A Matter Of Blood (The Dog-Faced Gods Trilogy)

by Sarah Pinborough

  ‘Another line, mate?’ Artie’s thick body suddenly blocked his view. ‘You look like you’re falling asleep there and we can’t have that.’

  For a second Cass couldn’t speak. He slowly raised his gaze back to Artie, very much part of the here and now. ‘I think I’m fucked,’ he spat out eventually.

  ‘You and me both, mate.’

  There are no ghosts, Cass thought and focused instead on his host. Artie looked a long way from fucked. The older man’s leathery skin must house a solid constitution. He wondered if he’d have a tolerance like that if he lived that long, or whether you had to take the whole way of life to earn it.

  ‘Always room for another,’ Artie continued. ‘Anyway, it’s only two-thirty. We’ve got another hour to kill before closing, so let’s finish this gram off.’

  Time suddenly had its place in the night, and the sense of the surreal slipped away. The world was what it was, and so was he. Cass pulled himself to his feet and followed Mullins back to the office. The figure on the dance floor was gone. Of course it was. It’d never fucking been there; just an insubstantial ghost of the imagination, brought on by stress and grief and too much shit in his head. As he passed the bar Cass caught a glimpse of his reflection in the long mirror at the back and for a brief moment his eyes shone blue and gold, like Christian’s had. It was definitely time for another line.

  He opened his eyes to a sea of nicotine-stained cream and for a moment his head was beautifully and perfectly clear. It lasted the full fifteen seconds before he looked away from Artie’s office ceiling and over at the man himself. A swift bout of nausea battled with the rush of the ache that set up camp at the base of his skull and sent advance parties out across his head. By the time Artie had poured two mugs of coffee Cass was feeling every bit as bad as he’d predicted. He hauled himself up into a sitting position, rubbed his face and then looked over at Artie.

  ‘You look disgustingly healthy. What time is it?’

  Artie nodded up at the clock. ‘Just gone nine. I’ve been up two hours. Never manage more than a few hours’ sleep these days.’ He laughed. ‘Got too much to do. You know how it is.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Cass thought of the day ahead. At this point he couldn’t see much beyond getting his stuff from the house and checking into a hotel somewhere.

  ‘So,’ Artie slid the coffee across the desk, ‘you got all that out of your system?’

  Cass nodded. ‘Oh yeah. My brain feels like it’s trying to escape through my ears.’

  ‘That’ll be the fags. You smoke too much.’

  ‘That must be it.’ The coffee was hot, and the back of his throat was still raw from the drugs. It tasted good, though. ‘I need some painkillers.’

  ‘I’ve got something better than that to pick you up.’

  He slid a piece of paper over the desk and Cass took it. There was a name on it he didn’t recognise. Ali Khan.

  ‘Ali Khan? Who’s he when he’s at home?’

  ‘He, my son, runs a burger stall down the Elephant and Castle. Just round the corner from the Ministry. He makes a fortune from all the clubbers on their way home.’

  ‘And what’s he got to do with me?’

  ‘He’s your alibi.’

  Cass frowned. His brain wasn’t awake enough to move this quickly. ‘My alibi for what?’

  ‘Well, you couldn’t have been at your brother’s house because you bought a burger from him at quarter past midnight that night. He remembers you because you complained that it wasn’t cooked properly and demanded a fresh one. He remembers your flash car too.’ Artie grinned. ‘“A moody dark-haired bastard in an Audi A8.” Can only be one of those in the city.’ He lit a cigar and the pungent smoke made Cass’s delicate stomach flip. The effort it took to swallow his bile back down made his headache punch a fresh hole through the soft tissue of his brain. Great.

  ‘What you need to do is give that pretty sergeant of yours a bell and tell her you’ve got a vague memory of stopping for food at the Elephant. She’ll track old Ali down soon enough. And Artie’s your uncle.’ He laughed into his coffee. ‘I’m good to you, boy.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Cass passed the paper back. ‘I’ll do it, but they’ll never believe it. Not Bowman, anyway. That bastard’s really got it in for me.’

