‘Shite…So what we goin’ to do?’

Will looked up at the mountain of rubbish. ‘Keep digging.’

The apartment used to belong to an unmarried man. He said he liked nursery rhymes, so she cut off his tail with a carving knife; other than that she can’t remember much about him. The rooms are tidy and ordered-unlike some of her other places-and a small layer of dust covers the surfaces, but a quick once round with a damp cloth will put that right.

She drops her shopping bags on the couch and lowers herself into an armchair. What a lovely day. She’s managed to max out all three credit cards in the space of an hour and a half. The lovely Kris, her boyfriend Norman, and good old Doctor Bexley have bought her more comfort than she’s known in six years. Kris’s cheap, lacy underwear is gone, replaced by the finest silk, the toilet paper padding replaced with soft pink cashmere. It’s vain and silly, but it makes her feel good to have breasts again, even if they’re only make-believe.

And she has bought herself a little treat. She pulls a small glass jar from one of the bags. It was expensive-even by her standards-but definitely worth it. She twists open the top and breathes in the rich, earthy scent. Savours it. Then dips a finger into the sticky liquid, coating her skin like amber. Real honey from real bees. Like the ones in her head. Rare and exquisite. Decadent. It tastes of summer: sweet, warm, and wide, the flavour almost overpowering after all this time without a mouth.

She allows herself two more dips, then screws the jar shut again and unlaces her brand-new, slender-heeled boots. God…that’s better. For years she’s worn nothing but utility footwear; she deserves to be pampered. Even if it does result in blisters and sore feet. A good soak in the tub will help, but before she can run a bath she has a little matter to attend to.

Stephen’s wife is in the bathroom, surgi-taped into a black plastic body-bag with just her face showing. Dr Westfield leans into the tub and looks at her. She’s almost angelic, up to her prefrontal lobes in sedatives, but the effect is somewhat spoiled by the large chunk of scalp missing from the top of her head-the wound covered in a layer of skinpaint to stop it oozingred everywhere. The nutrient pouches plugged into her arms are almost empty; this evening she’ll start to dehydrate and after that death won’t be far away. After all, she’s pregnant. She’ll be dying for two.

Unless she accidentally gets gutted first.

Dr Westfield unhooks the IV pouches from the shower pod and lets them fall to the bathroom floor. She hauls the body-bag out of the bath, smiling as she hears something nasty sliding about in there. The woman’s bowels have obviously been productive. It’s only to be expected. The poor thing must be terrified. And that turns Dr Westfield’s smile into a grin.

She drags the bag through to the dining area and wrestles it into place on one of the chairs, securing it tightly with more surgi-tape. Mrs Stephen Bexley won’t be going anywhere. Not alive at any rate.

Dr Westfield pulls the intravenous sedative from the woman’s neck and throws the bag in the bin. It will take three or four hours for the drugs to wear off, enough time to have a nice hot bath. Then, when Mrs Bexley is all awake and terrified, they can have a little chat about how Stephen was naughty and how much pain that’s going to mean before his wife finally gets to die.

With a happy smile Dr Westfield pats the woman on the cheek. It’s not her fault she married a weak man, but it’s too late to worry about that now.

‘Sir! Over here, we’ve found one of them!’

Will struggled up the pile of trash to join the knot of jump-suited figures. They stood around a shallow hole in the rubbish, looking down at what used to be a man. The body was tied up in a bundle with orange packing tape: knees against chest, arms against knees, hands curled into stiff claws. The Bluecoat’s head was tilted back onto his left shoulder, sightless eyes staring up at the expressway, mouth hanging open, the skin waxy and yellow like rancid butter.

Brian hunkered down at the edge of the makeshift grave and ran a reader over one of the constable’s fingertips. He waited for the print to come back from Central Records, then read out the results. ‘Stephen Mackay: twenty-five, male. Bluecoat. Rank-’

‘Police Constable.’ It was Jo, standing on the edge of the group, dressed in a yellow suit and scarlet cropped cloat: the kind the horsy set always wore. The hood was up, hiding her eyes and she sounded as if she hadn’t slept in a month. ‘Married. Wife: Louise Mackay. One child: Cheryl, three years old.’

She pulled a palm-sized transmitter out of her pocket, punched the dead PC’s code into it and handed it to Agent Alexander. With a gentleness that would have surprised anyone who didn’t know him, Brian cleared some rubbish away from the back of Constable Mackay’s head, pressed the transmitter against the base of his skull and pressed the ‘send’ button.

‘Better?’ He asked one of the troopers.

‘I don’t…There! Got a positive lock on the other one.’

The team headed down the other side of the rubbish heap, leaving Brian, Will and DS Cameron alone with the dead body.

‘Jo,’ said Will.

‘Sir,’ said Jo.

Not exactly friendly.

‘Oh fer God’s sake…’ Brian picked himself up, slipped the transmitter into his pocket and tried to brush some of the muck off his coat. It didn’t help, just smeared it further. ‘You’re like a pair of wee kiddies.’ He watched them standing there in silence, then sighed. ‘Fine, we’ll keep it professional: the two coffin dodgers was interferin’ with each other. We couldn’t get a good signal lock on either of them.’

Will stared down at the packaged-up body. ‘Any idea why they were killed?’

‘Who knows these days?’ said Jo. ‘Wrong place at the wrong time? Asked the right people the wrong questions? Looked at someone funny?’ She straightened her shoulders. ‘Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll go supervise excavating the other body.’

‘Of course.’ He watched her picking her way carefully down the slippery mound to where the team were already digging.

‘All right,’ said Brian when she was out of earshot. ‘Let’s hear it: what did you do?’

Will closed his eyes. Might have known this was coming. ‘Nothing. I didn’t do anything.’

‘Bollocks. I wondered why she was so quiet this mornin’. Yev done somethin’ stupid haven’t you?’

‘Brian-’

‘Don’t Brian me! If you think I’m gonnae stand around while you piss away the best thing that’s happened to you in years you’ve got another think comin’.’

‘It’s not-’

‘You listen to me, William Hunter. For years I’ve watched you buggerin’ about, never gettin’ close to anyone cos you’re still hung up on Janet. It’s been six fuckin’ years! You think she’d want you to be a miserable, lonely old bastard? Do you? Cos that’s what you’re turnin’ into!’

Will took a step back. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’

‘That woman down there cares about you! Or at least she did before you fucked it up.’

‘I know! OK, I know.’ Will sighed, looking down at the dead constable at his feet. ‘She asked about Janet and I freaked. I…I still miss her, Brian.’

Brian’s voice was softer, his big hand falling on Will’s shoulder. ‘I know you do, but you’re no’ the one who died.’

Jo was standing back from the excavations, watching as the Network troopers dug the second corpse out of the rubbish. With her bright yellow suit and short red cloat she looked like a fruit cocktail.

‘She has the most appalling dress sense I think I’ve ever seen,’ said Will with a small smile. ‘I like her a lot, but I don’t think she’s too keen anymore.’

‘Aye well,’ Brian gave him a wink. ‘You just leave that to me-they don’t call us the Clydeside Cupid for nothin’.’

‘Talk to me.’