Halfhead - Страница 13

‘What can I do for you Brian?’

‘Oh, right…It’s your new girl, DS Cameron.’ There was a squeaking noise and the background swooped past Brian’s head-probably swivelling his chair around-settling on a patchwork of old, two-dimensional photographs as he dropped his voice to a whisper, ‘She’s dodderin’ about this mornin’, looking like somethin’ the cat shat out. What the hell did you do to her yesterday?’

‘George found traces of VR syndrome in two bodies from Sherman House. Natives got restless when we went back to search the victim’s apartment.’

Brian blinked. ‘What do you mean, “when we went back”? You’re no tellin’ me you went with her!’

‘If it’s an outbreak of VR it’s out of Bluecoat jurisdiction. You know that.’

‘Sherman House…’ Brian’s face shuddered. ‘Jesus an’ the wee man. I mean, I find it hard enough and I was away with the fairies the whole time. Last time I bagged and tagged a set of Termies there thought I was going to pee myself…’ He trailed off. ‘You sure you’re OK?’

‘I lost Stein.’

‘Aw, Jesus.’ Sigh. ‘I’m sorry. Two in one week…’

Will changed the subject. ‘Anyway: DS Cameron?’

Brian’s round, pink face suddenly loomed on the screen, until Will was staring straight into one huge, magnified eye. ‘She doesn’t know I’m telling you this-and she’d probably throw a blue hairy if she found out-but she’s no doin’ as well as she’s kiddin’ on.’

Will nodded. He’d seen the look on her face when the mortuary techs wheeled Stein’s body away. The life of a Blue-coat wasn’t easy, but it was nothing compared to what the Network went up against every day.

‘Can you no’ get her to take some time off?’

‘Don’t know, Brian: she only started yesterday. If I send her home it’s going to look like I don’t think she’s up to the job.’

‘What’s more important? You lookin’ like a shite in a suit, or her being able to cope?’

‘Point taken.’

‘Knew you’d see sense.’ The image zoomed out again, showing off a big toothy grin. ‘Oh, and while I’m on, James wants to know if you’re free for dinner tonight?’

‘I don’t know if I can-’

‘Bollocks. My place: seven thirty. And bring a bottle of somethin’ drinkable this time, you tight-fisted bastard.’ There was a muffled sound from the room behind him and the picture jiggled around until Will was looking at DS Cameron. She was carrying two steaming mugs. Brian reached out and took one. ‘Thanks, that’s smashin’.’

‘Got you some biscuits too…’

Biscuits? First George, now Brian. Maybe she had a thing for strange little fat men?

Will shook his head. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on.’ He killed the link and went back to the paperwork.

The crime reports should have been interesting-high-tech transgression, murder, fraud, espionage, disappearances, kidnappings, hostile interventions-but somehow his team of agents always managed to make everything read like stereo instructions. He waded through as many as he could before near-suicidal boredom set in.

He dumped the last two inches of cold tea from his mug in the nearest sickly pot plant and headed for the fourth floor.

There was no sign of Brian in the tiny office, but Detect ive Sergeant Jo Cameron was at her desk, grumbling away at something on her screen. Her hair was even more fashionable than before-the tightly-wound bun sitting at a bizarre angle to accommodate the new bald patch. The back of her neck was a swathe of fresh skinpaint, the shiny pink surface looking out of place against her caramel skin. But what really grabbed the attention was today’s suit. It hadn’t looked too bad on Brian’s fingerphone, but in person it was…hard to ignore. Bright blue with a narrow, luminous orange pinstripe, orange buttons, and orange lapels.

Will stared at her. ‘What would you have got if you’d won the bet?’

‘What?’ She swivelled her seat around. Her eyes were puffy and tight lines feathered out from the corners of her mouth, but other than that she looked as good as anyone could dressed as a plastic of Irn-Bru.

‘Came past to see how you were getting on.’

She pulled her face into a smile. It didn’t go anywhere near her eyes. ‘I’m feeling fine, sir.’

‘How’s the neck?’

‘Bit itchy…other than that…’ She shrugged, one hand going to that patch of artificial pink. ‘MO gave me some blockers.’

Will pushed the door closed, then perched on the edge of Brian’s pigsty desk.

‘You know,’ he said, picking his words carefully, ‘when we go into hot zones we put our lives on the line, and sometimes the stress…well, it can do a lot more damage than you’d think. If you don’t give yourself time, it can creep up and really sink it’s teeth in your arse. And if it does that in the field, chances are you’re coming home in a plastic bag.’

