The Chosen Seed: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Three

by Sarah Pinborough

  ‘After I moved down here he came to check on me a few times. He would stay for hours, just talking. Sometimes we talked about you – you hurt me, Charlie, there’s no denying that – and sometimes we just talked about life, and how it took you in all kinds of directions you weren’t expecting. I liked talking to him. He had no blokey bullshit. I used to think that he was visiting me on that Mr Bright’s instructions, but now I don’t think Bright even knew. I think he was just getting information. I think he was planning ahead, even back then.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Cass leaned forward. Wheels within wheels. Mr Solomon had used the phrase, and the truth of it had replayed in his head more with every passing week. How many people’s lives had the Network toyed with – and why? What was the point of it all?

  ‘I told him about my family during those talks. Looking back, I can’t understand why, but like I said, there was something about him. It was like he understood you. I figure that by the end of it, what he didn’t know from whatever files Bright had on me, I’d told him myself.’

  ‘I still don’t get what you mean? How was he planning ahead?’

  ‘There’s something you haven’t asked me yet, Cass, and it surprises me. You were always pretty sharp.’

  ‘It’s been a long day.’

  ‘You haven’t asked me, why now? Why I’m coming for you a decade after you fucked me over?’

  ‘Well, until a couple of moments ago,’ Cass stubbed the cigarette out, ‘I was presuming that Mr Bright had paid you to find me for him. It’s the only reason I can think of why you’d have grabbed me and I’d still be alive and not halfway to the bottom of the Thames with concrete boots on.’

  ‘What, like that poor fucker the police claimed was Charlie Sutton? That would be fucking ironic, don’t you think?’

  Cass felt the sting: another black mark on his soul – the unknown John Doe who had been buried in his place to bring the whole sorry undercover mess to an end. He wondered if a woman somewhere still looked out of the window at nights with tired, sad eyes, wishing for her boy to come home, or at least for someone to tell her what had happened to him. He knew it was that, not knowing, that was the killer, even after all hope was gone.

  ‘Yeah, like him.’ He didn’t let his guilt show. He’d become an expert at that over the years – and no way was he going to let Brian Freeman take the moral high ground here: it was Brian who had told him to shoot the kid. Brian Freeman’s soul was far from stain-free.

  ‘Well, you’re barking up the wrong tree – quite the opposite, in fact. Things have changed. Mr Bright may have forgotten about me, but I’m coming after him. All bets are off.’

  ‘Why?’ It was a curveball, and Cass wasn’t sure whether to trust it.

  Freeman poured more brandy before continuing, ‘Do you remember a dead girl called Carla Rae?’

  Cass almost visibly recoiled. What would Freeman know about Carla Rae? ‘Of course I do – she was one of the Man of Flies’ – Solomon’s – victims. The first crime scene I went to when I took the case over from Bowman. What about her?’

  ‘She was my half-sister’s granddaughter.’

  For a second Cass didn’t speak. His brain was trying hard to get to grips with everything beneath the haze of pain and drugs. ‘But that can’t be right – it would have come up on the system. Someone would have spotted any link with you, especially because of me.’ He couldn’t even remember Carla Rae’s file mentioning Birmingham.

  ‘They wouldn’t have known, son: that’s my point. My old man never put his name to our Maggie’s birth certificate – my mum would’ve had his balls if he did – but we all knew Maggie was his. He’d been knocking off her mum for years. Me and Maggie were close because we came along within two months of each other. We went to school together, played together, and although I never called her my sister because my mum would have gone mental, I still knew it. I was godfather to her Jenny, Carla’s mum. They’d all gone to London by the time Carla came along, but I still sent Jenny some money every now and then. That is, until you turned up and I ended up banged up and with Bright and Solomon reorganising my life.’

  ‘So what’s the point?’ Cass was struggling to keep up. Hearing how someone else’s life had been woven so closely with his own with him having no knowledge was a head-fuck. He could remember staring down at Carla Rae’s dead body, looking at the words Nothing is sacred scrawled across her naked chest. How would he have felt then, if he’d realised she was related to Freeman?

