The Chosen Seed (26 page)

‘No, not him,’ Wharton mumbled, ‘wrong car. That’s one of those that only just went in. Look – own clothes.’

He was right. The middle-aged couple inside the sleek Mercedes were sitting in silence as they pulled away. Whatever they’d seen inside hadn’t cheered them up.

‘Our guy drives a Saab,’ Wharton said. ‘I don’t think he’s going to be coming out until the end of the day. What do you reckon? Eight-hour shift? Or twelve?’

‘They came in when the others left, so my money’s on twelve. We’ll be sitting here till seven.’

‘I can wait,’ Cass said. He hoped they had enough time. How long would it be before Mr Bright showed up here? He stared at the building. He’d get Luke out, one way or another – even if they had to get the guns out of the boot and blast their way in. The Network had kept the Jones boy for long enough.

Toby Armstrong was just returning from the bar with his second pint when he froze, his glass forgotten in his hand. A few moments more and he would have missed it completely. He leaned forward so that his nose was almost
touching the window, his eyes wide. A man stood on the step of Moneypenny’s and glanced around him. Armstrong’s mouth dropped open slightly.

That
couldn’t
be – it didn’t make sense. He slowly put his drink down and focused as his heart thumped fast and his face tingled. Was that really him? The face was thinner, and he looked more diminutive than the sergeant had expected.

The man pulled open the door and went inside. Armstrong stared after him as his head spun. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from this stakeout, but a collision of cases wasn’t one of them.
The door is open
. The thought struck him suddenly: the man hadn’t touched the intercom button, at least as far as Armstrong had seen, which must mean that the door was unlocked. He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and rang through to the station. He needed back-up.

The call made, he went out onto the cold street, his hands clenching in his pockets. His breath came out in impatient bursts of steam as two minutes ticked by with no sound of approaching sirens. They’d told him to wait – he
should
wait; that was the professional thing to do. But his gut was screaming out for him to take action. Moneypenny’s was a confined space – the man would be easier to detain inside if he made a run for it; out here, he could get lost in the masses of Christmas shoppers. He bit down on his lip. Still no sirens.

‘Fuck it,’ he muttered, and crossed the road.

‘Is that you, mate?’ Artie Mullins looked up from his desk when he heard the door above bang closed and footsteps coming down into the basement bar. ‘I’m in the office.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’re early! That makes a fucking nice change. Wasn’t expecting you for at least thirty—’ His words
drained away as the slight figure stepped into the windowless room. Even from six feet away, Artie could smell the sickness emanating from him. His mouth dried. The man was thinner, and his head of hair wasn’t as full as it was in the pictures that filled every red-top and a fair few of the broadsheets, but it was definitely him: the Angel of Death.

‘You won’t mind if I don’t shake your hand?’ he said. He stayed in his seat and although he kept his eyes on his unwelcome visitor, he mentally went through his options should the man lunge at him. Physically, he had the advantage, but one wrong move that resulted in a drop of saliva or blood in the wrong place and he would be getting measured for his coffin. And that wasn’t the way he saw the rest of his life panning out, thank you very much.

‘Very droll,’ the man said. ‘You must be Arthur Mullins.’ He smiled. His teeth looked far too large for his receding gums to manage. ‘I presume you know who I am?’

‘By reputation.’ Artie was glad his voice was steady despite the healthy burst of fear he was feeling. ‘But I’d prefer a name.’

‘You can call me Mr Craven.’

‘All right then, Mr Craven.’ Artie leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on his knees. It was a relaxed pose, but chosen carefully. Mr Craven had his own hands in his coat pockets, and fuck only knew what he was holding in them. If he came at him, Artie would take him out at the ankles. The man would fall and his hands would go down to protect himself, that was human instinct, and close as this man obviously was to death, the old gangster would bet he wasn’t quite ready to give up on what was left of his life. ‘So, Mr Craven, what the fuck are you doing in my club? You didn’t wander in here by accident, did you?’

Craven smiled again, an uncomfortable mix of bitterness
and superiority: this was a bloke who was used to having people do
exactly
what he told them, and with no questions asked. Artie should have felt some sense of kindred spirit, but his gut told him that he was miles apart from this dying man. This man was
cruel
, he could see that in his yellowing eyes. There was no honour there. Artie Mullins wouldn’t have liked this man when he was healthy; he sure as fuck didn’t like him now he was dying – and even more dangerous.

