Author: Sarah Pinborough
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/sarah-pinborough/page,3,69649-a_matter_of_blood_the_dog-faced_gods_trilogy.html
His phone vibrated and he tugged it free. It was Claire May, his sergeant. His eyes ached looking at the glowing name. She rarely called him just for a chat any more. Maybe it wasn’t time to go home after all. He pressed the green answer key and held it to his ear.
‘Yep.’
‘Hey, boss. Are you home yet?’
‘I should be so lucky. I’m on my way though. Why?’
‘Something’s arrived at the station for you. I think you should see it straight away. I’ve been trying to ring you for half an hour, but your phone’s been going straight to answer phone.’
‘I had someone to meet.’
There was the slightest hesitation before Claire spoke again. ‘Oh yeah. Of course.’
‘What is it?’ Cass didn’t have time for Claire’s discomfort with the pick-up. She took her money like the rest because she was bright enough to not rock the boat. They’d had a brief relationship, when he and Kate had split up briefly, and he’d tried to get her to see that the world wasn’t black and white but a multitude of glittering greys. He hadn’t quite succeeded. She was too young. A few more years of policing would wisen her up.
‘It was delivered by hand. It’s a DVD. The picture’s pretty bad, but it’s a film of the Jackson and Miller shootings.’
The city lights brightened in a surge of adrenalin and his tiredness was gone in a snap. ‘I’ll be there in ten. And get the envelope and whatever else came with it down to forensics. See if we can get some prints or DNA or something. ’
He dropped his phone on the passenger seat and put his foot down, weaving through the traffic past Oxford Circus and onto the Marylebone Road back to Paddington Green Police Station, ignoring the men in bright jackets setting up the kerbside barriers for the protest march the next morning. Cass wasn’t even sure what this one was supposed to be about, and since that bastard MacBrayne had gone missing a few months back the various protest groups seemed to have lost their way. Maybe they had a point, and maybe they didn’t. Cass was too busy fighting person-on-person crimes to start worrying about corporate ones.
The phone rang again and he pushed the answer button as he held it to his ear, not pausing to check the screen.
‘What else, Claire?’
‘Cass?’ A heavy breath filled his ear, as if the person on the other end hadn’t expected him to answer it. ‘Is that you? I’ve been trying to reach you for days.’
Cass gritted his teeth. Christian. This he really didn’t need. He should have checked the caller ID.
‘Sorry, mate. Things are more insane than normal round here at the moment. I’m heading back to the station. I can’t talk now, something big’s come up on one of the cases I’m working.’
‘Look, we really need to talk, Cass. I mean it.’
His brother sounded funny. He was always softly spoken, but tonight his voice had a sharp edge to it. What was it? Fear? Cass felt his heart tighten. Whatever it was, it didn’t change the fact that he had no desire to talk to Christian. Not now. If he were honest with himself, he’d happily go the rest of his life without speaking to his younger brother again. Their parents had died five years ago and he’d managed to pretty much avoid him since then, other than the occasional birthday or family lunch he hadn’t been able to wriggle out of. And then a few months ago Christian’s son Luke had collapsed at school, and his little brother had needed more support. They’d spoken occasionally since then, but Cass knew he hadn’t really given Christian much in the way of a shoulder to lean on. That wasn’t in him, not now.
‘Is this to do with Luke?’ he asked finally. ‘Kate said he was okay now? Isn’t he?’
There was another pause. ‘No, it’s not Luke. Not as such. I don’t want to talk about it like this. Not while you’re driving.’
He knows. The thought peeled strips of Cass’s heart away in serrated chunks. After all this time, she’s finally told him.
‘Well, I can’t talk now.’ He heard the snap in his own words. ‘Why don’t you call me at home later. Give it an hour or so?’
A sigh of relief rushed through the handset. ‘Thanks, Cass. Thanks. I didn’t know who else to talk to. You will be there, won’t you? This . . . I don’t think this can wait.’
