‘It didn’t look anything like this yesterday.’

‘We really need some new SOC kit. Any chance you could have a word with the Demon Dwarf? Buy somethin’ that actually bloody works?’

‘The place was spotless.’

‘Aye, well, this is how it looked Sunday when we picked up the stiffs: freshly decorated in “internal organ red”. James threw a hairy when he saw the state of ma suit.’ Brian’s Avatar shrugged. ‘Maybe Services redecorated? You know, givin’ it the once over for the next lot of poor bastards.’

‘If they did, they used recycled wallpaper. There were shadows on the walls where pictures used to hang.’

‘Nah, look at it: there’s no way you’d ever get that crap off the walls. Them stains is there to stay. Must’ve been a different flat.’

Will took his headset off and the crime scene disappeared, replaced by a bland beige room. ‘Not unless there’s two flat one-twenty-twos on the forty-seventh floor.’

Brian was sitting in the corner, both eyes a milky shade of grey. ‘Even if it was the same place-and I’m no sayin’ it was mind…’ He reached up and unplugged the jack from the socket in the base of his skull. ‘But if it was, why the hell would anyone bother to make it look like it’d been lived in for years?’

‘That’s what I intend to find out.’

The décor in Director Smith-Hamilton’s office was probably meant to be ‘restrained executive chic’, but to Will it just looked like a Martian theme pub. The walls were clad in burnished bronze, hand-crafted rivets picked out in delicate verdigris. Genetically engineered pot plants sat on the deep ochre carpet, their manmade fronds an oasis of green and red in the shining dessert. The director sat in leather splendour behind a sandstone desk big enough to sleep six, toying with a two-foot holo of Mars.

‘I’m sorry, William, but it’s out of the question,’ she said, flipping the planet on its axis. ‘We’ve had too many incursions into Sherman House already. Look what happened yesterday!’

He shifted in his chair, and tried to explain the situation for the third time. ‘But-’

‘Give it a couple of weeks to cool down. Let them get back to their little routines. Then we can look at a small expedition, one that doesn’t involve anyone getting shot.’

‘There’s definitely something going on at Sherman House. We’ve got two confirmed cases of VR syndrome and a disappearing crime scene. Flat forty-seven one-twenty-two was a bloodbath when Agent Alexander’s team collected the first set of bodies, but three days later-’

‘It was clean. I know, you said.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment. ‘Look, William, whether you go back to Sherman House today or next week, the room will still be there. There’s no point risking lives for the sake of a couple of days.’

‘But-’

‘I understand your need to get to the bottom of this, and I admire your determination, but my decision is final.’ She pushed the holo away and stood, frowning down at him. ‘Until the situation at Sherman House has stabilized, there will be no more Network intrusions. Is that understood?’

Will sighed. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Good.’ The frown vanished, replaced by a beaming smile. ‘I’m glad we had this talk, William, it’s so seldom we get to discuss ongoing cases. Tell me…’ She teetered around the desk, took his elbow, and escorted him to the door. ‘How is Detective Inspector Cameroon getting on?’

‘Detective Sergeant Cameron is doing fine.’

‘Excellent. Well, don’t let me keep you.’ And with that she closed the door.

Will counted all the way to ten before he started swearing.

‘Bastarding shite-bags!’ The pig-faced man glowers up at the sky, as if it’s God himself who’s just crapped down the back of his overalls. A one-sided Rorschach inkblot in stinky grey and white.

His partner grins. ‘Don’t know what yer whingin’ about. On you it looks good.’

‘Fuckin’ birds…’ Pig-Face shoves another halfhead into its bay in the back of the Roadhugger. The halfhead stumbles-falls like a bag of potatoes onto the dirty metal floor.

‘Get up you stupid fuck!’ Pig-Face kicks the prone figure. Putting the boot in. Venting his anger on something that can’t even cry out in pain. Just because a seagull did what seagulls do…

And that’s when she decides to kill him.

Medication be damned. She likes the sound of bees and breaking glass.

She steps quietly out of her little compartment and taps him on the shoulder.

Pig-Face turns, his flabby face swollen and flushed. Eyes glittering like beautiful black opals. ‘The fuck you want? Eh? GET BACK IN YOUR FUCKIN’ BAY!’ He draws his fist back. It’s big, and rough, and ugly. Just like he is.

Her first blow catches him between the legs: a strong knee that ruptures his left testicle. He folds in the middle, gasping for air, a streamer of spittle twisting free from his slack mouth. She grabs the back of his head and shoves hard, bouncing his face off the metal corner of an empty bay. He gurgles, bright red splashing from the remains of his nose like streamers from a party popper. Little jewels of torn skin stay behind on the metal surface. Three teeth lying on the floor.

Pretty.

She wraps her fingers into his hair and smashes his head forward again. And again. And again.

Now his whole body is limp, but she doesn’t stop. Smash, smash, smash-until his features disappear into a bloody pulp. Nothing left.

Someone says, ‘Oh Jesus God…’ and she looks up.

It’s Pig-Face’s partner: the ugly bald one who drives the truck. He stands at the Roadhugger’s tailgate, his stupid, wet mouth working up and down. ‘But…What…Steve?’ Then he does something very, very silly: he steps up into the truck.

She lets go of Pig-Face’s hair and the body hits the deck with a wet splatching sound. A puddle of dark cherry red expands across the scuffed yellow floor.

The ugly man stops moving when his friend starts pooling around his feet. ‘Oh God…’ His face pales, eyes bugging like a startled goldfish, one hand clamped over his mouth. Then he lurches, once, twice, and vomits all over himself.

She waits for him to finish retching before she bashes his brains in.

Nothing fancy. Nothing personal. Just straightforward, mechanical death.

His body is still twitching as she selects a female halfhead of roughly the same size and build as herself from the collection in the back of the Roadhugger. Undressing it is easy enough-though the orange-and-black jumpsuit stinks of stale sweat-then she dresses it in her own clothes, taking care not to get too much blood on her new outfit.

She stares into its eyes, looking for some sign of life. For some spark to tell her there’s still a human being in there somewhere…But all she sees is the familiar, indifferent gaze of someone who has gone away, never to return. So she is merciful.

She pats it on the cheek, then caves the left side of its face in with a heavy metal wrench. Turning the barcode into a ruined mess of torn flesh and fractured bone.

And then she works her way around the rest of the bays, checking on her fellow halfheads. Putting them out of their misery, one by one. They don’t even blink.

Fifteen minutes later the Roadhugger crashes through the retaining wall of the Connelly Memorial Flyover. It plummets fifty-two feet to the carriageway below, killing everyone onboard the municipal transport that breaks its fall. A beautiful fireball of amber and gold. The smell of crackling skin and greasy tallow. Bees and broken glass.

By the time the emergency crews arrive she is long gone.