‘Did he give you his?’ Cass asked, almost flippantly, and found himself almost shocked into silence at Bradley’s reply.
‘Yeah, he did, as it goes. He gave me the hundred quid, and I thought he was leaving so I shot meself up. But he didn’t go; he was peering out through the curtains and going on and on about how everything was planned and there were no coincidences. He kept saying everything happened for a reason, and asking if I believed that. I wasn’t really listening, I’d got the dosh and I just wanted him to go. He gave me the creeps. When the smack hit me I said something like, “Who are you, anyway?” He smiled that creepy smile again and said, “My name is Mr Bright”. It was a real smug smile, as if I’d done just what he’d expected.’
‘Mr Bright? No first name?’
‘I don’t think he’s the sort of bloke that uses one.’ Bradley had nearly finished the second cigarette and the trembling in his hands was getting stronger. ‘I don’t remember much after that. I zoned out a bit, and when I came to he was gone. I went down to my mum’s place for a while and when I was a bit straighter I brought the envelope here.’
‘How did the print get on it?’
Bradley shrugged. ‘I knocked it off the arm of the chair. I started to pick it up when I remembered about the gloves. My finger just touched it once. Didn’t think it would matter.’ He smiled a little. ‘I guess I was wrong.’
Cass leaned back in the chair. Something was bugging him, tickling away at the back of his brain. ‘How did you get here and back?’ he asked.
‘Bus and then tube.’
‘Did you go straight home?’
‘No way, man.’ Bradley shook his head vehemently. ‘I went to pay the bloke I owed and pick up some more H and he told me there was cop cars all over my block, and to maybe go and see some friends or something till they were gone. It’s what I did.’
Cass suddenly realised what was bugging him. They’d had to break into the flat where Carla was lying dead, serenaded by heavy metal music. ‘Did you leave the squat unlocked ?’
‘No, I always shut it properly.’ Bradley looked awkward. ‘Thing is, when I finally got home and straightened out, well, I realised the key wasn’t in my jeans.’
‘Was that the first time you noticed it was gone?’
‘Yeah. I didn’t think to check before. I was too busy thinking about getting that envelope delivered. I thought it was in my pocket.’
Cass frowned. ‘Could this Mr Bright have taken it?’
Bradley shrugged, his face a little embarrassed. ‘I don’t know, man - I was out of it for a little while. He could of, I guess, before he left.’
‘Think hard.’ Cass felt his patience begin to wear thin. He was still sick with own grief that he was trying hard to ignore.
‘Is there anywhere you could have left it? Or could someone else have stolen it from you?’
The boy sat silent for a minute. ‘He could have taken it from me in the flat. I told you, I was well out of it. But there was this bloke who fell into me on the Tube too, so maybe it slipped out of my jacket then. I was just thinking about keeping the envelope safe.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know where it went. I just know that I don’t have it any more.’ His eyes were almost puppy-dog in their desperation. ‘I had nothing to do with anyone dying, honest, man.’
Cass found himself nodding. ‘I believe you.’
A constable took Bradley back to the cells and Cass sent down a consent for methadone. He wasn’t ready to let the kid go yet, and he obviously needed something to get him out of his own personal hell. Maybe if they kept him in long enough he’d leave the H and the needles alone and stick to the substitute. It wasn’t likely. No one on the streets really wanted anyone else to get out; if one was drowning, he would cling on to those around him so they could all go down together. As soon as Adam Bradley was back on the estate, someone would be quick enough to lead him back into temptation.
‘So, what do you make of all that?’ Claire asked. She looked at the huge bulk of the profiler, who’d joined them, and then back at her boss. ‘Are the two lots of killings linked? How is that possible?’
Cass tucked the chair under the interview desk and leaned on the back of it. ‘What was it our mysterious Mr Bright said - there are no coincidences? Everything happens for a reason? So we’ve just got to find the reasons, that’s all.’ He looked around, thinking, then continued, ‘Let’s work it through one thing at a time. This Mr Bright has a film of the boys being shot. How or why we don’t know, he just has. He wants to get that to me, the investigating officer, but he doesn’t bring it to me directly. So why not?’
