The Chosen Seed: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Three

by Sarah Pinborough

  ‘What’s going on here?’ The policeman – Artie couldn’t remember his name, but he’d seen him often enough since Cass did his runner – spoke calmly, but he was obviously nervous, judging by the way his Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down.

  ‘Just a little private business,’ Mr Craven said. ‘Why don’t you run along and leave us to it?’

  ‘He’s looking for Cass Jones,’ Artie said.

  ‘So I heard.’

  Artie felt another small wave of relief. If the copper had heard that, then he’d have heard Artie saying he didn’t know where Cass was – and why would he lie to a man carrying the modern plague and who’d proved he wasn’t shy about sharing it?

  ‘I am telling you to leave.’ Mr Craven hadn’t even looked in Artie’s direction since the copper had arrived, and his initial surprise had been replaced by something much more malign. ‘It will be better for everyone if you do.’ His voice was icy. ‘Especially you.’

  ‘I’m arresting you on the charge of multiple murder.’ The policeman might have been holding the gun, but he was getting more nervous with every second. Artie didn’t blame him: it was very obvious Mr Craven was a dangerous man – and verging on the insane, if he wasn’t mistaken.

  ‘Well, you do have the gun,’ Mr Craven said idly, ‘so I suppose it’s game over. I’ve had a good run at things, though, wouldn’t you say?’

  Too many things happened in an instant. The first was Mr Craven’s tone of voice, simply lulling the policeman into thinking he’d won. The second, the door upstairs thumping loudly against the wall as it was flung open and heavy feet tromping down the stairs towards them.

  ‘Armstrong? Armstrong, are you down there?’

  Armstrong. Sergeant Toby Armstrong: that was his name. Cold air washed into the small room, and a smile crossed the copper’s face. He’d thought he’d won. Artie’s heart was racing and his mouth started to open, to warn the youngster not to let his guard down, the fat lady wasn’t singing yet, but Mr Craven let out a yowl and suddenly the world was filled with light—

  Artie raised an arm to protect his eyes from the brightness and for a moment Toby Armstrong was just a black outline, frozen in the doorway, and then he vanished, swallowed up in glimpses of claws and searing white sharpness, and the awful, loud beating of wings. Artie closed his eyes against the blinding light and pressed his hands into his ears. Were they bleeding? He was sure they were bleeding. His eyes and his ears were going to burst. A scream built in his chest—

  —and then it all stopped. The light was gone so suddenly that Artie thought they had been plummeted into darkness. The pain in his eyes dulled to a throbbing ache. His ears hummed, but slowly, somewhere above that sound, he could make out voices. They were shouting. Someone touched his arm and he jumped and pulled away.

  At last he managed to blink away the dark stars that danced at the edge of his vision and found that the office was filled with police. He frowned. What was going on? What had just happened—?

  ‘Nobody touch him! Get an ambulance crew down here, double quick! Make sure they’ve got all the gear!’

  From between two officers’ legs, he could see a pair of expensive leather shoes. Mr Craven’s, he assumed. Artie got to his feet, shaking off the man beside him.

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ he muttered, taking a shaky step forward, trying to see what was going on.

  Mr Craven was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. His head lolled to one side, and Artie couldn’t figure out if he was trying to laugh or cry, or perhaps both. What was clear was that Craven was a whole load closer to being dead than he had been when he arrived. It couldn’t be possible, but he’d lost weight in the last few seconds, and his skin, pale before, was now a sickly yellow. He coughed, and the small gathering flinched away as one.

  ‘Nobody touch me either,’ a voice said. The tone was all wrong: it was flat, lifeless. Artie turned to see Armstrong pressing himself against the wall next to the desk. The young man was trembling as he tugged down his collar. Crimson bloomed on his neck. ‘I think he bit me.’

  No one said anything after that.

  It was only hours later, when they finally let him leave the station and he was back in the club sipping a very large brandy and letting the buzz of life from the girls and the punters around him calm his nerves, did he think about the datastick. He went down to the office and looked at it, lying exactly where Mr Craven had left it. He picked it up. It was heavier than he expected. What was it made of, pure silver?