  ‘Whether they believe it or not doesn’t matter. It’s all smoke and mirrors. We know that you weren’t there, and now we’ve created a fact to prove it.’ Artie shrugged. ‘A small lie to shake a bigger one down.’

  Cass laughed, despite the flashes of pain that shot across his face. ‘I love your thinking, Artie.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  They drank slowly, sipping as the hot liquid cooled. Finally, Artie said, ‘You going to be okay, Cass?’ His face softened. ‘You want any coke or anything? On me?’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ Cass grinned. ‘It’s time I cleaned up for a while. I need my head straight while I try and get to the bottom of all this mess.’

  Artie nodded. ‘You take care of yourself, son. And you know where I am if you need me.’

  The old man’s mobile rang and he went out to take the call. Cass stayed where he was on the sofa, letting the coffee slowly bring him round. He wondered what business Artie was doing: arranging some deal or another, maybe organising some violence to teach someone a lesson - nothing would surprise Cass; the only thing that did surprise him was that the only person aside from Claire who appeared to believe a word he said was a man who lived on the other side of the law. The world was a funny place, that was for sure.

  Chapter Ten

  It was nine-thirty on Saturday morning when Claire May and Mat Blackmore got to the scene, which wasn’t bad going, given what they’d been in the middle of when the call came in. Not that the good mood had lasted. It was her weekend off and Mat had told her she should stay behind, but there was no way she was doing that. She didn’t see the point, for one thing. She’d only be thinking about the case at home if he was working, and they’d only end up talking about it when he got back. She hadn’t seen what his problem was until he’d called her ‘Jones’ little spy in the camp’. She’d just gritted her teeth and got in the car. She didn’t want that argument, partly because she was sure he’d said it out of some stupid male jealousy, and partly because it was true. She would keep Cass in the loop, every step of the way. The two cases had collided, and Cass deserved to know what was going on. There was no way in hell he’d been involved in the shooting of his own family.

  She pulled the plastic shoes on over her own, happy to be in the midst of the hubbub. The car journey to Charing Cross Hospital had been a silent one. She could almost hear Mat’s jaw clenching tight as he drove. She knew he was jealous, of what she and Cass had done, but it had been brief and now it was over and there was nothing she could say to make it not have happened. And maybe he had a reason to be jealous: she liked Mat, sure, she liked him a lot. But was there magic? No. Cass Jones might not have felt it, but for her, he’d been thunder and lightning, and probably always would be. Maybe one day the slow burn she felt for Mat would grow, but deep down inside she had a horrible feeling that he was her rebound guy, and she just hadn’t realised it before.

  The Strain II wing where the fifth woman had been found took up most of one floor of the hospital, and in spite of a low buzz of conversation from the plastic-shrouded police officers littering the corridor, there was a deathly hush. Claire shivered. She couldn’t help herself. Strain II was the new plague, and the nurses who worked here had her utmost respect.

  She followed Mat past the two officers on the door to a small ward. A naked woman lay on the bed in the centre, the green curtain pulled completely back, exposing her dead body to whoever cared to see. Had the screen had been left like that by the killer, or had Dr Farmer opened it up? NOTHING IS SACRED was daubed in red across the top of the woman’s full breasts. Claire fought the urge to cover her up. DI Bowman leaned against the side wall, looking ill. At least he was in the right place if
he took a turn for the worse. Beside him, Dr Hask gestured, acknowledging their arrival, and then returned to staring at the scene of the crime.

  ‘Sorry, excuse me—’

  Someone fully clothed in plastic pushed between Mat and Claire: Josh Eagleton, the young lab assistant. He almost dropped the camera he was carrying in his hurry to get to the bedside.

  ‘You’re late.’ The ME stared coolly at him.

  ‘I had no change for parking. I didn’t think. I’m so sorry . . .’ The boy’s eyes slipped away from his boss’. He was sweating and flustered and Claire felt rather sorry for him. Cass could be a bastard to work for at times, but Dr Farmer was much worse.