‘The man’s got something to hide,’ Hask said. ‘The fact that we find a woman dead in the same flat on the same day he’s been there would indicate that he’s potentially our serial killer.’
‘Exactly. And that ties in neatly with his “no coincidences” statement.’
‘But why would he want to help you if he’s doing something criminal himself?’ Claire rested against the corner of the desk.
‘Good question. Dr Hask?’
‘Power trip. He wants to give you a gift.’
‘Are you saying he feels sorry for me?’
‘I think this one sees himself as above everyone else, regardless of who they are. I think maybe it’s his God complex coming into play. But yes, on one level he’s taking pity on you.’
‘But he gives me a clue to a different case. That doesn’t make sense.’
‘Maybe he is proving his omnipotence to you. He’s doing one set of murders, but he also has more information on other deaths than you do. He wants you to be in awe of him.’
Claire frowned. ‘But if it had all gone the way he’d planned it, and Bradley had worn the gloves, then we wouldn’t have ever known it came from him.’
The click of the lighter was loud in the silence as Cass lit another cigarette. ‘Then it must have gone as planned.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Don’t you think, Doc?’
‘I agree.’ Hask smiled. ‘Everything about this man says organisation, precision. If he really wanted the envelope delivered anonymously, he could easily have posted it, or actually walked in with it himself. If he’d worn a hat and a normal suit, then the cameras wouldn’t get much for an ID, would they? Middle-aged man of average height - London’s full of them. And I would say that he’s certainly confident enough to do something like that without turning a hair.’
‘I think you’re right,’ Cass said. ‘He picked Adam Bradley on purpose. No one in their right mind would give a junkie from the estates a job to do and expect them to carry it out perfectly. He wanted us to track it back to him . . . but he didn’t want to make it that easy. Maybe he asks around, finds Bradley had some form so he knows we’ll have his prints on record. He makes sure Bradley knows his name—’
‘—although Bradley says he asked him for that,’ Claire interjected.
‘Yeah, but he’d have told him one way or another. He wanted us to have that name.’
‘I agree.’ Hask folded his hands across his vast belly. ‘He also put the envelope on the arm of the chair and threw the gloves into Bradley’s lap. If he’d wanted the boy to remember to put them on before touching it then he’d have put the gloves on top of the envelope.’ He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d even gone so far as to smear the fingerprint onto the envelope himself when Bradley was out of it. Just to make sure we got a usable one.’
‘I’d go along with that.’ Cass sighed. ‘So he thinks he can play games with us.’
‘He was testing you.’
‘Oh, nice. Did I pass?’
The profiler snorted. ‘Looks that way. At least he’s made some contact. Now the next move is his.’
‘How does he fit with your profile for the serial killer?’ Claire asked.
‘Well, he’s certainly self-controlled. Calm and collected. Smart. Over thirty-five. And from the way our messenger boy described him, he’s also charismatic. Thi
s elaborate trail he’s leading to himself ties in with the flamboyant gesture of the flies. And it shows intelligence. He certainly appears to be a man with an office job - the expensive coat, the suit, the briefcase - and he’s urbane, well spoken, so fits in to normal society. To then kill someone in the same location seems slightly off to me; almost too obvious . . . but given everything else, I’d agree this could well be our man.’
‘Which means there must be a link between these cases. There has to be. And there’s something on that film we’re missing, something he wants us to see.’ Cass rubbed his face. ‘I need to look at that film again. And so do you, Claire. We need to find whatever it is we’ve missed.’
The sergeant pulled a tiny USB pen from her pocket. It was the one Cass had saved the film onto the night before last.
‘I grabbed this from your desk for you. I presume you meant to take it home.’
Cass smiled. ‘Thanks.’ He slipped it into his pocket. ‘Okay, so now let’s think about that film. What did you find out about the cabbie?’
