The Chosen Seed (30 page)
‘As you wish,’ Mr Dublin said. ‘Mr Escobar? Mr Vine? Lock our guest up for now, please. We’ll give him some time to rethink his position. He’s served us well. It would be a shame for that to change now.’
Mr Dublin waited until Mr Escobar had returned, leaving Mr Vine standing outside the secure cell, and then dismissed the rest of the gathering apart from Mr Dakin and Mr Ede. For a moment they stood in silence, before Mr Dakin finally pulled out a chair and slumped into it.
‘What a morning,’ he sighed.
‘Momentous,’ Mr Escobar added.
‘I shall hold onto this’ – Mr Dublin slipped the chain
around his neck and let it fall against the other under his loose linen shirt – ‘until we have recovered Mr Craven’s. I wouldn’t wish to insult either of you by picking one over the other to carry a quarter until we are back in possession of all four.’
Mr Dakin and Mr Ede both nodded curtly. Neither argued and Mr Dublin was relieved. They were just pleased to be part of the Inner Cohort, and they had accepted that Mr Escobar was going to be the primary among them. They could wait a little while longer before they got their own trappings.
‘You’ve seen the news, I take it?’ Mr Escobar asked.
‘Yes, and that brings me to our first point of business.’ He was pleased to get away from the subject of Mr Bright. He’d expected to feel more relief now that the Architect was locked up, but the greasy sense of guilt in the pit of his stomach wouldn’t leave. This was not a treachery he had chosen; it had been unavoidable. The last time he had rebelled, it had been against a despot, and he’d been proud to fight. This was altogether cloudier water in which he’d swum. Still, it had needed to be done, and the world would settle.
‘Mr Craven has finally been caught. He’s still alive, but only just. We’ll have his quarter returned to us once it’s in the police evidence lockers, just as Mr Solomon’s was.’
‘He has brought shame on us,’ Mr Dakin said. ‘He deserves his unpleasant death.’
‘A little respect.’ Mr Dublin flashed a glare at the fat figure sitting alongside him. ‘This Dying could come for any of us and who knows how we each would react if it did?’ Hearing himself, he wondered at his sudden defence of Mr Craven. He had never liked him; he was cruel and selfish. But he was familiar, and Mr Dublin understood how to play him, just as he was sure Mr Bright had. Now there were new characters
to negotiate, and he was all that was left of the original Inner Cohort. Unlike Mr Bellew, Mr Dublin had not sought this position out of any great love of power himself. Mr Bright had to be removed from office for the greater good.
‘As it is, this may work to our advantage,’ he said. ‘Mr Craven infected a policeman during his arrest – a Sergeant Armstrong, the last man to work with our elusive wild card, Detective Inspector Cassius Jones.’
‘What was Mr Craven doing with him?’ Mr Ede asked. Between Mr Dakin and Mr Ede, Mr Dublin preferred the latter. The slim dark-haired man was always impeccably dressed, and although quiet by nature, when he did speak, his words were always well thought out.
‘I presume that he was trying to find Jones, just as we are.’
‘But why?’
‘Maybe he wanted to bring him to us as a gift – to regain our trust and be allowed to try for the Walkways.’
Mr Ede shrugged slightly as if he thought that was an unlikely possibility but was too polite to say so. ‘Perhaps.’
‘
Why
he was with Armstrong is, however, irrelevant now. What
is
important is that this might be our opportunity to find Jones. I want the hospital – the Strain II ward especially – watched. If he turns up there then I want him here, do you understand?’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ Mr Escobar said.
‘Good.’ Mr Dublin poured himself a coffee. He turned to Mr Dakin. ‘And can I leave the extraction of the whereabouts of the First in your capable hands?’ Mr Dakin had been the natural successor to Mr Craven in many ways. He had an unpleasant cruel streak, just as the other had. But sometimes these things were necessary. Mr Dublin had never had much of a stomach for inflicting pain, but sometimes pain was the only option.
T
he atmosphere in Paddington Green Police Station had been grim since the Angel of Death’s capture the previous afternoon, and when Dr Hask opened the door of Ramsey’s office, he found the DI staring out at a dark grey sky that belonged somewhere in the late afternoon, not ten-thirty in the morning. It was oppressive, doom-laden – just like the mood pervading the building. Hask said nothing but closed the door behind him and waited until Ramsey turned round. One look at the dark circles under his eyes and Hask felt his own heart sinking.
