The Chosen Seed (5 page)

Cass didn’t like seeing Dr Cornell talking about Christian with that mad gleam in his eyes. Christian was better than the Dr Cornells of this world. He nodded anyway.

‘Christian understood that everyone leaves a trace these days. Everything is recorded; everything is linked. The Network is Networked.’ Dr Cornell giggled slightly at his own joke, but Cass thought of his brother’s laptop, and the Redemption file he’d found hidden on it, containing all the information on his family and others … and the X accounts. He wouldn’t share those with Dr Cornell, though: he was here to
get
information, not give it.

‘You can cause a headache via The Bank,’ Dr Cornell continued, ‘but it’s the
truth
you need. You need to find the truth and spread it right out across the world. Take us out of the darkness of their deceit.’ Flecks of spit foamed at the corners of his mouth and his hands trembled as he gesticulated.

Cass was starting to feel claustrophobic in the over-warm house. ‘But what
is
the truth?’ he asked. ‘What am I supposed to be looking for?’

‘They don’t age, have you noticed?’ Dr Cornell was up on his feet and staring at the photos. The energy had dropped from his voice, leaving the air still, like a brief pause in a storm. ‘Something’s happening to them, and that’s
touching us all. Maybe they die, but they don’t age – apart from that one in the middle. He’d started to age, just before he disappeared.’

Cass thought of his own meetings with Mr Bright and how he’d looked identical to the old photos taken with his parents. Dr Cornell had gathered pictures that were far older, and still the silver-haired man remained unchanged. The X accounts held information going back even further. Just how old
was
Mr Bright? The eyes twinkling back from so many images on the wall held on to their secrets.

‘There are four sets of scrolls.’ Dr Cornell turned suddenly. ‘Hidden in four different locations important to them. These scrolls tell the real story of man’s history –
our
history. Find the scrolls,’ he said, ‘and you’ve got the answers.’

‘But where are they hidden? And what proof do you have that they even exist?’ Cass finished his drink. The problem with talking to obsessives like Dr Cornell was that they built fantasies out of the facts they gathered. That there was a conspiracy at work, Cass was in no doubt, but all this stuff about stories and scrolls? Maybe it was craziness and maybe not, but it was hard to tell the difference. As interesting as this hunt might turn out to be, Cass’ main interest was finding Luke. Everything else was secondary.

‘Who are you, anyway?’ Dr Cornell frowned as the paranoia borne out of his obsession took control. ‘You haven’t shown me anything to prove you’re Alan Jones’ son.’

‘I can’t. I don’t have anything,’ Cass said. ‘I’m– I’m on the run. You know that. Remember?’

‘I want you to leave.’ Meanness glinted like shards of broken glass in the professor’s eyes. ‘You’re not with the council – maybe you’re with
them
. I want you to leave now.’

Cass’ nerves tightened and he stood up. Dr Cornell was
afraid – it was clear that was where the sudden aggression was coming from – but Cass had a healthy respect for the violence the unbalanced and scared could do. He was in no physical condition for fighting a sane old man, let alone this one. And Dr Cornell wasn’t small.

‘I’m going.’ He held his hands up in supplication. ‘But can I come back? I’d like to talk to you some more about all this.’ Somewhere in the middle of this junk he was sure there would be something of use against Mr Bright.

‘You’re not from the council.’ Dr Cornell leaned in closer. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I never said I was, Dr Cornell. I’m Alan Jones’ son.’

‘Get out of my house!’ The words flew at Cass’ face in a spray of spit.

Cass didn’t wait any longer but headed straight for the front door, He half-expected Dr Cornell to stab him in the back with a letter-opener while he negotiated the locks and bolts, but the old man stayed in his study, muttering to himself.

Finally back outside, surveying the mess of the front garden, Cass paused to light a cigarette. From the other side of the front door came the sounds of the strange old professor resecuring his property. Cass blew a long stream of smoke out into the cold air and let his thoughts settle. He might not have got the answers he’d hoped for, but the meeting had certainly raised some interesting questions. It had also helped formulate his growing plan. One thing was for certain, he was going to need some help.

