The Shadow of the Soul: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Two

by Sarah Pinborough

  ‘Although if our dead guy was on the platform the whole time, as the onlookers claim, then he could have been communicating with his mysterious doubles to act according to a schedule.’

  ‘No, there was no sign of any radio device on him,’ Fletcher said. ‘Perhaps he thought that if the train didn’t come, he could get himself shot somehow. If suicide was part of his original plan.’

  ‘And it seems to me that for some reason he was targeting Abigail.’ Dawson was thoughtful.

  ‘In what way targeting me?’ She let the fight go out of her voice. All she wanted to do was get out of here and check the Hotmail account. Interventionist. That’s what he’d said. Now was the time. She knew it.

  ‘Simple observation. He could have got the attention of one of Dunne’s men much more easily than yours. He just needed to call out, and they’d have seen him. But he made sure you spotted him by standing directly in your line of sight, and a little back from the rest. He opened his jacket for you.’

  ‘Maybe he wanted to get the PM’s attention,’ Abigail said.

  ‘No, McDonnell was concentrating on her speech and would have been making eye contact with the relatives. She had specific faces to concentrate on, trust me. It was you he wanted to get to the platform. He even made sure the doubles or whatever waited for you. It’s the why I can’t figure out.’

  ‘If he’d spoken to you, that would have made sense. Then there would have been a message,’ Fletcher said.

  ‘I told you, he didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Forget that.’ Dawson pressed on. ‘What about the Plasticine and the pen? He clearly wasn’t intent on killing anyone but himself. Maybe the message is in that? Was this whole thing staged to be a dramatic admission of guilt for the 26/09 bombs? Or was it an act of repentance?’

  ‘Or, of course, he could just be mocking us,’ Fletcher cut in. ‘There was no admission of anything in the act. It just made us panic. We still have no idea who these people are or why they’ve blown up half of London and Moscow.’

  ‘And Moscow?’

  Abigail looked up, as surprised as Dawson.

  ‘Yes,’ Fletcher said, ‘Moscow. Came through from intel an hour or so ago. A man similar to ours – well, apparently identical to ours – was caught on camera in several locations throughout Moscow before their bombs went off. They’re now officially as confused as we are.’

  ‘They found him on their CCTV quicker than we did.’

  ‘Not really. I gave them a full description. In fact, I emailed over a picture. We needed quick results from them.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Dawson got to his feet. ‘But I was with you when you called your opposite number. We didn’t even have this ID then. We just wanted to know if they’d had warning.’

  ‘I called him back.’ Fletcher’s gaze was cool. ‘You can screw your political bullshit.’

  The door to the small office opened, and Andrew Dunne came in. He’d aged over the course of the day. Bags hung under his eyes and Abigail was sure the lines in his face were deeper than they had been. Whatever shit she’d been getting, he’d have been taking twice as much for his men not seeing the fat man in the crowd. No doubt it was getting passed down the line now.

  ‘What now?’ Dawson asked.

  Dunne sighed and sat down. ‘This gets stranger.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s the images of the suspects we had from 26/09.’

  ‘What about them?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘The tech boys have been working on them, comparing the dimensions of each man and creating 3D images and whatever else the fuck their computers can do. They’re all identical.’ He looked round the room. ‘To the last millimetre. These aren’t men who have made themselves look the same: according to the computer, all those men are the same man. One person.’

  ‘But that’s not possible,’ Dawson breathed.

  ‘That’s what I said, but according to them, what’s not possible is that there can be several people with exactly the same dimensions for their entire bodies. Not even with the best surgery. It’s just not possible. They’re now working on the images we’ve got from today’s fiasco, but something tells me the result’s going to be the same.’

  Abigail let her mouth drop open in the following silence, but she didn’t share the men’s confusion and surprise. Somewhere beyond the blanket of the headache and the shifting in her cells, she’d known that this man was outside of the normal. The same laws didn’t apply. This was just an example of that.

  ‘What is this fucking shit?’ Fletcher asked, but Abigail figured he wasn’t expecting an answer. The phone on the desk rang and he grabbed at it.

