There was a long silence.
‘So what now? Are you going to arrest me or hold me?’
‘No, neither. But the DCI says you need to take a week’s paid leave. They’ll call it compassionate.’
Cass laughed. ‘And he’s all about compassion.’
Ramsey shrugged. ‘You know how it is. They can’t have you working either of the cases with this hanging over you. You need to prove you weren’t there. No one really believes you had anything to do with this awful thing, not even Bowman, under all his aggression. But if the media got hold of it and you were found to be still working the Jackson and Miller case, they’d be baying for blood.’
Cass nodded. He’d seen it coming the minute they’d started the formal interview. He’d been in the same situation ten years ago, knew what was likely to happen, but it didn’t stop feeling like a punch in the gut.
‘So basically, they’re suspending me.’
Ramsey’s silence said it all.
Claire had been waiting for him in the corridor, and she kept pace as he stormed outside.
‘Fucking suspended.’ Even though the sun was shining, the air was still damp. It smelled of mud and tasted of the earth as Cass sucked it in. His anger had left him almost breathless.
‘I heard it was compassionate.’
They were halfway down the stairs in front of the station before she managed to stop him.
‘That’s just semantics, and you know it.’
Claire pushed a strand of hair out her face. ‘It’s a fuck-up, that’s what it is.’
Cass almost laughed in surprise at the curse, and it calmed him down. ‘Careful. You’re starting to sound like me.’
‘Well, the whole thing’s just insane.’ She frowned. ‘Bowman’s loving it. Maybe you were right about him.’
‘Oh yeah, I’m right about that bastard.’
A shadow fell across the steps. ‘Inspector? DI Jones? Can I have a word?’
‘Not now,’ Cass answered before he’d even seen who it was. His mind didn’t change when he recognised the young man as the ME’s new assistant.
‘It’s just that I—’
Cass turned back to Claire. ‘My mobile will be on, so keep me informed on both cases. I want to know everything Bowman knows, and if possible I want to know it before he does.’ The lab assistant shuffled from foot to foot behind them. He could wait. He probably just wanted to apologise for that stupid photograph, and Cass was in no mood for simpering sorrys.
‘And look at that film again. Keep looking at it.’ He shoved his hand in his pocket, relieved to feel the data pen still there. ‘I’ll do the same.’
Claire nodded. Her eyes searched into his, full of a care he knew he didn’t deserve. ‘And you stay in touch. If you need anything then just call me. Any time.’
‘I’m sure the new boyfriend would love that.’
‘He’d get over it.’ She looked away. ‘He’s been a miserable bugger these past few days anyway.’
‘Working for me can do that to a bloke.’
She smiled sadly and he squeezed her arm. ‘Don’t worry about me, Claire. I’ll be fine.’
‘Um, excuse me—’
‘What?’ Cass finally turned back to the skinny young man on the step below him. What was his name, anyway? Jim? Josh? Josh Eagleton, that was it. The ME’s assistant licked his lips.
‘Get on with it, man.’
‘Well, I—’ He hesitated, his eyes sliding from Cass’s face to somewhere behind him.
‘I . . . uh . . . I was just wondering if you’d seen Dr Farmer.’ He waved a manila envelope. Cass could see sweaty fingerprints where he’d been gripping it. ‘And there he is.’
The assistant had at least lost his irritating cockiness. Cass turned to see the ME coming down the stairs, Bowman pushing open the door a few steps behind.
‘Great,’ Cass muttered. He looked at Claire. ‘And give Bradley my card. Just in case he gets another visit, or remembers anything else. It’s unlikely, but just in case.’
She nodded.
Farmer passed them without any acknowledgement and Cass smiled bitterly. What did he think? The shit would somehow stick to him too, just for a nod and a wave?
‘What are you doing here, Josh?’ The ME frowned at the boy.
‘You wanted these results ASAP. From that domestic? I brought them. They’re as expected.’
