A Matter of Blood (22 page)

The phone rang, cutting through the quiet. The shrill sound demanded attention, but Cass let it ring out. The only person who’d ever tried calling him at home was Christian. Everyone else knew that his mobile was the best bet. He wasn’t even sure Claire or anyone at work even knew the landline number, and he preferred it that way. With the laptop bag over one shoulder, he went back into the hall and grabbed his suitcase. He was just at the front door when the answer phone kicked in.

‘Hello? Cass? Are you there?’

His hand dropped from the latch and he turned. Could that really be who he thought it was? There was a pause and he could hear the caller’s hesitant breath.

‘Oh, that’s such a shame. I was hoping I’d catch you in. I don’t have another number for you, so I hope this is still the right one. It’s Father Michael.’

Something tugged at Cass’s insides. The last thing he needed was platitudes from some blast from the past, but at the same time the priest sounded so concerned. He remembered that about Father Michael. He
cared
, genuinely. He’d tried to speak to Cass twice since his parents had died, but Cass had avoided him, in the same way he’d avoided Christian recently. Maybe that thought was what stopped him just leaving the answer phone running.

He picked up the phone. ‘Hi, you just caught me. I was on the way out the door.’ He paused. ‘How are you? It’s been a long time.’

‘Oh, I’m so glad you’re there. I know how busy you must be.’

Cass frowned. ‘You do?’ He’d expected the priest to launch straight into apologies for his loss, and perhaps mull over the old times from when Christian and Cass had been regulars at Sunday School.

‘You always did like to be doing things rather than thinking about things. Especially at times like this. Do you remember when little Briony Holmes got run over by that train? How old were you? Ten maybe? You and Christian were both fond of her, but I think you liked her a little—’

‘Like you said, Father, I am pretty busy.’ The conversation may have started out unexpectedly, but the old man was already drifting into the past, and Cass wasn’t sure he had either the time or the inclination to go there. He stared at the suitcase. He needed to find himself somewhere to live.

‘Of course, of course. I’m sorry.’ Cass could hear a crackle of age in the priest’s voice that hadn’t been there all those years ago. What would the priest make of Cass if he could see him? Lined and unshaven, he was a far cry from the boy of his youth.

‘I just wanted to say that I heard about Christian, and how shocked I was. Such a tragedy. He was only down here a couple of weeks ago, and he seemed fine.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps there was something there that I should have seen. I’m sorry, Cass, but I didn’t. He was so . . . animated. I thought he was okay. A little odd at times, but okay.’

Cass felt the world shift a little. ‘Sorry, did you say you’d seen Christian? Recently?’

‘Well, yes.’ The priest seemed surprised. ‘Didn’t you know? He’d been coming down to your parents’ house.’

‘He’d been
what
?’

‘He’d been coming down to your parents’ house, on and off for the past three or four months. But his visits had definitely become more frequent. He’d been staying over some weekends, and I’ve even seen his car outside some weeknights.’

‘With the family?’ Cass couldn’t get his head round this: what the hell was Christian doing going home? It felt weird even thinking of his parents’ house as home, it had been so long since he’d spent any real time there, but the word came naturally all the same.

‘No, on his own,’ Father Michael answered. ‘Didn’t you know? I thought maybe he was trying to answer some personal questions. He seemed very curious about your parents, the past. We’ve had some long talks.’ He paused. ‘It’s been nice to catch up. I was very fond of you both when you were children and since the funerals even Christian had stopped coming home.’

Even Christian
. The old man wouldn’t have meant it to sound like an accusation, but Cass felt the sting. Even Christian, the good son. Not the prodigal killer, who hid away and fought his father over his beliefs every time they met up, for no other reason than because he couldn’t think of any other way to deal with all his pent-up rage and anger at the fuck-up he’d made of his life. His father, with all his faith and calm acceptance, had been a good punch-bag. Neither had been very good at understanding each other, but at least Cass hadn’t pretended. The age-old irritation fizzed back into life in the pit of his stomach, but he was no longer sure if it was aimed at his father or simply at himself. He swallowed it and concentrated on the curve ball that Father Michael had just thrown into the mess that surrounded him.

