Chapter Twenty-Eight
Toby Armstrong sat in the window of the grotty pub on the corner of Denman Street and nursed a pint he had no intention of drinking. The bitter cold outside had been creeping in through the cracks and gaps in the old building all night and even though the landlord had put the heating on when he opened up an hour ago it hadn’t yet dispelled the chill. Armstrong didn’t mind; the cold was helping to cool down his bubbling anger. At least he’d got out of the office and away from the fucking Free the Paddington One! Save Cass Jones! crusade. He smiled sharply at his own humour, but it was laced with a dark bitterness.
That he liked the DI and the profiler somehow made it all worse. Why couldn’t they see that Cass Jones was as guilty as sin? Surely the evidence spoke for itself? It wasn’t as if he even blamed Jones for cracking up – the man had been through enough to warrant it and more – but crack he had, and if the others couldn’t see it, then he’d just have to prove it to them himself. Jones was a liability and he, Toby Armstrong, was going to bring him in. Jones wasn’t good for people – he’d shot a kid, for God’s sake. Why the fuck did people – sensible people, intelligent people – still care about him?
He sipped the beer absently as he stared at the doorway to Moneypenny’s – Arthur ‘Artie’ Mullins’ girly club and central office. If anyone knew where Jones was, it would be Mullins. They’d watched him for weeks after Jones’ disappearance, but there’d been nothing the slightest bit suspicious in his movements and eventually the surveillance had been called off. Too expensive. Armstrong had never believed for a second that Mullins knew nothing; he and Jones had a relationship that went beyond Cass collecting illegal bonuses from him. He’d seen it in Mullins’ eyes when he’d interviewed him. Now that Cass had come out into the open and Mullins thought the heat was off, maybe they’d get careless – and if they did, Armstrong intended to be there to catch them out.
Mullins had arrived at the nightclub half an hour previously, and Armstrong figured he’d watch the place until he left, see who came and went, then he’d follow Mullins himself. He intended to be the old man’s second until he found Cass Jones.
He felt a slight twinge of guilt about misleading his colleagues on the Angel of Death case – they thought he was going through David Draper’s life, chasing down leads, and he intended to keep letting them think that. He was a good detective and he’d find enough on Draper in his spare time to avoid drawing suspicion on himself.
The parallels between his own actions and Cass’ during the investigation into the teenage suicides didn’t pass him by – but what he was doing was different. Cass had been sneaking off to satisfy his own paranoid delusions and murder people; he was trying to track down a killer. As it was, there had been no reported sighting of the Angel of Death for a few days now. Perhaps that one had finally had the good grace to lie down and die himself.
Piccadilly Circus was always a hub of activity, but none of the passers-by buzzed at the door to the club. He sipped his beer again. It wasn’t that early, and one pint wouldn’t kill him; it might even help calm him down. He wondered for about the tenth time since leaving the station whether he should have mentioned to Ramsey that David Draper was paid by a company that appeared to be wholly owned by The Bank. PC Spate was trying to get more information on it now; that was the reason he gave himself for keeping it quiet – nothing to do with not wanting to feed this new obsession.
What did it matter anyway? Just because the Man of Flies had been an employee of The Bank, it didn’t mean that the Angel of Death was too – Draper could have been doing his work for the Angel of Death as a hobby, an act of love, perhaps. He’d died of the same strain of bug that the killer was spreading so it wasn’t a huge leap to think that perhaps they had been lovers, despite Hask’s profile of their killer as a paedophile.
He took a larger gulp. That would sound more plausible if he’d been able to find some hint of what Draper actually did for the money he was paid. The company he was allegedly employed by was some sort of offshore holding company. Draper himself appeared to have no university degree, nor any specialist qualifications. In fact, the man was something of a ghost.
Armstrong turned his thoughts away from Draper. He hadn’t done anything wrong by not telling Ramsey. That case wasn’t connected to anything they were interested in. Maybe he’d tell them when he next checked in, let them tie themselves in knots trying to join all the dots while he got on with finding Cass Jones. He gripped the glass harder. When he looked down, he was surprised to see more than half the pint was gone.
