The Shadow of the Soul (16 page)

‘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.’

‘That’s a long time ago. I’m not sure I’ll be able to help. I’m not even sure what “sort-of missing” means.’

Cass ignored the hint for further information; that could
wait. He passed her over a sheet of paper with a list of names on it.

‘These are the people who were working on or around the maternity ward with you that night. Anyone on there ring any bells?’

She scanned it, and laughed. ‘Of course they do – I worked with them. It’s not the staff I forget, love, it’s the patients.’

‘Was there anything unusual about any of them?’

‘In what way?’ Her eyes hardened.

‘Is there anyone there who might have been having particular debt issues? Or any sort of problem that might make them do something stupid?’

‘What, like steal a baby?’ She snorted with contempt. ‘Not likely. We take our jobs seriously. And everyone had money problems back then, especially if you worked for the NHS – but I can assure you that none of those people would stoop to selling a baby, or whatever it is you’re very badly implying.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Cass raised his hands slightly. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you, Ms Streatham. I just have to ask these questions. A baby did end up going home with the wrong parents that night, and I’m trying to understand how it could have happened.’

‘It’s ridiculous,’ she snorted, adding, ‘Nigh on impossible, in fact.’

‘There’s a big difference between “nigh on impossible” and “impossible”, Ms Streatham. And it happened.’ He paused for a moment to let the woman calm down.

‘The couple in question were Jessica and Christian Jones. She gave birth to a baby boy.’

‘Jones?’

‘No relation,’ Cass lied. ‘It’s a common name.’

‘Too common. It’s not ringing any bells for me. I’ve been
midwife to a lot of babies, and back then I had maybe three or four visits maximum with each mother before the birth. They were nearly all quick and routine, and unless there was a problem, I was too busy and too tired to make idle conversation or to become friendly. Unless something went wrong at the birth, I wouldn’t remember their faces six months later, let alone nearly ten years later.’ She shrugged slightly. ‘The world might be facing financial ruin, but it’s not stopping people having children. If anything, they’re having more.’

‘I’m sorry if I’ve touched a nerve, but you can understand why I need to ask.’

‘And I apologise for snapping.’ Her tone smoothed out. ‘But you have to understand that we all worked bloody hard, and we did our best to stay on top of the game. You should be chasing the people who worked on the private ward – they made far more mistakes than we ever did, and they worked half the hours.’

‘There was a private ward?’ Cass frowned. ‘A maternity ward?’

‘Of course there was. Didn’t you know? Flush5 ran it. It was one of their first wards, actually. I think they own the whole hospital now. Them or The Bank, anyway – one or the other owns pretty much all of London’s hospitals these day, if my pay slips are anything to go by.’

‘Thank you, Ms Streatham.’ Cass smiled. ‘Thank you very much.’

He called Perry Jordan as soon as the door had closed behind him. Jessica and Christian hadn’t used a private service – their records showed up clearly in the NHS records – but that didn’t mean the baby hadn’t been swapped with a child from the private ward.

‘A private ward?’ Jordan sounded put out. ‘But that’s weird – I didn’t get anything come up about that when I started. Sorry, mate; I’ll get back to it right now.’

Cass knew Jordan would be fast – the young investigator was annoyed at himself for having missed something, and he didn’t like to lose any more than Cass did.

He checked his watch. If the traffic was in his favour, he’d be back at the office before anyone too high-ranking had noticed he wasn’t there.

‘So what do we know?’ Cass leaned back against one of the desks in the Incident Room. Armstrong hadn’t asked where he’d been, but it was clear the sergeant wasn’t overly happy at being left out of whatever was going on. Claire had never questioned him when Cass disappeared during office hours; she had just covered for him if required. Armstrong might never be that loyal, but he was going to have to get used to it. For all he knew, Cass could have been in another interminable legal meeting – that was the lie he’d been planning to use if pushed.

Cass stared at the board where the six smiling photographs stared back. Somewhere beyond the shine of the paper lurked dark shadows and accusing eyes. He ignored them.

‘According to the phone records, none of them have ever phoned any of the others,’ Armstrong said. ‘Nor have they called any of the same landline or mobile numbers. A couple used their phones to call the same utilities companies, but there’s nothing in that – they all lived in London, and they all had to pay bills.’

‘They were students,’ Cass added. ‘They were probably calling the gas board because they
couldn’t
pay their bills.’

‘Whichever, what we do know is that they didn’t know each other.’

‘Or at least not well enough to swap phone numbers,’ Cass clarified.

‘True,’ Armstrong said. ‘And the computer print-outs of their bank records are all on your desk. I had a quick look. I hate to say it, but I doubt you’ll find much there.’

‘Great. Haven’t you got anything good for me?’

‘Actually, yes – well, a good and a bad. Which do you want first?’

