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

by Sarah Pinborough

  Mr Bright himself hadn’t watched. He’d been sipping camomile tea and reading the papers in the cool calm of the lounge while the two professionals had briskly gone to work. He trusted them to do what they did best, and at the end of the day, he wasn’t a monster. He’d lived too long and seen too much to relish watching a man being broken in order to speak the truth. As it turned out, Asher Red had taken very little breaking.

  A vague sense of disgust washed over him as he waited for the man in the chair to collect himself. The windows were closed, as was the door, and an unpleasant tang hung in the room. The old saying was true: fear really did stink. Asher Red had always been so smooth and calm and contained, with an air of arrogance and superiority that few of his peers had ever dared challenge. Perhaps it was the contrast of that image with the pathetic husk of a man dribbling blood and saliva into his own stained lap that made the scent so sour.

  Mr Solomon had always disliked Asher Red. He’d called him a man in denial of his own humanity: an overblown peacock. Perhaps Solomon had been right. Mr Bright had neither liked nor disliked the man, but he had put an element of faith in him. His father had served the Network well, and he’d always presumed the son to have the same qualities, but it would appear that was not the case. His terrible ambition had made a fool out of him; the pen-pusher had been around power so long, he clearly thought it belonged with him. But he had been stupid in too many ways, and he’d sold himself cheaply – perhaps not in terms of money, but certainly in terms of information. The Network had so many assets that money was of no value. Information, on the other hand, was always a commodity.

  ‘So, you never met them face to face?’

  ‘No.’ Asher Red’s voice was barely recognisable through his swollen lips and bleeding mouth. ‘It was all through emails and phone calls. They promised me a place in the Network. They said I had the Glow.’ He looked up, his eyes pleading for some kind of understanding. ‘They promised me that under the new regime I would have my own sector. I would be someone. One of you. They said I would live here.’ He sobbed again, and Mr Bright thought it was well that he should. The man was a fool. Had it not occurred to him that if his secret partner felt he was so special, why had he never shown his face, or given him a name or two? Had Red really been that arrogant that he hadn’t seen how expendable he was?

  ‘What do you know about the women?’ Mr Bright asked.

  ‘I already told you.’ Asher Red managed a small, helpless shrug. ‘I had to set up a Hotmail account for each one. I contacted them with a precise message when I was told to. I met them at the Lathan Hilton.’ He blubbed out fresh tears as the stupidity of what he’d done finally hit home. ‘They’d told me there were no cameras, that I wouldn’t be seen.’ A thick line of mucus hung from his nose. ‘I believed them. I kept each girl until I got a call saying a car was ready for them at the back of the hotel. I took them down and I didn’t see them after that. They were strange, almost like they were sedated.’ He sniffed, but the stream of snot refused to shift. ‘And that’s everything, I promise you. I haven’t heard from him since.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ Mr Bright believed him. ‘You were just a lackey, and you’ve done your task.’ He let out a long breath. ‘Your father would have been disappointed if he’d been here. He was an intelligent man. He understood loyalty. He was respected.’ He let his voice linger over the last word, before moving over to the door. He needed some clean air, and perhaps a strong coffee.

  ‘What are you going to do with me?’ Asher Red asked so quietly that the tremulous words barely made it across the room.

  Mr Bright didn’t answer, but quietly closed the door behind him. Asher Red was in no place to be asking questions. His own office next door was a pleasant relief. There was no scent of fear staining the surfaces, and the temperature of the air was pleasant; neither too hot nor too cool. He poured himself a coffee from the freshly brewed pot and sat behind his large desk. The three women’s folders were neatly lined in a row, their photos on top. He needed to look into their family backgrounds if he was to find out who was manipulating them.

  A red light flashed on the large phone and he answered it on loudspeaker.

  DeVore said, ‘All three women were projected, fifteen years ago when they were teenagers. I fed their images in and searched the data stream. The results were one hundred per cent.’

  Fifteen years ago these women were flagged up by the Interventionists? He looked down at the files again. What had made them so important? They had been to someone, however. And that someone had clearly spent the years since playing the long game. He felt a small flash of respect for his mystery opponent. ‘Why? What questions were asked? Were they requested information, or just random data?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ DeVore sounded tired, but Mr Bright didn’t care. There had been a time when it had taken far more than several sleepless nights to bring on even the hint of fatigue. They’d grown soft. Maybe that’s why death had finally come among them.

  ‘But each woman was projected from one of the three who left their hard reflections behind and subsequently died,’ DeVore added.

  ‘I want to know why.’ If they had come from the three dead Interventionists, then the display of their faces in the stream fifteen years ago would not be coincidental. They either projected them purposefully, or someone asked them a question which produced those women as the answer. But who?

  ‘The only people who put questions to them are us: the Inner and First Cohort.’

  ‘I know that.’ Mr Bright tried to keep the impatience out of his voice, but didn’t succeed. Perhaps some of their own were as intellectually challenged as Asher Red – or maybe they had just been here so long they’d forgotten who they really were. ‘Go through the data again, and again if you have to, until you can give me something more.’

