The Chosen Seed (3 page)
‘But why did you do it?’ The question had been troubling Cass for as long as his thinking had been clear of his painkiller fugue state.
‘Dunno, really.’ Artie Mullins sniffed. ‘Call it instinct. Something about them wasn’t right. If they was looking out for you, why come through me? Why not call you themselves to get you out of Paddington before they nicked your arse?’ He pointed a thick finger at Cass. ‘Cos you wouldn’t trust ’em, that’s why. And if you didn’t trust them, then why should I?’ He grinned. ‘So I let them do the hard bit, and then took over. Figured if they were friends of yours you could find them when you were back on your feet.’ His eyes met Cass’. ‘They friends of yours?’
‘No,’ Cass said, then, ‘well, maybe. But you were right to think I wouldn’t trust them. I think they have their own agenda.’ The girl’s main interest was Luke, his nephew, abducted at birth – at least, that’s what she’d told him on the phone. Cass was just her route to him. Why was his
long-lost nephew so important to all these people? The girl and the tramp had to be linked to the Network somehow, he knew that much: maybe not on the inside like Mr Bright, but connected all the same.
‘But why did you do this
for me
?’ he asked. ‘We’re technically on opposite sides of the fence. You don’t owe me anything like this.’
‘That’s not how it works though, is it, Jonesy?’ The old man leaned back on the armchair. ‘Sometimes you’ve got to know when it’s time to take a side. And right now, you’re one man against the whole world. You’ve got no chance: you’re so deep in the shit with the Old Bill you’re making me look like an upstanding pillar of society.’ He lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Cass. ‘And more than that, son’ – he held out his lighter – ‘I don’t think you killed those men. Someone is fucking with you, and I just don’t think it’s fair that they get to have all the cards.’
‘You took a big risk, though.’
‘The coppers gave me a tug – course they did; you used to collect from me. But what could they say? I didn’t drive off with you bleeding in the back seat of my car, did I? They knew that. Plus, after all the shit with Bowman and the bonuses it didn’t take much to convince them that you and me had had a severe falling-out. They were more concerned with finding the old man and the girl in the car. I’ve kept my head down since then. I wouldn’t be here if I thought they were still on my case – or even putting too much time and money into finding you, for that matter. Two months is a long time in policing, I don’t have to tell you that. They’ll be busy managing the fall-out, running around with their arses hanging out.’
‘Still – I don’t really know what to say.’ It was the truth; Cass had never been comfortable with emotional displays –
which hadn’t helped any of his relationships – and owing anyone rankled. He couldn’t help it.
‘Don’t say anything, just get this shit sorted and then you can pay me back. It’ll be a good story to hear the end of, if nothing else. Now let’s get these mugshots done. Got the best screever in the business waiting for them – two days and you can walk out of here a new person. All right with you?’
‘All right with me, Artie.’
A
s he’d moved between the beds on the ward Hask had started sweating behind his mask and inside his gloves. The temperature in this part of the hospital must have been set at somewhere near thirty, and with all the fat coating his bones he was starting to overheat. It wasn’t a problem most of the patients shared: several were shivering, despite the medication that was no doubt intended to ease their fevers, and they were nearly all painfully thin. Those who were nearing the end of their run were sedated; little more than breathing cadavers waiting in a haze for their time to run out. He’d walked through the whole ward, spending time not just with those who were newly infected with stories to tell: he needed to try and view them as their killer had.
Once he’d signed the infection waiver form the ward sister had given him the names and bed numbers of those he needed and offered to come with him but he turned her down. She’d fetched him a cup of coffee, though, and squeezed his hand in a thank-you for what he and the police had done for poor Hannah West.
Perhaps that’s what was giving him the unusual niggle in his gut, he decided as he waited for Graham Calf to muster enough energy to continue their conversation. The last time he’d been on this ward had been to see Hannah’s body. She’d been a nurse on this ward, murdered by the serial killer who
called himself ‘the Man of Flies’. Being back here on the hunt for another murderer made him feel like they’d somehow come full circle. It also made him miss Cass Jones. Ramsey was good, but he didn’t have the hard edge that Jones did, and sometimes that was what was needed. The world was a hard place, and callous eyes were often needed to see the truth of it. Cass Jones had those.
