The Chosen Seed by Sarah Pinborough Page A

memories.
    ‘And then you and me, Charlie,’ Brian Freeman said, ‘we need to talk.’
    Even from the limited amount Cass could see, he knew the house was big. More than big. Brian Freeman, one-time Birmingham gangland boss, now lived in one of those modern mansions TV stars always inhabited in their endless reality TV shows. The en-suite bathroom Cass was shown to was bigger than the double bedroom of his own flat. Freeman had been doing well for himself when Cass – or Charlie, as he was then – had known him, but he hadn’t lived anywhere like this.
    The shower was powerful and the heat a godsend to his frozen, aching body, and he could have stayed under it all day, but Cass forced himself to keep it short. He had too many questions that needed answering – not least of which was how did a man who should have been behind bars come to be living in such an openly opulent house? If this was Freeman’s house, of course: he didn’t think they’d driven him that far – definitely not as far as Birmingham – so he must still be somewhere in the London area. So what was Brian Freeman doing here?
    Fresh clothes were laid out on the bed – a good enough fit – and there was also a glass of water and a packet of co-codamol. Cass almost smiled. They beat him up, then givehim something to ease the pain. Brian Freeman always had been on the unusual side. As he followed the silent henchmen back downstairs, he was surprised by a sudden pang of guilt, for once not because of the poor kid he’d shot, but because of his betrayal of Brian Freeman all those years ago.
    The young man Cass Jones had once been had liked Brian Freeman, even if he was just a job. The old man had been a father figure to him: a tough character Cass could relate to, so different from his own born-again ever-forgiving dad – and yet for all his softness, it was Cass’ own father who’d betrayed them all by giving Luke away. As far as Cass was concerned, Brian Freeman’s soul was a lot cleaner than Alan Jones’ had ever been. Good and bad were only really grey, as far as he could tell. It was only the holier-than-thou police bosses who didn’t see that, or didn’t want to see it.
    In the lounge, Brian Freeman had already poured them both brandy. They sat on leather sofas facing each other, studying each other, and for a moment neither spoke. Brian Freeman looked better in his seventies than he had in his sixties, Cass concluded. He’d lost weight and his face was still a craggy mess of old broken bones, but it was tanned and healthy. His eyes were just as hard as they’d ever been. Nothing had changed too much in there.
    ‘Not a boy any more, are you, Charlie?’ Freeman took a sip of his drink. ‘Or should I call you Cass?’
    ‘It’s my name.’
    ‘Cass it is, then. What are you now, nearly forty? It’s showing on you. Those wrinkles don’t look fresh to me.’
    ‘If you know anything about my life, then you know I’ve earned them.’ Cass took a mouthful of brandy and it burned the cuts in his lip. ‘How did you find me?’
    ‘Wasn’t difficult. You weren’t dead, that was clear, so eventually you were going to have to resurface, and you couldhardly move around under your real name. There’re only so many quality forgers in London, so I made it clear it would be worth their while in lots of ways to let me know when you showed up.’
    ‘I’m still surprised. The man who was looking after me isn’t normally messed with.’
    ‘Mullins? I’ve made some phone calls, taken care of him.’
    Cass’ bruised face must have managed some kind of expression of alarm because Freeman barked out a short laugh. ‘Don’t worry, he’s not dead – I just squared it with him. Explained a few things.’
    ‘I didn’t hear that you were out,’ Cass said. ‘I’d have thought someone would have told me.’
    ‘Some people are very good at keeping things quiet, Cass. You should know that. I was out after two years, as it