The Shadow of the Soul (8 page)

‘I have always respected you. From before you were Mr Bright, from the times and places that are getting so hard to remember. And I won’t turn against you now. But be careful and tread softly. And keep your eyes open.’

‘What are you trying to tell me, Monmir?’ Mr Bright asked. His eyes twinkled. They always did.

Monmir watched him thoughtfully. ‘Probably nothing you don’t already know.’ He smiled. His gums were pale. ‘Perhaps I’m just being human. I think I’ve finally begun to understand what that means.’ He winked, for a moment a shadow of his former self. ‘Dying can do that to you.’

‘You don’t have to die, Monmir. You’re just allowing it to happen.’

‘No,’ Monmir agreed, ‘maybe I don’t have to die. Maybe I’ll use what strength I have left and try for the walkways. If I can become myself again.’

‘Don’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Others have tried, you know that. It’s not safe. You won’t make it.’

‘You think dying is better?’

Mr Bright said nothing.

Monmir smiled. ‘You think you understand, but in reality, you know nothing. You built it, yes, but until
you’re
dying, you will never understand all its magic and madness.’

‘I never took you for a poet, Monmir.’

They stared at each other.

‘I’ll find my own way out.’

The sickly figure turned without looking back through the glass, and Mr Bright watched him go. He waited until the lift was headed back down to the ground floor before he carefully lowered the blind and turned away. Back in the corridor, he paused outside one of the guarded rooms. He slid back the small panel and peered in. Mr Rasnic sat propped up against the back wall. His face twitched slightly, and small tics at the corner of his mouth hinted at unformed words.

Mr Bright’s own mouth pursed slightly. It was unsettling seeing him like this, in this endless state of nothingness, his body a dull shell. The Glow had gone. Mr Rasnic had volunteered to try and find the walkways in the early days of the Experiment. He’d been strong and powerful and full of wit. He’d shone, even when small.

Not any more. Five years on and there had been no change. Mr Bright didn’t expect any. Mr Rasnic was empty. Just like the others who had tried afterwards.

He slid the hatch shut and glanced at the other doors. He didn’t need to look inside. Had there been any changes he would have been informed. At least they’d stopped trying
to claw at their dead eyes. That had been unsettling.

He sighed and turned away. He had never been tempted to try for the walkways himself. Neither had Solomon, back then, when his old friend was still sane. Sometimes he wondered if anyone actually remembered how it had really been, beyond the power and the glory. He smiled. He would always choose to take his chances here.

D
r Tim Hask swallowed the last of his third vodka and tonic, coughing in his enthusiastic need to speak, and then delivered the punchline of his rambling shaggy dog tale. It must have been funny, because Ramsey burst out in the kind of laughter that can only come from a joke well told. Cass forced a smile of his own and drained his pint. It was good to see both men – Hask’s presence had been a surprise. After the Man of Flies case had come to its unusual end, the profiler had returned to Sweden, but following the bombings, he was back at the behest of the government for psyche evaluations for any potential suspects – not to mention the numerous corporations who were prepared to pay big bucks to have any of their employees who were caught up in the trauma that day checked over: heaven forbid post-traumatic stress should cause any financial errors to be made. Like the world wasn’t fucked-up enough already?

It was good to see him again, but Cass just wished they’d met up another night. There was too much filling his head to concentrate on his friends, and the note the dying solicitor had given him was sitting like lead in his pocket. And then there were the suicides. Everything about them was all wrong.

‘Does the phrase “Chaos in the darkness” mean anything
to either of you?’ he asked at last, when the humour of the conversation had faded and they were left talking around the up-coming trials that they weren’t supposed to discuss.

‘No,’ Ramsey said, ‘should it?’

‘A girl on your patch killed herself a couple of weeks ago. She wrote it on the wall.’

‘Didn’t land on my desk – but then, a suicide wouldn’t. Although it’s about the level of case I’m getting these days.’

‘You and me both.’

‘If it was in my part of town, how do you know about it?’

‘A girl killed herself in mine last night and those were her last words. Eagleton called me. He’d photographed your girl. He made the connection and thought there might be something in it. He figured I’d be bored enough to dig around.’

‘He’s a good kid,’ Ramsey said, ‘and I guess he was right.’

Cass looked at Hask. ‘Does it mean anything to you?’

‘No, not without researching it.’ The fat man leaned forward, threatening the stability of the wooden pub table. ‘Is this what’s got you so preoccupied tonight?’

‘Partly, yeah,’ Cass admitted. ‘Not that it matters. The DCI won’t allow it as a case.’

The beer had given him a sombre buzz and he could feel his mood sinking. For the first time in months he wanted some cocaine.

‘I think I might head home.’ He got to his feet. ‘It’s good to see you, Hask.’ He meant it too. ‘Let’s do this again.’

