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

by Sarah Pinborough

  ‘Stick to the story.’

  ‘He said he needed me to do one small thing. I had to be available at short notice to work a shift at the maternity ward at the Portman in order to deliver a baby to the Gray family. It had to be born within a certain time frame and I’d probably have to do a C-section birth. When the boy was born I had to take him to the hospital administrator – a man called Powell – and then replace the Grays’ child with a dead one, which would be delivered to me at the hospital. That’s what I did.’

  ‘I totally forgot all about it until Mr Bright came to Encore a while back. He asked me what my new research project was, and when I told him he said he wanted me to use students. Originally I had planned to use older adults whose phobias were far more ingrained. He told me to place ads on the noticeboards in the unions – just very small ones.’

  Cass kicked himself for not thinking of checking the boards. Shit, he was getting old – that was basic textbook stuff, and neither he nor Armstrong had done it.

  ‘Mr Bright wanted his people to do the initial test hypnosis’ – now that Shearman had started talking, he was determined to unload his soul – ‘and then every so often he would come along and look at the brain scans. Some interested him and some didn’t – I don’t know why. He didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask. I just gave him their addresses and their files and told him when their six-week course would end. If something happened to those kids it was after they left me! He was my boss. He’d given me everything.’

  ‘And all in exchange for stealing a baby.’

  ‘How do you know about that?’ Dr Shearman asked. He was lost and out of his depth. He always had been, but today was the day he was finally realising it.

  ‘I know about a lot of things,’ Cass said. ‘I know you’re about the only one involved in what happened that night who’s still alive.’

  Dr Shearman’s eyes widened. He clearly hadn’t paid attention to the news that day. But then, he probably hadn’t known Dr Gibbs at all; he’d stayed home the night that Dr Shearman worked at the Portman.

  ‘I also know,’ Cass continued, ‘that you should keep your mouth shut about Mr Bright – this whole conversation – or it’s likely someone will kill you too.’

  ‘But I can’t.’ Dr Shearman half-rose out of his chair. ‘I can keep quiet about the baby, but if I don’t say anything about Mr Bright, no one will believe those student suicides didn’t have anything to do with me.’

  ‘Nothing to do with you?’ Cass snorted. ‘You only procured them, right? Who cares what happened afterwards.’

  ‘But I didn’t do anything – and you know what he’s like! He’s not a man you say no to!’

  ‘Tell it to the judge.’ Cass had no more time for this man. He had his answers, and as far as he could tell, Dr Shearman’s fate was sealed. There was no way Mr Bright would allow himself to be traced from Dr Shearman’s research facility, and as soon as he heard that the doctor had been pulled in he’d shut down whatever it was he’d been doing anyway. Without saying another word, he pushed away from the desk and left Dr Shearman to sweat alone.

  Back on his own floor, he paused at the coffee machine, as much to gather his thoughts as to get a drink. The coffee was shit anyway, but at least holding the hot cup stopped his hand shaking so much. Dr Shearman would take the flack for what happened to the teenagers, and Cass found that didn’t much bother him, despite it being a miscarriage of justice. Dr Shearman was involved in giving Luke away. He could live with Dr Shearman in jail just for that.

  He wandered back along the corridor, his slow pace at odds with the flurry of activity around him as officers chased warrants and typed confessions and smiled about potential bonuses. He felt completely apart from them all; he still had a mystery to solve, one that had been wrapping around him like a web since he was born. He stopped and frowned. His office door was open and there were people behind his desk, staring at his computer. One was Armstrong, but he needed to take two steps to his right before he could make out the other two – Ramsey and DCI Heddings. Fuck. None of the three were smiling, and none of them, even Ramsey, looked as if they were in any form of disagreement. Shit. What could they have on him? A trace left at Powell’s house? What? He left the coffee on a desk and turned round, forcing his pace to stay naturally slow. If he was going to face those three, he needed a cigarette first. The fire escape on the floor below would do. He needed peace and quiet. He needed to think about what the fuck was going on here, and what the fuck he was going to say – not necessarily in that order.

