Halfhead - Страница 64

Will shifted from foot to foot, powering up the Whomper. Something wasn’t right.

‘What the hell’s she doing out here, Brian?’ He swept the weapon across the darkened park. ‘Why’s she been stripped?’

‘Give me the tracker.’ Brian’s voice was low.

‘Brian, something’s wrong ‘

‘Enough! Alright? Enough…’ Brian scowled at him, then looked away. ‘Course somethin’s fuckin’ wrong: she’s dead. We’re too late.’ He took a deep breath and held his hand out. ‘Just gimme the tracker.’

Will handed it over.

Gently, Brian reached out and killed the transmitter embedded in Constable Cat McDonald’s skull. There was nothing else they could do for her.

The rain was turning icy, lashing against Director Smith-Hamilton’s window. Her office was far too warm and Will would have been fighting to keep his eyes open, if she wasn’t in the process of giving him a bollocking.

‘What the hell were you thinking? You had no authority to raid that research lab. You had no sanction to massacre its staff. You shouldn’t have been there at all!’

New skinpaint and skinglue covered one side of Will’s face like a patchwork quilt and he did his best to stand up straight and not answer back.

‘You can consider yourself damned lucky, Mr Hunter,’ she said, picking up a thick folder and shaking it at him, ‘that the Ministry are blaming last night’s little fiasco on the man who ran the Sherman House project. You have a lot to thank Mr Tokumu Kikan for, if we ever find him. If it wasn’t for him you’d be facing a tribunal faster than you can say “Criminal Negligence”.’ She slammed the folder down on the desk. ‘And you can tell Agent Alexander to thank his lucky stars my pilot isn’t pressing charges!’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She stood and straightened the creases out of her dress uniform. ‘We will discuss your disciplinary hearing once the press conference is out of the way.’ Director Smith-Hamilton glowered at him as she crossed the thick pile carpet to the office door. ‘The Ministry may want to give you a medal, Mr Hunter, but I warn you: one more step out of line and you’ll be swelling the ranks of the unemployed. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

31

The flat is clean from top to bottom: not a speck of dust or a spot of blood anywhere. Which is quite remarkable considering what’s happened here over the last five days.

Her new guest is nice and quiet, standing in the middle of the lounge where she can fuss over him. There isn’t as much of him as there was when she dragged his limp body through the door on Tuesday morning, but what’s left feels no pain. Now Tokumu Kikan’s face ends at his upper jaw-everything underneath that is gone, hacked away with a boning knife, the spare flaps of skin stuck down with far too much skinglue. But then surgery was never really her forte, not the kind you survived anyway.

And he has told her so many things. So many secret, dirty, dangerous things.

Dr Westfield moistens the edge of a silk handkerchief and wipes away the little flecks of dried blood that sit in the corners of his eyes. The holes are hardly noticeable, she’s made a good job of it: a full-frontal lobotomy done the old-fashioned way. She tells him do a little twirl, showing off his new orange and black jumpsuit. Very smart.

‘Right,’ she says, ‘time to go.’

She takes the old man’s hand and holds out the other one for Mrs Bexley. Stephen’s wife looks nice in the grey outfit Dr Westfield bought her. It flatters that big, pregnant bulge. With a pretty silk headscarf hiding the patch of bare skinpaint where she was scalped. Her eyes are glassy and vacant as she shuffles into place. Drugged up, docile, and most import ant of all: silent.

Westfield leads her little family out of the flat, her travelling case trundling along behind. They walk, hand in hand, down the corridor and into the lifts.

‘Now then,’ she says, picking a stray dot of lint from the collar of the old man’s jumpsuit as they descend to the ground floor, ‘I want you to behave yourself out there. Always do what the nice people at the depot tell you and remember to rinse out your mop.’ The lift doors ping open and she smiles. ‘This is what happens when you interfere in someone else’s research. You should have kept your naughty little fingers to yourself.’ She tweaks his prominent nose. ‘Yes you should. Yes you should.’

But he doesn’t reply. He can’t.

She tells Mrs Bexley to go and wait for her by the front door, then guides Tokumu Kikan over to the janitor’s locker and pulls out a wheely-bucket and mop. It’s heartening to see the old man as he carefully fills the bucket with a mixture of hot water and detergent-just like he’s been taught-then he takes the mop and starts to clean the dirty grey tiles beneath their feet. He’s as happy now as he’ll ever be.

