‘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.
‘You 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.
‘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.’
Chapter Four
As 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.’
&
nbsp; ‘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.’
The Chosen Seed: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Three Page 2