  *

  Abigail hurt. It was the thought that fit best. She hurt in every cell of her being, and she felt each cell as if it was a universe of its own. She sank back into her body, becoming one again, and the agony dulled to a throbbing pain. This was wrong. However right the changes felt, what this golden man was doing to them was wrong. She should have known, but she was so absorbed in the emptiness, and the end to that, that she’d been blind. The pod had been around her for ever. There had been nothing else. Other thoughts fought those, the thoughts that had once been all of her. This was wrong. It needed putting right.

  Behind her eyes and on the screen the policeman filled the space. The other screens crackled blank for a moment. She kept seeing him, over and over. He was connected in so many ways – he was connected to everything. He was golden, like the tall man, but he didn’t know it. He didn’t want it. The tall man made the Russian split and she screamed. Abigail could tell the man thought that the changing had made the Russian a little crazy, but Abigail thought that made her the sanest of them all – and anyway, the pain was enough to make anyone scream. She would like to make the tall man split and scream. It would be her turn again soon and she dreaded it. It hurt so much, opening up the new door in her mind and making her see too much of everything, and she couldn’t control it. It tore at her soul. Still, she was better than the others at it, despite how hard she tried not to be. The tall man knew that, and he smiled at her a lot. She hated him.

  The policeman. The policeman was the key to everything. Hayley was dead, she knew that, even though sometimes through that open door she was sure she could hear her screaming in the chaos of colours, and she was sure she would never see her parents again. Natural and unnatural – she felt both. This tall man, however, he was wrong. He needed stopping. This needed stopping.

  His mobile phone rang out and the noise of its call tone was so loud it filled her from head to toe, making her flinch. She wished her hands were free to press into her ears.

  ‘Yes?’ the tall man said. He spoke quietly, but she could hear everything, even the rush of each particle of air from his breath at it hit the handset.

  ‘It’s Mr Craven,’ the voice at the other end answered. Abigail concentrated, ignoring the pain of such loudness in her head, blocking it out in order to hear the words.

  ‘Mr Bright knows,’ the caller continued. ‘He called me and asked if you’d spoken to me. I said no, of course. He’s definitely suspicious of you.’

  ‘It’s too soon.’ The tall man cursed and paced for a second. ‘I’m not ready to take him yet.’

  ‘Maybe not, if you’re planning a war,’ Mr Craven said. ‘However, if you want to take a more subtle approach …?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  There was a long pause. ‘You do believe you can get us home, don’t you, Mr Bellew?’

  ‘Of course I do. That’s my plan: to gain forgiveness for all of us.’

  ‘He’s got a meeting this afternoon,’ Mr Craven continued, ‘with the contractors at the new building. I don’t know why he deals with these things himself, but I imagine once an architect, always an architect. I suppose he still finds it all fascinating.’

  ‘What’s your point, Mr Craven?’

  ‘My point, Mr Bellew, is that you could ring the contractors and cancel the meeting and then meet him there yourself. Have it out. I thought you could go through the front, and I’d go through the back. There’d be two of us and one o
f him. And you’ve always been strong. The way I see it, it’s either that, or he rallies the troops and comes after us.’

  ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

  ‘Easy. I faxed back permissions to access certain of my accounts to one of your solicitors’ offices earlier. We both know Mr Bright will check to see who’s been supporting you. My name will be on that list.’

  It was Mr Bellew’s turn to pause. ‘What’s the address of this building?

  ‘Between Hanway Street and Oxford Street. You can’t miss it. It’s the only high-rise going up anywhere in London. They’ll be meeting on the first floor.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I rang the contractor under the guise of checking meeting times. They’re scheduled for half an hour from now. Shall I call them back and cancel?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Bellew said. ‘And I’ll see you there.’

  ‘Let’s get this dealt with.’