  ‘The point is: I told Solomon about Maggie and her family. Bright wouldn’t have known – you and the police wouldn’t have known – but Solomon did. And he killed her.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘To bring you and me back together – hedging his bets, maybe. He knew that I’d follow the case, and he knew you’d be on it. Maybe he knew you had more trouble coming your way, and if so, then he was fucking right, wasn’t he? Maybe he knew if he went that far, then I’d want to go after his mate Bright and find out what the fuck all this was about. Solomon was a crazy, and you know better than I do whatever was driving him to kill all those people, but I know that he chose Carla because I told him about her, and because his mate Bright wouldn’t know about her. I think all his visits to check on me and chat with me were to get to a name – a name he could use in whatever fucking game they’re playing with you.’

  Cass sat back, numb.

  ‘Now the thing is,’ Freeman continued, ‘I’m no hot-headed pup, and Carla was blood, but she was also a virtual stranger, so I wasn’t going to do anything rash. But my interest was flagged. I had people – proper people, not the lads like last time – try and dig into our Mr Bright and Mr Solomon, and all they brought me back were questions, no answers.’

  ‘Welcome to my world,’ Cass muttered.

  ‘I’ve even got people working at The Bank’s headquarters, and that wasn’t easy, I can tell you. But they’ve been coming up with nothing. And then all the shit with you kicked off. I’d seen about your brother and his family, and I knew he’d worked at The Bank, but then it came back on Bowman and Macintyre. It was when you went on the run with two murders stuck on you that I knew there was more.’

  ‘How?’ Cass’ mouth was dry. All this time Freeman had been watching him.

  ‘You ain’t no murderer, whether you’re Charlie or Cass or fucking Shirley. I saw you blow someone’s brains out once, and I know what it did to you – don’t think I don’t. You ain’t no killer, not like that.’ Freeman leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. ‘Someone’s playing with you, and we both know who that is. I’ve been through that little suitcase of yours and there are some interesting photos in there.’

  ‘If you’re looking for answers about who Bright and Solomon are, then I don’t have them. I want to find them, though, and I want to bring that bastard Bright and all his people down if I can.’

  ‘And that’s what seems strange to me. As far as I can see he’s done his best to protect you over the years,’ Freeman said softly. ‘So what the fuck has he done to piss you off so badly?’

  Cass stared at Freeman. It would be easy to tell him everything – he wanted to – but this could all be some elaborate fuck-up devised by Bright and the Network. The only man he’d trusted was Artie Mullins, and in the end even he had given in to Freeman.

  ‘How can I trust you?’

  ‘Ha!’ Freeman snorted. ‘Coming from you I find that rich. But as it happens, I thought you might need a token gesture of my sincerity.’ The old man’s eyes were smiling. ‘So I took it upon myself to do you a little favour.

  ‘I recorded this from the news earlier.’ He turned the large TV on. Mat Blackmore’s photo filled the corner behind the newsreader.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Mat Blackmore, who was awaiting trial on a charge of murder and several counts of police corruption, died earlier today of what is believed to be strychnine poisoning. Mr Blackmore had received a visit from a man claiming to be from his solicitor’s office to disc
uss the impending trial. The man, as yet unidentified, is believed to have given Mr Blackmore a birthday cake, which contained the poison, before leaving the prison. Mr Blackmore’s solicitors, Watson, Harvey and Rogers, have told police the visitor was not affiliated with their company in any way, and they are demanding an inquiry into how he gained access to a high-security prisoner with false paperwork.’

  Cass watched, dumbfounded, until Brian Freeman turned it off again.

  ‘You killed Blackmore?’

  ‘I thought you’d rather him than the other bastard.’ Freeman grinned. ‘This one killed that girl you worked with.’

  For a moment, Cass couldn’t speak. Freeman knew him well, even after all these years. Bowman might have been the ringleader, and the one who had been fucking his wife, but Blackmore had killed poor Claire May. Yeah, he’d rather the young sergeant was dead. And now Bowman would be sweating, believing someone would be coming for him next.