‘Hit me.’

‘Neil Newton’s alibi checks out. I rang his sister, and she confirms that they had a birthday dinner for her husband that he attended. And he left late, saying he’d grab a black cab.’

‘What’s the good news?’

‘Joe Lidster was Internet dating. There were two sites bookmarked that he used quite heavily. He emailed a couple of men with his number. They didn’t email their numbers back, though – I guess they would have texted. Tech are tracing them through their emails, and I’ve got a constable calling the numbers from his phone book and call log. We should get something to go on soon.’

‘Good. Let’s see if we can end the day with something positive.’

At his desk, Cass picked up the first of the bank statements. Katie Dodds. He scanned the list of details and numbers. There was something about bank records that was like reading someone’s diary – it was the bones without the flesh of emotion and detail, but it nonetheless gave a clear view of their life. He put Joe Lidster’s statement to one side – something bad had come his way, that was for sure, but
Cass was quite certain it wasn’t the same as the others – and flicked through the rest. Aside from Hayley Porter and Cory Denter, the other three had at least one utility bill going out each month. Perhaps the rest were in the names of other housemates or sharers, splitting the responsibility, like taking the first step into adulthood – a journey that was over too quickly for these youngsters.

Their transactions were depressingly mundane. Student loans came in; rents and bills went out. Various cash withdrawals were made and pay-as-you-go phones were topped up. And then there were the debit card purchases for the kind of stores that implied fashion, music, movies and downloads, all vital necessities for students who were struggling to stay out of the red. It was all what he had expected to see.

He laid the long print-outs side by side and looked again. An itch tickled at the back of his mind and he ran his eyes up and down each one. There was something odd about them. Something that he couldn’t quite—

And then he saw it.

He rummaged in his desk drawer until he found a pair of scissors, and then cut each long sheet into sections, divided at the first of the next month. After he was done he laid out the past four months, one above the other for each student.

‘Armstrong!’ he shouted. ‘Get in here!’

He had to give the young man his due, Armstrong could move fast.

‘What is it?’

‘You were right when you said I wouldn’t see much. But that’s the point!’

‘I’m not getting you, sir.’

‘Look again. I’ve cut each student’s statements into
months. The last two months are much shorter than the rest. The transactions are mainly basic – rent and bills and stuff – but there are hardly any withdrawals or purchases.’

‘I’m still not—’

‘Wake up, Sergeant! They weren’t taking any cash out of their accounts, but don’t tell me they weren’t spending any.’

‘What are you …?’

‘Cash! They were getting
cash
from somewhere – maybe someone was paying them cash-in-hand for something.’

‘Something dodgy?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. But
that
is what we need to find out.’

M
r Craven was half-listening to the debate raging on the large screen on the wall in front of him. Politics were the same worldwide, he concluded: men screaming at each other from different sides of an opulent room, decrying each other’s values when really it was all just about the power. He liked to watch them playing it out sometimes; it reminded him of the old days.

He swallowed a mouthful of his lunch and smiled as the Leader of the Opposition received a standing ovation, and not only from those on his own side of the bench. The McDonnell woman looked around her, trying to remain calm, but clearly flustered, as the other – Merchant, Mr Craven believed his name was – enjoyed his moment. Mr Craven couldn’t help himself; he always favoured the Opposition, even though the man who was ranting and pacing and shaking his fists in the air on the screen appeared to be promising a dictatorship in the name of protection if he ever got into power.

Hedonist that he was, Mr Craven still kept abreast of the potential for change that hung in the air of every major city of this world. The McDonnell woman, the House’s choice, if the Interventionists had been interpreted correctly, favoured peace and tolerance. This man Merchant was a different breed. Even listening to him was exhausting: more
death sentences for lesser crimes, merciless vengeance on any nation or group who attacks the British Isles, a return to a one-religion state. There was no
glow
about him, but Mr Craven couldn’t help but wonder if this was what had been planned all that time ago – a man made in his God’s image. Still, if people were stupid enough to support him, then so be it. He’d never been interested enough to get involved; the others could handle that. He just found it entertaining.

His knife cleaved the steak like butter and he lifted another slice to his mouth and chewed. It was perfectly cooked, as was only to be expected. A small pool of pinkish blood oozed out of the meat and ran into the dauphinoise potato and vegetable medley on the side. He swallowed, and then took a long sip of red wine. The man hovering in the doorway could wait.

At last he put down his cutlery and beckoned Draper forward. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Is it organised?’

‘She won’t give you any more children, sir.’ Draper didn’t move any further forward into the vast lounge.

Mr Craven picked up his knife again.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The boy who was here last is sick.’

‘Sick?’ Mr Craven frowned.

‘Strain II. The bug.’