  The conversation ended. Abigail’s heart thumped. Mr Bright. Another name that meant something, and for some reason the policeman rose up in her head again. Mr Bright and DI Jones.

  The golden man stared down at his phone for a moment and then she felt his eyes rest on her.

  ‘I want her hard reflection ready to take with me,’ he said.

  ‘Out of here? But—’

  ‘In ten minutes. Do whatever it takes.’

  He closed the door behind him and the technician scurried off to do whatever he did on the machines that made her able to do what he wanted. It was something that should come in time, this splitting, something that had to be learned slowly, not forced. He wasn’t a patient man, though, and he had no care.

  She thought of the policeman. She thought of the address. When she could see them both, she shut her eyes. She only had a minute or two.

  Cass leaned over the edge of the railing and was about to flick the rest of his cigarette away when he realised there was a woman standing in the alleyway below looking up at him. He stared. It wasn’t just any woman – it was Abigail Porter. What the fuck?

  ‘Stop him,’ she said. Her words carried clearly up to him, even though she wasn’t shouting. ‘You have to stop him. The new building between Hanway Street and Oxford Street. First floor. Stop him. Mr Bright will be there. Thirty minutes.’ Her voice faded slightly. ‘Stop him.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Cass dropped the cigarette and ran down to the next level, closer to the ground. When he got there, she was gone. He scanned the alley. How the fuck had she gone so quickly? What had she been doing here? Her words echoed in his head. Mr Bright will be there. Mr Bright was fucking everywhere. And now Abigail Porter had surfaced, albeit only briefly.

  He pulled out his phone to call David Fletcher, but it was ringing already. He frowned as he looked at the name. Artie Mullins? He stared and almost didn’t answer it. But Artie never rang him unless it was important. What had happened now?

  ‘You at the nick, Jones?’ The familiar gruff voice spoke.

  ‘Sort of. On the fire escape smoking. It’s a bit of a busy day here. Why do you ask?

  ‘Don’t go back inside.’

  Cass froze. ‘Why?’

  ‘A little birdie told me I should check up on you. My curiosity got the better of me and I did. Seems like you’re in trouble, mate.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’ Cass looked back up at the door he’d come out of. It was still closed. No one was looking for him yet.

  ‘Do you remember a bloke called Adam Bradley?’

  For a moment Cass almost said no, and then his memory threw up a picture – a dark-haired, skinny junkie on the other side of an interview table. Mr Bright had used Bradley to deliver the tape of the two boys’ shootings during the Solomon/Man of Flies case.

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘He was wanted for the murder of two doctors yesterday,’ Mullins said.

  Suddenly, the man who disappeared over Powell’s wall and the faceless man on the news at Gibbs’s murder site merged into one in his head. It was Adam Bradley – healthier than he remembered, but Bradley nonetheless.

  ‘He was found with his neck broken this morning,’ Mullins continued.

  ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with me, though.’ Cass was tired of the games – what was Artie driving at?

  ‘Plenty, apparently. Police found his mobile phone in his flat. According to my inside sources, your number called it last. You’ve called him a few times over the past couple of days.’

  ‘What?’ For a moment, Mr Bright and Luke, and Ramsey waiting for him upstairs, all emptied from his head. He hadn’t rung Bradley – he’d totally forgotten about the boy’s existence until a few moments ago. What the fuck was this?

  ‘Well, phone records say you did: one short call lasting a few minutes, and a couple of missed calls.’ Artie paused. ‘Maybe you didn’t realise you were phoning him?’

  Cass ran his mind over all the calls he’d made in the past few days. Finally, he got it. His blood chilled. Mr Bright. Always Mr Bright. What had the man said when he’d given him the card with that phone number on it? Trace that number if you want, but your time would probably be better spent on other things. It won’t give you any information on me. The truth, hidden in a riddle – no, there was no information on Mr Bright in the number, but if he’d traced it, it would have come back to Adam Bradley.

