Halfhead - Страница 51

‘Will, I’m so sorry.’

‘So am I.’ He took a deep, ragged breath and straightened himself up. ‘I miss her…but I’ve been alone for six and a half years. I really like you; you’re bright, sexy, colourful.’ He managed a smile. ‘And I’m not just talking about the suits.’

Her hand left his, travelling up to rest on his cheek. ‘Listen, buster, I only wear them for work, OK?’

She leant forward slightly-reaching over PC Sandy Douglas’s corpse, still done up in its parcel-tape bundle-and pulled Will’s face towards her.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Maybe I’ll tell you later,’ she said, as their lips met above the mortuary slab. ‘But only if you’re very, very good.’

She sits alone in the bedroom, trying to ignore Stephen’s wife’s whimpering. Honestly, just because she’s about to be tortured to death, there’s no need to make all this racket!

The gag isn’t working-too much noise leaks out. Perhaps it would be best to just kill the woman and get it over with?

Dr Westfield smiles at the thought and runs the brush through her hair again, making it shine like molten gold. The skinpaint holding her new face together has cured perfectly, you can barely see the joins. And even those pale pink lines will fade over time. Soon she’ll be perfect again. The bruises are fading and so is the swelling. The skin is soft and smooth, free from the mark of age. No more crow’s feet, or laughter lines. She looks eighteen again.

One last brush and she admires her long blonde hair in the mirror. She’s beautiful. When she was younger she always hated her nose. But now it gives her face character. It’s not big, it’s proud. Her chin isn’t wide, it’s strong. Appropriate for who she’s become. Stephen really was a brilliant surgeon.

She comes to a decision: as a tribute to his skill she won’t slit his wife open and strangle her with her own intestines. Mrs Bexley will get to die of dehydration instead. Yes, it’s slow and painful, but a lot more dignified. Never let it be said that Dr Fiona Westfield couldn’t be merciful.

Even if the bitch does make one hell of a racket.

Dr Westfield closes the bedroom door, shutting out the muffled sobs. She needs silence to plan her next move.

All this time she’s been obsessing about the man who caught her, but William Hunter is only part of the picture. He discovered her crimes by accident. If Alastair Middleton had called someone else that afternoon-if he hadn’t killed the Network man’s wife-he might never have been arrested and ‘interrogated’. He wouldn’t have told them all about his special therapy sessions, and William Hunter wouldn’t have come after her.

It was an accident. A twist of fate. Nothing more.

But Peitai and Kikan are a different matter entirely. There was nothing random about what they did to her. If she concentrates hard she can still smell the interrogation room: old leather and bitter-almond aftershave.

Yes, William Hunter was the one who caught her, who built the case against her, who made sure she went into mutilated slavery, but he’s not solely to blame. He’ll still have to suffer, but he’ll have company on the way.

Peitai and Kikan. Peitai and Kikan. They stole her children, tortured her for information: interfered with her research. They didn’t see the skill involved, the artistry needed to take a perfectly normal person and turn him into something that wouldn’t think twice about killing a total stranger, cutting a hole in their stomach, and fucking the corpse.

She was creating masterpieces; all Peitai and Kikan wanted was mass-produced killers.

Philistines.

She’ll pay Mr Hunter a visit tonight and then, while he’s still got a mouth to scream with, she’ll ask him where to find the old man and his weasely sidekick.

She’ll show them what it feels like to have six years of their lives ripped away. One painful slice at a time.

He didn’t think the rain could get any heavier, but it did, obliterating the city beyond, hiding it in the angry roar of suicidal water drops.

Will took a sip of whisky, looking out through the patio doors at the downpour, but not really seeing it.

‘Thought you were coming to bed?’ Jo stood in the middle of the lounge, hands on hips, buck-naked.

‘Hmm? Sorry: miles away.’

‘Are you always this damn moody, Will? Only I’d like to know before I get too deep into this thing.’

He managed to crack a smile. ‘Normally I’m a lot worse.’ He planted a soft kiss on the nape of her neck. ‘You ask Brian.’

‘I did. He told me some cock and bull story about you being this big, all-conquering, sensitive hero type. Whatever you pay him to talk you up, you’re getting value for money.’ She plonked herself down on the edge of the settee. ‘So why all the brooding?’

‘I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately.’

