The Chosen Seed (8 page)

They’d got up early, and Mac and a younger man Cass didn’t know had driven him to leafy Crouch Hill. Mac pulled the car over on the corner of a wide boulevard.

‘First left. Number forty-five. He’s expecting you.’ Mac got out with Cass and gave him a nod and a wink and an envelope with what looked like at least a couple of grand in cash wedged inside.

‘From Mr Mullins. To get you started.’

Cass took it. He was in no position to be proud – the day for pride was long gone as far as Artie Mullins was concerned. He owed the man, and he owed him big. Between Mullins and Father Michael, Cass felt slightly overwhelmed. Both had helped him, and it was more than just giving him money, or a place to stay: more importantly, both believed in his innocence. The dichotomy between the two men’s natures wasn’t lost on him. He didn’t deserve such faith from either of them. Cass’d always felt he existed in the grey area, but recently he couldn’t help but think that the grey was getting darker, and whatever goodness he’d
once had inside him was getting swallowed up until all the goodness in his life had gone and he was just left with vengeance. Perhaps that would change when he had Luke back. Perhaps that was why finding the boy had become so important to him. Luke was his last hope for redemption.

Redemption is the key
. His brother’s last words echoed in his head, and the meaning in them still rang true.

He nodded goodbye to Mac and waited on the kerb until the car had disappeared before starting to walk, a small holdall of clothes over his good shoulder and carrying the battered suitcase that Father Michael had brought him in his right hand. He thought of the big house in Muswell Hill, not so far from here, that had been his home for so long, and the new place in St John’s Wood, and all the money that he’d accumulated in the bank. None of it mattered any more; he was reduced to what he was carrying – and within an hour he’d have a whole new identity too. Maybe he should have felt more like a phoenix, but he didn’t. He picked up his pace and headed for Number 45.

In the movies, forgers worked out of tiny backroom offices. They were generally skinny, nervy types who looked like they’d been bullied in school. If this one was anything to go by, that stereotype was well out of date.

‘Before you ask,’ the man smiled as he led Cass into the large open-plan kitchen, ‘this isn’t my house.’ He hadn’t introduced himself and neither had Cass. Given the nature of the man’s business, current names were irrelevant.

‘It belongs to an overseas corporation, rented through a variety of holding companies.’ He gave a wide, friendly smile over his shoulder. ‘Should you find yourself in an unfortunate situation with the police, sending them here will do you no favours. They won’t find anything.’

‘I understand your concern,’ Cass said, ‘but if the police
catch me, then I don’t think giving them a forger – however good you are – would do me much good.’

‘No, you’re probably right.’ He poured two coffees from the filter jug on the side and slid over a jug of cream and a pot of sugar. ‘Help yourself.’

Cass did, watching the man warily. He was older than Cass, mid- to late forties, but his face was chubbier, and smooth. He had the look of a man who had had an easy life; he could pass easily for someone involved in any number of respectable professions; Cass would’ve put money on him having a membership to some exclusive golf club somewhere in the suburbs. Mind you, he still might. It just went to show that you could never judge a book by its cover.

‘Feel free to smoke.’

Cass did, and the forger pulled an ashtray from a cupboard before taking a large brown envelope from one of the kitchen drawers. He lit a cigarette for himself and inhaled deeply before tipping the contents out between them. Watching him, Cass wondered how much of this man’s exterior was a construct. He smoked like an expert, and held the butt between his thumb and forefinger. There was no hint of East End in his smooth voice, but Cass thought there must have been at some point. This forger had created a forgery of himself.

‘I’m pleased with these – some of my best work, I think. Of course, the passport itself is kosher, which helps. Don’t ask how, but it is. Take a look. It’s yours now.’

Cass picked up the passport and flicked to the back. The man was right – to his untrained eye it looked exactly like his real passport, sitting back in his bedroom drawer in St John’s Wood. He looked at the name typed next to the photo Artie Mullins had taken only days before and his heart thumped.
Charles Silver
.

‘Who picked the name?’

Charles.
Charlie
. The last time he’d had a false identity he’d been Charlie Sutton. His stomach lurched slightly as the years tumbled away, bringing that time and this together, folding his existence so the two moments touched.
It was just a name
. A long stream of smoke escaped through his gritted teeth.

