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

by Sarah Pinborough

  He repeated, ‘That perhaps you staged an attack on yourself to raise your ratings.’

  ‘But how could that possibly be?’ She pushed her coffee cup away. She was exhausted and running on adrenalin, and more caffeine really wasn’t going to help her think straight. ‘What kind of person would do that – is that really what they think of me? I didn’t even raise the alarm!’

  ‘The problem you have,’ Desmond Simpson continued, ‘is that no one saw this apparent assailant, not a single person in the crowd, nor in fact any of our Secret fucking Service men. All they saw was Abigail bloody Porter pushing you to the ground and then chasing a phantom.’ He sipped his own coffee. ‘Add to that all the journalists and news crews who were filming at the location, who also have no record of our fat man being there, and …’ He stared at her, then looked down at his cup. ‘Well, you can see how we need a fucking miracle to make sense of any of it, can’t you.’

  ‘So who’s actually saying this?’ The Prime Minister leaned back in her chair.

  Lucius Dawson looked more tired than she felt, if that was possible; he didn’t see her glance at him because he was too busy looking at Simpson for an answer. Sometimes she wondered if any of them ran the country at all, or if it was all done by these shadowy figures in the background who spent their lives making new truths out of old ones.

  ‘It started somewhere on the back benches – nicely anonymous. But it’s spreading now, and Merchant will grab it and run with it as soon as he thinks there’s enough support.’

  ‘He’s the leader of the Opposition,’ McDonnell said. ‘He’d never be allowed to make such an outrageous claim.’

  ‘He would if he thought there were people within your own party who agreed with him.’

  ‘And are there?’

  Simpson looked over at the Home Secretary. McDonnell did the same.

  ‘I’ve heard people talking,’ Dawson said, eventually. ‘They’re worried about what a story like this could do to us.’

  ‘We’re not dead in the water yet.’ Simpson sat on the edge of the desk. ‘I know she’s on compassionate leave, but we need to bring Abigail Porter in. You need a scapegoat, and it needs to be her. She can say she overreacted and thought she’d seen something when she hadn’t; that she panicked, forcing a poor civilian who happened to have some mental illness – I’m sure we can make up some shit about him – to jump in front of a train because he thought he was about to get fucking shot. I don’t care if we say she was on LSD and cracked, we just need to make it her fault and not yours.’ Despite his language, his voice was calm. This destruction of careers – of lives – for the greater good was what he was paid for, and he was damn good at it. It exhausted McDonnell to even try to think like him, and she heartily disliked the fact that she needed him.

  ‘In some ways, she’s the best choice,’ Simpson continued. ‘Her sister’s just died, so the press – and any inquiry – will go easy on her, and her father can get her another security job, and one that pays a damn sight more than she’s on at the moment. If we get her in tomorrow …’ He paused and looked at the Home Secretary. ‘What? What am I missing?’

  Dawson looked at McDonnell. If she’d been less tired, she might have laughed. It was all becoming something of a farce. How quickly empires crumble.

  ‘It’s Abigail,’ she said.

  ‘What about her?’ Simpson’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘She’s not on compassionate leave. She was, but she disappeared. She went out the back window of her flat and hasn’t been seen since. Fletcher’s got people looking for her, but so far the trail’s dead.’

  ‘Holy mother of shit.’

  ‘But surely,’ McDonnell continued, ‘if we tell people that she’s gone, they’ll think that if anyone planned this, it was her. Which is exactly what we’re thinking – so what’s wrong with telling the truth?’

  ‘Two things.’ Simpson stood up and looked down on her. ‘First, if they want to get rid of you – of all of us – they can do it by blaming you for hiring her in the first place: they’ll say you were incompetent and naïve.’

  ‘Technically, Alison didn’t hire her,’ Dawson cut in.