  He ended the call and leaned back in the vast leather chair. He pushed a button under the desk and his computer rose up from within its surface. Another button turned on the slim TV on the wall, which was tuned to the 24-hour news channels. Anything else was unnecessary. He watched for a few moments. The leadership debate was now in full swing, with various Cabinet ministers coming out with their knives. On other channels images of the destruction caused by the recent spate of international bombings still raged out from the screen.

  Everything was unsettled. The world was already financially on its knees and now someone – one of their own – was intent on unbalancing it further. Whoever it was wouldn’t be working alone either. They’d invaded the House of Intervention and used those poor freaks to wreak havoc. The challenge was coming – but from where, and why? He looked again at the three women’s files. Fifteen years of planning at least. He had been watching the Jones family for the greater good of all, but who had been watching these women? He needed to go through the X accounts and that was going to take some time. Asher Red was going to have to wait a while for his answer.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Cass got to the station just before eight, not too early and not too late. Despite trying to act as normally as possible, it felt as if everything he did was in some way conspicuous or slightly out of place. He hadn’t slept much, and his dreams had been disturbed by the constant invasion of the dead and the feeling that at any moment someone would come knocking on his door asking about Powell’s death. No one did, though, and when morning finally rolled around the ghosts retreated to wherever they went when daylight pushed them aside.

  After parking in his normal space he took the stairs two at a time up to his office, nodding his usual hellos as he went. He paused to grab a coffee from the machine. The station was rarely empty, and even this early it was already buzzing with life, people firing up computers and sorting through the files of crimes – some they had a chance of solving, others so cold they’d all but frozen – and nearly all bland and dull and terrifyingly mundane. These days it sometimes felt like everyone was a criminal.

  The coffee burned and he felt an invisible
bubble form between him and the rest of the people working. Sure, a few of them had known about, and even in a small way been involved in, Bowman’s drug syndicate, but yesterday he’d tampered with a crime scene – no, he thought as he walked towards his office, he’d tampered with a murder scene. He’d perverted the course of justice and left the scene of a murder with the death unreported. He might not have killed Powell himself, but he’d done enough to hang himself if anyone ever found out. In his mind he’d had just cause, but no one else would see it that way. What he’d done was criminal – there were no two ways about it. He turned his computer on and waited for the inbox to fill with people requesting various overdue reports as it did every day. Yes, what he’d done was criminal, but as long as he wasn’t found out he could live with it. He lived with worse. Still, a cold sick feeling refused to release its grip on his guts and it took every bit of his willpower not to keep checking the doorway for unfamiliar coppers striding towards his office.

  As it was, the next person to come in was Armstrong, just before nine.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Cass asked. ‘Thought you were an early bird.’

  ‘I am.’ The sergeant held up some sheets of paper. ‘The phone records boys get in at 8.30. I was waiting for them, and sat on them until they got us these.’

  Armstrong was good. He was a career copper and a good detective, a rare combination. Cass had decided the young man was like a terrier; if he got something between his teeth, he wouldn’t let go. ‘Good. What have we got?’

  ‘It is good. There’s one number that comes up over and over on Angie Lane’s records, for the best part of the last six months. Some calls and a lot of texts – I mean, hundreds in a month.’

  ‘And? Who is it?’

  ‘His name’s Dr Anthony Cage.’ Armstrong grinned. ‘He’s a lecturer in Business at South Bank University.’

  Cass leaned back in his chair, all his own troubles forgotten for a moment.

  ‘Do you think she was calling him about her schoolwork?’ The heavy sarcasm in the young man’s voice made clear what he thought about it.

  ‘Let’s go and find out.’

  ‘He’s at home. No lecture until this afternoon.’

  ‘Got the address?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good.’ Cass drained the last of his coffee. ‘I’ll drive.’ He was glad to be getting away from the oppressive confines of the office, and in his own car he could smoke. Armstrong was just going to have to get used to that. ‘Let’s go and crawl through the rush hour.’

  Rachel Honey’s tea was almost cold by the time she remembered to drink it. She sipped it anyway, her mind elsewhere as she stared out of the window and onto the street. Sleep had evaded her; what she’d seen in the Uni car park had been niggling in the back of her mind. It was wrong, she knew it. And then there was the other thing. She sighed, and it felt like her flat sighed back at her in sympathy. Maybe she was making a big deal out of nothing. Maybe it could all be explained away. She didn’t think so, though. The knot in her stomach was telling a different story.

  She put the mug down before getting the policeman’s card out. She stared at it for a moment, indecisive and hesitant. He had said to call if she thought of anything. But what if he thought she was just wasting police time? She chewed her bottom lip. There had been something slightly frightening about DI Jones – something hard in his eyes that she’d never seen in someone before. But there had been kindness there too, and he was clever – anyone could see that. She shook herself slightly and picked up the phone, her heart thumping nervously in her chest. The call rang out and clicked onto answerphone. She waited for the gruff voice to finish and then left her message. It wasn’t what she’d planned to say, coming out all garbled and wrong, and she hung up, embarrassed. God, she could be such a moron at times. Still, hopefully he’d get what she meant, and anyway, she could always call back later.

