A Matter of Blood (46 page)

 

Cass let himself into the house and stood in the gloomy hallway. There was a thin wash of light from the one strip that had been left on in the kitchen, but the rest of the rooms were dark. Kate wasn’t home. Her absence was palpable. He tried her mobile number, but it went straight to answer phone and he didn’t leave a message. The things he wanted to say had to be said face to face so she could see that he meant them.

At his feet was a jumble of envelopes on the doormat and he stooped to pick them up, ignoring the aches that quivered through his body. If the post was still here then Kate hadn’t been home all day. Where would she have gone? The memory of their unmade bed when he came back last time tried to rear its ugly head, but he crushed it. It didn’t stop his heart sinking a little. Maybe the morning would be a better time to see her anyway, after he’d slept away at least some of the day’s horrors. Halfway to his feet he paused. Black lace-up shoes. Crimson stains. He groaned as he rose to face his dead brother. He had no energy left for this.

‘Oh just fuck off, Christian.’

Christian smiled. At least his eyes weren’t bleeding this time. In fact, in the half-light they looked a perfect blue.

Cass stared at him. He was tired of this shit. ‘Just what the fuck is it you want?’ He threw the post onto the side table. ‘What, Christian? What the fuck do you want from me?’

His brother’s benign smile stayed fixed, but he turned his head slightly in the direction of the envelopes. He lifted his hand and mimicked a phone call, just as he’d done every time Cass had seen him since he died.

‘I don’t know what you—’ Cass stopped suddenly as a blue logo poking out from the post caught his eye. The phone bill had arrived. He looked back at Christian before slowly reaching for it. Still smiling, Christian turned and walked away, his feet leading him steadily towards the kitchen. Cass knew that if he followed, his brother would be gone. Cass had finally got the message. He looked down at the envelope. He didn’t deal with the bills; that was Kate’s job. As long as they got paid, he didn’t care. What was in this one that Christian wanted him to see?

He tore it open and dropped the summary page, letting it drift unwanted to his feet. His tiredness fled as one mobile number came up over and over again. The calls had been made with far more frequency in the past week or so. His chest tightened. He knew the number, and it wasn’t one he’d be calling from home. What business would Kate have calling it? He had a terrible sick cramp in the pit of his stomach as he checked the dates and times of the calls made on the night Christian and his family died. The mobile number was the last one dialled, and it must have been just before Cass had got home. The memory flashed bright behind his eyes: coming through the door, tossing the envelope from Mullins and his keys down. Kate, beautiful and cool, hanging up the phone. Hate and rage burned through the cracks in his broken heart.
What the fuck had they done?
And
why
?

On the side table his phone buzzed and for an instant Cass thought a swarm of flies were coming for him. He answered it.

‘Detective Inspector? It’s Maya Healey.’ Soft, nervous, awkward. ‘I’ve got that information on those two accounts you asked for - the ones Christian was concerned about? Sorry it’s taken so long, but he must have taken the original printouts I gave him home, and so I supposed the police must still have them.’

‘Who do the accounts belong to?’ He had no time for pleasantries. His brain was burning and the voice he heard coming from his own mouth was alien. Inside, he wasn’t even sure he could form words.

‘There were two fronting accounts, but I’ve got the names of who owns them. It didn’t take long, they weren’t particularly well set up.’

As she said the names, the final pieces of the jigsaw slid neatly into place and he realised exactly what he’d been missing on that film. A glint of light that told a separate story. He needed to get back to the office.

Claire swivelled Cass’s chair from side to side as she sat behind his desk and watched the film. Something about the opening was bugging her; as soon as the two boys came into view, she clicked the mouse to stop the film and start it again from the beginning. She’d been staring at the screen so long that her eyes were burning. Customers sitting at their tables. The waitress moves between them. A man’s hand rises as he sips his coffee. His cufflink flashes in the light. Macintyre gets out of the taxi. He stops by the café and lights a cigarette.

