A Matter of Blood (28 page)

‘Do you believe that life is sacred, Cassius Jones?’

Every hair on Cass’s body stood upright. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Maybe once, a long time ago. Some lives, anyway.’ There was that slightest edge of humour that made Cass wonder if he was being mocked slightly. ‘But you know what I think now; I’ve spelled it out clearly enough.’

‘Nothing is sacred?’

‘It would appear that way.’

‘Anyone who heard the press conference could have that information.’ Cass kept his own voice light and conversational. ‘Tell me something no one outside the investigation would know.’

The man tutted. ‘So untrusting. Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t.’ He sighed again, and this time there was something in that sound that made Cass shudder. ‘I’m sorry about your brother,’ he continued, and this time there was almost sadness in the voice. ‘That was nothing to do with me. Or us. No one would hurt family.’

Us? Family?
‘Tell me who you are.’

‘I am the Man of Flies.’

Cass’s breath hitched. No one knew about the fly eggs. His gut screamed at him that this was their man; this was the killer they were hunting. He had thought so right from the opening of the conversation, but this gave him proof, here was something he could take back to the brass. If they’d let him in the bloody building, of course.

‘Don’t trust them, Cassius Jones. They have their own agenda.’

‘Who?’ Cass glued the voice to his memory. It was almost completely free of any hint of accent, and it tickled his ears like sandpaper against wood. It was strange and compelling.

‘Don’t spoil the game. One thing at a time.’ Somewhere in the background Cass thought he heard birds. Whoever he was, he was outside. ‘Think of it as a series of tests. Testing people is so interesting, don’t you think? They’re so often found wanting. They prize nothing other than themselves.’ The buzzing overwhelmed his voice for a moment and Cass flinched. What was that? A bad line? It sounded more like insects flying around the handset . . . Flies, he thought. It sounds like flies.

‘Is that why nothing is sacred?’ he asked when the noise had faded.

‘I’ll be in touch.’

And then the caller was gone.

Cass grabbed his cigarettes and ran downstairs, rummaging through the kitchen drawers until he found a pen and a notepad. He brought up the number and saved it, and wrote it on the pad, followed by everything the caller had said. Who was it that he shouldn’t trust? And what had he meant about Christian’s death, that it was nothing to do with him? Not just him,
them
. Was he saying that someone had driven Christian to do what he did? Or was there a more sinister hint that maybe Christian and his family had been murdered? Someone had certainly planted that evidence against him. The question now was: did they kill his brother and his family as well?

The caller had used Cass’s private mobile number, and that irked him. Some front desk idiot must have given it out, no doubt. He wished that all police thought like policemen, but like every profession the force had its fair share of dunces and slackers, the type who preferred to sit on the desk and file paperwork rather than actually engage their brains. It wouldn’t take much of a story to get a mobile number from some of them.

He looked at his watch. 6.40 a.m. His first instinct was to call Claire, but professionalism took over and he tried Bowman first. The man riled him, but it was his case. His phone rang out, but there was no answer.

So he’d done the right thing. Now he could ring Claire.

She answered within three rings.

‘Yeah?’ Her voice was thick with sleep. A man muttered something in the background. Blackmore was there, or she was at his, one or the other. He wasn’t surprised. He had an altruistic moment when he wondered if Blackmore would be good enough for her. He wasn’t convinced.

‘I’ve tried Bowman but can’t get an answer.’ He paused.

‘I think I’ve just had a phone call from our serial.’

‘What?’ She was alert now. He thought he could hear sheets rustling as she sat up. He definitely heard a muttered conversation taking place, and Blackmore’s voice getting excited too.

‘What happened?’ Claire was back on.

He talked her through the call, not needing to glance at his jotted notes once. The whole surreal conversation felt like it had been recorded in his head. When he’d finished, he gave her the caller’s number.

‘It’s a mobile, so I’ll guess it’s a pay-as-you-go, but see if someone can track where it came from, and what shop sold it. It’s a long shot, but you never know; it might give us something.’

‘We’re on it.’

‘Sorry I’ve messed up your weekend off.’

‘Not a problem. Mat’s working anyway, and I’m finding I just can’t switch off these cases, even when I’m not supposed to be working.’