‘No, Mr Mullins, I did not.’ He swayed slightly, then straightened himself, but his eyes didn’t waver; they stayed fixed on Artie. ‘And you have nothing to fear. The kind of word I wish you to spread for me is entirely lacking in metaphor.’ He let out a laugh that sounded almost girlish.

Artie kept the grimace of revulsion off his face. Mr Craven might say he had nothing to fear, but people like him changed their minds fast.

‘I wish to speak to Cass Jones,’ Mr Craven said.

‘What?’ The completely unexpected demand knocked him off guard and he sank back in his chair. ‘What the hell have you got to do with Cass Jones?’

‘You can give him this as a token of my goodwill.’ Mr Craven pulled his left hand free of his pocket and took something from around his neck. It was a small silver datastick attached to a delicate chain. He held it up and it sparkled in the light. Then he slowly leaned forward and placed it on the desk. Artie was pleased that Craven was at least a little wary of him too.

‘Why would I put you and Jones in touch?’ Artie didn’t touch the datastick; taking it would amount to a deal being made, and they were far from that. For one thing he wasn’t even sure that he and Cass were on speaking terms any more – not after he’d handed him over to Freeman. Still,
the worst Cass’d got there was a bit of a kicking, and even he’d put his hands up and say he’d deserved that. Yeah, Artie reasoned in that split second of thought, he could get this man to Cass. But right now, he had no inclination to do so. Craven stank of all manner of bad. ‘What makes you think I even know where he is?’

An icy draught crept into the office. He was sure he’d heard the door close upstairs, but the sick man must have left it ajar. Artie didn’t mind. The cool air was a welcome break from the sick man’s stench.

‘We do not have time for these games,’ Mr Craven said. ‘I certainly don’t. I think you know far more than you share, Mr Mullins, and I am fine with that, of course. I have no problem with secrets – that is the very reason I wish to speak to Jones: in order to share some with him.’

‘What kind of secrets?’

There was a quiet thud on the stairs and Artie felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Craven had closed the door properly, but now someone else had come in, and it couldn’t be Mac, because he wouldn’t be coming down so cautiously.

‘The only ones that really matter,’ Mr Craven said, his smile stretching. ‘Just tell him I have all the answers, and I wish to share them with him.’

‘Why would you do that?’

Mr Craven hadn’t moved, nor was he giving any indication that he’d heard anyone coming slowly down the stairs, and for a second or two Artie wondered if he’d imagined the noise. For now he would keep the sick man talking while he figured out exactly how to play this.

‘I’m dying,’ Mr Craven said, ‘and I don’t intend to go quietly. What’s that old adage? If I’m going down they’re all coming with me? It’s something like that.’ He gasped
for breath suddenly, and the unhealthy sound made Artie flinch. ‘Cass Jones is angry enough to do what I can’t.’

‘I really don’t know what you’re going on about.’

‘To be fair,’ Mr Craven said, ‘you don’t need to. Mr Jones will. But here’s one thing you will understand.’ A shadow fell across the doorway and Artie did his best not to look at it. Whoever was hovering out there couldn’t be any worse than his current visitor.

‘I know that he has been set up for those murders,’ Mr Craven continued, ‘and I know by whom, as I am sure he does. What is clear from his current actions, however, is that he has neither proof nor witnesses. If he agrees to meet me, I will give him both.’

‘Like I said,’ Artie said, raising his voice slightly, ‘I don’t know where Cass Jones is, and after all the problems with the bonuses, he’s no friend of mine.’

‘Nobody move.’

Mr Craven’s head whipped sideways, and the condescending laugh about to spill from his lips stopped short before it made a sound.

Artie looked up. ‘I’m not normally pleased to see you lot,’ he said, surprised at how much relief was buzzing through his veins. He might well have got in touch with Jones; it would have been up to Cass whether he wanted to meet the bloke or not. But he
really
didn’t want to be breathing the same air as the bug-infected man any longer. ‘I’ll make an exception today.’