‘News from the hospital not good?’ he asked.
Ramsey shook his head. ‘He’s infected. He’s sick already.’ He slumped into his chair. ‘The doctors don’t know what kind of mutation has occurred, but it looks like our unknown killer infects people at whatever stage his own disease is at. The good news for the rest of the world is that it’s unlikely to be an actual new strain of the bug, but what it means for us is that Armstrong is very ill indeed.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Why didn’t he just wait for back-up?’
‘The curse of youth is invariably stupidity,’ Hask said, ‘with a hefty dash of bravery and impatience.’ He perched his heavy frame on the edge of the desk. ‘You know all the reasons; you probably did something like this yourself in
your time. Most people get away with making those less-than-wise choices, but every now and then the luck runs out. It was Armstrong’s decision to go in without back-up and neither you nor he can relive that moment.’
Ramsey looked up. ‘People pay you good money for this kind of cheerful talk? Because if they do, you should know this isn’t making me feel much better.’
‘I’m not being paid for
this
.’ Hask smiled. ‘This is just me and you – no bullshit, no cuddles, just the plain truth.’
‘Yeah, well it may be the truth, but it sucks.’ Ramsey let out a long sigh.
‘Have you heard anything from Fletcher?’ Hask felt lousy about Armstrong too, but what he’d said was true: there was nothing they could do for him. They could, however, keep on with their own work, which had also been affected by the previous day’s events.
‘Yes.’ Ramsey sat up straight. ‘He said he’s tried a few routes to get information on this Castor Bright and he’s drawing a blank.’
‘He’s got nothing at all?’
‘No, that’s not quite right: what he’s getting are doors shutting on him. High-level doors. This Bright fellow exists, but no one wants to talk about him. At all.’ He frowned. ‘Weird, huh? Who
is
this man? And if he’s that élite then what’s he doing interested in someone like Cass Jones?’
‘Isn’t it strange how everything is weaving together?’ Hask said. ‘I just wish I knew why. What’s the piece of this puzzle that we’re missing? Armstrong goes and loiters outside Mullins’ club hoping to find something to lead him to Jones and along comes our Angel of Death,
also
looking for Cass Jones. He calls himself Mr Craven, right?’
Ramsey nodded.
‘Ring a bell?’ Hask continued. ‘Mr Bright, Mr Craven?
Who introduces themselves as mister any more? It’s very old-fashioned.’
‘You think Bright and this Craven know each other?’
‘Bright knew the Man of Flies, so why not?’
‘And why would he be looking for Jones?’ Ramsey mused. ‘According to Mullins he wanted to talk to Cass – he didn’t say anything about giving himself up, or feeling any deathbed remorse for his actions. He wanted to
talk
to Cass: so does he know something he wants Cass to know?’
‘That must be the case. And if he knows this Mr Bright, then perhaps the information he has is about him – or Cass’ missing nephew?’
‘Do you ever get the feeling that we’re way out of our depth here?’ Ramsey asked. ‘My brain is too tired for all this.’
‘Perhaps we are – but everything comes back to Mr Bright and Cass Jones, doesn’t it?’ He smiled. ‘The good news is that your boss wants me to go and speak to our Angel of Death before he shuffles off this mortal coil. I’m heading over to the hospital now.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ Ramsey hauled himself to his feet. ‘I’ll go and see Armstrong. His family are up there too – they’re devastated, course.’ He stared out at the grey day as he pulled on his coat. ‘It would have been easier for them if the bastard had just been shot – easier for all of us.’
‘Especially Armstrong,’ Hask added. Neither of them spoke after that.
After twice veering into the middle of the road, Cass had pulled into a lay-by to rest his eyes for five minutes. He didn’t think he’d sleep; the combination of adrenalin and fear of being caught should have been enough to keep him this side of consciousness, but as it turned out, it was half
past ten when he woke, cold, aching and confused to find himself behind the steering wheel. His shoulder screamed, waking him up fully, and he turned and peered out of the window. He’d been out cold for more than two hours – no dreams, no ghosts, just the sleep of the dead. The once-quiet road was now a stream of traffic.