  ‘Yes?’ he barked. ‘What do you—?’ He paused as someone spoke hurriedly at the other end. ‘What, here? Who the hell let them in? … Oh, I see. Yeah. I told her to turn it off.’ He looked up at Abigail, but the anger had gone out of him. His voice softened. ‘If it’s empty, put them in the White Drawing Room. No, don’t disturb the boss. I’ll come down with her now.’ He put the phone down.

  ‘There are some policemen here to see you.’

  ‘What about?’ Her heart thumped, the blood forcing her headache to the front of her skull. Was this some kind of ploy? Had they found out about the email account? The note? Even if they had, then why wasn’t Fletcher talking to her about it?

  ‘They said it was something to do with your family.’ Fletcher ignored Dunne and Dawson’s questioning glances and held the door open. ‘Let’s go.’

  Family. I am family. All she could see were black eyes and bleeding gums. The headache faded.

  ‘So, this is 10 Downing Street. Fuck me.’ Armstrong’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

  It was good to see the normally over-confident sergeant less than cocky. Cass looked around the large room they’d been left in. It made Hayley Porter’s flat in Sloane Square look like it had been furnished from IKEA. The large wing-back chairs were gilt-edged, as was the matching deep-seated sofa in front of the huge fireplace. Floor-length red curtains framed large windows, and highly polished mahogany tables did their best to fill the vast spaces in between.

  ‘Don’t be too overwhelmed,’ Cass muttered. ‘It’s a house of puppets.’ He’d seen more impressive rooms in the elusive lost floor at The Bank. How much influence did Mr Bright and the Network have here? He tried not to think about it – that road led to paranoia. Wheels within wheels. He shut it out … for now.

  ‘I can’t believe they let us come here – I thought the Commissioner would have wanted the kudos.’

  ‘There’s no kudos to be gained from telling someone their sister is dead,’ Cass said. But still, Armstrong had a point. Even though no one had been able to get hold of Abigail Porter, it was strange that he and Armstrong had been the ones sent to Downing Street – not just by Heddings; the Commissioner had apparently agreed. Cass had assumed someone far higher up the ranks would deal with it first, but maybe they didn’t want to be associated with it.

  ‘I think they’re distancing themselves, in case we fuck the whole thing up.’ Cass smiled at his sergeant. ‘Welcome to the world of the expendable.’

  The door opened and a young woman stepped in, followed by a man in his late thirties. His eyes were hard and sharp. Although he was not skinny, there wasn’t a trace of fat on his body. Just looking at him made Cass want to smoke. He also wondered what the man was doing here. There was nothing in the body language of either man or woman that suggested they were close – if anything, there was some tension there. He wondered what they had been in the middle of when he arrived.

  The woman didn’t even glance at the man as she stepped forward and held out her hand. ‘Abigail Porter.’

  Cass didn’t need the introduction. He could see the resemblance with the dead girl straight away: the same olive skin, and shining long dark hair. Abigail was taller than her sister, a match for Cass’s own six foot, maybe even slightly taller, and there was a cool confidence about her. This Porter sister had grown into he
rself. She was all woman. Cass found himself looking into the corner of her eyes, half-expecting to see the glow that he fought so hard to deny. It wasn’t – but there was something. Something other. Something he was sure he’d be able to see, if he’d just allow himself to.

  ‘They said this was something to do with my family.’ Her voice was soft. Cass had expected an edge to it – nerves, or fear – but he couldn’t sense either.

  ‘We’ve been trying to reach your mobile. So have your parents.’

  ‘We’ve got a lot on right now.’

  Cass suddenly recognised the man. David Fletcher, head of the ATD. No wonder he looked so fucking pissed off.

  ‘Don’t you watch the news?’ Fletcher continued.

  ‘When I have the time,’ Cass answered. ‘Mainly I’m too busy trying to deal with ordinary day-to-day crimes.’ He turned his attention back to the woman in front of him.

  ‘I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, Miss Porter, but your sister’s been found dead in her flat in Sloane Square.’