‘Of course we will.’ Hask grinned cheerfully, the expression forcing its way onto his vast cheeks, but Cass could feel those clever eyes digging into him. Hask was curious – well, let him be. Cass had nothing to share at the moment. There was no point talking about a case that couldn’t run, and the
letter was private. He said farewell to Ramsey and headed out onto the pavement.

Despite being walking distance from the hubbub of Oxford Street, Marylebone High Street was quiet in the evenings, and Cass enjoyed the peace as he walked through the warm air towards the Marylebone Road, where traffic would be rumbling on all night; he’d be able to grab a taxi there. He stared into the dark city and wondered at its secrets.

THEY took Luke
.

He knew who
THEY
were: the Network; the shadowy – he fought against the word
supernatural
, despite what he’d seen when Solomon died – group behind The Bank, who was in turn behind most governments, banks and big businesses, as far as he could see. And The Bank itself was also the owner of the X accounts, connected to a strange file called Redemption which he’d found on Christian’s laptop six months ago, just after his brother was murdered. Cass hadn’t wanted anything to do with them: the Network might have had files on the Jones family, but Cass had no wish to be drawn into whatever game they were playing, even if the mysterious Mr Bright had been claiming to be looking out for him. After all, that ‘special care’ hadn’t done his parents or his brother any good. But now it appeared he wasn’t being given any choice but to step back into that fray.

His soul was weary as he trudged past the shops and the last of the restaurants into the quieter far end of the High Street. A church loomed dark in the shadows, shrouded by trees and shrubs. Cass didn’t look up. Faith hadn’t done his family any good either.

THEY
took Luke. It was a statement of fact, not a question. Christian had been a meticulous man, so to leave that note for Cass, he must have been certain that the boy he’d
raised wasn’t his biological son. Cass paused to light a cigarette and watched as he expelled the first lungful of pale smoke into the night. He also understood what Christian had meant when he’d had that last conversation with Marlowe: he loved Jessica and Luke – the boy he’d raised as his son – too much to destroy them with news like this, no matter how much it might have been tearing Christian apart.

Cass had always known he was different from Christian, but over the last six months he’d begun to realise how great those differences were. One was blond, the other brown; and they were light and dark in every way. Christian knew that Cass – the brother who had slept with his wife – would be able to do what he couldn’t: find the baby stolen at birth, regardless of cost. Cass had believed they’d become strangers as adults, but that wasn’t true: Christian really had understood Cass. It was only after his baby brother had been murdered that Cass had come anywhere close to understanding Christian.

THEY
. Even Christian had been wary of using names or mentioning the Network, and he’d been so much more open to all of it than Cass had ever had.
The boys see the glow! Yay!
Their mother had scribbled that excitedly on the back of an old photograph, but in that picture the small dark boy had been frowning at it, while the blond boy looked excited. One had embraced the
glow
and lived with it, while the other had shut his mind to it, completely denied its existence. And now one was dead and one was alive. That was the comparison that held the most weight for Cass: the Network was dangerous for him on a personal level. He might not understand why, but he knew this to be the truth in every nerve and fibre of his body, and he did trust his instinct. That rarely failed him.

Music drifted down the path of the church grounds: the soft notes of a violin. Cass didn’t know the tune, but it was something bluesy, born in the deep southern states, untrained music beaten out on the stoops of dusty shacks by rough hands.

Cass followed it along the flagstones and past the church door, round to the small graveyard at the side. A figure perched on the back of an old bench, his feet on the seat. With his mind still on his brother, Cass half-expected to see Christian’s shiny black brogues there, but no, this wasn’t Christian’s ghost. The old man’s face crinkled into a smile and he drew out one more long note before letting the violin fall silent. He leaned forward. Even in the dark Cass could see the man’s hands were dirty, his fingernails almost black with the muck underneath them.

‘Evening,’ he said. The voice was gruff and London, and cultivated from years of living in cardboard boxes and doorways. The man’s trousers came halfway up his shins; when he stood up, they’d be a good two or three inches too short for his legs.

‘I’m not sure you should be here,’ Cass answered.

‘As you don’t know me, how do you know where I should be?’ There was no aggression in the response, only a hint of humour.

Cass took a step forward. Was the tramp drunk? They were only a couple of feet apart now, and given the grime that coated the old man, he should stink. But Cass got nothing; no whiff of stale sweat, no alcohol, nothing at all.

‘It’s a little late at night for an outdoor concert,’ he said.

The man laughed a little. ‘I ain’t disturbing the residents, son.’

It was a fair comment.

‘Where did you learn to play?’

‘Can’t really remember.’ There was a tooth missing from his upper set; the gap showed when he smiled. ‘A long time ago. Prob’ly before you were born, and you don’t look like a spring chicken from here.’ He laughed again, and this time Cass couldn’t help but smile with him.

