The Shadow of the Soul (22 page)

‘I don’t see how. His hands are visible right up until he jumps. You didn’t find a syringe on the track?’

‘No, and we probably would have. He was spread all over that line.’

‘Nice.’

‘Glad scraping him up wasn’t my job. I should imagine there were a lot of bags used.’ Fletcher froze the screen. ‘During the debriefing you turned up and told us about her sister’s suicide. After that, of course, the PM insisted she go home on compassionate leave. I walked her home – to be honest, it was half because I still wasn’t happy with her behaviour and wanted to dig a bit deeper – then she invited me in for coffee. I stayed a couple of hours and then went back to work.’

‘Coffee?’ Cass asked. ‘Your relationship didn’t look overly friendly when I came to Number Ten.’ He nodded at the screen. ‘I can see why now, but my point is, she must have felt your hostility too. So why did she invite you in? If she was grieving, I would have thought you’d be the last person she’d want around.’

‘She didn’t seem overly grief-stricken. I presumed she was keeping it inside.’

He watched Fletcher’s eyes shift slightly as he spoke.

‘Plus, in our line of work we don’t tend to have hundreds of friends to call on when we need one.’

He was trying hard, but Fletcher was not a great liar. If Abigail Porter had invited him in, it wasn’t for coffee. They might have not liked each other overly much, but Cass knew from experience that didn’t necessarily stop people wanting to fuck each other. The last few years of his marriage had been about two people who’d only liked each other in bed.

‘I had a car outside her place after I went. She’s something to do with all of this, and I didn’t trust her.’

Cass almost laughed. Maybe he and Fletcher weren’t so different after all. It would take more than a good fuck for either of them to let their guard down. Sex was easy. Trust was something else completely.

‘She must have spotted it and gone out through a window at the back, because in the morning she was gone.’

‘Any ideas where? Did she leave anything at her flat that might help?’

‘We found her on CCTV footage at a payphone a few miles from her flat. The number she dialled doesn’t give us anything – it’s just a cheap pay-as-you-go, bought in a shop in Oxford Street for cash one year ago and never used until now. The shop doesn’t keep their tapes that long, so we can’t get an ID on the purchaser from them. Cameras later picked her up going past Oxford Circus Underground Station.’

‘You were lucky to spot her.’

‘We have good trace facilities and image recognition software.’

‘Remind me to come to you next time I need to find some murdering fucker.’

Fletcher smiled, albeit briefly. ‘Then we got this.’ Fresh footage rolled on the screen. ‘The lobby of the Latham Hotel in Portland Place.’

Dressed all in black, with her hair pulled back, Abigail Porter strolled into the hotel. She didn’t hesitate, but walked smoothly past the reception desk and through the large marble foyer until she disappeared down a side corridor and into the lifts.

‘Where did she go?’

‘The lift camera shows her getting out on the eighth floor. After that we don’t have anything. She simply disappears.’

‘No footage of her leaving?’

‘No, but the hotel has plenty of black spots without cameras. If she didn’t take the lifts or come out the front entrance then it’s likely she wouldn’t have been picked up. We’ve been through the footage for that day and we’ve got no match with anyone in our system, no likely figures from any terrorist organisations in our database.’

‘And you’re sure she’s involved? Admittedly it all looks pretty cloak and dagger, but could she have gone to meet someone else – a secret lover, perhaps? Maybe someone the job might not have approved of? Perhaps she knew you were watching her and didn’t want to call them from her own phone?’

‘Does she look like she’s dressed for a lover?’

‘To be fair, a girl like that could turn up dressed anyway she likes. And hotels have showers,’ Cass mused. ‘It just seems odd. She chased him down to the Underground; she stands there with her gun on him. Why all this show if she’s already involved?’

‘We went through her home computer. Her most recent
Internet activity was to a Hotmail account. The username was Intervention1 and the password was Salvation. Coincidence?’

‘I don’t believe in them.’ Cass didn’t like his own words echoing those spoken to him by Mr Bright not so many months ago, but he found it was true. ‘Were there any messages?’

‘No, and I’m not surprised. We’re used to this; it’s one of the simplest and most effective ways that terrorist cells can communicate with no trace. One person sets up the account and then gives the username and password to the other members of their cell or group. When they want to communicate with them, they write a message but don’t send it. Instead they save it in the Drafts folder. The other logs in, reads it and deletes. If they need to reply they do it the same way. No data is ever sent, so the message is irretrievable.’

‘Clever bastards.’ Cass smiled; he couldn’t help himself.