‘Well, they could have waited. You know there’s such a thing as being too efficient.’ Farmer pulled him down the stairs and away to their cars, but not before the kid sent a look back in Cass’s direction. He was too far away for Cass to read his expression, and then Bowman was upon them and the moment was forgotten.
‘Sergeant May. You’d better get back inside and help Blackmore update my case file. I want to take everything home, including the Jackson and Miller case evidence.’ He sent Cass a disdainful glance. ‘What there is of it. The film too.’
Cass bit his tongue. He wasn’t going to add to his problems by getting in a fight with the other man. He might have lost weight in his few days in hospital, and he was pale as a ghost, but Gary Bowman still looked smart. His suit had to be tailored, it fit so well, and his shirts were the expensive sort, done up with cufflinks rather than buttons. His face was smoothly handsome, the complete opposite to Cass’s own rugged looks; hard to believe the two men were about the same age. He was a smug, pretentious bastard, that much was for sure. Cass didn’t need to be a head doctor to know that.
Bowman watched Claire head back into the building and Cass wondered if he had let his eyes map the outline of her shape with the sole purpose of winding him up.
‘We all know you’ve fucked her,’ Bowman said idly, ‘but I never took you for the sort to fuck your own brother’s wife.’ He grinned, his cheekbones sharp as razors. ‘What am I saying? Of course I did. You’re scum, aren’t you, Jones? You always were.’
Cass smiled back. ‘I’m capable of a lot of things, Gary. We both know that.’ He leaned in closer, as if about to whisper a secret, and was pleased to see a twitch of something close to fear in Bowman’s own expression. ‘And another thing we both know is that I’ll always be the better fucking copper. So keep my case warm for me and I’ll see you when this is sorted.’
Cass turned and walked away before Bowman could speak. He hoped he couldn’t see his clenched fists in the pockets of his own off-the-rack suit jacket.
Kate was pacing the sitting room, talking quietly into her mobile when he got home. She glanced in his direction and then turned her back on him to finish her conversation. He stood in the doorway watching her as she lowered her voice, but still heard her say, ‘Cass’s back. I’ll call you later.’
Her face was still blotchy and Cass thought fresh tears had been shed that day. He felt the hollow pit inside himself and wondered where she found all that grief. Who was she crying for? Christian? Jessica and Lucas? How well had she known them really? Christian wasn’t her brother. Maybe she was crying mainly for herself. He didn’t like that thought. His own pain was locked inside and it was making him mean.
‘Who was that?’
‘None of your fucking business.’
Her voice was cold and his heart sank. Of course, someone would have been round. Maybe they’d even searched the house, looking for more evidence. He took a few steps towards her.
‘Look, Kate. I wasn’t there—’
She slapped him, hard, and for a few seconds the room was filled with the echo of the attack.
‘How could you, Cass? With Jessica ?’
So it was out.
‘Good news travels fast.’ His face tingled and he felt the decayed skeleton of his marriage finally crumble. Who the hell would have told her that? He ground his teeth together and his eyes burned. He knew they’d tell her evidence had been found, but who at the station would think to tell her about the affaire? When this was all over, he’d find the bastard and make him pay, that much was for sure.
Kate shook her head and turne
d away but not before he caught the smell of brandy on her warm breath. He looked down at the coffee table and the tumbler with the thin brown layer at the bottom.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally. ‘It was a long time ago. If I could take it back I would.’
‘We all have things we’d take back, Cass.’ Her back was still to him but he could hear the thick tears in her voice. ‘But we can’t.’ She paused. ‘I think that there’s just something wrong with you.’ She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘You know? Deep inside?’ She shook her head a little. ‘I don’t think you can help yourself hurting people.’
Her words sliced into him. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
‘Knowing it doesn’t make it okay, Cass.’ She let out a long sigh, her flash of anger replaced with exhaustion. Cass wondered just how much of the afternoon she’d spent drinking.
She sniffed and straightened her shoulders before turning to face him. ‘I’m going to be out for most of the day tomorrow. You can come and get your stuff then.’
