The Shadow of the Soul: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Two

by Sarah Pinborough

  ‘I can’t tell,’ DeVore answered, a little of his composure returning. ‘They all seem to be exactly as they normally are. We’re trying various tests.’

  ‘Things are unravelling,’ Mr Dublin mused in the silence that followed.

  Mr Bright ignored him. ‘Go back to your cities and meet with your sections. If anyone doesn’t turn up, or is acting suspiciously, then I want to know. We have to spy on our own, now, unpleasant though that may be. I fear this ennui is causing cracks in our unity.’

  ‘You’ll have a long list,’ Mr Craven said. ‘Everyone’s acting strangely. This fear of death is definitely spreading – and on top of that I don’t meet with my section often. As long as the accounts are maintained, everyone puts their share in, business is going well and the rules are being followed, then I don’t really see why I should nursemaid them. They don’t need it.’

  ‘Mr Craven—,’ Mr Bright lowered his voice, and the first hint of menace crept out, ‘—you were included in this council only when the First started to sleep. You can easily be replaced if you’re not up to it.’

  Mr Craven said nothing.

  ‘From now on you I will expect you to do as I say.’

  ‘It’s dying,’ Mr Dublin continued, as if the others weren’t there. ‘The world is dying and so are the Interventionists, and so are we. Interesting, isn’t it?’

  ‘You sound like Mr Solomon,’ Mr Bright said, ‘and he, brother that he was, was quite, quite mad.’

  ‘We’ll see, Mr Bright. Until then, let’s play this farce out.’ Mr Dublin smiled. ‘And there’s no need to look at me like that. I for one have no intention of dying or giving up yet.’

  After they had left, Mr Bright replayed the final film several times. Eventually, he froze it on the tall, dark-haired woman pointing her gun so ineffectually at the fat creature as it reached forward and touched her.

  ‘Why you?’ he muttered, drumming his perfect fingernails on the table. ‘What did it want with you?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cass had to give Dr Marsden and Eagleton their due: they’d pulled an all-nighter, or as near as damn it, to get their work finished for first thing in the morning. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but beneath the clinical, chemical smell of the morgue lingered the earthy scent of a fresh grave. The bodies were lying on several stainless steel slabs behind the two pathologists, covered by regulation green sheets. Cass had no desire to see the mutilated bodies; he didn’t need to – he could feel their hold on him inside. They weren’t people any more, merely physical evidence.

  ‘Jasmine Green wasn’t alone with her brain injuries.’ Eagleton rummaged on his desk and then held up some slides. ‘You want to see?’

  ‘Will I understand them?’ Cass asked.

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Then let’s not bother. The others have the same lesions?’

  ‘Yes. There’s no sign of any disease that I can find, but they all share similar damage. Angie Lane was harder to match because she banged her head on the corner of the work surface on the way down, so she’d already sustained some head trauma.’

  ‘Did you find anything else that links them? Drugs maybe?’ Armstrong asked.

  ‘Not that I can tell. We’ve run all the tests we can, but nothing’s leaping out. Even the chemicals we’d expect them to share vary in quantity, because they all died on different days, at different times. Even after death our bodies still strive to retain their individuality.’

  The young doctor leaned back against the desk and stretched one leg out, wincing. Cass didn’t comment. Eagleton had recovered well, and being left with the odd ache or pain wasn’t necessarily a bad thing: everyone should have a reminder that the world couldn’t be trusted. Cass had his memories, but Eagleton was younger – emotionally he’d bounce back and the memories would fade. It was good that his body would serve to remind him that a little caution is sometimes a good thing.

  The assistant ME got back to his feet. ‘So now you’ve got a physical link as well.’

  ‘These six students have all been through something together,’ Dr Marsden said, browsing through the slides Cass hadn’t declined to see. ‘Something caused these lesions – but to be honest, I’ve never seen anything like them.’ He looked up. ‘Which I know isn’t something you lot like to hear. My gut instinct would be to tell you to look for something chemical. Apart from Angie, they have no physical trauma other than the fatal wounds at their wrists. And yet—’ He frowned. ‘It’s almost like small lines have been seared into their brain tissue.’