DS Cameron’s brittle smile disappeared. ‘With all due respect, sir, I resent that. Just cos I’m a Bluecoat and a woman, doesn’t mean I’m going to fall apart the first time things get shitty!’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘Really?’ Her mouth turned down at the edges. ‘Well then, just what did you mean?’

‘I’ve been there, OK? I’ve done the whole therapy and counselling thing. And I’ve seen people playing it macho: refusing help. I’ve spoken at their funerals.’ He sighed. ‘Look, Jo, I’m just trying to make sure you’re not suffering in silence because you think the Network will think you’re weak if you don’t. I downloaded your file this morning: you’ve got the makings of a damn good agent, if you get the call. And if you don’t get yourself killed first.’

She blushed. Rubbed at her neck again. Stared at the carpet. ‘Thanks…’

Will nodded at the neat stack of printouts on her desk. ‘What they got you working on?’

‘Special Agent Alexander’s asked me to assist on a couple of cases. Burglary at Teretcor Engineering, about a dozen cases of Unauthorized Data Access at PowerCore.’

Will put on his innocent face and said nothing.

‘And,’ she pointed at a holo pinned to the board above her desk-an elderly couple sitting on a floral couch, grinning at nothing, their eyes like glittering beads of glass, ‘these very rich, very dead OAPs keep turning up. Big chunk of money missing from their bank accounts. Look like they’ve been stuffed…It’s bizarre.’

‘Yeah, that sounds like Brian’s caseload.’ Will checked his watch: half ten. ‘You got anything urgent on?’

‘Nothing that won’t wait.’

‘Come on then: if we’re lucky George has done something with those severed heads. If we’re even luckier we’ll be in and out of there before he digs out his holiday snaps.’

‘Detective Sergeant Cameron! How nice to see you again!’ The plump pathologist slapped something purple and slimy onto a cutting slab, then wiped his hands down the front of his green apron. ‘What can I do for you this beautiful morning?’

DS Cameron smiled at him. ‘Please, if we’re going to be friends you’ll have to call me Jo.’

‘Jo…’ George sighed. ‘Lovely.’ He stood there with a soppy look on his face for a moment. Then blinked and frowned, as if noticing Will for the first time. ‘Suppose you’re here for those halfheads?’

‘Where are they?’

The pathologist sniffed. ‘You see what I have to put up with, Jo? No “hello”, no pleasantries, no nothing. Man’s got no manners at all.’ He dug a hanky out of his pocket and made splattery noises into it. ‘Still, I bear it because I am a gentleman.’

He snapped his bloody gloves into a cleanbox, then wandered over to a large trolley, draped with a sheet.

‘Tada!’ George whipped off the cloth, revealing three rows of severed heads. Most of the skin was still wrinkled, the close-cropped hair making them look like mouldy prunes, but their foreheads were smooth and shiny. The barcodes perfectly clear.

Jo squatted in front of the partially mummified features, stroking one of the heads. ‘Wow: how did you manage that?’

‘Ah…’ He winked at her. ‘That would be telling!’

Will lent forward and sniffed. ‘Hand cream?’

‘Hand cream?’ George stuck his nose in the air. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, why on Earth would I use hand cream on severed heads? Hand cream…pffff.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It’s face cream. Been slapping it on since yesterday.’

‘George, you’re a star.’ Will grabbed a reader from the worktop behind them. There was something red and glutinous on the handle, but he didn’t notice until it was all over his hands. ‘Oh for God’s sake…’

The pathologist shrugged. ‘It’s strawberry jam. I dropped my sandwich.’

Will handed the sticky piece of equipment to DS ‘call me Jo’ Cameron and went to wash his hands. By the time he’d finished she was running the reader over the last head in the row. It made a reassuringly positive beep.

She nodded at him. ‘Got ID numbers on all of them.’

‘Right,’ he said, drying his hands on the back of George’s labcoat, ‘now we need some names. Get onto Services: tell them to run a match.’

‘Hoy!’ The little pathologist snatched his coat-tails away. ‘You’re very welcome, I’m sure!’

‘George, you know I have nothing but the utmost respect for your phenomenal professional acumen.’

‘Bollocks. Jo, it’s been a pleasure having you again, feel free to pop in any time.’ George bent and kissed her jam and face cream flavoured hand before turning to Will. ‘But you can bugger off and never come back.’