The Chosen Seed (2 page)
Feeling the weight of the small suitcase in his good hand exacerbated the weakness of his left, making him feel vulnerable, but there was nothing he could do about that: he needed those photographs and documents he’d found at his parents’ house after Christian had shot himself. There were answers in the past, he was sure of it.
As the streetlights flickered on, he walked alongside the commuters making their way back from the Underground to the safety of their homes.
Despite his inclination to avoid eye contact, it was hard not to stare: why were some of them wearing surgical masks? Was this some new terrorist threat? Maybe more Interventionists at work? He really needed to watch the news. At least he wasn’t featuring on it quite so much these days, although with the corruption trials of his fellow ex-officers about to get under way, that was bound to change. He was glad the cases hadn’t been thrown out of court after he went on the run, despite the best efforts of the defence teams. That was something. Claire May, Christian, Jessica and the poor kid they’d all thought was Luke, his nephew: they deserved justice.
Passers-by gave each other broad berths and suspicious glances, pulling their coats tight around their body. Whatever was going on, maybe a new bird flu outbreak, perhaps something more sinister, the mild panic it was causing was clearly visible.
Cass finally reached the front door to his haven and knocked four times in the agreed rhythm, then waited, his eyes level with the peephole.
The door opened and Mac grinned at him through the stream of smoke coming from the cigarette clamped between the big man’s teeth. He peered up and down the street before locking up.
‘You’ve got a visitor, son,’ he said gruffly.
B
y the time he’d followed the brisk PC down to the interview rooms, Dr Tim Hask was not only out of breath, but he’d managed to spill much of the foul substance that passed for coffee in Paddington Green nick all over his shirt and vast belly. At least that would save him having to drink it, he thought stoically.
‘What’s the rush?’ he said. ‘It’s late – I was just heading home for the day. Is this about our missing friend?’ Hask kept his tone light, but he was aware of both the tension and his own conflicting emotions regarding Cass Jones. A very large part of him hoped that the ex-DI hadn’t been arrested, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.
‘No,’ DI Charles Ramsey said in his transatlantic drawl, ‘we’ve still got nothing on him.’
‘Yet,’ Armstrong added. ‘We’ll get him; I promise you that.’
Hask was sure that Armstrong was the only one of the three of them convinced of Cass Jones’ guilt, and he was also sure that Armstrong resented Hask’s and Ramsey’s hesitance in the face of overwhelming evidence. Armstrong was clearly bitter about Jones, and Hask wondered if it was in part because he envied him. People stuck by Cass. There was no way to explain to the sergeant the kind of loyalty
that Cass Jones inspired in people – he’d just have to figure that out for himself. Or not.
‘So what is it?’ Hask asked again. ‘What’s so important you need to drag me down here so urgently?’
Ramsey glanced at Armstrong before answering, ‘It’s this surge in Strain II cases. We think it’s being spread intentionally.’
‘The increase in infection is outside of the expected social groups as well as within – and it’s been getting much worse over the past month.’ Armstrong looked grim.
‘It was bound to happen – it’s human nature to be careless,’ Hask said. ‘What makes you think it’s anything other than that?’
‘The bosses have had a call from Charing Cross Hospital, someone on the bug wing. There’re two things: firstly, whatever is infecting people is still Strain II, but it’s hitting the patients harder and faster – they found that out when several sex workers developed symptoms just a week or so after they’d been pronounced clean at their regular check-ups. Until then, they had presumed these new cases had been infected for a while before they started showing.’
‘You’re saying someone’s somehow mutated the bug?’ Hask’s stomach felt heavy. Strain II was dangerous enough without people messing around with it.
‘Something’s certainly given it some punch.’
‘Like it needed it,’ Armstrong muttered.
‘Who knows about this?’ Hask asked. The increase in infection rates had been all over the news in the past few days, but he hadn’t seen anything about a mutation.
‘Everyone important,’ Ramsey said, ‘and now us.’
‘So we can presume that within twenty-four hours it’ll be public knowledge – or at least rumour.’ The profiler
sipped what was left of his coffee. ‘What was the second thing?’
‘The ward sister said she’d heard something – a similar story, from three different patients, all talking about someone who gave them drugs. It sounded odd to me.’
