The Chosen Seed (20 page)
It’s the Rapture
, he’d said.
It’s coming
.
Climbing the stairs, Mr Bright was surprised to find himself thinking of Cassius Jones. The wild card. He lay down, shut his eyes and tried to sleep.
He
might be coming, but there were still moves in this game to be played out. And Mr Bright had learned to play the game well.
I
t was a clear, bright December morning, but there was no hint of that inside Dr Richard Shearman’s house. All the curtains were drawn, and the narrow beams of light that managed to creep through the cracks illuminated hundreds of dust motes, hanging in the air. Hask sat on the sofa and Ramsey joined him. There were sweat patches under Shearman’s arms, and he fiddled with his hands – he was surprisingly nervous for a man who’d already been charged.
Hask smiled at him.
He didn’t smile back. ‘What do you want?’ Shearman glanced over to the covered windows and then back again. He’d ushered them inside the house very quickly, and he clearly wasn’t happy about the visit. Did he think he was being watched?
‘You could be more polite,’ Ramsey said. ‘At least you’re not on remand in prison – trust me, this is better.’
‘That had nothing to do with you,’ Shearman snapped. ‘Everyone knows I’m no risk – the judge was quite clear on that. I’m as gutted as everyone else that those kids killed themselves weeks after leaving my facility; all I did was try to help cure them of their phobias. All you’ve got is some discrepancies with cash payments and records, and I’ve got nothing more to add to my version of events.’ He spat out the well-rehearsed speech, and then stared at them defiantly.
There was something rather childish about it, Hask decided. Dr Shearman was not a strong man.
‘Tell us about Mr Bright,’ Hask asked quietly.
‘I don’t know anyone by that name,’ he snapped, but the doctor’s physical reaction told a different story: he’d recoiled as if punched.
Hask fought the urge to look over at Ramsey. On their way over he and the DI had agreed that to get any truth out of Shearman, usable or not, they were going to have to hit him hard and fast, take him off guard. He wasn’t sure either of them had expected their ploy to work quite so quickly. Dr Shearman definitely knew a Mr Bright, as evinced by the man’s wide eyes and growing sweat patches.
‘Why would DI Cass Jones have been so interested in you?’ Ramsey took up the baton and Shearman’s head whipped round to him.
He swallowed, and started, ‘What do you mean? He was in charge of the suicides investigation—’
‘But it wasn’t through
that
investigation that he found you, was it?’ Ramsey smiled, and leaned forward, as if inviting a confidence. ‘He found
you
through a private investigator he’d hired to track his missing nephew. The link to the suicides was just a bonus, I believe.’
Shearman’s reaction was more contained this time – he was definitely on his guard now – but it was still there: the dilation of the pupils; the half-second drop of his mouth as he struggled to find something to say. They were just small tics, but they were as clear as day to the profiler.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said at last.
‘Ah, but your face tells a different story,’ Hask said.
‘Why aren’t you out looking for Jones, anyway?’ Shearman snapped. ‘Why are you here bothering me? He’s a murderer, I’m not. I’ve never been in a day’s trouble in my
life until this … this
situation
happened. I’ve got a good mind to call my lawyer and tell him you’re harassing me—’
Ramsey laughed, cutting the rant off. ‘I think you’ll find one pre-trial visit doesn’t count as harassment.’ His smile dropped. ‘But yes, you do make a valid point: Cassius Jones is wanted for the direct murder of two people and the organised murder of another. Two of those people he killed because he believed they had something to do with the missing baby. Just like he thinks you did.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Shearman had paled further.
‘Oh, but you do. Jones might have gone off the rails quite dramatically, but he was always a good copper, and he must have had a reason to have been looking for you that day. I’ve been wondering what he said to you in the interview room – he didn’t record it, and there must have been a reason for that.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Shearman muttered. The fight was gone from his voice and he was withdrawing into himself.
‘Looking at you, I find myself confused,’ Hask said softly. Shearman looked over at him and he continued, ‘We spent some time last night going through your files. I saw your initial mugshots – I must say, you look quite different now. You’ve lost a lot of weight. Your pallor and the bags under your eyes would suggest you haven’t been sleeping very much at all. Your clothes are now too big for you, but I note you haven’t been shopping to replace them. So you’re not going out, but at the same time your house isn’t exactly spotless, if you don’t mind me pointing this out. I could go on, but that’s already more than enough to tell me that you’re feeling either fear and paranoia or guilt – and there’s
a good chance it’s all three. And if you haven’t done anything to feel guilty about, as you keep repeating, then I have to wonder what – or
who
– it is that you’re so afraid of?’