  He turned it over in his hands, and then slipped it into his pocket. He hadn’t mentioned it to the police – it wasn’t their business – and why would he want to muddy the water with extra information when his account of the events of that afternoon had been corroborated by that poor bastard Armstrong, before they whisked him off to hospital brimming over with platitudes that no fucker actually believed.

  Aside from that, he thought as he sank heavily into his office chair, his own curiosity had been piqued. What kind of secrets could Mr Craven have for Cass Jones? He remembered the conversation he’d had with Cass in this very room, after Christian had died. They’d talked about The Bank; more that than, Cass had asked him about Mr Bright, the man who was everywhere and nowhere. A name all the firms were a little afraid of.

  He sighed and lit a cigarette, then leaned back and flicked the switch for the powerful air-conditioner to kick in and kill the smell. Compared to the other laws he broke on a regular basis, smoking in a venue open to the public was the least of them, but he knew only too well they’d get you on the little things if they couldn’t get you on the big ones.

  Maybe he’d said too much to Cass about Bright – maybe it was his fault Cass had got himself into all this mess in the first place. But Cass never had been very good at knowing when to turn and look the other way, had he? Artie rubbed his face. It had been a fucking long day. He’d leave Mac to sort the club for the night and go home and get a good night’s rest, if only he could switch off his brain. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Armstrong’s wide eyes and dead expression as he pulled down his collar.

  Fucking kids, he thought. What did the sergeant think he was doing, coming down here to arrest a serial killer on his own when he knew back-up was on the way? Young men: they all thought they were immortal. His heart ached a little bit, and he wasn’t sure if it was for the policeman who’d just become the latest of the Angel of Death’s victims, or for himself, or for the fact that however much they all chose to ignore it, the truth was that all their days were numbered. Maybe that was why he was drinking his brandy so fast. He was going fucking soft, that was for sure. Old fucking age was kicking in.

  He pulled the datastick out of his pocket and stared at it again. Secrets, that’s what Craven had said: the only ones that really matter. He drained his brandy and got to his feet. He’d let things die down and then get the stick to Cass. Stubbing the cigarette out half-smoked, he told himself that it was simply to satisfy his own curiosity, but he knew that was only half the truth.

  Artie Mullins had an old dog’s instincts and he’d learned to trust them. He might not have Brian Freeman’s clout, but he was happy with his place in the order of things and he’d stayed where he was for so long by trusting his gut. It was telling him now that Cass Jones was at the heart of this game, whatever it was. Everyone was interested in the DI: the nick, that strange woman and old man who had come and warned him about Cass’ imminent arrest, Mr Craven, everyone – he must have the luck of the devil, to still be free of them all.

  And Artie now knew his own place in the game. He was the link, and Craven’s arrival this afternoon made it pretty plain that everyone else with an eye on events knew that too. Maybe it was time he took himself on a bit of a holiday.

  He’d give things a day or two to settle down, then he’d get the datastick to Cass. Between now and then, he decided as he flicked off the light switch and happily turned his back on the room that still stank of Craven, he’d
spend some time booking a nice long break for him and the missus. Somewhere warm. And somewhere a long fucking way away.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Wharton had been right: the Saab didn’t leave Calthorpe House until ten past seven, moving off in the sudden flurry of activity that accompanied shift changes. They’d followed at a safe distance until the man reached his home, a few miles west in Isleworth, and then Cass stood back and let the Steves do what they did best – and they were good, he’d give them that.

  By the time Cass had parked the Range Rover further up the road from the nondescript semi-detached house and walked back they’d got inside the man’s house and had him sitting quietly on a chair, with only one small bruise coming up on his cheek. He looked terrified.

  ‘You’re right,’ Osborne said, looking from the man in the chair to Cass. ‘He’s not a bad match at all.’