Graham Calf’s eyes fluttered open. He was young – twenty-three, according to his medical chart – and he’d been in and out of drug programmes and hostels since he was sixteen. What had happened to Michaela Wheeler, a nice middle-class woman, had made people sit up and take notice. Graham Calf had probably never been noticed in his entire life.
Hask smiled gently and passed the boy – because he really wasn’t much more than that – the plastic cup of water from the table. His skeletal arm was so pale it was almost blue.
‘He was posh,’ Graham Calf continued. He was speaking quietly, but his dry voice cut through the gentle hum and whirr of the machinery that filled the ward. ‘Spoke well nice.’
‘Were you concerned when he offered you free drugs?’ Hask asked. ‘That can’t happen often.’
‘He said it was something new – a smack upgrade. It was cheaper, too. He said if I liked it, then he’d be back round to do a deal.’ His eyes wandered to a sad place somewhere in the distance. ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time. I was cold and jumping.’
‘And what was it he said to you that was unusual?’
‘It was after I’d injected; was feeling warmer already. It was a good buzz.’ He looked at Hask, who could see his understanding of the irony was clear. ‘He stood up and watched me for a second, then pulled his gloves on – I remember wishing he’d given me them as well – and said, “This is the word of your God. Spread it.”
‘Those were his exact words?’
‘Yeah. He said it, and then just walked away. I’d heard about a Jesus freak giving out gear – thought it was just a story, you know?’ He smiled sadly. ‘But it wasn’t just gear he was giving out, was it?’
Ignoring the protocols, Hask squeezed the boy’s hand. It was cold, as if his body had already started making preparations for the death that would soon be moving in.
‘It wasn’t your fault, son.’
Graham Calf didn’t answer, but just closed his eyes. Within a minute his breathing had slowed and he was sleeping. Hask didn’t bother waking him up – his story and description were the same; he had enough to form some kind of evaluation. He walked to the nurses’ station and then turned to look at the patients. There was no hope in this ward. He was aware of the power of being healthy among so many who’d had health stripped from them. Was that what
he
felt, that power? Is that what drove this killer? Hask dismissed the thought: this was both more and less complex than that, depending on how you looked at it.
‘How do you cope with working in this environment?’ he asked the ward sister, who smiled up from her paperwork. He imagined a lot of the nurses working here were on some variety of anti-depressant. That, or they had the natures of angels. He’d only been on the ward an hour and he could feel the emotional strain dragging him down. ‘How do
they
cope?’ he added.
‘Strangely, most of them aren’t bitter – the junkies and homeless,’ she said. ‘That helps us, because they don’t attack or lash out at us; they know we’re trying to help. But it’s terribly sad for them. I think they feel like it was their fate – they made their peace with it before it ever found them. Some people feel they have no value, I suppose.’ Her eyes strayed to
the far end of the ward, where some of the newer cases were separated by a curtain. ‘It’s worse for them. The bug is something that happens to other people in their world.’
‘Not any more,’ Hask said. ‘I think you’re going to find you have far more referrals like Mrs Wheeler.’
‘Who would do such a thing, to infect people on purpose? So callously?’
It was strange to hear her use the word he had just thought of in conjunction with Cass Jones. Well, the ex-DI was a killer, that was a matter of record, but he wasn’t like this one. They were different breeds entirely.
‘I will never be surprised by the actions of men,’ he said. ‘Or women, for that matter.’ He smiled. ‘But sometimes those surprises can be pleasant. Don’t forget that.’
He left her and made his own way out, dumping his gloves and mask in the bins at the door. He emerged from the hospital and, once outside its gates, sucked in the cold London air. It was good to be away from the quietly claustrophobic ward where he could practically
taste
death in the air. Here on the street, life and energy buzzed.
He watched the passers-by. Too many of them were smart men with neatly cut brown hair. The invisible attacker could be any one of them. A chill that had nothing to do with the crisp December morning settled in his spine. He found the idea of such a man stalking the streets and infecting strangers disconcerting. The media would whip the public up into hysteria when the story broke.
