Halfhead - Страница 30

She stared at him, but Will didn’t flinch.

‘Fine…’ She said at last. ‘But if you drop dead in the middle of the night, don’t come crying to me.’ She turned on Brian. ‘Keep an eye on him this time, for God’s sake. If I have to glue his ribs back together again there’ll be no bloody bone left.’

Dr Morrison poked Will gently in the stomach. ‘Your insides are one big gristly ball of scar tissue. Next time I’m cutting all that gubbins out and replacing it, whether you like it or not.’ She handed Will a packet of blockers, the finger-length plastic tubes fluorescing slightly under the UV lights. ‘No more than one an hour. And I want to see you back here at four thirty on Sunday for a follow-up.’ She poked him again. ‘Don’t make me come and get you. And try to stay off your bum for a while, keep those bruises moving or you’ll seize up.’

‘Yes, Mum.’ He planted a small kiss on her cheek.

‘Don’t you “yes mum” me, you cheeky wee bugger. Go on: out. I have sick people to attend to.’

Will hobbled after Jo and Brian to the lifts, riding down in silence, till Jo finally asked, ‘So your mother’s a doctor?’

‘What?’

The doors pinged open and they stepped out into the hospital’s busy lobby.

‘The doctor: I didn’t know she was your mum.’

‘She’s not. Doc Morrison is like that with pretty much everyone. Even more of an old mother hen than Brian is.’

Brian didn’t rise to it, just kept barging a path to the front doors.

Will limped along behind him. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘We’re givin’ you a lift home, then me and Jo gotta crash a birthday party full of dead folk.’

‘Why don’t I just tag along with you?’

‘No chance. The Tiny Terror would have my balls: you’re on compassionate leave till Monday.’

‘Look, you heard what the Doc said-I’ve got a concussion. Someone needs to keep an eye on me just in case something-’

‘Nice try. You’re goin’ home.’ The automatic doors swished open.

Outside, it was still chucking it down.

People dashed in from the deluge, collars up, plastics down, looking miserable. The only ones not rushing about trying to get into the dry were the halfheads-they just went about their daily business, emptying the bins, polishing the plaques, mopping up the dirty water tramped in from the streets-as if today were a day no different from any other.

They didn’t mind the wet, because they couldn’t feel it. Some would get flu, some would get pneumonia, some would probably even die and no one would care. Not even them.

Brian hurried out into the rain, sploshing through the puddles towards the car park, while Jo and Will huddled under the hospital’s portico-watching the people go by.

Neither of them saw the halfhead shivering its way through the deluge towards them, pushing a wheely-bucket piled high with refuse sacks. They didn’t see it, but it saw them.

She recognizes Him, even with all the bruising and casual clothes. He’s lost some hair and gained some pounds, but it’s Him all right: The Man In The Dark-Blue Suit. The man who did this to her.

The BASTARD who did this.

He’s dead. He’s still walking about but he’s dead. Right now. Dead.

There’s a scalpel in her pocket-not as delicate as a surgeon’s wand, but it’ll open him up just as well. Spill his guts all over the concrete floor. Blood like a fountain. Screams. Begging to be put out of his misery as she jams her hand into his hollow stomach cavity and reaches for his heart…

Everything is bees and broken glass.

She steps forward, the scalpel’s handle cold against her palm.

And then stops. Too quick. It’ll be over too quick. The Man In The Dark-Blue Suit deserves to suffer.

We begin by splitting the lower jaw.

Deep breaths. Calm. Deep fucking breaths.

A battered people carrier pulls up outside the hospital entrance-The Man In The Dark-Blue Suit limps over and opens the back door, clambering inside, followed by some woman dressed in garish pink.

They drive off, sending up a wall of spray.

She stands there, watching as the car disappears into the waterlogged traffic.

It takes a lot of effort to calm her breathing. Slowly the buzzing in her head subsides and she can think clearly again. Focus. Not focusing leads to mistakes. Mistakes lead to getting caught.

It has taken her four hours to traverse the city, depositing her bargaining chip in a safe place. Safe for her, but not so safe for her old friend Dr Stephen Bexley.

She has dozens of apartments dotted all over the city, all neat and clean, safe and tidy. The people who used to live in them are all dead. Have been for years. She didn’t list their names in court, kept them secret.

