A Matter of Blood (47 page)

‘I said, what happened?’ He looked up, now taking in the faces around him. Mat Blackmore was there, leaning against the far wall. He looked small next to DCI Neil Morgan. Another DC - he should have known his name, but right now his mind had gone blank - looked away. He had his hands shoved deep in his pockets. It was the ME who finally broke the silence.

‘It was just an accident.’ Farmer coughed slightly. Cass had never heard him sound awkward before. ‘She and Mat were leaving to go to the pub. He went to the loo while she was turning off the computer. Someone had spilled some coffee.’ He stopped briefly, thrown by the look on Cass’s face, then went on, ‘She must have come through the doors and slipped on it and—’ He stumbled again, then finished, ‘She fell over the handrail.’

‘She slipped on
coffee
?’ Cass, incredulous, almost laughed. ‘But people don’t—’ He stopped himself. He’d been about to say: people don’t slip forwards. They
trip
forwards, they
slip
backwards. It was the basis for every fucking banana skin routine or slapstick comedy that had ever existed. He’d been about to say that, and then he’d stopped. The detective with his hands in his pockets had cast a quick sideways glance at Blackmore, who in turn had looked furtively at Mark Farmer. It all took the briefest of seconds. Farmer kept his eyes firmly on Cass.

‘People don’t die from slipping in coffee,’ he finished, allowing some melancholy to flood out in his words. ‘It’s stupid.’

He felt it. The slightest ease in tension in the men around him. It made the awful truth clear. Claire hadn’t slipped. She’d been pushed. He knew it, and he was pretty damned sure that at least three people there in that stairwell knew it too. He rested his face in his hands and let his shoulders slump.

‘If it’s any consolation,’ Farmer’s voice was soft, ‘she died the instant she hit the ground.’

Cass gritted his teeth. Anger and grief and death boiled inside him. Yeah, the instant after she’d been pushed - the instant after knowing what was coming. That was some fucking consolation for the death of a woman who was better than all of them put together.

He lifted his head. ‘Thanks.’ He looked over at Blackmore. ‘Are you okay?’

The young sergeant shrugged. ‘Not good. I just keep thinking, if I hadn’t gone ahead. If I’d waited for her . . .’ He looked sick. He also couldn’t look Cass in the eye.

‘Life’s not like that,’ Cass said. ‘This was an accident. You can’t fight accidents.’

‘Why don’t you get home, Cass?’ It was the first time his DCI had spoken. Cass watched him, looking for signs of something sinister, but there wasn’t anything he could pinpoint. Should he risk trying to talk to him? He stood up, shakily, and looked down at Claire’s broken body. He remembered the feel of her, her soft heat, as she’d moved under him and on top of him. He remembered the way she’d looked at him, as if he were the man he would have liked to have been. His fractured heart cracked some more, but he fused it with rage. He’d grieve later.

He couldn’t risk talking to Morgan now. He didn’t know if he could trust him - anyway, this was something he had to finish by himself. He owed her that.

‘Yeah, maybe I will,’ he said. ‘I’m fucking tired.’

‘Take your time.’ The DCI sounded almost sympathetic.

‘You’ve had a bloody awful week.’ He paused. ‘And you’ve done some good policing too. Go home and grieve.’ The awkwardness in the compliment was genuine. It didn’t stop Cass feeling like he was treading through a nest of vipers as he moved between them.

He said a silent goodbye to Claire’s broken body and turned his back on her for the last time. He felt her cold hand slide into his, and the sharp edges of those neatly trimmed fingernails dug into his palm. He should have picked her up and carried her out of there. He shouldn’t have allowed their dirty hands to touch her. But still he walked away. Claire was gone. The small crowd on the other side of the doors parted for him again, but he didn’t even look at them. Hush now, he silently whispered, lost in the memory of the clean scent of her hair. I will get you your vengeance. And it shall be terrible.

 

He didn’t go back to the seminary. He drove instead to Muswell Hill. Kate wouldn’t be there. He was pretty sure about that. The single kitchen light was still on, but now that night had fallen the rest of the house was shrouded in darkness. He smoked a cigarette in the kitchen before pulling out Ramsey’s gun. He spent some time checking it over thoroughly, getting a feel for the action. It was fully loaded. He was a little sad at how familiar it felt to have a gun in his hand once more. Then he took the phone from the holder in the hallway and went and sat in the dark lounge. He put his mobile on one arm of the chair, the land line handset on the other.