He sighed, his breath a stream of mist that reassured him of his continuing existence, and as he began to walk he tried to keep space between himself and the other pedestrians. God, he wished he were back in Sweden. London, for all the huge fees he was earning, was providing him with far more excitement than he’d ever desired.
B
y lunchtime, Cass was walking through Oxford. When he’d told Mac he was going out for the day, he’d expected more of an argument from him and the rest of Artie Mullins’ henchmen, but it looked like they were all happy to have the day off from babysitting him. Tomorrow he’d have his new identity; then he’d be free as a bird, so he figured they were seeing this as practice, maybe something like day release for long-term prisoners. It was one thing minding a bedridden patient who slept most of the day, but trying to tell a fully grown healthy alpha male what to do was too much like hard work, even if Mullins had given them their orders. Mac had put it succinctly just that morning when he’d growled, ‘How am I supposed to keep you inside? Put another bullet in you? That would somewhat defeat the purpose, don’t you think?’
Away from the capital, Cass felt the knots in his back start to loosen and he allowed himself to take in the skyline of the historic city. The freedom was strange: London was his home, and he loved it, but right now the city itself felt like his enemy: the mass of CCTV cameras, the heightened security since 26/09, meaning more police on the streets – not to mention the fact that just about every copper in London wanted to be the one to bring him in, the great DI Cass Jones, the whistle-blower, now wanted on two counts
of murder. He couldn’t blame them – he’d probably feel the same in their situation. At least the story of what he’d done undercover hadn’t come out in the papers yet; that was one small mercy. He was quite sure he’d be portrayed as the devil incarnate if it did, but someone was making sure a tight lid was kept on that. He laughed at the irony: it was the only murder of the three he’d been fingered for that he’d actually committed.
He picked up an Oxford
A-Z
at a newsagent’s and found his way to the address on the piece of paper Father Michael had given him the previous day. He’d been walking for at least an hour, and on top of the train and bus journey all the movement had left his shoulder throbbing. He felt exhausted. He hadn’t done anything more than shuffle around a flat for the best part of two months and he was weak as a kitten. He didn’t like it: if he was going to find Luke and take on Mr Bright and The Bank, he was going to need all his strength.
‘Jesus,’ he muttered as he took in the view. If the exterior of the house was anything to go by, then Father Michael’s ‘
he may just be a crackpot
’ evaluation of Dr Stuart Cornell was a massive understatement. The building itself was a pleasant enough terraced house with its own small front garden. Unlike those around it, however, there were no pot plants, or stretches of pleasantly coloured gravel tidily filling the gap between the street and the front door. The garden of Number 29 was a mass of waist-high weeds that had forced their way through the cracked paving slabs. At least they went some way to hiding the tyres and battered metal bins that littered the space. Beyond them, the bay window was an equally unprepossessing sight. The filthy paint was peeling off the rotting wood, and the glass was black on both sides, mud outside and what looked like layers of
nicotine on the inside. The tattered net curtain was entirely redundant.
He didn’t bother with the grime-coated bell – there wasn’t a hope in hell it would work – but instead rapped loudly on the door. He left it a few moments and then rapped again, and this time he heard a shuffling on the other side, and the sound of paper being moved.
‘If you’re from the council, then you can go away. They came yesterday.’
The voice was well spoken, not the Fagin Cass had been expecting from the wrecked front of the house, but there was a tremble there that he recognised instantly: fear and paranoia. This was someone not used to talking to strangers – or talking much at all.
‘I’m not from the council, Mr Cornell, I wanted to ask you—’
‘
Dr
Cornell. I have a PhD. I’m a
doctor
. You can’t keep coming round here. I have important work—’ The fragile voice was becoming more agitated. Cass slowed his own speech right down as he leaned in closer. ‘I’m just a visitor, Dr Cornell. I wanted to ask you some questions about someone.’
‘This is a trick so you can get in and take my things away.’
‘Honestly, I promise you, Dr Cornell, I’m not from the council.’ The outside of the house was a good indicator of the state of the inside. He didn’t envy whoever would eventually get in to clear out the clutter. This one was a hoarder. There was a need in the sharp edge of his voice that suggested someone desperate to make sense of things that they’d overthought. There were plenty like him among the lonely in London, people tucked away with nothing but
piles of junk for company. Maybe he’d come a long way for nothing.