  He looked up at Brian Freeman. ‘Mr Bright’s got something of mine that I want back,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My nephew.’

  It was Freeman’s turn to be silent for a moment. ‘Tell me everything,’ he said eventually.

  And Cass did.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mr Bright dismissed the car that had been waiting for him outside the small private nursing home tucked away in the heart of London. Despite the freezing cold, he wanted to walk in the midst of the noise and life of the city for a while and clear his thinking. He pushed his leather-gloved hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat as he strolled casually among those who hurried and scurried to their destinations. Newspaper hawkers tried to push the latest issue into his hands – the headlines screamed of an Angel of Death walking among them – but he ignored them. There was nothing he could read in the paper that he didn’t already know.

  First Mr Solomon, and now Mr Craven: both so different in character, and yet both chosen to make a point by killing them. He was tired of it. He had no feelings for Mr Craven; unlike Mr Solomon, Mr Craven’s message and purpose was crude and bitter and selfish. Mr Dublin could deal with it while they all waited for Mr Craven to hurry up and die.

  Here and there he saw people with medical masks over their faces, their eyes scared, and he felt a vague disgust. They reminded him of those among his own who whined about the Dying that had come among them and how they feared it. The fear was pointless: the Dying would either come for each of them or it wouldn’t. He was proud that most in this city were more like him – they shopped and drank and ate and loved and kept their fear quiet. Sometimes their unknowing strength left him in awe. They refused to give up. They were like a vermin on the face of the planet, but vermin were survivors. There was nothing crumbling about this world, despite what the cohorts might think. It was changing, perhaps, going through a dark time, but it wouldn’t crumble. They wouldn’t allow it.

  The air was so cold that his nose had numbed and the dryness in his lungs made him want to cough. He had hoped the fresh air would clear away the niggling doubts, but if anything it made them sharper.

  He should be feeling pleased. Thus far, everything was going according to the plan they had hatched all those years ago, when the First’s body had started to wither. It had been daring and dangerous but they had thrown themselves into it in the way they had that rebellion so long ago: with complete and utter belief in themselves, knowing that they could not fail. And they hadn’t … but still, there was undeniably something wrong. He knew it.

  The First was still weak and bedridden, but his mind was clear. It had been good to talk to his old friend again after so long. He rarely admitted it, but since Mr Solomon had gone and he spent his days merely fulfilling his duty he had found less joy in his existence. It was good to talk to the First; it was almost like the old days. He had wanted to announce to the others that he was rising once again, but the First had shaken his head: no, not yet. That had surprised him; it wasn’t like their leader to hide away. He had always been so gregarious and flamboyant. Perhaps he was waiting until he was fully restored and adapted.

  He paused and bought some roasted chestnuts from a street vendor, enjoying the warmth of the small packet through his gloves. He should be less suspicious. He had spent so long having to manage everything alone that maybe he had learned to see problems where there weren’t any – though he had had good cause to be alert after first Mr Solomon’s behaviour and then Mr Bellew’s recent traitorous performance with the Interventionists – not to mention Mr Craven, of course. His disquiet, however, refused to die.

  Something had been wrong. The First’s easy smile had been slightly too wide as he’d squeezed Mr Bright’s hand. The reaction to the news of the emissary had been off – Mr Bright couldn’t put his finger on it, but he was practised in watching responses, and the First was out of practice at hiding them. And why had he casually thrown in that question about Jarrod Pretorius? The name had come as a bolt out of the blue and it was Mr Bright who’d had to cover his reactions then. Sometimes during the last millennia he’d even managed to convince himself that he’d forgotten Pretorius completely.

  His hands warmer, he threw the uneaten chestnuts into a bin. The First had not asked about the Jones family. Perhaps he felt that they were no longer relevant – and perhaps he would be right. Mr Bright was surprised by his own reaction to that thought. He had watched the bloodlines for so many years, long before he’d ever brought Alan and Evelyn together, and he’d felt a little private pride as they produced their children, enjoying the wilful human moments of all concerned. There had been disappointments – Alan Jones had been weak, after all that – but he found he was glad that the deal had been struck and it wasn’t Cassius who had been given up.