She blew a raspberry. ‘Strike one! Try again.’

‘We…I mean Brian, George and I, have been investigating that bloke I told you about yesterday.’

‘What Petty?’

‘Peitai, yes. He’s running some sort of experiment up at Sherman House; they’ve got a drug that gives people VR syndrome. He’s been testing it on the inhabitants.’

‘Holy shit! You’re kidding!’

Will shook his head. ‘We had evidence. The bodies you saw in the mortuary, tissue samples from their brains, SOC recordings of the flats at Sherman House. But it’s all gone.’ He took another sip of whisky. ‘Lab lost the samples, Ser vices destroyed the wrong bodies, and George called back to say maintenance had a little ‘accident’ this afternoon: they erased all the recordings we had.’

‘Cover-up?’

‘I told Director Smith-Hamilton about the evidence we had against Ken Peitai and his boss, and six hours later it disappeared. She even stopped the team I had going through the PsychTech files: confiscated the data. Governor Clark’s been on her case all week, so as far as she’s concerned none of this ever happened.’

Jo stood and wrapped her arms round his neck ‘You want to bring him down?’

‘It’s not just him. Clark’s an arsehole, a mouth for hire. Someone’s pulling his strings. Someone who doesn’t worry about threatening a Network Director.’ Will closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. ‘And I don’t have any evidence. They destroyed it all.’

‘You listen to me, Will Hunter.’ Jo stepped back and held his head in her hands, forcing him to look her in the eyes. ‘There is no bastard in this world well-connected enough to get away from us! If Ken Petty wants a fight I will kick his scaly arse from here to Inverness. You want to bring them down? We’ll bring them down. Those sons of bitches don’t stand a fucking chance.’

He smiled. She had a lot of guts. And her nipples went all pointy when she was angry. ‘Such language from a young lady.’

‘Ah, you love it when I talk dirty.’ She pulled him down towards her and for the next two hours he forgot all about Ken Peitai and Sherman House.

She stands at the apartment window, watching Glasgow sparkle in the night rain. She loves this city more than any other. It held her to it’s bosom, allowed her to feed off its inhabitants for nearly a dozen years and never once complained.

Peitai and Kikan…Definitely a challenge. Hunter will be easy enough-she got his home address from the hospital files. All she has to do is turn up at his home tonight, and introduce him to a little home surgery. Peitai and Kikan will be a lot harder to track down. Even if William Hunter knows where they are, it’s going to be a lot more difficult to get at them.

Still, that’s a problem for tomorrow; tonight is a night for fun! And knives.

There’s a row of blades laid out on the kitchen work surface, all nice and sharp and shiny. She spends a happy five minutes picking the ones for tonight. In the end a paring knife, three scalpels, and a small portable triage wand go into her pack, along with halfheading sedatives, four tubes of skinglue, and a plastic of good wine. It would be rude to visit and not bring something.

Mrs Bexley is quiet for once, sitting there strapped to the chair.

‘Now, I want you to behave yourself when I’m out, OK?’ Dr Westfield’s voice is still a little gruff, but it’s getting better all the time.

She ruffles Mrs Bexley’s hair-the woman screws her eyes shut and flinches, breath hissing in and out of her nose. Terrified.

Westfield smiles. ‘Are you hungry? Thirsty?’

The woman nods, tears spilling down her cheeks.

‘Good.’ Westfield pulls on the brand-new cloat she bought from a very expensive boutique this afternoon. Armani. Very stylish. She’s almost out the front door when she remembers the Palm Zapper she picked up at the hospital. Tonight is a night for fun and knives, but a Zapper set on low can do some interesting things when applied to the right parts of the human anatomy. Interesting and very painful.

Out on the streets there are still signs of life, even thought it’s half past one in the morning and there’s a monsoon in progress. Clubbers run between sheltered spots, or just plod on through the downpour, eating chips and cloned kebab meat. Some drunk, some high, some looking for a fight, some looking for love. She could take a dozen home with her and bathe in their blood, and no one would even notice.

Crossing Glebe Street, she descends a slippery flight of stairs to the local shuttle station and takes the next car going west. It’ll be a shame to leave this beautiful city, but when the bodies start showing up again people will talk. So she’ll just have to start again somewhere new-somewhere they don’t know her modus operandi-but she will miss Glasgow so much.