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 ‘EIGHTEEN TODAY!’ 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.‘

‘Is this some sort of joke?’ Stephen sits forward in his chair. ‘Show yourself or I’m calling security!’ He reaches for the phone and she slams the datapad down on his hand-hard enough to sting, but not hard enough to damage those delicate, skilful fingers.

His eyes go wide as she pushes him back in his chair.

‘Hey! What…’ Look left, look right, look very, very scared. ‘Who’s doing this?’

She types in two words into the pad: ‘I AM.‘

His face falls open like a gash. Then his lips start to tremble. The poor wee soul must think he’s having a nightmare.

‘Who are you?’ he whispers.

As predictable as ever. She only has to punch a button to bring up the preprogrammed reply. ‘STEPHEN I’M INSULTED. SURELY YOU REMEMBER ME? YOU WEPT WHEN THEY SENT ME AWAY FOR SURGERY.‘

‘Oh God…’

Ah: now he remembers.

‘How did you…I saw you…But…Oh God, you can’t be-’

She slaps him. Blood wells up from the new split in his lip.

‘I REQUIRE A NEW FACE, STEPHEN. A JAW, A LARYNX, VOCAL CHORDS, CHEEK MUSCLES, EVERYTHING THEY TOOK AWAY FROM ME.‘

‘I can’t-’

She hits him again.

‘A CLONEGRAFT HEAD IS GROWING IN THE VATS. YOU WILL PERFORM THE SURGERY.‘

‘This isn’t happening…’

This time she doesn’t slap him; she balls her hand into a fist and smashes it into the bridge of his nose. Stephen’s head snaps back, blood spraying from his nostrils. He grunts. Groans. Clutches both hands over his broken face. Probably in a lot of pain.