  The moment settled between them: the one that existed between belief and disbelief. It filled the silence.

  ‘Hayley?’ Abigail said eventually, her eyes wide. ‘I don’t understand. Hayley’s dead?’

  Cass wondered if she had any idea how beautiful she was. There was something truly unusual about her. Something beyond the skin. He watched her reactions. She didn’t sit, but stood still, only her hands trembling slightly by her sides. She clenched her fists and then released them. The trembling stopped. Cass had never seen someone so utterly self-contained at the loss of a loved one.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Would you like to sit down?’ Cass asked.

  ‘No, just tell me.’

  ‘It would appear she took her own life. She slit her wrists.’

  ‘She killed herself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But Hayley wouldn’t … She just wasn’t that kind of person. We’re not like that.’

  ‘Were you close to your sister?’

  ‘We used to be.’ She crossed her arms across the chest of her fitted trouser suit and hugged herself.

  David Fletcher didn’t move closer to her. Whatever the deal was with them, they definitely weren’t friends.

  ‘But my job isn’t exactly ordinary, and she’s at Uni.’ Her breath hitched slightly. ‘She was at Uni. I don’t understand why she would do it. I really don’t.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her recently?’

  ‘Yes.’ Abigail looked up. ‘She called me— We were in a meeting. I didn’t talk to her for long.’ Dawning realisation crept across her face, swiftly followed by the shadow of guilt. Cass knew exactly how she was feeling. He’d been there himself six months earlier.

  ‘She was strange. She didn’t sound like herself.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘It was odd. I thought she was drunk or high or something.’ A tear almost broke and fell from her left eye, but she blinked it away. ‘If I’m honest, I didn’t think too much about it at all.’

  The dark eyes flashed at Fletcher with something close to anger, or resentment at the very least. Why was the other man even here if he wasn’t a friend?

  ‘It’s important you tell me what she said. It could be useful.’

  ‘She said, “I saw it all. I remembered,” and then she said something about “chaos in the dark”. No, “chaos in the darkness”, that was it.’

  Cass looked over at Armstrong. Bingo. Two more in one day. What the fuck did that phrase mean?

  Abigail frowned. ‘I think I should call my parents now.’ She looked up at Cass. ‘They’ll need me.’

  The cool had returned. They’ll need me. What about her? Didn’t she need them too? She hadn’t even asked if the words meant anything.

  ‘Keep your mobile on though, please,’ Cass said. ‘Just in case we have any information for you.’

  She was almost at the door when she looked back. ‘Do you think there is chaos in the darkness?’

  Cass watched her, surprised. ‘I don’t know what the darkness is. What do you think it is?’

  ‘I think it should be empty.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying, Miss Porter.’

  ‘Neither do I.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Just random thoughts.’ She closed the door quietly behind her.

  Silver. That’s what was in her eyes. No golden glow, but silver. Mr Bright shed silver tears for Mr Solomon, and this woman had a silver glow.

  ‘That was odd,’ Armstrong said, breaking the moment.

  ‘She’s an odd woman.’ Fletcher didn’t sound impressed by her oddness. He looked over at Cass. ‘I do listen to the news,’ he said. ‘I’ve read about these student suicides. Is there any way they could be linked to something political?’

  ‘No.’ Cass stared at him. ‘Until this girl died they were all just ordinary students. Probably not so interesting to you. To me, however, they’re all equal.’

  ‘I had to ask.’ The slight dig didn’t even touch Fletcher’s calm. ‘I’m the—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ Cass cut in. ‘Fletcher. Head of the ATD. We sometimes see your lot at Paddington Green.’

  ‘And they rarely even say hello,’ Armstrong added. ‘I can see where they get their manners from.’

  Cass bit back a grin. Maybe he was warming to his sergeant after all.

  ‘Not that your visits are quite so frequent now you’ve moved on to bigger and better things.’

  ‘Only because the world got nastier.’ Fletcher’s smile sat somewhere between cynicism and weariness. ‘Trust me, I could live with a smaller office.’