  ‘You can work through your lunch. Now start the photos.’

  Bowman pushed away from the wall and looked at his own assistants. ‘Two for the price of one?’

  ‘I thought the more the merrier, sir,’ Claire answered, cutting in before Mat could speak. ‘I’d only have to catch up on Monday, anyway.’ She glanced back at the bed, drawn by the first camera flash. ‘Who is she? A patient?’ She couldn’t help the slight jangling in her nerves. Strain II was far more contagious than the original HIV/AIDS .

  ‘No,’ Dr Farmer said, ‘she’s got far too much meat on her for Strain II .’

  ‘Charming as ever,’ Bowman interjected. ‘She’s a specialist nurse here. Her name’s Hannah West, thirty-eight years old. She was on the night shift. Matron found her when she came on duty at eight this morning.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Mat’s nose wrinkled. ‘How long had she been here?’

  ‘According to the charts, she completed her last round with meds at two a.m. Her shift was set to finish at six. Her husband rang at seven forty-five to see where she was. He had to get to work and she was supposed to be home in time to watch the kids. They live in Kentish Town.’

  ‘He works on a Saturday?’ Claire asked.

  ‘Yeah, in a supermarket, apparently. He used to be in sales, lost his job a year or so back. Anyway, the day shift came looking and they found her in here. Matron took it upon herself to call the husband and tell him after she’d called us. Luckily, we got here first.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘A couple of uniforms have him stashed somewhere. They’re taking a statement now that the poor bugger’s finally calming down. He didn’t get in here, at least.’

  ‘This is a big room for just one person,’ Claire said. ‘I thought there was a bed shortage going on?’

  ‘There were three patients in here, but the occupant of this bed died yesterday and they were going to move in someone new today.’

  ‘But our man got here first,’ Mat muttered. He shook his head. ‘How could he have done this with other people in the room?’

  ‘I wouldn’t consider the other two as people,’ Dr Farmer said, dryly, ‘not in the sense of witnesses, at any rate. They’re not exactly in full control of their faculties. They’re completely out of it, on a cocktail of drugs that includes a hefty dose of morphine. They’re both advanced cases with not long left.’ He looked over at Bowman. ‘And even the less ill patients are heavily sedated at night. The hospitals are short-staffed and operate a skeleton crew at night. If everyone’s asleep, it makes the job much easier to do.’ He peered upwards. ‘The curtains were drawn around her when she was found. If either of the other two had noticed anything - which is doubtful - they’d probably have just thought a new patient was being brought in.’

  ‘The hospital must be short-staffed if no one noticed her missing until her husband rang up,’ Claire said.

  ‘A lot of nurses refuse to work with the Strain II cases. They don’t get paid enough to take that kind of risk.’ The ME looked up and smiled. ‘I’d say she died not long after she finished that two a.m. round, or so her liver temperature would have me believe.’

  ‘I’m presuming by the words that he hasn’t changed his modus operandi in the past few days?’ Bowman stepped slightly closer. Claire thought he looked almost as pale as the body they were studying.

  ‘He’s injected her in her right arm, same as the rest. Her eyes are open. But look—’ He signalled Bowman closer and pointed at the red words on the woman’s chest. Claire stepped forward and peered over the DI ’s shoulder.

  ‘Look at the edges.’ There was something close to awe in the ME’s voice. ‘He’s painted the words in blood, as usual, then he’s outlined his words with the eggs, one behind the other in an absolutely perfect line.’

  Claire looked. Although the words themselves were uneven, the ME was right: exactly as he described, the tiny white grains were laid out with the tip of each just touching the one before and the one behind. ‘Incredible,’ she breathed.

  ‘How has he done that?’ Bowman asked, incredulous.

  ‘God only knows. It’s like the eyes. He gets them in there perfectly too. Josh and I tried for hours, but we damaged some every time.’ He looked up at his assistant, who nodded from behind the camera.

  ‘He’s getting more ambitious.’ It was the first thing Dr Hask had said. Unlike the rest of them, he hadn’t moved but remained with his back against the far wall.

