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

by Sarah Pinborough

  The vicar recognises him and his face bursts into a smile. He is not an old man, and there are times he can look quite boyish, even in the sombre uniform of the church. Solomon smiles back and the good Reverend’s expression falters. The women had been the same, their adoring faces dropping in that moment of realisation that this man was something they could never understand. But still they had done as they were told, mute in his presence.

  The eggs are hard under his fingertips and flies squirm beneath his skin. The vicar doesn’t move as he approaches, but his mouth drops open and the flowers fall, forgotten. The power surges. He feels stronger and taller. He is a God among men. It pulses for the last time inside him. His smile widens.

  When he is done he watches as the vicar’s body stops jerking. The panic goes out of his eyes as soon as the needle has thrust its merciful death into his right arm. He stares for a moment at the ceiling of his precious church, and in that eternal last second Solomon wonders if the good Reverend is wondering how this came to be - is he having a moment of black terror, as his faith trembles in the face of the ultimate test? He hopes not. He likes the Reverend. He does this for love, nothing less. He explored the bodies of the first ones, but that was out of curiosity. In recent months he has done this out of kindness. The naked man’s face loses focus as his pupils dilate. All thoughts are gone. His limbs relax. His breathing grows ever more shallow until there is only a slight hitch. Then nothing.

  Solomon sighs. The church feels empty without the dead man’s faith. At least the good Reverend knows the truth now: there is no Paradise. There is no God. All the Gods are earthbound, and lost, and dying. He places the bottle of blood beside the empty body and pulls out his phone. He looks at the dead man who was so kind to him and smiles. They’d be in the void together soon enough. He dials the number. It’s time to bring his part in this game to its conclusion - but first he must make his final move and hand over his pieces. Let the king take charge.

  The car crawled through the traffic just beyond the Marylebone Flyover. Horns blared loudly, as if they could somehow clear the blockage with their mechanical rage alone. Cass didn’t mind. It was better than the silence that filled the car. He’d finished the awful, pathetic story of what really happened to John Miller and Justin Jackson, but he felt as if by sharing it he’d spread the germs of a disease that would infect and rot all those it touched for years to come. His mouth tasted like he’d been spitting out grave dirt with every word. The fingers of the dead were restless, tearing at him from the inside out. Maybe he was finally cracking up.

  There was a red heat burning in him that he hadn’t felt since those dark days when he didn’t know who was more real, Charlie Sutton or Cass Jones, just that they both had blood on their hands. That sense that the world somehow existed apart from him was returning; though he’d somehow forgotten the bleakness of that isolation, it was clawing him back. His family were all dead, his wife was a stranger, and he dreamed most nights of a dead man’s eyes meeting his. He, Jackson, Miller, Solomon . . . how different were they? How different was anyone? The world was grey, and all he could see through the glass was weakness . . . so many people with so many weaknesses. It made him feel sick. His hands were still cold.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket twice before he even realised it was ringing. He looked at the screen and warmth trickled into his fingers. He stared at the unknown number.

  I’ll be in touch.

  ‘Jones.’

  ‘Do you think the final day is always the most beautiful? Or does it just seem that way?’ The words came slowly, followed by a soft laugh. Cass was aware of his other arm reaching over and frantically signalling Ramsey to pull over while the rest of him was sucked into the phone call.

  ‘Perception is a strange thing. It makes truth of lies and lies of truths. Can you spot a liar, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘We’re all liars, Solomon. Keep the fortune cookie shit for someone who cares.’

  Ramsey’s eyes flashed as he turned to watch Cass.

  ‘Do you think it’s a beautiful day, Cassius, or are you starting to see the world through my eyes? A world covered in so much dirt it chokes us all.’

  The repetition of that image that had been so fixed in his own head shook Cass badly. He clenched his teeth. He was not like this killer. ‘You set up Jackson and Miller,’ Cass said, trying to control his anger. ‘You killed those women, and fuck knows how many more that we don’t yet know about. You are the dirt, Solomon.’