‘So that’s what we’ve got.’

‘Can I see her file?’

Fletcher opened his briefcase and pulled out a thin buff file. ‘I’d rather you read it here and I’ll take it back with me.’

‘Ah,’ Cass said, ‘I love that we’re starting from a position of trust. But as I still haven’t decided whether I’m going to help you or not, that’s fine with me.’

He flicked through the pages. There was all the usual: a good school, better university. McDonnell wanted female personal security; Porter had served in the military locations and excelled at the training; she’d been a dead cert when she’d applied for the position. His eyes snagged on something.

‘Have you looked at this file?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘What happened with this psyche evaluation? There’s a
fail in the application form box that’s had a void stamp over it and then next to it a pass.’

Fletcher peered over his shoulder. ‘I don’t know. Admin error, maybe?’

‘Who did the psyche evaluation on her?’

‘It should be attached.’

Cass flicked through to the back of the long form, where extra pages had been stapled in. There was Abigail Porter’s personal statement – several pages of it – all written in small, neat handwriting that was perfectly presentable but lacking any sort of personal flair. He didn’t bother reading it. No one ever told the truth in those things, and he doubted Porter was any different. Finally he reached the top sheet of the evaluation. The writer had scrawled impatiently across the relevant boxes. He recognised the handwriting at once, and double-checked against the signature.

‘Tim Hask did the evaluation?’

‘If it says so. Do you know him?’

‘He worked on a case with me.’ He turned the page to find it went straight to copies of her driving licence and the results of her physical. ‘The actual evaluation isn’t here.’ He flicked the papers over and examined the area around the staple. There was a tiny ragged edge visible between Hask’s sheet and the next photocopy. ‘Someone’s torn it out.’ He looked up. ‘That’s interesting.’

‘You think there was something in that no one wanted us to see?’

‘That’s normally why people rip things out of files in my experience.’

Cass smiled as Fletcher flashed him a glare. ‘I’ll talk to Dr Hask for you if you like. See what he made of her, and if he’s still got a copy of his original notes.’

‘So you’re going to come in on the search?’ Fletcher
looked like asking the question was sticking in his throat, and Cass didn’t blame him. He sure as hell wouldn’t want the ATD coming and trampling all over a murder scene where they didn’t belong.

‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘There’s someone I want to talk to first.’

Fletcher’s face was a mixture of relief and the knowledge that he was going to get a right royal bollocking for not getting Cass on board.

‘A couple of things before I go,’ Cass continued. ‘The hotel footage – I’d go through two or three days before, and in the time after she goes in.’

‘We’ve already done that. No known terrorists or affiliates inside.’

‘Did you just scan for them? What about politicians? Overseas aides? I don’t know what all the job titles are those fuckers dream up for themselves, but there are a lot of dangerous people out there that you and I spend our lives protecting.’ He stood up. ‘Plus, who you know and who I know might be completely different. If I do come on board I’m going to want to see the faces of everyone who came in that day.’

‘What was the second thing?’ Fletcher was speaking through gritted teeth, and although Cass found himself warming to the head of the ATD, he still liked seeing it. There was nothing better than seeing one of the bosses brought to their knees, and them seeing that you knew it.

‘You said the body brought back no DNA you could use?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Was there any explanation for his bleeding gums and the way he looked?’

‘Some evidence of various cancers was all they said. I’m
no medical man; I just wanted to know if he was wanted anywhere. I presumed that his illnesses made him a better subject for a terrorist organisation. He was clearly already facing a death sentence – perhaps he was after a glorious exit.’

‘Well, he sure as fuck didn’t choose one, strapped up with fucking Plasticine and jumping under a tube. Where was all the analysis done? In-house?’

‘Sure – well, I presume so.’

Cass thought about how he’d been pulled into this meeting from people on high who were having their strings tugged by someone else, someone he assumed was Mr Bright. He thought about the unnatural look of the fat man. If this was Network business, and if this fat man was somehow involved with the elusive Mr Bright and The Bank, then surely Mr Bright would want the body parts under his control?

‘I’d double-check that,’ he said. ‘Oh, and make sure you take everything when you go. Wouldn’t want any of this glamorous equipment ending up in police hands.’