The young man took a small step forward and Artie saw the gun in his hand. So did Craven. The danger wasn’t over yet; this could still play out a million ways. He stayed in his seat. Something would kick off, and if he didn’t get an opportunity to leg it up the stairs and out on the street first,
he’d decide on his own course of action then. There were times when just getting the fuck out of somewhere was the best solution.

‘What’s going on here?’ The policeman – Artie couldn’t remember his name, but he’d seen him often enough since Cass did his runner – spoke calmly, but he was obviously nervous, judging by the way his Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down.

‘Just a little private business,’ Mr Craven said. ‘Why don’t you run along and leave us to it?’

‘He’s looking for Cass Jones,’ Artie said.

‘So I heard.’

Artie felt another small wave of relief. If the copper had heard that, then he’d have heard Artie saying he didn’t know where Cass was – and why would he lie to a man carrying the modern plague and who’d proved he wasn’t shy about sharing it?

‘I am telling you to leave.’ Mr Craven hadn’t even looked in Artie’s direction since the copper had arrived, and his initial surprise had been replaced by something much more malign. ‘It will be better for everyone if you do.’ His voice was icy. ‘Especially you.’

‘I’m arresting you on the charge of multiple murder.’ The policeman might have been holding the gun, but he was getting more nervous with every second. Artie didn’t blame him: it was very obvious Mr Craven was a dangerous man – and verging on the insane, if he wasn’t mistaken.

‘Well, you do have the gun,’ Mr Craven said idly, ‘so I suppose it’s game over. I’ve had a good run at things, though, wouldn’t you say?’

Too many things happened in an instant. The first was Mr Craven’s tone of voice, simply lulling the policeman into thinking he’d won. The second, the door upstairs thumping
loudly against the wall as it was flung open and heavy feet tromping down the stairs towards them.

‘
Armstrong? Armstrong, are you down there?
’

Armstrong. Sergeant Toby Armstrong: that was his name. Cold air washed into the small room, and a smile crossed the copper’s face. He’d thought he’d won. Artie’s heart was racing and his mouth started to open, to warn the youngster not to let his guard down, the fat lady wasn’t singing yet, but Mr Craven let out a yowl and suddenly the world was filled with light—

Artie raised an arm to protect his eyes from the brightness and for a moment Toby Armstrong was just a black outline, frozen in the doorway, and then he vanished, swallowed up in glimpses of claws and searing white sharpness, and the awful, loud beating of wings. Artie closed his eyes against the blinding light and pressed his hands into his ears. Were they bleeding? He was sure they were bleeding. His eyes and his ears were going to burst. A scream built in his chest—

—and then it all stopped. The light was gone so suddenly that Artie thought they had been plummeted into darkness. The pain in his eyes dulled to a throbbing ache. His ears hummed, but slowly, somewhere above that sound, he could make out voices. They were shouting. Someone touched his arm and he jumped and pulled away.

At last he managed to blink away the dark stars that danced at the edge of his vision and found that the office was filled with police. He frowned. What was going on? What had just happened—?

‘Nobody touch him! Get an ambulance crew down here, double quick! Make sure they’ve got all the gear!’

From between two officers’ legs, he could see a pair of expensive leather shoes. Mr Craven’s, he assumed. Artie got to his feet, shaking off the man beside him.

‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ he muttered, taking a shaky step forward, trying to see what was going on.

Mr Craven was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. His head lolled to one side, and Artie couldn’t figure out if he was trying to laugh or cry, or perhaps both. What was clear was that Craven was a whole load closer to being dead than he had been when he arrived. It couldn’t be possible, but he’d lost weight in the last few seconds, and his skin, pale before, was now a sickly yellow. He coughed, and the small gathering flinched away as one.

‘Nobody touch me either,’ a voice said. The tone was all wrong: it was flat, lifeless. Artie turned to see Armstrong pressing himself against the wall next to the desk. The young man was trembling as he tugged down his collar. Crimson bloomed on his neck. ‘I think he bit me.’

No one said anything after that.

It was only hours later, when they finally let him leave the station and he was back in the club sipping a very large brandy and letting the buzz of life from the girls and the punters around him calm his nerves, did he think about the datastick. He went down to the office and looked at it, lying exactly where Mr Craven had left it. He picked it up. It was heavier than he expected. What was it made of, pure silver?