  ‘I’ve listened to the analysis you did with Jones,’ Bowman said, turning to him, ‘and it sounded good, but maybe you’re off the mark a bit? This stuff about displacing them, putting them where they don’t belong?’ He spread his hands. ‘This is a hospital, and she’s a nurse. This one’s hardly out of place, is she?’

  ‘But she is,’ Claire cut in before Dr Hask could answer. She could see it clearly. ‘She’s a nurse, not a patient. She shouldn’t be on a dead patient’s bed. She’s here to help them. She’s not infected. She’s a world away from the people that are patients in this wing.’

  The profiler nodded. ‘That’s exactly right. This might be more subtle than the others, but she’s definitely somewhere she doesn’t belong. There’s almost an irony with this one. Maybe he’s starting to respect the opposition a little more. Whatever the reason, he’s definitely upping the ante.’

  ‘Oh, great. That’s just what we need.’ Bowman stepped back.

  ‘Show-offs invariably take a tumble, Detective Inspector. Let’s just hope this one does it sooner rather than later.’

  The SOC team loitered in the doorway, eager to get on with their job, and Claire followed the three men out into the corridor. She could understand Bowman’s concerns. They were the same as Cass’s had been, primarily the press, and the ability they had to destroy careers. With this murder the killer had taken the cards out of police hands.

  The corridor they were standing in was sealed off now, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the details would be all over the papers by tomorrow. Nurses’ salaries were low and the red tops would pay well for a story like this. This new victim was a nurse and a mother, and was murdered in the hospital itself. Add that to the other details and you had a juicy by-line for any up-and-coming hack, and a guaranteed splash and spread. Claire could practically see the headlines.

  ‘The DCI tells me I’m holding a press conference this afternoon.’ Bowman headed slowly towards the stairs at the end. As the others followed it sounded as if they were walking through snow, their plastic soles crunching against the lino.

  ‘He’s no happier about it than I am, but we’ve got no choice. We’ve been lucky enough so far with keeping a lid on it, but someone in this building will call it in, and we’ll have no way of knowing who that will be. And you can bet that as soon as the papers have one story, then everyone who’s kept quiet over the others will realise this is a serial and want their share of the media pie.’ He turned to the profiler. ‘You can help me figure out what we’re going to say - what to leave in, what to leave out. If there’s anything we can mention that might make our man mad or draw him out.’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  Claire felt a hand tug at her sleeve and she turned. It was Josh Eagleton.

  ‘How’s DI Jones?’ His voice was low, and Claire didn’t blame him. Cass’s name was m
ud around here.

  ‘He’s okay. This mess will all get straightened out eventually. It’s just bad timing - he hasn’t done anything wrong.’ She was aware of how defensive she sounded, but she couldn’t help it. Everyone else was too damn keen to believe that Cass was lying. She knew Cass’s faults, probably better than any of them, but she also knew that if he’d been there when things had kicked off with Christian, he would have stayed and dealt with it. She knew his record. She knew what he’d done. But that was a long time ago, and a very different situation.

  ‘Come on, Claire.’ Bowman had reached the door. ‘If you’re working, you’re coming back to the station with us. Otherwise, go home.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She smiled at the young man. ‘Got to go.’

  ‘I think he’s innocent too,’ Josh said, almost whispering.

  She’d already turned away, aware that the others were waiting for her. ‘Thanks. That’s good to know.’ Maybe the ME’s new assistant wasn’t as bad as Cass had thought. She gave him another brief smile goodbye before picking up her pace and catching the others in the doorway where they were pulling off their shoe covers and dumping them in the bin.

  ‘Claire, find wherever the constable is with the husband and get his account of her day yesterday. Also, talk to some of her colleagues. See what they say about her,’ Bowman said. ‘Then grab a lift back to the station with a uniform.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She glanced back, and as the double doors swung closed she saw the geeky young man still watching her from the corridor, looking skinny and awkward in his plastic overalls. The plastic hood tight over his head wasn’t helping.