  ‘Like a computer that’s burnt out?’ Armstrong asked.

  ‘Could the damage have caused suicidal tendencies in them?’ Cass cut across his sergeant.

  ‘Any form of brain injury can have any number of effects, so it’s hard to tell. There are some side-effects we would expect to see from various areas of damage. Armstrong’s a little out of date with his medical knowledge.’ Dr Marsden smiled. ‘The myth of the brain being one large computer is pretty much defunct now; we prefer to think of it as more like an orchestra – every part has a function and has to work in co-ordination with the other parts for us to behave properly. The spinal column is the information highway. When you touch, taste or feel something, the spinal column decides which part of the brain is required to process it and then sends it there – for example, these kids have all got some damage at the rear right side of their brains. The right side deals with organising information, but the rear part deals specifically with vision. Might have led them to have a “denial syndrome” side-effect. Impaired vision but unaware of it.’

  ‘Can that happen?’ Cass asked.

  ‘You’d be surprised at the weirdness the brain is capable of. I knew of a patient with a brain injury who was blind in his right eye and didn’t realise because his brain refused to acknowledge it.’ Dr Marsden looked at the sheets in front of him again. ‘Most of these also have some slight damage to the left side. Did any of these kids show signs of confusion, strange speech patterns, something like that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cass said, ‘Hayley Porter’s flatmate said she’d been behaving oddly for days, and Jasmine Green’s boyfriend said she’d been strange for most of the day.’

  ‘This could be a contributing cause. The left side of our brain deals with language and analysis. Damage there can also cause depression.’ He put the sheets down. ‘They all have damage to the frontal lobe too – I’ll presume it in Angie Lane’s case, as the haematoma makes it hard to tell without further investigation. That area controls our emotions. It houses the stop switch when we get angry.’

  Cass thought back to six months ago, in his dead brother’s house. It had taken a lot of willpower on top of the ‘stop switch’ to stop him blowing Bowman’s head off.

  ‘However,’ Eagleton cut in, ‘despite how interesting everything the boss is saying is, there is no way a side-effect of any of these lesions would be to commit suicide in exactly the same way as several other people, let alone make them leave the same message behind.’ He looked over to Dr Marsden for confirmation. ‘Right?’

  ‘This is true,’ he agreed, ‘although it might have made them far more susceptible to the suggestion of it.’

  ‘So these kids have all been to the same place, and been exposed to something that has caused this damage?’ Cass wanted to hear someone say it out loud.

  ‘Yes,’ Dr Marsden said, ‘without a doubt they’ve had a shared experience – but not necessarily at the same time.’

  ‘Great.’ Cass frowned, thinking of the dead and their puzzle. ‘Hold on, you said six students. We’ve got seven.’

  ‘Gotcha.’ Eagleton grinned. ‘We have an anomaly.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Allow me my dramatic pause!’ Eagleton’s face had lit up with childish enthusiasm.

  ‘What’s the anomaly?’ Cass growled.

  ‘Not what, but who,’ Eagleton said. ‘Joe Lidster. He has no lesions on his brain at all.’

  ‘What?’ Th
is time it was Armstrong interrupting.

  ‘His brain looks fine.’ The Assistant ME sounded almost cheerful. ‘Apart from being dead, of course.’

  Back at the office, Cass had taken a few minutes to pull in a favour and get a current address for Adele Stratham, the midwife who’d been working at the Portman on the night Luke was born. At least it was a London address, so if the day got too busy he’d still be able to visit her that evening and get home by a reasonable hour. He’d been awake most of the night – the drugs had kept his heart pumping fast long after any trace of the buzz had faded, and he’d been unable to turn his brain off. Now all traces of the coke had faded and he was just dog-tired and irritated. He’d left the remainder of the baggie at home, and although a big part of him wished he’d not, so he could just perk himself up with a quick snifter, his wiser self – what was left of it – was glad he couldn’t. Getting caught with white powder around his nose in the current climate at Paddington Green wouldn’t be good. He was drinking strong coffee instead, though it wasn’t really cutting it. It was going to be a long day, he concluded. He might as well get on with it.