  She took the undrinkable tea into the kitchen and poured it away. She might not have spoken to the detective but she felt better already. She leaned against the sink. Why was she waiting for him to do all the work anyway? If she wanted to be a journalist, then why the hell didn’t she start now?

  Cass got out of the car and glanced at his phone before heading up the path to Dr Cage’s house in Chiswick. Doctors were surrounding him these days, but at least this one was not a medical doctor but a PhD in Business, and he was still very much alive. He’d had two missed calls; one from Perry Jordan and one from a number he didn’t recognise, and his message icon box was flashing.

  ‘Turnham Green Tube Station is just round the corner from here,’ Armstrong said. ‘That came up on her Oyster card.’

  A net curtain twitched in the approaching house and Cass put his phone back in his pocket. The messages would have to wait. He didn’t want Armstrong overhearing anything Jordan might say, and if it was Mr Bright on the other number, that could wait for now too. He was here on the business of the innocent. Angie Lane’s dead fingers had tightened their grip. The curtain dropped back suddenly and Cass almost smiled. He could smell the man’s guilt from here. It was amazing what human behaviour gave away. The front door hadn’t opened before they reached it, even though Cage knew they were coming. Cass knocked hard. The man who opened the door stared impassively at them.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Jones, and this is DS Armstrong. Murder Squad. We need to talk to you about Angie Lane.’

  ‘You’d better come in.’ The faux-casual expression slipped and the man swallowed. Cass could tell that this wasn’t going to take long.

  ‘Is your wife at home?’ Cass asked.

  ‘I don’t have one.’ Cage led them into the sitting room. ‘Never been married. I like my own space.’

  Cass was surprised. Why would Cage have killed Angie if it wasn’t to protect his marriage? ‘We’ve been looking through Angie’s phone statements,’ he said. ‘She sent you a lot of texts. And it wasn’t one-way traffic. What was going on with you two?’

  Cage sat opposite him. Armstrong stayed standing. It was clear Cage wasn’t lying about living alone; there were no soft touches or knickknacks dotted on the surfaces, and there was a distinct lack of family photographs.

  ‘Does it matter? She’s dead now.’

  ‘It certainly matters if they were in any way relevant to her death,’ Armstrong said.

  ‘But Angie killed herself. One of those student suicides.’ Cage’s eyes flickered from one policeman to the other but didn’t linger on either, falling to the floor instead. He wasn’t a bad-looking man for someone in his fifties, but his skin was starting to sag around his jowls and when his shoulders slumped, the small pot belly was accentuated. Fear never made anyone pretty.

  ‘I’m a busy man, so let’s cut to the chase.’ Cass leaned forward, forcing Cage’s nervous eyes to meet his steady ones. ‘We both know that Angie didn’t kill herself. It just looks like she did. Now, why don’t you tell me what went on with you two?’

  ‘I didn’t kill her,’ Cage said. ‘I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘You were sleeping with her. And giving her money. Don’t deny it; we’ve seen the cash withdrawals.’ Cass was jumping the gun on the bank account details, but it was a good hunch, and if it got a confession out of the man quicker, then Cass was all for that.

  ‘I don’t know how it started.’ Cage shrugged slightly. ‘Well, I do – a cliché. Extra help with assignments. Staying after class. That sort of thing.’

  He hadn’t denied the money, and Cass saw Armstrong scribbling down a note. He’d be getting the statements for the evidence file as soon as they were back at the station. Cass was learning that Armstrong was nothing if not efficient – maybe at last some of the endless paperwork would get done.

  ‘A lot of the students like me.’ Cage fiddled with his thinning hair. ‘I try to make studying more interesting for them – you know, tell a few jokes, give them personal anecdotes. But although they like me, they’re still lazy in the main. Ang
ie wasn’t, though. She really wanted to do well. She was maybe more grown-up than some of the rest.’

  ‘So you started fucking her?’

  Cass was crude deliberately, but it worked; Cage flinched.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, staring down at his hands. ‘Yes, I did. She was young and pretty. I didn’t think she’d fall in love with me, though.’

  ‘You didn’t feel the same way?’ Armstrong asked.

  ‘I was fond of her.’ Cage smiled sadly. ‘I was definitely flattered. Maybe for a little while I thought that was love.’

  ‘Did you tell her you loved her?’ Cass said.

  Cage had the good grace to look away.

  ‘I might have done. Once or twice. And then she started talking about us moving in together and starting a family and I knew then that I’d made a terrible mistake.’

  ‘You thought it was just fun between consenting adults.’ Cass snorted, derisively. ‘But for her it wasn’t just fun, because she wasn’t really an adult. Not like you. She was just starting out, and she’d fallen in love. So what did you do? Break it off?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cage’s trembling had spread up his body and he swallowed hard. He had the look of a man who had been wanting to talk for days. So much murder was mundane, and Cass could almost feel sorry for this man, if he hadn’t so coldly dressed the murder as suicide.

  ‘She didn’t take it well. At first she texted constantly, telling me how much she loved me, and that she was sorry and she wouldn’t push for the relationship to go further – all that stuff.’

  ‘But you’re old enough to know she didn’t mean it, right? She was just saying whatever it would take to get you back.’