He lit another cigarette and smoked in the darkness. His eyes were as gritty as his heart. Bowman would either come here, or call. He didn’t have any other choice: he needed to know what - if anything - Cass knew. The smoke tasted acrid as he breathed it out and for a moment he wondered, if he looked hard enough, would he see the curious dead in it as it hung in the air? Claire. Christian. Jessica. Luke. Solomon. Even Carla Rae and the two dead boys. Were they all here watching him, wondering what he was going to do? He wondered how much they knew but couldn’t share.

Shards of ice formed in his heart as he stared into the darkness. Surely he should feel more than just this cold rage that was filling him? What about anguish, guilt even? Or was he so immersed in that already that there was no room for more? He’d left Claire to make sure the murderous fathers watched the deaths of their sons. If he hadn’t done that, then her clever mind would never have spotted what the phone bill and the accounts had shown him.

His mind went in circles. It was his fault she was dead, and hers too, for being so trusting. She must have told Mat Blackmore - her
lover -
what she’d discovered, and in his panic he did the only thing he could: he killed her. Desperate measures for desperate men. Maya had said there was a lot of money at stake here - easily enough to set him up. And enough to kill Claire for. Was she the only one they’d killed?
Bloodstains in doorways
. Jessica had got out of bed, come running to check on her baby. She’d been thrown backwards . . . Could Bowman have done that? It seemed too extreme, just to set him up, even for that corrupt bastard.

Cass’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness and now he was seeing the world in blacks and greys. He didn’t look at his watch; he had a while to wait yet. How far did the rot go, he wondered. The news of Claire’s death would have cut short the celebrations in the pub. How many whispered conversations were now being had behind closed doors, or in pub car parks and toilets? What the fuck had they all been up to -
and why had they never invited him in
?

He thought of Bright and Solomon, and the Glow. How different was he to other people? Could they sense it? Had that been the problem with him and Kate? Was that what had drawn him to Jessica? A knife twisted in his gut. Kate and Bowman. He remembered himself with Jessica, and Claire, and so many others. Could he really blame her for going elsewhere? Logic said no, but the rage that was freezing him from the inside out said otherwise. And she’d picked
Gary Bowman
, of all men. That made him feel sick. Had they done it in their bed? Had it started during their brief separation and been going on since then?

Rain tapped at the window outside and he thought the dead sighed in the small draught that crept from the sash windows. Cass could feel them so close to him, the new and the old, here in the shadows where nothing really existed. He wondered if they were trying to draw him to them. Perhaps they’d even succeed; maybe that’s how this night would end, in his own messy death. He had a gun, but did Bowman? He didn’t think he’d much care either way as long as he got to the truth before it was all done. He was finally alone. All those he had ever cared for were either dead or gone. It frightened him, how liberating that thought was. That freedom created too many terrible possibilities. There was no one left to care for, or worry about, or feel a sense of duty for. He could do whatever he wanted. The gun rested on his lap, its solidity a cold comfort.

He waited.

 

It was gone half-past eleven when the phone finally pealed out. It was the land line. He let it ring three times. When he answered, the dead skittered into nothing at the sound of his voice.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me.’ Her voice was a thousand memories shattering. ‘Are you still up?’

‘Yes.’ His hand gripped the plastic too tightly. He wondered how she felt to Bowman when he fucked her: warm, wet, eager - forever out of reach? He knew he hadn’t really touched her since he’d become Charlie Sutton. They’d both been damaged beyond repair by the aftermath of that single gunshot. All they’d ever got right was the fucking. And that was how she chose to betray him.

‘We closed the cases. Both of them.’ He tried to sound normal. That was easy. Normal with them was always distant and awkward. ‘But something happened. There was an accident.’ His voice choked and tears sprang to life in the corners of his eyes. The emotion surprised him and he swallowed the tears down. He would not break now, not until this was done. ‘It’s Claire. She’s dead. She fell.’