Chapter Six

‘I
thought DI Ramsey was just here for the Jones case?’ Sergeant Toby Armstrong closed the door of the small conference room behind him. ‘No offence, sir.’ The sergeant nodded the brief apology at the American who was already seated, and then looked back at DCI Heddings, at the head of the table. Hask watched the game play out: it was clear that Armstrong didn’t entirely trust Ramsey, and Hask couldn’t blame him for that. Charles Ramsey hadn’t been exactly over-committed to Cass Jones’ guilt, despite the impressive array of evidence Armstrong had gathered.

In some ways, Hask felt sorry for the young DS. He was finding out that doing the right thing didn’t always win you friends or gratitude. There were plenty among Heddings’ superiors who would have been happy to see Cass Jones go – but with early retirement, not like this. Where there had been a mess of corruption that was at least slightly balanced by a few straight coppers, it now looked like the force was filled with drug-dealers, bung-takers and murderers, all playing out their vendettas against each other. There might not have been any choice but to follow up on Armstrong’s information, but there were plenty who wished the young DS had just kept his nose out of everyone else’s business. So Armstrong had done his job, and now he was getting kicked in the teeth for it. It was no wonder that he
clearly hated Cass even more for that. Maybe when he got older he’d see that he and Cass were perhaps not so different.

‘This isn’t just a Paddington case.’ DCI Heddings waved Armstrong towards a seat. ‘Whatever information the excellent – and
very
expensive – doctor here can give us will be going out to all the stations across the city.’

Hask knew it was more than that. Both Heddings and the Chief Superintendent liked having Ramsey around. Those from outside were apparently more trustworthy than those from within.

‘Let’s get started then, shall we?’ Hask smiled.

Heddings turned the digital recorder on. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

‘Let’s get the basics out of the way. We already have the description, from those infected by our man: he’s a white male, slim, average height – no more than five feet eleven. Mid-thirties. Brown hair, well cut, and well dressed.’

‘We’ve got an e-fit being done now,’ Ramsey said. ‘It should be ready to go out with your analysis. That description does cover quite a chunk of the population though, so I’m not holding out much hope for it bringing a suspect in.’

‘When it’s done get it over to Michaela Wheeler and the other witnesses at Charing Cross Hospital,’ Heddings said. ‘We want it as exact as possible. Perhaps seeing the likeness will prompt the memory of a more distinguishing feature like a mole or something.’ He nodded at Hask to continue.

‘His approach to murder is interesting. He’s clearly a serial killer – he
has
murdered Michaela Wheeler and the other victims – but unlike other serial killers he’s left them alive. He doesn’t have a need to
watch
their decline. For most serial murderers, seeing the victim suffer is a key part of the process. It’s where they get their satisfaction – we know that some will keep their victims locked up alive for
several days before finally disposing of them. This one has no such inclination that we know of. Nor does he take any mementos, and that is also unusual. Most killers like to have something belonging to their victims, in order to relive the event when they’re alone. There’s also no evidence of sexual motivation for his actions. Most serials will get some form of sexual gratification from what they do.’

‘So what does that tell us?’ Ramsey asked.

‘He’s a cold person: he lacks passion. I would say he was capable, but detached. I’d hazard a guess that he has a job with plenty of responsibility but isn’t well liked in his workplace. He’s ruthlessly efficient, though – let’s not forget the secondary victims. He sees those as his, too, and he’s never even met them, or apparently felt the need to.’

‘Secondary victims?’ Armstrong frowned.

‘Those people his victims have infected: the family of Wheeler’s lover, for example. Every person anyone he’s infected has slept with, or shared a needle with, and then the people
they’ve
slept with, etc., etc. Don’t you see? The secondary victims are the
point
of what he’s doing.’

‘How?’

‘Think about what he says to them. “This is the word of your God. Spread it.” Every one of the victims we know about says he used those words. It’s as if he’s using these primaries as disciples; he’s sending them out to kill for him. However, the original word of God was supposed to spread love. This one spreads death.’

‘Does he think he’s God? Superiority complex?’ Ramsey leaned forward.