‘Not much to help us there. He says it was an ordinary pick-up, and we can’t find anything on file to the contrary. He’s been a driver for twenty years and never had any problems. He saw what happened on the news and realised straight away that it was him dropping Macintyre off. He said he thought about coming forward but his wife persuaded him against it.’ Her eyes drifted over his shoulder as she added, ‘I can’t see how he’s in the firm’s pay though. He doesn’t seem the type.’ She frowned. ‘Sir?’
For a moment Cass thought she was talking to him until shadows shifted in the corner of his eyes. He turned. The room was filling up with bodies. The DCI had come into the interview room, followed by Blackmore, who moved to stand along the back wall. Ramsey positioned himself beside him. Cass frowned. What the hell was Ramsey doing here? These cases weren’t in his remit.
‘Something we can do for you, sir?’ Blackmore seemed to be very intent on staring into the stained floor. Cass’s stomach tightened.
Detective Chief Inspector Morgan kept his hands in his pockets as he stepped forward. His face was grim.
‘We need to have a chat, Cass.’
‘Tell me this isn’t because I was smoking in the interview room?’
The DCI didn’t smile. Over his broad shoulder Cass saw Bowman leaning into the doorway. He didn’t look so great - what was he doing out of the hospital so soon? He looked at each of them, but only Ramsey met his eyes. His expression was unreadable.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ Cass broke the silence.
‘We need to speak to you in connection with your brother’s death,’ said DCI Morgan, his voice sounding official. ‘We’ve found some evidence at the scene.’
The air heated up around him, burning his face. ‘Yeah, I was there last night. I should have said. The constable let me in. He told me to wear gloves, but—’
‘It’s not that kind of evidence.’
Cass felt his throat tighten. ‘Well, we’d better go and talk, then,’ he said finally. ‘And we can straighten this out. Because I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re on about.’ His voice was calm, but his body was raging, adrenalin pumping hard. What the hell did we’ve found some evidence mean? He hadn’t been to Christian’s house for months, maybe longer. He looked at Claire as he followed the DCI out of the room, then at Ramsey. For a moment he could have sworn that he saw a flash of something gold glowing from the corners of his eyes, and then it was gone.
Chapter Seven
The sun shines on London now, but the rain that poured down the previous night has soaked the earth’s skin. The air smells of wet dirt. The bench beneath him is still wet, and will leave his clothes damp, but he doesn’t mind. His arms ache from polishing the pews, ready for the lunchtime crowds that will gather the next day to let music soothe their souls for a brief half an hour.
Everything is brief, he thinks, as he watches the flowers that are contemplating an early bloom. He stands and stretches, the muscles across his back rippling, and he remembers his own strength from so very long ago. He had been glorious. Sometimes it’s hard to remember how things were, before. Beyond the small garden around him, the city laughs and cries. It is busy here; it practically screeches life. He sighs. He knows better. There is no life; there are only the various stages of dying. He knows this - since the first sign that things were changing among his kind, he’s felt it: the empty loneliness, the quiet fear in his stomach, the sink into humanity . . . the constant buzzing under his skin and in his head. A rustle as an old man turns the pages of his newspaper. Two boys’ faces stare out at him. It’s purely imagination, a flight of fancy, but it feels as if their eyes are accusing him, even from within the flat confines of the printed surface. He stares back. Their deaths aren’t his guilt. He merely provided the test. It was others who were found wanting.
A couple stand up from the bench opposite, where they’ve eaten sandwiches together. They are dressed smartly. They smile and are happy. They are lucky enough to have good jobs, and now they have found love. They think the world is their oyster, and that life will go on and on like this, as if living under some blissful rainbow.