  ‘Fuck.’ Cass kicked at the railings in frustration. He should have traced it; he shouldn’t have been so damn sure that it would come back a blank. Mr Bright worked in hidden truths, he always had. Hidden truths. What a fucker.

  ‘There’s more. That PI you use? They’ve knobbled him. He’s on your call records a lot. He’s told them he gave you details for both dead doctors. Add to that that your fingerprints were on the outside of Powell’s door and broken dining room window and the woman on reception at that hospital where Gibbs works remembers you visiting there the day he died, and you’re pretty fucked.’

  Memories rolled like film in his head. Cleaning down the inside of Powell’s house but not thinking about how he touched the window frame on the outside to get in. The receptionist’s face as he flashed his police ID at her through her screen. Shit.

  ‘There’s a team at your flat going through the rubbish on your street now. If they find a murder weapon you can kiss your arse goodbye.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Cass repeated.

  ‘Someone’s got it in for you, boy,’ Mullins said, ‘because I’m presuming you didn’t kill anyone?’

  ‘You’re presuming right.’ Once again it was someone on the wrong side of the law, not bogged down by evidence and procedures, who saw the truth for what it was. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’

  ‘I’ve done you a small favour. There’s a little present underneath the passenger seat of your car. Something to even up the sides a little. Good luck, Cass.’

  The call clicked off. Cass let his blood rage and his eyes burn uncontained for a moment. Mr Bright had set him up. He’d known Cass would follow that trail for Luke – Christ, he’d even played with a warning by telling him it was a dangerous trail to follow – and used it to set him up. Did he even care where Abigail Porter was, or had that meeting just been a ruse to give Cass Bradley’s number? Of course it had. Now it looked like Cass had used Bradley to kill the two doctors, and then Cass had killed Bradley himself. Jesus. He knew what they’d be thinking too: he’d gone crazy looking for his brother’s son. Fuck. Once upon a time, Mr Bright had said he was Cass’s guardian angel. The man had wrecked Cass’s family, and now he was bent on destroying Cass himself.

  Mr Bright will be there. That was what Abigail Porter had said. Well, it was time he took his fight to the silver-haired man. It wasn’t as if he had very much left to lose. He quickly trotted down the fire-escape stairs and walked to his car. He ran his hand into the space under the passenger seat and smiled as his fingers felt the cold steel of the handgun. Good work, Artie, he thought as he pulled away and out of the station, good fucking work.


  Arthur ‘Artie’ Mullins put the phone down and leaned back in his office chair, looking at the two strangers in front of him. He could get why Cass might know the girl, but the tramp? Jones was clearly mixing with some odd people. No wonder he was always in so much fucking trouble.

  ‘So, little birdie,’ he said, ‘that’s Jones warned. My contacts on the inside are going to want payment for that information, but I’ll collect that from Cass when I see him. It’ll make a change, him giving me money.’ He smiled. ‘I won’t ask why you didn’t want to tell him yourself, or in fact why you’re so interested in him. That’s none of my business.’

  The truth was simpler than that: something about the pair unsettled him and he’d learned over the years to trust that instinct. He never had liked birds that knew more than they let on. Still, even if they weren’t friends of Cass’s exactly, it looked like they had his best interests in mind, and at least they’d chosen Artie to come to. Now he had the inside on what was happening. If they were all out looking for Cass, it might be a good evening to do a bit of business in Paddington.

  ‘Now is there anything else I can do for you both before you fuck off?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the red-headed girl said, and Artie had to admit she had a very fuckable smile. ‘We need to borrow a car.’

  The old tramp pulled a bundle of notes from the depths of his tatty coat pocket and put it on the desk. To Artie’s expert eye it looked like about five grand.

  ‘As a matter of urgency,’ the girl added.

  Artie gave her his most fetching grin. ‘I think I can accommodate.’

  DCI Heddings looked like his head was going to explode as he stared at the evidence laid out on the desk before him.

  ‘We let him leave the building?’ He looked up at the gathered men. ‘Correct that – you let him leave the building?’