‘It’s not a matter of picking the name.’ He looked up. ‘It’s about which identity fits. You have a problem with the name?’

Cass shook his head. ‘I can live with it.’ According to his new passport and driving licence he was also forty-one. He could live with that too. He hadn’t planned on having a big fortieth birthday, so bypassing it altogether was probably a good thing. He was also a business analyst, whatever that was.

‘Thanks for these.’ Cass tucked the driving licence into his wallet and zipped the passport into the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘Mr Mullins is always a pleasure to work with. Pass on my regards if you see him.’

Cass nodded, but didn’t speak; who knew when he’d be seeing Artie again?

He finished his cigarette and drained the rest of his coffee before getting to his feet.

‘Do you want me to call you a minicab?’

‘No,’ Cass said, ‘thanks. I’ll walk.’ Walk to where was a different question. The first thing he needed to do was find somewhere to stay: a bedsit or cheap motel, from where he could plan on how to get Luke back.

‘Well then, goodbye and good luck, Mr Silver.’

Cass shook the smooth hand and headed back to Crouch End. He’d walk up to Highgate and jump on the tube there.
Letting his head fall forward and his shoulders slump – any cameras he passed would have a harder job getting a clear image of him – he started to walk.

He had walked barely ten paces when the doors of a parked car ahead flew open and four men climbed out. Cass barely registered the visible gun within one man’s overcoat before the cloth was over his mouth and the nauseatingly sweet smell of chloroform overwhelmed him. He saw the boot of the car being opened. He was out cold by the time it shut over him.

Chapter Ten

M
at Blackmore had been getting edgier as the trial drew closer, and he hadn’t exactly started from a place of calm. Sometimes, despite the months that had passed, he still found it hard to believe that this whole shitstorm had come down on them at all. Gary Bowman had promised him it was all fine, that they wouldn’t get caught – and then everything went to shit, with the two boys getting killed, and the Christian Jones family murder – it was a mess, a bloody mess, and he was stuck right in the middle of it.

He rocked slightly on the side of his narrow cell bed and rubbed his face. His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. He hadn’t had one good night in months – so much for the old adage about the guilty sleeping like babies; it sure as fuck wasn’t true in his case. But then, it wasn’t so much his guilt keeping him awake – that saved itself for his dreams. It was the fear that left him staring wide-eyed into the shadows of his cell until the early hours of the morning.

There was plenty for him to be afraid of. He’d sold out just about everyone he could – Gary Bowman, other Paddington coppers, Macintyre’s contacts, anyone he could think of – to try and get his charges reduced. He was staring at the death penalty, his lawyers had been clear about that from
the outset, and he needed to do whatever he could to get that down to life.

His stomach felt greasy as it tied itself in a fresh knot, as it did a thousand times a day, as the memory of Claire May’s face as she tumbled downwards assaulted him. He could see shock and realisation fighting with the dread in her wide eyes. Those eyes were with him, everywhere. Sometimes, in his dreams, time had rolled back and she was alive and well and they were naked together in bed. In those dreams he could feel the warm, wet inside of her, and smell her skin. For a moment it was wonderful, and then her limbs would become cold and stiff and he look down to find himself fucking her dead and broken body.

Most days he just wanted to cry, and today was no exception. How could it be, that after everything that had happened,
he
was the only one facing a first-degree murder charge? If he didn’t feel so sick he’d almost laugh. Bowman must be laughing at him, that was for sure – after all, Bowman’s lawyers had been quick to point out that their client hadn’t
actually
killed anyone. He couldn’t be held responsible for Macintyre’s actions, or Blackmore’s. Bowman might be facing a long life behind bars, but at least he didn’t have the gallows hanging over him.

Sweat pricked on Mat’s palms. His brain was in such a state of frenzy most of the time that he felt he was going slightly mad. Maybe if he went fully mad that wouldn’t be so bad – they couldn’t execute a mad man, could they? He almost giggled. They must all have been mad, to get so carried away, and now every time he went out on recreation or to the library he could feel eyes on him – not only was he a bent copper, he was also a grass. No one gave a shit that he’d grassed Bowman, but the underworld contacts he’d given up? They all had friends on the inside. Someone would
get him one of these days; he knew that much.