  ‘Jackson and Miller had choices.’ A sigh. ‘They weren’t even difficult ones. They never have been. But pride overwhelmed goodness. Selfishness won over love.’ He paused. ‘Even here, in this place that is so peaceful. Scratch the surface and you will find it is all built on blood and hate disguised as love.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  The soft laugh was autumn leaves blowing through a dead city. ‘It’s all tests, Cassius. Where am I? Think hard enough and you’ll know. I’m waiting to see you before you or I die.’

  Cass mentally raced through the list of places in Covent Garden that Claire had shown him. Somewhere quiet on a weekday afternoon? That ruled out the restaurants and bars. He couldn’t make out any background noises, so Solomon was indoors somewhere. Peaceful. He’d used the word peaceful, not quiet.

  ‘Trust your instincts.’ A hint of humour crept into the voice. ‘You’ll find me. And he’ll follow. Wheels within wheels.’

  Solomon hung up as something finally clicked into place in Cass’s head. The low sun was so bright through the windscreen that it almost glowed. He remembered what he’d seen on that list. Nothing is Sacred.

  ‘Covent Garden,’ he said. ‘St Peter’s Church.’ He looked over at Ramsey. ‘Drive!’

  Claire’s stomach churned. She was tired of being in the bowels of the building, cut off from the busy life above. Maybe it was just her tiredness, but both interrogation rooms were smelling of sharp sweat. She’d smelled fear before, but this was something else: pure guilt, perhaps. Whatever it was, it made her feel sick. If she was honest, just looking at both men made her feel sick, and she cursed Cass for leaving her down here to deal with this shit.

  She had studied Isaac Jackson as he watched the film of his son’s death, and now she intended to block out Paul Miller’s face completely. Jackson had sat completely still, but she’d watched him quietly self-destructing in the twitches in his face and the anguish in his chocolate eyes. The euphoria she’d felt when she and Cass had first heard the confessions was long gone. Now she just wanted a shower. She knew her limitations, and Cass had stretched them by leaving her to deal with this shit. Sometimes he truly was a bastard.

  Behind her, Mat quietly told Miller what he was going to be seeing, and he began to sob. Claire pressed play with an angry finger and stared at the screen. Miller muttered something, and Mat snarled at him to watch.

  Claire frowned. Something on the screen fluttered like butterfly wings in her mind. There was something on that silent grainy image that she was seeing, but not seeing. Something so very unimportant and yet . . .

  The moment passed. She fought the urge to rewind the film as that almost-recognition slipped away from her. When she was finally done here, she’d watch it again upstairs. What the hell was it her brain was trying to make her see?

  ‘Please, don’t . . . Please stop it—’ Miller’s voice was thick with snot and self-pity, and for the first time in her career she felt a corner of her heart freeze and turn black: a sliver of dead ice in her chest. He knew what was coming. He knew how the events would unfold, had already unfolded. He’d be seeing this for ever, and she didn’t like the hard joy that thought gave her.

  Eventually it was over and they left the two men alone, with a constable to guard them. Claire was happy to get back up to where the living outnumbered the dead, away from the stinking guilt that had seeped into the walls of the corridors below. She wondered what Morgan would say if he found out what they’d just done. Would he even care, now that he
had a result that would keep the papers in exclusives for weeks? She made a quick call to the desk sergeant, putting both Jackson and Miller on suicide watch, and then went to grab a coffee. Outside, the late afternoon sun streaked across the sky, chased by the first dark hints of night. She’d wait until it was a bit quieter and then rewatch the film herself, until whatever it was that was bugging her finally became clear.

  Even with a siren attached to the top of the car there were only so many cut-throughs they could take as they tried to weave their way through the rush-hour traffic. The roads were approaching gridlock as buses, taxis and cars all fought for space, and only the bikes that cut up the inside were approaching anything like the speed limit. By the time they’d fought their way down Shaftesbury Avenue and cut down West Street into Upper St Martin’s Lane, Cass was thumping the dashboard and swearing in frustration.

  ‘Pull over,’ he said at last, ‘I’m getting out.’