  ‘Save that bullshit. She’s in charge, she takes the buck on this. No one gives a shit who actually does the hiring and firing; they’ll say if you can’t see a security threat in the middle of your personal security team, then how the hell are you going to spot an external one? They’ll crucify you. Before you know it the London bombs will be your fault. Personally. ’ He barely paused for breath. ‘Second, those who aren’t busy calling youa stupid foolwill think you’ve got her hidden away somewhere because you did organise the whole thing to boost your ratings and don’t want anyone getting to her for the truth. It’s a lose–lose situation for you.’

  ‘The truth?’ McDonnell looked up at him. ‘God forbid we should ever speak the truth, or care about people’s lives and integrity.’

  ‘Don’t get sanctimonious with me.’ The spin doctor’s eyes hardened. ‘If you care so much about the fucking truth and people, go join a bloody nunnery, or work with fucking disabled children. This is politics.’

  ‘You’re right.’ She raised her hands in submission. He wasn’t right, and never would be in her book, but she didn’t have the energy to argue with him, and it was pointless anyway. She wouldn’t win. She was just a piece on the chessboard, and right now she had the feeling she was the most expendable of pawns.

  ‘Are we fucked then?’ Dawson asked quietly.

  ‘Well that all depends,’ Simpson said. ‘Do you want to save your leader, or this government?’

  ‘The government.’ McDonnell didn’t hesitate. ‘We can’t let Merchant get in. The man’s a lunatic. If he has power, then this country will really be wrecked.’

  ‘Then we need to create a viable take-over in-house. Something we can control.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Simpson smiled. ‘Of all your Cabinet do you trust Dawson the most?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Then he’s who we’ll use to destroy you.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Despite what the telephone receptionist had said, The Bank was the business that never slept. The sleek building on the Thames was the hub of all The Bank’s worldwide activities, the nominated head office, although The Bank no doubt owned equally impressive buildings in other cities. Once it had been the MI6 building; now, in Cass’ eyes at least, it was a front for something far more threatening: the Network, with their X accounts and the Redemption file. This was where his brother had worked, lured there by a good job and benefits in a world where both were increasingly hard to come by; before long he’d become inextricably entangled in his own section of the Network’s web. And now he and his wife and the child he’d believed to be their son were dead.

  Cass passed the external security guards and through the newly installed metal detectors just inside the sliding doors without incident. He wasn’t carrying a gun – even if he’d been licensed, he wouldn’t have brought one; that kind of weapon was unlikely to do him any good here. His heels clicked on the marble.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ The woman sat behind a long glass desk of black and silver, the colours of the company. She smiled over at him. This wasn’t the same woman he’d spoken to half an hour before. Although undeniably a beauty, she was in her mid-fifties, older and doubtless infinitely wiser than the young woman who’d answered his call. Her voice has been smooth and professional, but lacked the harder edge of this woman.

  Cass didn’t answer her, but stopped in the middle of the vast foyer, ten feet or more from where she sat, tilted up his head and spread his arms wide. Slowly he turned in a circle. From within the large black glass boxroom behind the reception desk – it doubled as a security centre and modern art – two men in dark suits emerged. They stood either side of the woman, watching him cautiously. Cass ignored them as the lights of the embedded security cameras above his head flickered quietly.

  A phone
buzzed and the woman with the wise eyes answered it. After a moment, she carefully replaced it.

  ‘Mr Jones?’

  Cass stopped his circling and looked at her. ‘You can go up now. I believe you know the way.’ She didn’t smile, but Cass favoured her with a grin.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The clear security gates clicked and opened for him and he headed towards the lift. There were obviously people in the building still working, but the communal areas were eerily quiet. The doors of the lift slid shut behind him. Cass didn’t press any buttons; he’d not be operating this lift. After a moment the central panel between the two banks of numbers lit up green at the edges and the machine purred into life, just as Cass had expected. This ride was taking him to a floor which didn’t exist, and to a man who didn’t feature in any of The Bank’s employment records – the man who had introduced his mother to his father with a smile, and who hadn’t left his family alone since, even now, when they were nearly all gone. He was here to meet Mr Castor Bright.