‘Junkie stories?’ Hask sighed. It was almost impossible to get any useful information out of addicts – especially sick ones. Their perception was generally shot to hell.
‘It’s not just junkies, not any more. We’ve had a female patient brought over. Want to hear for yourself?’
Hask smiled. ‘Lead on, Macduff.’
‘I’ve lost everything.’ Michaela Wheeler’s eyes were red-rimmed, and dark shadows sagged beneath them.
‘At least I didn’t give it to my family.’ Her voice was weary. ‘That’s one advantage of a stale marital sex life, I suppose.’ Her breath hitched. ‘But I did give it to my boss, and he gave it to
his
wife.’ She looked up hopelessly. ‘At least I won’t have to live with that guilt for long.’ She shook her head slightly. ‘Most of the time it just seems surreal.’
Her hand was shaking as she sipped her tea. That mug would go straight into the bin when she was gone; these days no one would risk reusing a mug touched by someone with Strain II, even if the chances of catching the disease that way were so remote as to be practically impossible. The only good thing about Strain II was that it made the original HIV look almost harmless in comparison.
‘How can you be sure that
he
didn’t give it to
you
?’ Hask asked gently.
‘I only slept with him once,’ she said. ‘It was two weeks after his wife had given birth to their second child – and they were both healthy. Plus, we have regular checks at work, company policy. We’d been out for a drink after work. It
was Hallowe’en, and he’d been asking if we should decorate the office, or maybe throw a party. You know, cheer people up a bit.’ She chewed her bottom lip, and Hask couldn’t stop himself hoping it wouldn’t start bleeding.
Ramsey, sitting next to him, had his arms folded. Armstrong had stayed standing by the door. Their body language said everything about how people perceived Strain II victims. Hask let his arms rest on the table and leaned in slightly. This woman was now a pariah, but he at least would do his best not to make her feel like one.
‘We ended up back at the office.’ She smiled softly. ‘It wasn’t even all that good, that’s the irony. I should have kept him in my fantasy.’ Her eyes filled slightly, but she swallowed back the tears with a sniff. ‘I’d never been unfaithful before. Not in ten years.’
‘DI Ramsey tells me that you believe someone intentionally infected you?’
‘Yes.’ She coughed – a phlegmy, wet sound – and the room flinched. Michaela Wheeler either didn’t notice or was past caring. ‘That night – although I didn’t really think about it until a nurse on the ward told me what some of the others had been saying.’
‘So, a nurse prompted this memory?’ Ramsey asked.
Hask knew what the DI was worried about: if they caught whoever was doing this, then her testimony could be ruled invalid. But the whole point was invalid, Hask wanted to say: this woman wasn’t going to live long enough to get to trial, not even if they had the offender in custody right now.
‘Do carry on,’ he said kindly.
‘We were standing outside so Bill, my boss, could smoke. Our drinks were on the windowsill. It was quite crowded, and I didn’t really notice the man behind me until Bill went in to use the loo – then he came and stood beside me and
clinked bottles. He was drinking Stella, like me, and he wished me happy Hallowe’en.’ She frowned slightly, lost in the memory. ‘I smiled at him, then we both drank. It was after that he said the funny thing – weird funny, not ha-ha.’
‘After you drank?’ Ramsey asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And what did he say?’ Hask said. ‘Exactly, if you can remember.’
‘I can remember. I think I’ll always remember. He said, “For this is the word of your God. Spread it.” It was strange. He walked away after that and I was glad because it was creepy. Then Bill came back, and, well, you know … it went out of my head.’
‘And you think he might have put something in your beer?’ Ramsey was leaning forward now, his curiosity overcoming his fear.
‘I’m sure he did. It would have been easy because my bottle was on the windowsill behind me. He was drinking the same beer.’
Hask could see Ramsey visualising the scene. Michaela Wheeler was clearly an intelligent woman, and there was no reason for her to lie.
‘What did this man look like?’ Hask’s nerves tingled. This
was
shaping up to be interesting. He might have to forgive Ramsey after all.
‘Respectable,’ she said. ‘More than respectable, actually. He was thin, but his hair was cut well. He was dressed smartly. He didn’t look out of place. Until he spoke I’d have said he was like us, I guess: middle class, relatively successful, doing okay all things considered.’