‘He definitely has a superiority complex; his disregard for the lives of others shows that, especially given how clinically he’s killing them. But he doesn’t say he
is
God; he says, “This is the word of
your
God”, not “this is
my
word”.’ Hask paced
in front of the table as his mind focused on the unknown man. ‘Of course, he could mean himself as God and it’s just his phrasing that’s ambiguous. Or he could be passing a comment on the very nature of God and his relationship with man. Perhaps he feels that this death – and let’s not forget the fear that comes with it; I’ll be coming back to that – is exactly what God really wants for us.’

‘So he’s religious?’

‘Ah, don’t be too hasty: there’s no denying the religious connotations here – he started off moving around the sick and vulnerable, giving them what they thought they wanted, so he’s certainly set himself up as a Jesus-style figure. But I can’t help feeling that there’s something very tongue-in-cheek about it all. If he ever
had
religion, I think it was long ago. These acts aren’t borne out of an anger at God, either. If he had anger, then by its very nature that would imply a belief. I can’t help but feel that it’s more like the whole thing is entertaining him.’

‘Spreading the bug throughout the population is
entertaining
him? Jesus.’ Ramsey looked up. ‘No pun intended.’

‘Do you remember the Man of Flies killer? How he left “Nothing is Sacred” written on the victims?’

‘Of course.’

‘He was sending a message: he wanted someone to figure out what he meant. He was making a point. This one is different. I get the feeling this is a private joke solely for him. In his head he’s parodying a serial killer for his own amusement.’ He paused. ‘Of course that still makes him a serial killer; it’s just that his motivations are very different from the normal. I doubt he sees himself a serial killer – that would be beneath him.’

‘So he started off infecting the junkies and homeless,’
Heddings said, ‘but why move on to people like Michaela Wheeler?’

‘There’s one thing we have to keep in mind here. I think we can presume he himself is infected with the bug.’

‘So he’s angry with these people? He blames them or their ilk for infecting him?’

‘He’s not acting out of obvious anger; there’s no viciousness in what he does. He doesn’t
hurt
people and then infect them. There’s clearly a deep-seated bitterness, but he probably isn’t even aware of it; I doubt he spends a lot of time analysing his negative emotions. This is a hugely arrogant man, one who is used to being in control. Thanks to the bug, his life is now completely
out
of his control. By spreading the disease, he is gaining some form of control back – if not over his own remaining life, over the lives of others.’

‘We need to check any new diagnoses of Strain II over the past – let’s say six months.’ Ramsey looked at the sergeant. ‘Somewhere there’s a doctor or hospital managing his symptoms. And if he’s as middle class as his appearance suggests, then there won’t be too many fitting his bill. I know the numbers have gone up dramatically in the past month or so, but if the spread was started by him then he’ll have been diagnosed well before that.’

‘Exactly,’ Hask said. ‘And as for why he’s moved up into a different society grouping – I think he wants to be noticed. All serial killers do, and though he might not think of himself as one, we know better. I don’t think he cares about
your
reactions to him, but he definitely cares about society’s. Perhaps he started out with his: “This is the word of your God. Spread it,” message as a joke to himself, but as time has passed he’s either come to believe it, or come to realise its potency. Or both.’

‘At least if he’s infected, then there’s a time limit on the damage the bastard can do,’ Heddings said. ‘He’s got to get too sick for this soon, surely?’

‘Yes, the upside is that he’ll die. The downside, unfortunately, is that the sicker he becomes, the more he’s going to want to spread the disease. What’s been a relative hobby for him could become something far more driven. The damage he could do if we don’t find him is quite terrifying.’ He took a long breath. ‘And that brings me to my final point. This isn’t just about spreading the disease – maybe it was to start with, but not any more, not since he began infecting people like Michaela Wheeler. This is about spreading the
fear
.’ He looked at the Detective Chief Inspector. ‘I presume you know you can’t contain any of this? If the nurses at Charing Cross know, and this profile is going to go out to all the stations, then I give it forty-eight hours tops before the papers are running the story. There’s already the start of a panic over the increase in cases – I’ve seen people in masks like in the early bird flu days – and if this gets out the population will become hysterical. It certainly won’t be pretty.’