Unless he took Ken up on his offer of lunch…?
Will grimaced. The idea of having to eat with the slimy little turd was bad enough, but if SmithHamilton found out he’d gone back to Sherman House—and she would—the repercussions would be a lot more severe than a couple of days’ enforced leave.
So he made his way downtown instead.
Central Records was an imposing mock-Victorian pile of red brick and sandstone, straddling Cadogan Street. For some reason known only to the planning department, it didn’t have its own shuttle station, so Will had to slog through the rain from Wellington Street, stopping off to pick up a plastic of wine for the evening; this morning’s hangover totally forgotten. He squelched in through the front door, submitted to a geometric scan, and found himself a quiet corner with a private study booth.
The monitor buzzed and crackled into life. He spent a couple of minutes entering convoluted search criteria, before sending the system off looking for old ministerial directives. It didn’t matter if they found anything or not, he just wanted to make sure there was a record of him doing something legitimate.
Rule Number One: always establish your alibi before you do anything wrong.
While the machine plodded away, searching and cross-referencing, Will slipped the cracker out of his pocket and popped open the service panel under the table. He checked to make sure no one was watching, then teased a pair of wires out of the main data trunk and slapped the cracker over them. Then hacked his way into the main system and started doing a little searching of his own.
Three hours later he switched the cracker off and stifled a yawn. Ken Peitai didn’t work for any of the biotech companies, none of the big conglomerates, or any government department. His National Insurance Number didn’t connect to anything—no driver’s licence, passport, or pension. The man was a ghost.
The only record Will could find was a bonus payment made half a dozen years ago in the PayFund database. It was a considerable sum of money, which was the only reason he’d found it: large payments had to be approved by the PayFund Manager, and that meant there were records. It also meant Peitai really did work for the government…or at least he had six years ago.
The payment record was staggeringly short of detail. Will had been hoping for a home address, bank account, phone number, but no joy: whoever Ken worked for back then, they kept their information well away from the main channels.
Will stretched the knots out of his back and checked the time: twelve fifteen. Lunch. Brian wasn’t answering his phone and neither was George, and unless hell had frozen over in the last twelve hours, there was no point calling Emily. It’d be weeks before they were on speaking terms again.
He raised his eyes to the large stained glass window at the end of the records hall. He could hear the rain hurling itself against the multicoloured panes. Still chucking it down…but he wasn’t that far from the West George Street Bluecoat Stationhouse—where Jo worked when she wasn’t at Network HQ. Maybe she’d be in?
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 Roadhugger 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 quarantin
e 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.
This is his fault: if it wasn’t for him she’d have a seat on the Ministry board by now. All because that stupid shit couldn’t keep his fucking dick in his trousers. Filling her world with broken glass, turning her into a mutilated freak. ALL HIS BLOODY FAULT.
She pulls another ampoule of medicine from the pack and snaps it into her neck with trembling fingers. Calm. Calm. Deep breaths.
It’s no one’s fault. It’s no one’s fault.
The chemicals rush through her bloodstream. Alastair was only doing what she’d taught him to do.
Calm.
It was bad luck, nothing more.
Calm.
Her eyes drift back to the datapad in her hands.
Six years. Most of her children would be in their late teens or early twenties by now. Perhaps Alastair Middleton wasn’t the only one who’d achieved his potential. Perhaps his wouldn’t be the only halfheading she’d find in the Glasgow Royal Infirmary database. Dr Westfield punches her children’s names into the hospital search engine and settles back to wait.
The results, when they come back, are encouraging.
Three have suffered minor breaks—nothing serious, just arms and legs. Four are getting treatment for psychotic disorders and she spends a happy hour or two reading through the psychiatrists’ notes. Of course the questioning isn’t anywhere near as insightful as her own would have been, but then she has a unique perspective.
Five of her children are already dead: two stabbings, one shot during a ‘Police Action’, one suicide, and one cut up so badly in a public toilet that they needed a DNA match to identify him. Details on the two stabbings are slim, little more than post mortems, but the shooting victim is a lot more interesting. Duncan Clark, multiple Thrummer wounds to the face and head. His postmortem holos are a 3D treat in vivid red and purple; his head looks as if it’s been skinned then sandblasted. She calls up the NewsNet, runs a search for ‘DUNCAN CLARK’.
An entire documentary pops up. Duncan Clark is a success story.
The presenter speaks to Duncan’s neighbours and mother—who looks every bit as deranged as she did when Dr Westfield got her hooked on Tezzers. Addicts are so very malleable.
There’s even footage of the hostage drama that marked the start and end of Duncan’s campaign to silence the voices in his head. He’s wearing black-and-grey urban camouflage, with an assault weapon over his shoulder. And then there’s the naked woman. He’s got a handful of her hair, holding her up while she screams and sobs and struggles, blood trickling down between her legs. Duncan presses a serrated knife to her throat, shouting at the Network pickup team, his pale, blotchy face speckled with targeting beams.
And then he slashes her open from ear to ear. Blood sprays out in glorious slow motion. The woman’s eyes bulge, her knees buckle, then Duncan’s face explodes in a cloud of pink mist. There’s just enough of a breeze to let the camera record every last beautiful detail as his features are boiled away. It only takes a second.
He falls on top of his victim—probably the closest he’s ever been to a naked woman—twitching. Muffled screams come from the ragged, bloody hole where his mouth used to be. There are no eyes, no cheeks and most of his jaw is gone.
The documentary goes into maudlin detail about the seve
nteen other people in the fast food joint: fathers, wives, sons, daughters. Not one of them survives the trip to the operating theatre.
Well done, Duncan. You’ve made mummy very proud.
Dr Westfield rewinds to the point where he cuts the woman’s throat, then pauses, her fingers caressing his evaporating face.
So pretty.
If only she could have spoken to him in the run up to that spree, could have found out what finally pushed the buttons she spent so many years setting in place.
There’s no NewsNet coverage for Allan Brown—the one they had to ID from his DNA—but his post mortem reads like the inventory of a butcher’s shop. There are a lot of holos in the file: close-ups of his hands, face, genitals, and belly, all torn and shredded. It’s beautiful workmanship. Strangely familiar…
Still, none of that matters. The important thing is that the remainder of her study group, all twenty-one of them, are still out there. Shrouded in the brittle comfort of bees and broken glass. Ready for that little push to send them right off the edge.
She has a lot of catching up to do.
Four hours later and the rain was still hammering down. Will stood on the edge of Blythswood Square, dripping quietly as he watched the halfhead.
It was dragging a buggy along behind it, picking up sodden litter from the drenched streets. It speared a discarded crisp packet and transferred it into the buggy’s bin. Strange to think that the thing cleaning the square had been human once. A creature of violence and destruction.
Now look at it.
Will stepped out from beneath the tree he’d been sheltering under, wincing as he crossed the square towards the figure in orange and black. Doc Morrison had told him to keep moving or he’d seize up, and now he knew what she meant. It was as if he’d come down with a bad case of rigor mortis. That’s what he got for spending all day sat in front of a monitor looking for Ken ‘The Invisible Man’ Peitai.
In the end he’d had to admit defeat: if there was any information on Peitai out there, Will couldn’t find it. Instead he’d just ended up thinking about Jo and whether or not Janet would have liked her, wondering if his dead wife would approve of his seeing another woman.
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