  He found Armstrong working on the case board, rearranging photos and notes.

  ‘Have we got the kids’ mobiles back from their families yet?’

  ‘Just, I think.’

  ‘Good. I want all their numbers cross-referenced and call records checked straight away.’

  ‘How far back do you want to go? A couple of months?’

  ‘No,’ Cass said, ‘as far back as we can. I don’t want to miss anything. There must be a computer here somewhere that can do it.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Yeah, I want their bank statements, for the past six months at least.’ He frowned. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Moving Lidster over away from the rest until we figure out why he had no lesions.’

  Cass stared at the dark-haired young man’s picture – a ghost smiling from the wall – and suddenly it was clear. He railed at his own tiredness for making him so fucking slow. Lidster didn’t have the lesions. Of course he didn’t.

  ‘Armstrong.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘If you wanted to murder a student in London and get away with it, what would you do?’

  Armstrong looked at him.

  Cass jabbed a finger at the board.

  ‘You’d give us a scenario we wouldn’t look beyond.’

  ‘You think?’ Armstrong’s eyes widened slightly as he caught up.

  ‘It’s got to be worth a second look.’ Cass smiled. ‘Grab your coat. There’s a sex shop in Soho demanding our immediate attention.’

  ‘That’s not a line I thought I’d ever hear when I joined the force.’

  Cass laughed. It was beginning to look like Armstrong might just turn out to be all right.

  Despite the door being wedged open, there was a distinct tang of sweat filling ‘Loving It’ that probably went some way to explain the lack of custom. As Cass drew closer to the chubby man behind the counter, the smell grew stronger. It didn’t come as any surprise; Neil Newton was wearing the same shirt as the previous day, and even if it had been fresh on, it was too tight and too nylon for a man with an odour problem. Cass tried to keep the grimace from his face as the warm sweat and overpowering cheap cologne fought for supremacy.

  ‘Mr Newton?’

  Newton, who had been staring at a catalogue page of over-large dildos, looked up, surprised. Dark circles had formed around his eyes and fresh spots were breaking out on his chin. He looked very much like a man who hadn’t slept in some time. It was a look Cass recognised; it had been staring out at him from his bathroom mirror that morning.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you back here,’ Newton said. ‘What can I do for you?’ The nasal quality of his voice grated, and as much as Cass tried to sympathise with Newton, he found it hard. He was just too damned oily.

  ‘We’d like to take another look at Joe’s room,’ Armstrong said.

  ‘Not a problem; just let me lock up down here.’ Newton fluttered his cheap-jewellery-laden hands as he hunted down his keys.

  ‘It’s fine; we can go up by ourselves.’

  ‘No, no – I can’t concentrate anyway,’ Newton sighed. ‘I don’t know why I bothered opening up really. Just didn’t want to sit in the flat.’ He moved in small, precise steps as he ushered them out. ‘You know how it is.’

  Cass said nothing, but waited for Newton to lock up and then followed him up the side stairs to the flat. Luckily the smell was less invasive there; maybe it had settled into the fabric and furniture rather than hovering in the air as it did below.

  ‘I haven’t been in his room,’ Newton said, the rings on his fingers glinting as he worried at his hands. ‘I can’t bring myself to. And your lot said they’d send someone to deal with all the—’ He struggled for a word, settling finally on, ‘—mess.’

  Inside Lidster’s room, the two policemen started searching the young man’s drawers and cupboards for anything that might give them an insight into his life.

  ‘You were at your sister’s when he died, is that right?’ Cass glanced back at the shop owner. His pudgy hands paused in their constant finger-picking.

  ‘Yes, yes I was. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just routine.’ Lidster’s drawers were as neat as the rest of his room; even his socks were paired up and folded on the opposite side to his boxer shorts. ‘When did you get home?’

  ‘Late. I had to get a taxi because of all this awful business with the tubes. I probably wasn’t home until after 2 a.m.’

  ‘And can your sister verify that?’

  ‘Of course – of course, she can. It was her husband’s birthday. We had a lovely dinner.’