  Ramsey stopped the car, ignoring the flurry of noisy protest from the stream of vehicles behind. As Cass yanked at the door handle, Ramsey pulled him back. ‘Hang on,’ he said, tugging under his jacket, and producing a handgun, a Glock. ‘It’s mine. I’m licensed.’ He thrust it at Cass. ‘Take it. If they throw any shit for it, then that’s on me. You can’t go in there with nothing.’

  Cass stared at it blankly for a moment, then said quietly, ‘Thanks.’ Most of the Murder Squad senior detectives were licensed. Fucking Bowman probably carried, but Cass had never been armed, not since that undercover job went down so badly. Despite the years that had passed, as he took the gun from Ramsey the weight felt comfortable in his hand, the handle familiar in his grip. He looked at Ramsey. He had already crossed one line for him. There was one more thing that he needed.

  ‘I want five minutes’ head start before you call for back-up. ’

  ‘Why? Why would you—?’

  ‘Just five minutes.’ His skin was burning from the inside out again. This was about more than just catching Carla Rae’s killer. This was something personal. Solomon and Bright had been watching his family, and he needed to know why, and that wasn’t going to be police business. He wanted no more of his fucking life being added to their files. He didn’t wait for an answer but climbed out onto the busy street. The church was only a few minutes away, nestled on the edge of the famous piazza. He ran down Garrick Street, pushing his way through the pedestrians who thronged the area, his badge in one hand and Ramsey’s gun in the other.

  His breath roared in his ears as he came to a stop. The gate to the gardens was locked and at the other end of the path he could see that the door was closed. This fucker was a planner, that’s what Hask had said. He’d have left one way in to find him, and this wasn’t it. Cursing, he ran around to the main entrance in the piazza. A sign sat on the top step, declaring that the church was closed. Cass stepped past it and peered at the heavy wooden doors. There was an inch-wide gap between them. How fucking cocky was this bastard, that he would leave the main door open? What if tourists had tried to come in? Would he have just killed them and kept on waiting?

  His heart pounded in his chest as he carefully pushed one door open and stepped inside. His feet were silent as he took a few steps forward. He paused. As he stared into the ornate church, echoes of his vision of Christian from the previous night shivered down his spine. A tall man stood at the altar, his back to Cass. A shock of blond hair reflected the golds and yellows of the gilt decoration that ran up the far wall. There was none of the simplicity of the seminary chapel, and this man wasn’t his dead brother.

  Cass took another step forward and the doors behind him slammed shut with such force that he felt a cold draught beat at his back. He gripped the Glock, ready for Solomon to come for him, but the man didn’t even turn around.

  Candles burned bright in the alcoves along the side walls. With the doors closed it was suddenly both night and day, and timeless, like being in Artie Mullins’ basement club. Whatever was happening in this church was separate from the world outside.

  ‘Solomon?’

  The man hunched over the altar still didn’t turn around. His brown mackintosh was stretched tight across his broad back.

  ‘Is this where you took them from? The women? Is this how you chose them?’

  This time Cass’s feet had no hesitation in moving, unlike the previous night, when the sight of Christian had kept him motionless. Now he slowly crossed the tiles until his shoes fell silent on the long red rug that ran the length of the aisle between the dark, polished pews. ‘From where they prayed ?’

  ‘They came for the music.’ Solomon’s voice was soft, and yet it filled the space. ‘As did I. Beautiful music, performed for anyone who cared to listen, with no mind of caste or creed. Amazing. Something like that can truly touch your soul.’

  ‘You killed them because they loved music?’ Cass thought of those five very different women, each sitting somewhere in these pews, lost in something so beautiful, and unaware that it would cost them their lives. It was all about the choices. The little things. Go for a coffee or watch the free concert. Life or death.

  ‘No, the music attracted them, but sometimes they stayed behind, just as I did. And then they would come alone, in the quiet times, and just sit.’

  Finally he turned. Even from halfway down the long aisle, Cass could see he was a handsome man, his high cheekbones offsetting his rugged face as he smiled. His teeth were as white as Bright’s, and just as perfectly even.