‘He didn’t talk to you about this?’

‘No. No, we hadn’t talked much recently.’

‘I’m sorry. I really am.’ He hesitated again. ‘Maybe you should come down to the house. Take some time to yourself. It might be good for you.’

It hadn’t been exactly good for Christian, had it?
Cass bit back the snotty remark. Father Michael didn’t deserve his bitter defensiveness. He looked down at his suitcase and his head filled with the image of a sleepless night in a shabby hotel room. What the hell had Christian been doing at home? His life was here, in London, with Jess and Luke and his job at The Bank. He thought of Artie’s elliptical comments on Mr Bright and The Bank. He thought of some bastard planting evidence to discredit him in his brother’s house. His brain bubbled with activity. Was Christian somehow linked to Mr Bright? What was so important that it had led him home for answers? The floor almost rippled under him and he gripped the handset.

‘You know, I think I might just do that. I’ll come down today. They’ve offered me compassionate leave if I want it.’ A man with more shame might have felt more than a twinge of guilt at lying to a priest, but Cass saw it as a mild twisting of the truth. And his soul was too far gone to be bothered by the odd white lie. Truth was only ever a matter of perception.

‘Good. Good, that’s great!’ He sounded genuinely pleased, and Cass was surprised to feel an echo of that sentiment lift his mood. ‘It’s been a long time, Cass. I’m looking forward to catching up. I’ll put some basics in the house for you.’

‘No, really, you don’t have to worry - I can manage.’

‘You can pay me back when you see me. I’ll keep the receipt.’ The short laugh was soft and full of affection. ‘You always were so independent, Cass, but all of us need to go home sometimes, to remember who we really are.’

As he ended the conversation, Cass realised with a strange ache that Father Michael was probably the only link to his family left.

 

The buildings became less grand as Cass navigated his way through the centre of town and out through the poorer boroughs to the arterial roads. First they became rows of rotten, broken teeth; the edges uneven and surfaces grimy-grey, coated with years of pollution, but slowly, the nature of the landscape changed. The flats all crammed together turned into houses, their outlines against the backdrop of the sky becoming more uniform as the suburbs sprawled alongside the slow-moving dual carriageways. These houses epitomised normality, each the same as the next, the only individuality expressed through a poorly thought-out pebble-dash or a cream instead of white coating of paint. These were the homes of the fiftysomething middle-class: close to the road and within reach of a good school, somewhere you could keep up with the Joneses - because everything they had was the same as yours.

Cass almost smiled at the irony as he opened the window slightly and lit a cigarette. Not the Jones family that he came from, of course: there was nothing uniform or normal about them. The woman in the car next to him watched as he smoked, and frowned, a look that implied that if she had more time she’d call the police and report him. He could tell she was the kind of woman whose life had never been tainted with crime. Cass stared at her. She’d have to be if she thought the police would give any kind of shit about someone smoking in public. He grinned at her and she looked away, a sudden flush rising in her sagging cheeks, her mind no doubt filled with stories of road rage and maniacs. He inhaled hard and blew the smoke out of the window in her direction.

His mobile rang and he recognised Claire’s number. He patched it through the hands-free unit and tapped the answer button. ‘Hey.’

‘We’ve got another one,’ she said.

‘Another dead woman? Already?’

‘Yes, they found her this morning. She was a nurse called Hannah West.’ She talked him through the details of the murder, and how the profiler was convinced the killer was upping his game by where he’d left her. And she told him about the almost impossible outlining of the bloody words.

‘I’d agree with Hask,’ Cass said. ‘He’s speeding up. Maybe the initial thrill isn’t lasting so long.’

‘Great.’

‘Yeah, not good for us.’
For you, I should say
, he thought.
I’m persona non grata
. ‘No link to the others?’ He wasn’t hopeful.

‘Well, I’ve just finished typing up what the husband had to say and I can’t see where she might have met the other four women. They’re all so different.’ She paused. ‘He did say that she sometimes went into town early before her shifts started. She liked to go to Covent Garden.’

‘Was she a shopper?’