‘Can you give us more physical details?’ Ramsey pressed her a little. ‘Like how old he was? Skin colour?’
‘He was white, early thirties, maybe. Thin, as I said, even
slightly gaunt. Chestnut hair with no grey in it. Short – with a side parting, I think. That’s about it.’
‘Was he wearing a suit?’
‘He had a long overcoat on and just a sweater and shirt underneath, but with smart trousers. He looked like part of the office crowd, but someone doing well. Someone’s boss—’
A coughing fit came out of nowhere and her eyes and nose streamed as she desperately tried to clear her lungs. Hask handed her his handkerchief, not that it would help her much. The WPC at the back of the small room looked as if she wanted to climb into the wall.
‘I think we’ve got enough, don’t you think?’ Hask asked Ramsey.
‘We’ll get you back to Charing Cross now, Mrs Wheeler,’ the DI said. ‘Can you organise that, Armstrong?’
The woman recovering her breath looked like she might cry again.
Hask and Ramsey hung back in the corridor as the others left.
‘Poor woman,’ Hask said. ‘She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Frightening.’
‘That’s what this man is banking on, don’t you think?’
‘Could be,’ Hask agreed. ‘I think I might take a trip up to the Strain II wing myself in the morning. I want to hear more of these stories before I start evaluating.’
‘You sure you want to go up there?’ Ramsey asked.
‘People work there every day, Detective Inspector, and they don’t catch anything. Hysteria is far more infectious than the bug.’
‘Yeah,’ Ramsey mused as they watched Michaela Wheeler haul herself up the stairs at the other end, oblivious to the
PC waiting for her to get round the corner before he started disinfecting the railing. ‘But the bug is pretty damned infectious – and this version is twice as mean.’
Hask thought the American had a point, but there were some things you couldn’t learn from hearing stories secondhand. Everyone’s perceptions were different, and often what he needed was all in the nuance.
‘Do you fancy a beer tomorrow night?’ Hask asked.
‘Sure,’ Ramsey answered cheerfully, ‘if you’re not checked in to Charing Cross yourself by then.’
‘Ha-bloody-ha.’
‘Good. I’ll give you a call later.’
They left the obvious subject of their pub meeting unsaid; it wasn’t necessary. Whenever they were away from work their conversation invariably swung round to trying to figure out what happened to Cassius Jones, and where the hell he might be.
‘Y
ou look like a right poof with your hair like that,’ Arthur – Artie to his mates – Mullins laughed. ‘I wouldn’t have recognised you.’
‘Good to see you, too.’ Cass sat down opposite the old London gangster and smiled. Mac brought in two glasses of brandy from the kitchen before disappearing again and the two men tapped their drinks together before swallowing.
‘The boys tell me you’ve been out and about. Ready to fly the nest, then?’
‘I’ve got things to do. You know how it is.’
‘Too right I do.’ Mullins was laughing again, a good earthy no-nonsense sound. ‘Your life is nothing if not interesting, Jonesy. Fucked-up, maybe, but interesting. I’m getting a passport and driver’s licence sorted for you. I’ll take some pictures before I go. I’d tell you to make yourself look pretty, but you’ve already taken care of that. How’s the shoulder?’
‘Getting there – a way to go until I’m back fighting fit,’ he admitted, wiggling the fingers of his left hand. Cass felt a little awkward now, as if the debt of gratitude he owed Artie had changed their relationship. Now he swallowed his pride and said, ‘Thanks for everything you’ve done, Artie. I will pay you back for all this. When I’m sorted.’
‘No problem – and technically,
I
didn’t do nothing – I might’ve sent the boys after them, but I kept meself at a
safe distance. Better all round, don’t you think?’
Cass had no recollection of the events between falling, wounded, into the car with the tramp and the woman, and waking up in a makeshift sickbed in the flat before this one. From what he’d gathered talking to Mac, Artie hadn’t been that impressed by the pair’s interest in Cass Jones. He’d given them a car, yes – but he’d also had another two following them. No one knew the streets of London like Artie Mullins’ men and it hadn’t been long before they’d found themselves in a poor CCTV area, when they’d blocked the car in, stuck guns in the strangers’ faces and taken Cass. What exactly had happened to the old violinist and the beautiful woman, no one – including Artie – appeared to know. The police hadn’t found them; just the abandoned car.
