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.