‘Brief’s here.’ The cell door opened and Blackmore jumped slightly as his reverie was broken. A mix of anticipation and dread washed over him. He hadn’t been expecting a visit – what had developed? Everyone – all the accused, from Bowman downwards – hoped for the same thing. With Cass Jones discredited, no one wanted to drag these trials out. There were more plea-bargains being offered; maybe at last one had been thrown his way. He got up and followed the whistling warder out into the main prison corridor, moving meekly, like a lamb. There was no strut left in his stride and his trousers hung loose on his hips from where his fear had burned off his weight.

The door closed behind him. He was surprised to see a suited stranger on the other side of the desk. The man was twenty years younger than Blackmore’s normal brief, and he was wearing the kind of suit he himself had spent a lot of his ill-gotten gains on: designer, tailored, and very expensive. Maybe the law did pay better in the end.

The well-dressed stranger held out his hand.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Johnson is off sick today. He wanted to come, but he doesn’t trust himself to be more than ten feet from a toilet at the moment, if you catch my drift. My name’s Anthony Ware.’

Mat gingerly shook his hand. The man had pronounced his name with a soft ‘th’, like the Americans and those educated at Oxbridge did. A year ago such a man wouldn’t have intimidated Mat Blackmore, but a year ago was a different lifetime. He sat down without saying a word.

Ware remained standing. ‘I’ve been working on your case behind the scenes, so I’m fully up to date with the situation. Two weeks until the big day then?’ He grinned again and Mat just nodded dumbly.

‘Well, I come with good news. We finally have an agreement that the courts will not seek the death penalty for you. The prosecution have accepted that the murder of Miss May wasn’t premeditated and you acted in panic, making it virtually a crime of passion. Normally, you know how it is, this wouldn’t be enough to get you off the hook, but with all the co-operation you have already provided, and with your agreement to be a witness for the prosecution in regards to Gary Bowman, leniency has prevailed.’

Blackmore hadn’t listened to anything beyond Ware’s second sentence. His heart was thumping loudly in his ears, and his relief was so profound he almost didn’t recognise the emotion. His skin tingled and he wanted to laugh. He wasn’t going to die. Thank fuck! Thank fuckity fuck for that! No more dark dreams of being strapped onto a table and injected; no more imaginings of that terrible day. Claire May and her ghost could go fuck themselves.

It was only when the lawyer tapped him on the arm that he looked up and remembered that someone else was there. The grin on his face was so wide that Ware must have thought he looked like a gibbering idiot, but he didn’t care. No death sentence. That was all that mattered.

‘Happy Birthday, Mat.’ Ware pulled something out of his briefcase. An iced chocolate cupcake.

Mat Blackmore laughed aloud this time. He was thirty today, and in all the panic it had been only a passing thought that morning: he was thirty, and that milestone might be the last birthday he would ever have. Not any more though. Life imprisonment loomed ahead of him, but who knew what changes lay ahead? There were always appeals; life could become twenty, or even ten years. People had served a lot less for murder in the past.

As he grabbed the cupcake and took a bite he felt a little
of the old Mat Blackmore return: the one who swaggered when he walked. The one who always had one eye on the game and the girls. He chewed and swallowed and laughed with Ware until the cake and the weak prison tea was all gone. He walked taller on his way back to the remand wing.

By the time Mat Blackmore was writhing in agony and crying for his mother in the prison hospital and the doctors were rushing around like blue-arsed flies wondering how the hell this could have happened, the man who had called himself Anthony Ware, with a soft ‘th’, was long gone, disappeared into London, the smart suit and briefcase abandoned with all his false paperwork. Johnson had been sick, but he hadn’t sent anyone to visit Blackmore in his stead. There had been no visit planned, because there was nothing new to report. The prosecution hadn’t offered any plea bargain with regard to the death penalty.

As it turned out, by four p.m., when the sheet was being pulled over Blackmore’s face, the whole issue of leniency was quite redundant.