Cass left Fletcher to find his own way out and headed back upstairs. His nerves were twitchy at the thought of seeing Mr Bright again. He had vowed to do his best to keep himself out of the web the ageless man had trapped the rest of his family in, but the invisible gossamer was stickier than he thought, and whichever way he turned, he got pulled further in. There was no point in telling Fletcher he wasn’t interested in helping find Abigail Porter – in this case the head of the ATD was simply the monkey; likewise his superiors. Cass needed to tell it to the organ grinder himself. There was only one Porter sister he wanted to help, and that was the cold, dead one. Hayley. She was the one who had the claim
on him, and the government and the Network could carry on playing their games without him.

Armstrong was standing behind Cass’s desk. ‘Making yourself at home?’

‘Just bringing these back.’ The sergeant held up the printouts. ‘I didn’t know how long you’d be.’

‘Did you find anything?’

‘Yep.’ Armstrong grinned. ‘All of them except Angie Lane had spoken to their doctors about phobias.’

‘Really?’ Cass’s heart picked up its pace to chase speed. ‘Fuck me, is something actually starting to go our way?’

‘It would seem so. James Busby was afraid of deep water – a problem for a Sports Science student. Katie Dodds had extreme arachnophobia, Hayley Porter was afraid of flying and Cory Denter was afraid of heights.’

‘Were they on any of the same prescribed medication?’

‘No, unfortunately. Hayley had a prescription for Valium, but only for days she had to fly. The other two both had therapy recommendations, but there’s no record of if they undertook any.’

‘So we have a link.’ Cass leaned against his desk. ‘Thank fuck for that.’

‘But not for Angie Lane.’

‘Just because there’s nothing on her medical records doesn’t mean she didn’t have one. We need to talk to her housemate again. She’d know.’

‘I’m way ahead of you,’ Armstrong said, holding up his car keys. ‘I was just about to head off there. She’s in a lecture, due to finish in twenty minutes. If we leave now we should be there for when she gets out.’

‘W
e might as well let the others go first,’ Amanda said. ‘No point in getting crushed.’

Rachel figured she had a point: there was only one door to get out of the lecture theatre, and every student in the class was currently trying to get through it.

‘There’s never a crush on the way in,’ Dr Cage said. ‘Funny that.’

Rachel smiled at him. Of all the classes on the Accountancy and Business Studies course, Dr Cage’s were always well attended. For an old man – he had to be at least fifty – he was quite funny, and he managed the difficult feat of making the study of numbers and business models pretty interesting.

‘I don’t want to get caught up with Emma,’ Amanda continued, ‘she’s such a cow. Last time I saw her, she was going on and on about how Angie was a slag and had dreadful taste in men, and all this stuff that just isn’t true. I had to get really shitty with her to get her to believe Angie didn’t even have a boyfriend.’ They took a couple of steps forward towards the door. ‘People are so quick to believe rumours, aren’t they? I always thought you were supposed to speak well of the dead.’

‘Soon they’ll all forget about it and poor Angie will be left in peace,’ Rachel said. ‘Either the police will get to the
bottom of it, or some other kid will kill themselves here and they’ll move on to ripping him or her apart.’

‘Oh God.’ Amanda frowned. ‘Is that the police?’

Rachel peered out over the huddle of students fighting their way out into the corridor; the man studying the students as they exited was definitely the dark, moody-looking detective.

‘What can they want now?’ Amanda asked.

‘Let’s find out.’ Rachel started to weave her way through the remaining stragglers, Amanda following in her wake. She needed to get to her locker and put these books down anyway. Accountancy was a heavyweight subject.

‘Are you here to see us?’ she asked as they finally pulled themselves free. ‘Have you found anything out about Angie?’

‘Nothing specific, I’m afraid,’ the DI answered. He kept his voice as low as Rachel had, but unlike hers, his had the edge of a growl in it. Rachel thought it probably always did. She kept walking down towards their bank of lockers and as the policeman stepped in between her and Angie, his fair-haired sergeant fell slightly behind. Around them, students nudged each other and glanced in their direction.

‘We need to know if Angie had any phobias.’

‘Phobias?’ She glanced over at Amanda. ‘You’d probably know better than me.’

The thin girl was struggling to balance her books on her knee as she fiddled with her locker key.

‘None that I can think of,’ she said. ‘Not that she mentioned, anyway. She always seemed so together.’

‘Sorry.’ Rachel looked back at the policeman. ‘Are phobias relevant?’

The creased face cracked into a smile. ‘I take it you’re working on a story for that news site of yours?’

‘Could be.’ She smiled back.

‘Well, if you keep that piece of info out of it for now, I promise that if we get to the bottom of what happened to these kids you’ll be the first to know. How’s that?’

‘Sounds like a deal.’

