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.
A flicker of hot green light spilled out into the hall, and the gurgling roar of the subsonics shuddered and died. Then came the swearing, followed by a couple of cloinging kicks of boot on metal. It sounded like Private Beaton.
The lounge was huge, broken up into three different areas:
eating, relaxing, and entertainment. The sonic booms and readers were arranged around a large dining table, and so were the Kilgours. They all sat bolt-upright, brightly coloured party hats perched on their heads, faces pulled into freakish smiles. The carpet beneath their chairs was stained, and there was the distinct aroma of old urine and faeces. Will didn’t blame them.
A roasted joint of CheatMeat took pride of place in the middle of the table—one of the expensive ones, cloned around ceramic bones, not just a slab of flesh from the vats—the surface dried out and beginning to go mouldy. Wrinkly green peas and leathery-looking potatoes slumped in blue serving dishes. The gravy looked like burnt shoe polish.
Brian sagged. ‘What a waste of good food!’
Private Beaton looked up from fiddling with one of the scanners. ‘Afternoon, Brian. Wondered when you’d drag your…’ She shot to attention when she saw Will and snapped off a salute. ‘Sir! I didn’t know you were there. Aren’t you supposed to be—’
‘Apparently I’m a figment of your imagination.’ Will took a look around. This one room was bigger than his whole flat. ‘Having fun?’
‘Bloody SOC duty again. The Lieutenant says I have a talent for the kicking and the swearing, sir. Says it would be a sin to let that go to waste.’
Beaton seemed to have got over her ordeal at Sherman House. It was strange to think that Private Stein had died only four days ago. A lot could happen in four days.
‘Have a look at this,’ said Brian, peering at Mrs Kilgour senior’s head, ‘be right up your street.’
The back of the old woman’s skull was missing, the edges of the wound soft and rounded, no signs of cracking or impact. Impressive.
Will snapped on a pair of gloves and ran a finger around the opening. ‘See how all the arteries are sealed off? This guy’s
a whiz with a Thrummer.’ He picked a butter knife off the table and inserted it into the hole. ‘Must have taken it real slow and gentle, there’s not even any brain matter on the back of the seat.’ Will tilted the knife until it clanked on the roof of the skull. ‘Whole head’s completely empty. All the guests the same?’
Brian wrinkled his nose. ‘Far as I can tell. No’ a brain cell between the lot of them.’
Beaton gave the scanner’s casing one last kick and it roared back into life, rattling the cut-crystal on the table.
‘Hallelujah!’ She turned and shouted over the noise, ‘Anyone still in here in five seconds will forever remain part of the crime scene.’
‘Shite!’ Brian grabbed Will by the arm and dragged him out into the corridor. ‘You’re no’ supposed to be here!’
Private Beaton squeezed out into the hall with them. Standing in the middle of a dark brown bloodstain she stuffed both hands in her pockets and leaned back against the door.
‘Funny thing is,’ she yelled, ‘you kinda get used to the noise after a bit. Did you meet the newbie?’ she pointed out through the hallway towards the front door.
‘Have you done the other rooms yet?’
‘Did them first. You can touch anything you like…’ She looked down at the butter knife in Will’s hand, closed her eyes, and gritted her teeth. ‘Where did you get the cutlery from, sir?’
‘Oops.’ Will handed it over.
Private Beaton swore, stomped back into the dining room, switched off the scanner, reset all the booms and put the knife back where it’d been before he’d interfered with the crime scene.
Brian shook his head as the array started up again. ‘You’re a disaster, Will. A total disaster.’
He had a point. Will sloped off before Beaton got back and
scowled at him some more. He found DS Cameron on her hands and knees in one of the flat’s three bathrooms, backside stuck in the air as she peered round the back of the sink. It was far from being an unpleasant view. Will opened his mouth to say so, then shut it again. That was the trouble with blockers, they did a great job of killing pain
and
common sense.
He cleared his throat and tried not to stare at her bum. ‘Found something?’
She glanced up at him. ‘Tiny specks of blood. Looks like our killer was a clean freak. Outside of the sink’s been given a going over with some sort of detergent. Probably washed his hands and then cleaned the place up to remove any prints.’
Will dropped to his knees to take a look. Jo was right, no bloody hand prints, just minute flecks of scarlet on the skirting board. There wasn’t so much as a streak on the sink itself. And it smelled lemony fresh too.
He sat back on his haunches, and when Jo did the same, their faces were only a breath apart…They stayed like that for a moment, neither one of them saying a word.
It was Brian who finally broke the silence, peering in from the bathroom doorway. ‘All clear. Beaton says the scannin’s done.’