‘I know the feeling.’ Claire May might still believe that good would triumph over evil, but she was a career copper through and through. Cass wondered if that was part of why he’d been drawn to her.

‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘At the end of the call, he said he’d be in touch.’

‘You think he’s going to call you again?’

‘Or just leave us another body.’

‘Always the optimist.’ She paused. ‘Any idea where he was calling from?’ In the background Blackmore was asking questions and Cass couldn’t help feeling pleased when Claire
ssshhed
him.

‘Outside somewhere. I heard birds, I think. There was some buzzing on the line at times, so he might have been in a bad reception area. He wasn’t on long enough to have got a location even if we had been able to trace it. My guess is that he was in the city somewhere. I didn’t hear much traffic but it was pretty early and a Sunday morning so I don’t supposed there’d have been much about.’

‘And you think he knows Bright?’

‘Yeah, I know he does. We need to talk this through with Hask, see what he makes of it. He’s getting paid enough.’

And Cass trusted the psychologist’s judgement, not least because he had backed Cass himself.

At the other end there was a pause, then Claire lowered her voice slightly. ‘Mat’s in the bathroom. Didn’t want to say this with him here, because he wouldn’t understand and I don’t need a row right now. I sent a couple of guys out to find your burger man last night. It was on their own time. Nice to know you still have some fans in the office - other than me, obviously.’ She laughed a little. ‘Anyway, I should hear back from them later. Let’s hope for the best.’

Cass smiled. He didn’t deserve a friend like Claire, not after everything. He wanted to tell her about the things that had drawn him home: the photos, the possible links between Bright and his own family, and the fact that something had really been bothering Christian and he’d wanted to talk to Cass about it. Shit, part of him wanted to tell her that he kept seeing his brother’s ghost, but all of that was a conversation for another time. And until he’d spoken to Father Michael, he didn’t have much of a clear picture to offer anyway. He needed Claire to be concentrating on things she could actually do something about.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

‘Better than I expected to be.’

‘Have you heard from Kate?’

‘No.’ His defensiveness kicked in and he changed the subject. ‘Look, I’ve got some bits and pieces to do here, then I’ll probably head back to London tonight. Tell Bowman I’ll be in the office as a civilian witness first thing tomorrow morning. He’ll love that.’

‘Once he hears this he’ll probably want you in ASAP.’

‘He can wait. There’s nothing more I can tell him than I’ve told you.’

‘Oh, one more thing.’ She was rushing her words and Cass assumed that Blackmore had finished his shower. ‘I put some feelers out on Bright yesterday afternoon. We’ll see what comes back.’

‘Good work, Claire.’ He paused. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem, guv.’

He smiled as they said their goodbyes. It felt good to have Claire at his back. The minute he’d ended the call, his phone started to ring. It was Bowman. Sod him, Cass thought. What’s good for the goose . . .

He left the phone ringing on the breakfast bar and went upstairs to shower.

 

He left the coffee brewing as he dressed, then filled a mug and lit a cigarette before taking the notebook and pen into the sitting room. It was time to get to grips with the three cases jumbled in his head. He pulled the coffee table close and made three headings across the top of one sheet:

MAN OF FLIES CHRISTIAN JACKSON&MILLER
and underneath, he jotted:
Link between all three - Mr Bright. Sent tape to me, sent Christian the letter and Man of Flies knows him. May have family link to Jones
. He paused, then added:
He needs to be found.

It felt good to be using his brain. From the corner of his vision he saw a pair of black shiny lace-up shoes and the hem of dark trousers by the armchair over to his left. He ignored them.

He did look at the
CHRISTIAN
heading, though. Underneath it, he jotted:
Someone setting me up. Why?
The answer was obvious.
To get me out of the way
. That raised another immediate
why
, but he left it for a moment to think about the
how
. Had someone killed Christian and his family and planted the evidence at the time of the crime, or did Christian shoot his family and himself and someone then took advantage of the situation, with the evidence being planted afterwards? Whichever way round it was, it was planned. Someone had been through his rubbish and dug out a condom. Maybe that was lucky. He figured with his record a fingerprint on a gun would have been enough to get him a few days off at the very least.