  ‘Told you,’ Wharton said with a nod, ‘it’s good enough. Jones might have to trim a bit off his poncey barnet, but it’s still close. Right, I’m going to find the kitchen and make a cup of tea. I’m gasping.’

  ‘And call Jimmy. We’re going to need him here later to keep an eye on our host.’ Osborne looked over at Cass. ‘So? What do you reckon?’

  Cass came in to take a closer look. Wharton had chosen well: the man was about his age and much the same height, build and colouring. If he kept his head down, then he might just get away with it. ‘I think it’s doable.’ He looked at the man, trembling in the chair. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Martin Cromer. Dr Martin Cromer. What—?’ He licked his lips and steadied his nerves before asking, ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Don’t look so afraid,’ Cass said. ‘We just want the next few hours of your life.’ He smiled. ‘And some information.’ He lit a cigarette, waited for Wharton to return with the drinks, and then started asking the questions.

  At half-past four in the morning, when Dr Cromer had told them that most of the nurses and staff would be relaxing in the staffroom before doing the final drug rounds at six, Cass stopped the Saab outside Calthorpe House. He slid Cromer’s card into the slot and the tiny light changed from red to green and buzzed before the gates slowly swung open. He drove round to the side of the house and pulled into the third bay on the left. That was the space Cromer claimed he always used. Cass didn’t doubt him. He didn’t think the doctor had it in him to lie; he’d been far too scared. Once he’d started talking he’d almost given them too much information.

  Cass doubted Cromer was part of any sort of conspiracy; he was just an ordinary man, and if he wasn’t so focused on Luke, Cass might even have felt a bit sorry for him. But no harm was going to come to him – just one night of being scared senseless, and all men could live through that.

  The weather had turned bitter during the night, frost was thick on the windscreens of the cars around him. His nose started to run, and he wiped it on the doctor’s coat sleeve as he headed towards the main entrance. There were security cameras on both the side and the front of the building, and Cass kept his stride short, mimicking Cromer’s own walk as demonstrated to them earlier that evening. At the door he placed his ID card in the slot, and then when through the main door, he paused at the second scanner and made sure the logo on the breast pocket of his white coat was right in front of the light. Dr Cromer: 04.38 read in the small screen above. That was why all the staff arrived already in uniform: the secondary security measure had been installed quite recently, according to Dr Cromer, and Cass knew exactly who’d come up with that unusual idea, probably at about the time Mr Bright’d stopped paying school fees for Luke and started paying medical expenses here instead.

  Cass’ heart thumped. This was it. He turned and headed to the right, forcing himself to keep his pace steady. Behind the reception desk a woman glanced up for a moment before returning to her magazine. Cass said a silent prayer to the joys of modern technology. He’d passed both electronic checks, so what did she care? It might not be so easy on the way out, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. Away from the main entrance, the corridors were less homely, the carpet gave way to lino and the air became tinged with the faint smell of Dettol. His feet broke the silence with every step.

  I want to know where the boy is kept.

  The boy?

  Yes. He’s eight … no, nine. He’s nine now.

  I don’t know any boy. The patients are mainly young adults, up to early twenties.

  Not this one. He’s been there about two years. Think.

  Widening eyes: the penny drops. You mean the boy on the lower level? The coma boy …

  Coma?

  Well, he’s in and out of some kind of trance-like state. They say it’s psychosomatic. I don’t treat him.

  But you could get into his room?

  Of course. I’m a doctor.

  Does he get visitors?

  I don’t know – maybe occasionally. No family. I think his grandfather brought him in.

  Grandfather. Cass had almost laughed at that. No, he’d wanted to say, his grandfather is the dead man who gave him away; this man? He’s something else. A nurse appeared around the corner ahead and Cass’ heart nearly stopped, but the woman barely nodded at Cass as they passed. Luck was on his side, thus far at least. In his head, Cromer’s nervous voice talked him through the directions: follow the corridor round. There’s a small staircase that comes off at the middle once you’re round the corner. It only goes down. Take it.

  Cass did.