He sighs as he watches them go, and the flowers tremble. There is not even a hint of the Glow about them. They are nothing. They are no one. The woman laughs as they pass through the gates and back into the mêlée of Covent Garden. He wonders at the irony of that joy, which will be so fleeting. She will be dead within three years from the tumour quietly growing inside her. She will delay seeking medical help for the pain she gets when she bends over because she isn’t eligible for the NHS - what’s left of it - and she hasn’t kept up to date with her health insurance. She’ll think it’s not worth paying for all those tedious tests; it’ll turn out to be fibroids, everyone knows that it generally is. They will be married by then, and he’ll stay with her out of duty, but within a month or two of her final diagnosis he will be sleeping with her best friend and telling himself it’s for comfort and not because he’s always wanted to fuck her. They stay together even after that heat of first lust is as dead as his first wife and when their second child has arrived he will spend hours looking at her and then at himself and wondering what happened to them.
He knows all this from the trace of their scent as they pass, and he knows that this is the nature of mankind’s love and always has been, from the very first. The couple are still laughing as they round the corner, completely intent on each other, and he gives them no more thought, other than adding their drop of futility to the growing ocean that resides inside him.
They are nothing, and he has a bigger game to think about before the rot within takes hold. The conspiracies never stop in their world that is built on lies.
He smiles, his mood lifting, and a solitary fly creeps out from beneath the collar of his sweater and tests the air for a moment before taking off. He thinks of Mr Bright and his need for order in chaos; forever the architect he once was, constantly planning and watching and preparing for the future. He wonders, as he walks towards the church door, if his own interference has been noticed yet. The others have underestimated him. His powers are drained, but not yet lost. He’d watched the architect. He’d seen the meeting and then followed the boy. He remembers the frailty of the young man’s wasted body under him as he stumbles across him in the train and carefully slid the key out of his pocket and into his own hand.
His smile stretches into a grin. Bright was looking for him, and now he’d made it so the precious policeman was looking for Bright. The architect believes that nothing is coincidence; he will have given the boy his pompous lecture. And now those words will have trapped him and the hunter becomes the hunted, at least for a while. Touché.
The inside of the church is quiet and he’s glad to be away from the hubbub of the outside world. He doesn’t care how the game will eventually play out. He won’t be there. He can feel his bones desiccating as he still breathes. Everything is dying. Nothing is sacred. Inside there is
just machinery. And their souls are impure. He has tested people and found them wanting. There is no real love.
He sits in a pew and breathes in the heady scent of polish. It will have faded by the time the vicar starts the evening service, and by the concert the next lunchtime it will have disappeared as if it never existed. He thinks of the vicar of this actors’ church, and of a pretend religion whose house celebrates the art of pretence. He is a good man, and kind, but he is dying, just like all the rest.
Outside, the rush of lunchtime fades into the calm of the afternoon and he pulls off his baseball cap while he waits. This isn’t an act of respect, it is just that his scalp itches. He feels nothing for the beliefs this building holds. His hair is still thick and sandy-blond, in contrast with the lines that have started to dig into his skin. It is artlessly messy, a style so many models and actors strive to emulate. He is handsome. He always has been. He stares up at the decorated walls above the altar and wonders how it is that he can find a kind of peace here, among these misguided beliefs, but he does.
Time ticks silently by and he watches those that come and go. An old woman dressed in black prays in the pew two in front of him. She’s on her knees and her eyes are squeezed tightly shut. There is a faint glimmer around her. Her husband is long dead, but she has at least another ten years ahead before she joins him. She prays for fifteen minutes and then lights a candle before scurrying back out, eyes cast down in shame for her own continued existence.
A few moments later and heels click slowly down the central aisle. The scent of polish is forgotten. He knows these heels. They’re not high, and the walk is hesitant, the weight on the toe rather than the heel, an apologetic step. He doesn’t pretend to pray; he just sits as is he, staring at the altar.
She takes the pew alongside his, on the other side of the aisle. Like him, she simply stares at the altar. He doesn’t need to look at her to know that she’s the one he’s been waiting for. Hannah West. She comes twice a week, sometimes three, not when the concerts are on, but in the quiet times, when the rest of the world is too busy for the peaceful space of the church.
A Matter Of Blood (The Dog-Faced Gods Trilogy) Page 12
