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

by Sarah Pinborough

  The phone beeped: a call holding. It was Ramsey.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Claire. Stay in touch.’

  ‘You too. And take care.’

  He switched to the second call.

  ‘Hi. What can a suspended DI do for a fully employed one?’ If they’d found any more planted evidence against him they wouldn’t be letting him know with a phone call; it would be blues and twos with sirens wailing behind cutting a path through the train of irritated traffic behind him.

  ‘Well, it’s a funny thing.’ Ramsey’s tone was light. ‘Your brother’s employers have been in touch.’

  ‘The Bank?’

  ‘Yes. They first expressed their sympathies. Then they were very clear that they wanted his work laptop back, ASAP.’ Despite his American drawl he spoke the acronym like a Brit, sounding out each letter. Cass liked him all the more for that.

  ‘Laptop?’ He matched the American’s easy tone and glanced down at the slim bag on the passenger seat next to him. ‘Surely that must be in the house somewhere.’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ But it’s the damndest thing. It seems to have gone missing.’

  Cass could hear in his tone that Ramsey knew exactly where the laptop was, but unlike Bowman, he wouldn’t come in screaming accusations. Cass almost smiled; he was enjoying the game for once. ‘Maybe he left it in the office somewhere?’

  ‘That would seem a reasonable assumption, but in the crime scene pictures it’s on his desk in the dining room. Somehow, it’s not there now.’

  ‘How strange.’

  ‘You could say that. It occurred to me that you might have accidentally picked it up when you went to see the place the other night?’

  ‘Admittedly, I was quite emotional.’ Cass flicked the finished cigarette butt out the window. ‘But I’m sure I would have noticed. Unless it got stuck to my shoe and I didn’t realise in the dark.’

  ‘Well, it seems to have gone walkabout, one way or another, and its owners want it back. They were very insistent.’

  ‘If I come across it somewhere then I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Yes, you will.’ Ramsey became serious. ‘I’ve told them you’re on compassionate leave and out of reach until Monday. If you could find the laptop by then, that would be helpful.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll turn up. Just out of interest, who was it that rang from The Bank?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that, Jones.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You know you’ll only be saving me a couple of calls.’

  Ramsey sighed into his ear. ‘Okay, but don’t cause me any trouble. Remember, I’m on your side on this. The first person who rang was your brother’s assistant, Maya Healey. The second, an hour or so later, was his boss, a man called Asher Red. He sounded foreign, maybe Middle Eastern. He didn’t sound overly sorry for your loss. He was more concerned about his.’

  ‘Two calls? They must really want this laptop back.’

  ‘Like I said, Jones. Monday.’

  ‘You’ll have it.’

  Finally free from the city’s grasp, the road emptied a little into normal weekend traffic and Cass was able to put his foot down as he pulled onto the M20. The road was pretty empty, with lorries the only traffic trundling down to the ferries now. With no passenger ferries or cross-Channel trains running, the cheap airlines had cornered the market in European travel.

  The motorway still had the signs up pointing traffic towards Ashford for the Eurostar Passenger Service, but it was merely a grave marker. Everyone knew the tunnel would never reopen after the terrorist attack the year before. Cass shuddered at the thought of those trains stuck in the Chunnel when the bombs went off. The public had completely lost faith in travelling beneath the sea, for now anyway, which was probably a good thing for the government, because they sure as fuck didn’t have the money to repair it all.

  He headed towards Folkestone, driving almost on autopilot while his conscious mind mulled over his brother and The Bank and the elusive Mr Bright. He thought about the film he’d been sent as heavy clouds moved across the sun, sending dark shadows across the road. Brilliant flashes broke through the jet clouds - the weather, Cass thought, also had no idea what to do next.

  He looked down at his phone and scrolled through the numbers until it reached JACKSON HOME. It was worth a try; hopefully the Jacksons and Millers wouldn’t yet know that he was technically off the case. He pushed the green call button.

  ‘Hello?’ The wary answer came after just four rings.

  ‘Mr Jackson? It’s DI Jones. I’m sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘Of course.’ The dead boy’s father sounded slightly vague and Cass wondered if Isaac Jackson had resorted to pills, or was relying on a stiff drink or two before lunchtime to help see him through the rest of the day. He thought it was probably the latter. Women took anti-depressants. Men found other ways to cope.

  ‘How can I help?’ Jackson didn’t mention Cass’s sudden exit, even though he must have heard what had happened to Christian and his family. Cass didn’t mind. Platitudes made him uncomfortable, and he knew how selfish a bubble of grief could be. Isaac Jackson had enough to cope with in his own nightmare. He wouldn’t be thinking about anyone else’s.

  ‘I just wondered if you’d ever come across a man called Mr Bright. He might work for The Bank.’

  ‘We don’t work for The Bank.’ A hitch in the man’s breath filled the slight pause. ‘Why would we know someone who works for The Bank?’

  Cass frowned. That was a bit strange. ‘Well, everyone knows someone who works for The Bank these days. And you and Mr Miller both work in investments, don’t you? I just wondered if the name meant anything to you. That’s all.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Jackson just sounded tired again. ‘I haven’t been sleeping. You think this man may have something to do with what happened to our boys? Does he know that gangster ?’

