A Matter of Blood (49 page)

His eyes hardened. ‘Now I know better.’

‘You bastard !’ she cried, and flew at him, her nails clawing at him.

Neither of the other men were prepared for Kate’s attack, but it was just the distraction he needed. He pushed the lit cigarette into his wife’s pale cheek as he ducked to the left to avoid her ragged nails. Her cry of rage turned to a shriek of agony as she pulled away and stumbled into Macintyre, who wasn’t expecting it. Even as he pulled out Ramsey’s gun and dropped to his knees in case Bowman fired, Cass could see what was going to happen.

So could Bowman, who started to shout, ‘Don’t—!’

But it was too late, and Cass watched the man’s eyes widen for a second in surprise as he reflexively pulled the trigger.

The blast propelled Kate’s slim frame back into the room and her hands reached out, her fingers stretching for the life that had already fled her body. Her legs caught on a dining room chair, maybe the very one that Christian had been tied to when Macintyre blew out his brains, and she crumpled to a tangled heap on the floor.

Cass’s eyes burned like mercury as rage flooded his veins. Bowman scuttled, panting and wide-eyed, across the floor to the dead body. This hadn’t been part of his plan. In the doorway Macintyre was reaching to reload the shotgun. Cass could see everything so clearly as time slowed for him. His teeth gritted, his eyes on fire, Cass raised his own gun and pumped two bullets into Macintyre, one in each elbow. The shots were perfect. He’d known they would be. The burn in his eyes and soul had made it so.

Macintyre stumbled backwards, screaming in agony, and his heavy weapon clattered to the floor. The high-pitched wail signalled the fight was over for him. Cass, on his feet, kicked out at Bowman’s head where he was huddled over Kate’s dead body. The toe of his shoe connected hard with the side of his skull, then he stamped down hard on Bowman’s wrist, crushing his expensive watch.

Now breathing heavily, Cass crouched beside him and tugged Bowman’s gun out of his shaking fingers. The DI might have been licensed to carry, but he was the sort who always got others to do his dirty work. Unlike Macintyre, his reactions were slow, and unlike Cass, he’d never stared into a man’s eyes and then pulled the trigger. He would never win in this situation.

Outside, the first sirens wailed. Bowman moaned, trying to focus on Cass. In the hallway, Macintyre was screaming for God, or his mother - or any motherfucker - to help him. Both Cass and Bowman ignored him. With the gun firmly pointed in Bowman’s face, Cass lit another cigarette.

‘Did you call for back-up?’ Blood came out with Bowman’s words. Cass must have broken a tooth or two. Still Bowman managed a small smile. ‘You stupid fucker. Paddington Green is mine. I own it, remember?’

Cass ignored him. He could feel Kate’s dead eyes on him, but he couldn’t look at her, not yet. Not until this was all finished.

‘Why didn’t you shoot me straight away?’ he asked. ‘Or at least try to?’

‘The phone calls.’

‘What phone calls?’

Bowman lifted one hand slowly and rubbed the side of his head. ‘We needed to know who’d set us up. We thought you’d know.’

Cass frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The day of the Jackson and Miller shootings. I got a phone call telling me to meet Macintyre at the café. He got one too.’ He sighed. ‘Turns out neither of us had made the calls, but then the boys got shot and the film turned up. Someone wanted us caught.’

‘It wasn’t me,’ Cass said. His insides churned. He had a damned good idea who it was. Silver-haired, silver-tongued, silver-teared: an architect. Someone who was always watching - someone who might want to protect Cass, and expose Solomon to him, all at the same time. Someone who everyone knew, and everyone was wary of. Someone who had his own tests to carry out. Bowman had never stood a chance, not against Mr Bright. He’d simply been in the way of someone else’s game plan.

‘I don’t know who it was,’ he lied.

Noise erupted around them as policemen flooded the house.

‘Someone get an ambulance! We’ve got an injured man in here.’

Cass didn’t recognise the voice, but he smiled. ‘Oh, and just so you know, Detective Inspector Bowman, I didn’t call Paddington for back-up. I called Chelsea.’

‘I thought you said it wouldn’t be messy.’ That southern drawl sounded familiar.

‘You took your time.’

‘Getting detectives out of bed is hard enough for their own cases, Cass. You should know that.’ He grinned. ‘But you seem to have it all under control.’

‘Something like that.’

Behind them, two officers hauled Bowman to his feet. ‘No one will thank you for this, Cass!’ he snarled as they pulled him outside. ‘No one!’

‘No one ever does,’ Cass said, softly. He looked around him. Blood had filled his brother’s house once more. It had all happened so quickly. Real life was like that. Here one minute, dead the next. There were no big car chases; it was just dirty and sordid, and over fast. Kate lay broken at his feet, her smooth stomach a ruined mess. He didn’t look down at her.

‘I’m going outside.’
Ramsey nodded and let him pass.
Cass didn’t look back.