‘Just give me an hour. Call around eight.’
‘It’s . . .’ Christian hesitated. ‘It’s about redemption. That’s the key.’ He was talking softly, as if someone might be listening. ‘Redemption and corruption.’
‘Call me at home. I’ve got to go.’ Cass ended the call before his brother had finished his sentence, aware of his own lie. There was no way he was going to be home by eight. He’d ring him back tomorrow. Maybe. If Luke was fine then he didn’t feel so bad. Whatever else was going on in Christian’s life, or head, he was a big enough boy now to deal with it by himself. They hadn’t been like brothers in a long time. Lights glared at him as they passed. Redemption? As far as Cass could tell he was beyond that. Maybe Christian was starting to live up to his name and their father’s expectation. Maybe he’d found God. Cass’s eyes burned with the grit of exhaustion. Well, good luck to him, but he could leave Cass well and truly out of it.
The inside of Paddington Green Police Station was just as austere as its ugly 1960s exterior. Although it was no longer the national base for interrogating high-profile terrorist suspects, it was still the most secure police station in London, and was occasionally used as an overflow unit for when the Anti-Terror Division, normally based at the new Centre for National Security, needed a second location (generally for reasons they chose not to share).
Cass could live with that, however much it pissed off the bosses. Even though they’d lost a great deal of their forensic equipment to the CNS when it opened, Paddington Green still had more technology available than the rest of the city. If the chief super and those above him couldn’t see past their dented egos to recognise that fact, then more fool them.
The brightly lit corridors had emptied somewhat, the admin staff and constables having signed off and become part of that mêlée of faceless people filling the streets outside, but as Cass headed upstairs to the open-plan Murder Squad floor there were plenty of plainclothes detectives milling around the building. They were like him: the career policemen.
He found Claire May in his office at the back of the area that was now his Incident Room, for four women’s deaths as well as two boys. Tomorrow he’d get the teams to divide the space up and bring in the boards from the serial killer case - they couldn’t pretend it wasn’t a serial killer any more, not now - and set them up at the other end of the room from the Jackson and Miller ones. Moving the boards from Bowman’s domain would help - he was fucked if he was going to keep running backwards and forwards between the two units like a headless chicken. He wanted everything right where he could see it. His brain worked better that way. He smiled at the pretty brunette who was concentrating so hard she hadn’t even seen him come in.
‘How are you liking the boss’s chair? Comfy?’
Claire looked up from the computer screen and smiled. It was a warm, open expression, and Cass hoped no one would ever take it away from her. No doubt someone eventually would, but he was glad that he hadn’t been that man. What had happened between them had been short and sweet, but it hadn’t been about love. Not romantic love, at any rate.
‘The seat’s a bit big for me, but I guess that would be your middle-aged spread.’
For the first time that day, Cass laughed. ‘Let’s hope you’re still this gorgeous at my age. Now shift and show me what we’ve got.’
She’d been right. The picture was grainy and the absence of sound gave the black and white film an eerie quality. He watched it in silence through to the end, then said softly, ‘Play it again.’
Claire clicked the mouse and the frozen scene once again burst into life. Formosa Street was part of Little Venice, not far from Paddington Green Station itself, and although a number of shops and restaurants were now closed, it was in a wealthy enough part of town that
many of the bistro-style cafés and boutiques were still in business. There was no timeline on the film, but Cass didn’t need it. The shootings had taken place at 3.45 p.m. on Monday, 9 March. Whoever was filming must have started not long before that. The cameraman had positioned himself - or herself - on the other side of the road, at street level. Maybe he was in a car with the window wound down, or just standing in a shop doorway; it was hard to tell. The tech boys could figure that out.
Cass peered at the moving image, trying to absorb as much as possible. In the background the colour of the maroon awning of the Café de la Seine seeped away to dark grey. Through the glass he could make out customers at the front tables, a waitress in a white blouse moving between them, the only clearly defined shape in the gloom. A man’s hand rose as he sipped his coffee, his cufflinks glinting against the window. Cass switched his attention to the pavement. Pedestrians strolled along the narrow path, pausing to peer into the shops on either side. The range of the camera was limited and Cass fought his frustration; this was the best lead they’d had so far. He needed to make the most of it.
