A Matter of Blood (43 page)

As he left his second sobbing man of the day behind he figured it didn’t much matter. There was no good way of accepting what they’d done. Cass felt sick, any brief moment of sympathy he’d had for these men and the mess they’d created long gone. They weren’t bad men, just weak, and somehow that made what they’d done more terrible, unforgivable. Their children had died for their weakness. Acid burned up his throat.

He felt the cold fingers of the two boys tightening around his heart as Claire came outside and stood next to him. The truth might be out, but how could that ever be enough to satisfy the ghosts of those boys’ lost years? That haunted him.

‘You okay?’ Claire touched his arm. Her hand was hot, or his own skin had gone cold. He couldn’t tell which.

‘Yeah,’ he lied. ‘You?’

She smiled wanly. ‘You got them. You were right.’

He tried to smile back, but the victory was hollow. Children killed by their own fathers; unwittingly sacrificed. There was no pleasure to be gained from that. He wished Bowman had been right, that it had been a botched hit on a gangster. A terrible accident was something they could all live with. As it was, this would be one of those cases that stained everyone who came near it, even innocent Claire, with her touching faith in right and wrong and black and white. Once the thrill of closing the case had passed she’d find her sleep restless, and she wouldn’t be able to put her finger on why: a silent haunting down through the years until she finally came to realise - as she would, in this bloody job - that black and white are easy to live with; it’s the shades of grey that give you nightmares.

‘Get Blackmore to show them the film,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I’ve got to go out.’ Despite his calm voice, his hands were trembling at his sides. ‘Bowman can explain to Morgan exactly how he fucked up, and I want Blackmore to sit in each of those fucking cells and show those bastards what they did.’ God, he needed a cigarette. ‘They’ve fucking earned that right.’ The small, cold fingers slowly released their grip and slid away into the darkness inside him. The dead were vengeful; Cass thought perhaps he’d given them what they wanted. He’d given them everything he could, anyway.

He couldn’t look at Claire; he didn’t want to see her looking at him as if she saw something bad below the surface of his skin: a man she didn’t understand at all.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I have to go and see their wives and tell them what their haircuts have cost them.’

She flinched. ‘That’s not fair, Cass. They didn’t do this.’ So much pity in her voice. Was it for the families, or for him? ‘They’ve lost their children
and
their husbands in one fell swoop.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. Clara Jackson and Eleanor Miller are victims too.’ So why did he feel so angry at them? Was this his own resentment at Kate coming out to play? There were parallels between them, that was for sure. Kate had always pushed him to climb the ladder. She was desperate to fit in with the best people, to have the best things. She wanted him to be
successful
. Well, it hadn’t worked for him, and it hadn’t worked for Isaac Jackson or Paul Miller. He remembered Kate’s face when those dreams had been destroyed. He remembered the feel of the trigger as he squeezed it. They were all steeped in blood.

‘Just make sure they see that film.’

Claire nodded. Even she wouldn’t argue with him in this mood. He walked away without looking back.

 

He had one more thing to do before heading out to wreck what was left of the women’s lives. He went to the busy first floor, where people were too busy running around chasing reports of domestic violence and stolen cars to pay any attention to a phone call. He flipped open his mobile and called Artie Mullins. If Jackson and Miller hadn’t set him up, whoever had was still out there. Only one person appeared to have any idea about who that might be, and he was lying in a hospital bed.

Artie was as straightforward as ever, and with no real questions asked. Cass knew that one day he was likely to call in a huge favour, and that he was going to have to oblige, but worrying about that could wait.

‘What’s this kid’s name?’

‘Josh Eagleton. He’s in a coma in the ICU.’

‘Not a problem,’ Artie said. ‘I’ll get some people over there.’

‘Nothing obvious, though. I don’t want anyone asking questions.’

‘Trust me, your lot won’t even know we’ve got anyone there - but your boy will be safe as houses.’ His strong London accent didn’t mask his genuine concern. ‘You getting all this shit sorted out, Jonesy?’

‘Let’s hope so, Artie. Let’s fucking hope so.’

 

Ramsey was loitering outside the building. Cass saw him flick a cigarette aside before he turned to go back inside. He didn’t smile; his face was a mask of tight lines.

‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ Cass said.

‘I don’t. Just once in a blue moon, when I think my choices are that or punch someone more senior than me. The cigarette becomes the lesser of two evils.’