More tears welled up in her eyes, and she wiped them away before staring defiantly at him. ‘But I want you gone tonight. I don’t want you here. You disgust me.’
He stared at her. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, all on the tip of his tongue: that he loved her, and that he’d always loved her, even though she’d never see it. He wanted to tell her that he disgusted himself. That every morning he stared into the bathroom mirror and saw a desperate pair of eyes looking back that were trapped in the events of one night ten years ago. He was haunted by the ghosts of himself and Charlie Sutton, two people in one man. He lived in Hell, and his own need to punish himself, to never allow himself joy, had dragged down everyone around him. He wanted to tell her that she was too good for him, and that he hated that she always saw blood on his hands, no matter how many years passed. He wanted to say a thousand things, but he chose not to. His guilt wasn’t hers to share, and his feelings had been trapped inside him for so long he wasn’t sure he’d know how to get the words out any more.
‘I need to ask you about the bathroom bin.’
‘What?’
‘The bathroom bin. How often do you empty it?’
Kate sat down heavily on the sofa. ‘What do you want to know that for? Now?’
‘Condoms.’ He ran his hand through his hair and leaned into the doorframe. She hated him already; nothing he could ask now was going to make much difference. ‘It’s the only place whoever did this to me could have got what they did.’
‘Jesus Christ, Cass.’ She shook her head. ‘Like I’m supposed to believe I’m the only person you’ve been fucking?’ Her laugh and sob mixed into a phlegmy cough.
‘Please, Kate. Help me out with this.’
She drained the glass and stared at him. ‘If you must know, they don’t stay in the bathroom. I put them in the main bin outside in the mornings when I get up. I don’t want Mrs Cooper to have to deal with them when she comes in.’ She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘That would be tacky.’
He nodded. Mrs Cooper, the cleaning lady. Like they needed one. That was Kate’s problem, she wanted a life he couldn’t give her. No job, tennis club, and a cleaning lady to come in and ‘do’ for them. When was she going to get that for most people, that world was gone? When had she stopped wanting something real for herself? As he stared at her, he realised that he’d never known what Kate had wanted to do with her life. Had she ever wanted more than just a nice home, good clothes, and beautiful things around her? It had always been about his career, and then his downfall. Who the hell was his wife really, and why had he never taken the time to get to know her better?
‘Thanks. It’ll help me—’
‘I don’t want to help you, Cass,’ she said softly. ‘I used to, but not now. Now I just want you to go.’
Whatever it was they’d clung to together, some piece of driftwood memory from their youth, it was broken now. The anchors of his life were being ripped up one by one. Christian was dead, his job was dangling by a thread and now Kate was finally kicking him out. Maybe that’s what he’d been pushing her to do for the past decade, with his affaires and his coldness. He couldn’t walk away himself; he loved her too much to do that, even if he knew she deserved better. Instead he’d just pushed and pushed, until finally here they were at the final straw. He could hear it snapping in the silence between them.
He left her where she was, slim, fragile, sitting hugging her knees, and headed up the stairs. He felt sick, a cold kind of queasiness that pricked at his insides. His world was unravelling. He recognised the feeling from that time so long ago. Then it had come in one sudden moment, and he had done it to himself. This time, some other bastard was doing it to him. And he intended to find out who that was.
He slung some clothes, underpants, a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, into a holdall he yanked out from under the bed, and grabbed some essential toiletries from the bathroom. He’d come back tomorrow for the rest, just as she’d said. Anger and hurt danced in his guts. The décor and most of the shit in the house she’d chosen anyway, and he wondered if this cold, sleek look reflected the inner soul of his elusive wife. His clothes were all he’d need to take. She was welcome to everything else.
Halfway back to the stairs, he paused. Something caught the corner of his eye and he turned to look. He froze. The door to the spare bedroom, the room where he’d slept the previous night, not knowing that it was to be his very last chance to lie beside his wife and listen to her breathing, was open. The last inch or two of the double bed stretched into view, the rest hidden beyond the wall.