  ‘I really wish I could tell you. I’m just following up a lead. It might be nothing.’

  ‘Well, the name doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m sorry.’

  ‘If you could check with your wife and the Millers and let me know if they’ve heard the name anywhere, I’d be grateful.’

  ‘Of course. Who is he?’

  ‘It’s just a name that came up. It’s like I said: I’m just following up whatever leads I can.’

  They said their goodbyes and hung up. So Jackson didn’t know the elusive Mr Bright. He wasn’t surprised. That would have made it too easy. He sighed in the gloom. Questions tugged at him, each one tangled in the grip of the dead, and he didn’t have any answers to make them let go. He pushed his foot down and took the turning for Folkestone. Home, then. Maybe he’d find something there.

  Chapter Eleven

  The village of Capel-Le-Ferne sat about three miles outside of Folkestone. With the window rolled down Cass could smell the fresh tang of the sea in the air. As he drove through the narrow streets it didn’t look like much had changed over the past few years. The front of the butcher’s had a new coat of green paint, but that was about all. Time slowed in the country. Or maybe it was that the people who lived there liked things to stay just so. The calm might appeal to some, but Cass wasn’t one of them. Already he missed the grime of the city, even when surrounded by these picture-postcard houses and neatly mown green lawns. He couldn’t help it; it was in his blood now.

  The house was a couple of roads back from the tiny high street, and he followed the twists and turns of the road until he pulled into the pebbled drive and finally stopped the car. He looked down at his keys. Amidst the bundle was the gold Chubb to his parents’ house. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used it, certainly not in the five years since the funeral, but when he’d bought the new car he’d automatically transferred the key with the rest onto the silver Audi keyring Kate had bought him. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.

  The clouds overhead were slowly dispersing and clean spring sunshine bathe
d the house, making the glass in the windows glint. Thick hedges rose high between the house and the road. Cass had wanted to sell the house, but Christian had said the market wasn’t good. Cass knew his reasons were more sentimental than that. Only in a tiny village in the country could a house stand empty for five years and remain undamaged - though it was likely that Father Michael had been keeping an eye on it for Cass and Christian, probably popping in once a week or so and checking nothing was broken or pipes hadn’t leaked. For all Cass knew, the priest and his brother had come to some arrangement, or maybe Christian had even organised a cleaning lady. The empty space that was his brother’s life ached in the hollow of his stomach. Maybe he’d find some answers here.

  The light shifted and he grabbed his suitcase, the holdall and the laptop from the car. As he walked to the door he glanced upwards. Ivy clung to the red brick, covering one side of the front of the house and creeping across to the right. Cass frowned. He’d always hated the ivy. His mother had planted it, and as a child he’d been quietly convinced it was suffocating the house. He found that as an adult, his opinion hadn’t changed. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t as if he intended spending long here. When all this business was sorted out, maybe he’d even sell it. He’d probably have to if Kate decided she wanted a divorce. He pushed that thought aside. This trip was about Christian, not Kate; she was a whole host of other problems. His eyes followed the ivy upwards. The chimneys at either end of the hundred-and-fifty-year-old house still stood straight, pointing skywards.

  Always look up, Charlie. The thought came out of nowhere and Cass immediately brought his head down. Brian Freeman and his words didn’t belong here. Cass turned the key in the lock and went inside.

  The pale walls and wooden floor kept the house light and airy, just as it had always been. Cass had expected to feel more, but leaving his stuff in the hallway and peering into the front room, there was only a sense of curious familiarity. After the funerals Christian and Jessica had come down and cleared away all the personal items and knickknacks and bagged up his parents’ clothes for charity. Cass hadn’t joined them, and not only because of what he and Jessica had been doing while Christian had been trying desperately to reach them the day their parents died. He couldn’t face it: that was the truth. In many ways, quiet Christian had been stronger than Cass. Or perhaps it was just that the younger brother had a lighter load on his soul.

  The basics were still in place - TV, sofas and bookshelves - but all the personal things had gone. There were no ornaments on the mantelpiece, and the pictures and prints from the walls had disappeared. The house was like a place in limbo, his home and not his home, as if it had been sold and packed up, but the removal men hadn’t arrived yet. In the kitchen the microwave and coffee machine were still in their normal places, and a quick inspection found cutlery in the drawers and crockery in the cupboards. Maybe Christian had been considering renting the place out, and never got round to it.

  A note rested up against the kettle. Come to the church tomorrow? About one? Michael.

  Cass smiled. It seemed strange to see the name without its title. He would forever be Father Michael to Cass. He peered inside the fridge. There was milk, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, a bag of salad and a pre-made lasagne that was big enough to last two days. He closed the door. On the side behind him was a small box of teabags and a jar of coffee, as well as fresh bread and a very nice bottle of Rioja. It looked like the priest was happy to have him back.