A heavyset middle-aged woman paused in front of the café and pointed at the cake display. She spoke to her friend for a moment, they both laughed and the thinner one dragged her away. Cass’s heartbeat quickened. There were only seconds to go now. A black cab passed, slowing, and Cass figured that was the one Macintyre had arrived in. Somewhere out of shot he was paying the driver and getting out. At least now they had a chance of getting the licence plate, since no one had come forward yet. The case was thin on witnesses, despite so many on the screen in front of him. It wasn’t any surprise to anyone on the investigative team. The firms weren’t to be messed with. Even ordinary citizens understood that enough not to get themselves involved.
Macintyre strolled into view. He paused at the right-hand side of the café and lit a cigarette. At six foot four, the thirty-eight-year-old Belfast man was an imposing figure, but for the briefest second there Cass hadn’t recognised him. His trademark gingery-blond hair was hidden under a trendy black hat and he wore dark glasses. Cass couldn’t remember if it had been sunny on the ninth. He needed that checked. It looked like whatever Macintyre was doing in Little Venice that day, he hadn’t wanted to be recognised. His leather jacket looked soft and expensive. He took two long pulls on the cigarette cupped in his right hand before glancing around and taking a couple of steps forward.
On the left-hand side of the screen the two boys appeared. Justin Jackson and John Miller, both twelve years old, had left Our Lady Catholic Secondary School on Senior Street at three-thirty to walk home to their houses on Warrington Crescent, off Clifton Gardens. Cutting through Formosa Street was part of their usual route.
Cass watched as Miller swung his PE bag against the back of Jackson’s knees and the other boy returned the favour. They both looked at each other and laughed, their mouths moving quickly. Cass figured he could get the speech boys to look at what they were saying, but it was probably just teenage jokes and insults. They were private words. They were the boys’ last words.
A car drew up in the middle of the road and even with no sound on the film Cass was sure he could hear the screech of those tyres. From within the car, the tip of a semi-automatic rifle emerged from the open window on the far side. Nothing of the person holding it was revealed. Macintyre threw his cigarette down and then visibly started as he stared at the car. His mouth opened and he was already dropping to the ground as the boys passed by in front of him, still laughing as they blocked his body.
After that, everything happened fast. Jackson, the black one, was standing on the right, on the road side of the pavement. He fell first. Cass watched the laughter fade from John Miller’s face as his friend fell into him, propelled by the power of the bullets hitting his body. Though Miller was trying to hold him up, Jackson fell to the ground. Cass could see the blood staining Miller’s hands. The boy didn’t move, frozen in shock, as shapes inside the gloomy coffee shop darted madly about. Customers ran to the back, many probably scurrying out of the rear exit. They must have done. There were far more cups and plates left on the tables than witnesses who stayed to give their statements to the police.
Macintyre was no longer visible. He’d crawled under a car to wait the shooting out. The car was already pulling off when the final round of bullets hit John Miller, standing stupefied over his best friend’s crumpled body. He was thrown backwards into the Café de la Seine, landing on the remains of the shattered glass door, looking almost as if he was trying to climb in.
The car had sped away, its number plate covered, as Cass expected it would be. Somewhere not very far away from the chaos they’d left behind in Formosa Street, the failed assassins would be swiftly dealing with the vehicle. It was probably destroyed by now. Not that it would stop Cass’s team from looking for it. There were few enough leads without giving up on the car. Who knew? They might even find it. Stranger things had happened.
Formosa Street was silent. Shoppers were emerging from wherever they’d hidden themselves when the attack started, moving slowly, all focused on the two dead boys. One woman dropped her shopping bags and turned and screamed, her mouth forming a large O. Macintyre reappeared onscreen, dusting himself down as he got to his feet, his hat now in his hand. And then the one small piece of good news in this case came into frame.
