American’s face was taut and his eyes dark.
‘Are you okay?’ Hask watched him carefully. ‘Maybe you need a couple of days off. You’ve been overloaded of late, and it’s about to get worse.’
‘It’s okay, doc.’ Ramsey laughed gently. ‘I’m not going crazy. It’s just a weird feeling of unease inside me – like I should know something, but I don’t. Whatever it is, I’ll figure it out.’
‘Maybe it’s the Cass Jones issue.’
‘Yeah, that’s definitely playing on my mind.’
‘I wonder where the hell he is.’
‘He’s nothing if not resourceful.’ Ramsey grinned. ‘Maybe he’s in the south of France sitting out on the deck of a boat somewhere.’
‘Not with his bank accounts all frozen.’ Hask sipped hisvodka. He paused. ‘That always struck me as odd.’
‘What?’
‘Cass isn’t stupid: surely if he were going to go on some murderous spree, he’d have put some money somewhere, in case of this situation? It’s not as if he’s anywhere near broke. Why didn’t he shift a hundred grand somewhere we couldn’t stop him getting to it.’
‘There’s a lot that I don’t understand.’ Ramsey leaned in, focused now. ‘Did you see all the info Perry Jordan had gathered for him? He definitely believes there was something suspicious about what happened to his brother’s kid, and looking at everything, I don’t blame him.’
‘But do you think he killed those two men? Bradley and Powell?’ It was the key question, the one the two men had avoided asking of each other since the case exploded. All the evidence pointed to Cass, that was indisputable, and maybe in the early days that had blinded them both to their gut instincts, but now that the dust was settling, Tim Hask knew what he believed: Cass Jones may have killed in the past, but he wasn’t a murderer . Cass Jones was an honest man, despite all his efforts to be otherwise. The question was, did DI Ramsey feel the same?
‘I don’t think I know,’ Ramsey said. ‘I know it looks like it, but for some reason my head just won’t accept it. After everything that happened with Bowman and his wife, it just seems wrong that he would do something like this.’
‘I agree.’ Hask was surprised by the relieved thumping in his chest. ‘Maybe we should take a quiet look into it. Revisit the evidence.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Adam Bradley was pulled in over the Man of Flies case. Perhaps we should take a look at that interview. What do you think?’
‘Can’t hurt.’
Hask smiled. They may not be able to do anything about the hysteria that would grab the country after the next day’s press conference, but they might be able to help out one friend.
It was warm in the private room at the top of Senate House, but none of the three men who were standing by the hospital bed removed their overcoats. The nurse checked the machinery attached by fed wires to the old man before leaving and quietly closing the door.
For a long moment, no one spoke. They stared at the figure bathed in the pale yellow light from above. No Glow came from the watery eyes that darted, panicking, around the room. His mouth moved madly as he tried to speak, and spit dribbled from his toothless gums and down the wrinkles in his ancient cheeks. He had looked old when he had been sleeping, but now that his face was twitching and awake, every year of his existence was engraved in the sagging skin of his neck and the hollows of his cheeks. His hair wisped like fragile clouds across the sky of his liver-spotted skull.
‘Wha — Wha— I don’t—’ The words finally came like wet farts from his mouth, before they were overwhelmed by his keening. Tears ran from his eyes into the snot leaking from his nose. None of the three men wiped his face.
‘Where is his Glow ?’ Mr Dublin finally muttered. The old man’s eyes flicked towards him, still pleading for an answer to a question he couldn’t articulate. He looked lost, confused – as if he didn’t even know
‘Are you okay?’ Hask watched him carefully. ‘Maybe you need a couple of days off. You’ve been overloaded of late, and it’s about to get worse.’
‘It’s okay, doc.’ Ramsey laughed gently. ‘I’m not going crazy. It’s just a weird feeling of unease inside me – like I should know something, but I don’t. Whatever it is, I’ll figure it out.’
‘Maybe it’s the Cass Jones issue.’
‘Yeah, that’s definitely playing on my mind.’
‘I wonder where the hell he is.’
‘He’s nothing if not resourceful.’ Ramsey grinned. ‘Maybe he’s in the south of France sitting out on the deck of a boat somewhere.’
‘Not with his bank accounts all frozen.’ Hask sipped hisvodka. He paused. ‘That always struck me as odd.’
‘What?’
‘Cass isn’t stupid: surely if he were going to go on some murderous spree, he’d have put some money somewhere, in case of this situation? It’s not as if he’s anywhere near broke. Why didn’t he shift a hundred grand somewhere we couldn’t stop him getting to it.’
‘There’s a lot that I don’t understand.’ Ramsey leaned in, focused now. ‘Did you see all the info Perry Jordan had gathered for him? He definitely believes there was something suspicious about what happened to his brother’s kid, and looking at everything, I don’t blame him.’
‘But do you think he killed those two men? Bradley and Powell?’ It was the key question, the one the two men had avoided asking of each other since the case exploded. All the evidence pointed to Cass, that was indisputable, and maybe in the early days that had blinded them both to their gut instincts, but now that the dust was settling, Tim Hask knew what he believed: Cass Jones may have killed in the past, but he wasn’t a murderer . Cass Jones was an honest man, despite all his efforts to be otherwise. The question was, did DI Ramsey feel the same?
‘I don’t think I know,’ Ramsey said. ‘I know it looks like it, but for some reason my head just won’t accept it. After everything that happened with Bowman and his wife, it just seems wrong that he would do something like this.’
‘I agree.’ Hask was surprised by the relieved thumping in his chest. ‘Maybe we should take a quiet look into it. Revisit the evidence.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Adam Bradley was pulled in over the Man of Flies case. Perhaps we should take a look at that interview. What do you think?’
‘Can’t hurt.’
Hask smiled. They may not be able to do anything about the hysteria that would grab the country after the next day’s press conference, but they might be able to help out one friend.
It was warm in the private room at the top of Senate House, but none of the three men who were standing by the hospital bed removed their overcoats. The nurse checked the machinery attached by fed wires to the old man before leaving and quietly closing the door.
For a long moment, no one spoke. They stared at the figure bathed in the pale yellow light from above. No Glow came from the watery eyes that darted, panicking, around the room. His mouth moved madly as he tried to speak, and spit dribbled from his toothless gums and down the wrinkles in his ancient cheeks. He had looked old when he had been sleeping, but now that his face was twitching and awake, every year of his existence was engraved in the sagging skin of his neck and the hollows of his cheeks. His hair wisped like fragile clouds across the sky of his liver-spotted skull.
‘Wha — Wha— I don’t—’ The words finally came like wet farts from his mouth, before they were overwhelmed by his keening. Tears ran from his eyes into the snot leaking from his nose. None of the three men wiped his face.
‘Where is his Glow ?’ Mr Dublin finally muttered. The old man’s eyes flicked towards him, still pleading for an answer to a question he couldn’t articulate. He looked lost, confused – as if he didn’t even know
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