A thirty-foot drive separated the building from the road, the kind of distance that didn’t imply secrecy, but at the same time meant anyone peering between the iron bars of the electronic gates would never be able to see anything going on behind the sparkling windows. Osborne had done a stroll-by, and there were two security cameras attached to the gates and a card-entry system by the discreet brass sign on the gatepost that read Calthorpe House, Residential Home.
Their black Range Rover was parked a little way down the leafy suburban road, and Cass had quite a good view of the place. The three-storey red-brick house looked like an old folks’ home. The drive went right up to the front door, and although there were some trees and plants near the gates, close to the house it was all gravel. The layout would give those inside a clear view of any comings and goings. The high wall surrounded the other three sides of the property, and if there was any sort of lawn and gardens for the residents to enjoy, they were at the back, hidden away from prying eyes.
It was gone midday, and Cass had been sitting there since dawn. He wanted to crash in and grab his nephew, but this wasn’t something he could rush, and anyway, he doubted Osborne and Wharton would let him – that was probably why they’d been sent with him. He liked them both, even if they didn’t say much, but he also had a healthy respect for their cold-bloodedness. He was conscious he might have become like them all those years ago, had he really been Charlie Sutton – and if he’d been on the other side of the law when he pulled that trigger.
‘This is a nice little location,’ Osborne said. ‘Clever.’ He didn’t look at Cass but kept his eyes on the building. A woman pushed a pram past the gates, desperately trying to keep the large dog she was also walking under control.
‘Bedford Park – that’s where anyone walking down here will be headed. Like that bird.’ He gestured at the woman as she disappeared out of sight. ‘I bet no one gives a shit about what goes on here.’
‘Plus, this is Chiswick,’ Wharton added from the back seat. ‘They’re all too posh to ask. As long as it looks pretty, isn’t run by the council, and no one makes too much noise they don’t care. I bet they just check how much it costs to check in. If they’re high enough, then all’s good.’ He let out a small snort of a laugh. ‘Fucking middle-class muppets. Could be a bunch of psychos in there for all they know.’
‘Watch what you’re saying, mate.’ Osborne turned round in his seat and glared at his colleague. ‘His boy’s in there.’
‘Oh, sorry, Jonesy – didn’t mean your nephew’s a nutter.’ Wharton leaned forward and slapped Cass hard on the shoulder.
‘Jesus!’ The sudden pain was like an electric shock and his knitting muscles screamed.
‘For fuck’s sake, Wharton,’ Osborne said. ‘The man was shot.’ He laughed and turned back to face the front.
‘No problem,’ Cass wheezed, trying to catch his breath back. ‘It distracted me from my numb arse.’
Wharton joined in Osborne’s short burst of laughter. ‘You’re all right, Cass. I’ll give you that.’
‘Hang on, here we go again,’ Osborne muttered. ‘Is this our guy?’
The laughter stopped and they all sat up, alert and completely focused, as the gates swung open. There’d been a flurry of activity at seven that morning when the night and day staff had swapped over, but since then there’d been one car at eight – clearly another staff member, as they swiped an entry card to open the
gates – and two more cars had arrived an hour previously. Both drivers had spoken into the intercom, so Cass presumed they were visitors, relatives, perhaps. Unlike those who had come and gone first thing in the morning the arms appearing from the car windows had not been wearing white; those pale sleeves had been virtually the only things visible in the morning darkness.
Wharton was the only one who’d been able to see any of the drivers. Since six a.m. he’d positioned himself in the shadows a little along from Calthorpe House. He was dressed in jogging gear and as he stretched against the wall he was able to grab a glimpse of each of the people going in and out.
‘No, not him,’ Wharton mumbled, ‘wrong car. That’s one of those that only just went in. Look – own clothes.’
He was right. The middle-aged couple inside the sleek Mercedes were sitting in silence as they pulled away. Whatever they’d seen inside hadn’t cheered them up.