A local beat copper, Jack Charter, had been patrolling the streets around the schools because shopkeepers had reported thefts of sweets and magazines by groups of kids; some of the shopkeepers had even claimed Miller and Jackson were among the culprits, but no newspaper would touch that. The boys were angels with the Angels, according to the tabloids. Cass thought they were probably just ordinary boys who weren’t above nicking the odd Mars Bar, and he thought that made their deaths even more tragic. An old ache stabbed at his soul and he pushed it away. This wasn’t the time.
On the screen, Charter ran into shot and grabbed Macintyre’s arm. Before he knew it, the boss of west London was handcuffed to a local uniform. He wouldn’t be going anywhere without taking the policeman with him. Cass liked that constable. He’d go a long way, thinking like that. The fight visibly went out of Macintyre and his shoulders slumped. Cass recognised the sigh of a man who knew he had a good few uncomfortable hours of ‘no comment’ ahead of him.
A small crowd had gathered around the dead bodies and all Cass could see was a sports kit bag lying in the road, its drawstring done up tight. The picture cut abruptly to a fuzzy haze. Whoever had been filming had obviously decided they’d seen enough.
Cass sighed and leaned back in his chair. ‘That’s not one we want the parents seeing. I think they can probably live without that.’ The families had obviously taken the deaths of their sons badly, and now, probably tomorrow, he was going to have to go see them again. At least he could tell them that there’d been some developments. He couldn’t send anyone else to do it; the families were his responsibility and they needed to see the person in charge, but he wasn’t looking forward to seeing their pain, still red-raw and bleeding.
Claire perched on the edge of the desk. She crossed one leg over the other and as she leaned back on one arm, Cass couldn’t help but watch her. At twenty-seven, she was an undeniably good-looking woman, but he thought that by the time she hit thirty-five, she’d probably be beautiful. Her brunette curls were pulled back in what had probably started the morning as her usual sensible tight bun. He wondered if she realised how attractive she really was.
She tucked a loose curl behind her ear. ‘Who do you think filmed it?’
‘God knows. Maybe someone who wanted evidence of the hit? Maybe someone set Macintyre up and wanted to film it for posterity.’
‘But why then send it to us?’
Cass shrugged and stared at the silently crackling screen. ‘Well, the quality’s not good. It’s maybe a copy of a copy. Anyone who wanted the truth to out could have sent it. Let’s face it, it’s not as if the firms are ever short of people willing t
o double-cross them for the right money.’ He looked up at her. ‘I’m going to make a copy, then this one can go down to forensics. I take it you didn’t stick your prints all over it when you took it out?’
‘There may be one or two partials at the edges, but nothing the lab can’t work around. I was careful, but I thought it was more important we see what was on it.’
‘Good. But now I want every tiny scrap of evidence we can get off the surface. There must something in there to tell us who sent it. You’ve sent the envelope down?’
‘Yes, straight away. They were just heading home. It’s logged for testing and printing first thing tomorrow.’
‘Okay. I’ve got to get up to speed on these murders of Bowman’s first thing in the morning. By the time I’ve done that we should know something about how this got to us. And then I can go and see the parents again. At least this time I’ll have something vaguely positive to tell them.’
For a moment the image of the dead boys blurred into Carla Rae’s body, still lingering at the back of his eyes. The shootings had happened a week before, and Cass had seen the ruined bodies on the slab, and plenty of pictures of the boys when they were alive and smiling. Seeing the transition from one to the other played out onscreen in front of him was a different matter. The sudden change from life to death, wrought in an instant, was something he’d never get used to - which was ironic, really, given the number of times he saw it happening behind his eyes. An event from a different time and a different place, maybe, but the transition from living to dead was just the same. Maybe it was something no one ever got used to. His head ached. A beer, a shower and then sleep. That was what he needed: to lose himself for a few hours.