Still, the idea that the evidence had been planted
after
the event was the most unpleasant, and not because it would mean that Christian had done this terrible thing, but because whoever placed the fingerprint and bodily fluids there would have to be either one of the SOC team, a police officer, or an attendant at the morgue. It wasn’t a pretty thought, but times were hard and most people were open to offers if the price was right. He knew as well as anybody how easily evidence - and even bodies - could be left unattended at a critical moment. What had been done was tricky, but far from impossible. He looked over at Christian’s shoes for an answer and followed the trouser-clad legs up until his own dark eyes found his brother’s blue ones.

‘Did you do it, Christian?’ His words sounded strange, spoken to an empty room. Christian didn’t answer. He didn’t even raise his hand in that strange telephone gesture that he had become so fond of. Cass almost smiled. Maybe even his own figment of imagination realised Cass didn’t need any distraction right now.

He looked back down at the scribbled
Why?
and added several frustrated question marks. It couldn’t be the Man of Flies case. The caller had hinted that he
wanted
Cass on that case, and as it was, Bowman had dragged himself into work even if he still looked sick as a pig, so there was no need for outside interference. It was Bowman’s case and he’d taken it back. Cass was off it. That just left the Jackson and Miller shootings. The failed Macintyre hit.

He had put his data stick into Christian’s laptop bag and now he grabbed it and turned the machine on. He was missing something - he had to be. Even on Christian’s pin-sharp screen, the film was still grainy. He watched it twice, his level of frustration rising. What wasn’t he
seeing
? He pressed play for the third time. Once again the waitress served someone on the other side of the glass. Once again a man’s sleeved arm raised his coffee cup, his cufflink causing a glitter of light on glass. The fat woman still stared longingly at the cake. Macintyre arrived, his hair still hidden by the black hat, and lit a cigarette at the same time as the man on the screen did. Cass couldn’t help but compare him with the old-school gangsters like Brian Freeman and Artie Mullins. Macintyre had none of their class. Cass narrowed his eyes as the car pulled up in the street and the two laughing schoolboys drew almost level with Sam Macintyre. They didn’t even see the gun emerge from the window. However many times he watched it, Cass wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to stop that lurch of his stomach when the first bullets hit Justin Jackson. Macintyre had rolled away, behind or under the nearest car.

Cass grimaced. No, Macintyre was
nothing
like Freeman or Mullins: they would have pulled one boy down to safety with them at the very least.

The film ended and the screen froze and Cass pressed play again. He didn’t want to think of Brian Freeman. His dream was still with him, like a sour aftertaste in his mouth. A lot of years had passed since he’d been under Brian Freeman’s wing. A lot of years since he’d learned to look up.

‘
Don’t just look at the obvious, mate. Look around it.
’ Freeman’s words echoed in his head. He pushed them away and tried to concentrate on the film playing out yet again on the laptop.

Another voice replaced Freeman’s in his head: Artie Mullins, a far more recent memory. Just two nights ago, after Cass’s world had got turned upside down, he’d called Cass ‘son’, and told him, ‘Sometimes it’s not the obvious things you need to look at, and sometimes you can’t see the obvious when it’s staring you right in your ugly mug.’

Cold trickled across his skin. For a moment he sat completely still. Outside, a burst of sunlight flooded through the bay window, its brightness making the screen invisible. Cass watched as goosebumps rose on his forearm. He remembered Isaac Jackson’s voice on the phone yesterday, the edginess, and the stiffness in the men’s backs as they stood behind their crying wives. Cold erupted through his pores, and he felt clarity washing over him, through him. His heart thumped. The
obvious
: it was right there in front of him, and he hadn’t seen it. He tilted the screen forward, out of the glare, and pressed play again.

Maybe Macintyre just happened to be there as he had always claimed or maybe not, but these were professionals. If they weren’t, they’d have sprayed the whole street with bullets trying to hit Sam Macintyre, and it would have been a massacre. He watched as Justin Jackson’s body danced in the gunfire before falling to the ground. For a brief second, John Miller stood alone, and then he was down too, thrown back into the door of the café, silently smashing it, under the power of the bullets. Cass looked at his scuffed school shoes, sticking out on the pavement. The two boys were dead, and no one else on the relatively busy street was so much as injured. The car had disappeared.