Claire stopped it and rewound again, this time just a few frames. She felt a slight tingle as she zoomed in. The picture quality was pretty dreadful, but for this it was enough. Macintyre didn’t just stop to light his cigarette. He was also acknowledging someone . . . someone sitting
inside
the coffee shop. Focusing intently, she identified the briefest twist of a smile, and the flick of his wrist at someone on the other side of the glass. She ran it forward, frame by frame.
There
. Just in the corner of the shot, a white sleeve with a cufflink rose slightly in response.

She leaned back in the chair, her mouth open slightly.
The cufflink
. Cold sweat made her palms sticky as she zoomed in as close as she could, until the little piece of jewellery filled the screen. She stared, shaking. The lab boys would be able to clean it up, but she already knew what she was looking at.
Jesus.

The building was quiet; most of the team had gone to the pub to celebrate closing not one but two major cases in one day. As far as they were all concerned, Paddington Green nick was the stuff of legend, as of today. She stared again at the screen. How were they going to take this? Would they expect her to sweep it under the carpet, shut her mouth and get on with her career? Probably. Cass needed to see this.

He needed to know it.
This
was why he’d been set up: to stop him
seeing
this. She was about to reach for the phone when Mat peered into the office.

‘You okay? Coming for a drink?’ he asked. Other than a couple of constables clearing the boards in the Incident Room they were the last left.

He was at the desk before she could get her act together quickly enough to switch screens. He frowned. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I don’t know.’ She couldn’t quite keep the shake out of her voice. ‘Something’s been bugging me - then I realised we’d missed something on the film. We missed who Macintyre had gone there to meet.’

Blackmore’s eyes widened. ‘What are you talking about? I thought this was all wrapped up?’

‘The shooting is, yes.’ She looked at Mat, pleased when he took her hand. She needed someone’s help, and even if she knew, deep down, that he would never be her true love, if she couldn’t trust the man she was sleeping with, then who else was there?

‘But I think I know who set Cass up.’

‘Who?’ Blackmore’s voice dropped. ‘You know who did it?’

She nodded at the screen. ‘You must recognise those cufflinks.’

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he studied the screen. Eventually he asked quietly, ‘Is that really who I think it is?’

Claire gripped his hand. ‘I know this must be awful for you, he’s your DI - but it can’t be anyone else. And if he was there innocently, then why didn’t he say? Can you remember where Bowman said he was when the shootings happened ?’

‘I can’t remember. I can’t.’ He ran his free hand over his spiked hair and swallowed. ‘Jesus, Claire.
GB
. He’s got those cufflinks.’ He looked back at the frozen screen, then at Claire. ‘Look, maybe it’s someone else. Maybe—’

‘Someone else? How likely is that?’

Red blotches were covering his neck and face. ‘When did you figure all this out, Claire?’

‘Just now. Seconds ago,’ she said. ‘I need to tell Cass.’

‘Yes,’ Mat said, nodding, ‘we do.’ He picked up the phone and punched in a number. It rang out and he shook his head. ‘Straight to answer phone.’ His keys were in his hand. ‘Come on, I’ll drive you. Where is he?’

‘Ramsey called it in; he said Cass’d gone home once he’d secured the crime scene. He was a bit shaken.’ Adrenalin was pumping through her and her own legs trembled as she stood. Thank God Mat was with her on this, she thought. They jogged down the corridor to the far stairs. ‘Where’s Bowman?’ she panted. ‘Still at the church?’

‘No, he’s left that to the lab rats. I think he’s in the pub.’ The door closed behind them and he stopped suddenly.

Claire looked at him and frowned. ‘What’s the matter? Let’s go.’ Her words echoed in the empty space.