  ‘Just as I did. That’s how I knew they knew.’ He lifted the bottle of what could only be blood and screwed on the lid before carefully placing it in a small plastic bag lying on the edge of the altar. The paintbrush was probably inside it, Cass thought. He took another step forward, the gun firm in his hand. The naked body placed across the altar didn’t demand any rush; the stillness gathering round it only came with death. Others might not be so sure, but Cass had never been wrong about someone past saving. He had the instinct.

  ‘You knew they knew what?’

  Solomon pulled something from his pocket, his smile growing as Cass raised the gun higher. It was a hypodermic syringe.

  ‘Don’t worry. I don’t mean you any harm. I want to help you.’

  ‘You’d be amazed how many people are keen to say that to me these days, but I’m not seeing a lot of evidence to prove it.’ Cass kept the gun raised. The syringe was full; half of it would be enough to kill an elephant. Who did Solomon intend it for, Cass - or himself? The DI was pretty sure he knew the answer, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  ‘What did you know they knew?’ There was something in the man’s eyes that drew Cass in. There was kindness and strength, and something completely other that he couldn’t place. It didn’t look like madness; if anything, it looked like this man had a terrible clarity. Cass edged forward. Perhaps that was all madness ever was.

  ‘They knew they were lost.’ He spoke softly. ‘It was as if even they, so ordinary and human, could see that we are all dying, that everything is corrupting. That there’s no going back.’

  Cass looked at the pale body. ‘Who is he?’ A male victim: the first one, as far as they knew. What would Hask say? That sex had been unimportant, or that Solomon had saved the most important until last? Either way, now it was just semantics. It was over for this man.

  ‘This is the good Reverend. This is his church.’ Solomon tilted his head and began tugging up the sleeve of his raincoat. Cass watched him. If it came to it, he’d shoot off the man’s arm before letting him inject himself. He wanted answers. He wanted a fucking arrest. He wanted someone to say something he could understand.

  Solomon sighed. ‘He was a kind man - a good one - but he had no God, just a poor delusion. He didn’t even Glow. Just like the rest of them, he was nothing: the remnant blood of rejected stock.’

  Cass felt chilled as Solomon’s words scraped across his skin. The Glow. Memories flashed through his head: the photograph his mother had written on; Father Michael, talking about hi
s father’s funny thinking, and Christian’s worries. Always the Glow. He didn’t want to think about it. He’d never wanted to think about it, and yet here it was, back again, burning into his skin. He had a sudden memory of screaming at his mother: he was small, waist-high, and full of fear and anger. ‘I won’t see it! I won’t see it!’ And then the last: the view of a teenager’s desperate eyes down the barrel of a gun, and one clear, decisive thought in the midst of melting panic: He has no Glow.

  Solomon was watching him. ‘I think on some level you understand what I mean. You don’t want to, but I think you do. You can’t help yourself.’ His eyes ran thoughtfully over Cass’s face. ‘I’ve never seen it so bright on an ordinary man before.’

  ‘I hate to disappoint you, but I haven’t got a fucking clue what you’re talking about.’ Cass gripped the gun tighter. The Glock didn’t feel like such a powerful weapon against this man.

  ‘I just wanted to help him.’ The blond man leaned over the dead body and gently traced his forefinger down the uneven line where he’d daubed the familiar message.

  A slick wet sound echoed quietly and Cass stepped forward. This poor man had suffered enough humiliation, laid bare on the altar. What was Solomon doing to him? A steady stream of what looked like white rice oozed out from under the man’s fingernail. Fly eggs. His eyes widened.

  ‘How the fuck do you do that?’ He didn’t want to hear the awe in his own voice, but nonetheless it echoed with wonder.

  Solomon frowned as the neat line wobbled, the line of eggs breaking and fat black maggots dropping from his fingertips instead. They wriggled madly on the man’s torso for a moment and then fell still. He sighed again. He didn’t answer the question. He turned to look at Cass.