‘Her concern is noted, but it’s not as if I can catch it,’ he said impatiently. ‘Tell her to send a different one. And there are a few letters on my desk that need taking back to some lawyers or other.’

The man didn’t move, and Mr Craven’s irritation shifted into annoyance.

‘What’s the matter with you?’

Draper’s hesitation hung in the air between them before he finally spoke.

‘It’s the boy. She says he didn’t have the bug. Not before.’

‘Not before what?’

Draper swallowed. ‘Not before you, sir.’

Mr Craven froze as the world stilled. A sneeze tickled in his nose and he let it out. He’d been sneezing a lot recently. Draper flinched, and suddenly it was all very clear; he understood why the man had stayed hovering in the doorway. Mr Craven looked at him properly. Draper’s pupils were wide. A bead of sweat on his forehead reflected the world. A world that had suddenly changed. A chill gripped Mr Craven’s stomach.

Draper took a tiny step backwards, perhaps hoping that if he moved slowly enough, then his exit wouldn’t be noticed. Mr Craven smiled.

‘Scared of something, Draper? Suddenly not so keen to serve me?’ He carefully lifted his napkin from his lap and placed it next to his unfinished dinner. He stood up.

‘No sir, I just have …’ The sentence hung unfinished. Draper didn’t have to speak. Mr Craven could see his fear on every inch of his skin. It pulsed through his pores. Death.

He smiled.

‘If you can get to the front door before me, I’ll let you leave.’

Draper turned to run.

There was light, energy and movement. The flap of wings tore shreds in the curtains. For those few seconds, Mr Craven thought it was good to feel like himself again.

Draper hadn’t got very far at all. Mr Craven leaned against the heavy wooden door and smiled at him.

‘I just want to hug you.’

The fight had gone out of Draper. His shoulders slumped. ‘Please, sir—’

That was all he managed to say before Mr Craven pulled him close.

Draper’s body was hot.

‘Sometimes in life we don’t get the rewards we were hoping for,’ Mr Craven whispered gently into his ear. ‘Today is a day where I think we’re both learning that lesson.’

He bit down on the soft lobe. Draper mewled.

When he returned to his meal his dessert was cooling, but still delicious. Draper was on his knees, sobbing in the hallway. Mr Craven hoped he’d get up soon – those letters still needed delivering, and he was pretty sure Draper would be healthy long enough to manage that, at least.

The man on the other side of the interview table was the epitome of ordinary. Though Richard Elwood worked for an advertising company, he was in charge of inputting numbers rather than anything creative. Forty-four years old, and married for seventeen of those, with whatever limited good looks he might have once had now faded into blandness … Cass couldn’t help but wonder what could possibly have attracted the handsome young Joe Lidster to him.

He slid a cup of bad instant coffee across the table, and Elwood picked it up and started to sip from it gratefully. He was upset, there was no doubting that, but the emotion didn’t make Cass warm to him. You could be upset for any number of reasons, including fear of being caught.

‘You must have seen the papers reporting his death,’ Cass said, ignoring his own coffee.

‘Yes. It came as a terrible shock.’ Elwood’s hands twitched as he played with the polystyrene cup. ‘I was trying not to let it show at home. I just can’t understand why he’d have
done something like that. What’s going on with these students? How many have died now?’ The last few words came out in a sob.

Cass stared at him and gritted his teeth. He had never been able to stomach men who cried too easily. ‘We don’t believe Joe Lidster died in the same way as the others.’

‘What?’ Elwood’s tears magically stopped.

‘Why are you on a gay dating website when you’re married with two children?’ Cass asked.

‘What do you mean, he didn’t die in the same way as the others?’

‘You answer my question first.’ Cass didn’t really care about Elwood’s personal life – everyone lied to one extent or another. He just wanted to see his reactions.

Elwood looked down at the table. ‘Life is messy,’ he said. ‘Complicated.’

Cass had been expecting him to come out with the usual crap about loving his wife and not wanting to hurt anyone. The honesty of his answer pushed Elwood up a little in his estimation, but he didn’t let it show.

‘Not for Joe Lidster. Life is decidedly un-fucking-complicated for him now.’

‘I don’t understand how I can help you.’

‘We believe Lidster was murdered,’ Cass said.

Elwood’s eyes widened. His mouth dropped open, as if he was about to speak, but Cass didn’t give him time. ‘We need to know about your relationship with him and when you last saw him. Did you fight?’

Elwood shook his head, his hands spreading slightly helplessly, as if he wished they could do the talking for him, but they couldn’t oblige.

