Halfhead - Страница 35

That’d be nice. More than nice, actually.

Will ran a hand through his hair and checked his reflection in the study booth’s monitor. He still looked like crap.

Ah well, too late to worry about that now, wasn’t as if he could do anything about it.

OK…

He rubbed his palms on his trousers. No problem. Not like he was asking her on a date was it? Just two work colleagues having lunch together.

He closed his eyes and murmured, ‘Just try not to make an arse of yourself…’ Then he pulled out his mobile, called the Bluecoat switchboard, and asked to be put through to DS Cameron. Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds later Jo’s face appeared on the tiny screen, one eye an opaque, milky grey.

‘DS Cameron, can I help…’ A small crease appeared between her eyebrows. ‘Who is this?’

With a small start Will realized he was sitting there with his thumb over the phone’s camera. She’d be looking at a blank screen. ‘Ah, sorry,’ he moved his hand so she could see his face in all it’s bruised glory, ‘force of habit. It’s Will, Will Hunter.’

The frown disappeared, but didn’t quite turn into a smile. ‘Afternoon, sir. Why the anonymous act?’

‘I’m over at Central Records and I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch.’ He shrugged. ‘Thought you might be hungry.’ He paused. ‘As it’s…er…lunchtime.’ He cleared his throat. So much for not making an arse of himself.

She stared at him for a moment, then said, ‘Where?’

‘Downtown?’

‘When?’

Will did his best to look nonchalant. ‘Look, if it’s a bad time it’s not a problem, I can-’

‘Chiswick’s: fifteen minutes.’ A smile flickered across her face and then it was gone, disappearing into a little grey dot as she cut the connection.

Will put the phone back in his pocket, then caught sight of his reflection, grinning away in the monitor screen like a hormonal teenager. The smile slipped. He’d spent the wee small hours looking for his dead wife’s memory, and now look at him.

Lunch, with a side order of guilt.

Fourteen minutes later he was sitting at a corner table, examining the menu. Chiswick’s was small, cheap, and just close enough to the West George Street nick to attract a handful of blue uniforms.

‘This seat taken?’ There was a bright flash of colour and Detective Sergeant Jo Cameron slid into the chair opposite. Electric Lime and Volcanic Orange: gathered in tight at the waist. The jacket was surprisingly flattering, hugging her chest like a…Will tore his eyes away from the area in question. He’d not been on many dates in the last six years, but he was pretty sure that staring at a woman’s breasts wasn’t the way to make a good impression.

And then she took off her jacket, exposing a fashionably clingy emerald top.

‘Nice bruises,’ she said.

‘Thanks. Picked them out specially.’

She laughed. ‘So what have you been up to today then?’

‘Not much.’ He nudged the plastic of wine in its bag under the table. ‘Just getting a few things in for tonight. You?’

‘Loads. We took your advice and grabbed all the cleaning stuff we could find at the Kilgours.’

‘Lemon-scented bathroom cleaner?’

‘Yup: three partials and one perfect thumb print. They don’t belong to any of the family or the cleaners. We’re ninety-five percent certain it’s our boy.’

‘Any luck on a match?’

‘Not yet.’ She grabbed a menu. ‘We’ve got the system churning through every record for the last twenty-five years. If he’s been tagged we’ll get him. Just a matter of time.’

‘Good.’ He watched her reading the menu, the little pink tip of her tongue poking out between her lips from time to time. That clingy emerald top stretching every time she breathed. Will tried really hard not to stare.

‘See anything you fancy?’

‘I…em…’ He could feel his cheeks flush. ‘Er…whatever you’re having.’

Jo smiled, and Will couldn’t help smiling back. Even if he did feel like an idiot.

She punched their order into the tabletop. ‘What did you do to Brian last night? He’s done nothing but eat pickled onion crisps and swig coffee all day.’

‘Ah, the Agent Alexander patented hangover remedy. We got a bit hammered last night; kind of drowning our frustrations.’ He fiddled with the tomato sauce. ‘Director SmithHamilton’s banned all return visits to Sherman House until things calm down over there.’

‘So we can’t go anywhere with the Allan Brown investigation.’ She scrunched her face up. ‘Arse…’

‘Sorry, Jo.’