Cass stared. His mouth was dry, and he felt it drop open. Someone sat on the bed, very still. In the narrow strip of the double room that was visible, all that could be seen were legs, dressed neatly in dark suit trousers, bent over the side of the divan. They sat primly, held together at knee and ankle, the line between perfectly straight. Cass could make out a glimpse of black socks above the highly polished laced-up brogues. The air suddenly felt heavy around him, a glutinous gel holding him firmly in place. His pupils flickered and widened as he noticed how splashes of something, not quite black, more deep crimson, spoiled the sheen of the leather surfaces. He could just make out a pale white hand, resting on the left thigh, the wrist emerging from a blue shirt. A glint of gold flashed on the third long, elegant finger.
The moment held. Nothing moved. The world emptied as Cass stared, silent. Someone was sitting on the bed - no, he corrected himself, not just someone: Christian was sitting on the edge of the bed. His dead brother was sitting on the spare room bed. His own beating heart thumped loudly against his ribs. It couldn’t be Christian. Christian was dead. There were no ghosts. He stared at the pale hand and tried to ignore the trembling in his own. After a few minutes, Cass swallowed hard and, very slowly, turned away. He left the unmoving figure where it was and headed down the stairs. He refused to run. There was nothing there, just his brain playing tricks and he didn’t have time for any surreal head-fucked shit today.
Kate was on the phone again as he left. He didn’t look into the sitting room, and he didn’t say goodbye. He noticed she didn’t pause in her conversation, apart from to sniff loudly and wipe her nose on the back of her hand. On anyone else, that would look dirty, but Kate could make even that slutty movement elegant, he thought to himself. Outside, the air was still damp. All he wanted to do was go and get drunk, but it was Friday and he needed to make sure the bonuses got delivered first. He was tired of having that envelope of money stashed under the seat of his car and people would be waiting for their cash.
He almost dialled Claire’s number, but instead found his finger scrolling up from May to Blackmore. Claire would do it, but even though she took her share he knew she didn’t like it. Blackmore would be the better choice. He could give it out himself, but he was fucked if he was going to put himself through all the questions and the looks. He’d had enough of that for one day.
Blackmore answered on the
third ring. The conversation was short; they’d meet in Soho, and Blackmore would collect the envelope and take it to The Swan that evening to divvy up the dosh. Every week, all over the country, no doubt, money trickled into the palms of policemen, each firm securing their manor for another few days, and as he switched on the car’s engine, he wondered if Claire maybe had a point. Criminal was criminal, and where did you draw the line? Still, he figured, he hadn’t started the system; he just used other people’s lines.
He headed back into the city, the money tucked under his holdall on the passenger seat. As the world flashed by, people and buildings nothing more than a passing blur, he mulled over the interview, and the crazy evidence that had been allegedly been found at his brother’s house. The way things were shaping up, the cash bonuses, moral or not, might not be his concern for much longer.
Chapter Nine
Moneypenny’s was primarily a girly club, but from time to time Artie Mullins used it as a venue for a floating poker game. Time stopped, there in the basement, away from the busy streets. The booze flowed and the cards turned and there was no sense of the hours outside passing.
Artie never cared who won. He always got his percentage of the pot, and his fee for security and venue, and though it was strictly pin money, the games were a nice little earner every now and then. Artie Mullins was one of a rare breed: an old-school player who’d learned to move with the times. He still ran a fair share of London from his various business outlets, but as he’d said to Cass, a good businessman knows not to turn his back on easy money, however small the amount. You may need it one day.
There was a late afternoon game going on when Cass came down the stairs. The money had been safely deposited in Blackmore’s hands and now he had business to attend to. The nation’s no-smoking law was one of many that didn’t appear to apply to Artie Mullins and his guests and the bar was heavy with smoke, even though the air-conditioning unit on the wall was rattling away. Cass ignored the game around the corner of the L-shaped room. He had other fish to fry; the gamblers could keep their anonymity tonight.
A Matter Of Blood (The Dog-Faced Gods Trilogy) Page 14