During the trial, the NewsNet channels had gloried in the size of her body count, gleeful indignation as the roll of the dead grew and grew. But to her it was little different from reciting a shopping list. No one cries when the fleshworks harvest their great vats of cloned meat do they? No, they eat their CheatMeat burgers and go on with their happy, dead, little lives.

It’s not her fault she has more refined tastes.

She stalks the corridors beneath the hospital buildings. Pushing her wheely-bucket and its special cargo.

All that fuss about a few hundred dead bodies. Ridiculous. Imagine the outcry if they’d discovered the real number of victims was even higher. But they didn’t. And best of all, they never found out about ‘Harbinger’. If they had they’d have rounded up all her special children before they had a chance to blossom and grow. And that would have been a terrible waste.

Back in the storeroom she finds a box of datapads and spends a happy fifteen minutes programming one. Then, when everything is perfect, she goes visiting.

Dr Stephen Bexley’s office is on twenty-nine, one level down from the incubators where her cells are multiplying and dividing. It takes all the control she has not to skip out into the corridor when the lift doors open on the right floor.

The people she passes up here don’t give her a second glance. They don’t notice that her wheely-bucket doesn’t contain the usual load of foamy water, just a bin-bag and a brand new datapad. They don’t wonder why, as the floors are all carpeted on this floor, a halfhead would need a mop in the first place. Because they don’t see her at all.

She pushes into Stephen’s office, pulling the bucket and mop behind her.

He’s alone. Good.

Stephen looks up as the door clunks shut. His eyes slide across her, then return to the papers on his desk. Just another halfhead. Nothing to worry about.

Mistake.

‘So what’s the story then?’ Will climbed out of the people carrier’s warm interior and into the cold rain.

‘The story,’ said Brian, locking the car, ‘is that you’re no’ here. Old Frosty Knickers has it in for me as it is. She finds out I let you muscle in on my investigation when you’re supposed to be on compassionate leave, I’ll be up to my ears in shite. So if anyone asks, you’re a figment of their imagin ation. Understand?’

Will popped a quick salute. He was feeling a lot better than he had when they’d left the hospital, mostly due to the blocker he’d snapped into his neck on the way over. Blockers always made the world a happier place. And given that he’d almost executed a mugger this morning, it’d probably do him good to get out of the house for a while. Stop obsessing about Ken Bloody Peitai and what was going on at Sherman House. Get a bit of perspective.

He looked up at the building Brian had parked in front of.

Montieth Row was an expensive address, commanding views of Glasgow Green that cost more money than Will would ever see in his life. The old red sandstone buildings were long gone, replaced by a gothic complex of terraced granite and pewtered glass. Buttresses leaped over the pavement into the road, creating parking bays big enough to hold a dozen private Hoppers.

‘The Kilgours lived at number forty-seven,’ said DS Cameron as they climbed the front stairs. ‘Six victims: two males, four females. Houseman found them sixty-seven minutes ago. Preliminary team ID’d the bodies and called for SOC support.’

Which explained the rumbling vibration Will could feel through the soles of his shoes as he pushed through the double doors.

‘Victims: John Kilgour and his wife Jocelyn. Agness Kilgour, her partner Ian Preston, and their daughter Trent-she was four. Mrs Helen Kilgour, John and Agness’s mother.’

‘What happened to Mr Kilgour senior?’

The lift doors opened on a little wonderland of polished wood and leather upholstery. Brian pushed the button for the eleventh floor. ‘Hopper crash nine years ago. Died before they could get him into surgery. The mother sues the arse off the ambulance firm and the other driver, takes the compensation and makes a killin’ on the stock market. That’s how come they live here. Nuevo riche.’

‘Any other relatives?’

‘Only the one.’ Brian pulled out a datapad and fiddled with it. ‘Jillian Kilgour, John and Jocelyn’s daughter. This wis meant to be her eighteenth birthday party. I’ve got a team out lookin’ for her, but…’ He shrugged.

They flashed their ID badges at a trooper Will didn’t recognize, ducked under the crime scene tape, and into the huge apartment. The sonics were in full swing through in the lounge, making conversation impossible, so they picked their way through the other rooms, not touching anything.

The Kilgour home was palatial-just what you’d expect in this part of town. The walls were a warm shade of cream, punctuated with tasteful abstract art in minimalist frames. Expensive furniture in deep red velvet and burnished wood. The carpet was speckled with tiny clots of blood, hard and shiny against the cream pile.