He lit a cigarette for breakfast and turned the engine on to warm the car. The radio came alive and he flicked away from the music to a news station before grabbing a couple of painkillers from the dashboard and then leaning back in the leather seat and letting his shoulder ease down to a gentle throb. He smiled slightly as he listened to the newscaster talking about the various City companies still righting themselves after being rocked by share troubles. ‘
Details are still emerging as to the cause of the momentary loss of confidence in some of the most stable companies on the stock market today
,’ she said, and Cass shut his eyes for a moment. Dijan Maric would be smiling, and so would Brian Freeman who, hidden behind a convoluted network, had just made himself a small fortune on the back of the confusion.
‘
The officer who was attacked yesterday while capturing the serial killer known in the press as the “Angel of Death” has been named as Sergeant Toby Armstrong, twenty-six, of Paddington Green Police Station. His commanding officer, Detective Chief Inspector Ian Heddings, has commended his officer’s bravery. He has confirmed that Sergeant Armstrong has been admitted to hospital, and his condition has been described as “serious”. The police have not yet confirmed the condition of the suspect – who has been identified only by the name “Craven” – who has also been admitted to hospital. The arrest took place at Moneypenny’s, a nightclub in London’s Piccadilly Circus
.
‘
The police have confirmed that club owner Mr Arthur Mullins was also present at the time. Mr Mullins, sixty-two, owns a string of businesses across London. He served three years in prison in the 1990s for extortion, but he has always strenuously denied rumoured links with several underworld organisations. Police have confirmed that Mr Mullins has not been charged, nor is he being considered a person of interest in this case
.
‘
Members of the Opposition are calling for an inquiry into how one officer came to be acting alone when facing a suspect described as “armed and extremely dangerous”. A police source claims Sergeant Armstrong had called for back-up, but moved in before it arrived
.’
Cass sat bolt upright and stared at the radio. Despite the heat blasting from the vents, his skin was icy.
Armstrong?
What the fuck had the stupid fucker done now? The newsreader had said ‘attacked’, not ‘injured’. He was suddenly very wide awake – too awake. If Armstrong had been attacked and was now in hospital, then he’d been infected. Cold prickled his scalp and rippled in a wave of goosebumps over the rest of his skin. The killer had been arrested at Artie’s club – what was he doing there? He tapped the steering wheel thoughtfully. Brian Freeman would be waiting for him, but he might have to wait a bit longer. It looked like he needed to see Armstrong before he did anything else. For one thing, the sergeant must have been watching Artie’s place in a bid to try and find Cass, and although he was innocent – of the crimes Armstrong wanted him for at any rate – he felt an ache of guilt that Armstrong was now suffering because of that.
And if this ‘Craven’ had been at Artie’s place, then perhaps the same conclusion might well be drawn. There was no way Freeman would sanction Cass taking a trip to the hospital – there was likely to be a massive police presence there – but Cass was done taking orders. Getting back to Freeman and
Dr Cornell could wait; he needed to find out what the Angel of Death had wanted with him and he couldn’t call Artie to find out. The police would be all over his phones, even if they’d been convinced up until now that he had no idea where Cass Jones was. The Angel of Death and the Man of Flies: both serial killers, both perhaps interested in Cass Jones – and both, perhaps, linked to Mr Bright? Or was he seeing a pattern in coincidences that did not exist?
He threw his stub out of the window and pulled onto the road. There was only one way to find out.
There were only two hospitals in London with dedicated Strain II wards, and only one – the same hospital the late Dr Gibbs worked for – was still NHS. It was overcrowded and underfunded, and would hardly be good PR. No, Charing Cross Hospital was where Cass would place his money: that same ward where Mr Solomon had left the body of Hannah West. The dead moved in small circles, it seemed: wheels within wheels.
Arthur ‘Artie’ Mullins had used public transport and taken a circuitous route to get to Brian Freeman’s place. Not that he thought anyone was on his tail; there’d been no one on him on the way back from the club the previous day, and the street outside his house was clear of suspicious vehicles. Either the police truly believed that he didn’t know where Cass was, or they thought he wouldn’t be so stupid as to try and see him immediately after something like this. Either way worked for Mullins.
As it turned out, Jones wasn’t at home, just Brian Freeman and some old academic, surrounded by papers and files and open computers. Their clothes were crumpled and neither looked like they’d slept much, but their eyes were buzzing.