Her research is ruined. Kikan and Peitai contaminated the study with their heavy-handed amateurish methods. It’s worthless now, her children’s potential squandered: the point was to study serial killers as they developed in the wild, not churn them out like cloned burgers.

Never mind, she’s had a lot of time to think since the fun and games in the research lab. Mrs Bexley’s unborn child will be the first of a new breed-not manipulated third-hand through their parents, but taken directly under her wing. In a few months’ time she’ll be able to start all over again. A brand-new child, and a brood mother to breed more from. Exciting times…

With a spring in her step she takes Mrs Bexley’s hand and skips out into the freezing downpour. Glasgow is cold and wet, but it’s nice and sunny where they’re going. In just a few hours they’ll be sipping margaritas in the Southern Republic of the Newnited States.

Crossing the street she heads down to the nearest shuttle station, pausing only to drop a package in the post on the way. A little parting gift.

‘Will? You’ve got a parcel.’ Jo stuck her head around the kitchen door and frowned when she saw he still wasn’t dressed. ‘We’re going to be late for that funeral if you don’t hurry up!’

Special Agent William Hunter sighed and poured the last of his tea down the sink. He’d seen enough good men and women planted in the long walk to last him a lifetime. But Cat had fought alongside him, helped him rescue Jo. He owed her, even if she was a terror with a Bull Thrummer.

‘Come on.’ Jo threw his coat at him. ‘Are you wearing your medal?’

‘No.’ His demotion hadn’t hurt that much, not compared with getting Constable Cat MacDonald killed, but he’d felt like a fraud when they pinned that shiny bauble on his chest. ‘Not this time.’

He had to admire Jo’s resilience. She’d got over the events at Sherman House a lot quicker than he had, and he wasn’t the one who’d been tortured. She struggled into her jacket-the stump of her right arm waving about in random circlesas she fought with the sleeves.

Will pulled on his overcoat and helped Jo with the brass buttons on her dress uniform, trying not to get them covered with fingerprints.

‘Come on,’ she said as he started to pick at the wrapping on his parcel, ‘Take it with you, you can open it later. We have to go.’

The rain was like ice, bouncing off the circular headstones beneath their feet. Mourners huddled together for warmth beneath a drumming curtain of black umbrellas as the priest worked her way through the eulogy.

Standing off to one side Jo, Brian and Will watched as the sealed casket was tipped up on its end and slid slowly into the freshly dug hole. As it sank into the ground the assembled Bluecoats struck up Abide With Me, singing as yet another of their number was consigned to the cold, dark earth. At last the casket clicked into place and the priest dug a handful of dirt from the box at her side and intoned the ritual words:

‘Ashes to ashes…’

‘Jo,’ said Brian, ‘what did Cat do at that official function? Y’know, when she was pished?’

‘Hmm? No idea. Only met her a couple of times.’

Will frowned as six Bluecoats stepped forward, forming a circle around the grave. ‘She said you were her DS.’

‘Nope. I think she worked for DS McLeod.’

The roar of Thrummers filled the air, turning the heavy rain above the grave into freezing fog.

Jo shrugged. ‘I can ask if you like?’

The Thrummers sounded again and Will looked down at the order of service in his hands for the first time. There was a holo on the inside cover of a red-haired Bluecoat with freckles and squint teeth. Beneath it were the words: ‘CONSTABLE CATHERINE MACDONALD. GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN.’

Oh…shit.

He shoved the holo into Brian’s hands. ‘Look.’

‘Who the hell’s this?’ Brian stared at the stranger on the card. ‘That’s no’ Cat!’

Jo took the order of service from him. Checked. ‘Yes it is.’

‘Will…? If that’s Cat, who the hell was with us?’

Will didn’t say anything; he knew now why he’d recognized her.

He pulled the package out into the rain and fumbled it open. It contained two items: a note saying ‘SEE YOU SOON!’ and a human jawbone.

Acknowledgments

Without Whom…

This book has taken a hell of a long time to go from a first draft to the finished thing, and a lot of people have helped along the way. So I’d like to thank Phil Patterson, Luke Speed, Sarah Hodgson, Jane Johnson, Amanda Ridout, Allan Guthrie, James Oswald, and Christopher MacBride, for all their time and trouble. And believe me, I’ve caused a lot of trouble.

But most of all, thanks go to Fiona and Grendel, who’ve been putting up with this nonsense for years.