  Cass figured the man had a point. He wouldn’t want to trade places with him, that was for sure, even with all the shit that had come his own way.

  An hour later and the sleek dark-windowed limousine had redelivered them to the mundane surroundings of Paddington Green Police Station, where they’d satisfied DCI Heddings that they hadn’t brought any disrepute to the force on their visit to Number Ten, and had delivered the news to Ms Porter as gently as possible. Although Cass wished the DCI had taken as much care with the relatives of all the other dead kids, he was bloody glad he hadn’t. There was only so much not being trusted to do his job properly that he could handle at one time.

  They took the stairs back down, and Armstrong paused at the doors to the second-floor Incident Room.

  ‘You forget something, Toby?’

  ‘I thought I might just go and take another look at the board. Make sure the notes on Lidster and Porter have been added, and then see if there’s anything staring us in the face to link these kids.’

  ‘There’s no point in hanging around here. Eagleton won’t have anything of any use for us until tomorrow and you’re tired. Go home. Mull it over there if you want, I can’t stop you, but your day in the office is over.’

  ‘With all due respect—’

  ‘If this job gets to be twenty-four seven,’ Cass said, ‘then you’ll get bitter and die lonely.’

  With one hand pushing the door open, Armstrong paused.

  ‘Trust me,’ Cass continued, ‘my missus went way beyond thinking about divorce.’

  For the first time in their short relationship Armstrong looked awkward.

  ‘It’s okay. I’ve dealt with it.’ Cass found that the lie came easy – but then, he had to admit, it always had. It was part of who he was: he’d had a lot of practice at hiding the truth.

  Chapter Twelve

  It felt strange walking with David Fletcher. But then, everything had felt strange to Abigail all day; why should this be any different? He had a game plan though, and she knew it. Fletcher didn’t care that Hayley was dead – the thought sat awkwardly in her head, as if it was information that belonged to someone else – all he cared about was her link to the fat man. The thought of his touch made her shiver with pleasure. It would take someone more than Fletcher to make her give that up. Nothing could. Not even her sister’s suicide. Maybe Ha
yley had been emptying too. Perhaps that had confused her. Abigail wondered when she’d start grieving, if at all. The world had changed for her today. Fletcher’s obvious plans barely registered.

  After the police had left, he’d said he see her home in his car. She’d rather have gone with the detective. She’d liked him – no, liked wasn’t the right word; she’d recognised him a little, as if she’d met him somewhere before and come away with a good memory. When she’d told Fletcher she’d rather walk, he insisted on coming along, saying he needed some fresh air. He’d wasted his time because she’d barely said a word. If he thought grief would loosen her tongue then he really didn’t know her at all. She glanced over at him, and he was looking back, just as he had been the whole silent journey. She didn’t let her eyes drop. He looked handsome. Warm.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ he asked. ‘I mean as okay as possible.’ He was as uncomfortable as she was discussing emotions.

  She nodded. ‘We don’t cry, Fletcher. You know that.’ Her words sounded like lines from some cheesy secret service show.

  ‘That’s bullshit. Everyone cries. Everyone should cry. It keeps us human. And sane.’

  Abigail didn’t believe that Fletcher had shed a single tear in his entire adult life.

  ‘When are your parents coming back from Portugal?’

  She opened her mouth to speak and then had to leave her jaw hanging as she struggled for an answer. They had told her, but the words were forgotten. Bits of her head felt fuzzy where the headache had faded.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she lied. Was it tomorrow or tonight? It was one of the ‘T’ words, anyway. They seemed unimportant, and that felt wrong. God, it was wrong. But right. Something was happening to her. The emptiness was taking hold at an alarming rate of knots. The last of the headache nestled in a quiet space in her head and watched.

  They reached her front door. The street around them was subdued. Not so long ago it would have been filled with the hustle and bustle of life and the rage against death that was calmed by constantly moving forward. Now the rage had slipped into fear, and kept people at home as the evenings drew in. Abigail wondered what they could possibly fear in the darkness that couldn’t happen – or in fact be more likely to happen – in the brightness of the day. For her the darkness was soothing.