  The lift slowed and pinged its arrival. Cass’s heart thumped and his mouth dried. Nothing had changed. The cherry-red floor still shone in the wash of light from the standing lamps positioned at various points of the room. The opulent Eastern rug still stretched lazily out towards the chesterfields and armchairs in the living area of the vast open-plan space. As he stepped out, Cass’s eyes automatically followed the wide spiral staircase that rose alongside the wall of antique books to his right to the second floor beyond. It was from there that the mysterious Mr Bright had emerged last time Cass visited this place. Tonight, it was empty.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  This time the silver-haired man was sitting in a wingback chair, one leg casually crossed over the other, the pressed seams of his tailored suit trousers still perfect.

  ‘No, thanks. I won’t be here long.’

  ‘You never are.’ Mr Bright’s sharp eyes twinkled. He hadn’t changed – but then, he hadn’t changed over several decades; why would six months make a difference?

  ‘You’ve been keeping busy, Cassius.’ Mr Bright put down his own drink, and with a well-manicured hand gestured at the Telegraph on the table beside him. Cass looked at the headline. MURDER DISGUISED AS TEEN SUICIDE.

  ‘I thought you’d be more of a tabloid man,’ Cass said, keeping his tone cool and nonchalant. Mr Bright chilled him to the bone, but there was no way he intended showing it.

  ‘I always did like your sense of humour.’ Mr Bright smiled. ‘It’s important to keep it. I’ve always tried to keep mine.’ He looked back down at the paper. ‘Suicides. Such a terrible business. Sometimes I think the dead should just be allowed to rest, don’t you?’

  ‘Most of the time I find the dead can’t.’ Cass glanced across to the far side of the room, where two office doors sat on either side of an unlit modern fire. Both still had bronze name plaques attached, and although he was too far away to read them, he could clearly make out the shapes of the names: Mr Bright on one and Mr Solomon on the other.

  ‘And if you’re so keen, perhaps you should lay him to rest then. We both saw the crazy fucker die, after all.’

  For a brief second, the twinkle in Mr Bright’s eyes hardened to diamond and then he smiled again: all perfect white teeth.

  ‘I haven’t been here for a while. Trust me, finding someone to fill that office is on my “To Do” list.’ He spread his hands in an elaborate shrug. ‘But I’ve been busy. There’s always so much to do.’

  The words were just games, and Cass was getting tired of them. The less time spent around Mr Bright the better, as far as he was concerned.

  ‘I presume you’re responsible for the ADT wanting me to help find this Porter woman?’

  ‘It would be pointless of me to deny it.’

  ‘What does Interventionist mean?’

  There was the slightest widening of pupils and a surge of bright gold that obliterated the colour in the sparkling eyes.

  It was over in a flash, and while Cass was glad he’d got a reaction, he tried to hide that he’d seen it. Whatever the glow was, Castor Bright could control his – maybe that was because he had so fucking much of it. He’d half-answered Cass’s question in that instant, though; whatever the word meant, it was something to do with the Network, just as he’d thought.

  ‘I want you to find the girl David Fletcher’s looking for.’ Mr Bright got to his feet in one elegant movement. ‘I need to know who’s behind this business. It really shouldn’t be too taxing; I just need you to inform me of anything you find that you think’ – he smiled again, one eyelid dropping in a quick wink – ‘might interest me.’

  ‘Why do you need me? Are you losing your touch?’

  ‘It would be very foolish of anyone to think that.’ He strolled over to the window, then turned to face Cass. ‘I trust you, Cassius Jones, despite yourself, and for reasons you don’t yet understand. The others have never thought of you as important. I, on the other hand, have always liked to hedge my bets and play the numbers.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Cass growled. Being around Mr Bright always ended up making his skin burn with anger and frustration and disbelief. He wanted to get back into the grimy real world, where people lived and died, and no one else gave much of a shit about it.

  ‘I need someone on the outside who knows a little bit about the inside. Someone who’s not a fool – someone who is part of everything – and that, of course, would be you, Cassius Jones. It always has been.’

  ‘Then you’re the fucking fool. I’m not going to help you – I’d rather cut my own right hand off.’