  He took his suitcase upstairs. It was just coming up to twelve-thirty, but there was no satellite or cable TV in the house so he’d have to wait until the one o’clock news to see Bowman’s press conference. A shower would fill the time. He hovered on the landing momentarily, unsure which room to take. His first instinct, to go to his own room at the far end of the corridor, didn’t appeal; after spending the previous night on a very uncomfortable sofa he didn’t much fancy his old single bed. And his parents’ bedroom had an en-suite bathroom, so it made sense to use it. Still, he couldn’t shake the sense that he was trespassing as he pushed the door open and dumped his suitcase on the bed.

  He opened the curtains and let the sunshine stream through, catching the dancing dust in its beam. That was better. It was just a room. He looked in the cupboards and, as expected, they were empty. There was no clutter on the dressing table, nor in the bathroom. Christian and Jessica had been thorough. Still, it was a long time ago, and he wasn’t quite sure what he had expected - that everything would have been left just as it was the last time he was here? His parents were dead and gone . . . and now Christian, Jessica and Luke were gone too. Even though he had identified the dead bodies himself, Cass found he couldn’t quite grasp that he was the last one left. He and this house were the wreckage of the Jones family. The rooms around him felt suddenly emptier. He shook away the chill that came with a great surge of loneliness and turned the shower on, welcoming the hard noise of the water on ceramic tiles. Anything was better than the silence, and the feeling that the dead were watching him from the shadows.

  The press conference was the lead story, and with the volume up and a hot coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Cass felt the quiet emptiness of the house creeping away as the building adjusted to being occupied again. The shower, a shave and clean clothes had done him good; he was feeling almost his old self.

  He watched Gary Bowman walk towards the central seat, Blackmore on one side and the DCI on the other. The long white table separated them from the journalists. There was no sign of Hask, but that wasn’t a surprise. Ironically enough, on the rare occasions the headshed were prepared to fork out for profilers, they always kept them low profile. Technically, they were civilians, and as such they needed to be protected. Bowman sat down carefully and Cass noted how pale he looked. What the fuck was he doing back at work? Brown-nosing for a promotion, probably. He waited for the noise in the room to subside before resting his arms on the table and leaning forward. His cufflinks glinted in the flash of a camera as he raised a hand to get silence.

  ‘This isn’t going to take long, and I’m not going to answer any questions at the present time, so listen carefully. This morning we found the dead body of a female nurse in Charing Cross Hospital. We believe that she was murdered.’

  He paused as the expected buzz of noise made its way round the room before continuing, ‘We believe her death may be linked to those of four other women found dead in the central London area over the past few weeks.’ This time Bowman just raised his voice and talked over the hacks until they finally shut up. ‘We believe that the individual committing these crimes is a white male over the age of thirty. He may move jobs quite frequently, and he is probably something of a loner.’

  Cass recognised the profiler’s analysis in Bowman’s words. He sipped his coffee and watched.

  ‘He may recently have gone through an upheaval, or perhaps a crisis of faith.’

  ‘Is it true he’s written on them in blood? “Nothing is sacred”?’

  The voice cut through from the back of the crowded room, and despite his dislike of Bowman, Cass didn’t envy him having to deal with this pack of hounds.

  Bowman stared, but the camera didn’t cut to whoever it was had called out. After a moment he said, ‘You know I can’t disclose any information on the killer’s methods.’

  ‘But has he—?’

  Next to Bowman, DCI Morgan leaned forward and spoke into the microphone. ‘You’ll either listen, or we’ll terminate this press conference right now,’ he growled. ‘And thank you for no doubt adding to the number of false confessions my officers will have to waste time sorting through. Maybe I should send your newspaper the bill?’

  He had the kind of voice you didn’t want to argue with, even though Cass had managed it several times. Was it only yesterday that voice had been directed at him in the interview room? Felt like longer . . .

  ‘He may be socially awkward,’ Bowman continued, ‘and we think he’s probably below average intelligence.’r />
  Cass sat up. This was not what Hask had said; he’d distinctly said the man they were looking for was probably highly intelligent, not below average. He’d also said that he was probably quite charismatic, despite being a loner. Cass stubbed his cigarette out in the saucer he was using as an ashtray. He understood what they were doing: they’d be trying to get a reaction from the killer, to force him into making an angry mistake. They didn’t have enough clear information to make any true description worthwhile, so they were using the press conference both to appease the papers and to see if they could draw him out.

  Cass thought it was a long shot. He doubted their killer would be so easily wound up. He turned the TV down as the three men got up to signal the end of the press conference and the screen cut back to the studio. He wondered if the smart and stylish Mr Bright had seen the news. Was he the killer they were looking for? After what Artie had said about the man’s reputation Cass wasn’t sure himself, but he was most certainly involved in this mess in some way. He was eager to hear what Claire had managed to find out about any links he might have with The Bank.

  But right now, he had another task. He slid Christian’s small laptop from its bag and opened the lid. It was a make he didn’t recognise, but its elegant shape, size and light weight indicated expense. Many of the founders of The Bank came from IT backgrounds, and it wouldn’t have surprised him if they had a range of equipment solely for use by its employees.