‘Our guy drives a Saab,’ Wharton said. ‘I don’t think he’s going to be coming out until the end of the day. What do you reckon? Eight-hour shift? Or twelve?’
‘They came in when the others left, so my money’s on twelve. We’ll be sitting here till seven.’
‘I can wait,’ Cass said. He hoped they had enough time. How long would it be before Mr Bright showed up here? He stared at the building. He’d get Luke out, one way or another – even if they had to get the guns out of the boot and blast their way in. The Network had kept the Jones boy for long enough.
Toby Armstrong was just returning from the bar with his second pint when he froze, his glass forgotten in his hand. A few moments more and he would have missed it completely. He leaned forward so that his nose was almost touching the window, his eyes wide. A man stood on the step of Moneypenny’s and glanced around him. Armstrong’s mouth dropped open slightly.
That couldn’t be – it didn’t make sense. He slowly put his drink down and focused as his heart thumped fast and his face tingled. Was that really him? The face was thinner, and he looked more diminutive than the sergeant had expected.
The man pulled open the door and went inside. Armstrong stared after him as his head spun. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from this stakeout, but a collision of cases wasn’t one of them. The door is open. The thought struck him suddenly: the man hadn’t touched the intercom button, at least as far as Armstrong had seen, which must mean that the door was unlocked. He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and rang through to the station. He needed back-up.
The call made, he went out onto the cold street, his hands clenching in his pockets. His breath came out in impatient bursts of steam as two minutes ticked by with no sound of approaching sirens. They’d told him to wait – he should wait; that was the professional thing to do. But his gut was screaming out for him to take action. Moneypenny’s was a confined space – the man would be easier to detain inside if he made a run for it; out here, he could get lost in the masses of Christmas shoppers. He bit down on his lip. Still no sirens.
‘Fuck it,’ he muttered, and crossed the road.
‘Is that you, mate?’ Artie Mullins looked up from his desk when he heard the door above bang closed and footsteps coming down into the basement bar. ‘I’m in the office.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’re early! That makes a fucking nice change. Wasn’t expecting you for at least thirty—’ His words drained away as the slight figure stepped into the windowless room. Even from six feet away, Artie could smell the sickness emanating from him. His mouth dried. The man was thinner, and his head of hair wasn’t as full as it was in the pictures that filled every red-top and a fair few of the broadsheets, but it was definitely him: the Angel of Death.
‘You won’t mind if I don’t shake your hand?’ he said. He stayed in his seat and although he kept his eyes on his unwelcome visitor, he mentally went through his options should the man lunge at him. Physically, he had the advantage, but one wrong move that resulted in a drop of saliva or blood in the wrong place and he would be getting measured for his coffin. And that wasn’t the way he saw the rest of his life panning out, thank you very much.
‘Very droll,’ the man said. ‘You must be Arthur Mullins.’ He smiled. His teeth looked far too large for his receding gums to manage. ‘I presume you know who I am?’
‘By reputation.’ Artie was glad his voice was steady despite the healthy burst of fear he was feeling. ‘But I’d prefer a name.’
‘You can call me Mr Craven.’
‘All right then, Mr Craven.’ Artie leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on his knees. It was a relaxed pose, but chosen carefully. Mr Craven had his own hands in his coat pockets, and fuck only knew what he was holding in them. If he came at him, Artie would take him out at the ankles. The man would fall and his hands would go down to protect himself, that was human instinct, and close as this man obviously was to death, the old gangster would bet he wasn’t quite ready to give up on what was left of his life. ‘So, Mr Craven, what the fuck are you doing in my club? You didn’t wander in here by accident, did you?’
Craven smiled again, an uncomfortable mix of bitterness and superiority: this was a bloke who was used to having people do exactly what he told them, and with no questions asked. Artie should have felt some sense of kindred spirit, but his gut told him that he was miles apart from this dying man. This man was cruel, he could see that in his yellowing eyes. There was no honour there. Artie Mullins wouldn’t have liked this man when he was healthy; he sure as fuck didn’t like him now he was dying – and even more dangerous.