Will hadn’t even noticed the noise had stopped.
‘Says if youse want tae poke about in the lounge you’d better do it now, before it gets bagged and tagged.’
‘Yes.’ Will clambered to his feet, awkward and formal.
‘Right.’ Jo jumped up beside him.
Brian raised an eyebrow, a smile blossoming on his podgy face. ‘I can come back later if you like.’
‘No. No need.’ DS Cameron brushed some invisible lint from the front of her bright-pink trousers.
‘OK…’ Brian stepped back, leaving the doorway clear. Then winked. ‘I’ll be givin’ Beaton a hand if you need me.’
‘No, we’ll just…em…’ She pointed.
Will said, ‘Good idea.’
Private Beaton and Agent Alexander stuffed the scanning booms back into their canister, while Will picked his way around the dining table, staring into the backs of the Kilgours’ heads. Every single one of them had been hollowed out—not so much as a scrap of cranial matter left. Very,
very
impressive work.
Not surprisingly, the family’s freakish smiles were artificial. Someone had looped translucent wire through the corners of their mouths, hauling the lips back and stitching them to the gums at the back, near the molars. Happy families.
Were they alive while their guest evacuated their skulls, one by one? Sitting there, waiting for their turn? Will looked at Trent—the little four-year-old girl—dressed up in her party frock, grinning away like the rest of them. Christ, he hoped not.
He stood back and took in as much of the room as he could. Only one of the chairs was empty, the place setting surrounded by birthday cards with ‘E
IGHTEEN
T
ODAY
!’ on them. The messages flickering as the batteries died. Jillian Kilgour—the birthday girl.
A pile of presents sat in the middle of the floor. Only half of them were unwrapped, the rest probably being saved for after dinner. The wilted corpses of a dozen gold and silver balloons. A streamer with her name on it, stretching across the wall.
Slowly, Will swivelled left to right and back again, eyes slightly unfocused, just letting the scene sink in: waiting for something to nag at him, something that was out of place. He found it over by the bay window.
The view was spectacular, even through the rain. The monsoon had turned Glasgow Green into a lake—same as it did every year—the water dotted with islands and fancy little
restaurants, raised up on stilts. A meal there would set you back a week’s wages, if you weren’t feeling too hungry. They’d strung golden lights between the trees, turning the scene into a glittering water world…
But that wasn’t what had drawn his attention. The VR unit was on, a plain grey cable snaking out from it across the carpet—the gold jack glinting against the oatmeal weave. Will picked it up, then squatted in front of the unit, searching for a headset. There had to be one: Trent was only four, too young for a cranial implant.
He found the headset. ‘Oh, that’s just brilliant…’ It was tiny, pink, and covered with little white daisies. He plugged the gold jack into the socket and loosened the head strap as far as it would go. It still wouldn’t fit over his bruised and battered head, but he was able to peer in at the pair of tiny screens.
It was tuned into one of the children’s channels, all bright colours, unicorns, and talking toadstools, waiting for him to play with them. Squeaky voices coming from the earpieces,
‘Hey, I know, why don’t we go on an adventure, Jillian? Wouldn’t that be cool?’
Jillian: still configured for the last person plugged into the system.
Will dropped the headset.
There was something wrong with the carpet in front of the VR unit: a circular patch, about the size of large pizza, was a slightly different colour. Cleaner than the rest of the floor. He reached out and stroked the surface with his fingertips. They came away dry, but with that same lemony smell as the bathroom sink.
Clean freak.
The birthday girl would be lying right here, plugged into a cheery kiddie’s VR game, hands and feet tied, sobbing behind a gag, wetting herself in terror while the mystery visitor Thrummed the back off granny’s head.
Dirty girl. Leaving a mess. Couldn’t have that.
‘When you bag and tag this lot,’ said Will, making for the door, ‘grab any cleaning materials you can find. Watch for prints.’
Brian looked up from forcing one of the scanning booms back into its casing. ‘Why, where you off to?’
The muffled screams. The fake smiles. Everyone waiting for their turn to die.
‘Anywhere I can get a bloody stiff drink.’
An electronic voice breaks the silence.
‘
HELLO STEPHEN. DO YOU REMEMBER ME?’
Stephen’s head snaps up as if someone’s just rammed an electric prod into his rectum…which isn’t a bad idea.
He frowns, making little creases between his eyebrows. ‘Is there somebody there?’ he asks, completely ignoring her standing in the corner of the room. Holding the datapad.
She hits the next button, and that same disembodied voice says,
‘
WE WORKED TOGETHER OVER SIX YEARS AGO.
‘