‘Prison.’ There had been a whisper of hesitation before the word.
‘No, I’m not buying that: your lawyers are all over the fact that those students killed themselves weeks after leaving your facility, and despite the links between them, there is only circumstantial evidence to prove that your phobia therapy had anything to do with their actions. It’s clear they took their own lives, and without any definite proof, the court will have a hard time convicting you. You’ll probably get two or three years, tops, in one of our more polite prisons. So for a man who could have been facing the death penalty, or at least life imprisonment, that’s going to feel like a walk in the park. You’re far from broke, and even if you never work again, you’ll survive that period and get out to a comfortable existence and before long all this will be forgotten.’ Hask had kept his voice low and pleasant. ‘None of that warrants this level of fear. If you tell us what’s frightening you so much, then we might be able to help you.’
It was Shearman’s turn to snort out an unpleasant hiccough of a laugh. ‘
You
can’t protect me – Jones told me as much.’
‘You’re afraid Cass Jones is going to come after you?’ Ramsey asked.
‘Not him.’
There was a long pause.
‘Mr Bright?’ Hask said.
Shearman’s eyes glistened as they watered. He wasn’t going to cry, but he was close.
Trapped
, that was the word Hask would use: the man looked trapped.
‘I’m not saying anything.’
‘We can’t help you if you don’t tell us.’
Shearman stared at Ramsey as if weighing something up and for a moment, Hask thought he was actually going to break down and finally start talking, but then he squared his shoulders and stood up. ‘I’d like you to leave now,’ he said, ‘or I will call my lawyer.’ The moment was over.
‘And?’
They’d driven further down the road before stopping so that Ramsey could call Perry Jordan and get the information they required. Ramsey flipped the phone shut.
‘The Bank are the ultimate funding behind Flush 5, who own Shearman’s facility. But he says you wouldn’t find that out easily; there’s a whole network of companies dividing the two. He said Jones warned him off digging around The Bank too deeply but there was plenty about it that made him want to. Doesn’t surprise me, though. Damned institutions. You can’t trust any of them.’
Hask stared ahead, his stomach rumbling. ‘So let’s get this straight. We can presume from Shearman’s reaction that he knows this mystery Mr Bright. Adam Bradley knew him. If we believe Cass’ account of the phone conversation – and we’ve got no reason not to – then Solomon, the Man of Flies, knew him pretty well too. Solomon worked at The Bank, right?’
‘Yes. And so did Christian Jones – he was headhunted in 2010, so he must have been damned good at his job.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t read too much into everything coming back to The Bank. After all, The Bank has its fingers in all the world’s pies these days.’
‘There’s more,’ Ramsey said, turning the car’s engine back on. ‘I’ve still got all Jones’ emails on my system – I had to wade through them all when he disappeared. I went through
them again last night, just out of curiosity. I did a search on The Bank and on Mr Bright.’
‘And?’ Hask looked over at the soft-voiced American DI.
‘I was waiting to see whether Shearman knew our man or not before I said anything, but during the Man of Flies investigation Cass Jones got Claire May to email The Bank to see if they had a Mr Castor Bright on their employment records. This was just before the Bright line of inquiry was pulled.’
‘Did she get an answer?’
‘Yes. They said they didn’t have anyone of that name in their employment.’
‘Bugger.’ Hask sighed. His stomach rumbled again. Thinking always made him hungry – although, to be fair, most things made him hungry. Life was short and bitter enough without denying yourself the pleasure of food. ‘But still, interesting that Cass thought he might work there.’
‘Something struck me when you asked Shearman about Bright. Something about that request Jones gave Claire May.’
‘Go on.’ Now he was curious; what had he missed?
‘He asked her to find out about a Mr Castor Bright.’ He looked over at Hask, but the profiler stared back blankly.
‘Don’t you get it?’ Ramsey continued. ‘How the hell did Cass know the man’s first name? Adam Bradley didn’t mention it.’
Hask’s hunger was momentarily forgotten.