 

 

 

When Josh Eagleton finally came round, the first person he’d wanted to see was Cass, not his family or friends. Propped up in his hospital bed he looked pale and thin, and a good few years older than when one of Macintyre’s boys had run him down and left him for dead. He’d have scars for life, but Cass figured that wasn’t such a bad thing. Those scars would make sure he survived the next time.

It had been two weeks since Kate had died, and Cass was still nursing healing scars of his own. He’d gone back to The Bank for more answers, but surprisingly, they’d still never heard of a Mr Bright, and no one would get him a warrant to search the building. Still, he hadn’t heard from the man again. Whatever it was he wanted Cass to figure out, he’d obviously meant it when he told Cass he’d have to do it by himself. It didn’t stop Cass checking over his shoulder every now and then to see if someone was watching him.

Josh opened his eyes and Cass smiled. ‘You did good, kid. I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention. How did you know?’

Paddington Green was in a right old mess now, with half its officers under arrest or subject to investigation. When he did finally get back to work, Josh would find the situation the same. Dr Farmer was gone. He’d been in it up to his eyeballs with Bowman.

‘I get to work first. I was eager.’ The kid’s voice was dry.

‘I did a set of swabs on your brother’s wife before Dr Farmer got there. I took blood samples too.’ A small smile twitched on his tired face. ‘I wanted to impress him. When he came in, he . . . he was really agitated, and he said no one else could touch the body - he said he wanted to do it himself, out of respect for you.’ He swallowed. Cass waited patiently. This was Josh’s story and he’d tell it in his own time.

Finally, he continued, ‘I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to piss him off. But then when they said they found . . . what they did in your brother’s wife, well, I knew it couldn’t be true. The first set of swabs were clean. So I knew someone must have planted it.’

Cass remembered the cheeky flash of the camera when he’d first met this young man. He’d misjudged him. Under all that youth was a clever brain. He’d go far.

‘I think you’re in for some fast-track training when you get out of here,’ Cass said. He grinned. ‘I’ve put a word in, for what that’s worth, and let’s face it, both your office and mine are going through a staffing crisis. If you still like the job, that is.’

The young man nodded. There was still something dark in his eyes, though.

‘Something else bugging you, Josh?’

A slow nod. ‘It’s about Luke. Your nephew.’ His eyes were rolling slightly. He hit a button and the drip in his arm hissed as it pumped more morphine into his body. He licked his lips slightly.

‘You know he’s not your brother’s son, don’t you?’ The words slurred together as the painkillers took hold.

‘What did you say?’ Colours in the room sharpened.

‘He must have been adopted. His DNA was too different. Nothing to link him to your brother or his wife. You knew, right?’ Josh’s eyes closed. His breathing levelled out as he was tugged down into a drugged sleep.

Cass stared and the world shimmered. That couldn’t be right. They’d been there, in the hospital, when Luke had been born. He’d been there when Jessica had given birth to Christian’s son. If the boy on the slab at the morgue wasn’t theirs, then where was he?

He checked that Eagleton was okay, and went back outside. The cool air did nothing to fight the burn that raged through him. Solomon, Bright, and wheels within wheels. If Luke hadn’t been Christian and Jessica’s son, then what had happened to their baby? His heart thumped in his throat.

Cass felt the fingers inside pulling at him again, but this time they weren’t cold. They were warm and alive.

 

 

THE END

 

 

 

Firstly, a huge thank you to my brilliant agent Veronique Baxter at David Higham for clearly bringing me luck. Secondly, an equally big thank you to my editor Jo Fletcher for making my sentences so much better and my book stronger - (please edit these acknowledgements, ta!). Thanks also to both for the wine and the laughs and all the support; it’s great to work with people who have become good friends. For technical advice on drugs and death, I couldn’t have done without the ever-cheerful Elizabeth Hill and her veterinary expertise. The writer boys who keep me sane, MMS , Mark Morris, Tim Lebbon, Chris Golden, Graham Joyce, Guy Adams and Conrad Williams: thanks for putting up with me! My two career Yodas, Mark Chadbourn and Carole Matthews: your advice has always been invaluable, and you both rock. The Welsh Cottagers, Meloy, Neville, Greenwood, Lewis, Lockley and Volk among others - thanks for the weekends that remind me of what it’s really all about: getting the stories out the best we can. Thanks to all at the British Fantasy Society for introducing me to so many writers and making me feel at home. Huge hugs to the Dastardly, to my Slutley, Julian Simpson, for his editorial suggestions and reading the first draft when I needed an opinion, and to Beth Elliott for doing the same with the final draft. And of course, so many thanks to all the real life non-writer friends and my family who have to put up with my weirdness from day to day; there isn’t enough wine in the world, but I intend to drink it with you. I know that there are others I must have missed here - but it’s the first of a trilogy, so I will amend next time round!

Sarah Pinborough
Milton Keynes, 2009