‘What’s up?’ Cass wasn’t sure he wanted to ask. He was weighed down with enough this afternoon.

‘It turns out no one’s in that much of a hurry to get me that search warrant for your brother’s computer. Not that there’ll be anything left on it by now.’ He grimaced with frustration. ‘I’ve just sorted out another CSU to go through the house again and see if there’s anything they missed that might give us a clue who tried to make you look dirty, and how. There must be
something
they didn’t pick up on.’ He sighed. ‘It looked so open and shut - sorry, Cass - that maybe the team didn’t hunt so hard first time round. You know how it is. Everyone wants it to be easy.’

Cass lit a cigarette of his own and now Ramsey really looked at him.

‘You’re not in too great a mood yourself. What’s up?’

‘I’m just going to see Clara Jackson and Eleanor Miller, to tell them that their husbands are responsible for the deaths of their children.’ His fingers were still cold and trembling.

‘
Jesus Christ!
What the fuck happened?’

Cass looked at the other DI . In the late afternoon sunlight it looked as if the slightest yellow wash was drifting into the air from the corners of Ramsey’s eyes. He didn’t want to look at it. It wasn’t there. He shook his head. It was all he could manage.

‘You know what,’ Ramsay said, ‘I’ve got an hour to kill before anyone even thinks about giving me any paperwork that’s any use. I’ll drive you.’

‘It’s okay. They’ve both got WPCs with them. I’ll be fine.’

‘This isn’t about you.’ Ramsey started down the stairs towards the car park. ‘I want to hear the story, and I’m fucking bored of just hanging around here doing fuck all - what a waste of a great police brain.’ He laughed drily as a car bleeped and flashed its lights in friendly greeting. ‘Get in.’

 

 

 

The heavy doors shut with a thud that vibrates through his long fingers. He looks at the old wood for a long second, surprised by the sudden wave of sadness. The world on the other side is gone for him now. He will look upon it no more. Although his sadness surprises him, he knows it doesn’t matter
. Nothing is sacred.
It is a rotting world. Nothing is good, nothing is bad. None of it should ever have been. Even its Gods are dying.

The vicar recognises him and his face bursts into a smile. He is not an old man, and there are times he can look quite boyish, even in the sombre uniform of the church. Solomon smiles back and the good Reverend’s expression falters. The women had been the same, their adoring faces dropping in that moment of realisation that this man was something they could
never
understand. But still they had done as they were told, mute in his presence.

 

The car crawled through the traffic just beyond the Marylebone Flyover. Horns blared loudly, as if they could somehow clear the blockage with their mechanical rage alone. Cass didn’t mind. It was better than the silence that filled the car. He’d finished the awful, pathetic story of what really happened to John Miller and Justin Jackson, but he felt as if by sharing it he’d spread the germs of a disease that would infect and rot all those it touched for years to come. His mouth tasted like he’d been spitting out grave dirt with every word. The fingers of the dead were restless, tearing at him from the inside out. Maybe he was finally cracking up.

There was a red heat burning in him that he hadn’t felt since those dark days when he didn’t know who was more real, Charlie Sutton or Cass Jones, just that they both had blood on their hands. That sense that the world somehow existed apart from him was returning; though he’d somehow forgotten the bleakness of that isolation, it was clawing him back. His family were all dead, his wife was a stranger, and he dreamed most nights of a dead man’s eyes meeting his. He, Jackson, Miller, Solomon . . . how different were they? How different was anyone? The world was grey, and all he could see through the glass was weakness . . . so many people with so many weaknesses. It made him feel sick. His hands were still cold.

His phone buzzed in his pocket twice before he even realised it was ringing. He looked at the screen and warmth trickled into his fingers. He stared at the unknown number.

‘Jones.’

‘Do you think the final day is always the most beautiful? Or does it just seem that way?’ The words came slowly, followed by a soft laugh. Cass was aware of his other arm reaching over and frantically signalling Ramsey to pull over while the rest of him was sucked into the phone call.

‘Perception is a strange thing. It makes truth of lies and lies of truths. Can you spot a liar, Detective Inspector?’

‘We’re all liars, Solomon. Keep the fortune cookie shit for someone who cares.’

Ramsey’s eyes flashed as he turned to watch Cass.

‘Do you think it’s a beautiful day, Cassius, or are you starting to see the world through my eyes? A world covered in so much dirt it chokes us all.’