  Mr Bright laughed, ice tinkling in a glass of warm spirit. ‘Let’s hope I don’t hold you to that.’ He sighed. ‘Of course you’ll help me. I wouldn’t have involved you if I wasn’t sure of that.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Because—,’ and Mr Bright smiled cheerfully, ‘—you won’t find Luke without me.’

  Cass’s blood chilled and the world shattered a little at the edges. ‘What?’

  ‘This hunt you’ve started: it’s pointless.’ The smile stretched and Mr Bright’s white teeth glinted. It was a shark’s smile.

  Cass had heard the expression before; fuck, he’d used it himself, but he’d never felt it like he did in that moment.

  ‘If you do this for me,’ Mr Bright continued, ‘then I’ll tell you who gave Luke up.’

  ‘You have him, don’t you?’ The words were grit in his mouth.

  ‘Does this place look child-friendly?’ Mr Bright gestured around him. ‘But help find the girl and I’ll tell you what happened that night.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll find out myself.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ Mr Bright’s voice dropped. ‘You don’t even know if he’s alive or dead. Only I can tell you that.’

  ‘You bastard.’ Cass’s lungs tightened. He didn’t want to breathe the same air as Mr Bright.

  ‘I’ve been called many, many things over many, many years.’ Mr Bright kept smiling. ‘One day you’ll understand that all of this has been in your best interest, despite some of the unfortunate incidents along the way.’

  ‘Unfortunate incidents? ’ Cass’s blood was so far past boiling it felt like ice. ‘My brother is fucking dead.’

  ‘To be fair,’ Mr Bright said, then paused to sip his drink before continuing, ‘I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘You’re a cunt.’ The world shimmered as Cass spat the word out, and his vision sharpened. Heat fled from his eyes.

  ‘It’s good to see the real you is still in there, Cassius. Look at that Glow.’

  There is no glow. His eyes burned.

  ‘I won’t help you.’

  ‘Yes, you will.’ The sentence was sharp and hard. ‘Because I know where Luke is.’

  For a moment, gold filled the room, bathing everything it touched in its light. Cass wasn’t sure where his ended and Mr Bright’s began. He didn’t know where he ended and Mr Bright began. With a gasp, he
swallowed the colour back down again. His skin cooled. The lamps faded, as if aware they could never compete with that unnatural light and so no longer saw the point in making any attempt to dispel the gloom.

  When the world had settled back to normality, Mr Bright pulled a card from his pocket and handed it over. It was thick and textured and expensive, and on it was embossed a mobile number. There was no other information.

  ‘Let me know about anything that comes up that I might wish to hear of. And trace that number if you want, but your time would probably be better spent on other things. It won’t give you any information on me.’

  ‘I’m not interested in you.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  Cass turned and headed towards the lift. ‘I wouldn’t bank on it.’

  Tinkling laughter followed him. ‘Very droll.’

  ‘I don’t trust you,’ Cass said as the lift doors opened. ‘What if you’re lying?’

  ‘I never make offers I haven’t thought through, Cass Jones. And I haven’t lied to you. And to be fair, you really don’t have any choice, do you?’

  ‘There’s always a choice, Castor Bright,’ Cass said. ‘We just don’t always like the options.’

  Mr Bright was still smiling when the doors closed, separating them. With trembling hands Cass quickly stored the number on the card into his phone and saved it as ‘A’ for anonymous – he didn’t want to key Mr Bright’s name into his phone; that would be almost as if they were friends, and he felt Judas enough for what he knew he was going to do without adding that to it.

  He screwed up the card and let it drop to the floor, not wanting to touch what Mr Bright had given him for any longer than necessary. There was no point in tracing the number; Cass had believed him when he’d said it wouldn’t lead anywhere. But if Mr Bright thought Cass was going to give up his own chase for Luke, then he was very, very wrong. He had the leads; he was damned well going to follow them. Until he had something of his own to go on, he’d play Mr Bright’s game. He didn’t give a shit about Network business anyway.