‘Thank you, ma’am.’

She sighed. ‘What are we going to do with you, William? I always had high hopes of you following in my footsteps. I thought that one day-when I move on to take a seat at the Ministry-I’d be able to leave the Network in your hands.’

Smith-Hamilton turned to face the downpour. Cleared her throat. Fidgeted with the cuffs of her jacket. ‘I understand they found Dr Westfield’s body yesterday. It must have come as a terrible shock.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps that’s why you went against my exclusion order on Sherman House?’

He didn’t answer, but she nodded anyway, then walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. Up close she smelled of lavender and bergamot. ‘I think you should take the rest of the week as compassionate leave. We’ll hold down the fort here and you can come to terms with…Well with whatever you have to come to terms with.’ She guided him towards the door.

‘Remember, William, we have a team of highly trained therapists who can help you through this. I want you to feel free to give them a call. Make them work for their money.’

Which was pretty much exactly the same speech he’d given DS Cameron.

Will murmured something noncommittal and thanked the Director for her time. Then marched off down the corridor, back straight, head up.

As soon as he heard her office door close, he slumped to a halt and swore. She could keep her highly-trained therapists-he’d had enough analysis to last a lifetime, thank you very much.

He got into the lift and hit the button for the lowest level. Brooding all the way down.

There was no sign of George’s shiny receptionist, so Will went straight through.

The ‘Frankenstein’s Day Off’ cartoon was gone, replaced by a large sign taped to the mortuary door: ‘GEORGE’S HOUSE OF FUN’. The Network’s chief pathologist was inside, up to his elbows in someone. As Will stomped in wearing his gaudy rags, the little fat man looked up, his mouth hanging open, cheeks twitching, eyes wide.

‘What the bloody hell do you look like?’ George sniggered, but that caused nasty things to come out of his nose. ‘Is the circus in town?’

‘I need a favour.’

He dragged out a scabby hanky and blew. ‘OK, I’ll do you a favour-if you do me some balloon animals.’ He snapped off one of his gloves, pinched the wrist hole together and blew, inflating the thing into a bloated hand-shape. ‘Look, it’s a stegosaurus!’ The fingertips were smeared with blood.

‘Very funny.’ Will grabbed it off him and dropped it in the bin. ‘I need you to run a complete med-scan on me.’

George stopped laughing. ‘Me?’ He frowned. ‘Why not get the MO to do it?’

‘Because I don’t want the MO knowing I dress up like Bobo the Bastarding Clown on my days off. You know what an old gossip he is, I’ll get bookings for children’s parties!’

‘Point taken. So why a med-scan?’

‘Emily and I got taken down at Sherman House. Might have been a Zapper, but I’m not sure. We lost about two hours; I want to make sure there’s no nerve damage.’

‘Well…But all my equipment is designed to work on dead people. It’d be really cold. And uncomfortable.’

‘I’ll live with it.’

‘That’ll be a novelty, none of my other clients ever do.’ He took off his bloodstained cutting apron and pulled on a fresh pair of gloves. ‘Strip off and jump up on a slab and we’ll get started. Mr Arthur here is in no hurry for his cranial evacuation.’

Will got undressed, then settled down to an excruciating half hour of cold probes and bright blue lights.

Norman bit his lip and suppressed a giggle. Kris was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him. Just five minutes ago they’d been running some old biddie through the imager, and now here they were ‘Going Down Below’ as Kris liked to call it. Going. Down. Below!

He was going to marry her. Hadn’t asked her yet, but she had to know he was thinking about it. Hop a shuttle to Dundee, get hitched in one of the big casinos by someone dressed as Elvis.

The elevator slid to a halt and they tumbled out into the utilitarian-green corridor.

No one about-as usual-so Kris punched the passcode she’d stolen from Dr Brooms into the storeroom keypad.

‘Come on, then.’ She pulled him inside. ‘I’m a very sick woman. You’ll probably have to perform a full, in-depth, thorough, hands-on, no-holds-barred, medical examination.’ She punctuated each word with a small, delicate bite on the tip of his nose.

Norman groaned, his ‘special thermometer’ rising to the occasion. Kris danced away down the aisle, waving to him as she disappeared behind the stacks of disinfectant.

‘Now then, Miss Barrons,’ he said in his most commanding and respectable voice. ‘As your physician it is important that you do exactly as I tell you. Do you understand?’

A giggle from around the corner, followed by, ‘Oh yes, Doctor.’

Norman straightened his tie and advanced towards his patient. ‘In order to examine you properly I’m going to have to ask you to remove all of your clothing.’

‘Oh, Doctor! Are you sure that’s necessary?’

He loved saying this bit: ‘Trust me. I’m a doctor.’

‘Well, you know best…’ The sound of buttons popping open made his pulse quicken. A white labcoat flipped over the top of a stack of Germaway, closely followed by a set of blue scrubs. There was a pause, as delicious as it was predictable.

‘Can’t I even keep my bra and panties on?’

Panties…Norman gulped. It didn’t matter how many times she said it, it always turned him on.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, trembling slightly, ‘it’s for your own good.’

A gloriously lacy piece of underwear joined the pile on top of the disinfectant, quickly followed by its skimpy associate.

‘Excellent. Now if you’ll just step out here, I’ll begin the examination.’ Norman straightened his tie again. He wasn’t allowed to get undressed. Not yet.

A long, silky leg appeared from behind the crates, teasingly slow. She stepped out into the aisle, naked as the day she was born. Her long auburn hair hung over her shoulders, the ends just dancing above the tips of her gorgeous, pointy breasts. The smile she wore was wide and inviting, painted in dark-red lipstick that glistened in the artificial lights.

‘Oh, Doctor…’ She pouted. ‘I feel terribly hot!’

‘Then we’d better start by checking your temperature.’

She slunk towards him, biting softly on her bottom lip, dropped to her knees and unzipped his trousers.

The grey-haired man behind the table steepled his thin surgeon’s fingers and said, ‘Tell me about him.’

Ken Peitai waved his hand over the control console, and a double-sized human head appeared above the boardroom table. The face looked as if it hadn’t slept properly in weeks, thick blue bags hanging beneath the bloodshot eyes, hair sticking up in random directions, a bloody lip.

‘Assistant Network Section Director William Scott Hunter: 32.’ Ken waved his hand again and the head slowly rotated. ‘Youngest ever to hold the position. Four years at the Academy: graduated with a degree in Unauthorized Data Access. Came third in his class. Bit of gossip for ya: the guy who came first is doing thirty to life in the Tin for blowing up that deep-space research lab in Dundee. Some friends, huh?’

The old man reached into a top pocket, bringing out a test tube half-filled with thick green liquid. The glass rod danced across his fingers like a sliver of light. ‘Go on.’

Ken tried not to stare. His employer never missed a beat-if he did, they’d both be dead in minutes.

‘Four months before graduation he gets called up: Virtual Riots. He’s on a scholarship so he’s got no say in the matter. Works his way up to sergeant before his Dragonfly crashes into our very own Sherman House, thirty-nine floors up. William here rescues his buddy Private Brian Alexander from the cannibals and carries him out to safety.’ Ken smiled. ‘There was talk of making a big budget movie out of it, but it all fell through. When the VRs finish, the Network decides not to release his commission. Since then he’s been their golden boy.’