‘No, not according to the husband. He said she just liked it there. She said it helped before work. She found it peaceful. He said he’d never really questioned her about it. They both work long hours and they have kids. I guess they were probably more like ships passing in the night than a couple that got to spend any quality time together. She’d been doing extra shifts since he lost his job - nursing pays more than sitting on a till at Asda, so the husband’s been doing more of the stuff with the kids. They’re a pretty ordinary family.’ She paused. ‘Sorry. There’s not much to go on.’

‘I wasn’t expecting much, to be honest. Maybe there’s something in this Covent Garden thing. See if you can talk to any of the relatives and friends of the other women again. Find out if they went to any coffee shops or anything there regularly.’ He couldn’t picture Carla Rae in the kind of Italian cafés, with their expensive lattes and espressos, that filled Covent Garden, but you never could tell.

‘Bowman’s got a press conference later,’ Claire said. ‘I think it’s scheduled for half-twelve. They can’t keep a lid on the story for much longer.’

Cass glanced at his watch. It was only just eleven. ‘I’m heading down to Kent for the weekend to sort out some stuff at my parents’ place. I should be there in time to catch the first airing. Speaking of the odious twat, where’s Bowman now? Don’t let him catch you on the phone to me. He’ll give you hell.’

‘We’re safe. They’ve brought Macintyre back in and Mat and Bowman are interviewing him. I went to take them this report but they looked like they were going at him pretty hard, so I figured it could wait and I’d call you instead.’

‘Good girl. At least they’re still working my case as well as their own.’

‘Bowman doesn’t look well. His appendix was fine, but apparently some infection has inflamed his stomach - a bad case of food poisoning or something. The doctors aren’t even sure.’

Cass laughed. ‘Poor bastard. Can’t say I’ve got that much sympathy.’ He paused, reminded of his conversation with Artie. The white lie to Claire was going to feel worse than the one to the priest, but he continued anyway. ‘Speaking of food, I’ve been thinking about the night Christian died. I’ve got a vague folk memory of stopping for a burger. Somewhere down by the Elephant and Castle - maybe near the Ministry of Sound, because I can remember seeing the clubbers going in and out.’

‘Good, anything else?’ Her voice had brightened; here was something she could do.

‘Yeah, I think I complained about the burger being not cooked properly. I might have demanded a fresh one.’ He tried to sound a little shamefaced. Claire May was thorough; she’d find this Ali Khan.

Claire laughed. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t kick your head in. You went for a rat-burger and complained about it?’

He tried to laugh along. He would rather she knew the full story, but then Claire wouldn’t have gone for it. She believed that the truth would always out of its own accord. One day she’d learn.

‘One more thing you can do for me.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Don’t share this with the others yet, because I don’t want to have to say who I’ve been talking to. See if you can find out if this Mr Bright works for, or is in any way connected to, The Bank.’

‘The Bank? It’s a big organisation, and that’s quite a common name.’

‘Yeah, but use the age and physical description that we got from Bradley.’

‘Sure.’ She paused. ‘Why do you think he might work for The Bank?’

‘I’m not sure he does, but he might be associated with them. I don’t know how, and it might be all a wild goose chase. I’ll explain if we get a lead on him there. Sorry.’

‘Not a problem. I’ll get on it.’

When Claire said it wasn’t a problem, he knew she meant it. She was uncomplicated. If something pissed her off she came out and said it. There were no games with Claire May. There was good and bad and right and wrong. He wished he could have loved her for it. He wished he could have explained that he could never love her, exactly because of that. But the time for those conversations was over and they’d both moved on. Right now Claire May and Artie Mullins were the only two people who believed in him; he wondered what Dr Hask would make of these opposing personalities trusting in Cass Jones.

The phone beeped: a call holding. It was Ramsey.

‘I’ve got to go, Claire. Stay in touch.’

‘You too. And take care.’

He switched to the second call.

‘Hi. What can a suspended DI do for a fully employed one?’ If they’d found any more planted evidence against him they wouldn’t be letting him know with a phone call; it would be blues and twos with sirens wailing behind cutting a path through the train of irritated traffic behind him.