joe with his phone in his apartment, hoping that when he went to sleep the next sound he heard would be his alarm. He was helped out sometimes by Gina Ross, a retired detective who worked his cases, but Gina didn’t like going to the police station. It was too much like her old job but from the other side of the table.

  Joe always turned out, because sometimes that unexpected call turned out to be a big case that would keep the department in profit for another year, which was quite an achievement for a criminal defence lawyer.

  So it was Joe’s footsteps that echoed as he walked along a short tiled corridor towards another locked door, the buzzer sounding as he got there, the custody sergeant noticing him as he put his face to the reinforced glass pane.

  The sergeant gave Joe a bored look as he entered the custody suite, a high-ceilinged space with no windows. Just a desk and the walls lined by noticeboards and pigeonholes, posters pinned to any spare space, informing prisoners of their rights in numerous languages or telling solicitors that phones weren’t allowed. Joe dug into his pocket to hand his over but the sergeant shook his head.

  ‘You won’t be here long.’

  Joe smiled. ‘Good. There are better places to be at two-thirty in the morning.’

  The sergeant considered him for a moment, and then said, ‘Do you want a coffee?’

  Joe was pleased that he had hit on one of the friendlier sergeants. ‘Yes, thanks. Just milk.’

  The sergeant went towards a small room at the back of the custody suite and the air was filled with the rumble of a boiling kettle. Joe didn’t envy the man his job, responsible for every person who gets dragged through the doors, some quiet and compliant, others kicking and screaming – but they all have to be treated the same, the sergeant accountable for every bad thing that can happen. Some kept a quiet distance, sick of hearing every excuse and piece of abuse they got, and others saw themselves as hosts. It was a good sign, coffee in the middle of the night.

  There were three custody records mounted on battered wooden clipboards hanging from hooks, each one bearing the scribbled records of a prisoner’s time in the police station. The sergeant came back through, holding two white mugs. Joe pointed to the clipboards. ‘One of those my guy?’

  The sergeant put the mugs on the counter and then reached behind. He plucked one of the clipboards from the hook and handed it to Joe. ‘Yes, if you could call him a guy. Just some quiet kid. Something going on though. He didn’t want his mother here, so we’ve got the YOT lady instead.’ And he gestured towards a holding cell, really just a glass box, where those queuing to be booked in sat until their space at the desk came free.

  As Joe looked, he saw a young woman in there, the unlucky one from the Youth Offending Team, playing with her phone, in jeans and a big jumper. Hastily thrown on, was Joe’s guess.

  ‘So what do you know about this kid, then?’ Joe said.

  ‘Nothing. Never seen him before and he hasn’t said much.’

  ‘Why’s he here?’

  ‘He was snooping around a house, staring through a window. Wouldn’t say why he was there but he looks like a peeper. A bit young for it though. If this is how he’s starting out, well…’ And the sergeant let the sentence hang so that they both knew what he meant. Bad habits only ever get worse.

  ‘Okay, give me ten minutes with him and I’ll get his story,’ Joe said. ‘If he’s got a good excuse, he’ll tell you and then I can go home.’

  ‘And if he hasn’t?’

  Joe groaned. ‘I’ll tell him to keep his mouth shut and I suppose my night will get longer.’

&nb
sp; The sergeant smiled. ‘You’ll make someone happy. There’s a young copper on this job who doesn’t fancy going back out into the night. Processing your boy keeps him warm in here until his shift ends.’

  Joe pulled a business card from his pocket and slotted it into the clip on the board. He guessed at why he had been called out. Budget cuts had reduced overtime, so most officers went home when their shift ended, the prisoners left to stew on a plastic mattress with only the promise of a breakfast in a plastic tray ahead. The next day, a team of detectives would work their way through those locked up. Joe reckoned that they knew already they didn’t have much of a case this time, so they wanted the prisoner in and out quickly. Just enough to arrest him, but everyone knew the case wasn’t going to amount to much. They wanted him back on the street before they were obliged to feed him.