Castor
Bright. Unusual name – but Ramsey was right, how had Cass found it? ‘Solomon’s phone call?’
‘No, can’t be: he asked May to check before the call had taken place.’
‘And we know Perry Jordan didn’t do any checks for him. So Cass found something out by himself, away from the investigation.’ He looked out at London as it sped past his
window. In the car time felt as if it were standing still.
‘So,’ he said softly, ‘Mr Bright had a film of the boys being shot and gave it to Cass. He knew Solomon, who wanted Cass on the Flies case. He knew Dr Shearman, who Cass believes had something to do with his nephew being swapped.’ He paused. ‘He’s like a puppet-master, wouldn’t you say? Pulling Cass’ strings – playing with him? Maybe he killed those men and made it look like Cass had.’
‘But why? Who the hell is he?’ Ramsey asked.
‘That, my dear Detective Inspector, is what we need to find out.’ Hask grinned. ‘Let’s go and see the DCI. What we’ve got may be circumstantial, but there’s plenty of it. And it’s nearly lunchtime. We can grab something lovely to eat on the way. I’m on expenses. Let’s use them.’
O
ne thing Cass had learned on the Force was that the recession was good at making criminals out of ordinary people. There were no taxes to be paid on illegal earnings, and as the world had sunk into debt, so the basic tax rate had risen. Diana Jacobs, Brian Freeman’s inside woman at The Bank, lived in a rented apartment in Islington. It was relatively spacious and nicely done up, but nothing too flash – quite like the woman herself, who was somewhere in her twenties, somewhere in the ordinary range, and no one you would overly notice in a crowd. There was nothing about her or her home that might draw any unwarranted attention from her employer.
Cass imagined that she was being paid well by Freeman, but she was bright enough to show no signs of any extra wealth. No doubt there was a separate bank account somewhere that was filling up nicely for Miss Jacobs.
Freeman had arranged for another flat to be available for them within the same apartment block, where they could meet and do what was needed without occasioning any noticeable change to Diana’s daily routine. Cass was impressed with Freeman’s excessive caution and attention to detail – but then, he was the only person other than Cass himself who understood how Mr Bright worked. Underestimating him could be fatal. Cass had done it himself and
now he was on the run for murders he hadn’t committed.
Mr Bright’s eyes were everywhere.
The owner of this second flat had been persuaded to leave his keys behind while he enjoyed a two-week holiday. Cass doubted he’d taken much persuading: a paid trip, some cash in hand, and more as a bonus when he got back, no names, no pack drill: easy.
‘There you go.’ Diana Jacobs handed round the mugs of coffee and Cass took one. Maric gestured and she put his down on the table. He had her laptop open.
‘What time do you normally get up?’ he asked.
‘About now. Why?’ Diana said.
‘Would you normally log into work first thing?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘There’s no such thing as time off at The Bank. If you’re awake, you’re working, and if you’re asleep you should be dreaming about it.’ She looked over at Brian Freeman. ‘I’m very much looking forward to handing in my notice and disappearing off into the sunset.’ She dropped the old man a wink, and in that split second as her eyes lit up and she grinned impishly, Cass realised that he’d been wrong, there was something very special about her. She’d worked hard to make herself seem quite ordinary.
‘Good.’ Maric’s eyes were focused on the machine. ‘We don’t want them to find anything suspicious about you when all this shit hits the fan.’ He typed in her username and password. ‘Let’s have a look at you,’ he muttered, ‘see what you’re made of.’
‘If it’s all right with you lot,’ Diana said, ‘I’m going back to bed. Wake me when there’s something interesting to tell me.’ She turned and headed off in the direction of one of the other rooms. There was something sultry in her stride, and Cass would have put money on that not being the walk she used in the corridors of The Bank. It could, of course,
be that it had just been a very long time since he’d had sex. He didn’t think so, though. Diana Jacobs was a woman of layers.
The hacker lit up a cigarette and held it between his teeth as his fingers whizzed over the keys. He was totally absorbed in his exploration of the computer. Cass lit one of his own and headed into the kitchen. It felt strange just sitting and watching someone working; although Maric wasn’t showing any signs of it bothering him, Cass wouldn’t have liked it if their roles had been reversed. And this wasn’t going to be a quick job, anyone could see that. At least these past two months had taught him a little patience. He was getting better at biding his time.