‘She was sometimes scared of the dark.’ Amanda leaned against the lockers, her books tight against her chest. ‘She slept with a night light on. She never actually told me, but I noticed the light under her door.’ She looked over at Rachel. ‘I don’t know if you’d call that a phobia though, or just a fear.’

‘Sounds like it fits the bill,’ the sergeant said. ‘Thank you.’

A phone vibrated, and the DI tugged it free from his pocket. ‘If you think of anything else, anyone she might have seen to try and deal with it, then please let us know.’ He gave them a smile. ‘And thanks again.’

He turned away from them to take the call. ‘Jones. Yes. Yes, I want in on that. What’s the address? I’ll see you there.’

Rachel looked at Amanda and shrugged slightly, awkward alone with the young sergeant. ‘Is it okay if we go now?’

‘Yes, of course. Thanks for your help.’

‘No problem.’ They walked away, Rachel waving one hand in a quick wave to the DI as he spoke into the phone.

‘I wonder what phobias can have to do with it?’ she said to Amanda once they were out of earshot.

‘Who knows?’ Amanda tucked her books under one arm. They looked like they’d unbalance her tiny frame, but she kept her back straight. ‘Let’s get out of here anyway. Everyone’s staring at us.’

‘So, if you’re still not agreeing to help find Abigail, what the hell are you doing here?’

David Fletcher was waiting for him outside the Porters’
house in Causton Road, Highgate. Cass looked up at the clean brown stone and the large driveway. A Merc and a BMW, both top of the range, were parked side by side. Porter really was a high-flyer.

‘You might be after the live sister, but the dead one is still very much my priority.’ He looked back at the black cab; the engine was purring impatiently. ‘And he needs his fare paying.’ Fletcher glared at him, but pulled out his wallet. The head of the ATD had more chance of claiming the fare back than Cass ever would from the Met’s increasingly tight purse strings. He thought of the little girl who grew up here in order to end up dead beside a fireplace, her blood spilled all over the expensive carpet. Had her older sister overshadowed her all her life? Even now, the world was far more concerned with finding the very-much-alive Abigail rather than figuring out what happened to poor dead Hayley.

‘Tell me about the family,’ he said as Fletcher tucked the receipt into his wallet and the cab drove away.

‘Melanie Porter – née McCorkindale – is a society type. Upper middle class, I suppose you’d call her. A beauty in her day; she’ll be where the girls got their looks from. She’s bright, though, she’s got a Law degree from Oxford, but has never practised. Instead she got married and stayed at home to bring up the girls.’

‘And the dad?’

‘Alexander Porter. He heads up the ASKDAL Conglomerate.’

‘Which is?’

‘Big and successful – one of the biggest of its kind in the world. It owns several media organisations, building companies in the Middle East, and I think some Korean electric goods manufacturers.’

‘Spreads his interests wide, then.’

‘Not really. He’s a newspaper man himself – used to be the editor-in-chief of
The Times
, and according to his file got promoted to the Chair of the Board. Fuck knows how. I’ve never really understood all that boardroom politics. He must have done well, though, because it wasn’t long before he was racing up the ranks of the parent holding company. And now he’s responsible for running the whole show.’

‘Remind me to wipe my feet,’ Cass muttered as he pressed the doorbell.

A middle-aged woman in a sharp suit let them in and led them into a downstairs room. Mrs Porter had her back to them; she was staring out at the garden through one of the high windows. Her husband stood by the large mantelpiece, nursing a drink – whisky, maybe – in a crystal glass. He looked up, though his wife didn’t turn round.

‘Are you the police?’ He wore jeans and a sweater with a shirt under it, the top button undone with casual elegance, and his face was tanned rather than ruddy. His body had just started to run into the typical corporate fat cat shape.

‘I’m DI Cass Jones, Mr Porter. I’m investigating Hayley’s death, among others.’

‘He isn’t.’ Porter’s eyes swept over Cass and focused on Fletcher. ‘I know who he is.’ He raised one thick finger and jabbed it. ‘My girl had nothing to do with those bombings; I don’t care what you think. You try and accuse her of it and I’ll come after you with all I’ve got – and I have quite some artillery.’

Cass watched Fletcher hold the other man’s gaze. If this was going to turn into a cockfight, he wanted to get his business here done first.

‘It’s currently being treated as a missing person’s case, Mr Porter,’ he said.

‘As far as anyone she works with is concerned, she’s on
compassionate leave.’ Fletcher’s voice was calm but firm.

‘Good, because if any of the news agencies gets wind of this, then that’s my career over.’