‘Damn it. I thought this time we’d actually be in with a decent chance of proving something.’ She sat back in her seat and sighed. ‘Like I said, it’s pretty clear one of the Road-hugger crew did it, but still…Be nice to get closure for a change. How long’s it off-limits for?’

‘No idea. The whole square’s under quarantine till further notice.’

The starters arrived-two bowls of Cullen Skink-and they ate their soup in silence. Slowly the mood began to lighten. They talked about old cases, movies, made fun of the sour-faced passers-by scuttling between the puddles. The main course was barely on the table before Jo sat bolt upright in her seat, her left eye going from golden brown to milky grey. ‘Sod it…’ She dug a bright-red fingerphone from her jacket pocket and slipped it on. Pointed it at herself.

‘DS Cameron, go ahead.’

Will paused, fork halfway between a bowl of ruby-coloured goulash and his mouth.

‘Negative.’ She pushed her plate away. ‘I’ll be at the station-house in about thirty seconds. Fire up a Hopper, we’ll meet them there.’

Jo stuck the fingerphone back in her pocket and stood. Will followed her. ‘What’s up?’

‘Got a match on the Kilgour prints.’ She dragged her green and orange jacket back on. ‘Pickup team are waiting for me.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Oh no you don’t: you’re confined to barracks, remember?’

‘But-’

‘No buts.’ She pushed him gently back into his seat. ‘Stay. Eat your dessert. I’ll let you know how we get on.’

Then she was gone, running out of the door and into the pounding rain. Will watched until her brightly coloured suit was swallowed up by the drenched crowd. A minute later the café’s windows rattled and the roar of a Hopper’s engines cut through the lunchtime rush.

Slowly he sank back into his seat and looked down at the plate of clotting, dark-red lumps. He just wasn’t hungry any more.

The hospital’s hum has become as familiar to her as her own breathing, warm and reassuring. She sits in her cosy nest of toilet paper, with a datapad on her lap, doing a little light reading. Her personal research notes have always been part of the PsychTech files, hidden away amongst the endless records of bed-wetting, insomnia, shoplifting, father-hatred, mother-love, sibling-rivalry, and all the other mental debris of the people she and her team interviewed.

But her files aren’t like the other PsychTech files: her files are secret, hidden away in an obscure subdirectory. Password protected, and encrypted.

PsychTech. She headed up the project for five happy years, monitoring a cross-section of Glasgow’s most vulnerable citizens, making sure they didn’t become a danger to themselves or others. Of course it was all her idea. She campaigned for it, pushed it through committee, dazzled them with her dedication and brilliance. Made them see that if you knew what the criminal mind looked like, you could start going through the population, picking out people who fitted the profile. People who might not have done anything wrong yet, but had all the right screws loose to do so in the future.

And who knew more about the criminal mind than her?

So she rose up through the ranks, her budget and remit snowballing as she climbed. It was a Ministry for Change flagship project-a vast psychological experiment designed to make Glasgow a better, safer place.

She wriggles deeper into her nest.

They didn’t have a clue about her own special project: Harbinger.

Her fingers stroke the datapad, opening the secret research notes…Opening…She stops. Frowns at the screen. There’s something not right, something that tugs at the holes in her memory.

Something…

Never mind, it’ll come to her in time.

Dr Westfield works her way through the case notes, following her children’s progress from the first time she saw their parents. There’s a lot to read through; some of them weren’t even born when she started to mould their psychological development. When the Ministry shut down the PsychTech programme they cut off her children. No therapy, no analysis, no one listening to their problems and twisted little fantasies. Six years without her guidance and advice.

Such a waste.

There are twenty-seven of them: boys, girls, and some not quite certain what they are. The girls are the most challenging to work with: they don’t mould as well as the boys do, female killers being more suited to the spree than the serial. The uncertain ones were the easiest; sexual dysfunction is a wonderfully fertile playground for the seasoned psychologist.

Gently she taps the datapad against her exposed teeth. Six year is a long time. Who knows what mischief they’ve been getting up to.

Twenty-seven opportunities for beautiful carnage. Twenty-six of them still out there, primed and ready to explode.

At the trial they’d thought Alastair Middleton was the only killer she’d created. Poor Alastair: her first real success. Just a shame he hadn’t been a bit more careful in his choice of prey. If he had she wouldn’t be sitting here with half her face missing.