  The air cooled as he headed below ground level and although the stairwell and corridor that followed were well lit, there was a sense of abandonment about the place. His footsteps sounded louder and the homely atmosphere of the entrance that had faded further in had now disappeared completely in this small area. There were only three doors, and if Cromer was to be believed, then Luke was behind the furthest: the one by the wall. Cass’ mouth dried and his heart thumped. This wasn’t fear of getting caught; everyone else in the building was forgotten. This was the sheer anticipation of reaching his goal. He felt a pang of grief for the small dead boy whom he had loved as a nephew, and mixed with this was guilt from being glad that the boy that Christian and Jessica had raised as their own had died instead of the boy he was about to meet. His real nephew.

  Hairs prickled on the back of his neck as he approached the door and he glanced backwards, fully expecting to see Christian’s ghost standing there, but the corridor was empty and he found he was disappointed. This was Christian’s moment: the fulfilment of his wishes from beyond the grave. For once the two brothers could have stood side by side and made up for all the time they’d missed out on. After all the betrayals, Cass was finally putting something right. He hadn’t realised how much he’d hoped that Christian would somehow know that.

  The door was metal, like a prison door, but painted white, and there was a sliding window in the middle. Cass slid his card into the expectant slot and it beeped and the door clicked and whirred. His hands suddenly clammy, Cass gripped the handle and turned. The door opened.

  He’d expected the boy to be asleep, but instead he was sitting slightly up in the bed. He stared at Cass with wide blue eyes – just like Christian’s – and his mouth dropped open slightly.

  ‘I wasn’t making any noise,’ he whispered.

  For a second, Cass was confused, and then he remembered the white coat he was wearing, with the Calthorpe House logo emblazoned on the pocket. He closed the door quietly behind him. His skin tingled with nerves. He didn’t know how efficient the staff here were, but the system would show that he had just come into the boy’s room, and they might send a nurse down to find out why. He needed to move fast – preferably without panicking the child. Wharton and Osborne had suggested chloroform, in their brutally practical way, and Cass had refused. Now he wondered if he might have been a bit hasty. Still, the thin boy in the bed didn’t look too healthy, and even if he’d brought some of the drug with him, he probably wouldn’t have used it.

 
; ‘It’s okay, you’re not in trouble.’ He smiled and sat on the edge of the bed. The boy had Christian’s eyes and features, but his hair was dark like Cass’, and his heart ached just looking at him. He looked so thin in his pyjamas, and his skin was so pale that blue veins were visible here and there on his neck. Had he even seen the sun in the time he’d been at Calthorpe House? This room, hidden below ground, didn’t have a single window. He gritted his teeth as he fought a rising wave of hate for Mr Bright. The bastard was going to pay for this if it took him the rest of his life to track him down.

  The boy was still staring politely at him, stroking the blankets that lay crumpled around his crossed legs.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Cass asked.

  ‘Luke,’ the boy answered.

  The word stabbed at his heart. So Bright had given him the same name that Christian had chosen – why? His own private little joke?

  ‘So, Luke,’ he said, keeping his tone light, ‘do you like it here?’

  Luke didn’t answer, but kept staring at Cass with his wide, sombre eyes. He was afraid. Cass didn’t blame him.

  ‘Can I tell you a secret?’ Cass asked.

  Luke nodded.

  ‘I’m not really a doctor.’

  The child’s eyes widened slightly.

  ‘I borrowed this coat from a real doctor because I wanted to find you.’ Fuck it, he thought. Sometimes, honesty was the only policy. He had a feeling kids were pretty good at sniffing liars out. Maybe that’s why he and Kate had always avoided having any. ‘I’m your uncle and I’ve been looking for you for a long time.’ Still Luke didn’t speak. ‘The thing is,’ Cass continued, ‘I was wondering if maybe you’d like to leave? It’s nearly Christmas. We could spend it together. Get some toys. Roast a turkey. All that stuff.’ He wished he’d planned this speech out better. ‘But the thing is, we have to go now if we’re going to go. People will come looking soon.’