‘Please forgive my husband.’ Mrs Porter finally turned around. Her voice was cold and clipped as if she had no intention of doing what her words requested of others. She was still a beauty, Cass could see that, but it was her eyes he was drawn to. A silver glow poured from the edges, just like he’d glimpsed with Abigail. His guts curdled.
There is no glow
. He was having a hard time believing his own mantra these days.

‘I sometimes think he’s spent so much time working he forgets that real life exists outside of it.’

‘For God’s sake, Melanie,’ her husband hissed.

She didn’t look at him, but smiled softly at Cass. ‘One of our daughters is dead and the other is missing. How could that have happened to us?’ A small tear shed silver down her cheek. To Cass it looked like mercury, and part of him wished she’d just turn back round and keep on looking out of that window. He didn’t want to see her strange silver glow –
the glow
was
gold
, not
silver
. It always had been. He gritted his teeth. But then, Mr Bright had shed a silver tear in the church all those months ago – so silver and gold, maybe it was all
the glow
.

Whichever colour it was, he wanted no part of it.

‘I used to dream of Hayley dying, you know,’ Melanie Porter continued. ‘When she was little. I dreamed it for a month every night. So did Abigail. It was the oddest thing. I would wake up crying, and I’d have to go to her room to check she was all right. Twice I found her big sister already in her room, driven there by her own dreams.’ Another tear broke free, but her breathing didn’t hitch; it was as if her crying belonged to a different person. ‘The dreams stopped
eventually, but after that I think I always knew that we wouldn’t have her for very long.’

‘Please excuse my wife,’ Alexander Porter cut in. ‘Too much sun, I think. She spends all her bloody time laying out in it in Portugal. I’m surprised she’s not riddled with skin cancer with the complexion of a dried prune.’

Cass studied the dark-haired woman with the olive complexion. She was far from wrinkled; her forehead and the area around her eyes were smooth and only a single crease ran down one side of her mouth.

‘We grieve in different ways,’ Porter continued. ‘I have never been able to do tears. I don’t see the point in them.’

Everyone
did grief in different ways. Cass wondered if he should point that out to the magnate. These two with their distance, the Denters with their fear, his own contained emotions – he would never judge people on how they dealt with death.

‘Have you heard from Abigail?’ Fletcher asked.

‘No, not since a brief call after the news about Hayley.’ Alex Porter sipped his whisky, and Cass wondered if it was only so he could stare into it rather than look at Fletcher. ‘But that didn’t surprise me. That job of hers gives her so many excuses not to call us or come home. I think that’s why she likes it.’

‘She was a grown woman,’ Melanie snapped. ‘Why would she want to come home all the time? To talk stocks and shares with you over dinner? To have you probe her for inside news?’

‘Can you think of anywhere she might have gone if she wanted to get away from everything?’ Fletcher’s voice was calm and steady, cutting through the tension between the couple. ‘Any old school friends, or favourite places?’

‘I can’t think of any.’ Melanie shook her head. ‘There was no one she was overly close to.’

‘Including us,’ her husband added.

‘We have people watching your house in Portugal and the flat in Sloane Square. We’ll know if she turns up there.’

‘Of course you do, and of course you will.’ Porter stared at Fletcher with an open dislike that washed over him. Cass thought Fletcher must be used to it, but with Porter he couldn’t help but think that the dislike was purely a power issue – Porter was used to having it, but with a man like Fletcher, all his money and influence counted for nothing. And Fletcher had power of his own.

‘Can I ask you a few questions about Hayley?’ Cass asked.

‘Of course.’ Melanie smiled gently, and Cass focused on her mouth rather than the silver in her eyes.

‘She had a fear of flying?’

‘Yes, it was dreadful – she’d be in a panic for days before she had to go anywhere. That was why she tends –
tended
– to stay in London for the holidays, rather than come out to Portugal with us. She’d had it ever since she was a little girl.’

‘She did fly though,’ Alexander Porter cut in, and for the first time Cass heard a little pride in his voice. ‘She’d make herself do it. She’d take a Valium to calm herself down and force herself on the plane. She wasn’t the kind of girl to let fear get in the way of her life.’

‘Had she seen anyone about it recently? A new doctor?’

The line at Melanie Porter’s mouth creased slightly deeper as she thought. ‘She did mention that she was thinking of trying some experimental therapy, but that was a few months ago. She hadn’t mentioned it again and I didn’t like to ask. I thought she’d think I was pressuring her.’

‘Would you mind taking a look through her things and
letting me know if you find anything that might indicate if she went?’