The Shadow of the Soul Read Online Free PDF Page B

her flat, the name of her flatmate and her parents’ contact details. She might not have left an obvious message behind, but he needed to find out for himself. Cory Denter’s story was similar: he was a second-year medical student at Bart’s with no signs of depression. He’d slit his wrists with a scalpel the most efficient way, vertically, not horizontally, in his car on his parents’ drive in Lewisham. He was a live-at-home student. Cass added his address to Angie Lane’s.
    Cory Denter had died only four days earlier, so he’d go there first. There had been no suicide note for Cory either, and Cass knew full well what he’d be facing when he turned up at the Denter house: all their grief, and wonder – and then, on top of that, he’d feel the awful weight of their expectation that maybe he’d be able to provide the answers for them, to give them some closure.
    He stood up. The parents didn’t concern him so much. Their grief would be painful, but it was their grief, not his own, and he could live with their expectations. He’d done that before. He looked down at the four faces on his desk once more before gathering up the files and putting them in his top drawer. It was the expectations of the dead that he had a hard time dealing with. The dead didn’t let go.

Chapter Four
     
    A bigail Porter had become good at being relatively invisible over the years, no mean feat for a woman who stood six foot tall in flat shoes, especially when most of that height was taken up by spectacular long, slim legs. Still, as she stood by the door in Alison McDonnell’s private office it was clear that neither the Prime Minister, nor the Home Secretary, nor David Fletcher, the head of ATD, the Anti-Terror Division, the new hard core at the heart of the country’s counter-terrorism agencies, considered her to be in the room. She was like a ghost imprinted on the wallpaper, there, but not there. As she idly listened to the serious voices, she was pleased about that. Next door, the PM’s admin secretary would be just leaving for lunch. In ten minutes’ time McDonnell would be leaving to meet the other members of the Cabinet for the emergency briefing. Abigail needed two or three minutes of unnoticed time between those two events.
    ‘We’re almost certain that all five of the 26/09 bombs were made of Semtex, rather than the usual home-made organic compounds used in 7/7 and 13/12,’ Fletcher started.
    ‘Semtex?’
    ‘Military grade.’
    ‘I take it this isn’t a good thing.’ McDonnell said.
    ‘In itself, it shouldn’t make much difference. Withouttrying to be crude, it doesn’t matter what it’s made of; if it explodes and kills people, then a bomb is a bomb. What’s of more concern is the lack of any polymer residue at any of the sites. All military-grade Semtex manufactured since 2002 has a post-detonation taggant which leaves behind traces of chemicals, allowing the batch to be identified and traced. And if it’s not military grade, then it should be orange. None of these explosions left residue, and trace evidence suggests the plastique was white.’
    ‘What does all that actually mean?’
    ‘In essence, it suggests that your bombers are both well organised and well funded, and I would suggest that if they’re taking time to purchase Semtex I’d be willing to bet they bought more than they used for 26/09. I very much doubt it’s for sale in small quantities.’
    ‘Small quantities?’ The Prime Minister grimaced. ‘They virtually
destroyed
Ealing Broadway and Hampstead High Street, and they brought the Underground system to its knees.’
    ‘It’s certainly efficient, but politically, the use of this kind of Semtex raises some questions. The Czechs are either selling old stock on the black market, or manufacturing new – untraceable – product.’ Fletcher sipped his coffee.
    He had strong hands, Abigail noted, with neat, clipped fingernails. He’d be a good lover, she was certain. The thoughts were