  ‘I don’t need all the details.’ Cass closed the drawer. There was nothing in there. ‘Just your sister’s phone numbers and address. Did you use a minicab?’

  ‘No, a black cab.’

  ‘You’ll need to buy yourself a new mattress.’ Armstrong lifted a pillow and looked underneath. ‘Maybe your insurance will cover it. Our lot will clean the carpet, but this mattress is wrecked.’

  Newton flinched. ‘Well, perhaps they will dispose of it for me.’

  ‘I’m sure they will.’ Armstrong smiled.

  Cass watched the interplay between the two. His sergeant clearly disliked Neil Newton as much as he did. He crouched down and peered under the bed. He grinned to himself before pulling out the laptop bag.

  ‘I knew there’d be one around here somewhere. A media student with no computer or Internet wouldn’t get very far.’

  ‘I didn’t know he had that.’ Newton frowned. ‘I don’t have the Internet up here – only in the shop. I find that serves my uses.’

  The sleek model was exactly the kind Cass would have expected a student to have, stylish but inexpensive. A thin silver dongle sat in one of the many holders on the inside of the case.

  He pulled it out.

  ‘Pay as you go Internet,’ he announced, satisfied.

  Back on the street, and thankfully away from any lingering scents Neil Newton might have wanted to share with them, Cass handed Armstrong the laptop.

  ‘Get that back to the tech boys and let them dig around in it. Shouldn’t take long to get an idea of Mr Lidster’s life. And while they’re doing that, I want you to check out that smarmy twat’s alibi. I’ll see you back at the office in a couple of hours.’ He flagged down a taxi.

  ‘Why? Where are you going?’ Armstrong frowned.

  ‘That’s the advantage of being the boss.’ Cass winked. ‘I don’t have to answer all your questions.’

  There were calls for the ever-increasing congestion charge to be scrapped in the wake of the bombings, since it had become a fee for simply sitting in a continuous traffic jam in the heart of London, but the government was stoically avoiding the issue. Cass figured they couldn’t afford to stop the charges; the government was as broke as everyone else in Britain.

  The cabbie weaved his
way as best he could through the slow-moving roads, but by the time they’d reached Wimbledon, the meter had clocked up a healthy fare. Though Cass might have been able to get there quicker and more cheaply on the tube, he liked being above ground, where he could see the city, and look up whenever he felt the urge. He’d rather be sitting in traffic than crammed like a sardine in one of the overloaded trains rumbling beneath their feet. Given a choice between breathing in a hundred strangers’ stale air and damp sweat and the noxious output of a thousand belching vehicles, he’d take the car fumes any day.

  Adele Streatham lived in a large semi-detached house not too far from the famous tennis courts. The front garden was no-nonsense smart: a neat lawn edged with enough shrubs to stop it looking boring, but not so much as to need too much upkeep. The red brick doorstep looked scrubbed clean. Adele Streatham was an efficient woman; Cass knew that much about her before she’d even opened the door.

  She took a long look at his police ID before letting him in.

  ‘You’re lucky to catch me,’ she said, ushering him into the sitting room. ‘I’m between home visits.’

  She was a stout woman in her mid-fifties. Her silver-blonde hair was pulled back into a neat bun. It was a severe look, and Cass wasn’t sure if she wore it that way out of preference or practicality. She didn’t offer him a cup of tea, but took the seat opposite and looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Nice house,’ Cass said.

  ‘The recession and a divorce have both been good for me. Unusual, I know, but all the fiasco of the NHS becoming so limited has been great for us midwives. We can charge a good rate privately. No one skimps with their babies. Especially the first one.’ She gave him a tight, satisfied smile. ‘I specialise in those now.’

  Cass couldn’t help but feel there was something mercenary about that: she sounded more child-catcher than midwife. Perhaps this recession was making everyone bare their teeth a little and show their harder side, even those in the traditionally caring professions.

  ‘You say this is about a missing child?’ she asked.

  ‘Sort-of missing, yes. I’m looking for a baby born in the Portman Hospital when you worked there. Nine years ago.’