A small gasp. ‘I’m sorry.’

A long pause. They never had been able to talk about the important stuff. Cass wondered where this was leading.

‘What do you want, Kate?’

‘I want to talk.’

‘What about?’

‘Us. Jessica. I want to understand.’

Cass sighed. His heart ached, and bled afresh. Did she mean it? Or was she with Bowman now? Maybe he’d played her too, just used her to get to Cass. Maybe she didn’t know her lover had been intent on setting up her husband. He couldn’t summon much enthusiasm for that argument. Whoever had set him up had got his sperm from somewhere. He hadn’t been fucking anyone else, and Bowman was fucking the woman who could get it on tap for him. The thoughts were crude. He wanted it that way: this was all base - base, and human, and gritty, and that he could deal with.

‘You want to come here?’ he said.

‘No.’ She sniffed, loudly. Surely she couldn’t still be crying. ‘Not there.’

‘Then where?’ His veins fizzed, his blood pumped faster.

‘Christian’s house.’

‘What?’ His blood cooled. ‘Are you crazy?’

‘You fucked Jessica there.’ A hard edge. ‘It’s an honest place, Cass. We can’t tell lies there.’

‘It’s a crime scene, Kate.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Softness again. She was mercurial tonight, this wife of his. ‘I drove past this evening. The tape was gone from around the front. I couldn’t see anyone there. I think they’re done.’

She’d done her homework, but she was probably right. The SOC team would have gone back at Ramsey’s request, but the cleaners would have finished and the house would be ready to go to probate, or whoever dealt with the possessions the dead no longer needed. As far as anyone else was concerned, it was a straightforward murder-suicide. There was no reason to keep someone on the door.

‘My brother and his family died in that house.’ He had no intention of making this easy for her, or Bowman, or both of them. ‘You want me to go back there?’ His voice rose slightly. The aggression and pain came easily. ‘Claire died today, Kate. I’ve been through things, seen things you just wouldn’t believe. And now you want me to go to Christian’s house in the middle of the night to fucking talk?’

Another pause. He could almost see the sulky cast to her lips. ‘It’s tonight or never, Cass. If we can’t talk honestly tonight, after all this, then we never will.’ She sighed and sniffed, all rolled into one.

‘Okay,’ he said, and he felt the chess pieces moving into place. ‘I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.’

‘Thanks, Cass.’ The snot turned to tears in her voice and she hung up without saying any more. As if she might perhaps say something she would regret.

He sat still for a few moments more, relishing the quiet darkness and the cool thump of his deadened heart. He would have his vengeance. He made a short call on his mobile, talking quietly and quickly. When it was done, he smiled. It was time to end this particular game.
Wheels within wheels.

 

 

 

S
he looked fragile standing in the shadow of the doorway, away from the beam of the street light. She had her arms wrapped round herself to help keep out the night chill. Strands of hair danced in the light breeze as she shuffled slightly from foot to foot. The night wasn’t that cold; what was it: nerves or impatience, or perhaps a bit of both? Shadows cut lines across her cheekbones, highlighting her angular beauty. Her eyes glinted and she stood still as he opened the low gate and walked up the path.

She might look fragile, but Cass knew better. Kate was feline, and cats had nine lives. She might be damaged, but she was far from broken. He could see her eyes darting between him and the house. He smiled at her as his heart splintered all over again. They weren’t alone. Someone was waiting inside for him, and this beautiful stranger who had been a major part of his fucked-up life for so long had brought him here to face them.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Thanks for coming.’ She sniffed and wiped her nose before standing on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. Her lips were cool and cracked. A stranger’s lips. ‘Let’s get inside. It’s cold.’

The gun pressed against his back as he reached up with the key. Was Bowman going to blow him away as soon as he opened the door? His heart raced. Probably not. Bowman wouldn’t risk hitting Kate, and if he shot both of them that would be fucking hard to explain. Whether Bowman loved her or not was probably debatable, but either way he couldn’t take the chance of making this messier than it already was.

The door swung open and the dark hallway yawned wide, ready to swallow them up. Cass grabbed Kate’s arm and pulled her in front of him, ignoring her yelp of surprise.