‘Well, take care of that.’ Cass gestured at the polished wood of the violin. It looked old and well cared for, but he couldn’t see a case anywhere. ‘Looks like it’s worth a few quid.’

‘It’s worth what it’s worth. More to some than others. Like most things.’ He leaned forward and looked hard at Cass. ‘It’s all perspective.’

‘If you say so.’ Cass ground out his cigarette and started to walk away. The old man was harmless; he could play his music in the graveyard if he wanted. ‘You take care.’ He didn’t turn round. He had too much on his mind for an old tramp and his riddles.

‘You take care too, Cassius Jones.’ Cass was almost at the gate when the voice followed him. ‘Watch your back.’

Cass’s blood chilled and he turned. ‘How do you know my—?’

—
name
. The question went unfinished. The bench was empty. The old man had gone.

He stared into the gloom for a long time before heading home. There was vodka there. He needed it.

The air should have been getting crisper, but at 8.15 the next morning it was warm and muggy, and nothing like early October at all. The heat drained any freshness from his earlier shower, and his hangover throbbed. He’d needed a cool morning with some bite in it after a night of thinking and drinking and then passing out on the sofa, but today the weather wasn’t his friend. The Met Office had for once
been right: London was heading for an Indian summer.

In the car he scrolled through the numbers in his phone until he found Artie Mullins. He quickly typed out one short sentence – ‘Can I come by and get something off you later? C’ – and hit the send button before he could change his mind. Mullins would be awake, no doubt – that old fucker never slept more than two or three hours – but if Cass’s sometime friend was going to turn him down, then he could do without the awkward conversation. Things were strained between them, though Cass couldn’t blame Artie, either for his irritation with Cass, or his wanting to keep some distance between them for now.

The old London gangster knew Cass hadn’t damaged his operation on purpose; it was just a by-product of his investigations into Christian’s death and the drive-by shooting of two schoolboys, but that didn’t change the outcome: all the illegal ‘bonuses’ that had been passing between the London firms and the police had been suspended indefinitely as soon as the arrests started. Sure, it was DI Bowman’s fault for having used them to set up a crime syndicate of his own, but it was Cass who had uncovered the plot. Now no one wanted to be seen taking any kind of bribe, at least until all this shit was cleared up, so if they weren’t able to make money on the side, then every detective in London had to pay his mortgage the legal way, and that meant performance-related pay. All bets were off, and it was open season on the criminal fraternity once again.

No one was thanking Cass on either side of the fence.

On top of that, every copper in London was scrabbling to cover up just how far the hand-holding between the Met and London’s criminal element had gone. It wouldn’t have helped Artie that he was Cass’s contact – shit sticks, and all
that. Lucky for Artie Mullins that he ran so much of London, otherwise he’d probably have been in danger of landing in the Thames attached to a pair of sink-don’t-swim concrete boots.

Still, troubles or not, Cass trusted Artie and his discretion more than any other dealers. Artie would either sell him the coke or he wouldn’t, but he sure as fuck wouldn’t grass Cass up, not to the media or his new DCI. And in the long term, Cass reckoned he’d probably done Artie Mullins a favour: his big rival Sam Macintyre was gone, and the Irish were struggling to find a solid replacement. Mullins was probably cleaning up.

The message sent, Cass turned on the engine and set the air-con running to cool himself down. Some things never changed. Here he was, still stuck on the fence, not belonging to one side or the other – not that either side would be happy to own him. He wondered if he should feel relieved about that. Sometimes the only side a man could be on was his own. He sent another quick text message, this time to Perry Jordan, asking him to call later. Fuck the court cases; it was time to put the private investigator to better use, tracking down his brother’s child. He’d let the young man do the groundwork, then he’d take over himself. He wasn’t going to risk anyone else getting hurt in whatever game the Network was playing.

‘We need to go straight upstairs.’ DS Armstrong was waiting outside Cass’s office. ‘Heddings wants to see us.’

‘What, now?’ Cass had hoped to spend the morning waiting for his hangover to give up and die, and then the afternoon trying to avoid thinking about the teenage suicides before talking to Perry Jordan about upping the search for his nephew Luke.

Armstrong shrugged.

‘Well, I’m grabbing a coffee first. He can wait five minutes.’

The DCI was standing behind his desk when Cass knocked and let himself and his sergeant into his office. As soon as the door was shut Heddings threw down the newspaper he was holding. ‘I take it you’ve seen this?’

Cass didn’t answer, but bent and picked up the tabloid. The headline was printed large across the front page:
Sinister links between teenage suicides
. Katie Dodds’ face smiled out in black and white, alongside Cory Denter’s and James Busby’s.