  At the time, the wait for the extra years to pass had been mildly frustrating, and he’d become irritated by Mr Solomon’s fondness for both Cassius and Christian, which had moved beyond the simple interest in the blood ties to something else – something deeper. Now, after so much time spent managing Cassius, he found he perhaps had more than a little fondness for the man himself. But fond or not, he was not oblivious to Cass’ nature: wherever he was, Mr Bright knew Cass Jones would still be coming after them. He was sure of that. Blood was truly thicker than water.

  And that might not prove to be such a terrible thing, after all.

  He picked his pace up slightly. Cass Jones was still the wild card. The First’s behaviour had been strange, and that might be expected, given everything he had been through, but Mr Bright still needed to plan around it. Cass Jones might well have a part to play in that too – Cass Jones and his bloodline were still important, and the others would be stupid not to realise that.

  His mobile phone vibrated and he checked the caller before holding it to his ear. ‘Mr Dublin?’

  ‘Mr Bright.’

  ‘You’ve taken care of Mr Craven?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. He still has some items to return, but he’s gone. I don’t think he has long left.’ Mr Dublin’s gentle voice always had a touch of the maudlin about it and today was no exception.

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘I never thought I’d wish death on one of our own.’

  ‘Then don’t,’ Mr Bright said prosaically. ‘Your wishing of it or not will bear very little relevance to the outcome. I believe that is already quite certain.’ He didn’t have time for this endless sadness over the things that could not be helped. Their world was changing and they with it. Mr Dublin had never liked getting his hands dirty, but he was no different to the rest of them under the surface. ‘Was there a purpose to this call?’

  ‘The Experiment,’ Mr Dublin said. If he had been offended by Mr Bright’s tone, then it wasn’t reflected in his own. The words were still soft and precise.

  ‘What about the Experiment?’ Despite the rash of suicides and the investigation that had followed, all blame had landed squarely on the shoulders of the unfortunate Dr Shearman – who, wisely, had opt
ed to stay silent regarding his knowledge of the missing Jones child, and who would reap the benefit of that when his case finally got to court. But the search for the Walkways continued, more quietly, perhaps, and with less carefully selected test subjects, but it continued all the same. They couldn’t afford not to, even if the results were still a dismal failure so far.

  ‘I’d like to be more involved.’

  ‘Are you saying you want to try for the Walkways yourself?’ Mr Bright allowed himself a small laugh of good humour.

  ‘Of course not.’ Mr Dublin did not join in his mirth. ‘I would like to take a greater part in it – perhaps oversee the facility for a while. Especially given the … disappointing nature of the First’s recovery. And you are, of course, always so busy.’

  Mr Bright almost smiled. They always come in friendship when they plan to stab you in the back. It had ever been thus. They were the same.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Dublin,’ he said smoothly. ‘That would be a great help.’

  He ended the call. Wheels within wheels, as Mr Solomon would have said. Wheels within wheels.

  Mr Dublin slipped the phone back into his pocket and smiled softly. ‘We have the Experiment.’

  ‘Good,’ Mr Escobar grunted. Mr Dublin was sure that he could smell the hot grime and corruption of South America on the swarthy newest member of the Inner Cohort. He was Mr Bellew’s replacement. Although he was rougher in appearance, there was something similar about the two. Mr Escobar didn’t have the inner strength or intelligence of Mr Bellew – he had led them in battle all that time ago, while Mr Escobar, bloodthirsty as he was, had been far behind in the ranks – but he was a warrior. And like Mr Bellew, he had changed his allegiances.

  It was interesting, Mr Dublin thought, to watch the warriors among them. They had always been the most loyal back then, but once the revolt had come and they had been persuaded to side with the First, it was as if something inside had broken. Perhaps once a traitor, the potential was always there.