A Matter of Blood Read Online Free PDF

of the road, at street level. Maybe he was in a car with the window wound down, or just standing in a shop doorway; it was hard to tell. The tech boys could figure that out.
    Cass peered at the moving image, trying to absorb as much as possible. In the background the colour of the maroon awning of the Café de la Seine seeped away to dark grey. Through the glass he could make out customers at the front tables, a waitress in a white blouse moving between them, the only clearly defined shape in the gloom. A man’s hand rose as he sipped his coffee, his cufflinks glinting against the window. Cass switched his attention to the pavement. Pedestrians strolled along the narrow path, pausing to peer into the shops on either side. The range of the camera was limited and Cass fought his frustration; this was the best lead they’d had so far. He needed to make the most of it.
    A heavyset middle-aged woman paused in front of the café and pointed at the cake display. She spoke to her friend for a moment, they both laughed and the thinner one dragged her away. Cass’s heartbeat quickened. There were only seconds to go now. A black cab passed, slowing, and Cass figured that was the one Macintyre had arrived in. Somewhere out of shot he was paying the driver and getting out. At least now they had a chance of getting the licence plate, since no one had come forward yet. The case was thin on witnesses, despite so many on the screen in front of him. It wasn’t any surprise to anyone on the investigative team. The firms weren’t to be messed with. Even ordinary citizens understood that enough not to get themselves involved.
    Macintyre strolled into view. He paused at the right-hand side of the café and lit a cigarette. At six foot four, the thirty-eight-year-old Belfast man was an imposing figure, but for the briefest second there Cass hadn’t recognised him. His trademark gingery-blond hair was hidden under a trendy black hat and he wore dark glasses. Cass couldn’t remember if it had been sunny on the ninth. He needed that checked. It looked like whatever Macintyre was doing in Little Venice that day, he hadn’t wanted to be recognised. His leather jacket looked soft and expensive. He took two long pulls on the cigarette cupped in his right hand before glancing around and taking a couple of steps forward.
    On the left-hand side of the screen the two boys appeared. Justin Jackson and John Miller, both twelve years old, had left Our Lady Catholic Secondary School on Senior Street at three-thirty to walk home to their houses on Warrington Crescent, off Clifton Gardens. Cutting through Formosa Street was part of their usual route.
    Cass watched as Miller swung his PE bag against the back of Jackson’s knees and the other boy returned the favour. They both looked at each other and laughed, their mouths moving quickly. Cass figured he could get the speech boys to look at what they were saying, but it was probably just teenage jokes and insults. They were private words. They were the boys’ last words.
    A car drew up in the middle of the road and even with no sound on the film Cass was sure he could hear the screech of those tyres. From within the car, the tip of a semi-automatic rifle emerged from the open window on the far side. Nothing of the person holding it was revealed. Macintyre threw his cigarette down and then visibly started as he stared at the car. His mouth opened and he was already dropping to the ground as the boys passed by in front of him, still laughing as they blocked his body.
    After that, everything happened fast. Jackson, the black one, was standing on the right, on the road side of the pavement. He fell first. Cass watched the laughter fade from John Miller’s face as his friend fell into him, propelled by the power of the bullets hitting his body. Though Miller was trying to hold him up, Jackson fell to the ground. Cass could see the blood staining Miller’s hands. The boy didn’t move, frozen in shock, as shapes