‘No, Mr Mullins, I did not.’ He swayed slightly, then straightened himself, but his eyes didn’t waver; they stayed fixed on Artie. ‘And you have nothing to fear. The kind of word I wish you to spread for me is entirely lacking in metaphor.’ He let out a laugh that sounded almost girlish.
Artie kept the grimace of revulsion off his face. Mr Craven might say he had nothing to fear, but people like him changed their minds fast.
‘I wish to speak to Cass Jones,’ Mr Craven said.
‘What?’ The completely unexpected demand knocked him off guard and he sank back in his chair. ‘What the hell have you got to do with Cass Jones?’
‘You can give him this as a token of my goodwill.’ Mr Craven pulled his left hand free of his pocket and took something from around his neck. It was a small silver datastick attached to a delicate chain. He held it up and it sparkled in the light. Then he slowly leaned forward and placed it on the desk. Artie was pleased that Craven was at least a little wary of him too.
‘Why would I put you and Jones in touch?’ Artie didn’t touch the datastick; taking it would amount to a deal being made, and they were far from that. For one thing he wasn’t even sure that he and Cass were on speaking terms any more – not after he’d handed him over to Freeman. Still, the worst Cass’d got there was a bit of a kicking, and even he’d put his hands up and say he’d deserved that. Yeah, Artie reasoned in that split second of thought, he could get this man to Cass. But right now, he had no inclination to do so. Craven stank of all manner of bad. ‘What makes you think I even know where he is?’
An icy draught crept into the office. He was sure he’d heard the door close upstairs, but the sick man must have left it ajar. Artie didn’t mind. The cool air was a welcome break from the sick man’s stench.
‘We do not have time for these games,’ Mr Craven said. ‘I certainly don’t. I think you know far more than you share, Mr Mullins, and I am fine with that, of course. I have no problem with secrets – that is the very reason I wish to speak to Jones: in order to share some with him.’
‘What kind of secrets?’
There was a quiet thud on the stairs and Artie felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Craven had closed the door properly, but now someone else had come in, and it couldn’t be Mac, because he wouldn’t be coming down so cautiously.
‘The only ones that really matter,’ Mr Craven said, his smile stretching. ‘Just tell him I have all the answers, and I wish to share the
m with him.’
‘Why would you do that?’
Mr Craven hadn’t moved, nor was he giving any indication that he’d heard anyone coming slowly down the stairs, and for a second or two Artie wondered if he’d imagined the noise. For now he would keep the sick man talking while he figured out exactly how to play this.
‘I’m dying,’ Mr Craven said, ‘and I don’t intend to go quietly. What’s that old adage? If I’m going down they’re all coming with me? It’s something like that.’ He gasped for breath suddenly, and the unhealthy sound made Artie flinch. ‘Cass Jones is angry enough to do what I can’t.’
‘I really don’t know what you’re going on about.’
‘To be fair,’ Mr Craven said, ‘you don’t need to. Mr Jones will. But here’s one thing you will understand.’ A shadow fell across the doorway and Artie did his best not to look at it. Whoever was hovering out there couldn’t be any worse than his current visitor.
‘I know that he has been set up for those murders,’ Mr Craven continued, ‘and I know by whom, as I am sure he does. What is clear from his current actions, however, is that he has neither proof nor witnesses. If he agrees to meet me, I will give him both.’
‘Like I said,’ Artie said, raising his voice slightly, ‘I don’t know where Cass Jones is, and after all the problems with the bonuses, he’s no friend of mine.’
‘Nobody move.’
Mr Craven’s head whipped sideways, and the condescending laugh about to spill from his lips stopped short before it made a sound.
Artie looked up. ‘I’m not normally pleased to see you lot,’ he said, surprised at how much relief was buzzing through his veins. He might well have got in touch with Jones; it would have been up to Cass whether he wanted to meet the bloke or not. But he really didn’t want to be breathing the same air as the bug-infected man any longer. ‘I’ll make an exception today.’
The Chosen Seed: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Three (DOG-FACED GODS TRILOGY) Page 20