After a moment he said, ‘He answered an ad on the site. We started messaging, and then he gave me his number and
we arranged to meet. The first time was three weeks or so ago. We had coffee. I was honest with him about my situation and he was fine with it. He said he wasn’t long out of a bad break-up and wasn’t looking for something overly serious. It suited us both.’ He paused. ‘I liked him. He was very funny, but very gentle. He was a kind young man.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘The night he died. We’d met a few times before in hotels, but this time he said to come to his. We went for something to eat and then went back to his flat.’

‘Did you have sex with him?’

‘I suppose so. We did stuff, anyway.’ The question clearly made the man uncomfortable, and Cass wondered how much time he spent wrestling with his desires. One day he’d figure out it was rarely worth the struggle. At some point or other the desire would eventually win out.

‘We mainly chatted. He told me about the awful man he lived with – well, whose flat he rented. We laughed a bit about that, and the state of the place. I think Joe felt sorry for him. He said he thought the old boy had a bit of a crush on him, but all his attempts at seduction were like something out of an awful seventies sitcom – just like the landlord himself. I had to get home by eleven, so at about half-ten I left Joe upstairs and went down, unchained the door and let myself out. That was it. I thought it was odd that he hadn’t texted me, even though he never did much when I was at home, and then the next time I saw his name it was in the paper.’ He looked down at his watch.

The day was creeping away, and he’d be expected home soon. Cass thought he’d let him go in time. Elwood might be many things, but Cass was pretty sure he wasn’t a killer, not in this case, at least.

He was about to stop the recording and let the man go
back to his family when something occurred to him. ‘You said you unchained the door?’

‘Yes, on the way out.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Yes – you’ve been in that flat, right? You saw how old and filthy everything is? Well, the chain was stuck and I had to yank at it a bit to open it. I remember it clearly.’

Cass didn’t say any more until they’d seen the man out and were back in his office. Then he started, ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that Lidster put the chain on?’

‘Maybe,’ Armstrong said, ‘but maybe he just wanted to make sure they had privacy.’

‘His bedroom had a lock. He could have had privacy without putting the chain on the front door.’ Cass leaned against his desk. ‘Most people only put the chain on at the end of the evening, when they’re not expecting to go out again.’

He thought for a moment, then looked at Armstrong. ‘Get on the phone to Marsden’s office and tell Eagleton I want Lidster’s blood testing again, for anything unusual or out of the ordinary.’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’ll tell you when I’m sure.’ He reached for his jacket. ‘When you’ve done that, you can get off home. I’ve got a couple of visits to make and then I’ll be doing the same.’

‘More secrets?’ Armstrong asked.

‘Thought I’d go and see Jasmine Green’s boyfriend, and then call in on the Denters. See if either of them had a cash-in-hand job.’ He smiled. ‘No secrets.’

‘I’ll call the next of kin and the roommates of the others before I go home.’

Cass was at his office door when he paused. ‘And get
someone watching Neil Newton’s place. Nothing obvious. I just don’t want him doing a runner.’

‘But his alibi checks out.’

‘Maybe, but we’ve got the budget for some overtime and that door chain is really bugging me.’

Cory Denter’s father answered on the third ring. His greeting was in a monotone, the voice a reflection of the man’s broken heart. Cory had had jobs, yes, but as far as his father was concerned, nothing cash in hand, nothing regular – he’d done some silver service waiting during the Christmas holidays, that kind of thing. He took his studies too seriously to have had a regular job. He was a good boy; he worked hard. He paused the call for a moment to check with his wife, but she knew no more than he did.

The conversation was stilted. Cass didn’t have the answers to their pain; worse, he knew that even if he did get them answers to the questions surrounding their son’s death, they’d find that it couldn’t really take the pain away. It would just change, that was all. They didn’t know that yet, though. Their ignorance might not be bliss, but there was some mercy in it. At least for now they had a semblance of hope.

‘Cash in hand?’ The dread was back in Mr Denter’s voice. ‘Does that mean my son was involved in some bad business after all?’

‘Not necessarily,’ Cass said. ‘A lot of companies are trying to fiddle the taxman these days. Everyone’s struggling. It could be that he didn’t even know that whoever was paying him wasn’t putting it through the books.’

It wasn’t likely – Cass had looked through Cory’s stuff and he hadn’t seen any payslips, dodgy or otherwise. If he’d been working quite recently, there’d have surely been
something somewhere. There was a word hanging in the air.

At last he said, ‘I don’t think your son was mixed up in selling drugs.’ There they were: the word was out there. Drugs. Done. ‘Kids who sell drugs normally do so to pay for their own habit. Your son’s body showed no evidence of any usage – nor did any of the other students.’ He spoke slowly, letting each sentence sink in before starting the next. ‘I can’t give you any guarantees on that, obviously, but my gut instinct tells me it is very far from likely. You had a good son, Mr Denter. He was a boy to be proud of. Whatever I find out or don’t, you should enjoy that memory of him.’