His hands squeezed the tops of her arms and he pulled her close. For a moment Claire thought he was going to kiss her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

The handrail was pressing uncomfortably against the small of her back as she tilted, off balance, and confusion cut through her panic. What was Mat doing? This didn’t make sense—

Until he shoved, hard, toppling her over the side of the steps, and she realised how utterly
stupid
she’d been. Her hands clutched at empty air as she tumbled, and she tried to catch her breath to scream. She wanted to click on rewind, she wanted to remind herself that there’d been
two
people in the interview room with Macintyre on Saturday. She wanted to kick herself for being so moronically thick for thinking even for one moment that Bowman could be involved without Blackmore, without his poisonous little sidekick . . . She wanted a lot of things.

But as the ground rushed up far too fast to meet her, she squeezed her eyes shut. Most of all, she wanted not to die.

 

 

 

C
ass knew there was something wrong the minute he arrived at the station. The cab dropped him beside his own car and he walked inside. He needed to watch the film again, and then he’d grab the DCI or the Commissioner and make them see what he knew he’d see on it. He’d tried calling Claire, but got no reply. She was probably in the pub with Blackmore, celebrating. There was no reason for her to be listening out for any calls. The cases were closed . . .

An ambulance was parked in front of the steps and Cass frowned as he made his way round it. Had someone been hurt in custody? That would just be fucking typical on top of what he had to tell the headshed - and on a day when they should be celebrating good, solid police investigation . . .

The reception area was quiet. Everyone waiting with a grievance or a crime to report must have been hustled out. He vaguely recognised the desk sergeant, who looked up from the papers he was shuffling when Cass asked, ‘So what’s going on?’

The sergeant gestured at the main doors. ‘In there.’ Whatever had happened must be bad; he obviously hadn’t wanted to be the one to tell Cass about it. Cass felt that familiar cold roiling mass in the pit of his stomach.
It wasn’t over yet.

He pushed open the doors to see a small crowd of people gathered on his far left, where the doors to the side stairs were. One of the uniformed WPCs turned at the sound of the doors opening and saw him. She gasped quietly and went white.

That sharp intake of breath. The flash of dark eyes; did they looked reddened? Bile rose in his throat as the whole group turned his way. He felt like he was wading through mud, moving inexorably forwards. A hush blanketed them and they silently parted to let him through to the fire doors, which had been propped open, and into the middle of the clicking cameras and huddled detectives. Dr Farmer was present, his wild grey rock-star hair immediately visible among the more expensively coiffured detectives. He was talking quietly, but when he saw Cass, he stopped. They all did.

It was the shoe that Cass saw first. It was lying on its side under the stairs, forgotten. Not a black lace-up. No crimson stains. This one was blue, with a sensible one-inch heel. It was small and feminine and fragile. His face burned as he turned, peering through the gaps between the living to catch a glimpse of that familiar body sprawled on the ground. This time there was no supernatural wind sucking the oxygen from his lungs. Instead it was his own body simply refusing to breathe as he stared at her.

A large pool of blood formed an uneven halo at the back of Claire’s head. She didn’t turn to look at him, or smile, that twinkle of fond recognition in her eyes. She remained facing the other way, her head twisted on her bent neck. Her eyes were dull, glazed over, but her mouth was formed into a surprised ‘O’, despite the obvious force of the impact as she’d hit the ground.

Cass almost collapsed onto the second step. Her hair was shiny, the red hints clashing with the thick blood that had burst from some awful wound that was out of sight. His hands shook and now, finally, he forced himself to breathe.
Life to unlife
. All in one shattering instant. He felt sick to his soul.

‘What happened?’

It was only when he spoke that he realised how silent it was. Two paramedics slipped through the double doors. They would wait. They had no place here; there was nothing they could do now but carry her to her slab, a freezing bed in a morgue fridge where she would grow colder yet. They wanted no part in explanations or grief. Cass wondered how cold Claire’s fingers had to get before they’d start tugging at him. She was facing away from him, with one arm stretched out behind her. He looked at the pale skin and neatly trimmed nails. Maybe she was reaching for him already.